THE CHURCHYARD AT HAMPSTEAD.—THE RESUSCITATION OF A VAMPIRE.
It wants half an hour to midnight. The sky is still cloudy, but
glimpses of the moon can be got as occasionally the clouds slip on
before her disc, and then what a glorious flood of silver light spread
itself over the landscape.
And a landscape in every respect more calculated to look beautiful and
romantic under the chaste moon’s ray, than that to which we would now
invite attention, certainly could not have been found elsewhere, within
many a mile of London. It is Hampstead Heath, that favoured spot where
upon a small scale are collected some of the rarest landscape beauties
that the most romantic mountainous counties of England can present to
the gratified eye of the tourist.
Those who are familiar with London and its environs, of course,
are well acquainted with every nook, glade, tree, and dell in that
beautiful heath, where, at all and every time and season, there is
much to recommend that semi-wild spot to notice. Indeed, if it were,
as it ought to be, divested of its donkey-drivers and laundresses, a
more delightful place of residence could scarcely be found than some
one of those suburban villas, that are dotted round the margin of this
picturesque waste.
But it is midnight, nearly. That time is forthcoming, at which popular
superstition trembles—that time, at which the voice of ignorance and of
cant lowers to whispers, and when the poor of heart and timid of spirit
imagine worlds of unknown terrors. On this occasion, though, it will be
seen that there would have been some excuse if even the most bold had
shrunk back appalled at what was taking place.
But we will not anticipate for truly in this instance might we say
sufficient for the time are the horrors thereof.
If any one had stood on that portion of the high road which leads right
over the heath and so on to Hendon or to Highgate, according as the
left hand or the right hand route is taken, and after reaching the
Castle Tavern, had looked across the wide expanse of heath to the west,
they would have seen nothing for a while but the clustering bushes of
heath blossom, and the picturesque fir trees, that there are to be
beheld in great luxuriance. But, after a time, something of a more
noticeable character would have presented itself.
At a quarter to twelve there rose up from a tangled mass of brushwood,
which had partially concealed a deep cavernous place where sand had
been dug, a human form, and there it stood in the calm still hour
of night so motionless that it scarcely seemed to possess life, but
presently another rose at a short distance.
And then there was a third, so that these three strange-looking beings
stood like landmarks against the sky, and when the moon shone out from
some clouds which had for a short time obscured her rays, they looked
strange and tall, and superhuman.
One spoke.
“’Tis time,” he said, in a deep, hollow voice, that sounded as if it
came from the tomb.
“Yes, time,” said another.
“Time has come,” said the third.
Then they moved, and by the gestures they used, it seemed as if an
animated discussion was taking place among them, after which they moved
along in perfect silence, and in a most stately manner, towards the
village of Hampstead.
Before reaching it, however, they turned down some narrow shaded walks
among garden walls, and the backs of stables, until they emerged close
to the old churchyard, which stands on high ground, and which was not
then—at least, the western portion of it—overlooked by any buildings.
Those villas which now skirt it, are of recent elevation.
A dense mass of clouds has now been brought up by a south wind, and
had swept over the face of the moon, so that at this juncture, and as
twelve o’clock might be expected every moment to strike, the night was
darker than it had yet been since sunset. The circumstance was probably
considered by the mysterious beings who sought the churchyard as
favourable to them, and they got without difficulty within those sacred
precincts devoted to the dead.
Scarcely had they found the way a dozen feet among the old tomb-stones,
when from behind a large square monument, there appeared two more
persons; and if the attorney, Mr. Miller, had been there, he would
probably have thought they bore such a strong resemblance to those whom
he had seen in the park, he would have had but little hesitation in
declaring that they were the same.
These two persons joined the other three, who manifested no surprise
at seeing them, and then the whole five stood close to the wall of the
church, so that they were quite secure from observation, and one of
them spoke.
“Brothers,” he said, “you who prey upon human nature by the law of
your being, we have work to do to-night—that work which we never leave
undone, and which we dare not neglect when we know that it is to do.
One of our fraternity lies here.”
“Yes,” said the others, with the exception of one, and he spoke
passionately.
“Why,” he said, “when there were enough, and more than enough, to do
the work, summon me?”
“Not more than enough, there are but five.”
“And why should you not be summoned,” said another, “you are one of us.
You ought to do your part with us in setting a brother free from the
clay that presses on his breast.”
“I was engaged in my vocation. If the moon shine out in all her lustre
again, you will see that I am wan and wasted, and have need of——”
“Blood,” said one.
“Blood, blood, blood,” repeated the others. And then the first speaker
said, to him who complained,—
“You are one whom we are glad to have with us on a service of danger.
You are strong and bold, your deeds are known, you have lived long, and
are not yet crushed.”
“I do not know our brother’s name,” said one of the others with an air
of curiosity.
“I go by many.”
“So do we all. But by what name may we know you best.”
“Slieghton, I was named in the reign of the third Edward. But many have
known me as Varney, the Vampyre!”
There was a visible sensation among those wretched beings as these
words were uttered, and one was about to say something, when Varney
interrupted him.
“Come,” he said, “I have been summoned here, and I have come to assist
in the exhumation of a brother. It is one of the conditions of our
being that we do so. Let the work be proceeded with then, at once, I
have no time to spare. Let it be done with. Where lies the vampyre? Who
was he?”
“A man of good repute, Varney,” said the first speaker. “A smooth,
fair-spoken man, a religious man, so far as cant went, a proud,
cowardly, haughty, worldly follower of religion. Ha, ha, ha!”
“And what made him one of us?”
“He dipped his hands in blood. There was a poor boy, a brother’s only
child, ’twas left an orphan. He slew the boy, and he is one of us.”
“With a weapon.”
“Yes, and a sharp one; the weapon of unkindness. The child was young
and gentle, and harsh words, blows, and revilings placed him in his
grave. He is in heaven, while the man will be a vampyre.
“’Tis well—dig him up.”
They each produced from under the dark cloaks they wore, a short
double-edged, broad, flat-bladed weapon, not unlike the swords worn by
the Romans, and he who assumed the office of guide, led the way to a
newly-made grave, and diligently, and with amazing rapidity and power,
they commenced removing the earth.
It was something amazing to see the systematic manner in which they
worked, and in ten minutes one of them struck the blade of his weapon
upon the lid of a coffin, and said,
“It is here.”
The lid was then partially raised in the direction of the moon, which,
although now hidden, they could see would in a very short time show
itself in some gaps of the clouds, that were rapidly approaching at
great speed across the heavens.
They then desisted from their labour, and stood around the grave in
silence for a time, until, as the moon was longer showing her fair
face, they began to discourse in whispers.
“What shall become of him,” said one, pointing to the grave. “Shall we
aid him?”
“No,” said Varney, “I have heard that of him which shall not induce
me to lift hand or voice in his behalf. Let him fly, shrieking like a
frightened ghost where he lists.”
“Did you not once know some people named Bannerworth.”
“I did. You came to see me, I think, at an inn. They are all dead.”
“Hush,” said another, “look, the moon will soon be free from the
vapours that sail between it and the green earth. Behold, she shines
out fresh once more; there will be life in the coffin soon, and our
work will be done.”
It was so. The dark clouds passed over the face of the moon, and with a
sudden burst of splendour, it shone out again as before.