THE POPULAR RIOT.—SIR FRANCIS VARNEY’S DANGER.—THE SUGGESTION AND ITS
RESULTS.
Such, then, were the circumstances which at once altered the whole
aspect of the affairs, and, from private and domestic causes of very
deep annoyance, led to public results of a character which seemed
likely to involve the whole country-side in the greatest possible
confusion.
But while we blame Mr. Chillingworth for being so indiscreet as to
communicate the secret of such a person as Varney the vampyre to his
wife, we trust in a short time to be enabled to show that he made as
much reparation as it was possible to make for the mischief he had
unintentionally committed. And now as he struggled onward—apparently
onward—first and foremost among the rioters, he was really doing all in
his power to quell that tumult which superstition and dread had raised.
Human nature truly delights in the marvellous, and in proportion
as a knowledge of the natural phenomena of nature is restricted,
and unbridled imagination allowed to give the rein to fathomless
conjecture, we shall find an eagerness likewise to believe the
marvellous to be the truth.
That dim and uncertain condition concerning vampyres, originating
probably as it had done in Germany, had spread itself slowly, but
insidiously, throughout the whole of the civilized world.
In no country and in no clime is there not something which bears a kind
of family relationship to the veritable vampyre of which Sir Francis
Varney appeared to be so choice a specimen.
The _ghoul_ of eastern nations is but the same being, altered to suit
habits and localities; and the _sema_ of the Scandinavians is but the
vampyre of a more primitive race, and a personification of that morbid
imagination which has once fancied the probability of the dead walking
again among the living, with all the frightful insignia of corruption
and the grave about them.
Although not popular in England, still there had been tales told of
such midnight visitants, so that Mrs. Chillingworth, when she had
imparted the information which she had obtained, had already some rough
material to work upon in the minds of her auditors, and therefore there
was no great difficulty in very soon establishing the fact.
Under such circumstances, ignorant people always do what they have
heard has been done by some one else before them and in an incredibly
short space of time the propriety of catching Sir Francis Varney,
depriving him of his vampyre-like existence, and driving a stake
through his body, became not at all a questionable proposition.
Alas, poor Mr. Chillingworth! as well might he have attempted King
Canute’s task of stemming the waves of the ocean as that of attempting
to stop the crowd from proceeding to Sir Francis Varney’s house.
His very presence was a sort of confirmation of the whole affair. In
vain he gesticulated, in vain he begged and prayed that they would go
back, and in vain he declared that full and ample justice should be
done upon the vampyre, provided popular clamour spared him, and he was
left to more deliberate judgment.
Those who were foremost in the throng paid no attention to these
remonstrances, while those who were more distant heard them not, and,
for all they knew, he might be urging the crowd on to violence, instead
of deprecating it.
Thus, then, this disorderly rabble rout soon reached the house of Sir
Francis Varney, and loudly demanded of his terrified servants where he
was to be found.
The knocking at the Hall door was prodigious, and, with a laudable
desire, doubtless, of saving time, the moment one was done amusing
himself with the ponderous knocker, another seized it; so that until
the door was flung open by some of the bewildered and terrified men,
there was no cessation whatever of the furious demands for admittance.
“Varney the vampyre—Varney the vampyre!” cried a hundred voices. “Death
to the vampyre! Where is he? Bring him out. Varney the vampyre!”
The servants were too terrified to speak for some moments, as they saw
such a tumultuous assemblage seeking their master, while so singular
a name was applied to him. At length, one more bold than the rest
contrived to stammer out,—
“My good people, Sir Francis Varney is not at home. He took an early
breakfast, and has been out nearly an hour.”
The mob paused a moment in indecision, and then one of the foremost
cried,—
“Who’d suppose they’d own he was at home? He’s hiding somewhere of
course; let’s pull him out.”
“Ah, pull him out—pull him out!” cried many voices. A rush was made
into the house, and in a very few minutes its chambers were ransacked,
and all its hidden places carefully searched, with the hope of
discovering the hidden form of Sir Francis Varney.
The servants felt that, with their inefficient strength, to oppose the
proceedings of an assemblage which seemed to be unchecked by all sort
of law or reason, would be madness; they therefore only looked on, with
wonder and dismay, satisfied certainly in their own minds that Sir
Francis would not be found, and indulging in much conjecture as to what
would be the result of such violent and unexpected proceedings.
