VARNEY’S DANGER, AND HIS RESCUE.—THE PRISONER AGAIN, AND THE
SUBTERRANEAN VAULT.
We have before slightly mentioned to the reader, and not unadvisedly,
the existence of a certain prisoner, confined in a gloomy dungeon, into
whose sad and blackened recesses but few and faint glimmering rays
of light ever penetrated; for, by a diabolical ingenuity, the narrow
loophole which served for a window to that subterraneous abode was so
constructed, that, let the sun be at what point it might, during its
diurnal course, but a few reflected beams of light could ever find
their way into that abode of sorrow.
The prisoner—the same prisoner of whom we before spoke—is there.
Despair is in his looks, and his temples are still bound with those
cloths, which seemed now for many days to have been sopped in blood,
which has become encrusted in their folds.
He still lives, apparently incapable of movement. How he has lived
so long seems to be a mystery, for one would think him scarcely in
a state, even were nourishment placed to his lips, to enable him to
swallow it.
It may be, however, that the mind has as much to do with that apparent
absolute prostration of all sort of physical energy as those bodily
wounds which he has received at the hands of the enemies who have
reduced him to his present painful and hopeless situation.
Occasionally a low groan burst from his lips; it seems to come from the
very bottom of his heart, and it sounds as if it would carry with it
every remnant of vitality that was yet remaining to him.
Then he moves restlessly, and repeats in hurried accents the names
of some who are dear to him, and far away—some who may, perchance,
be mourning him, but who know not, guess not, aught of his present
sufferings.
As he thus moves, the rustle of a chain among the straw on which he
lies gives an indication, that even in that dungeon it has not been
considered prudent to leave him master of his own actions, lest, by too
vigorous an effort, he might escape from the thraldom in which he is
held.
The sound reaches his own ears, and for a few moments, in the deep
impatience of his wounded spirit, he heaps malediction on the heads of
those who have reduced him to his present state.
But soon a better nature seems to come over him, and gentler words fall
from his lips. He preaches patience to himself—he talks not of revenge,
but of justice, and in accents of more hopefulness than he had before
spoken, he calls upon Heaven to succour him in his deep distress.
Then all is still, and the prisoner appears to have resigned himself
once more to the calmness of expectation or of despair; but hark!
his sense of hearing, rendered doubly acute by lying so long alone
in nearly darkness, and in positive silence, detects sounds which,
to ordinary mortal powers of perception, would have been by far too
indistinct to produce any tangible effect upon the senses.
It is the sound of feet—on, on they come; far overhead he hears them;
they beat the green earth—that sweet, verdant sod, which he may never
see again—with an impatient tread. Nearer and nearer still; and now
they pause; he listens with all the intensity of one who listens for
existence; some one comes; there is a lumbering noise—a hasty footstep;
he hears some one labouring for breath—panting like a hunted hare; his
dungeon door is opened, and there totters in a man, tall and gaunt;
he reels like one intoxicated; fatigue has done more than the work of
inebriation; he cannot save himself, and he sinks exhausted by the side
of that lonely prisoner.
The captive raises himself as far as his chains will allow him; he
clutches the throat of his enervated visitor.
“Villain, monster, vampyre!” he shrieks, “I have thee now;” and locked
in a deadly embrace, they roll upon the damp earth, struggling for life
together.
[Illustration: The struggle between Varney and Charles Holland.]
• • • • •
It is mid-day at Bannerworth Hall, and Flora is looking from the
casement anxiously expecting the arrival of her brothers. She had
seen, from some of the topmost windows of the Hall, that the whole
neighbourhood had been in a state of commotion, but little did she
guess the cause of so much tumult, or that it in any way concerned her.
She had seen the peasantry forsaking their work in the fields and the
gardens, and apparently intent upon some object of absorbing interest;
but she feared to leave the house, for she had promised Henry that she
would not do so, lest the former pacific conduct of the vampyre should
have been but a new snare, for the purpose of drawing her so far from
her home as to lead her into some danger when she should be far from
assistance.
