Penny Dreadful Multipack Vol. 1 (Illustrated. Annotated. 'Wagner The Wehr-Wolf,' 'Varney The Vampire,' 'The Mysteries of London Vol. 1' + Bonus Features) (Penny Dreadful Multipacks) (114 page)

We
say this seemed to be the case, but it was not so in reality. Sir Francis
Varney had a deeper purpose, and it was scarcely to be supposed that a man of
his subtle genius, and, apparently, far-seeing and reflecting intellect, could
have so far overlooked the many dangers of his position as not to be fully
prepared for some such contingency as that which had just now occurred.

Holding,
as he did, so strange a place in society—living among men, and yet possessing
so few attributes in common with humanity—he must all along have felt the
possibility of drawing upon himself popular violence.

He
could not wholly rely upon the secrecy of the Bannerworth family, much as they
might well be supposed to shrink from giving publicity to circumstances of so
fearfully strange and perilous a nature as those which had occurred amongst
them. The merest accident might, at any moment, make him the town's talk. The
overhearing of a few chance words by some gossiping domestic—some ebullition of
anger or annoyance by some member of the family—or a communication from some
friend who had been treated with confidence—might, at any time, awaken around
him some such a storm as that which now raged at his heels.

Varney
the vampire must have calculated this. He must have felt the possibility of
such a state of things; and, as a matter of course, politicly provided himself
with some place of refuge.

After
about twenty minutes of hard chasing across the fields, there could be no doubt
of his intentions. He had such a place of refuge; and, strange a one as it
might appear, he sped towards it in as direct a line as ever a well-sped arrow
flew towards its mark.

That
place of refuge, to the surprise of every one, appeared to be the ancient ruin,
of which we have before spoken, and which was so well known to every inhabitant
of the county.

Truly,
it seemed like some act of mere desperation for Sir Francis Varney to hope
there to hide himself. There remained within, of what had once been a stately
pile, but a few grey crumbling walls, which the hunted have would have passed
unheeded, knowing that not for one instant could he have baffled his pursuers
by seeking so inefficient a refuge.

And
those who followed hard and fast upon the track of Sir Francis Varney felt so
sure of their game, when they saw whither he was speeding, that they relaxed in
their haste considerably, calling loudly to each other that the vampire was
caught at last, for he could be easily surrounded among the old ruins, and
dragged from amongst its moss-grown walls.

In
another moment, with a wild dash and a cry of exultation, he sprang out of
sight, behind an angle, formed by what had been at one time one of the
principal supports of the ancient structure.

Then,
as if there was still something so dangerous about him, that only by a great
number of hands could he be hoped to be secured, the infuriated peasantry
gathered in a dense circle around what they considered his temporary place of
refuge, and as the sun, which had now climbed above the tree tops, and
dispersed, in a great measure, many of the heavy clouds of morning, shone down upon
the excited group, they might have been supposed there assembled to perform
some superstitious rite, which time had hallowed as an association of the
crumbling ruin around which they stood.

By
the time the whole of the stragglers, who had persisted in the chase, had come
up, there might have been about fifty or sixty resolute men, each intent upon
securing the person of one whom they felt, while in existence, would continue
to be a terror to all the weaker and dearer portions of their domestic circles.

There
was a pause of several minutes. Those who had come the fleetest were gathering
breath, and those who had come up last were looking to their more forward
companions for some information as to what had occurred before their arrival.

All
was profoundly still within the ruin, and then suddenly, as if by common
consent, there arose from every throat a loud shout of "Down with the
vampyre! down with the vampyre!"

The
echoes of that shout died away, and then all was still as before, while a
superstitious feeling crept over even the boldest. It would almost seem as if
they had expected some kind of response from Sir Francis Varney to the shout of
defiance with which they had just greeted him; but the very calmness, repose,
and absolute quiet of the ruin, and all about it, alarmed them, and they looked
the one at the other as if the adventure after all were not one of the
pleasantest description, and might not fall out so happily as they had
expected.

