THE HUNGARIAN NOBLEMAN GETS INTO DANGER.—HE IS FIRED AT, AND SHOWS
SOME OF HIS QUALITY.
Considerably delighted was the Hungarian, not only at the news he had
received from the boy, but as well for the cheapness of it. Probably he
did not conceive it possible that the secret of the retreat of such a
man as Varney could have been attained so easily.
He waited with great impatience for the evening, and stirred not
from the inn for several hours; neither did he take any refreshment,
notwithstanding he had made so liberal an arrangement with the landlord
to be supplied.
All this was a matter of great excitement and speculation in the inn,
so much so, indeed, that the landlord sent for some of the oldest
customers of his house, regular topers, who sat there every evening,
indulging in strong drinks, and pipes and tobacco, to ask their serious
advice as to what he should do, as if it were necessary he should do
anything at all.
But, somehow or another, these wiseacres who assembled at the
landlord’s bidding, and sat down, with something strong before them,
in the bar parlour, never once seemed to think that a man might, if he
choosed, come to an inn, and agree to pay four guineas a week for board
and lodging, and yet take nothing at all.
No; they could not understand it, and therefore they would not have
it. It was quite monstrous that anybody should attempt to do anything
so completely out of the ordinary course of proceeding. It was not to
be borne; and as in this country it happens, free and enlightened as
we are, that no man can commit a greater social offence than doing
something that his neighbours never thought of doing themselves, the
Hungarian nobleman was voted a most dangerous character, and, in fact,
not to be put up with.
“I shouldn’t have thought so much of it,” said the landlord; “but only
look at the aggravation of the thing. After I have asked him four
guineas a week, and expected to be beaten down to two, to be then told
that he would not have cared if it had been eight. It is enough to
aggravate a saint.”
“Well, I agree with you there,” said another; “that’s just what it is,
and I only wonder that a man of your sagacity has not quite understood
it before.”
“Understood what?”
“Why, that he is a vampyre. He has heard of Sir Francis Varney, that’s
the fact, and he’s come to see him. Birds of a feather, you know, flock
together, and now we shall have two vampyres in the town instead of
one.”
The party looked rather blank at this suggestion, which, indeed, seemed
rather uncomfortable probably. The landlord had just opened his mouth
to make some remark, when he was stopped by the violent ringing of what
he now called the vampyre’s bell, since it proceeded from the room
where the Hungarian nobleman was.
“Have you an almanack in the house?” was the question of the mysterious
guest.
“An almanack, sir? well, I really don’t know. Let me see, an almanack.”
“But, perhaps, you can tell me. I was to know the moon’s age.”
“The devil!” thought the landlord; “he’s a vampyre, and no mistake.
Why, sir, as to the moon’s age, it was a full moon last night, very
bright and beautiful, only you could not see it for the clouds.”
“A full moon last night,” said the mysterious guest, thoughtfully; “it
may shine, then, brightly, to-night, and if so, all will be well. I
thank you,—leave the room.”
“Do you mean to say, sir, you don’t want anything to eat now?”
“What I want I’ll order.”
“But you have ordered nothing.”
“Then presume that I want nothing.”
The discomfited landlord was obliged to leave the room, for there was
no such a thing as making any answer to this, and so, still further
confirmed in his opinion that the stranger was a vampyre that came to
see Sir Francis Varney from a sympathetic feeling towards him, he again
reached the bar-parlour.
“You may depend,” he said, “as sure as eggs is eggs, that he is a
vampyre. Hilloa! he’s going off,—after him—after him; he thinks we
suspect him. There he goes—down the High-street.”
The landlord ran out, and so did those who were with him, one of whom
carried his brandy and water in his hand, which, being too hot for him
to swallow all at once, he still could not think of leaving behind.
It was now getting rapidly dark, and the mysterious stranger was
actually proceeding towards the lane to keep his appointment with the
boy who had promised to conduct him to the hiding-place of Sir Francis
Varney.
He had not proceeded far, however, before he began to suspect that
he was followed, as it was evident on the instant that he altered
his course; for, instead of walking down the lane, where the boy was
waiting for him, he went right on, and seemed desirous of making his
way into the open country between the town and Bannerworth Hall.
His pursuers—for they assumed that character—when they saw this became
anxious to intercept him; and thinking that the greater force they had
the better, they called out aloud as they passed a smithy, where a man
was shoeing a horse,—
“Jack Burdon, here is another vampyre!”