And yet more than once was she tempted to forget her promise, and
to seek the open country, for fear that those she loved should be
encountering some danger for her sake, which she would willingly either
share with them or spare them.
The solicitation, however, of her brother kept her comparatively quiet;
and, moreover, since her last interview with Varney, in which, at all
events, he had shown some feeling for the melancholy situation to
which, he had reduced her, she had been more able to reason calmly, and
to meet the suggestions of passion and of impulse with a sober judgment.
About midday, then, she saw the domestic party returning—that party,
which now consisted of her two brothers, the admiral, Jack Pringle, and
Mr. Chillingworth. As for Mr. Marchdale, he had given them a polite
adieu on the confines of the grounds of Bannerworth Hall, stating, that
although he had felt it to be his duty to come forward and second Henry
Bannerworth in the duel with the vampyre, yet that circumstance by no
means obliterated from his memory the insults he had received from
Admiral Bell, and, therefore, he declined going to Bannerworth Hall,
and bade them a very good morning.
To all this, Admiral Bell replied that he might go and be d——d, if he
liked, and that he considered him a swab and a humbug, and appealed to
Jack Pringle whether he, Jack, ever saw such a sanctified looking prig
in his life.
“Ay, ay,” says Jack.
This answer, of course, produced the usual contention, which lasted
them until they got fairly in the house, where they swore at each other
to an extent that was enough to make any one’s hair stand on end, until
Henry and Mr. Chillingworth interfered, and really begged that they
would postpone the discussion until some more fitting opportunity.
The whole of the circumstances were then related to Flora; who, while
she blamed her brother much for fighting the duel with the vampyre,
found in the conduct of that mysterious individual, as regarded the
encounter, yet another reason for believing him to be strictly sincere
in his desire to save her from the consequences of his future visits.
Her desire to leave Bannerworth Hall consequently became more and more
intense, and as the admiral really now considered himself the master
of the house, they offered no amount of opposition to the subject, but
merely said,—
“My dear Flora, Admiral Bell shall decide in all these matters, now. We
know that he is our sincere friend; and that whatever he says we ought
to do, will be dictated by the best possible feelings towards us.”
“Then I appeal to you, sir,” said Flora, turning to the admiral.
“Very good,” replied the old man; “then I say——”
“Nay, admiral,” interrupted Mr. Chillingworth; “you promised me, but a
short time since, that you would come to no decision whatever upon this
question, until you had heard some particulars which I have to relate
to you, which, in my humble opinion, will sway your judgment.”
“And so I did,” cried the admiral; “but I had forgotten all about it.
Flora, my dear, I’ll be with you in an hour or two. My friend, the
doctor, here, has got some sow by the ear, and fancies it’s the right
one; however, I’ll hear what he has got to say, first, before we come
to a conclusion. So, come along, Mr. Chillingworth, and let’s have it
out at once.”
“Flora,” said Henry, when the admiral had left the room, “I can see
that you wish to leave the Hall.”
[Illustration: Flora and Henry decide upon leaving Bannerworth Hall.]
“I do, brother; but not to go far—I wish rather to hide from Varney
than to make myself inaccessible by distance.”
“You still cling to this neighbourhood?”
“I do, I do; and you know with what hope I cling to it.”
“Perfectly; you still think it possible that Charles Holland may be
united to you.”
“I do, I do.”
“You believe his faith.”
“Oh, yes; as I believe in Heaven’s mercy.”
“And I, Flora; I would not doubt him now for worlds; something even now
seems to whisper to me that a brighter sun of happiness will yet dawn
upon us, and that, when the mists which at present enshroud ourselves
and our fortunes pass away, they will disclose a landscape full of
beauty, the future of which shall know no pangs.”
“Yes, brother,” exclaimed Flora, enthusiastically; “this, after all,
may be but some trial, grievous while it lasts, but yet tending
eventually only to make the future look more bright and beautiful.
Heaven may yet have in store for us all some great happiness, which
shall spring clearly and decidedly from out these misfortunes.”
“Be it so, and may we ever thus banish despair by such hopeful
propositions. Lean on my arm, Flora; you are safe with me. Come,
dearest, and taste the sweetness of the morning air.”
