THE STRANGE INTERVIEW.—THE CHASE THROUGH THE HALL.
It was with the most melancholy aspect that anything human could well
bear, that Sir Francis Varney took his lonely walk, although perhaps
in saying so much, probably we are instituting a comparison which
circumstances scarcely empower us to do; for who shall say that that
singular man, around whom a very atmosphere of mystery seemed to be
perpetually increasing, was human?
Averse as we are to believe in the supernatural, or even to invest
humanity with any preternatural powers, the more than singular facts
and circumstances surrounding the existence and the acts of that man
bring to the mind a kind of shuddering conviction, that if he be
indeed really mortal he still must possess some powers beyond ordinary
mortality, and be walking the earth for some unhallowed purposes,
such as ordinary men with the ordinary attributes of human nature can
scarcely guess at.
Silently and alone he took his way through that beautiful tract of
country, comprehending such picturesque charms of hill and dale which
lay between his home and Bannerworth Hall. He was evidently intent upon
reaching the latter place by the shortest possible route, and in the
darkness of that night, for the moon had not yet risen, he showed no
slight acquaintance with the intricacies of that locality, that he was
at all enabled to pursue so undeviatingly a tract as that which he took.
He muttered frequently to himself low, indistinct words as he went,
and chiefly did they seem to have reference to that strange interview
he had so recently had with one who, from some combination of
circumstances scarcely to be guessed at, evidently exercised a powerful
control over him, and was enabled to make a demand upon his pecuniary
resources of rather startling magnitude.
And yet, from a stray word or two, which were pronounced more
distinctly, he did not seem to be thinking in anger over that
interview; but it would appear that it rather had recalled to his
remembrance circumstances of a painful and a degrading nature, which
time had not been able entirely to obliterate from his recollection.
“Yes, yes,” he said, as he paused upon the margin of the wood, to the
confines of which he, or what seemed to be he, had once been chased
by Marchdale and the Bannerworths—“yes, the very sight of that man
recalls all the frightful pageantry of a horrible tragedy, which I can
never—never forget. Never can it escape my memory, as a horrible, a
terrific fact; but it is the sight of this man alone that can recall
all its fearful minutiæ to my mind, and paint to my imagination, in the
most vivid colours, every, the least particular connected with that
time of agony. These periodical visits much affect me. For months I
dread them, and for months I am but slowly recovering from the shocks
they give me. ‘But once more,’ he says—‘but once more,’ and then we
shall not meet again. Well, well; perchance before that time arrives, I
may be able to possess myself of those resources which will enable me
to forestall his visit, and so at least free myself from the pang of
expecting him.”
He paused at the margin of the wood, and glanced in the direction of
Bannerworth Hall. By the dim light which yet showed from out the light
sky, he could discern the ancient gable ends, and turret-like windows;
he could see the well laid out gardens, and the grove of stately firs
that shaded it from the northern blasts, and, as he gazed, a strong
emotion seemed to come over him, such as no one could have supposed
would for one moment have possessed the frame of one so apparently
unconnected with all human sympathies.
“I know this spot well,” he said, “and my appearance here on that
eventful occasion, when the dread of my approach induced a crime only
second to murder itself, was on such a night as this, when all was so
still and calm around, and when he who, at the merest shadow of my
presence, rather chose to rush on death than be assured it was myself.
Curses on the circumstances that so foiled me! I should have been most
wealthy. I should have possessed the means of commanding the adulation
of those who now hold me but cheaply; but still the time may come. I
have a hope yet, and that greatness which I have ever panted for, that
magician-like power over my kind, which the possession of ample means
alone can give, may yet be mine.”
Wrapping his cloak more closely around him, he strode forward with
that long, noiseless step which was peculiar to him. Mechanically he
appeared to avoid those obstacles of hedge and ditch which impeded
his pathway. Surely he had come that road often, or he would not
so easily have pursued his way. And now he stood by the edge of a
plantation which in some measure protected from trespassers the more
private gardens of the Hall, and there he paused, as if a feeling of
irresolution had come over him, or it might be, as indeed it seemed
from his subsequent conduct, that he had come without any fixed
intention, or if with a fixed intention, without any regular plan of
carrying it into effect.
Did he again dream of intruding into any of the chambers of that
mansion, with the ghastly aspect of that terrible creation with which,
in the minds of its inhabitants, he seemed to be but too closely
identified? He was pale, attenuated, and trembled. Could it be that so
soon it had become necessary to renew the life-blood in his veins in
the awful manner which it is supposed the vampyre brood are compelled
to protract their miserable existence?
It might be so, and that he was even now reflecting upon how once more
he could kindle the fire of madness in the brain of that beautiful
girl, who he had already made so irretrievably wretched.
He leant against an aged tree, and his strange, lustrous-looking eyes
seemed to collect every wandering scintillation of light that was
around, and to shine with preternatural intensity.
