Varney the Vampyre 86The Reception of the Vampyre by Flora.—varney Subdued
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Literature · Horror
Varney the Vampyre 86
The Reception of the Vampyre by Flora.—varney Subdued
RymerEnglish
We must say that the irruption into the house of the Bannerworths by Sir Francis Varney, was certainly unpremeditated by him, for he knew not into whose house he had thus suddenly rushed for refuge from the numerous foes who were pursuing him with such vengeful ire. It was a strange and singular incident, and one well calculated to cause the mind to pause before it passed it by, and consider the means to an end which are sometimes as wide of the mark, as it is in nature possible to be.
But truth is stronger than fiction by far, and the end of it was, that, pressed on all sides by danger, bleeding, faint, and exhausted, he rushed into the first house he came to, and thus placed himself in the very house of those whom he had brought to such a state of misfortune.
Flora Bannerworth was seated at some embroidery, to pass away an hour or so, and thus get over the tedium of time; she was not thinking, either, upon the unhappy past; some trifling object or other engaged her attention. But what was her anguish when she saw a man staggering into the room bleeding, and bearing the marks of a bloody contest, and sinking at her feet.
Her astonishment was far greater yet, when she recognised that man to be Sir Francis Varney.
“Save me!—save me! Miss Bannerworth, save me!—only you can save me from the ruthless multitude which follows, crying aloud for my blood.”
As he spoke, he sank down speechless. Flora was so much amazed, not to say terrified, that she knew not what to do. She saw Sir Francis a suppliant at her feet, a fugitive from his enemies, who would show him no mercy—she saw all this at a moment’s glance; and yet she had not recovered her speech and presence of mind enough to enable her to make any reply to him.
“Save me! Miss Flora Bannerworth, save me!” he again said, raising himself on his hands. “I am beset, hunted like a wild beast—they seek my life—they have pursued me from one spot to another, and I have unwittingly intruded upon you. You will save me; I am sure your kindness and goodness of heart will never permit me to be turned out among such a crew of blood-thirsty butchers as those who pursue me are.”
“Rise, Sir Francis Varney,” said Flora, after a moment’s hesitation; “in such an extremity as that which you are in, it would be inhuman indeed to thrust you out among your enemies.”
“Oh! it would,” said Varney. “I had thought, until now, I could have faced such a mob, until I was in this extremity; and then, disarmed and thrown down, bruised, beaten, and incapable of stemming such a torrent, I fled from one place to another, till hunted from each, and then instinct alone urged me to greater exertion than before, and here I am—this is now my last and only hope.”
“Rise, Sir Francis.”
“You will not let me be torn out and slaughtered like an ox. I am sure you will not.”
“Sir Francis, we are incapable of such conduct; you have sought refuge here, and shall find it as far as we are able to afford it to you.”
“And your brother—and——”
“Yes—yes—all who are here will do the same; but here they come to speak for themselves.”
As she spoke, Mrs. Bannerworth entered, also Charles Holland, who both started on seeing the vampyre present, Sir Francis Varney, who was too weak to rise without assistance.
“Sir Francis Varney,” said Flora, speaking to them as they entered, “has sought refuge here; his life is in peril, and he has no other hope left; you will, I am sure, do what can be done for him.”
“Mr. Holland,” said Sir Francis, “I am, as you may see by my condition, a fugitive, and have been beaten almost to death; instinct alone urged me on to save my life, and I, unknowingly, came in here.”
“Rise, Sir Francis,” said Charles Holland; “I am not one who would feel any pleasure in seeing you become the victim of any brutal mob. I am sure there are none amongst us who would willingly do so. You have trusted to those who will not betray you.”
“Thank you,” said Sir Francis, faintly. “I thank you; your conduct is noble, and Miss Bannerworth’s especially so.”
“Are you much hurt, Sir Francis?” inquired Charles.
“I am much hurt, but not seriously or dangerously; but I am weak and exhausted.”
“Let me assist you to rise,” said Charles Holland.
“Thank you,” said Sir Francis, as he accepted of the assistance, and when he stood up, he found how incapable he really was, for a child might have grappled with him.
“I have been sore beset, Mrs. Bannerworth,” he said, endeavouring to bow to that lady; “and I have suffered much ill-usage. I am not in such a plight as I could wish to be seen in by ladies; but my reasons for coming will be an excuse for my appearance in such disorder.”
“We will not say anything about that,” said Charles Holland; “under the circumstances, it could not be otherwise.”
“It could not,” said Sir Francis, as he took the chair Miss Flora Bannerworth placed for him.
“I will not ask you for any explanation as to how this came about; but you need some restorative and rest.”
“I think I suffer more from exhaustion than anything else. The bruises I have, of course, are not dangerous.”
“Can you step aside a few moments?” said Mrs. Bannerworth. “I will show you where you can remove some of those stains, and make yourself more comfortable.”
“Thank you, madam—thank you. It will be most welcome to me, I assure you.”
Sir Francis rose up, and, with the aid of Charles Holland, he walked to the next room, where he washed himself, and arranged his dress as well as it would admit of its being done.
“Mr. Holland,” he said, “I cannot tell you how grateful I feel for this. I have been hunted from the house where you saw me. From what source they learned my abode—my place of concealment—I know not; but they found me out.”
“I need hardly say, Sir Francis, that it could not have occurred through me,” said Charles Holland.
“My young friend,” said Sir Francis, “I am quite sure you were not; and, moreover, I never, for one moment, suspected you. No, no; some accidental circumstance alone has been the cause. I have been very cautious—I may say extremely so—but at the same time, living, as I have, surrounded by enemies on all sides, it is not to be wondered at that I should be seen by some one, and thus traced to my lair, whither they followed me at their leisure.”
“They have been but too troublesome in this matter. When they become a little reasonable, it will be a great miracle; for, when their passions and fears are excited, there is no end to the extremes they will perpetrate.”
“It is so,” said Varney, “as the history of these last few days amply testifies to me. I could never have credited the extent to which popular excitement could be carried, and the results it was likely to produce.”
“It is an engine of very difficult control,” pursued Charles Holland; “but what will raise it will not allay it, but add fuel to the fire that burns so fiercely already.”
“True enough,” said Sir Francis.
“If you have done, will you again step this way?”
Sir Francis Varney followed Charles Holland into the sitting-room, and sat down with them, and before him was spread a light supper, with some good wine.
“Eat, Sir Francis,” said Mrs. Bannerworth. “Such a state as that in which you are, must, of necessity, produce great exhaustion, and you must require food and drink.”
Sir Francis bowed as well as he was able, and even then, sore and bruised as he was, fugitive as he had been, he could not forget his courtesy; but it was not without an effort. His equanimity was, however, much disturbed, by finding himself in the midst of the Bannerworths.
“I owe you a relation,” he said, “of what occurred to drive me from my place of concealment.”
“We should like to hear it, if you are not too far fatigued to relate it,” said Charles.
“I will. I was sitting at the top of that house in which I sought to hide myself, when I heard sounds come that were of a very suspicious nature; but did not believe that it could happen that they had discovered my lurking-place; far from it; though, of late, I had been habitually cautious and suspicious, yet I thought I was safe, till I heard the noise of a multitude coming towards me. I could not be mistaken in it, for the sounds are so peculiar that they are like nothing else. I heard them coming.
“I moved not; and when they surrounded the house as far as was practicable, they gave an immense shout, and made the welkin ring with the sound.”
“I heard a confused noise at a distance,” remarked Flora; “but I had no idea that anything serious was contemplated. I imagined it was some festival among some trade, or portion of the townspeople, who were shouting from joy.”
“Oh, dear no,” said Sir Francis; “but I am not surprised at the mistake, because there are such occurrences occasionally; but whenever the mob gained any advantage upon me they shouted, and when I was able to oppose them with effect, they groaned at me most horribly.”
“The deuce,” said Charles; “the sound, I suppose, serves to express their feelings, and to encourage each other.”
“Something of the sort, I dare say,” said Varney; “but at length, after defending the house with all the desperation that despair imparted to me, I was compelled to fly from floor to floor, until I had reached the roof; there they followed me, and I was compelled again to fly. House after house they followed me to, until I could go no farther,” said Varney.
“How did you escape?”
“Fortunately I saw some ivy growing and creeping over the coping-stones, and by grasping that I got over the side, and so let myself down by degrees, as well as I was able.”
“Good heavens! what a dreadful situation,” exclaimed Flora; “it is really horrible!”
“I could not do it again, under, I think, any circumstances.”
“Not the same?” said Mrs. Bannerworth.
“I really doubt if I could,” said Varney. “The truth is, the excitement of the moment was great, and I at that moment thought of nothing but getting away.
“The same circumstances, the same fear of death, could hardly be produced in me again, and I am unable to account for the phenomenon on this occasion.”
“Your escape was very narrow indeed,” said Flora; “it makes me shudder to think of the dangers you have gone through; it is really terrible to think of it.”
“You,” said Sir Francis, “are young and susceptible, and generous in your disposition, You can feel for me, and do; but how little I could have expected it, it is impossible to say; but your sympathy sinks into my mind and causes such emotions as never can be erased from my soul.
“But to proceed. You may guess how dreadful was my position, by the fact that the first man who attempted to get over tore the ivy away and fell, striking me in his fall; he was killed, and I thrown down and stunned. I then made for the wood, closely pursued, and got into it; then I baffled them; they searched the wood, and I went through it. I then ran across the country to these houses here; I got over the fence, and in at the back door.”
“Did they see you come?” inquired Charles Holland.
“I cannot say, but I think that they did not; I heard them give a loud shout more than once when on this side of the wood.”
“You did? How far from here were you when you heard the shouts?” inquired Mrs. Bannerworth.
“I was close here; and, as I jumped over the fence, I heard them shout again; but I think they cannot see so far; the night was moonlight, to be sure, but that is all; the shadow of the hedge, and the distance together, would make it, if not impossible, at least very improbable.”