Mr. Chillingworth hoped that time was being gained, and that some sort
of indication of what was going on would reach the unhappy object of
popular detestation sufficiently early to enable him to provide for his
own safety.
He knew he was breaking his own engagement to be present at the duel
between Henry Bannerworth and Sir Francis Varney, and, as that thought
recurred to him, he dreaded that his professional services might be
required on one side or the other; for he knew, or fancied he knew,
that mutual hatred dictated the contest; and he thought that if ever
a duel had taken place which was likely to be attended with some
disastrous result, that was surely the one.
But how could he leave, watched and surrounded as he was by an
infuriated multitude—how could he hope but that his footsteps would be
dogged, or that the slightest attempt of his to convey a warning to Sir
Francis Varney, would not be the means of bringing down upon his head
the very danger he sought to shield him from.
In this state of uncertainty, then, did our medical man remain, a prey
to the bitterest reflections, and full of the direst apprehensions,
without having the slightest power of himself to alter so disastrous a
train of circumstances.
Dissatisfied with their non-success, the crowd twice searched the house
of Sir Francis Varney, from the attics to the basement; and then, and
not till then, did they begin reluctantly to believe that the servants
must have spoken the truth.
“He’s in the town somewhere,” cried one. “Let’s go back to the town.”
It is strange how suddenly any mob will obey any impulse, and this
perfectly groundless supposition was sufficient to turn their steps
back again in the direction whence they came, and they had actually,
in a straggling sort of column, reached halfway towards the town, when
they encountered a boy, whose professional pursuit consisted in tending
sheep very early of a morning, and who at once informed them that he
had seen Sir Francis Varney in the wood, half way between Bannerworth
Hall and his own home.
This event at once turned the whole tide again, and with renewed
clamours, carrying Mr. Chillingworth along with them, they now rapidly
neared the real spot, where, probably, had they turned a little
earlier, they would have viewed the object of their suspicion and
hatred.
But, as we have already recorded, the advancing throng was seen by the
parties on the ground, where the duel could scarcely have been said
to have been fought; and then had Sir Francis Varney dashed into the
wood, which was so opportunely at hand to afford him a shelter from his
enemies, and from the intricacies of which—well acquainted with them as
he doubtless was,—he had every chance of eluding their pursuit.
The whole affair was a great surprise to Henry and his friends, when
they saw such a string of people advancing, with such shouts and
imprecations; they could not, for the life of them, imagine what could
have excited such a turn out among the ordinarily industrious and
quiet inhabitants of a town, remarkable rather for the quietude and
steadiness of its population, than for any violent outbreaks of popular
feeling.
“What can Mr. Chillingworth be about,” said Henry, “to bring such a mob
here? has he taken leave of his senses?”
“Nay,” said Marchdale; “look again; he seems to be trying to keep them
back, although ineffectually, for they will not be stayed.”
“D——e,” said the admiral, “here’s a gang of pirates; we shall be
boarded and carried before we know where we are, Jack.”
“Ay ay, sir,” said Jack.
“And is that all you’ve got to say, you lubber, when you see your
admiral in danger? You’d better go and make terms with the enemy at
once.”
“Really, this is serious,” said Henry; “they shout for Varney. Can Mr.
Chillingworth have been so mad as to adopt this means of stopping the
duel?”
“Impossible,” said Marchdale; “if that had been his intention, he could
have done so quietly, through the medium of the civil authorities.”
“Hang me!” exclaimed the admiral, “if there are any civil authorities;
they talk of smashing somebody. What do they say, Jack? I don’t hear
quite so well as I used.”
“You always was a little deaf,” said Jack.
“What?”
“A little deaf, I say.”
“Why, you lubberly lying swab, how dare you say so?”
“Because you was.”
“You slave-going scoundrel!”
“For Heaven’s sake, do not quarrel at such a time as this!” said Henry;
“we shall be surrounded in a moment. Come, Mr. Marchdale, let you and I
visit these people, and ascertain what it is that has so much excited
their indignation.”
“Agreed,” said Marchdale; and they both stepped forward at a rapid
pace, to meet the advancing throng.
The crowd which had now approached to within a short distance of
the expectant little party, was of a most motley description, and
its appearance, under many circumstances, would cause considerable
risibility. Men and women were mixed indiscriminately together, and in
the shouting, the latter, if such a thing were possible, exceeded the
former, both in discordance and energy.