There was, indeed now, a hopefulness about the manner in which Henry
Bannerworth spoke, such as Flora had not for some weary months had the
pleasure of listening to, and she eagerly rose to accompany him into
the garden, which was glowing with all the beauty of sunshine, for the
day had turned out to be much finer than the early morning had at all
promised it would be.
“Flora,” he said, when they had taken some turns to and fro in the
garden, “notwithstanding all that has happened, there is no convincing
Mr. Chillingworth that Sir Francis Varney is really what to us he
appears.”
“Indeed!”
“It is so. In the face of all evidence, he neither will believe in
vampyres at all, nor that Varney is anything but some mortal man, like
ourselves, in his thoughts, talents, feelings, and modes of life; and
with no more power to do any one an injury than we have.”
“Oh, would that I could think so!”
“And I; but, unhappily, we have by far too many, and too conclusive
evidences to the contrary.”
“We have, indeed, brother.”
“And though, while we respect that strength of mind in our friend which
will not allow him, even almost at the last extremity, to yield to what
appear to be stern facts, we may not ourselves be so obdurate, but may
feel that we know enough to be convinced.”
“You have no doubt, brother?”
“Most reluctantly, I must confess, that I feel compelled to consider
Varney as something more than mortal.”
“He must be so.”
“And now, sister, before we leave the place which has been a home to
us from earliest life, let us for a few moments consider if there be
any possible excuse for the notion of Mr. Chillingworth, to the effect
that Sir Francis Varney wants possession of the house for some purpose
still more inimical to our peace and prosperity than any he has yet
attempted.”
“Has he such an opinion?”
“He has.”
“’Tis very strange.”
“Yes, Flora; he seems to gather from all the circumstances, nothing but
an overwhelming desire on the part of Sir Francis Varney to become the
tenant of Bannerworth Hall.”
“He certainly wishes to possess it.”
“Yes; but can you, sister, in the exercise of any possible amount of
fancy, imagine any motive for such an anxiety beyond what he alleges?”
“Which is merely that he is fond of old houses.”
“Precisely so. That is the reason, and the only one, that can be got
from him. Heaven only knows if it be the true one.”
“It may be, brother.”
“As you say, it may; but there’s a doubt, nevertheless, Flora. I much
rejoice that you have had an interview with this mysterious being, for
you have certainly, since that time, been happier and more composed
than I ever hoped to see you again.”
“I have indeed.”
“It is sufficiently perceivable.”
“Somehow, brother, since that interview, I have not had the same sort
of dread of Sir Francis Varney which before made the very sound of his
name a note of terror to me. His words, and all he said to me during
that interview which took place so strangely between us, indeed how I
know not, tended altogether rather to make him, to a certain extent, an
object of my sympathies rather than my abhorrence.”
“That is very strange.”
“I own that it is strange, Henry; but when we come for but a brief
moment to reflect upon the circumstances which have occurred, we shall,
I think, be able to find some cause even to pity Varney the vampyre.”
“How?”
“Thus, brother. It is said—and well may I who have been subject to an
attack of such a nature, tremble to repeat the saying—that those who
have been once subject to the visitations of a vampyre, are themselves
in a way to become one of the dreadful and maddening fraternity.”
“I have heard so much, sister,” replied Henry.
“Yes; and therefore who knows but that Sir Francis Varney may, at one
time, have been as innocent as we are ourselves of the terrible and
fiendish propensity which now makes him a terror and a reproach to all
who know him, or are in any way obnoxious to his attacks.”
“That is true.”
“There may have been a time—who shall say there was not?—when he, like
me, would have shrunk, with a dread as great as any one could have
experienced, from the contamination of the touch even of a vampyre.”
“I cannot, sister, deny the soundness of your reasoning,” said Henry,
with a sigh; “but I still do not see anything, even from a full
conviction that Varney is unfortunate, which should induce us to
tolerate him.”