“That is very likely,” said Mrs. Bannerworth.
“In that case,” said Charles Holland, “you are safe here; for none will suspect your being concealed here.”
“It is the last place I should myself have thought of,” said Varney; “and I may say the last place I would knowingly have come to; but had I before known enough of you, I should have been well assured of your generosity, and have freely come to claim your aid and shelter, which accident has so strangely brought me to be a candidate for, and which you have so kindly awarded me.”
“The night is wearing away,” said Flora, “and Sir Francis is doubtless fatigued to an excess; sleep, I dare say, will be most welcome to him.”
“It will indeed, Miss Bannerworth,” said Varney; “but I can do that under any circumstances; do not let me put you to any inconvenience; a chair, and at any hour, will serve me for sleep.”
“We cannot do for you what we would wish,” said Flora, looking at her mother; “but something better than that, at all events, we can and will provide for you.”
“I know not how to thank you,” said Sir Francis Varney; “I assure you, of late I have not been luxuriously lodged, and the less trouble I give you the greater I shall esteem the favour.”
The hour was late, and Sir Francis Varney, before another half hour had elapsed, was consigned to his own reflections, in a small but neat room, there to repose his bruised and battered carcass, and court the refreshing influence of sleep.
His reflections were, for nearly an hour, of the most contradictory character; some one passion was trying to overcome the other; but he seemed quite subdued.
“I could not have expected this,” he muttered; “Flora Bannerworth has the soul of a heroine. I deserved not such a reception from them; and yet, in my hour of utmost need, they have received me like a favoured friend; and yet all their misfortunes have taken their origin from me; I am the cause of all.”
Filled with these thoughts, he fell asleep; he slept till morning broke. He was not disturbed; it seemed as though the influence of sleep was sweeter far there, in the cottage of the Bannerworths, than ever he had before received.
It was late on that morning before Sir Francis rose, and then only through hearing the family about, and, having performed his toilet, so far as circumstances permitted, he descended, and entered the front-parlour, the room he had been in the night before.
Flora Bannerworth was already there; indeed, breakfast was waiting the appearance of Sir Francis Varney.
“Good morning, Miss Bannerworth,” said Sir Francis, bowing with his usual dignified manner, but in the kindest and sincerest way he was able to assume.
“Good morning, Sir Francis,” said Flora, rising to receive him; and she could not avoid looking at him as he entered the room. “I hope you have had a pleasant night?”
“It has been the best night’s rest I have had for some time, Miss Bannerworth. I assure you I have to express my gratitude to you for so much kindness. I have slept well, and soundly.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“I think yet I shall escape the search of these people who have hunted me from so many places.”
“I hope you may, indeed, Sir Francis.”
“You, Miss Bannerworth! and do you hope I may escape the vengeance of these people—the populace?”
“I do, Sir Francis, most sincerely hope so. Why should I wish evil to you, especially at their hands?”
Sir Francis did not speak for a minute or two, and then he said, turning full upon Flora—
“I don’t know why, Miss Bannerworth, that I should think so, but perhaps it is because there are peculiar circumstances connected with myself, that have made me feel conscious that I have not deserved so much goodness at your hands.”
“You have not deserved any evil. Sir Francis, we could not do that if it were in our power; we would do you a service at any time.”
“You have done so, Miss Bannerworth—the greatest that can be performed. You have saved my life.”
At that moment Charles Holland entered, and Sir Francis bowed, as he said,—
“I hope you, Mr. Holland, have slept as well, and passed as good a night as I have passed?”
“I am glad you, at least, have passed a quiet one,” said Charles Holland; “you, I dare say, feel all the better for it? How do you feel yourself? Are you much hurt?”
“Not at all, not at all,” said Sir Francis Varney. “Only a few bruises, and so forth, some of which, as you may perceive, do not add to one’s personal appearance. A week or two’s quiet would rid me of them. At all events, I would it may do the same with my enemies.”
“I wish they were as easily gotten rid of myself,” said Charles; “but as that cannot be, we must endeavour to baffle them in the best way we may.”
“I owe a debt to you I shall never be able to repay; but where there is a will, they say there is a way; and if the old saying be good for anything, I need not despair, though the way is by no means apparent at present.”
“Time is the magician,” said Flora, “whose wand changes all things—the young to the aged, and the aged to nothing.”
“Certainly, that is true,” said Varney, “and many such changes have I seen. My mind is stored with such events; but this is sadness, and I have cause to rejoice.”
The breakfast was passed off in pleasing conversation, and Varney found himself much at home with the Bannerworths, whose calm and even tenour was quite new to him.
He could not but admit the charms of such a life as that led by the Bannerworths; but what it must have been when they were supplied by ample means, with nothing to prey upon their minds, and no fearful mystery to hang on and weigh down their spirits, he could scarcely imagine.
They were amiable, accomplished; they were in the same mind at all times, and nothing seemed to ruffle them; and when night came, he could not but acknowledge to himself that he had never formed half the opinion of them they were deserving of.
Of course during that day he was compelled to lie close, so as not to be seen by any one, save the family. He sat in a small room, which was overlooked by no other in the neighbourhood, and he remained quiet, sometimes conversing, and sometimes reading, but at the same time ever attentive to the least sound that appeared at all of a character to indicate the approach of persons for any purpose whatever.
At supper time he spoke to Flora and to Charles Holland, saying,—
“There are certain matters connected with myself—I may say with you now—sure all that has happened will make it so—of which you would be glad to hear some thing.”
“You mean upon the same subject upon which I had some conversation with you a day or two back?”
“Yes, the same. Allow me one week, and you shall know all. I will then relate to you that which you so much desire to know—one week, and all shall be told.”
“Well,” said Charles Holland, “this has not been exacted from you as the price of your safety, but you can choose your own time, of course; what you promise is most desired, for it will render those happy who now are much worse than they were before these occurrences took place.”
“I am aware of all that; grant me but one week, and then you shall be made acquainted with all.”
“I am satisfied, Sir Francis,” said Flora; “but while here under our roof, we should never have asked you a question.”
“Of this, Miss Bannerworth, the little I have seen of you assures me you would not do so; however, I am the more inclined to make it—I am under so deep an obligation to you all, that I can never repay it.”
Sir Francis Varney retired to rest that night—his promise to the Bannerworths filled his mind with many reflections—the insecurity of his own position, and the frail tenure which he even held in the hands of those whom he had most injured.
This produced a series of reflections of a grave and melancholy nature, and he sat by his window, watching the progress of the clouds, as they appeared to chase each other over the face of the scene—now casting a shade over the earth, and then banishing the shadows, and throwing a gentle light over the earth’s surface, which was again chased away, and shadows again fell upon the scene below.
How long he had sat there in melancholy musing he knew not; but suddenly he was aroused from his dreams by a voice that shook the skies, and caused him to start to his feet.
“Hurrah!—hurrah!—hurrah!” shouted the mob, which had silently collected around the cottage of the Bannerworths.
“Curses!” muttered Sir Francis, as he again sank in his chair, and struck his head with his hand. “I am hunted to death—they will not leave me until my body has graced a cross-road.”
“Hurrah!—down with the vampyre—pull him out!”
Then came an instant knocking at the doors, and the people on the outside made so great a din, that it seemed as though they contemplated knocking the house down at once, without warning the inmates that they waited there.
There was a cessation for about a minute, when one of the family hastened to the door, and inquired what was wanted.
“Varney, the vampyre,” was the reply.
“You must seek him elsewhere.”
“We will search this place before we go further,” replied a man.
“But he is not here.”
“We have reason to believe otherwise. Open the door, and let us in—no one shall be hurt, or one single object in the house; but we must come in, and search for the vampyre.”
“Come to-morrow, then.”
“That will not do,” said the voice; “open, or we force our way in without more notice.”
At the same a tremendous blow was bestowed upon the door, and then much force was used to thrust it in. A consultation was suddenly held among the inmates, as to what was to be done, but no one could advise, and each was well aware of the utter impossibility of keeping the mob out.
“I do not see what is to become of me,” said Sir Francis Varney, suddenly appearing before them. “You must let them in; there is no chance of keeping them off, neither can you conceal me. You will have no place, save one, that will be sacred from their profanation.”
“And which is that?”
“Flora’s own room.”
All started at the thought that Flora’s chamber could in any way be profaned by any such presence as Sir Francis Varney’s.
However, the doors below were suddenly burst open, amid loud cries from the populace, who rushed in in great numbers, and began to search the lower rooms, immediately.
“All is lost!” said Sir Francis Varney, as he dashed away and rushed to the chamber of Flora, who, alarmed at the sounds that were now filling the house, stood listening to them.
“Miss Bannerworth—” began Varney.
“Sir Francis!”
“Yes, it is indeed I, Miss Bannerworth; hear me, for one moment.”
“What is the matter?”
“I am again in peril—in more imminent peril than before; my life is not worth a minute’s purchase, unless you save me. You, and you alone, can now save me. Oh! Miss Bannerworth, if ever pity touched your heart, save me from those only whom I now fear. I could meet death in any shape but that in which they will inflict it upon me. Hear their execrations below!”
“Death to the vampyre! death to Varney! burn him! run a stake through his body!”
“What can I do, Sir Francis?”
“Admit me to your chamber.”
“Sir Francis, are you aware of what you are saying?”
“I am well. It is a request which you would justly scorn to reply to; but now my life—recollect you have saved me once—my life;—do not now throw away the boon you have so kindly bestowed. Save me, Miss Bannerworth.”
“It is not possible. I—”
“Nay, Miss Bannerworth, do you imagine this is a time for ceremony, or the observances of polished life? On my honour, you run no risk of censure.”
“Where is Varney? Where is the vampyre? He ain’t far off.”
“Hear—hear them, Miss Bannerworth. They are now at the foot of the stairs. Not a moment to lose. One minute more, and I am in the hands of a crew that has no mercy.”