Every individual composing that mob carried some weapon calculated for
defence, such as flails, scythes, sickles, bludgeons, &c., and this
mode of arming caused them to wear a most formidable appearance; while
the passion that superstition had called up was strongly depicted in
their inflamed features. Their fury, too, had been excited by their
disappointment, and it was with concentrated rage that they now pressed
onward.
The calm and steady advance of Henry and Mr. Marchdale to meet the
advancing throng, seemed to have the effect of retarding their progress
a little, and they came to a parley at a hedge, which separated them
from the meadow in which the duel had been fought.
“You seem to be advancing towards us,” said Henry. “Do you seek me or
any of my friends; and if so, upon what errand? Mr. Chillingworth, for
Heaven’s sake, explain what is the cause of all this tumult. You seem
to be at the head of it.”
“Seem to be,” said Mr. Chillingworth, “without being so. You are not
sought, nor any of your friends?”
“Who, then?”
“Sir Francis Varney,” was the immediate reply.
“Indeed! and what has he done to excite popular indignation? Of private
wrong I can accuse him; but I desire no crowd to take up my cause, or
to avenge my quarrels.”
“Mr. Bannerworth, it has become known, through my indiscretion, that
Sir Francis Varney is suspected of being a vampyre.”
“Is this so?”
“Hurrah!” shouted the mob. “Down with the vampyre! hurrah! where is he?
Down with him!”
“Drive a stake through him,” said a woman; “it’s the only way, and the
humanestest. You’ve only to take a hedge stake, and sharpen it a bit at
one end, and char it a little in the fire so as there mayt’n’t be no
splinters to hurt, and then poke it through his stomach.”
The mob gave a great shout at this humane piece of advice, and it was
some time before Henry could make himself heard at all, even to those
who were nearest to him.
When he did succeed in so doing, he cried, with a loud voice,—
“Hear me, all of you. It is quite needless for me to inquire how
you became possessed of the information that a dreadful suspicion
hangs over the person of Sir Francis Varney; but if, in consequence
of hearing such news, you fancy this public demonstration will be
agreeable to me, or likely to relieve those who are nearest or dearest
to me from the state of misery and apprehension into which they have
fallen, you are much mistaken.”
“Hear him, hear him!” cried Mr. Marchdale; “he speaks both wisdom and
truth.”
“If anything,” pursued Henry, “could add to the annoyance of vexation
and misery we have suffered, it would assuredly be the being made
subjects of every-day gossip, and every-day clamour.”
“You hear him?” said Mr. Marchdale.
“Yes, we does,” said a man; “but we comes out to catch a vampyre, for
all that.”
“Oh, to be sure,” said the humane woman; “nobody’s feelings is nothing
to us. Are we to be woke up in the night with vampyres sucking our
bloods while we’ve got a stake in the country?”
“Hurrah!” shouted everybody. “Down with the vampyre! where is he?”
“You are wrong. I assure you, you are all wrong,” said Mr.
Chillingworth, imploringly; “there is no vampyre here, you see. Sir
Francis Varney has not only escaped, but he will take the law of all of
you.”
This was an argument which appeared to stagger a few, but the bolder
spirits pushed them on, and a suggestion to search the wood having been
made by some one who was more cunning than his neighbours, that measure
was at once proceeded with, and executed in a systematic manner, which
made those who knew it to be the hiding-place of Sir Francis Varney
tremble for his safety.
It was with a strange mixture of feeling that Henry Bannerworth waited
the result of the search for the man who but a few minutes before had
been opposed to him in a contest of life or death.
The destruction of Sir Francis Varney would certainly have been an
effectual means of preventing him from continuing to be the incubus he
then was upon the Bannerworth family; and yet the generous nature of
Henry shrank with horror from seeing even such a creature as Varney
sacrificed at the shrine of popular resentment, and murdered by an
infuriated populace.
He felt as great an interest in the escape of the vampyre as if some
great advantage to himself had been contingent upon such an event; and,
although he spoke not a word, while the echoes of the little wood were
all awakened by the clamorous manner in which the mob searched for
their victim, his feelings could be well read upon his countenance.
The admiral, too, without possessing probably the fine feelings of
Henry Bannerworth, took an unusually sympathetic interest in the fate
of the vampyre; and, after placing himself in various attitudes of
intense excitement, he exclaimed,—
“D—n it, Jack, I do hope, after all, the vampyre will get the better
of them. It’s like a whole flotilla attacking one vessel—a lubberly
proceeding at the best, and I’ll be hanged if I like it. I should like
to pour in a broadside into those fellows, just to let them see it
wasn’t a proper English mode of fighting. Shouldn’t you, Jack?”