“The deuce there is!” said the person who was addressed. “I’ll soon
settle him. Here’s my wife gets no sleep of a night as it is, all owing
to that Varney, who has been plaguing us so long. I won’t put up with
another.”
So saying, he snatched from a hook on which it hung, an old
fowling-piece, and joined the pursuit, which now required to be
conducted with some celerity, for the stranger had struck into the open
country, and was getting on at good speed.
The last remnants of the twilight were fading away, and although the
moon had actually risen, its rays were obscured by a number of light,
fleecy clouds, which, although they did not promise to be of long
continuance, as yet certainly impeded the light.
“Where is he going?” said the blacksmith. “He seems to be making his
way towards the mill-stream.”
“No,” said another; “don’t you see he is striking higher up towards the
old ford, where the stepping-stones are?”
“He is—he is,” cried the blacksmith. “Run on—run on; don’t you see he
is crossing it now? Tell me, all of you, are you quite sure he is a
vampyre, and no mistake? He ain’t the exciseman, landlord, now, is he?”
“The exciseman, the devil! Do you think I want to shoot the exciseman?”
“Very good—then here goes,” exclaimed the Smith.
He stooped, and just as the brisk night air blew aside the clouds from
before the face of the moon, and as the stranger was crossing the
slippery stones, he fired at him.
• • • • •
How silently and sweetly the moon’s rays fall upon the water, upon
the meadows, and upon the woods. The scenery appeared the work
of enchantment, some fairy land, waiting the appearance of its
inhabitants. No sound met the ear; the very wind was hushed; nothing
was there to distract the sense of sight, save the power of reflection.
This, indeed, would aid the effect of such a scene. A cloudless sky,
the stars all radiant with beauty, while the moon, rising higher and
higher in the heavens, increasing in the strength and refulgence of
her light, and dimming the very stars, which seemed to grow gradually
invisible as the majesty of the queen of night became more and more
manifest.
The dark woods and the open meadows contrasted more and more strongly;
like light and shade, the earth and sky were not more distinct and
apart; and the rippling stream, that rushed along with all the
impetuosity of uneven ground.
The banks are clothed with verdure; the tall sedges, here and there,
lined the sides; beds of bulrushes raised their heads high above all
else, and threw out their round clumps of blossoms like tufts, and
looked strange in the light of the moon.
Here and there, too, the willows bent gracefully over the stream, and
their long leaves were wafted and borne up and down by the gentler
force of the stream.
Below, the stream widened, and ran foaming over a hard, stony bottom,
and near the middle is a heap of stones—of large stones, that form the
bed of the river, from which the water has washed away all earthy
particles, and left them by themselves.
These stones in winter could not be seen, they were all under water,
and the stream washed over in a turbulent and tumultuous manner. But
now, when the water was clear and low, they are many of them positively
out of the water, the stream running around and through their
interstices; the water-weeds here and there lying at the top of the
stream, and blossoming beautifully.
The daisy-like blossoms danced and waved gently on the moving flood,
at the same time they shone in the moonlight, like fairy faces rising
from the depths of the river, to receive the principle of life from the
moon’s rays.
’Tis sweet to wander in the moonlight at such an hour, and it is sweet
to look upon such a scene with an unruffled mind, and to give way to
the feelings that are engendered by a walk by the river side.
See, the moon is rising higher and higher, the shadows grow shorter and
shorter; the river, which in places was altogether hidden by the tall
willow trees, now gradually becomes less and less hidden, and the water
becomes more and more lit up.
The moonbeams play gracefully on the rippling surface, here and there
appearing like liquid silver, that each instant changed its position
and surface exposed to the light.
Such a moment—such a scene, were by far too well calculated to cause
the most solemn and serious emotions of the mind, and he must have been
but at best insensible, who could wander over meadow and through grove,
and yet remain untouched by the scene of poetry and romance in which he
breathed and moved.
At such a time, and in such a place, the world is alive with all the
finer essences of mysterious life. ’Tis at such an hour that the
spirits quit their secret abodes, and visit the earth, and whirl round
the enchanted trees.
’Tis now the spirits of earth and air dance their giddy flight from
flower to flower. ’Tis now they collect and exchange their greetings;
the wood is filled with them, the meadows teem with them, the hedges at
the river side have them hidden among the deep green leaves and blades.
But what is that yonder, on the stones, partially out of the water—what
can it be?
The more it is looked at, the more it resembles the human form—and yet
it is still and motionless on the hard stones—and yet it is a human
form. The legs are lying in the water, the arms appear to be partially
in and partially out, they seem moved by the stream now and then, but
very gently—so slightly, indeed, that it might well be questioned if it
moved at all.
