Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
The
moment is one of awe—the presence of that mysterious and dreadful-looking
object, even while its identity remains doubt, chills the heart—it contracts
the expanding thoughts to that one object—all interest in the scene lies
centered in that one point.
What
could it be? What else but a human body? What else could assume such a form?
But see, nearly half the stream is lit by the moonbeams struggling through the
tree tops, and now rising above them. The light increases, and the shadows
shorten.
The
edge of the bed of stones now becomes lit up by the moonlight; the rippling
stream, the bubbles, and the tiny spray that was caused by the rush of water
against the stones, seemed like sparkling flashes of silver fire.
Then
came the moonbeams upon the body, for it was raised above the level of the
water, and shewed conspicuously; for the moonbeams reached the body before they
fell on the surrounding water; for that reason then it was the body presented a
strange and ghastly object against a deep, dark background, by which it was
surrounded.
But
this did not last long—the water in another minute was lit up by the moon's
pale beams, and then indeed could be plainly enough seen the body of a man
lying on the heap of stones motionless and ghastly.
The
colourless hue of the moonlight gave the object a most horrific and terrible
appearance! The face of the dead man was turned towards the moon's rays, and
the body seemed to receive all the light that could fall upon it.
It
was a terrible object to look upon, and one that added a new and singular
interest to the scene! The world seemed then to be composed almost exclusively
of still life, and the body was no impediment to the stillness of the scene.
It
was, all else considered, a calm, beautiful scene, lovely the night, gorgeous
the silvery rays that lit up the face of nature; the hill and dale, meadow, and
wood, and river, all afforded contrasts strong, striking, and strange.
But
strange, and more strange than any contrast in nature, was that afforded to the
calm beauty of the night and place by the deep stillness and quietude imposed
upon the mind by that motionless human body.
The
moon's rays now fell upon its full length; the feet were lying in the water,
the head lay back, with its features turned towards the quarter of the heavens
where the moon shone from; the hair floated on the shallow water, while the face
and body were exposed to all influences, from its raised and prominent
position.
The
moonbeams had scarcely settled upon it—scarce a few minutes—when the body
moved. Was it the water that moved it? it could not be, surely, that the
moonbeams had the power of recalling life into that inanimate mass, that lay
there for some time still and motionless as the very stones on which it lay.
It
was endued with life; the dead man gradually rose up, and leaned himself upon
his elbow; he paused a moment like one newly recalled to life; he seemed to
become assured he did live. He passed one hand through his hair, which was wet,
and then rose higher into a sitting posture, and then he leaned on one hand,
inclining himself towards the moon.
His
breast heaved with life, and a kind of deep inspiration, or groan, came from
him, as he first awoke to life, and then he seemed to pause for a few moments.
He turned gradually over, till his head inclined down the stream.
Just
below, the water deepened, and ran swiftly and silently on amid meads and
groves of trees. The vampyre was revived; he awoke again to a ghastly life; he
turned from the heap of stones, he gradually allowed himself to sink into deep
water, and then, with a loud plunge, he swam to the centre of the river.
Slowly
and surely did he swim into the centre of the river, and down the stream he
went. He took long, but easy strokes, for he was going down the stream, and
that aided him.
For
some distance might he be heard and seen through the openings in the trees, but
he became gradually more and more indistinct, till sound and sight both ceased,
and the vampyre had disappeared.
During
the continuance of this singular scene, not one word had passed between the
landlord and his companions. When the blacksmith fired the fowling-piece, and
saw the stranger fall, apparently lifeless, upon the stepping-stones that
crossed the river, he became terrified at what he had done, and gazed upon the
seeming lifeless form with a face on which the utmost horror was depicted.
They
all seemed transfixed to the spot, and although each would have given worlds to
move away, a kind of nightmare seemed to possess them, which stunned all their
faculties, and brought over them a torpidity from which they found it
impossible to arouse themselves.
But,
when the apparently dead man moved again, and when, finally, the body, which
appeared so destitute of life, rolled into the stream, and floated away with
the tide, their fright might be considered to have reached its climax. The
absence of the body, however, had seemingly, at all events, the effect of
releasing them from the mental and physical thraldom in which they were, and
they were enabled to move from the spot, which they did immediately, making
their way towards the town with great speed.
As
they got near, they held a sort of council of war as to what they should do
under the circumstances, the result of which was, that they came to a
conclusion to keep all that they had done and seen to themselves; for, if they
did not, they might be called upon for some very troublesome explanations
concerning the fate of the supposed Hungarian nobleman whom they had taken upon
themselves to believe was a vampyre, and to shoot accordingly, without taking
the trouble to inquire into the legality of such an act.
