Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
And,
now, what was the result of all these proceedings will be best known by our
introducing the reader to the interior of the house in which Varney had found a
temporary refuge, and following in detail his proceedings as he waited for the
arrival of Charles Holland.
THE HUNT FOR VARNEY.—THE HOUSE-TOPS.—THE MIRACULOUS
ESCAPE.—THE LAST PLACE OF REFUGE.—THE COTTAGE.
On
the tree tops the moon shines brightly, and the long shadows are shooting its
rays down upon the waters, and the green fields appear clothed in a flood of
silver light; the little town was quiet and tranquil—nature seemed at rest.
The
old mansion in which Sir Francis Varney had taken refuge, stood empty and
solitary; it seemed as though it were not associated with the others by which
it was surrounded. It was gloomy, and in the moonlight it reminded one of
things long gone by, existences that had once been, but now no longer of this
present time—a mere memento of the past.
Sir
Francis Varney reclined upon the house-top; he gazed upon the sky, and upon the
earth; he saw the calm tranquillity that reigned around, and could not but
admire what he saw; he sighed, he seemed to sigh, from a pleasure he felt in
the fact of his security; he could repose there without fear, and breathe the balmy
air that fanned his cheek.
"Certainly,"
he muttered, "things might have been worse, but not much worse; however,
they might have been much better; the ignorant are away—the most to be feared,
because they have no guide and no control, save what can be exerted over them
by their fears and their passions."
He
paused to look again over the scene, and, as far as the eye could reach, and
that, moonlight as it was, was many miles, the country was diversified with
hill and dale, meadow and ploughed land; the open fields, and the darker woods,
and the silvery stream that ran at no great distance, all presented a scene
that was well calculated to warm the imagination, and to give the mind that
charm which a cultivated understanding is capable of receiving.
There
was but one thing wanted to make such a scene one of pure happiness, and that
was all absence of care of fears for the future and the wants of life.
Suddenly
there was a slight sound that came from the town. It was very slight, but the
ears of Sir Francis Varney were painfully acute of late; the least sound that
came across him was heard in a moment, and his whole visage was changed to one
of listening interest.
The
sound was hushed; but his attention was not lulled, for he had been placed in
circumstances that made all his vigilance necessary for his own preservation.
Hence it was, what another would have passed over, or not heard at all, he both
heard and noticed. He was not sure of the nature of the sound, it was so slight
and so indistinct.
There
it was again! Some persons were moving about in the town. The sounds that came
upon the night air seemed to say that there was an unusual bustle in the town,
which was, to Sir Francis Varney, ominous in the extreme.
What
could people in such a quiet, retired place require out at such an hour at
night? It must be something very unusual—something that must excite them to a
great degree; and Sir Francis began to feel very uneasy.
"They
surely," he muttered to himself—"they surely cannot have found out my
hiding place, and intend to hunt me from it, the blood-thirsty hounds! they are
never satisfied. The mischief they are permitted to do on one occasion is but
the precursor to another. The taste has caused the appetite for more, and
nothing short of his blood can satisfy it."
The
sounds increased, and the noise came nearer and nearer, and it appeared as
though a number of men had collected together and were coming towards him. Yes,
they were coming down the lane towards the deserted mansion where he was.
For
once in his life, Sir Francis Varney trembled; he felt sick at heart, though no
man was less likely to give up hope and to despair than he; yet this sign of
unrelenting hatred and persecution was too unequivocal and too stern not to
produce its effect upon even his mind; for he had no doubt but that they were
coming with the express purpose of seeking him.
How
they could have found him out was a matter he could not imagine. The
Bannerworths could not have betrayed him—he was sure of that; and yet who could
have seen him, so cautious and so careful as he had been, and so very sparing
had he lived, because he would not give the slightest cause for all that was
about to follow. He hoped to have hidden himself; but now he could hear the
tramp of men distinctly, and their voices came now on the night air, though it
was in a subdued tone, as if they were desirous of approaching unheard and
unseen by their victim.
Sir
Francis Varney stirred not from his position. He remained silent and
motionless. He appeared not to heed what was going on; perhaps he hoped to see
them go by—to be upon some false scent; or, if they saw no signs of life, they
might leave the place, and go elsewhere.
Hark!
they stop at the house—they go not by; they seem to pause, and then a
thundering knock came at the door, which echoed and re-echoed through the empty
and deserted house, on the top of which sat, in silent expectation, the almost
motionless Sir Francis Varney, the redoubted vampyre.
The
knock which came so loud and so hard upon the door caused Sir
Francis
to start visibly, for it seemed his own knell. Then, as if the mob were
satisfied with their knowledge of his presence, and of their victory, and of
his inability to escape them, they sent up a loud shout that filled the whole
neighbourhood with its sound.
It
seemed to come from below and around the house; it rose from all sides, and
that told Sir Francis Varney that the house was surrounded and all escape was
cut off; there was no chance of his being able to rush through such a multitude
of men as that which now encircled him.
With
the calmest despair, Sir Francis Varney lay still and motionless on the
house-top, and listened to the sounds that proceeded from below. Shout after
shout arose on the still, calm air of the night; knock after knock came upon
the stout old door, which awakened responsive echoes throughout the house that
had for many years lain dormant, and which now seemed disturbed, and resounded
in hollow murmurs to the voices from without.
Then
a loud voice shouted from below, as if to be heard by any one who might be
within,—
"Sir
Francis Varney, the vampyre, come out and give yourself up at discretion! If we
have to search for you, you may depend it will be to punish you; you will
suffer by burning. Come out and give yourself up."
