 Chapter 82 Part 2 of Varney the Vampire Vol. 2 Varney was silent for several moments. He seemed perceptibly moved by the manner of the young man, as well as by the matter of his discourse. In fact, one would suppose that Charles Holland had succeeded in investing what he said with some sort of charm that won much upon the fancy of Sir Francis Varney. For when he ceased to speak, the latter said in a low voice, Go on, go on, you have surely much more to say. No Varney, I have said enough, and not thus much what I have said had I not been aware, certainly and truly aware, without the shadow of a doubt by your manner, that you are most accessible to human feeling. I accessible to human feeling know you to whom you speak? Am I not he before whom all men shudder, whose name has been a terror and desolation, and yet you can talk of my human feelings? Nay, if I had had any, be sure they would have been extinguished by the persecutions I have endured from those who, you know, with savage ferocity have sought my life. No, Varney, I give you credit for being a subtler reasoner than thus to argue. You know well that you were the aggressor to those parties who sought your life. You know well that with the greatest imaginable pains you held yourself up to them as a thing of great terror. I did, I did. You cannot then turn around upon ignorant persons and blame them because your exertions to make yourself seem what you wish were but too successful. You used the word seem, said Varney, with a bitterness of aspect, as if you could imply a doubt that I am that which thousands, by their fears, would testify me to be. Thousands might, said Charles Holland, but not among them am I, Varney, I will not be made the victim of superstition, were you to enact before my very eyes some of the feats which, to the senses of others, would stamp you as the preternatural being you assumed to be, I would doubt the evidence of my own senses ere I permitted such a bugbear to oppress my brain. Go, said Sir Francis Varney, go, I have no more words for you, I have nothing to relate to you. Nay, you have already listened sufficiently to me to give me hope that I had awakened some of the humanity that was in your nature. Do not, Sir Francis Varney, crush that hope, even as it was budding forth. But for my own sake do I ask you for revelations that may, perhaps, must be painful for you, but for the sake of Flora Bannerworth to whom you own abundance of reparation. No, no. In the name of all that is great and good and just I call upon you for justice. What have I to do with such an invocation? Utter such a sentiment to men who, like yourself, are invested with the reality as well as the outward show of human nature. Nay, Sir Francis Varney, now you belie yourself. You have passed through a long and perchance a stormy life. Can you look back upon your career and find no reminiscences of the past that shall convince you that you are of the great family of man and have had abundance of human feelings and human affections? Peace, peace. Nay, Sir Francis Varney, I will take your word, and if you will lay your hand upon your heart and tell me truly that you have never felt what it was to love, to have all feeling, all taste, and all hope of future joy concentrated on one individual, I will despair and leave you. If you will tell me that never in your whole life you have felt for any fair and glorious creature as I now feel for Flora Bannerworth, a being for whom you could have sacrificed not only existence, but all the hopes of a glorious future that plume around it, if you will tell me with the calm, dispassionate aspect of truth that you have held yourself aloof from such human feelings, I will no longer press you to a disclosure which I shall bring no argument to urge. The agitation of Sir Francis Varney's countenance was perceptible, and Charles Holland was about to speak again when, striking him upon the breast with his clinged hand, the vampire checked him, saying, Do you wish to drive me mad that you thus, from memories hidden cells, conjure up images of the past? When there are such things to conjure up, there are such shadows only sleeping but which require only, as you did even now, but a touch to awaken them to life and energy. O Sir Francis Varney, do not tell me you are not human. The vampire made a furious gesture, as if he would have attacked Charles Holland, but then he sank nearly to the floor as if soul stricken by some recollection that unnerved his arm. He shook with unwanted emotion, and from the frightful livid aspect of his countenance Charles dreaded some serious accession of indisposition, which might, if nothing else did, prevent him from making the revelation he so much sought to hear from his lips. Varney, he cried, Varney, be calm. You will be listened to by one who will draw no harsh, no hasty conclusions. By one who, with that charity, I grieve to say, is rare, will place upon the words you utter the most favorable construction. Tell me all, I pray you. Tell me all. This is strange, said the vampire. I never thought that odd human could have moved me. Young man, you have touched the cords of memory. They vibrate throughout my heart, producing cadences and sounds of years long past. Bear with me awhile. And you will speak to me? I will. Having your promise, then, I am content, Varney. But you must be secret, not even in the wildest waste of nature, where you can well presume that not but heaven can listen to your whispering, must you utter one word of that which I shall tell to you. Alas, said Charles, I dare not take such a confidence. I have said that it is not for myself. I seek such knowledge of what you are and what you have been, but it is for another so dear to me that all charms of life that make up other men's delights equal not the witchery of one glance from her, speaking as it does of the glorious light from that heaven which is eternal from whence she sprung. And you reject my communication, said Varney, because I will not give you leave to expose it to Flora Bannerworth. It must be so. And you are most anxious to hear what I have to relate? Most anxious indeed, indeed most anxious. Then have I found in that scruple which besets your mind a better argument for trusting you than had you been loud in protestation. Had your promises of secrecy been but those which come from the lip and not from the heart, my confidence would not have been rejected on such grounds. I think that I dare trust you. With leave to tell Flora that which you shall communicate. You may whisper it to her but to no one else without my special leave and license. I agree to those terms and will religiously preserve them. I do not doubt you for one moment, and now I will tell to you what never yet has passed my lips to mortal man. And now will I connect together some matters which you may have heard piecemeal from others. What others are they? Dr. Chillingworth and he who once officiated as a London hangman. I have heard something from those quarters. Then listen to me and you shall better understand that which you have heard. Some years ago, it matters not the number, on a stormy night towards the autumn of the year, two men sat alone in poverty, and that species of distress which beset the haughty, obligate, daring man who has been accustomed all his life to its most enticing enjoyments but never to that industry which alone ought to produce them and render them great and magnificent. Two men and who are they? I was one. Look upon me. I was one of those men and strong and evil passions were battling in my heart. And the other? Was Marmaduke Bannerworth? Gracious heaven, the father of her whom I adore, the suicide. Yes, the same. That man stained with a thousand vices, blasted by a thousand crimes, the father of her who partakes nothing of his nature, who borrows nothing from his memory but his name, was the man who sat with me, plotting and contriving how, by fraud or violence, we were to lead our usual life of revelry and wild, audacious debauch. Go on, go on. Believe me, I am deeply interested. I can see as much. We were not nice in the various schemes which are prolific fancies engendered. If trickery and the false dice at the gaming table sufficed not to fill our purses, we were bold enough for violence. If simple robbery would not succeed, we would take a life. Murder? I, call it by its proper name, a murder. We sat till the midnight hour had passed without arriving at a definite conclusion. We saw no plan of practicable operation, and so we wandered onwards to one of those deep dens of iniquity, a gaming-house wherein we had won and lost thousands. We had no money, but we staked largely in the shape of a wager upon the success of one of the players. We knew not or cared not for the consequences if we had lost. But as it happened, we were largely successful, and beggars as we had walked into that place we might have left it independent men. But when does the gambler know when to pause in his career? If defeat awakens all the raging passions of humanity within his bosom, success but feeds the great vice that has been there engendered. To the dawn of mourn we played, the bright sun shone in, and yet we played. The midday came and went, the stimulant of wine supported us, and still we played. Then came the shadows of evening, stealing on in all their beauty. But what were they to us amid those mutations of fortune, which at one moment made us princes, and placed palaces at our control, and at another debased us below the various beggar that craves the stinted alms of charity from door to door. And there was one man who, from the first to the last, stayed by us like a very fiend, more than man I thought he was not human. We won of all but of him. People came and brought their bright red gold, and laid it down before us, but for us to take it up, and then by a cruel