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) (139 page)

"I
can easily believe you, especially when we come to consider the disagreeables
of a mob."

"You
may say that. There's no knowing what they will or won't do, confound them! If
they'd act like men, and pay for what they have, why, then I shouldn't care
much about them; but it don't do to have other people in the bar."

"I
should think not, indeed; that would alter the scale of your profits, I
reckon."

"It
would make all the difference to me. Business," added the landlord,
"conducted on that scale, would become a loss; and a man might as well
walk into a well at once."

"So
I should say. Have many such occurrences as these been usual in this part of
the country?" inquired the stranger.

"Not
usual at all," said the landlord; "but the fact is, the whole
neighbourhood has run distracted about some superhuman being they call a
vampyre."

"Indeed!"—"Yes;
and they suspected the unfortunate man who has been lying up-stairs, a corpse,
for some days."

"Oh,
the man they have just taken in the coffin to bury?" said the stranger.

"Yes,
sir, the same."

"Well,
I thought perhaps somebody of great consequence had suddenly become
defunct."—"Oh, dear no; it would not have caused half the sensation;
people have been really mad."

"It
was a strange occurrence, altogether, I believe, was it?" inquired the
stranger.—"Indeed it was, sir. I hardly know the particulars, there have
been so many tales afloat; though they all concur in one point, and that is, it
has destroyed the peace of one family."

"Who
has done so?"—"The vampyre."

"Indeed!
I never heard of such an animal, save as a fable, before; it seems to me
extraordinary."

"So
it would do to any one, sir, as was not on the spot, to see it; I'm sure I
wouldn't."

In
the meantime, the procession, short as it was of itself, moved along in slow
time through a throng of people who ran out of their houses on either side of
the way, and lined the whole length of the town.

Many
of these closed in behind, and followed the mourners until they were near the
church, and then they made a rush to get into the churchyard.

As
yet all had been conducted with tolerable propriety, the funeral met with no
impediment. The presence of death among so many of them seemed some check upon
the licence of the mob, who bowed in silence to the majesty of death.

Who
could bear ill-will against him who was now no more? Man, while he is man, is
always the subject of hatred, fear, or love. Some one of these passions, in a
modified state, exists in all men, and with such feelings they will regard each
other; and it is barely possible that any one should not be the object of some
of these, and hence the stranger's corpse was treated with respect.

In
silence the body proceeded along the highway until it came to the churchyard,
and followed by an immense multitude of people of all grades.

The
authorities trembled; they knew not what all this portended. They thought it
might pass off; but it might become a storm first; they hoped and feared by
turns, till some of them fell sick with apprehension.

There
was a deep silence observed by all those in the immediate vicinity of the
coffin, but those farther in the rear found full expression for their feelings.

"Do
you think," said an old man to another, "that he will come to life
again, eh?"—"Oh, yes, vampyres always do, and lay in the moonlight,
and then they come to life again. Moonlight recovers a vampyre to life
again."

"And
yet the moonlight is cold."—"Ah, but who's to tell what may happen to
a vampyre, or what's hot or what's cold?"

"Certainly
not; oh, dear, no."—"And then they have permission to suck the blood
of other people, to live themselves, and to make other people vampyres,
too."

"The
lord have mercy upon us!"—"Ay, but they have driven a stake through
this one, and he can't get in moonlight or daylight; it's all over—he's
certainly done for; we may congratulate ourselves on this point."

"So
we may—so we may."

They
now neared the grave, the clergyman officiating as usual on such occasions.
There was a large mob of persons on all sides, with serious faces, watching the
progress of the ceremony, and who listened in quietness.

There
was no sign of any disturbance amongst the people, and the authorities were
well pleased; they congratulated themselves upon the quietness and orderliness
of the assemblage.

The
service was ended and the coffin lowered, and the earth was thrown on the coffin-lid
with a hollow sound. Nobody could hear that sound unmoved. But in a short while
the sound ceased as the grave became filled; it was then trodden carefully
down.

There
were no relatives there to feel affected at the last scene of all. They were
far away, and, according to popular belief upon the subject, they must have
been dead some ages.

