THE STRANGE GUEST.—THE LITTLE CHAPEL.—VARNEY’S NARRATIVE.
Mr. Bevan could not but see that he had made some impression, even upon
the obdurate heart of Varney, and he was determined to follow that
impression up by every means in his power.
“Always have in mind,” he said, “that by trusting me, you trust one who
is not in the habit of condemning his fellows. You will be safe from
anything like sanctified reproach, for to my thinking, religion should
be a principle of love and tenderness, and not a subject upon which
people who, perhaps are themselves liable and obnoxious to all sorts of
reproach, should deal forth denunciations against their neighbours.”
“Is that indeed your faith?”
“It is; and it is the real faith, taught by my Great Master.”
“You are as one among many thousands.”
“Nay, you may have been unfortunate in meeting with bad specimens of
those who are devoted in the priesthood. Do not condemn hastily.”
“Hastily! I have been some hundreds of years in condemning.”
“You will come with me.”
“I will for once again put faith in human nature.”
“Tell me then, before we leave this spot, if you know aught of what has
happened to, or become of the body of Clara Crofton.”
“I can tell you; it was left here buried, but uncovered.”
“Indeed—the ground is level, and I see no trace of a grave.”
“No; I have obliterated all such traces, I have placed the earth upon
her—may she now rest in peace. Oh, that such a flower should have been
so rudely plucked, and I the cause. Is not that enough to make Heaven’s
angels mutiny if I should essay to pass the golden gates.”
“Say no more of that. I thank God that the body is so disposed of, and
that it will not come in the way of any of the Crofton family. This
affair had far better now be let sink into oblivion—alas! poor Sir
George is now the most pitiable sufferer.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes; madness has seized upon him. He only sits and smiles to himself,
weaving in his imagination strange fancies.”
“And call you that unhappy?”
“It is called, and considered so.”
“Oh, fatal error—he is happy. Reason! boasted, God-like reason—what are
you but the curse of poor humanity. The maniac, who will in his cell,
fancy it a gorgeous hall, and of the damp straw that is his couch make
up a glittering coronet, is a king indeed, and most happy.”
“This is poetical,” said Mr. Bevan, “if not true.”
“It is true.”
“Well, well; we will talk on that as well as other themes at our
leisure. Come on, and I will at once take you to my home, where you
will be safe, and I hope more happy.”
“Are you not afraid?”
“I am not.”
“You are right, confidence is safety—lead on, sir, I’ll follow you,
although I little thought to make any human companionship to-night.”
Mr. Bevan walked only about a step in advance as they proceeded towards
the parsonage house, and on the way he conversed with Varney with
calmness which considering the very peculiar circumstances, few men
could have brought to bear upon the occasion.
But Mr. Bevan was no common man. He looked upon nature, and all the
living creatures that make up its vital portion with peculiar eyes,
and if the bishop of his diocese had known one half of what Mr. Bevan
thought, he would not have suffered him to remain in his religious
situation.
But he kept the mass of his liberal opinions to himself, although he
always acted upon them, and a man more completely free from sectarian
dogmas, and illiberal fancies of superstition, which are nicknamed
faith, could not be.
There was still, notwithstanding all the circumstances, a hope
lingering in his mind that Varney might after all not be even what he
thought himself to be, but some enthusiast who had dreamt himself into
a belief of his own horrible powers.
We know that such was not the case. But it was natural enough for Mr.
Bevan to hold as long as he could by such an idea.
And so those two most strangely assorted beings, the clergyman and the
vampyre, walked together towards the pretty and picturesque dwelling of
the former.
“The distance is short,” said Mr. Bevan.
“Nay, that matters not,” replied Varney.
“I spoke because I thought you seemed fatigued.”
“No, my frame is of iron. My heart is bowed down with many griefs,
but the physical structure knows no feeling of dejection. The life
I possess is no common one. Oh! would that it were so, that I might
shuffle it off as any ordinary men can do.”
“Do not say that. Who knows but that after all your living accomplishes
better things?”
“I cannot say that it accomplishes aught completely but one thing.”
“And that?”
“That is my most exquisite misery.”
“Even that may pass away. But here we are at my little garden gate.
Come in, and fear nothing; for if you will seek Heaven, as I would wish
you, you will find this place such a haven of peace, and such a refuge
against the storms of life, as you hardly fancied existed, I dare say,
in this world.”
“Not for me. I did not fancy that there existed a spot on earth on
which I could lie down in peace, and yet it may be here.”