The moon’s rays had not yet reached it; the bank on the opposite side
of the stream was high, and some tall trees rose up and obscured the
moon. But she was rising higher and higher each moment, and, finally,
when it has reached the tops of those trees, then the rays will reach
the middle of the river, and then, by degrees, it will reach the stones
in the river, and, finally, the body that lies there so still and so
mysteriously.
How it came there it would be difficult to say. It appeared as though,
when the waters were high, the body had floated down, and, at the
subsidence of the waters, it had been left upon the stones, and now it
was exposed to view.
It was strange and mysterious, and those who might look upon such
a sight would feel their blood chill, and their body creep, to
contemplate the remains of humanity in such a place, and in such a
condition as that must be in.
A human life had been taken! How? Who could tell? Perhaps accident
alone was the cause of it; perhaps some one had taken a life by violent
means, and thrown the body in the waters to conceal the fact and the
crime.
The waters had brought it down, and deposited it there in the middle of
the river, without any human creature being acquainted with the fact.
But the moon rises—the beams come trembling through the tree tops and
straggling branches, and fall upon the opposite bank, and there lies
the body, mid stream, and in comparative darkness.
By the time the river is lit up by the moon’s rays, then the object on
the stones will be visible, then it can be ascertained what appears now
only probable, namely, is the dark object a human form or not?
In the absence of light it appears to be so, but when the flood of
silver light falls upon it, it would be placed then beyond a doubt.
The time is approaching—the moon each moment approaches her meridian,
and each moment do the rays increase in number and in strength, while
the shadows shorten.
The opposite bank each moment becomes more and more distinct, and the
side of the stream, the green rushes and sedges, all by degrees come
full into view.
Now and then a fish leaps out of the stream, and just exhibits itself,
as much as to say, “There are things living in the stream, and I am one
of them.”
The moment is one of awe—the presence of that mysterious and
dreadful-looking object, even while its identity remains doubt, chills
the heart—it contracts the expanding thoughts to that one object—all
interest in the scene lies centered in that one point.
What could it be? What else but a human body? What else could assume
such a form? But see, nearly half the stream is lit by the moonbeams
struggling through the tree tops, and now rising above them. The light
increases, and the shadows shorten.
The edge of the bed of stones now becomes lit up by the moonlight; the
rippling stream, the bubbles, and the tiny spray that was caused by
the rush of water against the stones, seemed like sparkling flashes of
silver fire.
Then came the moonbeams upon the body, for it was raised above the
level of the water, and shewed conspicuously; for the moonbeams reached
the body before they fell on the surrounding water; for that reason
then it was the body presented a strange and ghastly object against a
deep, dark background, by which it was surrounded.
But this did not last long—the water in another minute was lit up by
the moon’s pale beams, and then indeed could be plainly enough seen the
body of a man lying on the heap of stones motionless and ghastly.
The colourless hue of the moonlight gave the object a most horrific and
terrible appearance! The face of the dead man was turned towards the
moon’s rays, and the body seemed to receive all the light that could
fall upon it.
It was a terrible object to look upon, and one that added a new and
singular interest to the scene! The world seemed then to be composed
almost exclusively of still life, and the body was no impediment to the
stillness of the scene.
It was, all else considered, a calm, beautiful scene, lovely the night,
gorgeous the silvery rays that lit up the face of nature; the hill
and dale, meadow, and wood, and river, all afforded contrasts strong,
striking, and strange.
But strange, and more strange than any contrast in nature, was that
afforded to the calm beauty of the night and place by the deep
stillness and quietude imposed upon the mind by that motionless human
body.
The moon’s rays now fell upon its full length; the feet were lying in
the water, the head lay back, with its features turned towards the
quarter of the heavens where the moon shone from; the hair floated
on the shallow water, while the face and body were exposed to all
influences, from its raised and prominent position.
The moonbeams had scarcely settled upon it—scarce a few minutes—when
the body moved. Was it the water that moved it? it could not be,
surely, that the moonbeams had the power of recalling life into that
inanimate mass, that lay there for some time still and motionless as
the very stones on which it lay.
It was endued with life; the dead man gradually rose up, and leaned
himself upon his elbow; he paused a moment like one newly recalled
to life; he seemed to become assured he did live. He passed one hand
through his hair, which was wet, and then rose higher into a sitting
posture, and then he leaned on one hand, inclining himself towards the
moon.