“I must, I will,” he said, “be master of Bannerworth Hall. It must come
to that. I have set an existence upon its possession, and I will have
it; and then, if with my own hands I displace it brick by brick and
stone by stone, I will discover that hidden secret which no one but
myself now dreams of. It shall be done by force or fraud, by love or by
despair, I care not which; the end shall sanctify all means. Ay, even
if I wade through blood to my desire, I say it shall be done.”
There was a holy and a still calmness about the night much at variance
with the storm of angry passion that appeared to be momentarily
gathering power in the breast of that fearful man. Not the least sound
came from Bannerworth Hall, and it was only occasionally that from
afar off on the night air there came the bark of some watchdog, or the
low of distant cattle. All else was mute save when the deep sepulchral
tones of that man, if man he was, gave an impulse to the soft air
around him.
With a strolling movement as if he were careless if he proceeded in
that direction or not, he still went onward toward the house, and
now he stood by that little summer-house once so sweet and so dear a
retreat, in which the heart-stricken Flora had held her interview with
him whom she loved with a devotion unknown to meaner minds.
This spot scarcely commanded any view of the house, for so enclosed was
it among evergreens and blooming flowers, that it seemed like a very
wilderness of nature, upon which, with liberal hand, she had showered
down in wild luxuriance her wildest floral beauties.
In and around that spot the night air was loaded with sweets. The
mingled perfume of many flowers made that place seem a very paradise.
But oh, how sadly at variance with that beauty and contentedness of
nature was he who stood amidst such beauty! All incapable as he was of
appreciating its tenderness, or of gathering the faintest moral from
its glory.
“Why am I here?” he said. “Here, without fixed design or stability of
purpose, like some miser who has hidden his own hoards so deeply within
the bowels of the earth he cannot hope that he shall ever again be able
to bring them to the light of day. I hover around this spot which I
feel—which I know—contains my treasure, though I cannot lay my hands
upon it, or exult in its glistening beauty.”
Even as he spoke he cowered down like some guilty thing, for he heard a
faint footstep upon the garden path. So light, so fragile was the step,
that, in the light of day, the very hum of summer insects would have
drowned the noise; but he heard it, that man of crime—of unholy and
awful impulses. He heard it, and he shrunk down among the shrubs and
flowers till he was hidden completely from observation amid a world of
fragrant essences.
Was it some one stealthily in that place even as he was, unwelcome or
unknown? or was it one who had observed him intrude upon the privacy of
those now unhappy precincts, and who was coming to deal upon him that
death which, vampyre though he might be, he was yet susceptible of from
mortal hands?
The footstep advanced, and lower down he shrunk until his coward-heart
beat against the very earth itself. He knew that he was unarmed,
a circumstance rare with him, and only to be accounted for by the
disturbance of his mind consequent upon the visit of that strange man
to his house, whose presence had awakened so many conflicting emotions.
Nearer and nearer still came that light footstep, and his deep-seated
fears would not let him perceive that it was not the step of caution or
of treachery, but owed its lightness to the natural grace and freedom
of movement of its owner.
The moon must have arisen, although obscured by clouds, through which
it cast but a dim radiance, for the night had certainly grown lighter;
so that although there were no strong shadows cast, a more diffused
brightness was about all things, and their outlines looked not so
dancing, and confused the one with the other.
He strained his eyes in the direction whence the sounds proceeded, and
then his fears for his personal safety vanished, for he saw it was a
female form that was slowly advancing towards him.
His first impulse was to rise, for with the transient glimpse he got of
it, he knew that it must be Flora Bannerworth; but a second thought,
probably one of intense curiosity to know what could possibly have
brought her to such a spot at such a time, restrained him, and he was
quiet. But if the surprise of Sir Francis Varney was great to see Flora
Bannerworth at such a time in such a place, we have no doubt, that
with the knowledge which our readers have of her, their astonishment
would more than fully equal his; and when we come to consider, that
since that eventful period when the sanctity of her chamber had been
so violated by that fearful midnight visitant, it must appear somewhat
strange that she could gather courage sufficient to wander forth alone
at such an hour.
Had she no dread of meeting that unearthly being? Did the possibility
that she might fall into his ruthless grasp, not come across her
mind with a shuddering consciousness of its probability? Had she no
reflection that each step she took, was taking her further and further
from those who would aid her in all extremities? It would seem not,
for she walked onward, unheeding, and apparently unthinking of the
presence, possible or probable, of that bane of her existence.
But let us look at her again. How strange and spectral-like she moves
along; there seems no speculation in her countenance, but with a
strange and gliding step, she walks like some dim shadow of the past
in that ancient garden. She is very pale, and on her brow there is the
stamp of suffering; her dress is a morning robe, she holds it lightly
round her, and thus she moves forward towards that summer-house which
probably to her was sanctified by having witnessed those vows of pure
affection, which came from the lips of Charles Holland, about whose
fate there now hung so great a mystery.
