Varney the Vampyre 79The Vampyre’s Flight.—his Danger, and the Last Place of Refuge
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Literature · Horror
Varney the Vampyre 79
The Vampyre’s Flight.—his Danger, and the Last Place of Refuge
RymerEnglish
Leaving the disorderly and vicious mob, who were thus sacrificing human life to their excited passions, we return to the brothers Bannerworth and the doctor, who together with Admiral Bell, still held watch over the hall.
No indication of the coming forth of Varney presented itself for some time longer, and then, at least they thought, they heard a window open; and, turning their eyes in the direction whence the sound proceeded, they could see the form of a man slowly and cautiously emerging from it.
As far as they could judge, from the distance at which they were, that form partook much of the appearance and the general aspect of Sir Francis Varney, and the more they looked and noticed its movements, the more they felt convinced that such was the fact.
“There comes your patient, doctor,” said the admiral.
“Don’t call him my patient,” said the doctor, “if you please.”
“Why you know he is; and you are, in a manner of speaking, bound to look after him. Well, what is to be done?”
“He must not, on any account,” said Dr. Chillingworth, “be allowed to leave the place. Believe me, I have the very strongest reasons for saying so.”
“He shall not leave it then,” said Henry.
Even as he spoke, Henry Bannerworth darted forward, and Sir Francis Varney dropped from the window, out of which he had clambered, close to his feet.
“Hold!” cried Henry, “you are my prisoner.”
With the most imperturbable coolness in the world, Sir Francis Varney turned upon him, and replied,—
“And pray, Henry Bannerworth, what have I done to provoke your wrath?”
“What have you done?—have you not, like a thief, broken into my house? Can you ask what you have done?”
“Ay,” said the vampyre, “like a thief, perchance, and yet no thief. May I ask you, what there is to steal, in the house?”
By the time this short dialogue had been uttered, the rest of the party had come up, and Varney was, so far as regarded numbers, a prisoner.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said, with that strange contortion of countenance which, now they all understood, arose from the fact of his having been hanged, and restored to life again. “Well, gentlemen, now that you have beleaguered me in such a way, may I ask you what it is about?”
“If you will step aside with me, Sir Francis Varney, for a moment,” said Dr. Chillingworth, “I will make to you a communication which will enable you to know what it is all about.”
“Oh, with pleasure,” said the vampyre. “I am not ill at present; but still, sir, I have no objection to hear what you have to say.”
He stepped a few paces on one side with the doctor, while the others waited, not without some amount of impatience for the result of the communication. All that they could hear was, that Varney said, suddenly—
“You are quite mistaken.”
And then the doctor appeared to be insisting upon something, which the vampyre listened to patiently; and, at the end, burst out with,—
“Why, doctor, you must be dreaming.”
At this, Dr. Chillingworth at once left him, and advancing to his friends, he said,—
“Sir Francis Varney denies in toto all that I have related to you concerning him; therefore, I can say no more than that I earnestly recommend you, before you let him go, to see that he takes nothing of value with him.”
“Why, what can you mean?” said Varney.
“Search him,” said the doctor; “I will tell you why, very shortly.”
“Indeed—indeed!” said Sir Francis Varney. “Now, gentlemen, I will give you a chance of behaving justly and quietly, so saving yourself the danger of acting otherwise. I have made repeated offers to take this house, either as a tenant or as a purchaser, all of which offers have been declined, upon, I dare say, a common enough principle, namely, one which induces people to enhance the value of anything they have for disposal, if it be unique, by making it difficult to come at. Seeing that you had deserted the place, I could make no doubt but that it was to be had, so I came here to make a thorough examination of its interior, to see if it would suit me. I find that it will not; therefore, I have only to apologise for the intrusion, and to wish you a remarkably good evening.”
“That won’t do,” said the doctor.
“What won’t do, sir?”
“This excuse will not do, Sir Francis Varney. You are, although you deny it, the man who was hanged in London some years ago for a highway robbery.”
Varney laughed, and held up his hands, exclaiming,—
“Alas! alas! our good friend, the doctor, has studied too hard; his wits, probably, at the best of times, none of the clearest, have become hopelessly entangled.”
“Do you deny,” said Henry, “then, that you are that man?”
“Most unequivocally.”
“I assert it,” said the doctor, “and now, I will tell you all, for I perceive you hesitate about searching, Sir Francis Varney, I tell you all why it is that he has such an affection for Bannerworth Hall.”
“Before you do,” said Varney, “there is a pill for you, which you may find more nauseous and harder of digestion, than any your shop can furnish.”
As Varney uttered these words, he suddenly drew from his pocket a pistol, and, levelling it at the unfortunate doctor, he fired it full at him.
The act was so sudden, so utterly unexpected, and so stunning, that it was done before any one could move hand or foot to prevent it. Henry Bannerworth and his brother were the furthest off from the vampyre; and, unhappily, in the rush which they, as soon us possible, made towards him, they knocked down the admiral, who impeded them much; and, before they could spring over, or past him, Sir Francis Varney was gone.
So sudden, too, had been his departure, that they had not the least idea in which direction he had gone; so that to follow him would have been a work of the greatest possible difficulty.
Notwithstanding, however, both the difficulty and the danger, for no doubt the vampyre was well enough armed, Henry and his brother both rushed after the murderer, as they now believed him to be, in the route which they thought it was most probable he would take, namely, that which led towards the garden gate.
They reached that spot in a few moments, but all was profoundly still. Not the least trace of any one could be seen, high or low, and they were compelled, after a cursory examination, to admit that Sir Francis Varney had again made his escape, despite the great odds that were against him in point of numbers.
“He has gone,” said Henry. “Let us go back, and see into the state of poor Dr. Chillingworth, who, I fear, is a dead man.”
