THE MYSTERIOUS MEETING IN THE RUIN AGAIN.—THE VAMPYRE’S ATTACK UPON
THE CONSTABLE.
It is now necessary that we return once more to that mysterious ruin,
in the intricacies of which Varney, when pursued by the mob, had
succeeded in finding a refuge which defied all the exertions which were
made for his discovery. Our readers must be well aware, that, connected
with that ruin, are some secrets of great importance to our story; and
we will now, at the solemn hour of midnight, take another glance at
what is doing within its recesses.
At that solemn hour it is not probable that any one would seek that
gloomy place from choice. Some lover of the picturesque certainly might
visit it; but such was not the inciting cause of the pilgrimage with
those who were soon to stand within its gloomy precincts.
Other motives dictated their presence in that spot—motives of rapine;
peradventure of murder itself.
As the neighbouring clocks sounded the hour of twelve, and the faint
strokes were borne gently on the wind to that isolated ruin, there
might have been seen a tall man standing by the porch of what had once
been a large doorway to some portion of the ruin.
His form was enveloped in a large cloak, which was of such ample
material that he seemed well able to wrap it several times around him,
and then leave a considerable portion of it floating idly in the gentle
wind.
He stood as still, as calm, and as motionless as a statue, for a
considerable time, before any degree of impatience began to show
itself. Then he took from his pocket a large antique watch, the white
face of which just enabled him to see what the time was, and, in a
voice which had in it some amount of petulance and anger, he said,—
“Not come yet, and nearly half an hour beyond the time! What can have
detained him? This is, indeed, trifling with the most important moments
of a man’s existence.”
Even as he spoke, he heard, from some distance off, the sound of a
short, quick footstep. He bent forwards to listen, and then, in a tone
of satisfaction, he said,—
“He comes—he comes!”
But he who thus waited for some confederate among these dim and old
grey ruins, advanced not a step to meet him. On the contrary, such
seemed the amount of cold-blooded caution which he possessed, that
the nearer the man—who was evidently advancing—got to the place, the
further back did he who had preceded him shrink into the shadow of the
dim and crumbling walls, which had, for some years now past, seemed to
bend to the passing blast, and to be on the point of yielding to the
destroying hand of time.
And yet, surely he needed not have been so cautious. Who was likely, at
such an hour as that, to come to the ruins, but one who sought it by
appointment?
And, moreover, the manner of the advancing man should have been quite
sufficient to convince him who waited, that so much caution was
unnecessary; but it was a part and parcel of his nature.
About three minutes more sufficed to bring the second man to the ruin,
and he, at once, and fearlessly, plunged into its recesses.
“Who comes?” said the first man, in a deep, hollow voice.
“He whom you expect,” was the reply.
“Good,” he said, and at once he now emerged from his hiding-place, and
they stood together in the nearly total darkness with which the place
was enshrouded; for the night was a cloudy one, and there appeared not
a star in the heavens, to shed its faint light upon the scene below.
For a few moments they were both silent, for he who had last arrived
had evidently made great exertions to reach the spot, and was breathing
laboriously, while he who was there first appeared, from some natural
taciturnity of character, to decline opening the conversation.
At length the second comer spoke, saying,—
“I have made some exertion to get here to my time, and yet I am beyond
it, as you are no doubt aware.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Well, such would not have been the case; but yet, I stayed to bring
you some news of importance.”
“Indeed!”
“It is so. This place, which we have, now for some time had as a quiet
and perfectly eligible one of meeting, is about to be invaded by one
of those restless, troublesome spirits, who are never happy but when
they are contriving something to the annoyance of others who do not
interfere with them.”
“Explain yourself more fully.”
“I will. At a tavern in the town, there has happened some strange
scenes of violence, in consequence of the general excitement into
which the common people have been thrown upon the dreadful subject of
vampyres.”
“Well.”
“The consequence is, that numerous arrests have taken place, and the
places of confinement for offenders against the laws are now full of
those whose heated and angry imaginations have induced them to take
violent steps to discover the reality or the falsehood of rumours which
so much affected them, their wives, and their families, that they
feared to lie down to their night’s repose.”
The other laughed a short, hollow, restless sort of laugh, which had
not one particle of real mirth in it.
“Go on—go on,” he said. “What did they do?”
“Immense excesses have been committed; but what made me, first of all,
stay beyond my time, was that I overheard a man declare his intentions
this night, from twelve till the morning, and for some nights to come,
to hold watch and ward for the vampyre.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes. He did but stay, at the earnest solicitation of his comrades, to
take yet another glass, ere he came upon his expedition.”
