CHARLES HOLLAND’S PURSUIT OF THE VAMPYRE.—THE DANGEROUS INTERVIEW.
It will be recollected that the admiral had made a remark about Charles
Holland having suddenly disappeared; and it is for us now to account
for that disappearance and to follow him to the pathway he had chosen.
The fact was, that he, when Varney fired the shot at the doctor, or
what was the supposed shot, was the farthest from the vampyre; and he,
on that very account, had the clearest and best opportunity of marking
which route he took when he had discharged the pistol.
He was not confused by the smoke, as the others were; nor was he
stunned by the noise of the discharge; but he distinctly saw Varney
dart across one of the garden beds, and make for the summer-house,
instead of for the garden gate, as Henry had supposed was the most
probable path he had chosen.
Now, Charles Holland either had an inclination, for some reasons of his
own, to follow the vampyre alone; or, on the spur of the moment, he had
not time to give an alarm to the others; but certain it is that he did,
unaided, rush after him. He saw him enter the summer-house, and pass
out of it again at the back portion of it, as he had once before done,
when surprised in his interview with Flora.
But the vampyre did not now, as he had done on the former occasion,
hide immediately behind the summer-house. He seemed to be well aware
that that expedient would not answer twice; so he at once sped onwards,
clearing the garden fence, and taking to the meadows.
It formed evidently no part of the intentions of Charles Holland to
come up with him. He was resolved upon dogging his footsteps, to
know where he should go; so that he might have a knowledge of his
hiding-place, if he had one.
“I must and will,” said Charles to himself, “penetrate the mystery that
hangs about this most strange and inexplicable being. I will have an
interview with him, not in hostility, for I forgive him the evil he has
done me, but with a kindly spirit; and I will ask him to confide in me.”
Charles, therefore, did not keep so close upon the heels of the vampyre
as to excite any suspicions of his intention to follow him; but he
waited by the garden paling long enough not only for Varney to get some
distance off, but long enough likewise to know that the pistol which
had been fired at the doctor had produced no real bad effects, except
singing some curious tufts of hair upon the sides of his face, which
the doctor was pleased to call whiskers.
“I thought as much,” was Charles’s exclamation when he heard the
doctor’s voice. “It would have been strikingly at variance with all
Varney’s other conduct, if he had committed such a deliberate and
heartless murder.”
Then, as the form of the vampyre could be but dimly seen, Charles ran
on for some distance in the direction he had taken, and then paused
again; so that if Varney heard the sound of footsteps, and paused to
listen they had ceased again probably, and nothing was discernible.
In this manner he followed the mysterious individual, if we may really
call him such, for above a mile; and then Varney made a rapid detour,
and took his way towards the town.
He went onwards with wonderful precision now in a right line, not
stopping at any obstruction, in the way of fences, hedges, or ditches,
so that it took Charles some exertion, to which, just then, he was
scarcely equal, to keep up with him.
At length the outskirts of the town were gained, and then Varney
paused, and looked around him, scarcely allowing Charles, who was now
closer to him than he had been, time to hide himself from observation,
which, however, he did accomplish, by casting himself suddenly upon the
ground, so that he could not be detected against the sky, which then
formed a back ground to the spot where he was.
Apparently satisfied that he had completely now eluded the pursuit, if
any had been attempted, of those whom he had left in such a state of
confusion, the vampyre walked hastily towards a house that was to let,
and which was only to be reached by going up an avenue of trees, and
then unlocking a gate in a wall which bounded the premises next to the
avenue. But the vampyre appeared to be possessed of every facility for
effecting an entrance to the place and, producing from his pocket a
key, he at once opened the gate, and disappeared within the precincts
of those premises.
He, no doubt, felt that he was hunted by the mob of the town, and
hence his frequent change of residence, since his own had been burnt
down, and, indeed, situated as he was, there can be no manner of doubt
that he would have been sacrificed to the superstitious fury of the
populace, if they could but have got hold of him.
He had, from his knowledge, which was no doubt accurate and complete,
of what had been done, a good idea of what his own fate would be, were
he to fall into the hands of that ferocious multitude, each individual
composing which, felt a conviction that there would be no peace, nor
hope of prosperity or happiness, in the place, until he, the arch
vampyre of all the supposed vampyres, was destroyed.
Charles did pause for a few moments, after having thus become roused,
to consider whether he should then attempt to have the interview he had
resolved upon having by some means or another, or defer it, now that he
knew where Varney was to be found, until another time.
But when he came to consider how extremely likely it was that, even in
the course of a few hours, Varney might shift his abode for some good
and substantial reasons, he at once determined upon attempting to see
him.
But how to accomplish such a purpose was not the easiest question in
the world to answer. If he rung the bell that presented itself above
the garden gate, was it at all likely that Varney, who had come there
for concealment, would pay any attention to the summons?
After some consideration, he did, however, think of a plan by which, at
all events, he could ensure effecting an entrance into the premises,
and then he would take his chance of finding the mysterious being whom
he sought, and who probably might have no particular objection to
meeting with him, Charles Holland, because their last interview in the
ruins could not be said to be otherwise than of a peaceable and calm
enough character.