They hurried back to the spot, and there they found the admiral looking as composed as possible, and solacing himself with a pinch of snuff, as he gazed upon the apparently lifeless form at his feet.
“Is he dead?” said Henry.
“I should say he was,” replied the admiral; “such a shot as that was don’t want to be repeated. Well, I liked the doctor with all his faults. He only had one foolish way with him, and that was, that he shirked his grog.”
“This is an awful catastrophe,” said Henry, as he knelt down by the side of the body. “Assist me, some of you. Where is Charles?”
“I’ll be hanged,” said the admiral, “if I know. He disappeared somewhere.”
“This is a night of mystery as well as terror. Alas! poor Dr. Chillingworth! I little thought that you would have fallen a victim to the man whom you preserved from death. How strange it is that you should have snatched from the tomb the very individual who was, eventually, to take your own life.”
The brothers gently raised the body of the doctor, and carried it on to the grass plot, which was close at hand.
“Farewell, kind and honest-hearted Chillingworth,” said Henry; “I shall, many and many a time, feel your loss; and now I will rest not until I have delivered up to justice your murderer. All consideration, or feeling, for what seemed to be latent virtues in that strange and inexplicable man, Varney, shall vanish, and he shall reap the consequences of the crime he has now committed.”
“It was a cold blooded, cowardly murder,” said his brother.
“It was; but you may depend the doctor was about to reveal something to us, which Varney so much dreaded, that he took his life as the only effectual way, at the moment, of stopping him.”
“It must be so,” said Henry.
“And now,” said the admiral, “it’s too late, and we shall not know it at all. That’s the way. A fellow saves up what he has got to tell till it is too late to tell it, and down he goes to Davy Jones’s locker with all his secrets aboard.”
“Not always,” said Dr. Chillingworth, suddenly sitting bolt upright—“not always.”
Henry and his brother started back in amazement, and the admiral was so taken by surprise, that had not the resuscitated doctor suddenly stretched out his hand and laid hold of him by the ankle, he would have made a precipitate retreat.
“Hilloa! murder!” he cried. “Let me go! How do I know but you may be a vampyre by now, as you were shot by one.”
Henry soonest recovered from the surprise of the moment, and with the most unfeigned satisfaction, he cried,—
“Thank God you are unhurt, Dr. Chillingworth! Why he must have missed you by a miracle.”
“Not at all,” said the doctor. “Help me up—thank you—all right. I’m only a little singed about the whiskers. He hit me safe enough.”
“Then how have you escaped?”
“Why from the want of a bullet in the pistol, to be sure. I can understand it all well enough. He wanted to create sufficient confusion to cover a desperate attempt to escape, and he thought that would be best done by seeming to shoot me. The suddenness of the shock, and the full belief, at the moment, that he had sent a bullet into my brains, made me fall, and produced a temporary confusion of ideas, amounting to insensibility.”
“From which you are happily recovered. Thank Heaven that, after all, he is not such a villain as this act would have made him.”
“Ah!” said the admiral, “it takes people who have lived a little in these affairs to know the difference in sound between a firearm with a bullet in it, and one without. I knew it was all right.”
“Then why did you not say so, admiral?”
“What was the use? I thought the doctor might be amused to know what you should say of him, so you see I didn’t interfere; and, as I am not a good hand at galloping after anybody, I didn’t try that part of the business, but just remained where I was.”
“Alas! alas!” cried the doctor, “I much fear that, by his going, I have lost all that I expected to be able to do for you, Henry. It’s of not the least use now telling you or troubling you about it. You may now sell or let Bannerworth Hall to whomever you please, for I am afraid it is really worthless.”
“What on earth do you mean?” said Henry. “Why, doctor, will you keep up this mystery among us? If you have anything to say, why not say it at once?”
“Because, I tell you it’s of no use now. The game is up, Sir Francis Varney has escaped; but still I don’t know that I need exactly hesitate.”
“There can be no reason for your hesitating about making a communication to us,” said Henry. “It is unfriendly not to do so.”
“My dear boy, you will excuse me for saying that you don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Can you give any reason?”
“Yes; respect for the living. I should have to relate something of the dead which would be hurtful to their feelings.”
Henry was silent for a few moments, and then he said,——
“What dead? And who are the living?”
“Another time,” whispered the doctor to him; “another time, Henry. Do not press me now. But you shall know all another time.”
“I must be content. But now let us remember that another man yet lingers in Bannerworth Hall. I will endure suspense on his account no longer. He is an intruder there; so I go at once to dislodge him.”
No one made any opposition to this move, not even the doctor; so Henry preceded them all to the house. They passed through the open window into the long hall, and from thence into every apartment of the mansion, without finding the object of their search. But from one of the windows up to which there grew great masses of ivy, there hung a rope, by which any one might easily have let himself down; and no doubt, therefore, existed in all their minds that the hangman had sufficiently profited by the confusion incidental to the supposed shooting of the doctor, to make good his escape from the place.
“And so, after all,” said Henry, “we are completely foiled?”
“We may be,” said Dr. Chillingworth; “but it is, perhaps, going too far to say that we actually are. One thing, however, is quite clear; and that is, no good can be done here.”
“Then let us go home,” said the admiral. “I did not think from the first that any good would be done here.”
They all left the garden together now; so that, almost for the first time, Bannerworth Hall was left to itself, unguarded and unwatched by any one whatever. It was with an evident and a marked melancholy that the doctor proceeded with the party to the cottage-house of the Bannerworths; but, as after what he had said, Henry forbore to question him further upon those subjects which he admitted he was keeping secret; and as none of the party were much in a cue for general conversation, the whole of them walked on with more silence than usually characterised them.