“Nay, brother, I said not tolerate. What I mean is, that even with the
horror and dread we must naturally feel at such a being, we may afford
to mingle some amount of pity, which shall make us rather seek to shun
him, than to cross his path with a resolution of doing him an injury.”
“I perceive well, sister, what you mean. Rather than remain here, and
make an attempt to defy Sir Francis Varney, you would fly from him, and
leave him undisputed master of the field.”
“I would—I would.”
“Heaven forbid that I or any one should thwart you. You know well,
Flora, how dear you are to me; you know well that your happiness has
ever been to us all a matter which has assumed the most important of
shapes, as regarded our general domestic policy. It is not, therefore,
likely now, dear sister, that we should thwart you in your wish to
remove from here.”
“I know, Henry, all you would say,” remarked Flora, as a tear started
to her eyes. “I know well all you think, and, in your love for me, I
likewise know well I rely for ever. You are attached to this place, as,
indeed, we all are, by a thousand happy and pleasant associations; but
listen to me further, Henry, I do not wish to wander far.”
“Not far, Flora?”
“No. Do I not still cling to a hope that Charles may yet appear? and if
he do so, it will assuredly be in this neighbourhood, which he knows is
native and most dear to us all.”
“True.”
“Then do I wish to make some sort of parade, in the way of publicity,
of our leaving the Hall.”
“Yes, yes.”
“And yet not go far. In the neighbouring town, for example, surely
we might find some means of living entirely free from remark or
observation as to who or what we were.”
“That, sister, I doubt. If you seek for that species of solitude which
you contemplate, it is only to be found in a desert.”
“A desert?”
“Yes; or in a large city.”
“Indeed!”
“Ay, Flora; you may well believe me, that it is so. In a small
community you can have no possible chance of evading an amount of
scrutiny which would very soon pierce through any disguise you could by
any possibility assume.”
“Then there is no resource. We must go far.”
“Nay, I will consider for you, Flora; and although, as a general
principle, what I have said I know to be true, yet some more special
circumstance may arise that may point a course that, while it
enables us, for Charles Holland’s sake, to remain in this immediate
neighbourhood, yet will procure to us all the secrecy we may desire.”
“Dear—dear brother,” said Flora, as she flung herself upon Henry’s
neck, “you speak cheeringly to me, and, what is more, you believe in
Charles’s faithfulness and truth.”
“As Heaven is my judge, I do.”
“A thousand, thousand thanks for such an assurance. I know him too
well to doubt, for one moment, his faith. Oh, brother! could he—could
Charles Holland, the soul of honour, the abode of every noble impulse
that can adorn humanity—could he have written those letters? No, no!
perish the thought!”
“It has perished.”
“Thank God!”
“I only, upon reflection, wonder how, misled for the moment by the
concurrence of a number of circumstances, I could ever have suspected
him.”
“It is like your generous nature, brother, to say so; but you know as
well as I, that there has been one here who has, far from feeling any
sort of anxiety to think as well as possible of poor Charles Holland,
has done all that in him lay to take the worst view of his mysterious
disappearance, and induce us to do the like.”
“You allude to Mr. Marchdale?”
“I do.”
“Well, Flora, at the same time that I must admit you have cause for
speaking of Mr. Marchdale as you do, yet when we come to consider all
things, there may be found for him excuses.”
“May there?”
“Yes, Flora; he is a man, as he himself says, past the meridian of
life, and the world is a sad as well as a bad teacher, for it soon—too
soon, alas! deprives us of our trusting confidence in human nature.”
“It may be so; but yet, he, knowing as he did so very little of Charles
Holland, judged him hastily and harshly.”
“You rather ought to say, Flora, that he did not judge him generously.”
“Well, be it so.”
“And you must recollect, when you say so, that Marchdale did not love
Charles Holland.”
“Nay, now,” said Flora, while there flashed across her cheek, for a
moment, a heightened colour, “you are commencing to jest with me, and,
therefore, we will say no more. You know, dear Henry, all my hopes, my
wishes, and my feelings, and I shall therefore leave my future destiny
in your hands, to dispose of as you please. Look yonder!”
“Where?”
“There. Do you not see the admiral and Mr. Chillingworth walking among
the trees?”