He saw by the board, which was nailed in the front of the house, that
all applications to see it were to be made to a Mr. Nash, residing
close at hand; and, as Charles had the appearance of a respectable
person, he thought he might possibly have the key entrusted to him,
ostensibly to look at the house, preparatory possibly to taking it, and
so he should, at all events, obtain admission.
He, accordingly, went at once to this Mr. Nash, and asked about the
house; of course he had to affect an interest in its rental and
accommodations, which he did not feel, in order to lull any suspicion,
and, finally, he said,—
“I should like to look over it if you will lend me the key, which I
will shortly bring back to you.”
There was an evident hesitation about the agent when this proposal was
communicated by Charles Holland, and he said,—
“I dare say, sir, you wonder that I don’t say yes, at once; but the
fact is there came a gentleman here one day when I was out, and got a
key, for we have two to open the house, from my wife, and he never came
back again.”
That this was the means by which Varney, the vampyre, had obtained the
key, by the aid of which Charles had seen him effect so immediate an
entrance to the house, there could be no doubt.
“How long ago were you served that trick?” he said.
“About two days ago, sir.”
“Well, it only shows how, when one person acts wrongly, another is at
once suspected of a capability to do so likewise. There is my name and
my address; I should like rather to go alone to see the house, because
I always fancy I can judge better by myself of the accommodation,
and I can stay as long as I like, and ascertain the sizes of all the
rooms without the disagreeable feeling upon my mind, which no amount
of complaisance on your part, could ever get me over, that I was most
unaccountably detaining somebody from more important business of their
own.”
“Oh, I assure you, sir,” said Mr. Nash, “that I should not be at all
impatient. But if you would rather go alone——”
“Indeed I would.”
“Oh, then, sir, there is the key. A gentleman who leaves his name and
address, of course, we can have no objection to. I only told you of
what happened, sir, in the mere way of conversation, and I hope you
won’t imagine for a moment that I meant to insinuate that you were
going to keep the key.”
“Oh, certainly not—certainly not,” said Charles, who was only too glad
to get the key upon any terms. “You are quite right, and I beg you will
say no more about it; I quite understand.”
He then walked off to the empty house again, and, proceeding to the
avenue, he fitted the key to the lock, and had the satisfaction of
finding the gate instantly yield to him.
When he passed through it, and closed the door after him, which he did
carefully, he found himself in a handsomely laid-out garden, and saw
the house a short distance in front of him, standing upon a well got-up
lawn.
He cared not if Varney should see him before he reached the house,
because the fact was sufficiently evident to himself that after all he
could not actually enforce an interview with the vampyre. He only hoped
that as he had found him out it would be conceded to him.
He, therefore, walked up the lawn without making the least attempt at
concealment, and when he reached the house he allowed his footsteps to
make what noise they would upon the stone steps which led up to it.
But no one appeared; nor was there, either by sight or by sound, any
indication of the presence of any living being in the place besides
himself.
Insensibly, as he contemplated the deserted place around him, the
solemn sort of stillness began to have its effect upon his imagination,
and, without being aware that he did so, he had, with softness and
caution, glided onwards, as if he were bent on some errand requiring
the utmost amount of caution and discrimination in the conduction of it.
And so he entered the hall of the house, where he stood some time, and
listened with the greatest attention, without, however, being able to
hear the least sound throughout the whole of the house.
“And yet he must be here,” thought Charles to himself; “I was not gone
many minutes, and it is extremely unlikely that in so short a space of
time he has left, after taking so much trouble, by making such a detour
around the meadows to get here, without being observed. I will examine
every room in the place, but I will find him.”
Charles immediately commenced going from room to room of that house in
his search for the vampyre. There were but four apartments upon the
ground floor, and these, of course, he quickly ran through. Nothing
whatever at all indicative of any one having been there met his gaze,
and with a feeling of disappointment creeping over him, he commenced
the ascent of the staircase.
The day had now fairly commenced, so that there was abundance of light,
although, even for the country, it was an early hour, and probably Mr.
Nash had been not a little surprised to have a call from one whose
appearance bespoke no necessity for rising with the lark at such an
hour.
All these considerations, however, sank into insignificance in
Charles’s mind, compared with the object he had in view, namely, the
unravelling the many mysteries that hung around that man. He ascended
to the landing of the first story, and then, as he could have no
choice, he opened the first door that his eyes fell upon, and entered a
tolerably large apartment. It was quite destitute of furniture, and at
the moment Charles was about to pronounce it empty; but then his eyes
fell upon a large black-looking bundle of something, that seemed to be
lying jammed up under the window on the floor—that being the place of
all others in the room which was enveloped in the most shadow.
He started back involuntarily at the moment, for the appearance was one
so shapeless, that there was no such thing as defining, from even that
distance, what it really was.
Then he slowly and cautiously approached it, as we always approach that
of the character of which we are ignorant, and concerning the powers of
which to do injury we can consequently have no defined idea.
That it was a human form there, was the first tangible opinion he had
about it; and from its profound stillness, and the manner in which
it seemed to be laid close under the window, he thought that he was
surely upon the point of finding out that some deed of blood had been
committed, the unfortunate victim of which was now lying before him.