“Hurrah! upstairs! He’s not below. Upstairs, neighbours, we shall have him yet!”
These words sounded on the stairs; half-a-dozen more steps, and Varney would be seen. It was a miracle he was not heard begging for his life.
Varney cast a look of despair at the stairhead and felt for his sword, but it was not there, he had lost it. He struck his head with his clenched hand, and was about to rush upon his foes, when he heard the lock turn; he looked, and saw the door opened gently, and Flora stood there; he passed in, and sank cowering into a chair, at the other end of the room, behind some curtains.
The door was scarcely shut ere some tried to force it, and then a loud knocking came at the door.
“Open! open! we want Varney, the vampyre. Open! or we will burst it open.”
Flora did open it, but stood resolutely in the opening, and held up her hand to impose silence.
“Are you men, that you can come thus to force yourselves upon the privacy of a female? Is there nothing in the town or house, that you must intrude in numbers into a private apartment? Is no place sacred from you?”
“But, ma’am—miss—we only want Varney, the vampyre.”
“And can you find him nowhere but in a female’s bedroom? Shame on you! shame on you! Have you no sisters, wives, or mothers, that you act thus?”
“He’s not there, you may be sure of that, Jack,” said a gruff voice. “Let the lady be in quiet; she’s had quite enough trouble with him to sicken her of a vampyre. You may be sure that’s the last place to find him in.”
With this they all turned away, and Flora shut the door and locked it upon them, and Varney was safe.
“You have saved me,” said Varney.
“Hush!” said Flora. “Speak not; there may be some one listening.”
Sir Francis Varney stood in the attitude of one listening most anxiously to catch some sounds; the moon fell across his face, and gave it a ghastly hue, that, added to his natural paleness and wounds, gave him an almost unearthly aspect.
The sounds grew more and more distant; the shouts and noise of men traversing the apartments subsided, and gradually the place became restored to its original silence. The mob, after having searched every other part of the house, and not finding the object of their search, they concluded that he was not there, but must have made his escape before.
This most desperate peril of Sir Francis Varney seemed to have more effect upon him than anything that had occurred during his most strange and most eventful career.
When he was assured that the riotous mob that had been so intent upon his destruction was gone, and that he might emerge from his place of concealment, he did so with an appearance of such utter exhaustion that the Bannerworth family could not but look upon him as a being who was near his end.
At any time his countenance, as we long have had occasion to remark, was a strange and unearthly looking one; but when we come to superadd to the strangeness of his ordinary appearance the traces of deep mental emotion, we may well say that Varney’s appearance was positively of the most alarming character.
When he was seated in the ordinary sitting apartment of the Bannerworths, he drew a long sighing breath, and placing his hand upon his heart, he said, in a faint tone of voice,—
“It beats now laboriously, but it will soon cease its pulsations for ever.”
These words sounded absolutely prophetic, there was about them such a solemn aspect, and he looked at the same time that he uttered them so much like one whose mortal race was run, and who was now a candidate for the grave.
“Do not speak so despairingly,” said Charles Holland; “remember, that if your life has been one of errors hitherto, how short a space of time may suffice to redeem some of them at least, and the communication to me which you have not yet completed may to some extent have such an effect.”
“No, no. It may contribute to an act of justice, but it can do no good to me. And yet do not suppose that because such is my impression that I mean to hesitate in finishing to you that communication.”
“I rejoice to hear you say so, and if you would, now that you must be aware of what good feelings towards you we are all animated with, remove the bar of secrecy from the communication, I should esteem it a great favour.”
Varney appeared to be considering for a few moments, and then he said,—
“Well, well. Let the secrecy no longer exist. Have it removed at once. I will no longer seek to maintain it. Tell all, Charles Holland—tell all.”
Thus empowered by the mysterious being, Charles Holland related briefly what Varney had already told him, and then concluded by saying,—
“That is all that I have myself as yet been made aware of, and I now call upon Sir Francis Varney to finish his narration.”
“I am weak,” said Varney, “and scarcely equal to the task; but yet I will not shrink from the promise that I have made. You have been the preservers of my life, and more particularly to you, Flora Bannerworth, am I indebted for a continued existence, which otherwise must have been sacrificed upon the altar of superstition.”
“But you will recollect, Master Varney,” said the admiral, who had sat looking on for some time in silent wonder, “you must recollect, Master Varney, that the people are, after all, not so much to blame for their superstition, because, whether you are a vampyre or not, and I don’t pretend to come to a positive opinion now, you took good care to persuade them you were.”
“I did,” said Varney, with a shudder; “but why did I?”
“Well, you know best.”
“It was, then, because I did believe, and do believe, that there is something more than natural about my strangely protracted existence; but we will waive that point, and, before my failing strength, for it appears to me to be failing, completely prevents me from doing so, let me relate to you the continued particulars of the circumstances that made me what I am.”
Flora Bannerworth, although she had heard before from the lips of Charles Holland the to her dreadful fact, that her father, in addition to having laid violent hands upon his own life, was a murderer, now that that fearful circumstance was related more publicly, felt a greater pang than she had done when it was whispered to her in the accents of pure affection, and softened down by a gentleness of tone, which Charles Holland’s natural delicacy would not allow him to use even to her whom he loved so well in the presence of others.
She let her beautiful face be hidden by her hands, and she wept as she listened to the sad detail.
Varney looked inquiringly in the countenance of Charles Holland, because, having given him leave to make Flora acquainted with the circumstance, he was rather surprised at the amount of emotion which it produced in her.
Charles Holland answered the appealing look by saying,—
“Flora is already aware of the facts, but it naturally affects her much to hear them now repeated in the presence of others, and those too, towards whom she cannot feel——”
What Charles Holland was going to say was abruptly stopped short by the admiral, who interposed, exclaiming,—
“Why, what do you mean, you son of a sea cook? The presence of who do you mean? Do you mean to say that I don’t feel for Miss Flora, bless her heart! quite as much as a white-faced looking swab like you? Why, I shall begin to think you are only fit for a marine.”
“Nay, uncle, now do not put yourself out of temper. You must be well aware that I could not mean anything disrespectful to you. You should not suppose such a state of things possible; and although, perhaps, I did not express myself so felicitously as I might, yet what I intended to say, was——”
“Oh, bother what you intended to say. You go on, Mr. Vampyre, with your story. I want to know what became of it all; just you get on as quick as you can, and let us know what you did after the man was murdered.”
“When the dreadful deed was committed,” said Varney, “and our victim lay weltering in his blood, and had breathed his last, we stood like men who for the first time were awakened to the frightful consequences of what they had done.
“I saw by the dim light that hovered round us a great change come over the countenance of Marmaduke Bannerworth, and he shook in every limb.
“This soon passed away, however, and the powerful and urgent necessity which arose of avoiding the consequences of the deed that we had done, restored us to ourselves. We stooped and took from the body the ill-gotten gains of the gambler. They amounted to an immense sum, and I said to Marmaduke Bannerworth,—
“‘Take you the whole of this money and proceed to your own home with it, where you will be least suspected. Hide it in some place of great secrecy, and to-morrow I will call upon you, when we will divide it, and will consider of some means of safely exchanging the notes for gold.’
“He agreed to this, and placed the money in his pocket, after which it became necessary that we should dispose of the body, which, if we did not quickly remove, must in a few hours be discovered, and so, perchance, accompanied by other criminating circumstances, become a frightful evidence against us, and entail upon us all those consequences of the deed which we were so truly anxious to escape from.
“It is ever the worst part of the murderer’s task, that after he has struck the blow that has deprived his victim of existence, it becomes his frightful duty to secrete the corpse, which, with its dead eyes, ever seems to be glaring upon him such a world of reproach.
“That it is which should make people pause ere they dipped their hands in the blood of others, and that it is which becomes the first retribution that the murderer has to endure for the deep crime that he has committed.
“We tore two stakes from a hedge, and with their assistance we contrived to dig a very superficial hole, such a hole as was only sufficient, by placing a thin coating of earth over it, to conceal the body of the murdered man.
“And then came the loathsome task of dragging him into it—a task full of horror, and from which we shrunk aghast; but it had to be done, and, therefore, we stooped, and grasping the clothes as best we might, we dragged the body into the chasm we had prepared for its reception. Glad were we then to be enabled to throw the earth upon it and to stamp upon it with such vehemence as might well be supposed to actuate men deeply anxious to put out of sight some dangerous and loathsome object.
“When we had completed this, and likewise gathered handsfull of dust from the road, and dry leaves, and such other matter, to sprinkle upon the grave, so as to give the earth an appearance of not having been disturbed, we looked at each other and breathed from our toil.
“Then, and not till then, was it that we remembered that among other things which the gambler had won of Marmaduke were the deeds belonging to the Dearbrook property.”
“The Dearbrook property!” exclaimed Henry Bannerworth; “I know that there was a small estate going by that name, which belonged to our family, but I always understood that long ago my father had parted with it.”
“Yes; it was mortgaged for a small sum—a sum not a fourth part of its value—and it had been redeemed by Marmaduke Bannerworth, not for the purpose of keeping it, but in order that he might sell it outright, and so partially remedy his exhausted finances.”
“I was not aware of that,” returned Henry.
“Doubtless you were not, for of late—I mean for the twelve months or so preceding your father’s death—you know he was much estranged from all the family, so that you none of you knew much of what he was doing, except that he was carrying on a very wild and reckless career, such as was sure to end in dishonour and poverty; but I tell you he had the title deeds of the Dearbrook property, and that they were only got from him, along with everything else of value that he possessed, at the gaming table, by the man who paid such a fearful penalty for his success.
“It was not until after the body was completely buried, and we had completed all our precautions for more effectually hiding it from observation, that we recollected the fact of those important papers being in his possession. It was Marmaduke Bannerworth who first remembered it, and he exclaimed,—
“‘By Heaven, we have buried the title deeds of the property, and we shall have again to exhume the corpse for the purpose of procuring them.’