stroke of fortune he took it from us. The night came on, we won, and he won of us. At the clock struck twelve, we were beggars. God knows what was he. We saw him place his winnings about his person. We saw the smile that curved the corners of his lips. He was calm, and we were maddened. The blood flowed temperately through his veins, but in ours it was burning lava, scorching as it went through every petty artery, and drying up all human thought, all human feeling. The winner left, and we tracked his footsteps. When he reached the open air, although he had taken much less than we of the intoxicating beverages that are supplied gratis to those who frequent those haunts of infamy, he was evident that some sort of inebriation attacked him. His steps were disordered and unsteady, and as we followed him we could perceive by the devious tract that he took that he was somewhat uncertain of his route. We had no fixed motive in so pursuing this man. He was but an impulsive proceeding at the best, but as he still went on and cleared the streets, getting into the wild and open country and among the hedgerows, we began to whisper together and to think that what we did not owe to fortune we might to our own energy and courage at such a moment. I need not hesitate to say so, since, to hide the most important feature of my revelation from you, would be but to mock you. We resolved upon robbing him. And was that all? It was all that our resolution went to. We were not anxious to spill blood, but still we were resolved that we would accomplish our purpose, even if it required murder for its consummation. Have you heard enough? I have not heard enough, although I guessed the rest. You may well guess it from its preface. He turned down a lonely pathway, which, had we chosen it ourselves, could not have been more suitable for the attack we meditated. There were tall trees on either side and a hedgerow stretching high up between them. We knew that that lane led to a suburban village, which, without a doubt, was the object of his destination. Then Marmaduke Bannerworth spoke, saying, What have we to do must be done now or never. There needs not, too, in this adventure. Shall you or I require him to refund what he has won from us? I care not, I said, but if we are to accomplish our purpose without arousing even a shadow of resistance, it is better to show him its futility by both appearing and take a share in the adventure. This was agreed upon and we hastened forward. He heard footsteps pursuing him and quickened his pace. I was the fleetest runner and overtook him. I passed him a pace or two, and then turning I faced him and impeded his progress. The lane was narrow and a glance behind him showed him Marmaduke Bannerworth, so that he was hemmed in between two enemies and could move neither to the right nor to the left on account of the thick brushwood that intervened between the trees. Even with an amazing courage that sat but ill upon him, he demanded of us what we wanted and proclaimed his right to pass despite the obstruction we placed in his way. The dialogue was brief. I, being foremost, spoke to him. Your money, I said, your winnings at the gaming table. We cannot and we will not lose it. So suddenly that he had nearly taken my life, he drew a pistol from his pocket, and leveling it at my head he fired upon me. Perhaps had I moved it might have been my death. But as it was, the bullet furrowed my cheek, leaving a scar, the path of which is yet visible in a white sycotrix. I felt a stunning sensation and thought myself a dead man. I cried aloud to Marmaduke Bannerworth, and he rushed forward. I knew not that he was armed and that he had the power about him to do the deed which he then accomplished. But there was a groan, a slight struggle, and the successful game-ster fell upon the green sword made in his blood. And this is the father of her whom I adore? It is. Are you shocked to think of such a near relationship between so much beauty and intelligence and a midnight murderer? Is your philosophy so poor that the daughter's beauty suffers from the commission of a father's crime? No, no, it is not so. Do not fancy that. For one moment I can entertain such unworthy opinions. The thought that crossed me was that I should have to tell one of such a gentle nature that her father had done such a deed. On that head you can use your own discretion. The deed was done. There was sufficient light for us to look upon the features of the dying man. Gastly and terrific they glared upon us, while the glazed eyes, as they were upturned to the bright sky, seemed appealing to heaven for vengeance against us for having done the deed. Many a day and many an hour since, at all those times and all seasons, I have seen them following me and gloating over the misery they had the power to make. I think I see them now. Indeed. Yes, look, look, see how they glare upon me, with what a fixed and frightful stare the bloodshot pupils keep their place. There, there! Oh, save me from such a visitation again. It is too horrible. I dare not, I cannot endure it. And yet why do you gaze at me with such an aspect, dead visitant? You know that it was not my hand that did the deed, who laid you low. You know that not to me are you able to lay the heavy charge of your death. Varney, you look upon vacancy, said Charles Holland. No, no, vacancy it may be to you, but to me it is full of horrible shapes. Compose yourself, you have taken me far into your confidence already. I pray you now to tell me all. I have in my brain no room for horrible conjectures, such as those which might else torment me. Varney was silent for a few minutes, and then he wiped from his brow the heavy drops of perspiration that had there gathered, and heaved a deep sigh. Speak to me, added Charles, nothing will so much relieve you from the terrors of this remembrance as making a confidence which reflection will approve of and which you will know that you will have no reason to repent. Charles Holland, said Varney, I have already gone too far to retract, much too far I know, and can well understand all the danger of half-confidence. You already know so much that it is fit you should know more. Go on then, Varney, I will listen to you. I know not if at this juncture I can commend myself to say more. I feel that what next has to be told will be most horrible for me to tell, most sad for you to hear told. I can well believe, Varney, from your manner of speech and from the words you use, that you have some secret to relate beyond the simple fact of the murder of this game-ster by Marma Duke Bannerworth. You are right, such is the fact, the death of that man could not have moved me as you now see me moved. There is a secret connected with his fate which I may well hesitate to utter, a secret too horrible even to whisper to the winds of heaven, although I did not do the deed, no, no, I did not strike the blow, not I, not I. Varney, it is astonishing to me the pains you take to assure yourself of your innocence of this deed. No one accuses you, but still were it not that I am impressed with a strong conviction that you're speaking to me nothing but the truth, the very fact of your extreme anxiety to acquit yourself would engender suspicion. I can understand that feeling, Charles Holland, I can fully understand it. I do not blame you for it, it is a most natural one, but when you know all, you will feel with me how necessary it must have been to my peace to seize upon every trivial circumstance that can help me to a belief in my own innocence. It may be so, as yet you well know I speak in ignorance, but what could there have been in the character of that gambler that has made you so sympathetic concerning his decease? Nothing, nothing whatever in his character, he was a bad man, not one of these free open spirits which are seduced into crime by thoughtlessness, not one of those whom we pity, perchance, more than we condemn, but a man without a redeeming trait in his disposition, a man so heaped up with vices and iniquities, that society gained much by his decease, and not an individual could say that he had lost a friend. And yet the mere thought of the circumstances connected with his death seems almost to drive you to the verge of despair. You are right, the mere thought has that effect. You have aroused all my curiosity to know the causes of such a feeling. Barney paced the apartment in silence for many minutes. He seemed to be enduring a great mental struggle, and at length, when he turned to Charles Holland and spoke, there were upon his countenance traces of deep emotion. I have said, young man, that I will take you into my confidence. I have said that I will clear up many seeming mysteries, and that I will enable you to understand what was obscure in the narrative of Dr. Chillingworth, and of that man who filled the office of public executioner, and who has haunted me so long. It is true, then, as the doctor states, that you were executed in London. I was, and resuscitated by the galvanic process put into operation by Dr. Chillingworth. As he supposed, but there are truths connected with natural philosophy which he dreamed not of. I bear a charmed life, and it was but accident which produced a similar effect upon the latent springs of my existence in the house to which the executioner conducted me, to what would have been produced had I been suffered in the free and open air to wait until the cool moonbeams fell upon me. Varney, Varney, said Charles Holland, you will not succeed in convincing me of your supernatural powers. I hold such feelings and sensations at arm's length. I will not. I cannot assume you to be what you effect. I ask for no man's belief. I know that which I know, and gathering experience from the coincidence of different phenomena, I am compelled to arrive at certain conclusions. Believe what you