Upon a nearer examination, he found that the whole body, including the
greater part of the head and face, was wrapped in a large cloak; and
there, as he gazed, he soon found cause to correct his first opinion
as to the form belonging to the dead, for he could distinctly hear the
regular breathing, as of some one in a sound and dreamless sleep.
Closer he went, and closer still. Then, as he clasped his hands, he
said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper,—
“It is—it is the vampyre.”
Yes, there could be no doubt of the fact. It was Sir Francis Varney who
lay there, enveloped in the huge horseman’s cloak, in which, on two or
three occasions during the progress of this narrative, he had figured.
There he lay, at the mercy completely of any arm that might be raised
against him, apparently so overcome by fatigue that no ordinary noise
would have awakened him.
Well might Charles Holland gaze at him with mingled feelings. There
lay the being who had done almost enough to drive the beautiful Flora
Bannerworth distracted—the being who had compelled the Bannerworth
family to leave their ancient house, to which they had been bound
by every description of association. The same mysterious existence,
too, who, the better to carry on his plots and plans, had, by dint
of violence, immured him, Charles, in a dungeon, and loaded him with
chains. There he lay sleeping, and at his mercy.
“Shall I awaken him,” said Charles, “or let him sleep off the fatigue,
which, no doubt, is weighing down his limbs, and setting heavily on his
eyelids. No, my business with him is too urgent.”
He then raised his voice, and cried,—
“Varney, Varney, awake!”
The sound disturbed, without altogether breaking up, the deep slumber
of the vampyre, and he uttered a low moan, and moved one hand
restlessly. Then, as if that disturbance of the calm and deep repose
which had sat upon him, had given at once the reins to fancy, he began
to mutter strange words in his sleep, some of which could be heard by
Charles distinctly, while others were too incoherently uttered to be
clearly understood.
“Where is it?” he said; “where—where hidden?—Pull the house
down!—Murder! No, no, no! no murder!—I will not, I dare not. Blood
enough is upon my hands.—The money!—the money! Down, villains! down!
down! down!”
What these incoherent words alluded to specifically, Charles, of
course, could not have the least idea, but he listened attentively,
with a hope that something might fall from his lips that would afford
a key to some of the mysterious circumstances with which he was so
intimately connected.
Now, however, there was a longer silence than before, only broken
occasionally by low moans; but suddenly, as Charles was thinking of
again speaking, he uttered some more disjointed sentences.
“No harm,” he said, “no harm,—Marchdale is a villain!—Not a hair of his
head injured—no, no. Set him free—yes, I will set him free. Beware!
beware, Marchdale! and you, Mortimer. The scaffold! ay, the scaffold!
but where is the bright gold? The memory of the deed of blood will not
cling to it. Where is it hidden? The gold! the gold! the gold! It is
not in the grave—it cannot be there—no, no, no!—not there, not there!
Load the pistols. There, there! Down, villain, down!—down, down!”
Despairing, now, of obtaining anything like tangible information
from these ravings, which, even if they did, by accident, so connect
themselves together as to seem to mean something, Charles again cried
aloud,—
“Varney, awake, awake!”
But, as before, the sleeping man was sufficiently deaf to the cry to
remain, with his eyes closed, still in a disturbed slumber, but yet a
slumber which might last for a considerable time.
“I have heard,” said Charles, “that there are many persons whom no
noise will awaken, while the slightest touch rouses them in an instant.
I will try that upon this slumbering being.”
As he spoke, he advanced close to Sir Francis Varney, and touched him
slightly with the toe of his boot.
The effect was as startling as it was instantaneous. The vampyre sprang
to his feet, as he had been suddenly impelled up by some powerful
machinery; and, casting his cloak away from his arms, so as to have
them at liberty, he sprang upon Charles Holland, and hurled him to the
ground, where he held him with a giant’s grip, as he cried,—
“Rash fool! be you whom you may. Why have you troubled me to rid the
world of your intrusive existence?”
[Illustration: Varney attacks Charles Holland.]
The attack was so sudden and so terrific, that resistance to it, even
if Charles had had the power, was out of the question. All he could
say, was,—
“Varney, Varney! do you not know me? I am Charles Holland. Will you
now, in your mad rage, take the life you might more easily have taken
when I lay in the dungeon from which you released me?”
The sound of his voice at once convinced Sir Francis Varney of his
identity; and it was with a voice that had some tones of regret in it,
that he replied,—
“And wherefore have you thought proper, when you were once free and
unscathed, to cast yourself into such a position of danger as to follow
me to my haunt?”
“I contemplated no danger,” said Charles, “because I contemplated no
evil. I do not know why you should kill me.”
“You came here, and yet you say you do not know why I should kill you.
Young man, have you a dozen lives that you can afford to tamper with
them thus? I have, at much chance of imminence to myself, already once
saved you, when another, with a sterner feeling, would have gladly
taken your life; but now, as if you were determined to goad me to an
act which I have shunned committing, you will not let me close my eyes
in peace.”
“Take your hand from off my throat, Varney, and I will then tell you
what brought me here.”