“He must be met. The idiot! what business is it of his?”
“There are always people who will make everything their business,
whether it be so or not.”
“There are. Let us retire further into the recesses of the ruin, and
there consider as well what is to be done regarding more important
affairs, as with this rash intruder here.”
They both walked for some twenty paces, or so, right into the ruin, and
then he who had been there first, said, suddenly, to his companion,—
“I am annoyed, although the feeling reaches no further than annoyance,
for I have a natural love of mischief, to think that my reputation has
spread so widely, and made so much noise.”
“Your reputation as a vampyre, Sir Francis Varney, you mean?”
“Yes; but there is no occasion for you to utter my name aloud, even
here where we are alone together.”
“It came out unawares.”
“Unawares! Can it be possible that you have so little command over
yourself as to allow a name to come from your lips unawares?”
“Sometimes.”
“I am surprised.”
“Well, it cannot be helped. What do you now propose to do?”
“Nay, you are my privy councillor. Have you no deep-laid, artful
project in hand? Can you not plan and arrange something which may yet
have the effect of accomplishing what at first seemed so very simple,
but which has, from one unfortunate circumstance and another, become
full of difficulty and pregnant with all sorts of dangers?”
“I must confess I have no plan.”
“I listen with astonishment.”
“Nay, now, you are jesting.”
“When did you ever hear of me jesting?”
“Not often, I admit. But you have a fertile genius, and I have always,
myself, found it easier to be the executive than to plan an elaborate
course of action for others.”
“Then you throw it all on me?”
“I throw a weight, naturally enough, upon the shoulders which I think
the best adapted to sustain it.”
“Be it so, then—be it so.”
“You are, I presume, from what you say, provided with a scheme of
action which shall present better hopes of success, at less risk, I
hope. Look what great danger we have already passed through.”
“Yes, we have.”
“I pray you avoid that in the next campaign.”
“It is not the danger that annoys and troubles me, but it is that,
notwithstanding it, the object is as far off as ever from being
attained.”
“And not only so, but, as is invariably the case under such
circumstances, we have made it more difficult of execution because we
have put those upon their guard thoroughly who are the most likely to
oppose us.”
“We have—we have.”
“And placed the probability of success afar off indeed.”
“And yet I have set my life upon the cast, and I will stand the hazard.
I tell you I will accomplish this object, or I will perish in the
attempt.”
“You are too enthusiastic.”
“Not at all. Nothing has been ever done, the execution of which was
difficult, without enthusiasm. I will do what I intend, or Bannerworth
Hall shall become a heap of ruins, where fire shall do its worst work
of devastation, and I will myself find a grave in the midst.”
“Well, I quarrel with no man for chalking out the course he intends to
pursue; but what do you mean to do with the prisoner below here?”
“Kill him.”
“What?”
“I say kill him. Do you not understand me?”
“I do, indeed.”
“When everything else is secured, and when the whole of that which I
so much court, and which I will have, is in my possession, I will take
his life, or you shall. Ay, you are just the man for such a deed. A
smooth-faced, specious sort of man are you, and you like not danger.
There will be none in taking the life of a man who is chained to the
floor of a dungeon.”
“I know not why,” said the other, “you take a pleasure on this
particular night, of all others, in saying all you can which you think
will be offensive to me.”
“Now, how you wrong me. This is the reward of confidence.”
“I don’t want such confidence.”
“Why, you surely don’t want me to flatter you.”
“No; but——”
“Psha! Hark you. That admiral is the great stumbling-block in my way. I
should ere this have had undisturbed possession of Bannerworth Hall but
for him. He must be got out of the way somehow.”
“A short time will tire him out of watching. He is one of those men of
impulse who soon become wearied of inaction.”
“Ay, and then the Bannerworths return to the Hall.”
“It may be so.”
“I am certain of it. We have been out-generalled in this matter,
although I grant we did all that men could do to give us success.”
“In what way would you get rid of this troublesome admiral?”
“I scarcely know. A letter from his nephew might, if well put together,
get him to London.”
“I doubt it. I hate him mortally. He has offended me more than once
most grievously.”
“I know it. He saw through you.”
“I do not give him so much credit. He is a suspicious man, and a vain
and a jealous one.”
“And yet he saw through you. Now, listen to me. You are completely at
fault, and have no plan of operations whatever in your mind. What I
want you to do is, to disappear from the neighbourhood for a time, and
so will I. As for our prisoner here below, I cannot see what else can
be done with him than—than——”
“Than what? Do you hesitate?”