Yet
what danger could there be? there were they, more than half a hundred stout,
strong men, to cope with one; they felt convinced that he was completely in
their power; they knew the ruins could not hide him, and that five minutes time
given to the task, would suffice to explore every nook and corner of them.

And yet
they hesitated, while an unknown terror shook their nerves, and seemingly from
the very fact that they had run down their game successfully, they dreaded to
secure the trophy of the chase.

One
bold spirit was wanting; and, if it was not a bold one that spoke at length, he
might be complimented as being comparatively such. It was one who had not been
foremost in the chase, perchance from want of physical power, who now stood
forward, and exclaimed,—

"What
are you waiting for, now? You can have him when you like. If you want your
wives and children to sleep quietly in their beds, you will secure the vampyre.
Come on—we all know he's here—why do you hesitate? Do you expect me to go alone
and drag him out by the ears?"

Any
voice would have sufficed to break the spell which bound them. This did so;
and, with one accord, and yells of imprecation, they rushed forward and plunged
among the old walls of the ruin.

Less
time than we have before remarked would have enabled any one to explore the
tottering fabric sufficient to bring a conviction to their minds that, after
all, there might have been some mistake about the matter, and Sir Francis
Varney was not quite caught yet.

It
was astonishing how the fact of not finding him in a moment, again roused all
their angry feelings against him, and dispelled every feeling of superstitious
awe with which he had been surrounded; rage gave place to the sort of
shuddering horror with which they had before contemplated his immediate
destruction, when they had believed him to be virtually within their very
grasp.

Over
and over again the ruins were searched—hastily and impatiently by some,
carefully and deliberately by others, until there could be no doubt upon the
mind of every one individual, that somehow or somewhere within the shadow of
those walls, Sir Francis Varney had disappeared most mysteriously.

Then
it would have been a strange sight for any indifferent spectator to have seen
how they shrunk, one by one, out of the shadow of those ruins; each seeming to
be afraid that the vampyre, in some mysterious manner, would catch him if he
happened to be the last within their sombre influence; and, when they had all
collected in the bright, open space, some little distance beyond, they looked
at each other and at the ruins, with dubious expressions of countenance, each,
no doubt, wishing that each would suggest something of a consolatory or
practicable character.

"What's
to be done, now?" said one.

"Ah!
that's it," said another, sententiously. "I'll be hanged if I
know."

"He's
given us the slip," remarked a third.

"But
he can't have given us the slip," said one man, who was particularly
famous for a dogmatical spirit of argumentation; "how is it possible? he
must be here, and I say he is here."

"Find
him, then," cried several at once.

"Oh!
that's nothing to do with the argument; he's here, whether we find him or
not."

One
very cunning fellow laid his finger on his nose, and beckoned to a comrade to
retire some paces, where he delivered himself of the following very oracular
sentiment:—

"My
good friend, you must know Sir Francis Varney is here or he isn't."

"Agreed,
agreed."

"Well,
if he isn't here it's no use troubling our heads any more about him; but,
otherwise, it's quite another thing, and, upon the whole, I must say, that I
rather think he is."

All
looked at him, for it was evident he was big with some suggestion. After a
pause, he resumed,—

"Now,
my good friends, I propose that we all appear to give it up, and to go away;
but that some one of us shall remain and hide among the ruins for some time, to
watch, in case the vampyre makes his appearance from some hole or corner that
we haven't found out."

"Oh,
capital!" said everybody.

"Then
you all agree to that?"

"Yes,
yes."

"Very
good; that's the only way to nick him. Now, we'll pretend to give it up; let's
all of us talk loud about going home."

They
did all talk loud about going home; they swore that it was not worth the
trouble of catching him, that they gave it up as a bad job; that he might go to
the deuce in any way he liked, for all they cared; and then they all walked off
in a body, when, the man who had made the suggestion, suddenly cried,—

"Hilloa!
hilloa!—stop! stop! you know one of us is to wait?"