“Now those deeds were nothing to me, and repugnant as I had felt from the first to having anything whatever to do with the dead body, it was not likely that I would again drag it from the earth for such an object.
“‘Marmaduke Bannerworth,’ I said, ‘you can do what you please, and take the consequences of what you do, but I will not again, if I can help it, look upon the face of that corpse. It is too fearful a sight to contemplate again. You have a large sum of money, and what need you care now for the title deeds of a property comparatively insignificant?’
“‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘I will not, at the present time, disturb the remains; I will wait to see if anything should arise from the fact of the murder; if it should turn out that no suspicion of any kind is excited, but that all is still and quiet, I can then take measures to exhume the corpse, and recover those papers, which certainly are important.’
“By this time the morning was creeping on apace, and we thought it prudent to leave the spot. We stood at the end of the lane for a few moments conversing, and those moments were the last in which I ever saw Marmaduke Bannerworth.”
“Answer me a question,” said Henry.
“I will; ask me what you please, I will answer it.”
“Was it you that called at Bannerworth Hall, after my father’s melancholy death, and inquired for him?”
“I did; and when I heard of the deed that he had done, I at once left, in order to hold counsel with myself as to what I should do to obtain at least a portion of the property, one-half of which, it was understood, was to have been mine. I heard what had been the last words used by Marmaduke Bannerworth on the occasion of his death, and they were amply sufficient to let me know what had been done with the money—at all events, so far as regards the bestowal of it in some secret place; and from that moment the idea of, by some means or another, getting the exclusive possession of it, never forsook my mind.
“I thought over the matter by day and, by night; and with the exception of having a knowledge of the actual hiding-place of the money, I could see, in the clearest possible manner, how the whole affair had been transacted. There can be no doubt but that Marmaduke Bannerworth had reached home safely with the large sum of which he had become possessed, and that he had hidden it securely, which was but an ordinary measure of precaution, when we come to consider how the property had been obtained.
“Then I suspect that, being alone, and left to the gloom of his own miserable thoughts, they reverted so painfully to the past that he was compelled to drink deeply for the purpose of drowning reflection.
“The natural consequence of this, in his state, was, that partial insanity supervened, and at a moment when frenzy rose far above reflection, he must have committed the dreadful act which hurried him instantaneously to eternity.”
“Yes,” said Henry; “it must have been so; you have guessed truly. He did on that occasion drink an immense quantity of wine; but instead of stilling the pangs of remorse it must have increased them, and placed him in such a frenzied condition of intellect, that he found it impossible to withstand the impulse of it, unless by the terrific act which ended his existence.”
“Yes, and which at once crushed all my expectations of the large fortune which was to have been mine; for even the one-half of the sum which had been taken from the gamester’s pocket would have been sufficient to have enabled me to live for the future in affluence.
“I became perfectly maddened at the idea that so large a sum had passed out of my hands. I constantly hovered about Bannerworth Hall, hoping and expecting that something might arise which would enable me to get admittance to it, and make an active search through its recesses for the hidden treasure.
“All my exertions were in vain. I could hit upon no scheme whatever; and at length, wearied and exhausted, I was compelled to proceed to London for the sake of a subsistence. It is only in that great metropolis that such persons as myself, destitute of real resources, but infinitely reckless as regards the means by which they acquire a subsistence, can hope to do so. Once again, therefore, I plunged into the vortex of London life, and proceeded, heedless of the criminality of what I was about, to cater for myself by robbery, or, indeed, in any manner which presented a prospect of success. It was during this career of mine, that I became associated with some of the most desperate characters of the time; and the offences we committed were of that daring character that it could not be wondered at eventually so formidable a gang of desperadoes must be by force broken up.
“It so occurred, but unknown to us, that the police resolved upon making one of the most vigorous efforts to put an end to the affair, and in consequence a watch was set upon every one of our movements.
“The result of this was, as might have been expected, our complete dispersion, and the arrest of some our members, and among them myself.
“I knew my fate almost from the first. Our depredations had created such a sensation, that the legislature, even, had made it a matter of importance that we should be suppressed, and it was an understood thing among the judges, that the severest penalties of the law should be inflicted upon any one of the gang who might be apprehended and convicted.
“My trial scarcely occupied an hour, and then I was convicted and sentenced to execution, with an intimation from the judge that it would be perfectly absurd of me to dream, for one moment, of a remission of that sentence.
“In this state of affairs, and seeing nothing but death before me, I gave myself up to despair, and narrowly missed cheating the hangman of his victim.
“More dead than alive, I was, however, dragged out to be judicially murdered, and I shall never forget the crowd of frightful sensations that came across my mind upon that terrific occasion.
“It seemed as if my fate had then reached its climax, and I have really but a dim recollection of the terrible scene.
“I remember something of the confused murmur arising from an immense throng of persons. I remember looking about me, and seeing nothing but what appeared to me an immense sea of human heads, and then suddenly I heard a loud roar of execration burst from the multitude.
“I shrunk back terrified, and it did, indeed, seem to me a brutal thing thus to roar and shout at a man who was brought out to die. I soon, however, found that the mob who came to see such a spectacle was not so debased as I imagined, but that it was at the hangman, who had suddenly made his appearance on the scaffold, at whom they raised that fearful yell.
“Some one—I think it was one of the sheriffs—must have noticed that I was labouring under the impression that the cry from the mob was levelled at me, for he spoke, saying,—
“‘It is at the hangman they shout,’ and he indicated with his finger that public functionary. In my mind’s eye I think I see him now, and I am certain that I shall never forget the expression of his face. It was perfectly fearful; and afterwards, when I learned who and what he was, I was not surprised that he should feel so acutely the painfully degrading office which he had to perform.
“The fatal rope was in a few minutes adjusted to my neck. I felt its pressure, and I heard the confused sounds of the monotonous voice of the clergyman, as he muttered some prayers, that I must confess sounded to me at the time like a mockery of human suffering.
“Then suddenly there was a loud shout—I felt the platform give way beneath my feet—I tried to utter a yell of agony, but could not—it seemed to me as if I was encompassed by fire, and then sensation left me, and I knew no more.
“The next feelings of existence that came over me consisted in a frightful tingling sensation throughout my veins, and I felt myself making vain efforts to scream. All the sensations of a person suffering from a severe attack of night-mare came across me, and I was in such an agony, that I inwardly prayed for death to release me from such a cruel state of suffering. Then suddenly the power to utter a sound came to me, and I made use of it well, for the piercing shriek I uttered, must have struck terror into the hearts of all who heard it, since it appalled even myself.
“Then I suppose I must have fainted, but when I recovered consciousness again, I found myself upon a couch, and a man presenting some stimulus to me in a cup. I could not distinguish objects distinctly, but I heard him say, ‘Drink, and you will be better.’
“I did drink, for a raging thirst consumed me, and then I fell into a sound sleep, which, I was afterwards told, lasted nearly twenty-four hours, and when I recovered from that, I heard again the same voice that had before spoken to me, asking me how I was.
“I turned in the direction of the sound, and, as my vision was now clearer, I could see that it was the hangman, whose face had made upon the scaffold such an impression upon me—an impression which I then considered my last in this world, but which turned out not to be such by many a mingled one of pain and pleasure since.
“It was some time before I could speak, and when I did, it was only in a few muttered words, to ask what had happened, and where I was.
“‘Do you not remember,’ he said, ‘that you were hanged?’
“‘I do—I do,’ was my reply. ‘Is this the region of damned souls?’
“‘No; you are still in this world, however strange you may think it. Listen to me, and I will briefly tell you how it is that you have come back again, as it were, from the very grave, to live and walk about among the living.’
“I listened to him with a strange and rapt attention, and then he told how a young and enthusiastic medical man had been anxious to try some experiments with regard to the restoration of persons apparently dead, and he proceeded to relate how it was that he had given ear to the solicitations of the man, and had consented to bring my body after it was hung for him to experiment upon. He related how the doctor had been successful, but how he was so terrified at his own success, that he hastily fled, and had left London, no one knowing whither he had gone.
“I listened to this with the most profound attention, and then he concluded, by saying to me,—
“‘There can be no doubt but my duty requires of me to give you up again to the offended laws of your country. I will not, however, do that, if you will consent to an arrangement that I shall propose to you.’
“I asked him what the arrangement was, and he said that if I would solemnly bind myself to pay to him a certain sum per annum, he would keep my secret, and forsaking his calling as hangman, endeavour to do something that should bring with it pleasanter results. I did so solemnly promise him, and I have kept my word. By one means or another I have succeeded in procuring the required amount, and now he is no more.”
“I believe,” cried Henry, “that he has fallen a victim to the blind fury of the populace.”
“You are right, he has so, and accordingly I am relieved from the burden of those payments; but it matters little, for now I am so near the tomb myself, that, together with all my obligations, I shall soon be beyond the reach of mortal cavilling.”
“You need not think so, Varney; you must remember that you are at present suffering from circumstances, the pressure of which will soon pass away, and then you will resume your wonted habits.”
“What did you do next?” said the admiral. “Let’s know all while you are about it.”
“I remained at the hangman’s house for some time, until all fear of discovery was over, and then he removed me to a place of greater security, providing me from his own resources with the means of existence, until I had fully recovered my health, and then he told me to shift for myself.
“During my confinement though, I had not been idle mentally, for I concocted a plan, by which I should be enabled not only to live well myself, but to pay to the hangman, whose name was Mortimore, the annual sum I had agreed upon. I need not go into the details of this plan. Of course it was neither an honest nor respectable one, but it succeeded, and I soon found myself in a position to enable me thereby to keep my engagement, as well as to supply me with means of plotting and planning for my future fortunes.
“I had never for a moment forgotten that so large a sum of money was somewhere concealed about Bannerworth Hall, and I still looked forward to obtaining it by some means or another.