“Yes, yes; I do now.”
“How very serious and intent they are upon the subject of their
discourse. They seem quite lost to all surrounding objects. I could not
have imagined any subject that would so completely have absorbed the
attention of Admiral Bell.”
“Mr. Chillingworth had something to relate to him or to propose, of
a nature which, perchance, has had the effect of enchaining all his
attention—he called him from the room.”
“Yes; I saw that he did. But see, they come towards us, and now we
shall, probably, hear what is the subject-matter of their discourse and
consultation.”
“We shall.”
Admiral Bell had evidently seen Henry and his sister, for now,
suddenly, as if not from having for the first moment observed them,
and, in consequence, broken off their private discourse, but as if they
arrived at some point in it which enabled them to come to a conclusion
to be communicative, the admiral came towards the brother and sister.
“Well,” said the bluff old admiral, when they were sufficiently near
to exchange words, “well, Miss Flora, you are looking a thousand times
better than you were.”
“I thank you, admiral, I am much better.”
“Oh, to be sure you are; and you will be much better still, and no sort
of mistake. Now, here’s the doctor and I have both been agreeing upon
what is best for you.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, to be sure. Have we not, doctor?”
“We have, admiral.”
“Good; and what, now, Miss Flora, do you suppose it is?”
“I really cannot say.”
“Why, it’s change of air, to be sure. You must get away from here as
quickly as you can, or there will be no peace for you.”
“Yes,” added Mr. Chillingworth, advancing; “I am quite convinced that
change of scene and change of place, and habits, and people, will tend
more to your complete recovery than any other circumstances. In the
most ordinary cases of indisposition we always find that the invalid
recovers much sooner away from the scene of his indisposition, than by
remaining in it, even though its general salubrity be much greater than
the place to which he may be removed.”
“Good,” said the admiral.
“Then we are to understand,” said Henry, with a smile, “that we are no
longer to be your guests, Admiral Bell?”
“Belay there!” cried the admiral; “who told you to understand any such
thing, I should like to know?”
“Well, but we shall look upon this house as yours, now; and, that being
the case, if we remove from it, of course we cease to be your guests
any longer.”
“That’s all you know about it. Now, hark ye. You don’t command the
fleet, so don’t pretend to know what the admiral is going to do. I have
made money by knocking about some of the enemies of old England, and
that’s the most gratifying manner in the world of making money, so far
as I am concerned.”
“It is an honourable mode.”
“Of course it is. Well, I am going to—what the deuce do you call it?”
“What?”
“That’s just what I want to know. Oh, I have it now. I am going to what
the lawyers call invest it.”
“A prudent step, admiral, and one which it is to be hoped, before now,
has occurred to you.”
“Perhaps it has and perhaps it hasn’t; however, that’s my business, and
no one’s else’s. I am going to invest my spare cash in taking houses;
so, as I don’t care a straw where the houses may be situated, you can
look out for one somewhere that will suit you, and I’ll take it; so,
after all, you will be my guests there just the same as you are here.”
“Admiral,” said Henry, “it would be imposing upon a generosity as
rare as it is noble, were we to allow you to do so much for us as you
contemplate.”
“Very good.”
“We cannot—we dare not.”
“But I say you shall. So you have had your say, and I’ve had mine,
after which, if you please, Master Henry Bannerworth, I shall take upon
myself to consider the affair as altogether settled. You can commence
operations as soon as you like. I know that Miss Flora, here—bless her
sweet eyes—don’t want to stay at Bannerworth Hall any longer than she
can help it.”
“Indeed I was urging upon Henry to remove,” said Flora; “but yet I
cannot help feeling with him, admiral, that we are imposing upon your
goodness.”
“Go on imposing, then.”
“But——”
“Psha! Can’t a man be imposed upon if he likes? D—n it, that’s a poor
privilege for an Englishman to be forced to make a row about. I tell
you I like it. I will be imposed upon, so there’s an end of that; and
now let’s come in and see what Mrs. Bannerworth has got ready for
luncheon.”
