VARNEY OPENS THE VAST STORE-HOUSE OF HIS MEMORY.
A more singular conversation than that which took place between Varney,
the Vampyre, and this minister of religion, could not be conceived.
If there was any one particle of goodness existing in Varney’s
disposition, we may suspect it would now be developed.
Perhaps the whole domestic history of the world never yet exhibited so
remarkable an association as that between Mr. Bevan and Varney; and
when they sat down together in the little cheerful study of the former,
never had four walls enclosed two beings of the same species, and yet
of such opposite pursuits.
But we can hardly call Varney, the Vampyre, human—his space of
existence had been lengthened out beyond the ordinary routine of human
existence, and the kind of vitality that he now enjoyed, if one might
be allowed the expression, was something distinct and peculiar.
It speaks volumes, however, for the philanthropy and liberality of the
minister of any religion who could hold out the hand of fellowship to
so revolting and to so horrible an existence.
But Mr. Bevan was no common man. His religion was doctrinal, certainly,
but it was free from bigotry; and his charity to the feelings,
opinions, and prejudices of others was immense.
He was accustomed to say “may not my feelings be prejudices,” and one
of the sublimest precepts of the whole Scriptures was to him that which
says, “Judge not, lest ye, too, should be judged.”
Hence it was that he would not allow himself to revolt at Varney. It
had seemed right to the great Creator of all things that there should
be such a being, and therefore, he, Mr. Bevan, would neither question
nor contemn it.
“Look about you,” he said to Varney with a disordered gaze; “you seem
to look very about you as if there was danger in the very atmosphere
you breathe, but be assured you are safe here; it shall be my life for
your life if any harm should be attempted to be done you.”
[Illustration: Sir Varney’s revelation to the clergyman.]
Varney looked at him for a few moments silence, and then in his deep
and sepulchral voice he spoke, saying,—
“My race is run.”
“What mean you by that expression?”
“I mean I shall no longer be a terror to the weak, nor a curiosity to
the strong. In time past, more than once I have tried to shuffle off
the evil of this frightful existence, but some accident, strange, wild,
and wonderful, has brought me back to life again.”
“Perhaps not an accident,” said Mr. Bevan.
“You may be right, but when I have sought to rid the world of my own
bad company, I have been moved to do so by some act of kindness and
consideration, most contrary to my deserts; and then again when I have
been cast back by the waves of fate upon the shores of existence, my
heart is burdened, and I have begun to plan to work mischief and misery
and woe to all.”
“I can understand how your feelings have alternated, but I hope that
our association will have a better result.”
“Yes, a better result, for with consummate art, with cool perseverance
and extended knowledge, I trust I may think of some means which cannot
fail of changing this living frame to that dust from which it sprung,
and to which it should long since have returned.”
“You believe in that, but do you not think there is a pure spirit that
will yet live, independent of the grovelling earth?”
“There are times when I have hoped that even that fable were true; but
you have promised me rest, will you keep your word?”
“That will I most certainly; but will you keep yours? You have promised
me some details of your extraordinary existence, and as a divine, and I
hope in some degree as a philosopher, I look for them with some degree
of anxiety.”
“You shall have them—leave me pens, ink and paper, and in the solitude
of this room, until to-morrow morning, and you shall have what I
believe to be the origin of this most horrible career.”
“Your wishes shall be consulted—but, will you not take refreshment?”
“Nothing—nothing. My refreshment is one I need not name to you, and
when forced by the world’s customs and considerations of my own safety,
I have partaken of man’s usual food, it has but ill accorded with my
preternatural existence, I eat not—drink not—here. You know me as I
am.”
As he continued speaking, Varney evidently grew weaker, and Mr. Bevan
could scarcely persuade himself that it was not through actual want of
nourishment, but the Vampyre assured him that it was not so, and that
rest would recruit him, to which opinion, as the experience of human
nature generally afforded no index to Varney’s peculiar habits, he was
forced to subscribe.
There was a couch in the room, and upon that Varney laid himself, and
as he seemed indisposed for further conversation, Mr. Bevan left him,
promising to return to him as he himself requested in the morning, with
the hope of finding that he had completed some sort of narrative to the
effect mentioned.
It can scarcely be said that Mr. Bevan had thoroughly made up his mind
to leave his guest for so long a period, and as there was a window that
looked from the study in his little garden, he thought, that by now
and then peeping in, to see that all was right, he could scarcely be
considered as breaking faith with his mysterious guest.
“He will surely attempt nothing against his own life,” thought Mr.
Bevan, “for already he seems to be impressed with the futility of such
an attempt, and to think that when he has made them he has been made
the sport of circumstances that had forced him back to life again,
despite all his wishes to the contrary.”
Mr. Bevan reasoned thus, but he little knew what was passing in the
mind of Varney the Vampire.
After about two hours more, when the night was profoundly dark, the
liberal-minded but anxious clergyman went into his garden, for the
purpose of peeping into his study, and he then saw, as he supposed, his
visitor lying enveloped in his large brown cloak, lying upon the couch.
He was better pleased to see he was sleeping, and recovering from the
great fatigue of which he complained, instead of writing, although that
writing promised to be of so interesting a character, and he crept
softly away for fear of awakening him.
The hour had now arrived at which Mr. Bevan usually retired to rest,
but he delayed doing so, and let two hours more elapse, after which, he
again stole out of his garden, and peeped into the study.
There lay the long, gaunt, slumbering figure upon the couch.
“I am satisfied,” said Mr. Bevan to himself; “fatigue has completely
overcome him, and he will sleep till morning now. I long much to become
acquainted with his strange eventful history.”
After this, Mr. Bevan retired to rest, but not until in prayer he had
offered up his thanks, and stated his hopes of being able to turn aside
from the wicked path he had been pursuing, the wretched man who at that
moment was slumbering peacefully beneath his roof.
We should have less of opposition to churchmen, if they were all like
Mr. Bevan, and not the wily, ravenous, illiberal, grasping crew they
really are. There was no priestcraft in him, he was almost enough to
make one in love with his doctrines, be they what they might, so that
they were his.
Although we say that he retired to rest, we should more properly say
he retired to try to rest; for, after all, there were feelings of
excitement and anxiety about him which he could not repress wholly; and
although he had every reason to believe his guest was sleeping, and
calmly sleeping too, yet he found he was becoming painfully alive to
the slightest sound.
He became nervously alive to the least interruption, and kept fancying
that he heard the slightest indications of movements in the house, such
as at any other time he would have paid no attention to.
It always happened, too, provokingly, that just as he was dropping
into a slight slumber, that he thought he heard one of these noises,
and then he would start, awake, and sit up in his bed, and listen
attentively, until tired nature forced him to repose again.
Those who have passed such a night of watchfulness need not be told how
very very exciting it becomes, and hour after hour becomes more intense
and acute, and the power of escaping its fell influence less and less.
Indeed, it was not until the dawn of morning that Mr. Bevan tasted the
sweets of sound repose, then, as is generally usual after nights of
fever and disquietude, the cool, pure, life-giving air of early morn,
produced quite a different state of feeling, and his repose was calm
and serene.