The
mob watched the last shovel-full of earth thrown upon the coffin, and witnessed
the ramming down of the soil, and the heaping of it over at top to make the usual
monument; for all this was done speedily and carefully, lest there should be
any tendency to exhume the body of the deceased.

The
people were now somewhat relieved, as to their state of solemnity and silence.
They would all of them converse freely on the matter that had so long occupied
their thoughts.

They
seemed now let loose, and everybody found himself at liberty to say or do
something, no matter if it were not very reasonable; that is not always
required of human beings who have souls, or, at least it is unexpected; and
were it expected, the expectation would never be realized.

The
day was likely to wear away without a riot, nay, even without a fight; a most
extraordinary occurrence for such a place under the existing circumstances; for
of late the populace, or, perhaps, the townspeople, were extremely pugnacious,
and many were the disputes that were settled by the very satisfactory
application of the knuckles to the head of the party holding a contrary
opinion.

Thus
it was they were ready to take fire, and a hubbub would be the result of the
slightest provocation. But, on the present occasion, there was a remarkable
dearth of, all subjects of the nature described.

Who
was to lead Israel out to battle? Alas! no one on the present occasion.

Such
a one, however, appeared, at least, one who furnished a ready excuse for a
disturbance.

Suddenly,
Mrs Chillingworth appeared in the midst of a large concourse of people. She had
just left her house, which was close at hand, her eyes red with weeping, and
her children around her on this occasion.

The
crowd made way for her, and gathered round her to see what was going to happen.

"Friends
and neighbours," she said "can any of you relieve the tears of a
distressed wife and mother, have any of you seen anything of my husband, Mr.
Chillingworth?"

"What
the doctor?" exclaimed one.—"Yes; Mr. Chillingworth, the surgeon. He
has not been home two days and a night. I'm distracted!—what can have become of
him I don't know, unless—"

Here
Mrs Chillingworth paused, and some person said,—

"Unless
what, Mrs Chillingworth? there are none but friends here, who wish the doctor
well, and would do anything to serve him—unless what? speak out."

"Unless
he's been destroyed by the vampyre. Heaven knows what we may all come to! Here
am I and my children deprived of our protector by some means which we cannot
imagine. He never, in all his life, did the same before."

"He
must have been spirited away by some of the vampyres. I'll tell you what,
friend," said one to another, "that something must be done; nobody's
safe in their bed."

"No;
they are not, indeed. I think that all vampyres ought to be burned and a stake
run through them, and then we should be safe."

"Ay;
but you must destroy all those who are even suspected of being vampyres, or
else one may do all the mischief."—"So he might."

"Hurrah!"
shouted the mob. "Chillingworth for ever! We'll find the doctor somewhere,
if we pull down the whole town."

There
was an immense commotion among the populace, who began to start throwing
stones, and do all sorts of things without any particular object, and some, as
they said, to find the doctor, or to show how willing they were to do so if
they knew how.

Mrs.
Chillingworth, however, kept on talking to the mob, who continued shouting; and
the authorities anticipated an immediate outbreak of popular opinion, which is
generally accompanied by some forcible demonstration, and on this occasion some
one suggested the propriety of burning down Bannerworth Hall; because they had
burned down the vampyre's home, and they might as well burn down that of the
injured party, which was carried by acclamation; and with loud shouts they
started on their errand.

This
was a mob's proceeding all over, and we regret very much to say, that it is
very much the characteristic of English mobs. What an uncommonly strange thing
it is that people in multitudes seem completely to get rid of all reason—all
honour—all common ordinary honesty; while, if you were to take the same people
singly, you would find that they were reasonable enough, and would shrink with
a feeling quite approaching to horror from anything in the shape of very
flagrant injustice.

This
can only be accounted for by a piece of cowardice in the human race, which
induces them when alone, and acting with the full responsibility of their
actions, to shrink from what it is quite evident they have a full inclination
to do, and will do when, having partially lost their individuality in a crowd,
they fancy, that to a certain extent they can do so with impunity.

The
burning of Sir Francis Varney's house, although it was one of those proceedings
which would not bear the test of patient examination, was yet, when we take all
the circumstances into consideration, an act really justifiable and natural in
comparison with the one which was now meditated.