Sir Francis Varney did so.
“Rise,” he said—“rise; I have seen blood enough to be sickened at the
prospect of more; but you should not have come here and tempted me.”
“Nay, believe me, I came here for good and not for evil. Sir Francis
Varney, hear me out, and then judge for yourself whether you can
blame the perseverance which enabled me to find out this secret place
of refuge; but let me first say that now it is as good a place of
concealment to you as before it was, for I shall not betray you.”
“Go on, go on. What is it you desire?”
“During the long and weary hours of my captivity, I thought deeply,
and painfully too, as may be well imagined, of all the circumstances
connected with your appearance at Bannerworth Hall, and your subsequent
conduct. Then I felt convinced that there was something far more than
met the eye, in the whole affair, and, from what I have been informed
of since, I am the more convinced that some secret, some mystery, which
it is in your power only perhaps to explain, lurks at the bottom of all
your conduct.”
“Well, proceed,” said Varney.
“Have I not said enough now to enable you to divine the object of my
visit? It is that you should shake off the trammels of mystery in which
you have shrouded yourself, and declare what it is you want, what
it is you desire, that has induced you to set yourself up as such a
determined foe of the Bannerworth family.”
“And that, you say, is the modest request that brings you here?”
“You speak as if you thought it was idle curiosity that prompts me, but
you know it is not. Your language and manner are those of a man of too
much sagacity not to see that I have higher notions.”
“Name them.”
“You have yourself, in more than one instance, behaved with a strange
sort of romantic generosity, as if, but for some great object which you
felt impelled to seek by any means, and at any sacrifice, you would
be a something in character and conduct very different from what you
are. One of my objects, then, is to awaken that better nature which is
slumbering within you, only now and then rousing itself to do some deed
which should be the character of all your actions—for your own sake I
have come.”
“But not wholly?”
“Not wholly, as you say. There is another than whom, the whole world
is not so dear to me. That other one was serene as she was beautiful.
Happiness danced in her eyes, and she ought—for not more lovely is the
mind that she possesses than the glorious form that enshrines it—to
be happy. Her life should have passed like one long summer’s day of
beauty, sunshine, and pure heavenly enjoyment. You have poisoned the
cup of joy that the great God of nature had permitted her to place to
her lips and taste of mistrustingly. Why have you done this? I ask
you—why have you done this?”
“Have you said all that you came to say?”
“I have spoken the substance of my message. Much could I elaborate
upon such a theme; but it is not one, Varney, which is congenial to
my heart; for your sake, however, and for the sakes of those whom I
hold most dear, let me implore you to act in this matter with a kindly
consideration. Proclaim your motives; you cannot say that they are not
such as we may aid you in.”
Varney was silent for several moments; he seemed perceptibly moved by
the manner of the young man, as well as by the matter of his discourse.
In fact, one would suppose that Charles Holland had succeeded in
investing what he said with some sort of charm that won much upon the
fancy of Sir Francis Varney, for when he ceased to speak, the latter
said in a low voice,—
“Go on, go on; you have surely much more to say.”
“No, Varney; I have said enough, and not thus much would I have said
had I not been aware, most certainly and truly aware, without the
shadow of a doubt, by your manner, that you were most accessible to
human feeling.”
“I accessible to human feeling! know you to whom you speak? Am I not
he before whom all men shudder, whose name has been a terror and a
desolation; and yet you can talk of my human feelings. Nay, if I had
had any, be sure they would have been extinguished by the persecutions
I have endured from those who, you know, with savage ferocity have
sought my life.”
“No, Varney; I give you credit for being a subtler reasoner than thus
to argue; you know well that you were the aggressor to those parties
who sought your life; you know well that with the greatest imaginable
pains you held yourself up to them as a thing of great terror.”
“I did—I did.”
“You cannot, then, turn round upon ignorant persons, and blame them
because your exertions to make yourself seem what you wish were but too
successful.”
“You use the word _seem_,” said Varney, with a bitterness of aspect,
“as if you would imply a doubt that I am that which thousands, by their
fears, would testify me to be.”
“Thousands might,” said Charles Holland; “but not among them am I,
Varney; I will not be made the victim of superstition. Were you to
enact before my very eyes some of those feats which, to the senses of
others, would stamp you as the preternatural being you assume to be,
I would doubt the evidence of my own senses ere I permitted such a
bugbear to oppress my brain.”
“Go,” said Sir Francis Varney, “go; I have no more words for you; I
have nothing to relate to you.”
“Nay, you have already listened sufficiently to me to give me a hope
that I had awakened some of the humanity that was in your nature.
Do not, Sir Francis Varney, crush that hope, even as it was budding
forth; not for my own sake do I ask you for revelations; that may,
perhaps—must be painful for you; but for the sake of Flora Bannerworth,
to whom you owe abundance of reparation.”
“No, no.”
“In the name of all that is great, and good, and just, I call upon you
for justice.”
“What have I to do with such an invocation? Utter such a sentiment to
men who, like yourself, are invested with the reality as well as the
outward show of human nature.”