“It was in this juncture of affairs, that one night I was riding on horseback through a desolate part of England. The moon was shining sweetly, as I came to a broad stream of water, across which, about a mile further on, I saw that there was a bridge, but being unwilling to waste time by riding up to it, and fancying, by the lazy ripple of the waters, that the river was not shallow, I plunged my horse boldly into the stream.
“When we reached its centre, some sudden indisposition must have seized the horse, for instead of swimming on well and gallantly as it had done before, it paused for a moment, and then plunged headlong into the torrent.
“I could not swim, and so, for a second time, death, with all its terrors, appeared to be taking possession of me. The waters rolled over my head, gurgling and hissing in my ears, and then all was past. I know no more, until I found myself lying upon a bright green meadow, and the full beams of the moon shining upon me.
“I was giddy and sick, but I rose, and walked slowly away, each moment gathering fresh strength, and from that time to this, I never discovered how I came to be rescued from the water, and lying upon that green bank. It has ever been a mystery to me, and I expect it ever will.
“Then from that moment the idea that I had a sort of charmed life came across me, and I walked about with an impression that such was the case, until I came across a man who said that he was a Hungarian, and who was full of strange stories of vampyres. Among other things, he told me that a vampyre could not be drowned, for that the waters would cast him upon its banks, and, if the moonbeams fell upon him, he would be restored to life.
“This was precisely my story, and from that moment I believed myself to be one of those horrible, but charmed beings, doomed to such a protracted existence. The notion grew upon me day by day, and hour by hour, until it became quite a fixed and strong belief, and I was deceiving no one when I played the horrible part that has been attributed to me.”
“But you don’t mean to say that you believe you are a vampyre now?” said the admiral.
“I say nothing, and know not what to think. I am a desperate man, and what there is at all human in me, strange to say, all of you whom I sought to injure, have awakened.”
“Heed not that,” said Henry, “but continue your narrative. We have forgiven everything, and that ought to suffice to quiet your mind upon such a subject.”
“I will continue; and, believe me, I will conceal nothing from you. I look upon the words I am now uttering as a full, candid, and free confession; and, therefore, it shall be complete.
“The idea struck me that if, by taking advantage of my supposed preternatural gifts, I could drive you from Bannerworth Hall, I should have it to myself to hunt through at my leisure, and possibly find the treasure. I had heard from Marmaduke Bannerworth some slight allusion to concealing the money behind a picture that was in a bed-room called the panelled chamber. By inquiry, I ascertained that in that bed-room slept Flora Bannerworth.
“I had resolved, however, at first to try pacific measures, and accordingly, as you are well aware, I made various proposals to you to purchase or to rent Bannerworth Hall, the whole of which you rejected; so that I found myself compelled to adopt the original means that had suggested themselves to me, and endeavour to terrify you from the house.
“By prowling about, I made myself familiar with the grounds, and with all the plan of the residence, and then one night made my appearance in Flora’s chamber by the window.”
“But how do you account,” said Charles Holland, “for your extraordinary likeness to the portrait?”
“It is partly natural, for I belong to a collateral branch of the family; and it was previously arranged. I had seen the portrait in Marmaduke Bannerworth’s time, and I knew some of its peculiarities and dress sufficiently well to imitate them. I calculated upon producing a much greater effect by such an imitation; and it appears that I was not wrong, for I did produce it to the full.”
“You did, indeed,” said Henry; “and if you did not bring conviction to our minds that you were what you represented yourself to be, you at least staggered our judgments upon the occasion, and left us in a position of great doubt and difficulty.”
“I did; I did all that, I know I did; and, by pursuing that line of conduct, I, at last, I presume, entirely forced you from the house.”
“That you did.”
“Flora fainted when I entered her chamber; and the moment I looked upon her sweet countenance my heart smote me for what I was about; but I solemnly aver, that my lips never touched her, and that, beyond the fright, she suffered nothing from Varney, the vampyre.”
“And have you succeeded,” said Henry, “in your object now?”
“No; the treasure has yet to be found. Mortimore, the hangman, followed me into the house, guessing my intention, and indulging a hope that he would succeed in sharing with me its proceeds. But he, as well as myself, was foiled, and nothing came of the toilsome and anxious search but disappointment and bitterness.”
“Then it is supposed that the money is still concealed?”
“I hope so; I hope, as well, that it will be discovered by you and yours; for surely none can have a better right to it than you, who have suffered so much on its account.”
“And yet,” remarked Henry, “I cannot help thinking it is too securely hidden from us. The picture has been repeatedly removed from its place, and produced no results; so that I fear we have little to expect from any further or more protracted research.”
“I think,” said Varney, “that you have everything to expect. The words of the dying Marmaduke Bannerworth, you may depend, were not spoken in vain; and I have every reason to believe that, sooner or later, you must, without question, become the possessors of that sum.”
“But ought we rightly to hold it?”
“Who ought more rightly to hold it?” said Varney; “answer me that.”
“That’s a sensible enough idea of your’s,” said the admiral; “and if you were twice over a vampyre, I would tell you so. It’s a very sensible idea; I should like to know who has more right to it than those who have had such a world of trouble about it.”
“Well, well,” said Henry, “we must not dispute, as yet, about a sum of money that may really never come to hand. For my own part, I have little to hope for in the matter; but, certainly, nothing shall be spared, on my part, to effect such a thorough search of the Hall as shall certainly bring it to light, if it be in existence.”
“I presume, Sir Francis Varney,” said Charles Holland, “that you have now completed your narrative?”
“I have. After events are well known to you. And, now, I have but to lie down and die, with the hope of finding that rest and consolation in the tomb which has been denied me hitherto in this world. My life has been a stormy one, and full of the results of angry passions. I do hope now, that, for the short time I have to live, I shall know something like serenity, and die in peace.”
“You may depend, Varney, that, as long as you have an asylum with us,” said the admiral—“and that you may have as long as you like,—you may be at peace. I consider that you have surrendered at discretion, and, under such circumstances, an enemy always deserves honourable treatment, and always gets it on board such a ship as this.”
“There you go again,” said Jack, “calling the house a ship.”
“What’s that to you, if I were to call it a bowsprit? Ain’t I your captain, you lubber, and so, sure to be right, while you are wrong, in the natural order of things? But you go and lay down, Master Varney, and rest yourself, for you seem completely done up.”
Varney did look fearfully exhausted; and, with the assistance of Henry and Charles, he went into another apartment, and laid down upon a couch, showing great symptoms of debility and want of power.
And now it was a calm; Varney’s stay at the cottage of the Bannerworths was productive of a different mood of mind than ever he had possessed before. He looked upon them in a very different manner to what he had been used to. He had, moreover, considerably altered prospects; there could not be the same hopes and expectations that he once had. He was an altered man. He saw in the Bannerworths those who had saved his life, and who, without doubt, had possessed an opinion, not merely obnoxious to him, but must have had some fearful misgivings concerning his character, and that, too, of a nature that usually shuts out all hope of being received into any family.
But, in the hour of his need, when his life was in danger, no one else would have done what they had done for him, especially when so relatively placed.
Moreover, he had been concealed, when to do so was both dangerous and difficult; and then it was done by Flora Bannerworth herself.
Time flew by. The mode of passing time at the cottage was calm and serene. Varney had seldom witnessed anything like it; but, at the same time, he felt more at ease than ever he had; he was charmed with the society of Flora—in fact, with the whole of the little knot of individuals who there collected together; from what he saw he was gratified in their society; and it seemed to alleviate his mental disquiet, and the sense he must feel of his own peculiar position.
But Varney became ill. The state of mind and body he had been in for some time past might be the cause of it. He had been much harassed, and hunted from place to place. There was not a moment in which his life was not in danger, and he had, moreover, in more than one case, received some bodily injuries, bruises, and contusions of a desperate character; and yet he would take no notice of them, but allow them to get well again, as best they could.
His escapes and injuries had made a deep impression upon his mind, and had no doubt a corresponding effect upon his body, and Varney became very ill.
Flora Bannerworth did all that could be done for one in his painful position, and this greatly added to the depth of thought that occasionally beset him, and he could scarcely draw one limb after the other.
He walked from room to room in the twilight, at which time he had more liberty permitted him than at any other, because there was not the same danger in his doing so; for, if once seen, there could be no manner of doubt but he would have been pursued until he was destroyed, when no other means of escape were at hand; and Varney himself felt that there could be no chance of his again escaping from them, for his physical powers were fast decaying; he was not, in fact, the same man.
He came out into the parlour from the room in which he had been seated during the day. Flora and her mother were there, while Charles Holland and Henry Bannerworth had both at that moment entered the apartment.
“Good evening, Miss Bannerworth,” said Sir Francis, bowing to her, and then to her mother, Mrs. Bannerworth; “and you, Mr. Holland, I see, have been out enjoying the free breeze that plays over the hot fields. It must be refreshing.”
“It is so, sir,” said Charles. “I wish we could make you a partaker in our walks.”
“I wish you could with all my heart,” said Varney.
“Sir Francis,” said Flora, “must be a prisoner for some short time longer yet.”
“I ought not to consider it in any such light. It is not imprisonment. I have taken sanctuary. It is the well spring of life to me,” said Varney.
“I hope it may prove so; but how do you find yourself this evening, Sir Francis Varney?”
“Really, it is difficult to say—I fluctuate. At times, I feel as though I should drop insensible on the earth, and then I feel better than I have done for some time previously.”
“Doctor Chillingworth will be here by-and-by, no doubt; and he must see what he can do for you to relieve you of these symptoms,” said Flora.
“I am much beholden to you—much beholden to you; but I hope to be able to do without the good doctor’s aid in this instance, though I must admit I may appear ungrateful.”
“Not at all—not at all.”
“Have you heard any news abroad to-day?” inquired Varney.
“None, Sir Francis—none; there is nothing apparently stirring; and now, go out when you would, you would find nothing but what was old, quiet, and familiar.”
