Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
As
they were speaking, a gig, with two men, drove up, followed by one on
horseback. They stopped at the garden-gate, and then tarried to consult with
each other, as they looked at the house.
"What
can they want, I wonder?" inquired Henry; "I never saw them
before."
"Nor
I," said Charles Holland.
"Do
you not know them at all?" inquired Varney.
"No,"
replied Flora; "I never saw them, neither can I imagine what is their
object in coming here."
"Did
you ever see them before?" inquired Henry of his mother, who held up her
hand to look more carefully at the strangers; then, shaking her head, she
declared she had never seen such persons as those.
"I
dare say not," said Charles Holland. "They certainly are not
gentlemen; but here they come; there is some mistake, I daresay—they don't want
to come here."
As
they spoke, the two strangers got down; after picking up a topcoat they had let
fall, they turned round, and deliberately put it into the chaise again; they
walked up the path to the door, at which they knocked.
The
door was opened by the old woman, when the two men entered.
"Does
Francis Beauchamp live here?"
"Eh?"
said the old woman, who was a little deaf, and she put her hand behind her ear
to catch the sounds more distinctly—"eh?—who did you say?"
Sir
Francis Varney started as the sounds came upon his ear, but he sat still an
attentive listener.
"Are
there any strangers in the house?" inquired the other officer,
impatiently. "Who is here?"
"Strangers!"
said the old woman; "you are the only strangers that I have seen
here."
"Come,"
said the officer to his companion, "come this way; there are people in
this parlour. Our business must be an apology for any rudeness we may
commit."
As he
spoke he stepped by the old woman, and laying his hand upon the handle of the
door, entered the apartment, at the same time looking carefully around the room
as if he expected some one.
"Ladies,"
said the stranger, with an off-hand politeness that had something repulsive in
it, though it was meant to convey a notion that civility was intended;
"ladies, I beg pardon for intruding, but I am looking for a
gentleman."
"You
shall hear from me again soon," said Sir Francis, in an almost
imperceptible whisper.
"What
is the object of this intrusion?" demanded Henry Bannerworth, rising and
confronting the stranger. "This is a strange introduction."
"Yes,
but not an unusual one," said the stranger, "in these cases—being
unavoidable, at the least."
"Sir,"
said Charles Holland, "if you cannot explain quickly your business here,
we will proceed to take those measures which will at least rid ourselves of
your company."
"Softly,
sir. I mean no offence—not the least; but I tell you I do not come for any
purpose that is at all consonant to my wishes. I am a Bow-street officer in the
execution of my duty—excuse me, therefore."
"Whom
do you want?"
"Francis
Beauchamp; and, from the peculiarity of the appearance of this individual here,
I think I may safely request the pleasure of his company."
Varney
now rose, and the officer made a rush at him, when he saw him do so, saying,—
"Surrender
in the king's name."
Varney,
however, paid no attention to that, but rushed past, throwing his chair down to
impede the officer, who could not stay himself, but fell over it, while Varney
made a rush towards the window, which he cleared at one bound, and crossing the
road, was lost to sight in a few seconds, in the trees and hedges on the other
side.
"Accidents
will happen," said the officer, as he rose to his feet; "I did not
think the fellow would have taken the window in that manner; but we have him in
view, and that will be enough."
"In
heaven's name," said Henry, "explain all about this; we cannot
understand one word of it—I am at a loss to understand one word of it."
"We
will return and do so presently," said the officer as he dashed out of the
house after the fugitive at a rapid and reckless speed, followed by his
companion.
The
man who had been left with the chaise, however, was the first in the chase;
seeing an escape from the window, he immediately guessed that he was the man
wanted, and, but for an accident, he would have met Varney at the gate, for, as
he was getting out in a hurry, his foot became entangled with the reins, and he
fell to the ground, and Varney at the same moment stepped over him.
"Curse
his infernal impudence, and d—n these reins!" muttered the man in a fury
at the accident, and the aggravating circumstance of the fugitive walking over
him in such a manner, and so coolly too—it was vexing.
The
man, however, quickly released himself, and rushed after Varney across the
road, and kept on his track for some time. The moon was still rising, and shed
but a gloomy light around. Everything was almost invisible until you came close
to it. This was the reason why Varney and his pursuer met with several severe
accidents—fumbles and hard knocks against impediments which the light and the
rapid flight they were taking did not admit of their avoiding very well.
They
went on for some time, but it was evident Varney knew the place best, and could
avoid what the man could not, and that was the trees and the natural
impediments of the ground, which Varney was acquainted with.
For
instance, at full speed across a meadow, a hollow would suddenly present
itself, and to an accustomed eye the moonlight might enable it to be
distinguished at a glance what it was, while to one wholly unaccustomed to it,
the hollow would often look like a hillock by such a light. This Varney would
clear at a bound, which a less agile and heavier person would step into,
lifting up his leg to meet an impediment, when he would find it come down
suddenly some six or eight inches lower than he anticipated, almost dislocating
his leg and neck, and producing a corresponding loss of breath, which was not
regained by the muttered curse upon such a country where the places were so
uneven.
Having
come to one of these places, which was a little more perceptible than the
others, he made a desperate jump, but he jumped into the middle of the hole
with such force that he sprained his ankle, besides sinking into a small pond
that was almost dry, being overgrown with rushes and aquatic plants.