There
was a pause, and then a loud shout.
Sir
Francis Varney paid no attention to this summons, but sat, motionless, on the
house-top, where he could hear all that passed below in the crowd.
"He
will not come out," said one.
"Ah!
he's much too cunning to be caught in such a trap. Why, he knows what you would
do with him; he knows you would stake him, and make a bonfire about him."
"So
he has no taste for roasting," remarked another; "but still, it's no
use hiding; we have too many hands, and know the house too well to be easily
baffled."
"That
may be; and, although he don't like burning, yet we will unearth the old fox,
somehow or other; we have discovered his haunt at last, and certainly we'll
have him out."
"How
shall we get in?"
"Knock
in the door—break open the door! the front door—that is the best, because it
leads to all parts of the house, and we can secure any one who attempts to move
from one to the other, as they come down."
"Hurrah!"
shouted several men in the crowd.
"Hurrah!"
echoed the mob, with one accord, and the shout rent the air, and disturbed the
quietude and serenity that scarce five minutes before reigned through the
place.
Then,
as if actuated by one spirit, they all set to work to force the door in. It was
strong, and capable of great defence, and employed them, with some labour, for
fifteen or twenty minutes, and then, with a loud crash, the door fell in.
"Hurrah!"
again shouted the crowd.
These
shouts announced the fall of the door, and then, and not until then, did Sir
Francis Varney stir.
"They
have broken in the door," he muttered, "well, if die I must, I will
sell my life dearly. However, all is not yet lost, and, in the struggle for
life, the loss is not so much felt."
He
got up, and crept towards the trap that led into the house, or out of it, as
the occasion might require.
"The
vampyre! the vampyre!" shouted a man who stood on a garden wall, holding
on by the arm of an apple-tree.
"Varney,
the vampyre!" shouted a second.
"Hurrah!
boys, we are on the right scent; now for a hunt; hurrah! we shall have him
now."
They
rushed in a tumultuous riot up the stone steps, and into the hall. It was a
large, spacious place, with a grand staircase that led up to the upper floor,
but it had two ends, and then terminated in a gallery.
It
could not be defended by one man, save at the top, where it could not long be
held, because the assailants could unite, and throw their whole weight against
the entrance, and thus storm it. This actually happened.
They
looked up, and, seeing nobody, they rushed up, some by one stair, and some by
the other; but it was dark; there were but few of the moon's rays that pierced
the gloom of that place, and those who first reached the place which we have
named, were seized with astonishment, staggered, and fell.
Sir
Francis Varney had met them; he stood there with a staff—something he had found
about the house—not quite so long as a broom-handle, but somewhat thicker and
heavier, being made of stout ash.
This
formidable weapon, Sir Francis Varney wielded with strength and resolution; he
was a tall man, and one of no mean activity and personal strength, and such a
weapon, in his hands, was one of a most fearful character, and, for the
occasion, much better than his sword.
Man
after man fell beneath the fearful brace of these blows, for though they could
not see Sir Francis, yet he could see them, or the hall-lights were behind them
at the time, while he stood in the dark, and took advantage of this to deal
murderous blows upon his assailants.
This
continued for some minutes, till they gave way before such a vigorous defence,
and paused.
"On,
neighbours, on," cried one; "will you be beaten off by one man? Rush
in at once and you must force him from his position—push him hard, and he must
give way."
"Ay,"
said one fellow who sat upon the ground rubbing his head; "it's all very
well to say push him hard, but if you felt the weight of that d——d pole on your
head, you wouldn't be in such a blessed hurry."
However
true that might be, there was but little attention paid to it, and a determined
rush was made at the entrance to the gallery, and they found that it was
unoccupied; and that was explained by the slamming of a door, and its being
immediately locked upon them; and when the mob came to the door, they found
they had to break their way through another door.
This
did not take long in effecting; and in less than five minutes they had broken
through that door which led into another room; but the first man who entered it
fell from a crashing blow on the head from the ashen staff of Sir Francis
Varney, who hurried and fled, closely pursued, until he came to another door,
through which he dashed.
Here
he endeavoured to make a stand and close it, but was immediately struck and
grappled with; but he threw his assailant, and turned and fled again.
His
object had been to defend each inch of the ground as long as he was able; but
he found they came too close upon his steps, and prevented his turning in time
to try the strength of his staff upon the foremost.
He
dashed up the first staircase with surprising rapidity, leaving his pursuers
behind; and when he had gained the first landing, he turned upon those who
pursued him, who could hardly follow him two abreast.
"Down
with the vampyre!" shouted the first, who rushed up heedless of the staff.
"Down
with a fool!" thundered Varney, as he struck the fellow a terrific blow,
which covered his face with blood, and he fell back into the arms of his
companions.
A
bitter groan and execration arose from them below, and again they shouted, and
rushed up headlong.
"Down
with the vampyre!" was again shouted, and met by a corresponding, but deep
guttural sound of—
"Down
with a fool!"
And
sure enough the first again came to the earth without any preparation, save the
application of an ashen stick to his skull, which, by-the-bye, no means aided
the operation of thinking.
Several
more shared a similar fate; but they pressed hard, and Sir Francis was
compelled to give ground to keep them at the necessary length from him, as they
rushed on regardless of his blows, and if he had not he would soon have been
engaged in a personal struggle, for they were getting too close for him to use
the staff.
"Down
with the vampyre!" was the renewed cry, as they drove him from spot to
spot until he reached the roof of the house, and then he ran up the steps to
the loft, which he had just reached when they came up to the bottom.