“We cannot wish to look upon anything with more charms for a mind at ease, than we can see under such circumstances; but I fear there are some few old and familiar features that I should find sad havoc in.”
“You would, certainly, for the burnings and razings to the ground of some places, have made some dismal appearances; but time may efface that, and then the evil may die away, and the future will become the present, should we be able to allay popular feeling.”
“Yes,” said Sir Francis; “but popular prejudices, or justice, or feeling, are things not easily assuaged. The people when once aroused go on to commit all kinds of excess, and there is no one point at which they will stop short of the complete extirpation of some one object or other that they have taken a fancy to hunt.”
“The hubbub and excitement must subside.”
“The greater the ignorance the more persevering and the more brutal they are,” said Sir Francis; “but I must not complain of what is the necessary consequence of their state.”
“It might be otherwise.”
“So it might, and no mischief arise either; but as we cannot divert the stream, we may as well bend to the force of a current too strong to resist.”
“The moon is up,” said Flora, who wished to turn the conversation from that to another topic. “I see it yonder through the trees; it rises red and large—it is very beautiful—and yet there is not a cloud about to give it the colour and appearance it now wears.”
“Exactly so,” said Sir Francis Varney; “but the reason is the air is filled with a light, invisible vapour, that has the effect you perceive. There has been much evaporation going on, and now it shows itself in giving the moon that peculiar large appearance and deep colour.”
“Ay, I see; it peeps through the trees, the branches of which cut it up into various portions. It is singular, and yet beautiful, and yet the earth below seems dark.”
“It is dark; you would be surprised to find it so if you walked about. It will soon be lighter than it is at this present moment.”
“What sounds are those?” inquired Sir Francis Varney, as he listened attentively.
“Sounds! What sounds?” returned Henry.
“The sounds of wheels and horses’ feet,” said Varney.
“I cannot even hear them, much less can I tell what they are,” said Henry.
“Then listen. Now they come along the road. Cannot you hear them now?” said Varney.
“Yes, I can,” said Charles Holland; “but I really don’t know what they are, or what it can matter to us; we don’t expect any visitors.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Varney. “I am somewhat apprehensive of the approach of strange sounds.”
“You are not likely to be disturbed here,” said Charles.
“Indeed; I thought so when I had succeeded in getting into the house near the town, and so far from believing it was likely I should be discovered, that I sat on the house-top while the mob surrounded it.”
“Did you not hear them coming?”
“I did.”
“And yet you did not attempt to escape from them?”
“No, I could not persuade them I was not there save by my utter silence. I allowed them to come too close to leave myself time to escape—besides, I could hardly persuade myself there could be any necessity for so doing.”
“It was fortunate it was as it happened afterwards, that you were able to reach the wood, and get out of it unperceived by the mob.”
“I should have been in an unfortunate condition had I been in their hands long. A man made of iron would not be able to resist the brutality of those people.”
As they were speaking, a gig, with two men, drove up, followed by one on horseback. They stopped at the garden-gate, and then tarried to consult with each other, as they looked at the house.
“What can they want, I wonder?” inquired Henry; “I never saw them before.”
“Nor I,” said Charles Holland.
“Do you not know them at all?” inquired Varney.
“No,” replied Flora; “I never saw them, neither can I imagine what is their object in coming here.”
“Did you ever see them before?” inquired Henry of his mother, who held up her hand to look more carefully at the strangers; then, shaking her head, she declared she had never seen such persons as those.
“I dare say not,” said Charles Holland. “They certainly are not gentlemen; but here they come; there is some mistake, I daresay—they don’t want to come here.”
As they spoke, the two strangers got down; after picking up a top coat they had let fall, they turned round, and deliberately put it into the chaise again; they walked up the path to the door, at which they knocked.
The door was opened by the old woman, when the two men entered.
“Does Francis Beauchamp live here?”
“Eh?” said the old woman, who was a little deaf, and she put her hand behind her ear to catch the sounds more distinctly—“eh?—who did you say?”
Sir Francis Varney started as the sounds came upon his ear, but he sat still an attentive listener.
“Are there any strangers in the house?” inquired the other officer, impatiently. “Who is here?”
“Strangers!” said the old woman; “you are the only strangers that I have seen here.”
“Come,” said the officer to his companion, “come this way; there are people in this parlour. Our business must be an apology for any rudeness we may commit.”
As he spoke he stepped by the old woman, and laying his hand upon the handle of the door, entered the apartment, at the same time looking carefully around the room as if he expected some one.
“Ladies,” said the stranger, with an off-hand politeness that had something repulsive in it, though it was meant to convey a notion that civility was intended; “ladies, I beg pardon for intruding, but I am looking for a gentleman.”
“You shall hear from me again soon,” said Sir Francis, in an almost imperceptible whisper.
“What is the object of this intrusion?” demanded Henry Bannerworth, rising and confronting the stranger. “This is a strange introduction.”
“Yes, but not an unusual one,” said the stranger, “in these cases—being unavoidable, at the least.”
“Sir,” said Charles Holland, “if you cannot explain quickly your business here, we will proceed to take those measures which will at least rid ourselves of your company.”
“Softly, sir. I mean no offence—not the least; but I tell you I do not come for any purpose that is at all consonant to my wishes. I am a Bow-street officer in the execution of my duty—excuse me, therefore.”
“Whom do you want?”
“Francis Beauchamp; and, from the peculiarity of the appearance of this individual here, I think I may safely request the pleasure of his company.”
Varney now rose, and the officer made a rush at him, when he saw him do so, saying,—
“Surrender in the king’s name.”
Varney, however, paid no attention to that, but rushed past, throwing his chair down to impede the officer, who could not stay himself, but fell over it, while Varney made a rush towards the window, which he cleared at one bound, and crossing the road, was lost to sight in a few seconds, in the trees and hedges on the other side.
“Accidents will happen,” said the officer, as he rose to his feet; “I did not think the fellow would have taken the window in that manner; but we have him in view, and that will be enough.”
“In heaven’s name,” said Henry, “explain all about this; we cannot understand one word of it—I am at a loss to understand one word of it.”
“We will return and do so presently,” said the officer as he dashed out of the house after the fugitive at a rapid and reckless speed, followed by his companion.
The man who had been left with the chaise, however, was the first in the chase; seeing an escape from the window, he immediately guessed that he was the man wanted, and, but for an accident, he would have met Varney at the gate, for, as he was getting out in a hurry, his foot became entangled with the reins, and he fell to the ground, and Varney at the same moment stepped over him.
“Curse his infernal impudence, and d—n these reins!” muttered the man in a fury at the accident, and the aggravating circumstance of the fugitive walking over him in such a manner, and so coolly too—it was vexing.
The man, however, quickly released himself, and rushed after Varney across the road, and kept on his track for some time. The moon was still rising, and shed but a gloomy light around. Everything was almost invisible until you came close to it. This was the reason why Varney and his pursuer met with several severe accidents—tumbles and hard knocks against impediments which the light and the rapid flight they were taking did not admit of their avoiding very well.
They went on for some time, but it was evident Varney knew the place best, and could avoid what the man could not, and that was the trees and the natural impediments of the ground, which Varney was acquainted with.
For instance, at full speed across a meadow, a hollow would suddenly present itself, and to an accustomed eye the moonlight might enable it to be distinguished at a glance what it was, while to one wholly unaccustomed to it, the hollow would often look like a hillock by such a light. This Varney would clear at a bound, which a less agile and heavier person would step into, lifting up his leg to meet an impediment, when he would find it come down suddenly some six or eight inches lower than he anticipated, almost dislocating his leg and neck, and producing a corresponding loss of breath, which was not regained by the muttered curse upon such a country where the places were so uneven.
Having come to one of these places, which was a little more perceptible than the others, he made a desperate jump, but he jumped into the middle of the hole with such force that he sprained his ankle, besides sinking into a small pond that was almost dry, being overgrown with rushes and aquatic plants.
“Well?” said the other officer coming up—“well?”
“Well, indeed!” said the one who came first; “it’s anything but well. D—n all country excursions say I.”
“Why, Bob, you don’t mean to say as how you are caught in a rat-trap?”
“Oh, you be d—d! I am, ain’t I?”
“Yes; but are you going to stop there, or coming out, eh? You’ll catch cold.”
“I have sprained my ankle.”
“Well?”
“It ain’t well, I tell you; here have I a sprained foot, and my wind broken for a month at least. Why were you not quicker? If you had been sharper we should have had the gentleman, I’ll swear!”
“I tumbled down over the chair, and he got out of the window, and I come out of the door.”
“Well, I got entangled in the reins; but I got off after him, only his long legs carried him over everything. I tell you what, Wilkinson, if I were to be born again, and intended to be a runner, I would bespeak a pair of long legs.”
“Why?”
“Because I should be able to get along better. You have no idea of how he skimmed along the ground; it was quite beautiful, only it wasn’t good to follow it.”
“A regular sky scraper!”
“Yes, or something of that sort; he looked like a patent flying shadow.”
“Well, get up and lead the way; we’ll follow you.”
“I dare say you will—when I lead the way back there; for as to going out yonder, it is quite out of the question. I want supper to-night and breakfast to-morrow morning.”
“Well, what has that to do with it?”
“Just this much: if you follow any farther, you’ll get into the woods, and there you’ll be, going round and round, like a squirrel in a cage, without being able to get out, and you will there get none of the good things included under the head of those meals.”
“I think so too,” said the third.
“Well, then, let’s go back; we needn’t run, though it might be as well to do so.”
“It would be anything but well. I don’t gallop back, depend upon it.”
The three men now slowly returned from their useless chase, and re-trod the way they had passed once in such a hurry that they could hardly recognize it.
“What a dreadful bump I came against that pole standing there,” said one.