Bannerworth
Hall had never been the residence even of anyone who had done the people any
injury or given them any offence, so that to let it become a prey to the flames
was but a gratuitous act of mischief.

It
was, however, or seemed to be, doomed, for all who have had any experience in
mobs, must know how extremely difficult it is to withdraw them from any impulse
once given, especially when that impulse, as in the present instance, is of a
violent character.

"Down
with Bannerworth Hall!" was the cry. "Burn it—burn it," and
augmented by fresh numbers each minute, the ignorant, and, in many respects,
ruffianly assemblage, soon arrived within sight of what had been for so many
years the bane of the Bannerworths, and whatever may have been the fault of
some of that race, those faults had been of a domestic character, and not at
all such as would interfere with the public weal.

The
astonished, and almost worn-out authorities, hastily, now, after having
disposed of their prisoners, collected together what troops they could, and by
the time the misguided, or rather the not guided at all populace, had got
halfway to Bannerworth Hall, they were being outflanked by some of the
dragoons, who, by taking a more direct route, hoped to reach Bannerworth Hall
first, and so perhaps, by letting the mob see that it was defended, induce them
to give up the idea of its destruction on account of the danger attendant upon
the proceeding by far exceeding any of the anticipated delight of the
disturbance.

THE STRANGE MEETING AT THE HALL BETWEEN MR. CHILLINGWORTH
AND THE MYSTERIOUS FRIEND OF VARNEY.

When
we praise our friend Mr. Chillingworth for not telling his wife where he was
going, in pursuance of a caution and a discrimination so highly creditable to
him, we are quite certain that he has no such excuse as regards the reader.
Therefore we say at once that he had his own reasons now for taking up his
abode at Bannerworth Hall for a time. These reasons seemed to be all dependant
upon the fact of having met the mysterious man at Sir Francis Varney's; and
although we perhaps would have hoped that the doctor might have communicated to
Henry Bannerworth all that he knew and all that he surmised, yet have we no
doubt that what he keeps to himself he has good reasons for so keeping, and
that his actions as regards it are founded upon some very just conclusions.

He
has then made a determination to take possession of, and remain in, Bannerworth
Hall according to the full and free leave which the admiral had given him so to
do. What results he anticipated from so lonely and so secret a watch we cannot
say, but probably they will soon exhibit themselves. It needed no sort of
extraordinary discrimination for any one to feel it once that not the least
good, in the way of an ambuscade, was likely to be effected by such persons as
Admiral Bell or Jack Pringle. They were all very well when fighting should
actually ensue, but they both were certainly remarkably and completely
deficient in diplomatic skill, or in that sort of patience which should enable
them at all to compete with the cunning, the skill, and the nice discrimination
of such a man as Sir Francis Varney.

If
anything were to be done in that way it was unquestionably to be done by some
one alone, who, like the doctor, would, and could, remain profoundly quiet and
await the issue of events, be they what they might, and probably remain a spy
and attempt no overt act which should be of a hostile character. This
unquestionably was the mode, and perhaps we should not be going too far when we
say it was the only mode which could be with anything like safety relied upon
as one likely to lead really to a discovery of Sir Francis Varney's motives in
making such determined exertions to get possession of Bannerworth Hall.

That
night was doomed to be a very eventful one, indeed; for on it had Charles
Holland been, by a sort of wild impulsive generosity of Sir Francis Varney,
rescued from the miserable dungeon in which he had been confined, and on that
night, too, he, whom we cannot otherwise describe than as the villain
Marchdale, had been, in consequence of the evil that he himself meditated, and
the crime with which he was quite willing to stain his soul, been condemned to
occupy Charles's position.

On
that night, too, had the infuriated mob determined upon the destruction of
Bannerworth Hall, and on that night was Mr. Chillingworth waiting with what
patience he could exert, at the Hall, for whatever in the chapter of accidents
might turn up of an advantageous character to that family in whose welfare and
fortunes he felt so friendly and so deep an interest.

Let
us look, then, at the worthy doctor as he keeps his solitary watch.