please. Doubt what you please. But I say again that I am not as other men. I am in no condition to dispute your proposition. I wish not to dispute it, but you are wandering, Varney, from the point. I wait anxiously for a continuation of your narrative. I know that I am wandering from it. I know well that I am wandering from it, and that the reason I do so is that I dread that continuation. That dread will not be the less for its postponement. You are right, but tell me, Charles Holland, although you are young, you have been about in the great world sufficiently to form correct opinions and to understand which is related to you, drawing deeper deductions from certain facts and arriving possibly at more correct conclusions than some of mature years with less wisdom. I will freely answer, Varney, any question you may put to me. I know it. Tell me, then, what measure of guilt you attached to me in the transaction I have noticed to you. It seems, then, to me that, not contemplating the man's murder, you cannot be accused of the act, although a set of fortuitous circumstances made you appear in accomplice to its commission. Do you think I may be acquitted? You can acquit yourself knowing that you did not contemplate the murder. I did not contemplate it. I know not what desperate deed I should have stopped short at, then, in the height of my distress, but I neither contemplated taking that man's life, nor did I strike the blow which sent him from existence. There is even some excuse as regards the higher crime for Marmaduke Bannerworth. Think you so? Yes, he thought that you were killed, and impulsively he might have struck the blow that made him a murderer. Be it so, I am willing, extremely willing, that anything should occur that should remove the odium of guilt from any man. Be it so, I say, with all my heart. But now, Charles Holland, I feel that we must meet again ere I can tell you all. But in the meantime, let Flora Bannerworth rest in peace. She need dread nothing from me. This and revenge, the two passions which found a home in my heart, are now stifled forever. Revenge, did you say revenge? I did. Whence the marvel, am I not sufficiently human for that? But you coupled it with the name of Flora Bannerworth. I did, and that is part of my mystery. A mystery, indeed, to imagine such a being as Flora could awaken any such feeling in your heart, a most abundant mystery. It is so, I do not affect to deny it, but yet it is true, although so greatly mysterious. But tell her that although at one time I looked upon her as one whom I cared not if I injured, her beauty and distress changed the current of my thoughts and won me greatly. From the moment I found I had the power to become the bane of her existence, I ceased to wish to be so, and never again shall she experience a paying of alarm from Barney, the vampire. Her message shall be faithfully delivered, and doubt not that it will be received with grateful feelings. Nevertheless I should have much wished to have been in a position to inform her of more particulars. Come to me here at midnight tomorrow, and you shall know all. I will have no reservation with you, no concealments. You shall know whom I have had to battle against, and how it is that a world of evil passions took possession of my heart and made me what I am. Are you firm in this determination, Barney? Will you indeed tell me no more tonight? No more I have said it. Leave me now. I have need of more repose. For of late sleep has seldom closed my eyelids. Charles Holland was convinced, from the positive manner in which he spoke, that nothing more in the shape of information at that time was to be expected from Barney, and being fearful that if he urged this strange being too far at a time when he did not wish it, he might refuse all further communication. He thought it prudent to leave him, so he said to him, Be assured, Barney, I shall keep the appointment you have made, with an expectation when we do meet, of being rewarded by a recital of some full particulars. You shall not be disappointed. Farewell, farewell. Charles Holland bade him adieu and left the place. Although he had now acquired all the information he hoped to take away with him when Barney first began to be communicative, yet when he came to consider how strange and unaccountable a being he had been in communication with, Charles could not but congratulate himself that he had heard so much, for, from the manner of Barney, he could well suppose that that was, indeed, the first time he had been so communicative upon subjects which evidently held so conspicuous a place in his heart. And he had abundance of hope, likewise, from what had been said by Barney, that he would keep his word and communicate to him fully all else that he required to know, and when he recollected those words which Barney had used, signifying that he knew the danger of half-confidences, that hope grew into a certainty, and Charles began to have no doubt but that, on the next evening, all that was mysterious in the various affairs connected with the vampire would become clear and open to the light of day. He strolled down the lane in which the lone house was situated, loving these matters in his mind, and when he arrived at its entrance, he was rather surprised to see a throng of persons hastily moving onward with some appearance of dismay about them and anxiety depicted upon their countenances. He stopped a lad and inquired of him the cause of the seeming tumult. Why, sir, the fact is, said the boy, a crowd from the town's been burning down Bannerworth Hall, and they've killed a man. Bannerworth Hall, you must be mistaken. Well, sir, I ought not to call it Bannerworth Hall, because I mean the old ruins in the neighborhood that are supposed to have been originally Bannerworth Hall before the house now called such was built. And moreover, as the Bannerworths have always had a garden there, and two or three old sheds, the people in the town called it Bannerworth Hall in common with the other building. I understand, and do you say that all have been destroyed? Yes, sir, all that was capable of being burnt has been burned. And what is more, a man has been killed among the ruins. We don't know who he is, but the folks said he was a vampire and they left him for dead. When will these terrible outrages cease? Oh, Varney, Varney, you have much to answer for. Even if, in your own conscience, you succeed in acquitting yourself of the murder, some of the particulars concerning which you have informed me of. CHAPTER 83 THE MYSTERIOUS ARRIVAL AT THE END THE HUNGARIAN NOBLEMAN THE LETTER TO VARNEY While these affairs are proceeding, and when there seems every appearance of Sir Francis Varney himself quickly putting an end to some of the vexatious circumstances connected with himself in the Bannerworth family, it is necessary that we should notice an occurrence which took place at the same end which the Admiral had made such a scene of confusion upon the occasion of his first arrival in the town. Not since the Admiral had arrived with Jack Pringle, and so disturbed the whole economy of the household, was there so much curiosity excited as on the morning following the interview which Charles Holland had had with Varney the vampire. The inn was scarcely opened when a stranger arrived, mounted on a coal-black horse, and alighting he surrendered the bridle into the hands of a boy who happened to be at the indoor, and stalked slowly and solemnly into the building. He was tall and of a cadaverous aspect. In attire he was plainly apparelled, but there was no appearance of poverty about him. On the contrary what he really had on was of a rich and costly character, although destitute of ornament. He sat down in the first room that presented itself and awaited the appearance of the landlord, who, upon being informed that a guest of apparently ample means and of some consequence had entered the place, hastily went to him to receive his commands. With a profusion of bows our old friend, who had been so obsequious to Admiral Bell, entered the room and begged to know what orders the gentleman had for him. I presume, said the stranger in a deep, solemn voice, I presume that you have no objection for a few days that I shall remain in this town to board and lodge me for a certain price which you can name to me at once. Certainly, sir, said the landlord, any way you please. Without wine, sir, I presume. As you please, make your own arrangements. Well, sir, as we can't tell, of course, what wine a gentleman may drink, but when we come to consider breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper, and a bed, and all that sort of thing, and a private sitting-room, I suppose, sir? Certainly. You would not, then, think, sir, a matter of four guineas a week would be too much, perhaps? I told you to name your own charge. Let it be four guineas. If you had said eight, I should have paid it. Good God, said the publican, here's a damned fool that I am. I beg your pardon, sir, I didn't mean you. Now I could punch my own head. Will you have some breakfast at once, sir, and then we shall begin regularly? You know, sir. Have what? Breakfast. Breakfast. You know, sir, tea, coffee, cocoa, or chocolate, ham, eggs, or a bit of grilled fowl, cold sirloin, or roast beef, or a red herring. Anything you like, sir. I never take breakfast, so you may spare yourself the trouble of providing anything for me. Not take breakfast, sir. Not take breakfast. Would you like to take anything to drink, then, sir? People say it's an odd time, at eight o'clock in the morning, to drink, but for my part I always have thought that you couldn't begin a good thing too soon. I live upon drink, said the stranger, but you have none in the cellar that will suit me. Indeed, sir. No, no, I am certain. Why, we've got some clare now, sir, said the landlord, which may