“Yes, and I came against a hedge-stake, that was placed so as the moon didn’t show any light on it. It came into the pit of my stomach. I never recollect such a pain in my life; for all the world like a hot coal being suddenly and forcibly intruded into your stomach.”
“Well, here’s the road. I must go up to the house where I started him from. I promised them some explanation. I may as well go and give it to them at once.”
“Do as you will. I will wait with the horse, else, perhaps, that Beauchamp will again return and steal him.”
The officer who had first entered the house now returned to the Bannerworths, saying,
“I promised you I would give you some explanation as to what you have witnessed.”
“Yes,” said Henry; “we have been awaiting your return with some anxiety and curiosity. What is the meaning of all this? I am, as we are all, in perfect ignorance of the meaning of what took place.”
“I will tell you. The person whom you have had here, and goes by the name of Varney, is named Francis Beauchamp.”
“Indeed! Are you assured of this?”
“Yes, perfectly assured of it; I have it in my warrant to apprehend him by either name.”
“What crime had he been guilty of?”
“I will tell you: he has been hanged.”
“Hanged!” exclaimed all present.
“What do you mean by that?” added Henry; “I am at a loss to understand what you can mean by saying he was hanged.”
“What I say is literally true.”
“Pray tell us all about it. We are much interested in the fact; go on, sir.”
“Well, sir, then I believe it was for murder that Francis Beauchamp was hanged—yes, hanged; a common execution, before a multitude of people, collected to witness such an exhibition.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Henry Bannerworth. “And was—but that is impossible. A dead man come to life again! You must be amusing yourself at our expense.”
“Not I,” replied the officer. “Here is my warrant; they don’t make these out in a joke.”
And, as he spoke, he produced the warrant, when it was evident the officer spoke the truth.
“How was this?”
“I will tell you, sir. You see that this Varney was a regular scamp, gamester, rogue, and murderer. He was hanged, and hung about the usual time; he was cut down and the body was given to some one for dissection, when a surgeon, with the hangman, one Montgomery, succeeded in restoring the criminal to life.”
“But I always thought they broke the neck when they were hanged; the weight of the body would alone do that.”
“Oh, dear, no, sir,” said the officer; “that is one of the common every day mistakes; they don’t break the neck once in twenty times.”
“Indeed!”
“No; they die of suffocation only; this man, Beauchamp, was hanged thus, but they contrived to restore him, and then he assumed a new name, and left London.”
“But how came you to know all this?”
“Oh! it came to us, as many things usually do, in a very extraordinary manner, and in a manner that appears most singular and out of the way; but such it was.
“The executioner who was the means of his being restored, or one of them, wished to turn him to account, and used to draw a yearly sum of money from him, as hush money, to induce them to keep the secret; else, the fact of his having escaped punishment would subject him to a repetition of the same punishment; when, of course, a little more care would be taken that he did not escape a second time.”
“I dare say not.”
“Well, you see, Varney, or rather Beauchamp, was to pay a heavy sum to this man to keep him quiet, and to permit him to enjoy the life he had so strangely become possessed of.”
“I see,” said Holland.
“Well, this man, Montgomery, had always some kind of suspicion that Varney would murder him.”
“Murder him! and he the means of saving his life; surely he could not be so bad as that.”
“Why, you see, sir, this hangman drew a heavy sum yearly from him; thus making him only a mine of wealth to himself; this, no doubt, would rankle in the other’s heart, to think he should be so beset, and hold life upon such terms.”
“I see, now.”
“Yes; and then came the consideration that he did not do it from any good motive, merely a selfish one, and he was consequently under no obligation to him for what he had done; besides, self-preservation might urge him on, and tell him to do the deed.
“However that may be, Montgomery dreaded it, and was resolved to punish the deed if he could not prevent it. He, therefore, left general orders with his wife, whenever he went on a journey to Varney, if he should be gone beyond a certain time, she was to open a certain drawer, and take out a sealed packet to the magistrate at the chief office, who would attend to it.
“He has been missing, and his wife did as she was desired, and now we have found what he there mentioned to be true; but, now, sir, I have satisfied you and explained to you why we intruded upon you, we must now leave and seek for him elsewhere.”
“It is most extraordinary, and that is the reason why his complexion is so singular.”
“Very likely.”
They poured out some wine, which was handed to the officers, who drank and then quitted the house, leaving the inmates in a state of stupefaction, from surprise and amazement at what they had heard from the officers.
There was a strange feeling came over them when they recollected the many occurrences they had witnessed, and even the explanation of the officers; it seemed as if some mist had enveloped objects and rendered them indistinct, but which was fast rising, and they were becoming plainer and more distinct every moment in which they were regarded.
There was a long pause, and Flora was about to speak, when suddenly there came the sound of a footstep across the garden. It was slow but unsteady, and paused between whiles until it came close beneath the windows. They remained silent, and then some one was heard to climb up the rails of the veranda, and then the curtains were thrust aside, but not till after the person outside had paused to ascertain who was there.
Then the curtains were opened, and the visage of Sir Francis Varney appeared, much altered; in fact, completely worn and exhausted.
It was useless to deny it, but he looked ghastly—terrific; his singular visage was as pallid as death; his eyes almost protruding, his mouth opened, and his breathing short, and laboured in the extreme.
He climbed over with much difficulty, and staggered into the room, and would have spoken, but he could not; he fell senseless upon the floor, utterly exhausted and motionless.
There was a long pause, and each one present looked at each other, and then they gazed upon the inanimate body of Sir Francis Varney, which lay supine and senseless in the middle of the floor.
The importance of the document, said to be on the dead body, was such that it would admit of no delay before it was obtained, and the party determined that it should be commenced instanter. Lost time would be an object to them; too much haste could hardly be made; and now came the question of, “should it be to-night, or not?”
“Certainly,” said Henry Bannerworth; “the sooner we can get it, the sooner all doubt and distress will be at an end; and, considering the turn of events, that will be desirable for all our sakes; besides, we know not what unlucky accident may happen to deprive us of what is so necessary.”
“There can be none,” said Mr. Chillingworth; “but there is this to be said, this has been such an eventful history, that I cannot say what might or what might not happen.”
“We may as well go this very night,” said Charles Holland. “I give my vote for an immediate exhumation of the body. The night is somewhat stormy, but nothing more; the moon is up, and there will be plenty of light.”
“And rain,” said the doctor.
“Little or none,” said Charles Holland. “A few gusts of wind now and then drive a few heavy plashes of rain against the windows, and that gives a fearful sound, which is, in fact, nothing, when you have to encounter it; but you will go, doctor?”
“Yes, most certainly. We must have some tools.”
“Those may be had from the garden,” said Henry. “Tools for the exhumation, you mean?”
“Yes; pickaxe, mattocks, and a crowbar; a lantern, and so forth,” said the doctor. “You see I am at home in this; the fact is, I have had more than one affair of this kind on my hands before now, and whilst a student I have had more than one adventure of a strange character.”
“I dare say, doctor,” said Charles Holland, “you have some sad pranks to answer for; you don’t think of it then, only when you find them accumulated in a heap, so that you shall not be able to escape them; because they come over your senses when you sleep at night.”
“No, no,” said Chillingworth; “you are mistaken in that. I have long since settled all my accounts of that nature; besides, I never took a dead body out of a grave but in the name of science, and never for my own profit, seeing I never sold one in my life, or got anything by it.”
“That is not the fact,” said Henry; “you know, doctor, you improved your own talents and knowledge.”
“Yes, yes; I did.”
“Well, but you profited by such improvements?”
“Well, granted, I did. How much more did the public not benefit then,” said the doctor, with a smile.
“Ah, well, we won’t argue the question,” said Charles; “only it strikes me that the doctor could never have been a doctor if he had not determined upon following a profession.”
“There may be a little truth in that,” said Chillingworth; “but now we had better quit the house, and make the best of our way to the spot where the unfortunate man lies buried in his unhallowed grave.”
“Come with me into the garden,” said Henry Bannerworth; “we shall there be able to suit ourselves to what is required. I have a couple of lanterns.”
“One is enough,” said Chillingworth; “we had better not burden ourselves more than we are obliged to do; and we shall find enough to do with the tools.”
“Yes, they are not light; and the distance is by far too great to make walking agreeable and easy; the wind blows strong, and the rain appears to be coming up afresh, and, by the time we have done, we shall find the ground will become slippy, and bad for walking.”
“Can we have a conveyance?”
“No, no,” said the doctor; “we could, but we must trouble the turnpike man; besides, there is a shorter way across some fields, which will be better and safer.”
“Well, well,” said Charles Holland; “I do not mind which way it is, as long as you are satisfied yourselves. The horse and cart would have settled it all better, and done it quicker, besides carrying the tools.”
“Very true, very true,” said the doctor; “all that is not without its weight, and you shall choose which way you would have it done; for my part, I am persuaded the expedition on foot is to be preferred for two reasons.”
“And what are they?”
“The first is, we cannot obtain a horse and cart without giving some detail as to what you want it for, which is awkward, on account of the hour. Moreover, you could not get one at this moment in time.”
“That ought to settle the argument,” said Henry Bannerworth; “an impossibility, under the circumstances, at once is a clincher, and one that may be allowed to have some weight.”
“You may say that,” said Charles.
“Besides which, you must go a greater distance, and that, too, along the main road, which is objectionable.”
“Then we are agreed,” said Charles Holland, “and the sooner we are off the better; the night grows more and more gloomy every hour, and more inclement.”
“It will serve our purpose the better,” said Chillingworth. “What we do, we may as well do now.”
“Come with me to the garden,” said Henry, “and we will take the tools. We can go out the back way; that will preclude any observation being made.”
They all now left the apartment, wrapped up in great overcoats, to secure themselves against the weather, and also for the purpose of concealing themselves from any chance passenger.
In the garden they found the tools they required, and having chosen them, they took a lantern, with the mean of getting a light when they got to their journey’s end, which they would do in less than an hour.