“Nay, Sir Francis Varney, now you belie yourself. You have passed
through a long, and, perchance, a stormy life. Can you look back upon
your career, and find no reminiscences of the past that shall convince
you that you are of the great family of man, and have had abundance of
human feelings and of human affections?”
“Peace, peace!”
“Nay, Sir Francis Varney, I will take your word, and if you will lay
your hand upon your heart, and tell me truly that you never felt what
it was to love—to have all feeling, all taste, and all hope of future
joy, concentrated in one individual, I will despair, and leave you.
If you will tell me that never, in your whole life, you have felt for
any fair and glorious creature, as I now feel for Flora Bannerworth, a
being for whom you could have sacrificed not only existence, but all
the hopes of a glorious future that bloom around it—if you will tell
me, with the calm, dispassionate aspect of truth, that you have held
yourself aloof from such human feelings, I will no longer press you to
a disclosure which I shall bring no argument to urge.”
The agitation of Sir Francis Varney’s countenance was perceptible, and
Charles Holland was about to speak again, when, striking him upon the
breast with his clinched hand, the vampyre checked him, saying—
“Do you wish to drive me mad, that you thus, from memory’s hidden
cells, conjure up images of the past?”
“Then there are such images to conjure up—there are such shadows only
sleeping, but which require only, as you did even now, but a touch to
awaken them to life and energy. Oh, Sir Francis Varney, do not tell me
that you are not human.”
The vampyre made a furious gesture, as if he would have attacked
Charles Holland; but then he sank nearly to the floor, as if
soul-stricken by some recollection that unnerved his arm; he shook
with unwonted emotion, and, from the frightful livid aspect of his
countenance, Charles dreaded some serious accession of indisposition,
which might, if nothing else did, prevent him from making the
revelation he so much sought to hear from his lips.
“Varney,” he cried, “Varney, be calm! you will be listened to by one
who will draw no harsh—no hasty conclusions; by one, who, with that
charity, I grieve to say, is rare, will place upon the words you utter
the most favourable construction. Tell me all, I pray you, tell me all.”
“This is strange,” said the vampyre. “I never thought that aught human
could thus have moved me. Young man, you have touched the chords of
memory; they vibrate throughout my heart, producing cadences and sounds
of years long past. Bear with me awhile.”
“And you will speak to me?”
“I will.”
“Having your promise, then, I am content, Varney.”
“But you must be secret; not even in the wildest waste of nature,
where you can well presume that naught but Heaven can listen to your
whisperings, must you utter one word of that which I shall tell to you.”
“Alas!” said Charles, “I dare not take such a confidence; I have said
that it is not for myself; I seek such knowledge of what you are, and
what you have been, but it is for another so dear to me, that all
the charms of life that make up other men’s delights, equal not the
witchery of one glance from her, speaking as it does of the glorious
light from that Heaven which is eternal, from whence she sprung.”
“And you reject my communication,” said Varney, “because I will not
give you leave to expose it to Flora Bannerworth?”
“It must be so.”
“And you are most anxious to hear that which I have to relate?”
“Most anxious, indeed—indeed, most anxious.”
“Then have I found in that scruple which besets your mind, a better
argument for trusting you, than had ye been loud in protestation. Had
your promises of secrecy been but those which come from the lip, and
not from the heart, my confidence would not have been rejected on such
grounds. I think that I dare trust you.”
“With leave to tell to Flora that which you shall communicate.”
“You may whisper it to her, but to no one else, without my special
leave and licence.”
“I agree to those terms, and will religiously preserve them.”
“I do not doubt you for one moment; and now I will tell to you what
never yet has passed my lips to mortal man. Now will I connect together
some matters which you may have heard piecemeal from others.”
“What others are they?”
“Dr. Chillingworth, and he who once officiated as a London hangman.”
“I have heard something from those quarters.”
“Listen then to me, and you shall better understand that which you have
heard. Some years ago, it matters not the number, on a stormy night,
towards the autumn of the year, two men sat alone in poverty, and that
species of distress which beset the haughty, profligate, daring man,
who has been accustomed all his life to its most enticing enjoyments,
but never to that industry which alone ought to produce them, and
render them great and magnificent.”
“Two men; and who were they?”
“I was one. Look upon me! I was one of those men; and strong and evil
passions were battling in my heart.”
“And the other!”
“Was Marmaduke Bannerworth.”
“Gracious Heaven! the father of her whom I adore; the suicide.”
“Yes, the same; that man stained with a thousand vices—blasted by a
thousand crimes—the father of her who partakes nothing of his nature,
who borrows nothing from his memory but his name—was the man who there
sat with me, plotting and contriving how, by fraud or violence, we were
to lead our usual life of revelry and wild audacious debauch.”
“Go on, go on; believe me, I am deeply interested.”
“I can see as much. We were not nice in the various schemes which our
prolific fancies engendered. If trickery, and the false dice at the
gaming-table, sufficed not to fill our purses, we were bold enough for
violence. If simple robbery would not succeed, we could take a life.”
“Murder?”
“Ay, call it by its proper name, a murder. We sat till the midnight
hour had passed, without arriving at a definite conclusion; we saw no
plan of practicable operation, and so we wandered onwards to one of
those deep dens of iniquity, a gaming-house, wherein we had won and
lost thousands.