“Ay, ay, sir, I should.”
“Shiver me, if I see an opportunity, if I don’t let some of those
rascals know what’s what.”
Scarcely had these words escaped the lips of the old admiral than there
arose a loud shout from the interior of the wood. It was a shout of
success, and seemed at the very least to herald the capture of the
unfortunate Varney.
“By Heaven!” exclaimed Henry, “they have him.”
“God forbid!” said Mr. Marchdale; “this grows too serious.”
“Bear a hand, Jack,” said the admiral; “we’ll have a fight for it yet;
they sha’n’t murder even a vampyre in cold blood. Load the pistols and
send a flying shot or two among the rascals, the moment they appear.”
“No, no,” said Henry; “no more violence, at least there has been
enough—there has been enough.”
Even as he spoke there came rushing from among the trees, at the corner
of the wood, the figure of a man. There needed but one glance to assure
them who it was. Sir Francis Varney had been seen, and was flying
before those implacable foes who had sought his life.
He had divested himself of his huge cloak, as well as of his low
slouched hat, and, with a speed which nothing but the most absolute
desperation could have enabled him to exert, he rushed onward, beating
down before him every obstacle, and bounding over the meadows at a rate
that, if he could have continued it for any length of time, would have
set pursuit at defiance.
“Bravo!” shouted the admiral, “a stern chase is a long chase, and I
wish them joy of it—d——e, Jack, did you ever see anybody get along like
that?”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“You never did, you scoundrel.”
“Yes, I did.”
“When and where?”
“When you ran away off the sound.”
The admiral turned nearly blue with anger, but Jack looked perfectly
imperturbable, as he added,—
“You know you ran away after the French frigates who wouldn’t stay to
fight you.”
“Ah! that indeed. There he goes, putting on every stitch of canvass,
I’ll be bound.”
“And there they come,” said Jack, as he pointed to the corner of the
wood, and some of the more active of the vampyre’s pursuers showed
themselves.
It would appear as if the vampyre had been started from some
hiding-place in the interior of the wood, and had then thought it
expedient altogether to leave that retreat, and make his way to some
more secure one across the open country, where there would be more
obstacles to his discovery than perseverance could overcome. Probably,
then, among the brushwood and trees, for a few moments he had been
again lost sight of, until those who were closest upon his track had
emerged from among the dense foliage, and saw him scouring across
the country at such headlong speed. These were but few, and in their
extreme anxiety themselves to capture Varney, whose precipate and
terrified flight brought a firm conviction to their minds of his being
a vampyre, they did not stop to get much of a reinforcement, but
plunged on like greyhounds in his track.
“Jack,” said the admiral, “this won’t do. Look at that great lubberly
fellow with the queer smock-frock.”
“Never saw such a figure-head in my life,” said Jack.
“Stop him.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
The man was coming on at a prodigious rate, and Jack, with all the
deliberation in the world, advanced to meet him; and when they got
sufficiently close together, that in a few moments they must encounter
each other, Jack made himself into as small a bundle as possible, and
presented his shoulder to the advancing countryman in such a way, that
he flew off it at a tangent, as if he had run against a brick wall,
and after rolling head over heels for some distance, safely deposited
himself in a ditch, where he disappeared completely for a few moments
from all human observation.
“Don’t say I hit you,” said Jack. “Curse yer, what did yer run against
me for? Sarves you right. Lubbers as don’t know how to steer, in course
runs agin things.”
“Bravo,” said the admiral; “there’s another of them.”
The pursuers of Varney the vampyre, however, now came too thick and
fast to be so easily disposed of, and as soon as his figure could be
seen coursing over the meadows, and springing over road and ditch with
an agility almost frightful to look upon, the whole rabble rout was in
pursuit of him.
By this time, the man who had fallen into the ditch had succeeded in
making his appearance in the visible world again, and as he crawled up
the bank, looking a thing of mire and mud, Jack walked up to him with
all the carelessness in the world, and said to him,—
“Any luck, old chap?”
“Oh, murder!” said the man, “what do you mean? who are you? where am I?
what’s the matter? Old Muster Fowler, the fat crowner, will set upon me
now.”