How
such a secret was likely to be kept, when it was shared amongst seven people,
it is hard to say; but, if it were so kept, it could only be under the pressure
of a strong feeling of self-preservation.
They
were forced individually, of course, to account for their absence during the
night at their respective homes, and how they managed to do that is best known
to themselves.
As to
the landlord, he felt compelled to state that, having his suspicions of his
guest aroused, he followed him on a walk that he pretended to take, and he had
gone so far, that at length he had given up the chase, and lost his own way in
returning.
Thus
was it, then, that this affair still preserved all its mystery, with a large
superadded amount of fear attendant upon it; for, if the mysterious guest were
really anything supernatural, might he not come again in a much more fearful
shape, and avenge the treatment he had received?
The
only person who fell any disappointment in the affair, or whose expectations
were not realised, was the boy who had made the appointment with the supposed
vampyre at the end of the lane, and who was to have received what he considered
so large a reward for pointing out the retreat of Sir Francis Varney.
He
waited in vain for the arrival of the Hungarian nobleman, and, at last,
indignation got the better of him, and he walked away. Feeling that he had been
jilted, he resolved to proceed to the public-house and demand the half-crowns
which had been so liberally promised him; but when he reached there he found that
the party whom he sought was not within, nor the landlord either, for that was
the precise time when that worthy individual was pursuing his guest over meadow
and bill, through brake and through briar, towards the stepping stones on the
river.
What
the boy further did on the following day, when he found that he was to reap no
more benefit for the adventure, we shall soon perceive.
As
for the landlord, he did endeavour to catch a few hours' brief repose; but as
he dreamed that the Hungarian nobleman came in the likeness of a great toad,
and sat upon his chest, feeling like the weight of a mountain, while he, the
landlord, tried to scream and cry for help, but found that he could neither do
one thing nor the other, we may guess that his repose did not at all invigorate
him.
As he
himself expressed it, he got up all of a shake, with a strong impression that
he was a very ill-used individual, indeed, to have had the nightmare in the day
time.
And
now we will return to the cottage where the Bannerworth family were at all
events, making themselves quite as happy as they did at their ancient mansion,
in order to see what is there passing, and how Dr. Chillingworth made an effort
to get up some evidence of something that the Bannerworth family knew nothing
of, therefore could not very well be expected to render him much assistance.
That he did, however, make what he considered an important discovery, we shall
perceive in the course of the ensuing chapter, in which it will be seen that
the best hidden things will, by the merest accident, sometimes come to light,
and that, too, when least expected by any one at all connected with the result.
THE DISCOVERY OF THE POCKET BOOK OF MARMADUKE
BANNERWORTH.—ITS MYSTERIOUS CONTENTS.
The
little episode had just taken place which we have recorded between the old
admiral and Jack Pringle, when Henry Bannerworth and Charles Holland stepped
aside to converse.
"Charles,"
said Henry, "it has become absolutely necessary that I should put an end
to this state of dependence in which we all live upon your uncle. It is too bad
to think, that because, through fighting the battles of his country, he has
amassed some money, we are to eat it up."
"My
dear friend," said Charles, "does it not strike you, that it would be
a great deal worse than too bad, if my uncle could not do what he liked with
his own?"
"Yes;
but, Charles, that is not the question."
"I
think it is, though I know not what other question you can make of it."
"We
have all talked it over, my mother, my brother, and Flora; and my brother and I
have determined, if this state of things should last much longer, to find out
some means of honourable exertion by which we may, at all events, maintain
ourselves without being burdensome to any."
"Well,
well, we will talk of that another time."
"Nay,
but hear me; we were thinking that if we went into some branch of the public
service, your uncle would have the pleasure, such we are quite sure it would be
to him, of assisting us greatly by his name and influence."
"Well,
well, Henry, that's all very well; but for a little time do not throw up the
old man and make him unhappy. I believe I am his only relative in the world,
and, as he has often said, he intended leaving me heir to all he possesses, you
see there is no harm done by you receiving a small portion of it
beforehand."
"And,"
said Henry, "by that line of argument, we are to find an excuse for
robbing your uncle; in the fact, that we are robbing you likewise."
"No,
no; indeed, you do not view the matter rightly."
"Well,
all I can say is, Charles, that while I feel, and while we all feel, the
deepest debt of gratitude towards your uncle, it is our duty to do something.
