THE MOB’S ARRIVAL AT SIR FRANCIS VARNEY’S.—THE ATTEMPT TO GAIN
ADMISSION.
All eyes were directed towards that southern sky which each moment was
becoming more and more illuminated by the lurid appearance bespeaking a
conflagration, which, if it was not extensive, at all events was raging
fiercely.
There came, too upon the wind, which set from that direction, strange
sounds, resembling shouts of triumph, combined occasionally with
sharper cries, indicative of alarm.
With so much system and so quietly had this attack been made upon the
house of Sir Francis Varney—for the consequences of it now exhibited
themselves most unequivocally—that no one who had not actually
accompanied the expedition was in the least aware that it had been at
all undertaken, or that anything of the kind was on the tapis.
Now, however, it could be no longer kept a secret, and as the
infuriated mob, who had sought this flagrant means of giving vent to
their anger, saw the flames from the blazing house rising high in
the heavens, they felt convinced that further secrecy was out of the
question.
Accordingly, in such cries and shouts as—but for caution’s sake—they
would have indulged in from the very first, they now gave utterance to
their feelings as regarded the man whose destruction was aimed at.
“Death to the vampyre!—death to the vampyre!” was the principal shout,
and it was uttered in tones which sounded like those of rage and
disappointment.
But it is necessary, now that we have disposed of the smaller number of
rioters who committed so serious an outrage at the inn, that we should,
with some degree of method, follow the proceedings of the larger
number, who went from the town towards Sir Francis Varney’s.
These persons either had information of a very positive nature, or a
very strong suspicion that, notwithstanding the mysterious and most
unaccountable disappearance of the vampyre in the old ruin, he would
now be found, as usual, at his own residence.
Perhaps one of his own servants may have thus played the traitor to
him; but however it was, there certainly was an air of confidence about
some of the leaders of the tumultuous assemblage that induced a general
belief that this time, at least, the vampyre would not escape popular
vengeance for being what he was.
We have before noticed that these people went out of the town at
different points, and did not assemble into one mass until they were at
a sufficient distance off to be free from all fear of observation.
Then some of the less observant and cautious of them began to indulge
in shouts of rage and defiance; but those who placed themselves
foremost succeeded in procuring a halt, and one said,—
“Good friends all, if we make any noise, it can only have one effect,
and that is, to warn Sir Francis Varney, and enable him to escape. If,
therefore, we cannot go on quietly, I propose that we return to our
homes, for we shall accomplish nothing.”
This advice was sufficiently and evidently reasonable to meet with no
dissension; a death-like stillness ensued, only broken by some two or
three voices saying, in subdued tones,—
“That’s right—that’s right. Nobody speak.”
“Come on, then,” said he who had given such judicious counsel; and the
dark mass of men moved towards Sir Francis Varney’s house, as quietly
as it was possible for such an assemblage to proceed.
Indeed, saving the sound of the footsteps, nothing could be heard of
them at all; and that regular tramp, tramp, would have puzzled any one
listening to it from any distance to know in which direction it was
proceeding.
In this way they went on until Sir Francis Varney’s house was reached,
and then a whispered word to halt was given, and all eyes were bent
upon the building.
From but one window out of the numerous ones with which the front of
the mansion was studded did there shine the least light, and from that
there came rather an uncommonly bright reflection, probably arising
from a reading lamp placed close to the window.
A general impression, they knew not why exactly, seemed to pervade
everybody, that in the room from whence streamed that bright light was
Sir Francis Varney.
“The vampyre’s room!” said several. “The vampyre’s room! That is it!”
“Yes,” said he who had a kind of moral control over his comrades; “I
have no doubt but he is there.”
“What’s to be done?” asked several.
“Make no noise whatever, but stand aside, so as not to be seen from the
door when it is opened.”
“Yes, yes.”
“I will knock for admittance, and, the moment it is answered, I will
place this stick in such a manner within, that the door cannot be
closed again. Upon my saying ‘Advance,’ you will make a rush forward,
and we shall have possession immediately of the house.”
All this was agreed to. The mob slunk close to the walls of the house,
and out of immediate observation from the hall door, or from any of the
windows, and then the leader advanced, and knocked loudly for admission.
The silence was now of the most complete character that could be
imagined. Those who came there so bent upon vengeance were thoroughly
convinced of the necessity of extreme caution, to save themselves even
yet from being completely foiled.
They had abundant faith, from experience, of the resources in the way
of escape of Sir Francis Varney, and not one among them was there
who considered that there was any chance of capturing him, except by
surprise, and when once they got hold of him, they determined he should
not easily slip through their fingers.
The knock for admission produced no effect; and, after waiting three or
four minutes, it was very provoking to find such a wonderful amount of
caution and cunning completely thrown away.
“Try again,” whispered one.
“Well, have patience; I am going to try again.”
The man had the ponderous old-fashioned knocker in his hand, and was
about to make another appeal to Sir Francis Varney’s door, when a
strange voice said,—
“Perhaps you may as well say at once what you want, instead of knocking
there to no purpose.”
He gave a start, for the voice seemed to come from the very door itself.
Yet it sounded decidedly human; and, upon a closer inspection, it was
seen that a little wicket-gate, not larger than a man’s face, had been
opened from within.
This was terribly provoking. Here was an extent of caution on the part
of the garrison quite unexpected. What was to be done?
“Well?” said the man who appeared at the little opening.
“Oh,” said he who had knocked; “I——”
“Well?”
“I—that is to say—ahem! Is Sir Francis Varney within?”
“Well?”
“I say, is Sir Francis Varney within?”
“Well; you have said it!”
“Ah, but you have not answered it.”
“No.”
“Well, is he at home?”
“I decline saying; so you had better, all of you, go back to the town
again, for we are well provided with all material to resist any attack
you may be fools enough to make.”
As he spoke, the servant shut the little square door with a bang that
made his questioner jump again. Here was a dilemma!