"Oh,
ay; yes, yes, yes!" said everybody, and still they moved on.

"But
really, you know, what's the use of this? who's to wait?"

That
was, indeed, a knotty question, which induced a serious consultation, ending in
their all, with one accord, pitching upon the author of the suggestion, as by
far the best person to hide in the ruins and catch the vampyre.

They
then all set off at full speed; but the cunning fellow, who certainly had not
the slightest idea of so practically carrying out his own suggestion, scampered
off after them with a speed that soon brought him in the midst of the throng
again, and so, with fear in their looks, and all the evidences of fatigue about
them, they reached the town to spread fresh and more exaggerated accounts of
the mysterious conduct of Varney the vampyre.

VARNEY'S DANGER, AND HIS RESCUE.—THE PRISONER AGAIN, AND THE
SUBTERRANEAN VAULT.

We
have before slightly mentioned to the reader, and not unadvisedly, the
existence of a certain prisoner, confined in a gloomy dungeon, into whose sad
and blackened recesses but few and faint glimmering rays of light ever
penetrated; for, by a diabolical ingenuity, the narrow loophole which served
for a window to that subterraneous abode was so constructed, that, let the sun
be at what point it might, during its diurnal course, but a few reflected beams
of light could ever find their way into that abode of sorrow.

The
prisoner—the same prisoner of whom we before spoke—is there. Despair is in his
looks, and his temples are still bound with those cloths, which seemed now for
many days to have been sopped in blood, which has become encrusted in their
folds.

He
still lives, apparently incapable of movement. How he has lived so long seems
to be a mystery, for one would think him scarcely in a state, even were
nourishment placed to his lips, to enable him to swallow it.

It
may be, however, that the mind has as much to do with that apparent absolute
prostration of all sort of physical energy as those bodily wounds which he has
received at the hands of the enemies who have reduced him to his present
painful and hopeless situation.

Occasionally
a low groan burst from his lips; it seems to come from the very bottom of his
heart, and it sounds as if it would carry with it every remnant of vitality
that was yet remaining to him.

Then
he moves restlessly, and repeats in hurried accents the names of some who are
dear to him, and far away—some who may, perchance, be mourning him, but who
know not, guess not, aught of his present sufferings.

As he
thus moves, the rustle of a chain among the straw on which he lies gives an
indication, that even in that dungeon it has not been considered prudent to
leave him master of his own actions, lest, by too vigorous an effort, he might
escape from the thraldom in which he is held.

The
sound reaches his own ears, and for a few moments, in the deep impatience of
his wounded spirit, he heaps malediction on the heads of those who have reduced
him to his present state.

But
soon a better nature seems to come over him, and gentler words fall from his
lips. He preaches patience to himself—he talks not of revenge, but of justice,
and in accents of more hopefulness than he had before spoken, he calls upon
Heaven to succour him in his deep distress.

Then
all is still, and the prisoner appears to have resigned himself once more to
the calmness of expectation or of despair; but hark! his sense of hearing,
rendered doubly acute by lying so long alone in nearly darkness, and in
positive silence, detects sounds which, to ordinary mortal powers of
perception, would have been by far too indistinct to produce any tangible
effect upon the senses.

It is
the sound of feet—on, on they come; far overhead he hears them; they beat the
green earth—that sweet, verdant sod, which he may never see again—with an
impatient tread. Nearer and nearer still; and now they pause; he listens with
all the intensity of one who listens for existence; some one comes; there is a
lumbering noise—a hasty footstep; he hears some one labouring for
breath—panting like a hunted hare; his dungeon door is opened, and there
totters in a man, tall and gaunt; he reels like one intoxicated; fatigue has
done more than the work of inebriation; he cannot save himself, and he sinks
exhausted by the side of that lonely prisoner.

The
captive raises himself as far as his chains will allow him; he clutches the
throat of his enervated visitor.