look like blood, and yet not be it. Like what, sir? Damn my rags. Be gone, be gone. The stranger uttered these words so peremptorily that the landlord hastily left the room, and going into his own bar he gave himself so small a tap on the side of the head that it would not have heard a fly, as he said, I could punish myself into bits, I could tear my hair out by the roots, and then he pulled a little bit of his hair so gently and tenderly that it showed what a man of discretion he was, even in the worst of all his agony of passion. The idea, he added, of a fellow coming here, paying four guineas a week for board and lodging, telling me he would not have minded eight, and then not wanting any breakfast. It's enough to aggravate half a dozen saints. But what an odd fish he looks. At this moment the oestler came in, and standing at the bar he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, as he said. I suppose you'll stand a court for that, master? A court for what, you vagabond? A court because I've done myself up in heaps? A court because I'm fit to pull myself into fiddle strings? No, said the oestler, because I've just put up the gentleman's horse. What gentleman's horse? Why, the big-looking fellow with the white face, now in the parlor. What, did he come on a horse, Sam? What sort of a looking creature is it? You may judge of a man from the sort of horse company he keeps. Well, then, sir, I hardly know. It's cold, black, and looks as knowing as possible. It's tried twice to get a kick at me, but I was down upon him and put the bucket in his way. How's some, Devere? I don't think it's a bad animal, as an animal, mind you, sir, though a little bit vicious or so. Well, said the publican, as he drew the oestler half a pint instead of a court. You're always drinking. Take that. Blow me, said the oestler. Half a pint, master. Plague take you. I can't stand parlaying with you. There's the parlor bell. Perhaps after all he will have some breakfast. While the landlord was away, the oestler helped himself to a court of the strongest ale, which by a singular faculty that he had acquired, he poured down his throat without any effort at swallowing, holding his head back, and the jug at a little distance from his mouth. Having accomplished this feat, he reversed the jug, giving it a knowing tap with his knuckles, as though he would have signified to all the world that it was empty, and that he had accomplished what he desired. In the meantime, the landlord had made his way to his strange guest, who said to him when he came into the room, "'Is there not one, sir Francis Varney, residing in this town?' "'The devil,' thought the landlord, "'this is another of them. "'I'll bet a guinea.' "'Sir Francis Varney, sir, did you say? "'Why, sir, there was a, sir Francis Varney, "'but folks seem to think as how he's no better "'than he should be, a sort of vampire, sir, "'if you know what that is.' "'I have certainly heard of such things, "'but can you not tell me Varney's address? "'I wish to see him.' "'Well, then, sir, I cannot tell it to you, "'for there's really been such a commotion "'and such a riot about him that he's taken himself off, "'I think, altogether, and we can hear nothing of him. "'Lord bless you, sir, they burnt down his house "'and hunted him about so, that I don't think "'that he'll ever show his face here again. "'And cannot you tell me where he was seen last?' "'That I cannot, sir, but if anybody "'knows anything about him, it's Mr. Henry Bannerworth, "'or, perhaps, Dr. Chillingworth, "'for they have had more to do with him than anybody else. "'Indeed, and can you tell me the address "'of the former individual? "'That I cannot, sir, for the Bannerworths "'have left the hall. "'As for the doctor, sir, you'll see his house "'on High Street with a large brass plate on the door "'so that you cannot mistake it. "'It's number nine on the other side of the way. "'I thank you for so much information,' said the stranger, "'and, rising, he walked to the door. "'Before, however, he left, he turned and added, "'You can say, if you should, by chance, "'meet Mr. Bannerworth, that a Hungarian nobleman "'wishes to speak to him concerning "'Sir Francis Barney, the vampire?' "'Oh, what, sir?' "'A nobleman from Hungary,' was the reply. "'The deuce,' said the landlord, as he looked after him, "'he don't seem at all hungry here, not thirsty neither. "'What does he mean by a nobleman from Hungary? "'The idea of a man talking about Hungary "'and not taking any breakfast. "'He's querying me. "'I'll be hanged if I'll stand it. "'Here I clearly lose four guineas a week "'and then get made a game of besides. "'A nobleman, indeed. "'I think I see him. "'Why, he isn't quite so big as old slainy the butcher. "'It's a dew. "'I'll have Adam when he comes back.' "'Meanwhile, the unconscious object of this soliloquy "'passed down High Street until he came "'to Dr. Chillingworth's at whose door he knocked. "'Now Mrs. Chillingworth had been waiting the whole night "'for the return of the doctor, who had not yet made his appearance, "'and consequently that lady's temper had become "'assigulated to an uncommon extent, "'and when she heard a knock at the door, "'something possessed her that it could be no other than her spouse, "'and she prepared to give him that warm reception "'which she considered he had a right, as a married man, "'to expect after such conduct. "'She hurriedly filled a tolerably-sized hand basin "'with not the cleanest water in the world, "'and then, opening the door hurriedly with one hand, "'she sloused the contents into the face of the intruder, "'exclaiming, "'Now you've caught it!' "'Damn!' said the Hungarian nobleman, "'and then Mrs. Chillingworth uttered a scream, "'for she feared she had made a mistake. "'Oh, sir, I'm very sorry, but I thought it was my husband.' "'But if you did,' said the stranger, "'there was no occasion to drown him with a basin of soap, said. "'It is your husband I want, madam, if he be Dr. Chillingworth.' "'Then, indeed, you must go on wanting him, sir, "'for he's not been to his home for a day and a night. "'He takes up all his time in hunting after that beastly vampire.' "'Ah, sir Francis Varney, you mean?' "'I do, and I'd Varney him if I caught hold of him. "'Can you give me the least idea of where he can be found?' "'Of course I can.' "'Indeed, where?' said the stranger, eagerly, "'in some churchyard, to be sure, gobbling up the dead bodies. "'With this Mrs. Chillingworth shut the door with a bang "'that nearly flattened the Hungarian's nose with his face, "'and he was famed to walk away, quite convinced "'that there was no information to be had in that quarter. "'He returned to the inn, and having told the landlord "'that he would give a handsome reward to anyone "'who would discover to him the retreat of Sir Francis Varney, "'he shut himself up in an apartment alone "'and was busy for a time in writing letters. "'Although the sum which the stranger offered "'was an indefinite one, the landlord mentioned the matter "'across the bar to several persons, but all of them shook "'their heads, believing it to be a very perilous adventure "'indeed to have anything to do with so troublesome a subject "'as Sir Francis Varney, as the day advanced, however, "'a young lad presented himself and asked to see the gentleman "'who had been inquiring for Varney. "'The landlord severely questioned and cross-questioned him "'with the hope of discovering if he had any information, "'but the boy was quite obdurate and would speak to no one "'but the person who had offered the reward so that "'mine host was compelled to take him to the Hungarian nobleman, "'who, as yet, had neither eaten nor drunk in the house. "'The boy wore upon his countenance the very expression "'of juvenile cunning, and when the stranger asked him if he "'really was in possession of any information concerning the "'retreat of Sir Francis Varney, he said, "'I can tell you where it is, but what are you going to give?' "'What sum do you require?' said the stranger. "'A whole half-crown. "'It is yours, and if your information proved correct, "'come to-morrow, and I'll add another to it, always provided, "'likewise, you keep the secret from anyone else.' "'Trust me for that,' said the boy. "'I live with my grandmother. "'She's precious old and has got a cottage. "'We sell milk and cakes, sticky stuff, and penny-winkels.' "'Our goodly collection. Go on.' "'Well, sir, this morning there comes a man in with a bottle, "'and he buys a bottle full of milk and a loaf. "'I saw him, and I knew it was Varney the Vampire.' "'You followed him?' "'Of course I did, sir, and he's staying at the house that's to "'let down the lane, round the corner, by Mr. Biggs, and past "'Lee's Garden, leaving old slainy stacks on your right hand, "'and so cutting on till you come to Grant's Meadow, "'when you'll see old Madhunter's Brickfield staring of you in "'the face, and after that, peace, peace. "'You shall yourself conduct me. "'Come to this place at sunset, be secret, and probably ten times "'the reward you have already received may be yours,' said the stranger. "'What, ten half-crowns?' "'Yes, I will keep my word with you.' "'What a go! I know what I'll do. I'll set up as a showman, and what a glorious treat it will be, to peep through one of the holes all day myself, and get somebody to pull the strings "'up and down, and when I'm tired of that, I can blaze away "'upon the trumpet like one o'clock. "'I think I see me. Here you see the Duke of Marlborough, "'a whoppin' of everybody, and here you see the Frenchman "'flying about like parched peas in a sifter.' "'End of Chapter 83. "'Recording by Roger Maline.' "'Chapter 84 of Varnie the Vampire, Volume 2.' "'This is a LibriVox recording. "'All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. "'For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org.' "'Recording