He
did not, as had been the case when the admiral shared the place with him in the
hope of catching Varney on that memorable occasion when he caught only his
boot, sit in a room with a light and the means and appliances for making the
night pass pleasantly away; but, on the contrary, he abandoned the house
altogether, and took up a station in that summer-house which has been before
mentioned as the scene of a remarkable interview between Flora Bannerworth and
Varney the vampyre.

Alone
and in the dark, so that he could not be probably seen, he watched that one
window of the chamber where the first appearance of the hideous vampyre had
taken place, and which seemed ever since to be the special object of his
attack.

By
remaining from twilight, and getting accustomed to the gradually increasing
darkness of the place, no doubt the doctor was able to see well enough without
the aid of any artificial light whether any one was in the place besides
himself.

"Night
after night," he said, "will I watch here until I have succeeded in
unravelling this mystery; for that there is some fearful and undreamt of mystery
at the bottom of all these proceedings I am well convinced."

When
he made such a determination as this, Dr. Chillingworth was not at all a likely
man to break it, so there, looking like a modern statue in the arbour, he sat
with his eyes fixed upon the balcony and the window of what used to be called
Flora's room for some hours.

The
doctor was a contemplative man, and therefore he did not so acutely feel the
loneliness of his position as many persons would have done; moreover, he was
decidedly not of a superstitious turn of mind, although certainly we cannot
deny an imagination to him. However, if he really had harboured some strange
fears and terrors they would have been excusable, when we consider how many
circumstances had combined to make it almost a matter of demonstration that Sir
Francis Varney was something more than mortal.

What
quantities of subjects the doctor thought over during his vigil in that garden
it is hard to say, but never in his whole life, probably, had he such a
glorious opportunity for the most undisturbed contemplation of subjects
requiring deep thought to analyze, than as he had then. At least he felt that
since his marriage he had never been so thoroughly quiet, and left so
completely to himself.

It is
to be hoped that he succeeded in settling any medical points of a knotty
character that might be hovering in his brain, and certain it is that he had
become quite absorbed in an abstruse matter connected with physiology, when his
ears were startled, and he was at once aroused to a full consciousness of where
he was, and why he had come there, by the distant sound of a man's footstep.

It
was a footstep which seemed to be that of a person who scarcely thought it at
all necessary to use any caution, and the doctor's heart leaped within him as
in the lowest possible whisper he said to himself,—

"I
am successful—I am successful. It is believed now that the Hall is deserted,
and no doubt that is Sir Francis Varney come with confidence, to carry out his
object in so sedulously attacking it, be that object what it may."

Elated
with this idea, the doctor listened intently to the advancing footstep, which
each moment sounded more clearly upon his ears.

It
was evidently approaching from the garden entrance towards the house, and he
thought, by the occasional deadened sound of the person's feet, be he whom he
might, that he could not see his way very well, and, consequently, frequently
strayed from the path, on to some of the numerous flower-beds which were in the
way.

"Yes,"
said the doctor, exultingly, "it must be Varney; and now I have but to
watch him, and not to resist him; for what good on earth is it to stop him in
what he wishes to do, and, by such means, never wrest his secret from him. The
only way is to let him go on, and that will I do, most certainly."

Now
he heard the indistinct muttering of the voice of some one, so low that he
could not catch what words were uttered; but he fancied that, in the deep
tones, he recognised, without any doubt, the voice of Sir Francis Varney.

"It
must be he," he said, "it surely must be he. Who else would come here
to disturb the solitude of an empty house? He comes! he comes!"

Now
the doctor could see a figure emerge from behind some thick beeches, which had
before obstructed his vision, and he looked scrutinisingly about, while some
doubts stole slowly over his mind now as to whether it was the vampyre or not.
The height was in favour of the supposition that it was none other than Varney;
but the figure looked so much stouter, that Mr. Chillingworth felt a little
staggered upon the subject, and unable wholly to make up his mind upon it.

The
pausing of this visitor, too, opposite that window where Sir Francis Varney had
made his attempts, was another strong reason why the doctor was inclined to
believe it must be him, and yet he could not quite make up his mind upon the
subject, so as to speak with certainty.

A
very short time, however, indeed, must have sufficed to set such a question as
that at rest; and patience seemed the only quality of mind necessary under
those circumstances for Mr. Chillingworth to exert.