• • • • •
It can hardly be supposed that such a popular ferment as had been
created in the country town, by the singular reports concerning Varney
the Vampyre, should readily, and without abundant satisfaction, subside.
An idea like that which had lent so powerful an impulse to the popular
mind, was one far easier to set going than to deprecate or extinguish.
The very circumstances which had occurred to foil the excited mob in
their pursuit of Sir Francis Varney, were of a nature to increase the
popular superstition concerning him, and to make him and his acts
appear in still more dreadful colours.
Mobs do not reason very closely and clearly; but the very fact of the
frantic flight of Sir Francis Varney from the projected attack of the
infuriated multitude, was seized hold of as proof positive of the
reality of his vampyre-like existence.
Then, again, had he not disappeared in the most mysterious manner?
Had he not sought refuge where no human being would think of seeking
refuge, namely, in that old, dilapidated ruin, where, when his pursuers
were so close upon his track, he had succeeded in eluding their grasp
with a facility which looked as if he had vanished into thin air, or
as if the very earth had opened to receive him bodily within its cold
embraces?
It is not to be wondered at, that the few who fled so precipitately
from the ruin, lost nothing of the wonderful story they had to tell, in
the carrying it from that place to the town. When they reached their
neighbours, they not only told what had really occurred, but they
added to it all their own surmises, and the fanciful creation of all
their own fears, so that before mid-day, and about the time when Henry
Bannerworth was conversing so quietly in the gardens of the Hall with
his beautiful sister, there was an amount of popular ferment in the
town, of which they had no conception.
All business was suspended, and many persons, now that once the idea
had been started concerning the possibility that a vampyre might have
been visiting some of the houses in the place, told how, in the dead
of the night, they had heard strange noises. How children had shrieked
from no apparent cause—doors opened and shut without human agency; and
windows rattled that never had been known to rattle before.
Some, too, went so far as to declare that they had been awakened out
of their sleep by noises incidental to an effort made to enter their
chambers; and others had seen dusky forms of gigantic proportions
outside their windows, tampering with their fastenings, and only
disappearing when the light of day mocked all attempts at concealment.
These tales flew from mouth to mouth, and all listened to them with
such an eager interest, that none thought it worth while to challenge
their inconsistencies, or to express a doubt of their truth, because
they had not been mentioned before.
The only individual, and he was a remarkably clever man, who made the
slightest remark upon the subject of a practical character, hazarded a
suggestion that made confusion worse confounded.
He knew something of vampyres. He had travelled abroad, and had
heard of them in Germany, as well as in the east, and, to a crowd of
wondering and aghast listeners, he said,—
“You may depend upon it, my friends, this has been going on for some
time; there have been several mysterious and sudden deaths in the town
lately; people have wasted away and died nobody knew how or wherefore.”
“Yes—yes,” said everybody.
“There was Miles, the butcher; you know how fat he was, and then how
fat he wasn’t.”
A general assent was given to the proposition; and then, elevating one
arm in an oratorical manner, the clever fellow continued,—
“I have not a doubt that Miles, the butcher, and every one else who
has died suddenly lately, have been victims of the vampyre; and what’s
more, they’ll all be vampyres, and come and suck other people’s blood,
till at last the whole town will be a town of vampyres.”
“But what’s to be done?” cried one, who trembled so excessively that he
could scarcely stand under his apprehension.
“There is but one plan—Sir Francis Varney must be found, and put out
of the world in such a manner that he can’t come back to it again; and
all those who are dead that we have any suspicion of, should be taken
up out of their graves and looked at, to see if they’re rotting or not;
if they are it’s all right; but, if they look fresh and much, as usual,
you may depend they’re vampyres, and no mistake.”
This was a terrific suggestion thrown amongst a mob. To have caught Sir
Francis Varney and immolated him at the shrine of popular fury, they
would not have shrunk from; but a desecration of the graves of those
whom they had known in life was a matter which, however much it had to
recommend it, even the boldest stood aghast at, and felt some qualms of
irresolution.