by Roger Maline.' "'Varnie the Vampire, Volume 2.' "'By Thomas Prescott Prest.' "'Chapter 84. "'The Excited Populus. The Place of Refuge.' "'There seemed now a complete lull in the proceedings "'as connected with Varnie the Vampire.' "'We have reason to believe that the executioner, "'who had been as solicitous as Varnie to obtain undisputed "'possession of Bannerworth Hall, "'has fallen victim to the indiscriminate rage of the mob.' "'Varnie himself is a fugitive, and bound by the most solemn ties "'to Charles Holland, not only to communicate to him "'such particulars of the past, as will bring satisfaction "'to his mind, but to abstain from any act which, "'for the future, shall exercise a disastrous influence "'upon the happiness of Flora. "'The doctor and the admiral, with Henry, "'had betaken themselves from the hall as we had recorded, "'and in due time reached the cottage where Flora and her "'mother had found a temporary refuge. "'Mrs. Bannerworth was up, but Flora was sleeping, "'and although the tidings they had to tell were of a curious "'and mixed nature, they would not have her disturbed to listen "'to them. "'And likewise they were rather pleased than otherwise, "'since they knew not exactly what had become of Charles "'Holland, to think that they would probably be spared "'the necessity of saying they could not account for his absence. "'That he had gone upon some expedition, probably dangerous, "'and so one which he did not wish to communicate the particulars "'of to his friends, lest they should make a strong attempt "'to dissuade him from it, they were induced to believe. "'But yet they had that confidence in his courage and active "'intellectual resources to believe that he would come through "'it unscathed, and probably shortly show himself at the cottage. "'In this hope they were not disappointed, for in about two hours Charles made his appearance. But until he began to be questioned concerning his absence by the Admiral, he scarcely considered the kind of dilemma he had put himself into by the promise of secrecy he had given to Varney, and was a little puzzled to think how much he might tell and how much he was bound in honor to conceal. "'A vast there!' cried the Admiral. "'What becomes of your tongue, Charles? You've been on some crews, I'll be bound. Haul over the ship's books and tell us what's happened.' "'I have been upon an adventure,' said Charles, which I hope will be productive of beneficial results to us all. But the fact is I have made a promise, perhaps unconsciously, that I will not communicate what I know.' "'Who?' said the Admiral. "'That's awkward. But, however, if a man sails under sealed instructions, there's an end of it. I remember when I was off candy a once. Ha!' interposed Jack. That was the time you tumbled over the blessed binocle, all in consequence of taking too much madiera. I remember it, too. It's an out-and-out good story, that air. You took a rope's end, you know, and laid into the bowsprit. And says you, get up, you lover, says you, all the while of thinking, I suppose, as it was Long Jack Ingram, the carpenter's mate, laying asleep. What a lark!' "'This scoundrel will be the death of me,' said the Admiral. There isn't one word of truth in what he says. I never got drunk in all my life, as everybody knows. Jack, affairs are getting serious between you and I. We must part and for good. It's a good many times that I've told you you forgot the difference between the quarter-deck and the caboose. Now, I'm serious. You're off the ship's books, and there's an end of you.' "'Very good,' said Jack. I'm willing. I'll leave you. Do you think I want to keep you any longer?' "'Goodbye, old bloke. I'll leave you to repent. And when old grim death comes yard-armed with you, and you can't shake off his boarding-tackle, you'll say, Where's Jack Pringle?' says you. And then what's his name? Oh, uh, Echo, you call it. Echo'll say, As damned if it knows. Jack turned upon his heel, and before the Admiral could make any reply, he left the place. "'What's the rascal up to now?' said the Admiral. I really didn't think he'd have taken me at my word. "'Oh, then after all, you didn't mean it, Uncle?' said Charles. "'What's that to you, you lover, whether I mean it or not, you sure-going squab? Of course I expect everybody to desert an old hulk, rats and all. And now Jack Pringle's gone. The vagabond. Couldn't he stay and get drunk as long as he liked? Didn't he say what he pleased and do what he pleased, the mutinous thief? Didn't he say I run away from a Frenchman off Cape Washington, and didn't I put up with that? But, my dear Uncle, you sent him away yourself.' "'I didn't, and you know I didn't. But I see how it is. You've disgusted Jack among you. A better seaman never trod the deck of a man of war.' "'But his drunkenness, Uncle?' "'It's a lie. I don't believe he ever got drunk. I believe you all invented it, and Jack so good-natured he tumbled about just to keep you in countenance. But his insolence, Uncle, his gross insolence towards you, his inventions, his exaggerations of the truth.' "'A vast there. A vast there. None of that, Master Charlie. Jack couldn't do anything of the sort, and I means to say this, that if Jack was here now I'd stick up for him and say he was a good seaman.' "'Tip us your fin, then,' said Jack, darting into the room. "'Do you think I'd leave you, you damn old fool? What would become of you, I wonder, if I wasn't to take you in to dry nurse?' "'Why, you blessed old babby. What do you mean by it?' "'Jack, you villain. Ah, go on and call me a villain as much as you like. Don't you remember when the bullets were scuttling our knobs?' "'I do. I do, Jack. Tip us your fin, old fellow. You've saved my life more than once.' "'It's a lie. It ain't. You did, I say. You be damned.' And thus was the most serious misunderstanding that these two worthies ever had together made up. The real fact is that the Admiral could as little do without Jack as he could have done without food, and as for Pringle he no more thought of leaving the old Commodore than of, what shall we say, forswearing rum. Jack himself could not have taken a stronger oath. But the old Admiral had suffered so much from the idea that Jack had actually left him that, although he abused him as usual often enough, he never again talked of taking him off the ship's books. And, to the credit of Jack, be it spoken, he took no advantage of the circumstance, and only got drunk just as usual, and called his master an old fool whenever it suited him. End of Chapter 84. Recording by Roger Maline For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Barney the Vampire, Volume 2, by Thomas Prescott-Prest Chapter 85 The Hungarian nobleman gets into danger he is fired at and shows some of his quality. Considerably delighted was the Hungarian, not only at the news he had received from the boy, but as well for the cheapness of it. Probably he did not conceive it possible that the secret of the retreat of such a man as Barney could have been attained so easily. He waited with great impatience for the evening and stirred not from the inn for several hours. Neither did he take any refreshment, notwithstanding he had made so liberal an arrangement with the landlord to be supplied. All this was a matter of great excitement and speculation in the inn, so much so, indeed, that the landlord sent for some of the oldest customers of his house, regular topers, who sat there every evening indulging in strong drinks and pipes and tobacco, to ask their serious advice as to what he should do as if it were necessary he should do anything at all. But, somehow or another, these wise-acres who assembled at the landlord's bidding and sat down with something strong before them in the bar parlor never once seemed to think that a man might, if he choose, come to an inn and agreed to pay four guineas a week for board and lodging, and yet take nothing at all. No, they could not understand it, and therefore they would not have it. It was quite monstrous that anybody should attempt to do anything so completely out of the ordinary course of proceeding. It was not to be borne, and as in this country it happens, free and enlightened as we are, that no man can commit a greater social offense than doing something his neighbors never thought of doing themselves. The Hungarian nobleman was voted a most dangerous character, and in fact not to be put up with. I shouldn't have thought so much of it, said the landlord, but only look at the aggravation of the thing. After I have asked him four guineas a week and expected to be beaten down to two, to be then told that he would not have cared if it had been eight, it is enough to aggravate a saint. Well, I agree with you there, said another. That's just what it is, and I only wonder that a man of your sagacity has not quite understood it before. Understood what? Why, that he is a vampire. He has heard of Sir Francis Barney, that's a fact, and he's come to see him. Birds of a feather, you know, flock together, and now we shall have two vampires in the town instead of one. The party looked rather blank at this suggestion, which indeed seemed rather uncomfortable probably. The landlord had just opened his mouth to make some remark when he was stopped by the violent ringing of what he now called the vampire's bell since it proceeded from the room where the Hungarian nobleman was. Have you an almanac in the house? Was the question of the mysterious guest? An almanac, Sir? Well, I really don't know. Let me see an almanac. But perhaps you can tell me. I was to know the moon's age. The devil thought the landlord. He's a vampire and no mistake. Why, Sir, as to the moon's age, it was a full moon last night, very bright and beautiful, only you could not see it for the clouds. A full moon last