In a box which we have brought with us from the Hall, and which has not been
opened since our father's death, I have stumbled over some articles of ancient
jewellery and plate, which, at all events, will produce something."
"But
which you must not part with."
"Nay,
but, Charles, these are things I knew not we possessed, and most ill-suited do
they happen to be to our fallen fortunes. It is money we want, not the gewgaws
of a former state, to which we can have now no sort of pretension."
"Nay,
I know you have all the argument; but still is there something sad and
uncomfortable to one's feelings in parting with such things as those which have
been in families for many years."
"But
we knew not that we had them; remember that, Charles. Come and look at them.
Those relics of a bygone age may amuse you, and, as regards myself, there are
no circumstances whatever associated with them that give them any extrinsic
value; so laugh at them or admire them, as you please, I shall most likely be
able to join with you in either feeling."
"Well,
be it so—I will come and look at them; but you must think better of what you
say concerning my uncle, for I happen to know—which you ought likewise by this
time—how seriously the old man would feel any rejection on your part of the
good he fancies he is doing you. I tell you, Henry, it is completely his hobby,
and let him have earned his money with ten times the danger he has, he could
not spend it with anything like the satisfaction that he does, unless he were
allowed to dispose of it in this way."
"Well,
well; be it so for a time."
"The
fact is, his attachment to Flora is so great—which is a most fortunate
circumstance for me—that I should not be at all surprised that she cuts me out
of one half my estate, when the old man dies. But come, we will look at your
ancient bijouterie."
Henry
led Charles into an apartment of the cottage where some of the few things had
been placed that were brought from Bannerworth Hall, which were not likely to
be in constant and daily use.
Among
these things happened to be the box which Henry had mentioned, and from which
he had taken a miscellaneous assortment of things of an antique and singular
character.
There
were old dresses of a season and of a taste long gone by; ancient articles of
defence; some curiously wrought daggers; and a few ornaments, pretty, but
valueless, along with others of more sterling pretensions, which Henry pointed
out to Charles.
"I
am almost inclined to think," said the latter, "that some of these
things are really of considerable value; but I do not I profess to be an
accurate judge, and, perhaps, I am more taken with the beauty of an article,
than the intrinsic worth. What is that which you have just taken from the
box?"
"It
seems a half-mask," said Henry, "made of silk; and here are initial
letters within it—M. B."
"To
what do they apply?"
"Marmaduke
Bannerworth, my father."
"I
regret I asked you."
"Nay,
Charles, you need not. Years have now elapsed since that misguided man put a
period to his own existence, in the gardens of Bannerworth Hall. Of course, the
shock was a great one to us all, although I must confess that we none of us
knew much of a father's affections. But time reconciles one to these
dispensations, and to a friend, like yourself, I can talk upon these subjects
without a pang."
He
laid down the mask, and proceeded further in his search in the old box.
Towards
the bottom of it there were some books, and, crushed in by the side of them,
there was an ancient-looking pocket-book, which Charles pointed out, saying,—
"There,
Henry, who knows but you may find a fortune when you least expect it?"
"Those
who expect nothing," said Henry, "will not be disappointed. At all
events, as regards this pocket-book, you see it is empty."
"Not
quite. A card has fallen from it."
Charles
took up the card, and read upon it the name of Count Barrare.
"That
name," he said, "seems familiar to me. Ah! now I recollect, I have
read of such a man. He flourished some twenty, or five-and-twenty years ago,
and was considered a
roue
of the first water—a finished
gamester; and, in a sort of brief memoir I read once of him, it said that he
disappeared suddenly one day, and was never again heard of."
"Indeed!
I'm not puzzled to think how his card came into my father's pocket-book. They
met at some gaming-house; and, if some old pocket-book of the Count Barrare's
were shaken, there might fall from it a card, with the name of Mr. Marmaduke
Bannerworth upon it."
"Is
there nothing further in the pocket-book—no memoranda?"
"I
will look. Stay! here is something upon one of the leaves—let me see—'Mem.,
twenty-five thousand pounds! He who robs the robber, steals little; it was not
meant to kill him: but it will be unsafe to use the money for a time—my brain
seems on fire—the remotest hiding-place in the house is behind the
picture."
"What
do you think of that?" said Charles.
"I
know not what to think. There is one thing though, that I do know."
"And
what is that?"
"It
is my father's handwriting. I have many scraps of his, and his peculiar hand is
familiar to me."
"It's
very strange, then, what it can refer to."