There are many ideas, however, which, like the first plunge into a cold
bath, are rather uncomfortable for the moment; but which, in a little
time, we become so familiarized with, that they become stripped of
their disagreeable concomitants, and appear quite pleasing and natural.
So it was with this notion of exhuming the dead bodies of those
townspeople who had recently died from what was called a decay of
nature, and such other failures of vitality as bore not the tangible
name of any understood disease.
From mouth to mouth the awful suggestion spread like wildfire, until at
last it grew into such a shape that it almost seemed to become a duty,
at all events, to have up Miles the butcher, and see how he looked.
There is, too, about human nature a natural craving curiosity
concerning everything connected with the dead. There is not a man of
education or of intellectual endowment who would not travel many miles
to look upon the exhumation of the remains of some one famous in his
time, whether for his vices, his virtues, his knowledge, his talents,
or his heroism; and, if this feeling exist in the minds of the educated
and refined in a sublimated shape, which lends to it grace and dignity,
we may look for it among the vulgar and the ignorant, taking only a
grosser and meaner form, in accordance with their habits of thought.
The rude materials, of which the highest and noblest feelings of
educated minds are formed, will be found amongst the most grovelling
and base; and so this vulgar curiosity, which, combined with other
feelings, prompted an ignorant and illiterate mob to exhume Miles, the
once fat butcher, in a different form tempted the philosophic Hamlet to
moralise upon the skull of Yorick.
And it was wonderful to see how, when these people had made up their
minds to carry out the singularly interesting, but, at the same,
fearful, suggestion, they assumed to themselves a great virtue in so
doing—told each other what an absolute necessity there was, for the
public good, that it should be done; and then, with loud shouts and
cries concerning the vampyre, they proceeded in a body to the village
churchyard, where had been lain, with a hope of reposing in peace, the
bones of their ancestors.
A species of savage ferocity now appeared to have seized upon the
crowd, and the people, in making up their minds to do something which
was strikingly at variance with all their preconceived notions of right
and wrong, appeared to feel that it was necessary, in order that they
might be consistent, to cast off many of the decencies of life, and to
become riotous and reckless.
As they proceeded towards the graveyard, they amused themselves by
breaking the windows of the tax-gatherers, and doing what passing
mischief they could to the habitations of all who held any official
situation or authority.
This was something like a proclamation of war against those who might
think it their duty to interfere with the lawless proceedings of an
ignorant multitude. A public-house or two, likewise, _en route_, was
sacked of some of its inebriating contents, so that, what with the
madness of intoxication, and the general excitement consequent upon the
very nature of the business which took them to the churchyard, a more
wild and infuriated multitude than that which paused at two iron gates
which led into the sanctuary of that church could not be imagined.
Those who have never seen a mob placed in such a situation as to have
cast off all moral restraint whatever, at the same time that it feels
there is no physical power to cope with it, can form no notion of the
mass of terrible passions which lie slumbering under what, in ordinary
cases, have appeared harmless bosoms, but which now run riot, and
overcame every principle of restraint. It is a melancholy fact, but,
nevertheless, a fact, despite its melancholy, that, even in a civilised
country like this, with a generally well-educated population, nothing
but a well-organised physical force keeps down, from the commission of
the most outrageous offences, hundreds and thousands of persons.
We have said that the mob paused at the iron gates of the churchyard,
but it was more a pause of surprise than one of vacillation, because
they saw that those iron gates were closed, which had not been the case
within the memory of the oldest among them.
At the first building of the church, and the enclosure of its
graveyard, two pairs of these massive gates had been presented by some
munificent patron; but, after a time, they hung idly upon their hinges,
ornamental certainly, but useless, while a couple of turnstiles,
to keep cattle from straying within the sacred precincts, did duty
instead, and established, without trouble, the regular thoroughfare,
which long habit had dictated as necessary, through the place of
sepulture.
But now those gates were closed, and for once were doing duty. Heaven
only knows how they had been moved upon their rusty and time-worn
hinges. The mob, however, was checked for the moment, and it was clear
that the ecclesiastical authorities were resolved to attempt something
to prevent the desecration of the tombs.