“Have you caught anything?” said Jack.
“Caught anything?”
“Yes; you’ve been in for eels, haven’t you?”
“D—n!”
“Well, it is odd to me, as some people can’t go a fishing without
getting out of temper. Have it your own way; I won’t interfere with
you;” and away Jack walked.
The man cleared the mud out of his eyes, as well as he could, and
looked after him with a powerful suspicion that in Jack he saw the
very cause of his mortal mishap; but, somehow or other, his immersion
in the not over limpid stream had wonderfully cooled his courage, and
casting one despairing look upon his begrimed apparel, and another at
the last of the stragglers who were pursuing Sir Francis Varney across
the fields, he thought it prudent to get home as fast he could, and get
rid of the disagreeable results of an adventure which had turned out
for him anything but auspicious or pleasant.
Mr. Chillingworth, as though by a sort of impulse to be present in case
Sir Francis Varney should really be run down, and with a hope of saving
him from personal violence, had followed the foremost of the rioters
in the wood, found it now quite impossible for him to carry on such a
chase as that which was being undertaken across the fields after Sir
Francis Varney.
His person was unfortunately but ill qualified for the continuance of
such a pursuit, and, although with the greatest reluctance, he at last
felt himself compelled to give it up.
In making his way through the intricacies of the wood, he had been
seriously incommoded by the thick undergrowth, and he had accidentally
encountered several miry pools, with which he had involuntarily made a
closer acquaintance than was at all conducive either to his personal
appearance or comfort. The doctor’s temper, though, generally speaking,
one of the most even, was at last affected by his mishaps, and he could
not restrain from an execration upon his want of prudence in letting
his wife have a knowledge of a secret that was not his own, and the
producing an unlooked for circumstance, the termination of which might
be of a most disastrous nature.
Tired, therefore, and nearly exhausted by the exertions he had already
taken, he emerged now alone from the wood, and near the spot where
stood Henry Bannerworth and his friends in consultation.
The jaded look of the surgeon was quite sufficient indication of the
trouble and turmoil he had gone through, and some expressions of
sympathy for his condition were dropped by Henry, to whom he replied,—
“Nay, my young friend, I deserve it all. I have nothing but my own
indiscretion to thank for all the turmoil and tumult that has arisen
this morning.”
“But to what possible cause can we attribute such an outrage?”
“Reproach me as much as you will, I deserve it. A man may prate of his
own secrets if he like, but he should be careful of those of other
people. I trusted yours to another, and am properly punished.”
“Enough,” said Henry; “we’ll say no more of that, Mr. Chillingworth.
What is done cannot be undone, and we had better spend our time
in reflection of how to make the best of what is, than in useless
lamentation over its causes. What is to be done?”
“Nay, I know not. Have you fought the duel?”
“Yes; and, as you perceive, harmlessly.”
“Thank Heaven for that.”
“Nay, I had my fire, which Sir Francis Varney refused to return; so the
affair had just ended, when the sound of approaching tumult came upon
our ears.”
“What a strange mixture,” exclaimed Marchdale, “of feelings and
passions this Varney appears to be. At one moment acting with the
apparent greatest malignity; and another, seeming to have awakened
in his mind a romantic generosity which knows no bounds. I cannot
understand him.”
“Nor I, indeed,” said Henry; “but yet I somehow tremble for his fate,
and I seem to feel that something ought to be done to save him from the
fearful consequences of popular feeling. Let us hasten to the town,
and procure what assistance we may; but a few persons, well organised
and properly armed, will achieve wonders against a desultory and
ill-appointed multitude. There may be a chance of saving him, yet, from
the imminent danger which surrounds him.”
“That’s proper,” cried the admiral. “I don’t like to see anybody run
down. A fair fight’s another thing. Yard arm and yard arm—stink pots
and pipkins—broadside to broadside—and throw in your bodies, if you
like, on the lee quarter; but don’t do anything shabby. What do you
think of it, Jack?”
“Why, I means to say as how if Varney only keeps on sail as he’s been
doing, that the devil himself wouldn’t catch him in a gale.”
“And yet,” said Henry, “it is our duty to do the best we can. Let us
at once to the town, and summons all the assistance in our power. Come
on—come on!”
His friends needed no further urging, but, at a brisk pace, they all
proceeded by the nearest footpaths towards the town.