His breast heaved with life, and a kind of deep inspiration, or groan,
came from him, as he first awoke to life, and then he seemed to pause
for a few moments. He turned gradually over, till his head inclined
down the stream.
Just below, the water deepened, and ran swiftly and silently on amid
meads and groves of trees. The vampyre was revived; he awoke again to a
ghastly life; he turned from the heap of stones, he gradually allowed
himself to sink into deep water, and then, with a loud plunge, he swam
to the centre of the river.
Slowly and surely did he swim into the centre of the river, and down
the stream he went. He took long, but easy strokes, for he was going
down the stream, and that aided him.
For some distance might he be heard and seen through the openings in
the trees, but he became gradually more and more indistinct, till sound
and sight both ceased, and the vampyre had disappeared.
During the continuance of this singular scene, not one word had passed
between the landlord and his companions. When the blacksmith fired the
fowling-piece, and saw the stranger fall, apparently lifeless, upon the
stepping-stones that crossed the river, he became terrified at what he
had done, and gazed upon the seeming lifeless form with a face on which
the utmost horror was depicted.
They all seemed transfixed to the spot, and although each would have
given worlds to move away, a kind of nightmare seemed to possess them,
which stunned all their faculties, and brought over them a torpidity
from which they found it impossible to arouse themselves.
But, when the apparently dead man moved again, and when, finally, the
body, which appeared so destitute of life, rolled into the stream, and
floated away with the tide, their fright might be considered to have
reached its climax. The absence of the body, however, had seemingly, at
all events, the effect of releasing them from the mental and physical
thraldom in which they were, and they were enabled to move from the
spot, which they did immediately, making their way towards the town
with great speed.
As they got near, they held a sort of council of war as to what they
should do under the circumstances, the result of which was, that
they came to a conclusion to keep all that they had done and seen to
themselves; for, if they did not, they might be called upon for some
very troublesome explanations concerning the fate of the supposed
Hungarian nobleman whom they had taken upon themselves to believe was
a vampyre, and to shoot accordingly, without taking the trouble to
inquire into the legality of such an act.
How such a secret was likely to be kept, when it was shared amongst
seven people, it is hard to say; but, if it were so kept, it could only
be under the pressure of a strong feeling of self-preservation.
They were forced individually, of course, to account for their absence
during the night at their respective homes, and how they managed to do
that is best known to themselves.
As to the landlord, he felt compelled to state that, having his
suspicions of his guest aroused, he followed him on a walk that he
pretended to take, and he had gone so far, that at length he had given
up the chase, and lost his own way in returning.
Thus was it, then, that this affair still preserved all its mystery,
with a large superadded amount of fear attendant upon it; for, if the
mysterious guest were really anything supernatural, might he not come
again in a much more fearful shape, and avenge the treatment he had
received?
The only person who fell any disappointment in the affair, or
whose expectations were not realised, was the boy who had made the
appointment with the supposed vampyre at the end of the lane, and who
was to have received what he considered so large a reward for pointing
out the retreat of Sir Francis Varney.
He waited in vain for the arrival of the Hungarian nobleman, and, at
last, indignation got the better of him, and he walked away. Feeling
that he had been jilted, he resolved to proceed to the public-house and
demand the half-crowns which had been so liberally promised him; but
when he reached there he found that the party whom he sought was not
within, nor the landlord either, for that was the precise time when
that worthy individual was pursuing his guest over meadow and hill,
through brake and through briar, towards the stepping stones on the
river.
What the boy further did on the following day, when he found that he
was to reap no more benefit for the adventure, we shall soon perceive.
As for the landlord, he did endeavour to catch a few hours’ brief
repose; but as he dreamed that the Hungarian nobleman came in the
likeness of a great toad, and sat upon his chest, feeling like the
weight of a mountain, while he, the landlord, tried to scream and cry
for help, but found that he could neither do one thing nor the other,
we may guess that his repose did not at all invigorate him.
As he himself expressed it, he got up all of a shake, with a strong
impression that he was a very ill-used individual, indeed, to have had
the night-mare in the day time.
And now we will return to the cottage where the Bannerworth family were
at all events, making themselves quite as happy as they did at their
ancient mansion, in order to see what is there passing, and how Dr.
Chillingworth made an effort to get up some evidence of something that
the Bannerworth family knew nothing of, therefore could not very well
be expected to render him much assistance. That he did, however, make
what he considered an important discovery, we shall perceive in the
course of the ensuing chapter, in which it will be seen that the best
hidden things will, by the merest accident, sometimes come to light,
and that, too, when least expected by any one at all connected with the
result.