"Villain,
monster, vampyre!" he shrieks, "I have thee now;" and locked in
a deadly embrace, they roll upon the damp earth, struggling for life together.

It is
mid-day at Bannerworth Hall, and Flora is looking from the casement anxiously
expecting the arrival of her brothers. She had seen, from some of the topmost
windows of the Hall, that the whole neighbourhood had been in a state of
commotion, but little did she guess the cause of so much tumult, or that it in
any way concerned her.

She
had seen the peasantry forsaking their work in the fields and the gardens, and
apparently intent upon some object of absorbing interest; but she feared to
leave the house, for she had promised Henry that she would not do so, lest the
former pacific conduct of the vampyre should have been but a new snare, for the
purpose of drawing her so far from her home as to lead her into some danger
when she should be far from assistance.

And
yet more than once was she tempted to forget her promise, and to seek the open
country, for fear that those she loved should be encountering some danger for
her sake, which she would willingly either share with them or spare them.

The
solicitation, however, of her brother kept her comparatively quiet; and,
moreover, since her last interview with Varney, in which, at all events, he had
shown some feeling for the melancholy situation to which, he had reduced her,
she had been more able to reason calmly, and to meet the suggestions of passion
and of impulse with a sober judgment.

About
midday, then, she saw the domestic party returning—that party, which now
consisted of her two brothers, the admiral, Jack Pringle, and Mr.
Chillingworth. As for Mr. Marchdale, he had given them a polite adieu on the
confines of the grounds of Bannerworth Hall, stating, that although he had felt
it to be his duty to come forward and second Henry Bannerworth in the duel with
the vampyre, yet that circumstance by no means obliterated from his memory the
insults he had received from Admiral Bell, and, therefore, he declined going to
Bannerworth Hall, and bade them a very good morning.

To
all this, Admiral Bell replied that he might go and be d——d, if he liked, and
that he considered him a swab and a humbug, and appealed to Jack Pringle
whether he, Jack, ever saw such a sanctified looking prig in his life.

"Ay,
ay," says Jack.

This
answer, of course, produced the usual contention, which lasted them until they
got fairly in the house, where they swore at each other to an extent that was
enough to make any one's hair stand on end, until Henry and Mr. Chillingworth
interfered, and really begged that they would postpone the discussion until
some more fitting opportunity.

The
whole of the circumstances were then related to Flora; who, while she blamed her
brother much for fighting the duel with the vampyre, found in the conduct of
that mysterious individual, as regarded the encounter, yet another reason for
believing him to be strictly sincere in his desire to save her from the
consequences of his future visits.

Her
desire to leave Bannerworth Hall consequently became more and more intense, and
as the admiral really now considered himself the master of the house, they
offered no amount of opposition to the subject, but merely said,—

"My
dear Flora, Admiral Bell shall decide in all these matters, now. We know that
he is our sincere friend; and that whatever he says we ought to do, will be
dictated by the best possible feelings towards us."

"Then
I appeal to you, sir," said Flora, turning to the admiral.

"Very
good," replied the old man; "then I say—"

"Nay,
admiral," interrupted Mr. Chillingworth; "you promised me, but a
short time since, that you would come to no decision whatever upon this
question, until you had heard some particulars which I have to relate to you,
which, in my humble opinion, will sway your judgment."

"And
so I did," cried the admiral; "but I had forgotten all about it.
Flora, my dear, I'll be with you in an hour or two. My friend, the doctor,
here, has got some sow by the ear, and fancies it's the right one; however,
I'll hear what he has got to say, first, before we come to a conclusion. So,
come along, Mr. Chillingworth, and let's have it out at once."

"Flora,"
said Henry, when the admiral had left the room, "I can see that you wish
to leave the Hall."

"I
do, brother; but not to go far—I wish rather to hide from Varney than to make
myself inaccessible by distance."

"You
still cling to this neighbourhood?"

"I
do, I do; and you know with what hope I cling to it."