night, said the mysterious guest thoughtfully, it may shine then brightly tonight, and if so, all will be well. I thank you. Leave the room. Do you mean to say, Sir, you don't want anything to eat now? What I want I will order. But you have ordered nothing. Then presume that I want nothing. The discomfited landlord was obliged to leave the room, for there was no such thing as making any answer to this, and so, still further confirmed in his opinion that the stranger was a vampire that came to see Sir Francis Barney from a sympathetic feeling towards him, he again reached the bar parlor. You may depend, he said, as sure as eggs is eggs, that he is a vampire. Pillowah, he's gone off after him, after him. He thinks we suspect him. There he goes down the high street. The landlord ran out, and so did those who were with him, one of whom carried his brandy and water in his hand, which, being too hot for him to swallow all at once, he still could not think of leaving behind. It was now getting rapidly dark, and the mysterious stranger was actually proceeding towards the lane to keep his appointment with the boy who had promised to conduct him to the hiding place of Sir Francis Barney. He had not proceeded far, however, before he began to suspect that he was followed, as it was evident on the instant that he altered his course. For, instead of walking down the lane where the boy was waiting for him, he went right on, and seemed desirous of making his way into the open country between the town and Bannerworth Hall. His pursuers, they assumed that character, when they saw this, became anxious to intercept him, and thinking that the greater force they had the better, they called out aloud as they passed a smithy where a man was shoeing a horse, Jack Burton, here is another vampire. The deuce there is, said the person who was addressed. I'll soon settle him. Here's my wife who gets no sleep of a night as it is, all owing to that Barney who has been plaguing us so long, I won't put up with another. So, saying, he snatched from a hook on which it hung an old fouling piece, and joined the pursuit, which now required to be conducted with some celerity, for the stranger had struck into the open country, and was getting on at a good speed. The last remnants of the twilight were fading away, and although the moon had actually risen, its rays were obscured by a number of light, fleecy clouds, which, although they did not promise to be of a long continuance, as yet certainly impeded the light. Where is he going, said the black smith, he seems to be making his way towards the mill stream. No, said another, don't you see his striking higher up towards the old gourd, where the stepping stones are? He is, he is, cried the black smith. Run on, run on, don't you see he is crossing it now? Tell me, all of you, are you quite sure he is a vampire and no mistake? He ain't the excise man, landlord, now is he. The excise man, the devil, do you think I want to shoot the excise man? Very good, then here goes, exclaimed the smith. He stopped, and just as the brisk night air blew aside the clouds from before the face of the moon, and as the stranger was crossing the slippery stones, he fired at him. How silently and sweetly the moon's rays fall upon the water, upon the meadows, and upon the woods. The scenery appeared the work of enchantment, some fairyland, waiting the appearance of its inhabitants. No sound met the ear, the very wind was hushed, nothing was there to distract the sense of sight, save the power of reflection. This indeed would aid the effect of such a scene. A cloudless sky was stars all radiant with beauty, while the moon rising higher and higher in the heavens, increasing in the strength and refulgence of her light, and dimming the very stars, which seemed to grow gradually invisible as the majesty of the queen of night became more and more manifest. The dark woods and the open meadows contrasted more and more strongly. Like light and shade, the earth and sky were not more distinct and apart, and the rippling stream that rushed along with all the impetuosity of uneven ground. The banks were clothed with bear-dure, the tall sedges here and there lined the sides, beds of full rushes raised their heads high above all else, and threw out their round clumps of blossoms like tufts, and looked strange in the light of the moon. Here and there, too, the willows bent gracefully over the stream, and their long leaves were wafted and borne up and down by the gentler force of the stream. Below the stream widened and ran foaming over a hard stony bottom, and near the middle is a heap of stones, of large stones that form the bed of the river, from which the water has washed away all earthy particles and left them by themselves. These stones in winter could not be seen, they were all under water, and the stream rushed over in a turbulent and tumultuous manner. But now, when the water was clear and low, there were many of them positively out of the water, the stream running around and through their interstices, the water weeds here and there lying at the top of the stream and blossoming beautifully. The daisy-like blossoms danced and waved gently on the moving flood, at the same time they shone in the moonlight, like fairy faces rising from the depths of the river, to receive the principle of life from the moon's rays. Tis sweet to wander in the moonlight at such an hour, and it is sweet to look upon such a scene with an unruffled mind, and to give way to the feelings that are engendered by a walk by the riverside. See, the moon is rising higher and higher, the shadows grow shorter and shorter, the river, which in places was altogether hidden by the tall willow trees, now gradually becomes less and less hidden, and the water becomes more and more lit up. The moonbeams played gracefully on the rippling surface, here and there appearing like liquid silver, that each instant changed its position and surface exposed to the light. Such a moment, such a scene, were by far too well calculated to cause the most solemn and serious emotions of the mind, and he must have been but at best insensible, who could wander over meadow and through grove, and yet remain untouched by the scene of poetry and romance in which he breathed and moved. At such a time and in such a place, the world is alive with all the finer essences of mysterious life. Tis at such an hour that the spirits quit their secret abodes and visit the earth and whirl around the enchanted trees. Tis now the spirits of earth and air dance their giddy flight from flower to flower. Tis now they collect and exchange their greetings, the wood is filled with them, the meadows team with them, the hedges at the riverside have them hidden among the deep green leaves and blades. But what is that yonder on the stones partially out of the water? What can it be? The more it is looked at, the more it resembles the human form, and yet it is still and motionless on the hard stones, and yet it is a human form. The legs are lying in the water, the arms appear to be partially in and partially out, a scene moved by the stream now and then, but very gently, so slightly indeed that it might well be questioned if it moved at all. The moon's rays had not reached it, the bank on the opposite side of the stream was high, and some tall trees rose up and obscured the moon, but she was rising higher and higher each moment, and finally when it has reached the tops of those trees, then the rays will reach the middle of the river, and then by degrees it will reach the stones in the river, and finally the body that lies there so still and so mysteriously. How it came there it would be difficult to say. It appeared as though when the waters were high the body had floated down, and at the subsidence of the waters it had been left upon the stones and now it was exposed to view. It was strange and mysterious, and those who might look upon such a sight would feel their blood chill and their body creep to contemplate the remains of humanity in such a place and in such a condition as that must be in. A human life had been taken. How? Who could tell? Perhaps accident alone was the cause of it. Perhaps someone had taken a life by violent means and thrown the body in the waters to conceal the fact and the crime. The waters had brought it down and deposited it there in the middle of the river without any human creature being acquainted with the fact. But the moon rises, the beams come trembling through the treetops and straggling branches, and fall upon the opposite bank, and there lies the body midstream and in comparative darkness. By the time the river is lit up by the moon's rays, then the object on the stones will be visible, then it can be ascertained what appears now only probable, namely, is the dark object a human form or not. In the absence of light it appears to be so, but when the flood of silver light falls upon it, it would be placed then beyond a doubt. The time is approaching, the moon each moment approaches her meridian, and each moment do the rays increase in number and in strength while the shadows shorten. The opposite bank each moment becomes more and more distinct, and the side of the stream, the green rushes and sedges, all by degrees come full into view. Now and then a fish leaps out of the stream and just exhibits itself as much as to say, there are things living in the stream and I am one of them. The moment is one of awe, the presence of that mysterious and dreadful looking object, even while its identity remains doubt, chills the heart. It contracts the expanding thoughts to that one object, all interest in the scene might centered in that one point. What could it be? What else but a human body? What else could assume such a form? But see, nearly half the stream is lit by the moonbeams struggling through the treetops and now rising above