"Charles—Charles!
there is a mystery connected with our fortunes, that I never could unravel; and
once or twice it seemed as if we were upon the point of discovering all; but
something has ever interfered to prevent us, and we have been thrown back into
the realms of conjecture. My father's last words were, 'The money is hidden;'
and then he tried to add something; but death stopped his utterance. Now, does
it not almost seem that this memorandum alluded to the circumstance?"
"It
does, indeed."
"And
then, scarcely had my father breathed his last, when a man comes and asks for
him at the garden-gate, and, upon hearing that he is dead, utters some
imprecations, and walks away."
"Well,
Henry, you must trust to time and circumstances to unravel these mysteries. For
myself, I own that I cannot do so; I see no earthly way out of the difficulty
whatever. But still it does appear to me as if Dr. Chillingworth knew something
or had heard something, with which he really ought to make you
acquainted."
"Do
not blame the worthy doctor; he may have made an error of judgment, but never
one of feeling; and you may depend, if he is keeping anything from me, that he
is doing so from some excellent motive: most probably because he thinks it will
give me pain, and so will not let me endure any unhappiness from it, unless he
is quite certain as regards the facts. When he is so, you may depend he will be
communicative, and I shall know all that he has to relate. But, Charles, it is
evident to me that you, too, are keeping something."
"I!"
"Yes;
you acknowledge to having had an interview, and a friendly one, with Varney;
and you likewise acknowledge that he had told you things which he has compelled
you to keep secret."
"I
have promised to keep them secret, and I deeply regret the promise that I have
made. There cannot be anything to my mind more essentially disagreeable than to
have one's tongue tied in one's interview with friends. I hate to hear anything
that I may not repeat to those whom I take into my own confidence."
"I
can understand the feeling; but here comes the worthy doctor."
"Show
him the memorandum."
"I
will."
As
Dr. Chillingworth entered the apartments Henry handed him the memorandum that
had been found in the old pocket-book, saying as he did so,—
"Look
at that, doctor, and give us your candid opinion upon it."
Dr.
Chillingworth fitted on his spectacles, and read the paper carefully. At its
conclusion, he screwed up his mouth into an extremely small compass, and
doubling up the paper, he put it into his capacious waistcoat pocket, saying as
he did so,—
"Oh!
oh! oh! oh! hum!"
"Well,
doctor," said Henry; "we are waiting for your opinion."
"My
opinion! Well, then, my dear boy, I must say, my opinion, to the best of my
belief is, that I really don't know anything about it."
"Then,
perhaps, you'll surrender us the memorandum," said Charles; "because,
if you don't know anything, we may as well make a little inquiry."
"Ha!"
said the worthy doctor; "we can't put old heads upon young shoulders,
that's quite clear. Now, my good young men, be patient and quiet; recollect,
that what you know you're acquainted with, and that that which is hidden from
you, you cannot very well come to any very correct conclusion upon. There's a
right side and a wrong one you may depend, to every question; and he who walks
heedlessly in the dark, is very apt to run his head against a post. Good
evening, my boys—good evening."
Away
bustled the doctor.
"Well,"
said Charles, "what do you think of that, Mr. Henry?"
"I
think he knows what he's about."
"That
may be; but I'll be hanged if anybody else does. The doctor is by no means
favourable to the march of popular information; and I really think he might
have given us some food for reflection, instead of leaving us so utterly and
entirely at fault as he has; and you know he's taken away your memorandum
even."
"Let
him have it, Charles—let him have it; it is safe with him. The old man may be,
and I believe is, a little whimsical and crotchety; but he means abundantly
well, and he's just one of those sort of persons, and always was, who will do
good his own way, or not at all; so we must take the good with the bad in those
cases, and let Dr. Chillingworth do as he pleases."
"I
cannot say it is nothing to me, although those words were rising to my lips,
because you know, Henry, that everything which concerns you or yours is
something to me; and therefore it is that I feel extremely anxious for the
solution of all this mystery. Before I hear the sequel of that which Varney,
the vampyre, has so strongly made me a confidant of, I will, at all events,
make an effort to procure his permission to communicate it to all those who are
in any way beneficially interested in the circumstances. Should he refuse me
that permission, I am almost inclined myself to beg him to withhold his
confidence."
"Nay,
do not do so, Charles—do not do that, I implore you. Recollect, although you
cannot make us joint recipients with you in your knowledge, you can make use of
it, probably, to our advantage, in saving us, perchance, from the different
consequences, so that you can make what you know in some way beneficial to us,
although not in every way."