“I do.”
“Then what is it you were about to say?”
“I cannot but feel that all we have done, hitherto, as regards
this young prisoner of ours, has failed. He has, with a determined
obstinacy, set at naught, as well you know, all threats.”
“He has.”
“He has refused to do one act which could in any way aid me in my
objects. In fact, from the first to the last, he has been nothing but
an expense and an encumbrance to us both.”
“All that is strictly true.”
“And yet, although you, as well as I, know of a marvellously ready way
of getting rid of such encumbrances, I must own, that I shrink with
more than a feeling of reluctance from the murder of the youth.”
“You contemplated it then?” asked the other.
“No; I cannot be said to have contemplated it. That is not the proper
sort of expression to use.”
“What is then?”
“To contemplate a deed seems to me to have some close connexion to the
wish to do it.”
“And you have no such wish?”
“I have no such wish, and what is more I will not do it.”
“Then that is sufficient; and the only question that remains for you
to consider is, what you will do. It is far easier in all enterprises
to decide upon what we will not do, than upon what we will. For my own
part I must say that I can perceive no mode of extricating ourselves
from this involvement with anything like safety.”
“Then it must be done with something like danger.”
“As you please.”
“You say so, and your words bear a clear enough signification; but from
your tone I can guess how much you are dissatisfied with the aspect of
affairs.”
“Dissatisfied!”
“Yes; I say, dissatisfied. Be frank, and own that which it is in vain
to conceal from me. I know you too well; arch hypocrite as you are, and
fully capable of easily deceiving many, you cannot deceive me.”
“I really cannot understand you.”
“Then I will take care that you shall.”
“How?”
“Listen. I will not have the life of Charles Holland taken.”
“Who wishes to take it?”
“You.”
“There, indeed, you wrong me. Unless you yourself thought that such an
act was imperatively called for by the state of affairs, do you think
that I would needlessly bring down upon my head the odium as well as
the danger of such a deed? No, no. Let him live, if you are willing; he
may live a thousand years for all I care.”
“’Tis well. I am, mark me, not only willing, but I am determined that
he shall live so far as we are concerned. I can respect the courage
that, even when he considered that his life was at stake, enabled him
to say no to a proposal which was cowardly and dishonourable, although
it went far to the defeat of my own plans and has involved me in much
trouble.”
“Hush! hush!”
“What is it?”
“I fancy I hear a footstep.”
“Indeed; that were a novelty in such a place as this.”
“And yet not more than I expected. Have you forgotten what I told you
when I reached here to-night after the appointed hour?”
“Truly; I had for the moment. Do you think then that the footstep which
now meets our ears, is that of the adventurer who boasted that he could
keep watch for the vampyre?”
“In faith do I. What is to be done with such a meddling fool?”
“He ought certainly to be taught not to be so fond of interfering with
other people’s affairs.”
“Certainly.”
“Perchance the lesson will not be wholly thrown away upon others. It
may be worth while to take some trouble with this poor valiant fellow,
and let him spread his news so as to stop any one else from being
equally venturous and troublesome.”
“A good thought.”
“Shall it be done?”
“Yes; if you will arrange that which shall accomplish such a result.”
“Be it so. The moon rises soon.”
“It does.”
“Ah, already I fancy I see a brightening of the air as if the mellow
radiance of the queen of night were already quietly diffusing itself
throughout the realms of space. Come further within the ruins.”
They both walked further among the crumbling walls and fragments of
columns with which the place abounded. As they did so they paused now
and then to listen, and more than once they both heard plainly the
sound of certain footsteps immediately outside the once handsome and
spacious building.
Varney, the vampyre, who had been holding this conversation with
no other than Marchdale, smiled as he, in a whispered voice, told
the latter what to do in order to frighten away from the place the
foolhardy man who thought that, by himself, he should be able to
accomplish anything against the vampyre.
It was, indeed, a hair-brained expedition, for whether Sir Francis
Varney was really so awful and preternatural a being as so many
concurrent circumstances would seem to proclaim, or not, he was not a
likely being to allow himself to be conquered by any one individual,
let his powers or his courage be what they might.
What induced this man to become so ventursome we shall now proceed to
relate, as well as what kind of reception he got in the old ruins,
which, since the mysterious disappearance of Sir Francis Varney within
their recesses, had possessed so increased a share of interest and
attracted so much popular attention and speculation.