The Penny Dreadfuls MEGAPACK™ (193 page)

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 I 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 hedge-rows, 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 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.

CHA
PTER LXXXIX.

TELLS WHAT BECAME OF THE SECOND VAMPIRE WHO SOUGHT VARNEY.

We left the Hungarian nobleman swimming down the stream; he swam slowly, and used but little exertion in doing so. He appeared to use his hands only as a means of assistance.

The stream carried him onwards, and he aided himself so far that he kept the middle of the stream, and floated along.

Where the stream was broad and shallow, it sometimes left him a moment or two, without being strong enough to carry him onwards; then he would pause, as if gaining strength, and finally he would, when he had rested, and the water came a little faster, and lifted him, make a desperate plunge, and swim forward, until he again came in deep water, and then he went slowly along with the stream, as he supported himself.

It was strange thus to see a man going down slowly, and without any effort whatever, passing through shade and through moonlight—now lost in the shadow of the tall trees, and now emerging into that part of the stream which ran through meadows and cornfields, until the stream widened, and then, at length, a ferry-house was to be seen in the distance.

Then came the ferryman out of his hut, to look upon the beautiful moonlight scene. It was cold, but pure, and brilliantly light. The chaste moon was sailing through the heavens, and the stars diminished in their lustre by the power of the luminous goddess of night.

There was a small cottage—true, it was somewhat larger than was generally supposed by any casual observer who might look at it. The place was rambling, and built chiefly of wood; but in it lived the ferryman, his wife, and family; among these was a young girl about seventeen years of age, but, at the same time, very beautiful.

They had been preparing their supper, and the ferryman himself walked out to look at the river and the shadows of the tall trees that stood on the hill opposite.

While thus employed, he heard a plashing in the water, and on turning towards the quarter whence the sound proceeded for a few yards, he came to the spot where he saw the stranger struggling in the stream.

“Good God!” he muttered to himself, as he saw the struggle continued; “good God! he will sink and drown.”

As he spoke, he jumped into his boat and pushed it off, for the purpose of stopping the descent of the body down the stream, and in a moment or two it came near to him. He muttered—

“Come, come—he tries to swim; life is not gone yet—he will do now, if I can catch hold of him. Swimming with one’s face under the stream doesn’t say much for his skill, though it may account for the fact that he don’t cry out.”

As the drowning man neared, the ferryman held on by the boat-hook, and stooping down, he seized the drowning man by the hair of the head, and then paused.

After a time, he lifted him up, and placed him across the edge of the boat, and then, with some struggling of his own, he was rolled over into the boat.

“You are safe now,” muttered the ferryman.

The stranger spoke not, but sat or leaned against the boat’s head, sobbing and catching at his breath, and spitting off his stomach the water it might be presumed he had swallowed.

The ferryman put back to the shore, when he paused, and secured his boat, and then pulled the stranger out, saying—

“Do you feel any better now?”

“Yes,” said the stranger; “I feel I am living—thanks to you, my good friend; I owe you my life.”

“You are welcome to that,” replied the ferryman; “it costs me nothing; and, as for my little trouble, I should be sorry to think of that, when a fellow-being’s life was in danger.”

“You have behaved very well—very well, and I can do little more now than thank you, for I have been robbed of all I possessed about me at the moment.”

“Oh! you have been robbed?”

“Aye, truly, I have, and have been thrown into the water, and thus I have been nearly murdered.”

“It is lucky you escaped from them without further injury,” said the ferryman; “but come in doors, you must be mad to stand here in the cold.”

“Thank you; your hospitality is great, and, at this moment, of the greatest importance to me.”

“Such as we have,” said the honest ferryman, “you shall be welcome to. Come in—come in.”

He turned round and led the way to the house, which he entered, saying—as he opened the small door that led into the main apartment, where all the family were assembled, waiting for the almost only meal they had had that day, for the ferryman had not the means, before the sun had set, of sending for food, and then it was a long way before it could be found, and then it was late before they could get it—

“Wife, we have a stranger to sleep with us tonight, and for whom we must prepare a bed.”

“A stranger!” echoed the wife—“a stranger, and we so poor!”

“Yes; one whose life I have saved, and who was nearly drowned. We cannot refuse hospitality upon such an occasion as that, you know, wife.”

The wife looked at the stranger as he entered the room, and sat down by the fire.

“I am sorry,” he said, “to intrude upon you; but I will make you amends for the interruption and inconvenience I may cause you; but it is too late to apply elsewhere, and yet I am doubtful, if there were, whether I could go any further.”

“No, no,” said the ferryman; “I am sure a man who has been beaten and robbed, and thrown into a rapid and, in some parts, deep stream, is not fit to travel at this time of night.”

“You are lonely about here,” said the stranger, as he shivered by the fire.

“Yes, rather; but we are used to it.”

“You have a family, too; that must help to lighten the hours away, and help you over the long evenings.”

“So you may think, stranger, and, at times, so it is; but when food runs short, it is a long while to daylight, before any more money can be had. To be sure, we have fish in the river, and we have what we can grow in the garden; but these are not all the wants that we feel, and those others are sometimes pinching. However, we are thankful for what we have, and complain but little when we can get no more; but sometimes we do repine—though I cannot say we ought—but I am merely relating the fact, whether it be right or wrong.”

“Exactly. How old is your daughter?”

“She is seventeen come Allhallow’s eve.”

“That is not far hence,” said the stranger. “I hope I may be in this part of the country—and I think I shall—I will on that eve pay you a visit; not one on which I shall be a burden to you, but one more useful to you, and more consonant to my character.”

“The future will tell us all about that,” said the ferryman; “at present we will see what we can do, without complaining, or taxing anybody.”

The stranger and the ferryman sat conversing for some time before the fire, and then the latter pointed out to him which was his bed—one made up near the fire, for the sake of its warmth; and then the ferryman retired to the next room, a place which was merely divided by an imperfect partition.

However, they all fell soundly asleep. The hours on that day had been longer than usual; there was not that buoyancy of spirit; when they retired, they fell off into a heavy, deep slumber.

From this they were suddenly aroused by loud cries and piercing screams from one of the family.

So loud and shrill were the cries, that they all started up, terrified and bewildered beyond measure, unable to apply their faculties to any one object.

“Help—help, father!—help!” shrieked the voice of the young girl whom we have before noticed.

The ferryman jumped up, and rushed to the spot where his daughter lay.