"Perfectly;
you still think it possible that Charles Holland may be united to you."

"I
do, I do."

"You
believe his faith."

"Oh,
yes; as I believe in Heaven's mercy."

"And
I, Flora; I would not doubt him now for worlds; something even now seems to
whisper to me that a brighter sun of happiness will yet dawn upon us, and that,
when the mists which at present enshroud ourselves and our fortunes pass away,
they will disclose a landscape full of beauty, the future of which shall know
no pangs."

"Yes,
brother," exclaimed Flora, enthusiastically; "this, after all, may be
but some trial, grievous while it lasts, but yet tending eventually only to
make the future look more bright and beautiful. Heaven may yet have in store
for us all some great happiness, which shall spring clearly and decidedly from
out these misfortunes."

"Be
it so, and may we ever thus banish despair by such hopeful propositions. Lean
on my arm, Flora; you are safe with me. Come, dearest, and taste the sweetness
of the morning air."

There
was, indeed now, a hopefulness about the manner in which Henry Bannerworth
spoke, such as Flora had not for some weary months had the pleasure of
listening to, and she eagerly rose to accompany him into the garden, which was
glowing with all the beauty of sunshine, for the day had turned out to be much
finer than the early morning had at all promised it would be.

"Flora,"
he said, when they had taken some turns to and fro in the garden,
"notwithstanding all that has happened, there is no convincing Mr.
Chillingworth that Sir Francis Varney is really what to us he appears."

"Indeed!"

"It
is so. In the face of all evidence, he neither will believe in vampyres at all,
nor that Varney is anything but some mortal man, like ourselves, in his
thoughts, talents, feelings, and modes of life; and with no more power to do
any one an injury than we have."

"Oh,
would that I could think so!"

"And
I; but, unhappily, we have by far too many, and too conclusive evidences to the
contrary."

"We
have, indeed, brother."

"And
though, while we respect that strength of mind in our friend which will not
allow him, even almost at the last extremity, to yield to what appear to be
stern facts, we may not ourselves be so obdurate, but may feel that we know
enough to be convinced."

"You
have no doubt, brother?"

"Most
reluctantly, I must confess, that I feel compelled to consider Varney as
something more than mortal."

"He
must be so."

"And
now, sister, before we leave the place which has been a home to us from
earliest life, let us for a few moments consider if there be any possible
excuse for the notion of Mr. Chillingworth, to the effect that Sir Francis
Varney wants possession of the house for some purpose still more inimical to
our peace and prosperity than any he has yet attempted."

"Has
he such an opinion?"

"He
has."

"'Tis
very strange."

"Yes,
Flora; he seems to gather from all the circumstances, nothing but an
overwhelming desire on the part of Sir Francis Varney to become the tenant of
Bannerworth Hall."

"He
certainly wishes to possess it."

"Yes;
but can you, sister, in the exercise of any possible amount of fancy, imagine
any motive for such an anxiety beyond what he alleges?"

"Which
is merely that he is fond of old houses."

"Precisely
so. That is the reason, and the only one, that can be got from him. Heaven only
knows if it be the true one."

"It
may be, brother."

"As
you say, it may; but there's a doubt, nevertheless, Flora. I much rejoice that
you have had an interview with this mysterious being, for you have certainty,
since that time, been happier and more composed than I ever hoped to see you
again."

"I
have indeed."

"It
is sufficiently perceivable."

"Somehow,
brother, since that interview, I have not had the same sort of dread of Sir
Francis Varney which before made the very sound of his name a note of terror to
me. His words, and all he said to me during that interview which took place so
strangely between us, indeed how I know not, tended altogether rather to make
him, to a certain extent, an object of my sympathies rather than my
abhorrence."

"That
is very strange."

"I
own that it is strange, Henry; but when we come for but a brief moment to
reflect upon the circumstances which have occurred, we shall, I think, be able
to find some cause even to pity Varney the vampyre."