After having duly inspected the state of their efficiency, they started away on their expedition.
The night had turned gloomy and windy; heavy driving masses of clouds obscured the moon, which only now and then was to be seen, when the clouds permitted her to peep out. At the same time, there were many drifting showers, which lasted but a few minutes, and then the clouds were carried forwards by some sudden gust of wind so that, altogether, it was a most uncomfortable night as well could be imagined.
However, there was no time to lose, and, under all circumstances, they could not have chosen a better night for their purpose than the one they had; indeed, they could not desire another night to be out on such a purpose.
They spoke not while they were within sight of the houses, though at the distance of many yards, and, at the same time, there was a noise through the trees that would have carried their voices past every object, however close; but they would make assurance doubly sure.
“I think we are fairly away now,” said Henry, “from all fear of being recognized.”
“To be sure you are. Who would recognize us now, if we were met?”
“No one.”
“I should think not; and, moreover, there would be but small chance of any evil coming from it, even if it were to happen that we were to be seen and known. Nobody knows what we are going to do, and, if they did, there is no illegality in the question.”
“Certainly not; but we wish the matter to be quite secret, therefore, we don’t wish to be seen by any one while upon this adventure.”
“Exactly,” said Chillingworth; “and, if you’ll follow my guidance, you shall meet nobody.”
“We will trust you, most worthy doctor. What have you to say for our confidence?”
“That you will find it is not misplaced.”
Just as the doctor had uttered the last sound, there came a hearty laugh upon the air, which, indeed, sounded but a few paces in advance of them. The wind blew towards them, and would, therefore, cause the sounds to come to them, but not to go away in the direction they were going.
The whole party came to a sudden stand still; there was something so strange in hearing a laugh at that moment, especially as Chillingworth was, at that moment, boasting of his knowledge of the ground and the certainty of their meeting no one.
“What is that?” inquired Henry.
“Some one laughing, I think,” said Chillingworth.
“Of that there can be little or no doubt,” said Charles Holland; “and, as people do not usually laugh by themselves so heartily, it may be presumed there are, at least, two.”
“No doubt of it.”
“And, moreover, their purpose cannot be a very good one, at this hour of the night, and of such a night, too. I think we had better be cautious.”
“Hush! Follow me silently,” said Henry.
As he spoke, he moved cautiously from the spot where he stood, and, at the same time, he was followed by the whole party, until they came to the hedge which skirted a lane, in which were seated three men.
They had a sort of tent erected, and that was hung upon a part of the hedge which was to windward of them, so that it sheltered them from wind and rain.
Henry and Chillingworth both peeped over the bank, and saw them seated beneath this kind of canopy. They were shabby, gipsy-looking men, who might be something else—sheep-stealers, or horse-stealers, in fact, anything, even to beggars.
“I say, Jack,” said one; “it’s no bottle to-night.”
“No; there’s nobody about these parts to-night. We are safe, and so are they.”
“Exactly.”
“Besides, you see, those who do happen to be out are not worth talking to.”
“No cash.”
“None, not enough to pay turnpike for a walking-stick, at the most.”
“Besides, it does us no good to take a few shillings from a poor wretch, who has more in family than he has shillings in pocket.”
“Ay, you are right, quite right. I don’t like it myself, I don’t; besides that, there’s fresh risk in every man you stop, and these poor fellows will fight hard for a few shillings, and there is no knowing what an unlucky blow may do for a man.”
“That is very true. Has anything been done to-night?”
“Nothing,” said one.
“Only three half crowns,” said the other; “that is the extent of the common purse to-night.”
“And I,” said the third, “I have got a bottle of bad gin from the Cat and Cabbage-stump.”
“How did you manage it?”
“Why, this way. I went in, and had some beer, and you know I can give a long yarn when I want; but it wants only a little care to deceive these knowing countrymen, so I talked and talked, until they got quite chatty, and then I put the gin in my pocket.”
“Good.”
“Well, then, the loaf and beef I took out of the safe as I came by, and I dare say they know they have lost it by this time.”
“Yes, and so do we. I expect the gin will help to digest the beef, so we mustn’t complain of the goods.”
“No; give us another glass, Jim.”
Jim held the glass towards him, when the doctor, animated by the spirit of mischief, took a good sized pebble, and threw it into the glass, smashing it, and spilling the contents.
In a moment there was a change of scene; the men were all terrified, and started to their feet, while a sudden gust of wind caused their light to go out; at the same time their tent-cloth was thrown down by the wind, and fell across their heads.
“Come along,” said the doctor.
There was no need of saying so, for in a moment the three were as if animated by one spirit, and away they scudded across the fields, with the speed of a race horse.
In a few minutes they were better than half a mile away from the spot.
“In absence of all authentic information,” said the doctor, speaking as well as he could, and blowing prodigiously between each word, as though he were fetching breath all the way from his heels, “I think we may conclude we are safe from them. We ought to thank our stars we came across them in the way we did.”
“But, doctor, what in the name of Heaven induced you to make such a noise, to frighten them, in fact, and to tell them some one was about?”
“They were too much terrified to tell whether it was one, or fifty. By this time they are out of the county; they knew what they were talking about.”
“And perhaps we may meet them on the road where we are going, thinking it a rare lonely spot where they can hide, and no chance of their being found out.”
“No,” said the doctor; “they will not go to such a place; it has by far too bad a name for even such men as those to go near, much less stop in.”
“I can hardly think that,” said Charles Holland, “for these fellows are too terrified for their personal safety, to think of the superstitious fears with which a place may be regarded; and these men, in such a place as the one you speak of, they will be at home.”
“Well, well, rather than be done, we must fight for it; and when you come to consider we have one pick and two shovels, we shall be in full force.”
“Well said, doctor; how far have we to go?”
“Not more than a quarter of a mile.”
They pursued their way through the fields, and under the hedgerows, until they came to a gate, where they stopped awhile, and began to consult and to listen.
“A few yards up here, on the left,” said the doctor; “I know the spot; besides, there is a particular mark. Now, then, are you all ready?”
“Yes, all.”
“Here,” said the doctor, pointing out the marks by which the spot might be recognized; “here is the spot, and I think we shall not be half a foot out of our reckoning.”
“Then let us begin instanter,” said Henry, as he seized hold of the pickaxe, and began to loosen the earth by means of the sharp end.
“That will do for the present,” said Chillingworth; “now let me and Charles take a turn with our shovels, and you will get on again presently. Throw the earth up on the bank in one heap, so that we can put it on again without attracting any attention to the spot by its being left in clods and uneven.”
“Exactly,” said Henry, “else the body will be discovered.”
They began to shovel away, and continued to do so, after it had been picked up, working alternately, until at length Charles stuck his pick-axe into something soft, and upon pulling it up, he found it was the body.
A dreadful odour now arose from the spot, and they were at no loss to tell where the body lay. The pick-axe had stuck into the deceased’s ribs and clothing, and thus lifted it out of its place.
“Here it is,” said the doctor; “but I needn’t tell you that; the charnel-house smell is enough to convince you of the fact of where it is.”
“I think so; just show a light upon the subject, doctor, and then we can see what we are about—do you mind, doctor—you have the management of the lantern, you know?”
“Yes, yes,” said Chillingworth; “I see you have it—don’t be in a hurry, but do things deliberately and coolly whatever you do—you will not be so liable to make mistakes, or to leave anything undone.”
“There will be nothing of any use to you here, doctor, in the way of dissection, for the flesh is one mass of decay. What a horrible sight, to be sure!”
“It is; but hasten the search.”
“Well, I must; though, to confess the truth, I’d sooner handle anything than this.”
“It is not the most pleasant thing in the world, for there is no knowing what may be the result—what creeping thing has made a home of it.”
“Don’t mention anything about it.”
Henry and Charles Holland now began to search the pockets of the clothes of the dead body, in one of which was something hard, that felt like a parcel.
“What have you got there?” said Chillingworth, as he held his lantern up so that the light fell upon the ghastly object that they were handling.
“I think it is the prize,” said Charles Holland; “but we have not got it out yet, though I dare say it won’t be long first, if this wind will but hold good for about five minutes, and keep the stench down.”
They now tore open the packet and pulled out the papers, which appeared to have been secreted upon his person.
“Be sure there are none on any other part of the body,” said Chillingworth, “because what you do now, you had better do well, and leave nothing to after thought, because it is frequently impracticable.”
“The advice is good,” said Henry, who made a second search, but found nothing.
“We had better re-bury him,” said the doctor; “it had better be done cleanly. Well, it is a sad hole for a last resting-place, and yet I do not know that it matters—it is all a matter of taste—the fashion of the class, or the particular custom of the country.”
There was but little to be said against such an argument, though the custom of the age had caused them to look upon it more as a matter of feeling than in such a philosophical sense as that in which the doctor had put it.
“Well, there he is now—shovel the earth in, Charles,” said Henry Bannerworth, as he himself set the example, which was speedily and vigorously followed by Charles Holland, when they were not long before the earth was thrown in and covered up with care, and trodden down so that it should not appear to be moved.
“This will do, I think,” said Henry.
“Yes; it is not quite the same, but I dare say no one will try to make any discoveries in this place; besides, if the rain continues to come down very heavy, why, it will wash much of it away, and it will make it look all alike.”
There was little inducement to hover about the spot, but Henry could not forbear holding up the papers to the light of the lantern to ascertain what they were.
“Are they all right?” inquired the doctor.
“Yes,” replied Henry, “yes. The Dearbrook estate. Oh! yes; they are the papers I am in want of.”
“It is singularly fortunate, at least, to be so successful in securing them. I am very glad a living person has possession of them, else it would have been very difficult to have obtained it from them.”
“So it would; but now homeward is the word, doctor; and on my word there is reason to be glad, for the rain is coming on very fast now, and there is no moon at all—we had better step out.”
They did, for the three walked as fast as the nature of the soil would permit them, and the darkness of the night.