The
visitor continued gazing either at that window, or at the whole front of the
house, for several minutes, and then he turned away from a contemplation of it,
and walked slowly along, parallel with the windows of that dining-room, one of
which had been broken so completely on the occasion of the admiral's attempt to
take the vampyre prisoner.

The
moment the stranger altered his position, from looking at the window, and
commenced walking away from it, Mr. Chillingworth's mind was made up. It was
not Varney—of that he felt now most positively assured, and could have no doubt
whatever upon the subject.

The
gait, the general air, the walk, all were different; and then arose the anxious
question of who could it be that had intruded upon that lonely place, and what
could be the object of any one else but Varney the vampyre to do so.

The
stranger looked a powerful man, and walked with a firm tread, and, altogether
he was an opponent that, had the doctor been ever so belligerently inclined, it
would have been the height of indiscretion for him to attempt to cope with.

It
was a very vexatious thing, too, for any one to come there at such a juncture,
perhaps only from motives of curiosity, or possibly just to endeavour to commit
some petty depredations upon the deserted building, if possible; and most
heartily did the doctor wish that, in some way, he could scare away the
intruder.

The
man walked along very slowly, indeed, and seemed to be quite taking his time in
making his observations of the building; and this was the more provoking, as it
was getting late, and if having projected a visit at all, it would surely soon
be made, and then, when he found any one there, of course, he would go.

Amazed
beyond expression, the doctor felt about on the ground at his feet, until he
found a tolerably large stone, which he threw at the stranger with so good an
aim, that it hit him a smart blow on the back, which must have been anything
but a pleasant surprise.

That
it was a surprise, and that, too, a most complete one, was evident from the
start which the man gave, and then he uttered a furious oath, and rubbed his
back, as he glanced about him to endeavour to ascertain from whence the missile
had come.

"I'll
try him again with that," thought the doctor; "it may succeed in
scaring him away;" and he stooped to watch for another stone.

It
was well that he did so at that precise moment; for, before he rose again, he
heard the sharp report of a pistol, and a crashing sound among some of the old
wood work of which the summer-house was composed, told him that a shot had
there taken effect. Affairs were now getting much too serious; and,
accordingly, Dr. Chillingworth thought that, rather than stay there to be made
a target of, he would face the intruder.

"Hold—hold!"
he cried. "Who are you, and what do you mean by that?"—"Oh!
somebody is there," cried the man, as he advanced. "My friend,
whoever you are, you were very foolish to throw a stone at me."

"And,
my friend, whoever you are," responded the doctor, "you were very
spiteful to fire a pistol bullet at me in consequence."—

"Not
at all."

"But
I say yes; for, probably, I can prove a right to be here, which you
cannot."—"Ah!" said the stranger, "that voice—why—you are
Dr. Chillingworth?"

"I
am; but I don't know you," said the doctor, as he emerged now from the
summer-house, and confronted the stranger who was within a few paces of the
entrance to it. Then he started, as he added,—

"Yes,
I do know you, though. How, in the name of Heaven, came you here, and what
purpose have you in so coming?"

"What
purpose have you? Since we met at Varney's, I have been making some inquiries
about this neighbourhood, and learn strange things."—"That you may
very easily do here; and, what is more extraordinary, the strange things are,
for the most part, I can assure you, quite true."

The
reader will, from what has been said, now readily recognise this man as Sir
Francis Varney's mysterious visitor, to whom he gave, from some hidden cause or
another, so large a sum of money, and between whom and Dr. Chillingworth a
mutual recognition had taken place, on the occasion when Sir Francis Varney
had, with such cool assurance, invited the admiral to breakfast with him at his
new abode.

"You,
however," said the man, "I have no doubt, are fully qualified to tell
me of more than I have been able to learn from other people; and, first of all,
let me ask you why you are here?"—"Before I answer you that question,
or any other," said the doctor, "let me beg of you to tell me truly,
is Sir Francis Varney—"

The
doctor whispered in the ear of the stranger some name, as if he feared, even
there, in the silence of that garden, where everything conspired to convince
him that he could not be overheard, to pronounce it in an audible tone.