“We had no money, but we staked largely, in the shape of a wager, upon
the success of one of the players; we knew not, or cared not, for the
consequence, if we had lost; but, as it happened, we were largely
successful, and beggars as we had walked into that place, we might have
left it independent men.
“But when does the gambler know when to pause in his career? If defeat
awakens all the raging passions of humanity within his bosom, success
but feeds the great vice that has been there engendered. To the dawn of
morn we played; the bright sun shone in, and yet we played—the midday
came, and went—the stimulant of wine supported us, and still we played;
then came the shadows of evening, stealing on in all their beauty. But
what were they to us, amid those mutations of fortune, which, at one
moment, made us princes, and placed palaces at our control, and, at
another, debased us below the veriest beggar, that craves the stinted
alms of charity from door to door.
“And there was one man who, from the first to the last, stayed by us
like a very fiend; more than man, I thought he was not human. We won
of all, but of him. People came and brought their bright red gold, and
laid it down before us, but for us to take it up, and then, by a cruel
stroke of fortune, he took it from us.
“The night came on; we won, and he won of us; the clock struck
twelve—we were beggars. God knows what was he.
“We saw him place his winnings about his person—we saw the smile that
curved the corners of his lips; he was calm, and we were maddened. The
blood flowed temperately through his veins, but in ours it was burning
lava, scorching as it went through every petty artery, and drying up
all human thought—all human feeling.
“The winner left, and we tracked his footsteps. When he reached the
open air, although he had taken much less than we of the intoxicating
beverages that are supplied gratis to those who frequent those haunts
of infamy, it was evident that some sort of inebriation attacked him;
his steps were disordered and unsteady, and, as we followed him, we
could perceive, by the devious track that he took, that he was somewhat
uncertain of his route.
“We had no fixed motive in so pursuing this man. It was but an
impulsive proceeding at the best; but as he still went on and cleared
the streets, getting into the wild and open country, and among the
hedge-rows, we began to whisper together, and to think that what we did
not owe to fortune, we might to our own energy and courage at such a
moment.
“I need not hesitate to say so, since, to hide the most important
feature of my revelation from you, would be but to mock you; we
resolved upon robbing him.
“And was that all?”
“It was all that our resolution went to. We were not anxious to spill
blood; but still we were resolved that we would accomplish our purpose,
even if it required murder for its consummation. Have you heard enough?”
“I have not heard enough, although I guess the rest.”
“You may well guess it, from its preface. He turned down a lonely
pathway, which, had we chosen it ourselves, could not have been more
suitable for the attack we meditated.
“There were tall trees on either side, and a hedge-row stretching high
up between them. We knew that that lane led to a suburban village,
which, without a doubt, was the object of his destination.
“Then Marmaduke Bannerworth spoke, saying,—
“‘What we have to do, must be done now or never. There needs not two in
this adventure. Shall you or I require him to refund what he has won
from us?’
“‘I care not,’ I said; ‘but if we are to accomplish our purpose without
arousing even a shadow of resistance, it is better to show him its
futility by both appearing, and take a share in the adventure.’
“This was agreed upon, and we hastened forward. He heard footsteps
pursuing him and quickened his pace. I was the fleetest runner, and
overtook him. I passed him a pace or two, and then turning, I faced
him, and impeded his progress.
“The lane was narrow, and a glance behind him showed him Marmaduke
Bannerworth; so that he was hemmed in between two enemies, and could
move neither to the right nor to the left, on account of the thick
brushwood that intervened between the trees.
“Then, with an assumed courage, that sat but ill upon him, he demanded
of us what we wanted, and proclaimed his right to pass despite the
obstruction we placed in his way.
“The dialogue was brief. I, being foremost, spoke to him.
“‘Your money,’ I said; ‘your winnings at the gaming-table. We cannot,
and we will not lose it.’
“So suddenly, that he had nearly taken my life, he drew a pistol from
his pocket, and levelling it at my head, he fired upon me.
“Perhaps, had I moved, it might have been my death; but, as it was,
the bullet furrowed my cheek, leaving a scar, the path of which is yet
visible in a white cicatrix.
“I felt a stunning sensation, and thought myself a dead man. I cried
aloud to Marmaduke Bannerworth, and he rushed forward. I knew not that
he was armed, and that he had the power about him to do the deed which
he then accomplished; but there was a groan, a slight struggle, and the
successful gamester fell upon the green sward, bathed in his blood.”
“And this is the father of her whom I adore?”
“It is. Are you shocked to think of such a near relationship between
so much beauty and intelligence and a midnight murderer? Is your
philosophy so poor, that the daughter’s beauty suffers from the
commission of a father’s crime?”
“No, no, it is not so. Do not fancy that, for one moment, I can
entertain such unworthy opinions. The thought that crossed me was that
I should have to tell one of such a gentle nature that her father had
done such a deed.”
“On that head you can use your own discretion. The deed was done; there
was sufficient light for us to look upon the features of the dying man.