Those gates were sufficiently strong to resist the first vigorous shake
which was given to them by some of the foremost among the crowd, and
then one fellow started the idea that they might be opened from the
inside, and volunteered to clamber over the wall to do so.
Hoisted up upon the shoulders of several, he grasped the top of the
wall, and raised his head above its level, and then something of a
mysterious nature rose up from the inside, and dealt him such a whack
between the eyes, that down he went sprawling among his coadjutors.
Now, nobody had seen how this injury had been inflicted, and the policy
of those in the garrison should have been certainly to keep up the
mystery, and leave the invaders in ignorance of what sort of person it
was that had so foiled them. Man, however, is prone to indulge in vain
glorification, and the secret was exploded by the triumphant waving of
the long staff of the beadle, with the gilt knob at the end of it, just
over the parapet of the wall, in token of victory.
[Illustration: The beadle gallantly defends the churchyard from the
mob.]
“It’s Waggles! it’s Waggles!” cried everybody “it’s Waggles, the
beadle!”
“Yes,” said a voice from within, “it’s Waggles, the beadle; and he
thinks as he had yer there rather; try it again. The church isn’t in
danger; oh, no. What do you think of this?”
The staff was flourished more vigorously than ever, and in the secure
position that Waggles occupied it seemed not only impossible to attack
him, but that he possessed wonderful powers of resistance, for the
staff was long and the knob was heavy.
It was a boy who hit upon the ingenious expedient of throwing up a
great stone, so that it just fell inside the wall, and hit Waggles a
great blow on the head.
The staff was flourished more vigorously than ever, and the mob, in the
ecstasy at the fun which was going on, almost forgot the errand which
had brought them.
Perhaps after all the affair might have passed off jestingly, had not
there been some really mischievous persons among the throng who were
determined that such should not be the case, and they incited the
multitude to commence an attack upon the gates, which in a few moments
must have produced their entire demolition.
Suddenly, however, the boldest drew back, and there was a pause, as the
well-known form of the clergyman appeared advancing from the church
door, attired in full canonicals.
“There’s Mr. Leigh,” said several; “how unlucky he should be here.”
“What is this?” said the clergyman, approaching the gates. “Can I
believe my eyes when I see before me those who compose the worshippers
at this church armed, and attempting to enter for the purpose of
violence to this sacred place! Oh! let me beseech you, lose not a
moment, but return to your homes, and repent of that which you have
already done. It is not yet too late; listen, I pray you, to the voice
of one with whom you have so often joined in prayer to the throne of
the Almighty, who is now looking upon your actions.”
This appeal was heard respectfully, but it was evidently very far from
suiting the feelings and the wishes of those to whom it was addressed;
the presence of the clergyman was evidently an unexpected circumstance,
and the more especially too as he appeared in that costume which they
had been accustomed to regard with a reverence almost amounting to
veneration. He saw the favourable effect he had produced, and anxious
to follow it up, he added,—
“Let this little ebullition of feeling pass away, my friends; and,
believe me, when I assure you upon my sacred word, that whatever ground
there may be for complaint or subject for inquiry, shall be fully and
fairly met; and that the greatest exertions shall be made to restore
peace and tranquillity to all of you.”
“It’s all about the vampyre!” cried one fellow—“Mr. Leigh, how should
you like a vampyre in the pulpit?”
“Hush, hush! can it be possible that you know so little of the works of
that great Being whom you all pretend to adore, as to believe that he
would create any class of beings of a nature such as those you ascribe
to that terrific word? Oh, let me pray of you to get rid of these
superstitions—alike disgraceful to yourselves and afflicting to me.”
The clergyman had the satisfaction of seeing the crowd rapidly thinning
from before the gates, and he believed his exhortations were having all
the effect he wished. It was not until he heard a loud shout behind
him, and, upon hastily turning, saw that the churchyard had been scaled
at another place by some fifty or sixty persons, that his heart sunk
within him, and he began to feel that what he had dreaded would surely
come to pass.
Even then he might have done something in the way of pacific exertion,
but for the interference of Waggles, the beadle, who spoilt everything.