It puzzled his pursuers to think in what possible direction Sir
Francis Varney expected to find sustenance or succour, when they
saw how curiously he took his flight across the meadows. Instead of
endeavouring, by any circuitous path, to seek the shelter of his own
house, or to throw himself upon the care of the authorities of the
town, who must, to the extent of their power, have protected him, he
struck across the fields, apparently without aim or purpose, seemingly
intent upon nothing but to distance his pursuers in a long chase, which
might possibly tire them, or it might not, according to their or his
powers of endurance.
We say this seemed to be the case, but it was not so in reality. Sir
Francis Varney had a deeper purpose, and it was scarcely to be supposed
that a man of his subtle genius, and, apparently, far-seeing and
reflecting intellect, could have so far overlooked the many dangers of
his position as not to be fully prepared for some such contingency as
that which had just now occurred.
Holding, as he did, so strange a place in society—living among men,
and yet possessing so few attributes in common with humanity—he must
all along have felt the possibility of drawing upon himself popular
violence.
He could not wholly rely upon the secrecy of the Bannerworth family,
much as they might well be supposed to shrink from giving publicity to
circumstances of so fearfully strange and perilous a nature as those
which had occurred amongst them. The merest accident might, at any
moment, make him the town’s talk. The overhearing of a few chance words
by some gossiping domestic—some ebullition of anger or annoyance by
some member of the family—or a communication from some friend who had
been treated with confidence—might, at any time, awaken around him some
such a storm as that which now raged at his heels.
Varney the vampire must have calculated this. He must have felt the
possibility of such a state of things; and, as a matter of course,
politicly provided himself with some place of refuge.
After about twenty minutes of hard chasing across the fields, there
could be no doubt of his intentions. He had such a place of refuge;
and, strange a one as it might appear, he sped towards it in as direct
a line as ever a well-sped arrow flew towards its mark.
That place of refuge, to the surprise of every one, appeared to be the
ancient ruin, of which we have before spoken, and which was so well
known to every inhabitant of the county.
Truly, it seemed like some act of mere desperation for Sir Francis
Varney to hope there to hide himself. There remained within, of what
had once been a stately pile, but a few grey crumbling walls, which
the hunted hare would have passed unheeded, knowing that not for one
instant could he have baffled his pursuers by seeking so inefficient a
refuge.
And those who followed hard and fast upon the track of Sir Francis
Varney felt so sure of their game, when they saw whither he was
speeding, that they relaxed in their haste considerably, calling loudly
to each other that the vampire was caught at last, for he could be
easily surrounded among the old ruins, and dragged from amongst its
moss-grown walls.
In another moment, with a wild dash and a cry of exultation, he sprang
out of sight, behind an angle, formed by what had been at one time one
of the principal supports of the ancient structure.
Then, as if there was still something so dangerous about him, that
only by a great number of hands could he be hoped to be secured, the
infuriated peasantry gathered in a dense circle around what they
considered his temporary place of refuge, and as the sun, which had now
climbed above the tree tops, and dispersed, in a great measure, many of
the heavy clouds of morning, shone down upon the excited group, they
might have been supposed there assembled to perform some superstitious
rite, which time had hallowed as an association of the crumbling ruin
around which they stood.
By the time the whole of the stragglers, who had persisted in the
chase, had come up, there might have been about fifty or sixty
resolute men, each intent upon securing the person of one whom they
felt, while in existence, would continue to be a terror to all the
weaker and dearer portions of their domestic circles.
There was a pause of several minutes. Those who had come the fleetest
were gathering breath, and those who had come up last were looking
to their more forward companions for some information as to what had
occurred before their arrival.
All was profoundly still within the ruin, and then suddenly, as if by
common consent, there arose from every throat a loud shout of “Down
with the vampyre! down with the vampyre!”
The echoes of that shout died away, and then all was still as before,
while a superstitious feeling crept over even the boldest. It would
almost seem as if they had expected some kind of response from Sir
Francis Varney to the shout of defiance with which they had just
greeted him; but the very calmness, repose, and absolute quiet of the
ruin, and all about it, alarmed them, and they looked the one at the
other as if the adventure after all were not one of the pleasantest
description, and might not fall out so happily as they had expected.
Yet what danger could there be? there were they, more than half a
hundred stout, strong men, to cope with one; they felt convinced that
he was completely in their power; they knew the ruins could not hide
him, and that five minutes time given to the task, would suffice to
explore every nook and corner of them.