them. The light increases and the shadows shorten. The edge of the bed of stones now becomes lit up by the moonlight, the rippling stream, the bubbles, and the tiny spray that was caused by the rush of water against the stones seemed like sparkling flashes of silver fire. Then came the moonbeams upon the body, for it was raised above the level of the water and showed conspicuously. Of the moonbeams reached the body before they fell on the surrounding water. For that reason then it was the body presented a strange and ghastly object against a deep, dark background by which it was surrounded. But this did not last long. The water in another minute was lit up by the moon's pale beams and then indeed could be plainly enough seen the body of a man lying on the heap of stones motionless and ghastly. The colorless hue of the moonlight gave the object a most horrific and terrible appearance. The face of the dead man was turned towards the moon's rays and the body seemed to receive all the light that could fall upon it. It was a terrible object to look upon and one that added a new and singular interest to the scene. The world seemed then to be composed almost exclusively of still life and the body was no impediment to the stillness of the scene. It was, all else considered, a calm, beautiful scene. Lovely the night, gorgeous the silvery rays that lit up the face of nature. The hill and dale, meadow and wood and river, all afforded contrasts strong, striking and strange. But strange and more strange than any contrast in nature was that afforded to the calm beauty of the night and placed by the deep stillness and quietude imposed upon the mind by that motionless human body. The moon's rays now fell upon its full length. The feet were lying in the water. The head lay back with its features turned towards the quarter of the heavens where the moon shone from. The hair floated on the shallow water while the face and body were exposed to all influences from its raised and prominent position. The moonbeams had scarcely settled upon it, scarce a few minutes, when the body moved. Was it the water that moved it? It could not be surely that the moonbeams had the power of recalling life to that inanimate mass that lay there for some time still and motionless as the very stones on which it lay. It was endued with life. The dead man gradually rose up and leaned himself on his elbow. He paused a moment like one newly recalled to life. He seemed to become assured he did live. He passed one hand through his hair, which was wet, and then rose higher into a sitting posture, and then he leaned on one hand inclining himself towards the moon. His breast heaved with life and a kind of deep inspiration or groan came from him as he first awoke to life, and then he seemed to pause for a few moments. He turned gradually over till his head inclined down the stream. Just below the water deepened and ran swiftly and silently on amid meads and groves of trees. The vampire was revived. He awoke again to a ghastly life. He turned from the heap of stones. He gradually allowed himself to sink into deep water, and then with a loud plunge, he swam to the center of the river. Slowly and surely did he swim into the center of the river and down the stream he went. He took long but easy strokes for he was going down the stream and that aided him. For some distance might he be heard and seen through the openings in the trees, he became gradually more and more indistinct till sound and sight both ceased and the vampire had disappeared. During the continuance of this singular scene, not one word had passed between the landlord and his companions. When the blacksmith fired the fouling piece and saw the stranger fall apparently lifeless upon the stepping stones that crossed the river, he became terrified at what he had done and gazed upon the seeming lifeless form with a face on which the utmost horror was depicted. They all seemed transfixed to the spot and although each would have given worlds to move away, a kind of nightmare seemed to possess them which stunned all their faculties and brought over them a torpedoity from which they found it impossible to arouse themselves. But when the apparently dead man moved again and when finally the body, which appeared so destitute of life, rolled into the stream and floated away with the tide, their fright might be considered to have reached its climax. The absence of the body, however, had seemingly at all events the effect of releasing them from the mental and physical thralldom in which they were and they were enabled to move from the spot, which they did immediately, making their way towards the town with great speed. As they got near, they held a sort of council of war as to what they should do under the circumstances, the result of which was that they came to a conclusion to keep all that they had done and seen to themselves. For, if they did not, they might be called upon for some very troublesome explanations concerning the fate of the Hungarian noblemen, whom they had taken upon themselves to believe was a vampire and to shoot accordingly, without taking the trouble to inquire into the legality of such an act. How such a secret is likely to be kept when it is shared amongst seven people, it is hard to say. But if it were so kept, it could only be under the pressure of a strong feeling of self-preservation. They were forced individually, of course, to account for their absence during the night at their respective homes, and how they managed to do that is best known to themselves. As to the landlord, he felt compelled to state that, having his suspicions of his guest aroused, he followed him on a walk that he pretended to take, and he had gone so far that at length he had given up the chase and lost his own way in returning. Thus was it, then, that this affair still preserved all its mystery with a large super-added amount of fear attended upon it. For, if the mysterious guest were really anything supernatural, might he not come again in a much more fearful shape and avenge the treatment he had received? The only person who felt any disappointment in the affair, or whose expectations were not realized, was the boy who had made the appointment with the supposed vampire at the end of the lane and who was to have received what he considered so large a reward for pointing out the retreat of Sir Francis Barney. He waited in vain for the arrival of the Hungarian nobleman, and, at last, indignation got the better of him and he walked away. Feeling that he had been jilted, he resolved to proceed to the public house and demand the half-crowns which had been so liberally promised him. But when he reached there, he found that the party whom he sought was not within, nor the landlord either, for that was the precise time when that worthy individual was pursuing his guest over Meadow in Hill, through break and briar, towards the stepping stones on the river. What the boy further did on the following day, when he found that he was to reap no more benefit for the adventure, we shall soon perceive. As for the landlord, he did endeavor to catch a few hours brief repose, but as he dreamed that the Hungarian nobleman came in the likeness of a great toad and sat upon his chest, feeling like the weight of a mountain, while he the landlord tried to scream and cry for help, but found that he could neither do one thing nor the other, we may guess that his repose did not at all invigorate him. As he himself expressed it, he got up all of a shake, with a strong impression that he was a very ill used individual indeed to have had the nightmare in the daytime. And now we will return to the cottage where the Bannerworth family were at all events, making themselves quite as happy as they did at their ancient mansion in order to see what is there passing, and how Dr. Chillingworth made an effort to get up some evidence of something that the Bannerworth family knew nothing of, therefore could not very well be expected to render him much assistance. That he did, however, make what he considered an important discovery, we shall perceive in the course of the ensuing chapter, in which it will be seen that the best hidden things will, by the nearest accident, sometimes come to light, and that too, when least expected by anyone at all connected with the result. End of Chapter 85 Chapter 86 of Barney the Vampire Volume 2 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Barney the Vampire Volume 2 by Thomas Prescott-Prest Chapter 86 The discovery of the pocketbook of Marmaduke Bannerworth, its mysterious contents. The little episode had just taken place, which we have recorded, between the old Admiral and Jack Pringle, when Henry Bannerworth and Charles Holland stepped aside to converse. Charles, said Henry, it has become absolutely necessary that I should put an end to the state of dependence in which we all live upon your uncle. It is too bad to think that because, through fighting the battles of his country, he has amassed some money, we are to eat it up. My dear friend, said Charles, does it not strike you that it would be a great deal worse than too bad if my uncle could not do what he liked with his own? Yes, but Charles, that is not the question. I think it is, though I know not what other question you can make of it. We have talked it over, my mother, my brother and Flora, and my brother and I have determined if this state of things should last much longer to find out some means of honorable exertion by which we may, at all events, maintain ourselves without being burdensome to any. Well, well, we will talk of that another time. May, but hear me, we were thinking that if we went into some branch of the public service, your uncle would have the pleasure, such as we are quite sure it would be to him, of assisting us greatly by his name and influence. Well, well, Henry, that's