Ghastly and terrific they glared upon us; while the glazed eyes, as
they were upturned to the bright sky, seemed appealing to Heaven for
vengeance against us, for having done the deed.
“Many a day and many an hour since, at all times and all seasons, I
have seen those eyes, with the glaze of death upon them, following me,
and gloating over the misery they had the power to make. I think I see
them now.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes; look—look—see how they glare upon me—with what a fixed and
frightful stare the bloodshot pupils keep their place—there, there! oh!
save me from such a visitation again. It is too horrible. I dare not—I
cannot endure it; and yet why do you gaze at me with such an aspect,
dread visitant? You know that it was not my hand that did the deed—who
laid you low. You know that not to me are you able to lay the heavy
charge of your death!”
“Varney, you look upon vacancy,” said Charles Holland.
“No, no; vacancy it may be to you, but to me ’tis full of horrible
shapes.”
“Compose yourself; you have taken me far into your confidence already;
I pray you now to tell me all. I have in my brain no room for horrible
conjectures such as those which might else torment me.”
Varney was silent for a few minutes, and then he wiped from his brow
the heavy drops of perspiration that had there gathered, and heaved a
deep sigh.
“Speak to me,” added Charles; “nothing will so much relieve you from
the terrors of this remembrance as making a confidence which reflection
will approve of, and which you will know that you have no reason to
repent.”
“Charles Holland,” said Varney, “I have already gone too far to
retract—much too far, I know, and can well understand all the danger of
half confidence. You already know so much, that it is fit you should
know more.”
“Go on then, Varney, I will listen to you.”
“I know not if, at this juncture, I can command myself to say more.
I feel that what next has to be told will be most horrible for me to
tell—most sad for you to hear told.”
“I can well believe, Varney, from your manner of speech, and from the
words you use, that you have some secret to relate beyond this simple
fact of the murder of this gamester by Marmaduke Bannerworth.”
“You are right—such is the fact; the death of that man could not have
moved me as you now see me moved. There is a secret connected with his
fate which I may well hesitate to utter—a secret too horrible even to
whisper to the winds of heaven—although I did not do the deed, no, no—I
did not strike the blow—not I—not I!”
“Varney, it is astonishing to me the pains you take to assure yourself
of your innocence of this deed; no one accuses you, but still, were it
not that I am impressed with a strong conviction that you’re speaking
to me nothing but the truth, the very fact of your extreme anxiety to
acquit yourself, would engender suspicion.”
“I can understand that feeling, Charles Holland; I can fully understand
it. I do not blame you for it—it is a most natural one; but when you
know all, you will feel with me how necessary it must have been to my
peace to seize upon every trivial circumstance that can help me to a
belief in my own innocence.”
“It may be so; as yet, you well know, I speak in ignorance. But what
could there have been in the character of that gambler, that has made
you so sympathetic concerning his decease?”
“Nothing—nothing whatever in his character. He was a bad man; not
one of those free, open spirits which are seduced into crime by
thoughtlessness—not one of those whom we pity, perchance, more than we
condemn; but a man without a redeeming trait in his disposition—a man
so heaped up with vices and iniquities, that society gained much by
his decease, and not an individual could say that he had lost a friend.”
“And yet the mere thought of the circumstances connected with his death
seems almost to drive you to the verge of despair.”
“You are right; the mere thought has that effect.”
“You have aroused all my curiosity to know the causes of such a
feeling.”
Varney paced the apartment in silence for many minutes. He seemed to
be enduring a great mental struggle, and at length, when he turned to
Charles Holland and spoke, there were upon his countenance traces of
deep emotion.
“I have said, young man, that I will take you into my confidence. I
have said that I will clear up many seeming mysteries, and that I
will enable you to understand what was obscure in the narrative of
Dr. Chillingworth, and of that man who filled the office of public
executioner, and who has haunted me so long.”
“It is true, then, as the doctor states, that you were executed in
London?”
“I was.”
“And resuscitated by the galvanic process, put into operation by Dr.
Chillingworth?”
“As he supposed; but there are truths connected with natural philosophy
which he dreamed not of. I bear a charmed life, and it was but accident
which produced a similar effect upon the latent springs of my existence
in the house to which the executioner conducted me, to what would have
been produced had I been suffered, in the free and open air, to wait
until the cool moonbeams fell upon me.”
“Varney, Varney,” said Charles Holland, “you will not succeed in
convincing me of your supernatural powers. I hold such feelings and
sensations at arm’s length. I will not—I cannot assume you to be what
you affect.”
“I ask for no man’s belief. I know that which I know, and, gathering
experience from the coincidences of different phenomena, I am compelled
to arrive at certain conclusions. Believe what you please, doubt what
you please; but I say again that I am not as other men.”
“I am in no condition to dispute your proposition; I wish not to
dispute it; but you are wandering, Varney, from the point. I wait
anxiously for a continuation of your narrative.”
“I know that I am wandering from it—I know well that I am wandering
from it, and that the reason I do so is that I dread that continuation.”
“That dread will not be the less for its postponement.”