Has madness really seized upon the brain of that beautiful girl? Has
the strong intellect really sunk beneath the oppressions to which
it has been subjected? Does she now walk forth with a disordered
intellect, the queen of some fantastic realm, viewing the material
world with eyes that are not of earth; shunning perhaps that which she
should have sought, and, perchance, in her frenzy, seeking that which
in a happier frame of mind she would have shunned.
Such might have been the impression of any one who had looked upon her
for a moment, and who knew the disastrous scenes through which she had
so recently passed; but we can spare our readers the pangs of such a
supposition. We have bespoken their love for Flora Bannerworth, and
we are certain that she has it; therefore would we spare them, even
for a few brief moments, from imagining that cruel destiny had done
its worst, and that the fine and beautiful spirit we have so much
commended had lost its power of rational reflection. No; thank Heaven,
such is not the case. Flora Bannerworth is not mad, but under the
strong influence of some eccentric dream, which has pictured to her
mind images which have no home but in the airy realms of imagination.
She has wandered forth from her chamber to that sacred spot where she
had met him she loved, and heard the noblest declaration of truth and
constancy that ever flowed from human lips.
Yes, she is sleeping; but, with a precision such as the somnambulist
so strangely exerts, she trod the well-known paths slowly, but surely,
toward that summer’s bower, where her dreams had not told her lay
crouching that most hideous spectre of her imagination, Sir Francis
Varney. He who stood between her and her heart’s best joy; he who had
destroyed all hope of happiness, and who had converted her dearest
affections into only so many causes of greater disquietude than the
blessings they should have been to her.
Oh! could she have imagined but for one moment that he was there, with
what an eagerness of terror would she have flown back again to the
shelter of those walls, where at least was to be found some protection
from the fearful vampyre’s embrace, and where she would be within
hail of friendly hearts, who would stand boldly between her and every
thought of harm.
But she knew it not, and onwards she went until the very hem of her
garment touched the face of Sir Francis Varney.
And he was terrified—he dared not move—he dared not speak! The idea
that she had died, and that this was her spirit, come to wreak some
terrible vengeance upon him, for a time possessed him, and so paralysed
with fear was he, that he could neither move nor speak.
It had been well if, during that trance of indecision in which his
coward heart placed him, Flora had left the place, and again sought her
home; but unhappily such an impulse came not over her; she sat upon
that rustic seat, where she had reposed when Charles had clasped her
to his heart, and through her very dream the remembrance of that pure
affection came across her, and in the tenderest and most melodious
accents, she said,—
“Charles! Charles! and do you love me still? No—no; you have not
forsaken me. Save me, save me from the vampyre!”
She shuddered, and Sir Francis Varney heard her weeping.
“Fool that I am,” he muttered, “to be so terrified. She sleeps. This
is one of the phases which a disordered imagination oft puts on. She
sleeps, and perchance this may be an opportunity of further increasing
the dread of my visitation, which shall make Bannerworth Hall far too
terrible a dwelling-place for her; and well I know, if she goes, they
will all go. It will become a deserted house, and that is what I want.
A house, too, with such an evil reputation, that none but myself, who
have created that reputation, will venture within its walls:—a house,
which superstition will point out as the abode of evil spirits;—a
house, as it were, by general opinion, ceded to the vampyre. Yes, it
shall be my own; fit dwelling-place for a while for me. I have sworn
it shall be mine, and I will keep my oath, little such as I have to do
with vows.”
He rose, and moved slowly to the narrow entrance of the summer-house;
a movement he could make, without at all disturbing Flora, for the
rustic seat, on which she sat, was at its further extremity. And
there he stood, the upper part of his gaunt and hideous form clearly
defined upon the now much lighter sky, so that if Flora Bannerworth
had not been in that trance of sleep in which she really was, one
glance upward would let her see the hideous companion she had, in that
once much-loved spot—a spot hitherto sacred to the best and noblest
feelings, but now doomed for ever to be associated with that terrific
spectre of despair.
But she was in no state to see so terrible a sight. Her hands were over
her face, and she was weeping still.
“Surely, he loves me,” she whispered; “he has said he loved me, and
he does not speak in vain. He loves me still, and I shall again look
upon his face, a Heaven to me! Charles! Charles! you will come again?
Surely, they sin against the divinity of love, who would tell me that
you love me not!”
“Ha!” muttered Varney, “this passion is her first, and takes a strong
hold on her young heart—she loves him—but what are human affections
to me? I have no right to count myself in the great muster-roll of
humanity. I look not like an inhabitant of the earth, and yet am on it.
I love no one, expect no love from any one, but I will make humanity a
slave to me; and the lip-service of them who hate me in their hearts,
shall be as pleasant jingling music to my ear, as if it were quite
sincere! I will speak to this girl; she is not mad—perchance she may
be.”
There was a diabolical look of concentrated hatred upon Varney’s face,
as he now advanced two paces towards the beautiful Flora.