And yet they hesitated, while an unknown terror shook their nerves,
and seemingly from the very fact that they had run down their game
successfully, they dreaded to secure the trophy of the chase.
One bold spirit was wanting; and, if it was not a bold one that spoke
at length, he might be complimented as being comparatively such. It
was one who had not been foremost in the chase, perchance from want of
physical power, who now stood forward, and exclaimed,—
“What are you waiting for, now? You can have him when you like. If you
want your wives and children to sleep quietly in their beds, you will
secure the vampyre. Come on—we all know he’s here—why do you hesitate?
Do you expect me to go alone and drag him out by the ears?”
Any voice would have sufficed to break the spell which bound them. This
did so; and, with one accord, and yells of imprecation, they rushed
forward and plunged among the old walls of the ruin.
Less time than we have before remarked would have enabled any one to
explore the tottering fabric sufficient to bring a conviction to their
minds that, after all, there might have been some mistake about the
matter, and Sir Francis Varney was not quite caught yet.
It was astonishing how the fact of not finding him in a moment, again
roused all their angry feelings against him, and dispelled every
feeling of superstitious awe with which he had been surrounded; rage
gave place to the sort of shuddering horror with which they had before
contemplated his immediate destruction, when they had believed him to
be virtually within their very grasp.
Over and over again the ruins were searched—hastily and impatiently by
some, carefully and deliberately by others, until there could be no
doubt upon the mind of every one individual, that somehow or somewhere
within the shadow of those walls, Sir Francis Varney had disappeared
most mysteriously.
Then it would have been a strange sight for any indifferent spectator
to have seen how they shrunk, one by one, out of the shadow of those
ruins; each seeming to be afraid that the vampyre, in some mysterious
manner, would catch him if he happened to be the last within their
sombre influence; and, when they had all collected in the bright,
open space, some little distance beyond, they looked at each other
and at the ruins, with dubious expressions of countenance, each, no
doubt, wishing that each would suggest something of a consolatory or
practicable character.
“What’s to be done, now?” said one.
“Ah! that’s it,” said another, sententiously. “I’ll be hanged if I
know.”
“He’s given us the slip,” remarked a third.
“But he can’t have given us the slip,” said one man, who was
particularly famous for a dogmatical spirit of argumentation; “how is
it possible? he must be here, and I say he is here.”
“Find him, then,” cried several at once.
“Oh! that’s nothing to do with the argument; he’s here, whether we find
him or not.”
One very cunning fellow laid his finger on his nose, and beckoned to
a comrade to retire some paces, where he delivered himself of the
following very oracular sentiment:—
“My good friend, you must know Sir Francis Varney is here or he isn’t.”
“Agreed, agreed.”
“Well, if he isn’t here it’s no use troubling our heads any more about
him; but, otherwise, it’s quite another thing, and, upon the whole, I
must say, that I rather think he is.”
All looked at him, for it was evident he was big with some suggestion.
After a pause, he resumed,—
“Now, my good friends, I propose that we all appear to give it up, and
to go away; but that some one of us shall remain and hide among the
ruins for some time, to watch, in case the vampyre makes his appearance
from some hole or corner that we haven’t found out.”
“Oh, capital!” said everybody.
“Then you all agree to that?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Very good; that’s the only way to nick him. Now, we’ll pretend to give
it up; let’s all of us talk loud about going home.”
They did all talk loud about going home; they swore that it was not
worth the trouble of catching him, that they gave it up as a bad job;
that he might go to the deuce in any way he liked, for all they cared;
and then they all walked off in a body, when, the man who had made the
suggestion, suddenly cried,—
“Hilloa! hilloa!—stop! stop! you know one of us is to wait?”
“Oh, ay; yes, yes, yes!” said everybody, and still they moved on.
“But really, you know, what’s the use of this? who’s to wait?”
That was, indeed, a knotty question, which induced a serious
consultation, ending in their all, with one accord, pitching upon the
author of the suggestion, as by far the best person to hide in the
ruins and catch the vampyre.
They then all set off at full speed; but the cunning fellow, who
certainly had not the slightest idea of so practically carrying out his
own suggestion, scampered off after them with a speed that soon brought
him in the midst of the throng again, and so, with fear in their looks,
and all the evidences of fatigue about them, they reached the town to
spread fresh and more exaggerated accounts of the mysterious conduct of
Varney the vampyre.