"Well?"
said the other officer coming up—"well?"
"Well,
indeed!" said the one who came first; "it's anything but well. D—n
all country excursions say I."
"Why,
Bob, you don't mean to say as how you are caught in a rat-trap?"
"Oh,
you be d——d! I am, ain't I?"
"Yes;
but are you going to stop there, or coming out, eh? You'll catch cold."
"I
have sprained my ankle."
"Well?"
"It
ain't well, I tell you; here have I a sprained foot, and my wind broken for a
month at least. Why were you not quicker? If you had been sharper we should
have had the gentleman, I'll swear!"
"I
tumbled down over the chair, and he got out of the window, and I come out of
the door."
"Well,
I got entangled in the reins; but I got off after him, only his long legs
carried him over everything. I tell you what, Wilkinson, if I were to be born
again, and intended to be a runner, I would bespeak a pair of long legs."
"Why?"
"Because
I should be able to get along better. You have no idea of how he skimmed along
the ground; it was quite beautiful, only it wasn't good to follow it."
"A
regular sky scraper!"
"Yes,
or something of that sort; he looked like a patent flying shadow."
"Well,
get up and lead the way; we'll follow you."
"I
dare say you will—when I lead the way back there; for as to going out yonder,
it is quite out of the question. I want supper to-night and breakfast to-morrow
morning."
"Well,
what has that to do with it?"
"Just
this much: if you follow any farther, you'll get into the woods, and there
you'll be, going round and round, like a squirrel in a cage, without being able
to get out, and you will there get none of the good things included under the
head of those meals."
"I
think so too," said the third.
"Well,
then, let's go back; we needn't run, though it might be as well to do so."
"It
would be anything but well. I don't gallop back, depend upon it."
The
three men now slowly returned from their useless chase, and re-trod the way
they had passed once in such a hurry that they could hardly recognize it.
"What
a dreadful bump I came against that pole standing there," said one.
"Yes,
and I came against a hedge-stake, that was placed so as the moon didn't show
any light on it. It came into the pit of my stomach. I never recollect such a
pain in my life; for all the world like a hot coal being suddenly and forcibly
intruded into your stomach."
"Well,
here's the road. I must go up to the house where I started him from. I promised
them some explanation. I may as well go and give it to them at once."
"Do
as you will. I will wait with the horse, else, perhaps, that Beauchamp will
again return and steal him."
The
officer who had first entered the house now returned to the Bannerworths, saying,
"I
promised you I would give you some explanation as to what you have
witnessed."
"Yes,"
said Henry; "we have been awaiting your return with some anxiety and
curiosity. What is the meaning of all this? I am, as we are all, in perfect
ignorance of the meaning of what took place."
"I
will tell you. The person whom you have had here, and goes by the name of
Varney, is named Francis Beauchamp."
"Indeed!
Are you assured of this?"
"Yes,
perfectly assured of it; I have it in my warrant to apprehend him by either
name."
"What
crime had he been guilty of?"
"I
will tell you: he has been
hanged
."
"Hanged!"
exclaimed all present.
"What
do you mean by that?" added Henry; "I am at a loss to understand what
you can mean by saying he was hanged."
"What
I say is literally true."
"Pray
tell us all about it. We are much interested in the fact; go on, sir."
"Well,
sir, then I believe it was for murder that Francis Beauchamp was hanged—yes,
hanged; a common execution, before a multitude of people, collected to witness
such an exhibition."
"Good
God!" exclaimed Henry Bannerworth. "And was—but that is impossible. A
dead man come to life again! You must be amusing yourself at our expense."
"Not
I," replied the officer. "Here is my warrant; they don't make these
out in a joke."
And,
as he spoke, he produced the warrant, when it was evident the officer spoke the
truth.
"How
was this?"
"I
will tell you, sir. You see that this Varney was a regular scamp, gamester,
rogue, and murderer. He was hanged, and hung about the usual time; he was cut
down and the body was given to some one for dissection, when a surgeon, with
the hangman, one Montgomery, succeeded in restoring the criminal to life."
"But
I always thought they broke the neck when they were hanged; the weight of the
body would alone do that."
"Oh,
dear, no, sir," said the officer; "that is one of the common every
day mistakes; they don't break the neck once in twenty times."
"Indeed!"
"No;
they die of suffocation only; this man, Beauchamp, was hanged thus, but they
contrived to restore him, and then he assumed a new name, and left
London."
"But
how came you to know all this?"
"Oh!
it came to us, as many things usually do, in a very extraordinary manner, and
in a manner that appears most singular and out of the way; but such it was.
"The
executioner who was the means of his being restored, or one of them, wished to
turn him to account, and used to draw a yearly sum of money from him, as hush
money, to induce them to keep the secret; else, the fact of his having escaped
punishment would subject him to a repetition of the same punishment; when, of
course, a little more care would be taken that he did not escape a second
time."
"I
dare say not."
"Well,
you see, Varney, or rather Beauchamp, was to pay a heavy sum to this man to
keep him quiet, and to permit him to enjoy the life he had so strangely become
possessed of."
"I
see," said Holland.
"Well,
this man, Montgomery, had always some kind of suspicion that Varney would
murder him."
"Murder
him! and be the means of saving his life; surely he could not be so bad as
that."