“You are right; but tell me, Charles Holland, although you are young
you have been about in the great world sufficiently to form correct
opinions, and to understand that which is related to you, drawing
proper deductions from certain facts, and arriving possibly at more
correct conclusions than some of maturer years with less wisdom.”
“I will freely answer, Varney, any question you may put to me.”
“I know it; tell me then what measure of guilt you attach to me in the
transaction I have noticed to you.”
“It seems then to me that, not contemplating the man’s murder,
you cannot be accused of the act, although a set of fortuitous
circumstances made you appear an accomplice to its commission.”
“You think I may be acquitted?”
“You can acquit yourself, knowing that you did not contemplate the
murder.”
“I did not contemplate it. I know not what desperate deed I should have
stopped short at then, in the height of my distress, but I neither
contemplated taking that man’s life, nor did I strike the blow which
sent him from existence.”
“There is even some excuse as regards the higher crime for Marmaduke
Bannerworth.”
“Think you so?”
“Yes; he thought that you were killed, and impulsively he might have
struck the blow that made him a murderer.”
“Be it so. I am willing, extremely willing that anything should occur
that should remove the odium of guilt from any man. Be it so, I say,
with all my heart; but now, Charles Holland, I feel that we must meet
again ere I can tell you all; but in the meantime let Flora Bannerworth
rest in peace—she need dread nothing from me. Avarice and revenge, the
two passions which found a home in my heart, are now stifled for ever.”
“Revenge! did you say revenge?”
“I did; whence the marvel, am I not sufficiently human for that?”
“But you coupled it with the name of Flora Bannerworth.”
“I did, and that is part of my mystery.”
“A mystery, indeed, to imagine that such a being as Flora could awaken
any such feeling in your heart—a most abundant mystery.”
“It is so. I do not affect to deny it; but yet it is true, although so
greatly mysterious; but tell her that although at one time I looked
upon her as one whom I cared not if I injured, her beauty and distress
changed the current of my thoughts, and won upon me greatly. From the
moment I found I had the power to become the bane of her existence, I
ceased to wish to be so, and never again shall she experience a pang of
alarm from Varney, the vampyre.”
“Your message shall be faithfully delivered, and doubt not that it will
be received with grateful feelings. Nevertheless I should have much
wished to have been in a position to inform her of more particulars.”
“Come to me here at midnight to-morrow, and you shall know all. I will
have no reservation with you, no concealments; you shall know whom I
have had to battle against, and how it is that a world of evil passions
took possession of my heart and made me what I am.”
“Are you firm in this determination, Varney—will you indeed tell me no
more to-night?”
“No more, I have said it. Leave me now. I have need of more repose, for
of late sleep has seldom closed my eyelids.”
Charles Holland was convinced, from the positive manner in which he
spoke, that nothing more in the shape of information, at that time, was
to be expected from Varney; and being fearful that if he urged this
strange being too far, at a time when he did not wish it, he might
refuse all further communication, he thought it prudent to leave him,
so he said to him,—
“Be assured, Varney, I shall keep the appointment you have made, with
an expectation when we do meet of being rewarded by a recital of some
full particulars.”
“You shall not be disappointed; farewell, farewell!”
Charles Holland bade him adieu, and left the place.
Although he had now acquired all the information he hoped to take
away with him when Varney first began to be communicative, yet, when
he came to consider how strange and unaccountable a being he had been
in communication with, Charles could not but congratulate himself
that he had heard so much; for, from the manner of Varney, he could
well suppose that that was, indeed, the first time he had been so
communicative upon subjects which evidently held so conspicuous a place
in his heart.
And he had abundance of hope, likewise, from what had been said by
Varney, that he would keep his word, and communicate to him fully all
else that he required to know; and when he recollected those words
which Varney had used, signifying that he knew the danger of half
confidences, that hope grew into a certainty, and Charles began to have
no doubt but that on the next evening all that was mysterious in the
various affairs connected with the vampyre would become clear and open
to the light of day.
He strolled down the lane in which the lone house was situated,
revolving these matters in his mind, and when he arrived at its
entrance, he was rather surprised to see a throng of persons hastily
moving onward, with some appearance of dismay about them, and anxiety
depicted upon their countenances.
He stopped a lad, and inquired of him the cause of the seeming tumult.
“Why, sir, the fact is,” said the boy, “a crowd from the town’s been
burning down Bannerworth Hall, and they’ve killed a man.”
“Bannerworth Hall! you must be mistaken.”
“Well, sir, I ought not to call it Bannerworth Hall, because I mean
the old ruins in the neighbourhood that are supposed to have been
originally Bannerworth Hall before the house now called such was built;
and, moreover, as the Bannerworths have always had a garden there, and
two or three old sheds, the people in the town called it Bannerworth
Hall in common with the other building.”
“I understand. And do you say that all have been destroyed?”
“Yes, sir. All that was capable of being burnt has been burnt, and,
what is more, a man has been killed among the ruins. We don’t know who
he is, but the folks said he was a vampyre, and they left him for dead.”
“When will these terrible outrages cease? Oh! Varney, Varney, you
have much to answer for; even if in your conscience you succeed in
acquitting yourself of the murder, some of the particulars concerning
which you have informed me of.”