all very well, but for a little time do not throw up the old man and make him unhappy. I believe I am his only relative in the world and, as he has often said, he intended leaving me air to all he possesses. You see, there is no harm done by you receiving a small portion of it beforehand. And, said Henry, by that line of argument we are to find an excuse for robbing your uncle in the fact that we are robbing you likewise. No, no, indeed you do not view the matter rightly. Well, all I can say is, Charles, that while I feel and while we all feel the deepest debt of gratitude towards your uncle, it is our duty to do something. In a box which we have brought with us from the hall, and which has not been opened since our father's death, I have stumbled over some articles of ancient jewelry and plate, which at all events will produce something, but which you must not part with. Nay, but Charles, these are things I knew not we possessed, and most ill-suited do they happen to be to our fallen fortunes. It is money we want, not the Gugas of a former state, to which we can have now no sort of pretension. Nay, I know you have all the argument, but still is there something sad and uncomfortable to one's feelings in parting with such things as those which have been in families for many years. But we knew not that we had them. Remember that, Charles. Come and look at them. Those relics of a bygone age may amuse you, and as regards myself, there are no circumstances whatever associated with them that give them any extrinsic value. So laugh at them or admire them as you please, I shall most likely be able to join with you in either feeling. Well, be it so, I will come and look at them. But you must think better of what you say concerning my uncle, for I happen to know, which you ought likewise by this time, how seriously the old man would feel any rejection on your part of the good he fancies he is doing you. I tell you, Henry, it is completely his hobby, and let him have earned his money with ten times the danger he has, he could not spend it with anything like the satisfaction that he does, unless he were allowed to dispose of it in this way. Well, well, be it so for a time. The fact is, his attachment to Flora is so great, which is a most fortunate circumstance for me, that I should not be at all surprised that she cuts me out of one half of my estate when the old man dies. But come, we will look at your ancient bijoudery. Henry led Charles into an apartment of the cottage where some of the few things had been placed that were brought from Bannerworth Hall, which were not likely to be in constant and daily use. Among these things happened to be the box which Henry had mentioned, and from which he had taken a miscellaneous assortment of things of an antique and singular character. There were old dresses of a season and of a taste long gone by, ancient articles of defense, some curiously wrought daggers, and a few ornaments, pretty but valueless, along with others of more sterling pretensions, which Henry pointed out to Charles. I am almost inclined to think, said the latter, that some of these things are really of considerable value, but I do not profess to be an accurate judge, and perhaps I am more taken with the beauty of an article than the intrinsic worth. What is that which you have just taken from the box? It seems a half mask, said Henry, made of silk, and here are initial letters within it, mb. To what do they apply? Mb. Bannerworth, my father. I regret I asked you. Nay, Charles, you need not. Years have now elapsed since that misguided man put a period to his own existence in the gardens of Bannerworth Hall. Of course, the shock was a great one to us all, although I must confess that we none of us knew much of a father's affections, but time reconciles one to these dispensations, and to a friend like yourself, I can talk upon the subjects without a paying. He laid down the mask and proceeded further in his search of the old box. Towards the bottom of it there were some books, and crushed in by the side of them there was an ancient looking pocketbook which Charles pointed out saying, There, Henry, who knows but you may find a fortune when you least expect it? Those who expect nothing, said Henry, will not be disappointed. At all events, as regards this pocketbook, you see it is empty. Not quite. A card has fallen from it. Charles took up the card and read upon it the name of Count Barare. That name, he said, seems familiar to me. Ah, now I recollect. I have read of such a man. He flourished some twenty or five and twenty years ago, and was considered a roux of the first water, a finished game-ster. And in a sort of brief memoir I read once of him, it said that he disappeared suddenly one day and was never again heard of. Indeed, I'm not puzzled to think how his card came into my father's pocketbook. They met at some gaming-house, and if some old pocketbook of Count Barare's were shaken, there might fall from it a card with the name of Mr. Marmaduke Bannerworth upon it. Is there nothing further in the pocketbook? No memoranda? I will look. Stay. Here is something upon one of the leaves. Let me see. Mem, twenty-five thousand pounds. He who robs the robber steals little. It is not meant to kill him, but it will be unsafe to use the money for a time. My brain seems on fire. The remotest hiding place in the house is behind the picture. What do you think of that? said Charles. I know not what to think. There is one thing, though, that I do know. And what is that? It is my father's handwriting. I have many scraps of his, and his peculiar hand is familiar to me. It is very strange, then, what it can refer to. Charles, Charles, there is a mystery connected with our fortunes that I never could unravel, and once or twice it seemed as if we were on the point of discovering all, but something has ever interfered to prevent us, and we have been thrown back into the realms of conjecture. My father's last words were, the money is hidden, and then he tried to add something, but death stopped his utterance. Now does it not almost seem that this memorandum alluded to the circumstance? It does indeed. And then, scarcely had my father breathed his last, when a man comes and asked for him at the garden gate. And, upon hearing that he is dead, utters some imprecations and walks away. Well, Henry, you must trust a time in circumstances to unravel these mysteries. For myself I own that I cannot do so. I see no earthly way out of the difficulty whatever. But still it does appear to me as if Dr. Chillingworth knew something, or had heard something, with which he really ought to make you acquainted. Do not blame the worthy doctor. He may have made an error in judgment, but never one of feeling, and you may depend if he is keeping anything from me that he is doing so from some excellent motive. More probably because he thinks it will give me pain, and so will not let me endure any unhappiness from it, unless he is quite certain as regards the facts. When he is so, you may depend he will be communicative, and I shall know all that he has to relate. But, Charles, it is evident to me that you, too, are keeping something. I? Yes, you acknowledged to having had an interview and a friendly one with Varney, and you likewise acknowledged that he had told you things which he has compelled you to keep secret. I have promised to keep them secret, and I deeply regret the promise that I have made. There cannot be anything to my mind more essentially disagreeable than to have one's tongue tied in one's interview with friends. I hate to hear anything that I may not repeat to those whom I take into my own confidence. I can understand the feeling, but here comes the worthy doctor. Show him the memorandum. I will. As Dr. Chillingworth entered the apartments, Henry handed him the memorandum that had been found in the old pocketbook, saying as he did so, look at that doctor and give us your candid opinion upon it. Dr. Chillingworth fitted on his spectacles and read the paper carefully. At its conclusion, he screwed up his mouth into an extremely small compass and, doubling up the paper, he put it into his capacious waistcoat pocket, saying as he did so, oh, oh, oh, hum. Well, doctor, said Henry, we are waiting for your opinion. My opinion? Well, then, my dear boy, I must say my opinion, to the best of my belief, is that I really don't know anything about it. Then, perhaps, you'll surrender us the memorandum, said Charles, because if you don't know anything, we may as well make a little inquiry. Ha! said the worthy doctor. We can't put old heads upon young shoulders. That's quite clear. Now, my good young men, be patient and quiet. Recolect that what you know you're acquainted with and that that which is hidden from you you cannot very well come to any correct conclusion upon. There's a right side and a wrong one you may depend, to every question. And he who walks heedlessly in the dark is very apt to run his head against a post. Good evening, my boys. Good evening. Away bustled the doctor. Well, said Charles, what do you think of that, Mr. Henry? I think he knows what he's about. That may be, but I'll be hanged if anybody else does. The doctor is by no means favorable to the march of popular information, and I really think he might have given us some food for reflection instead of leaving us so utterly and entirely at fault as he has. And you know he's taken away your memorandum even. Let him have it, Charles. Let him have it. It is safe with him. The old man may be, and I believe is, a little whimsical and crotchety, but he means abundantly well, and he's just one of those sort of persons, and always was, who will do good his own way or not at all. So he must take the good with the bad in these cases, and let Dr. Chillingworth do as he pleases. I cannot say it is nothing to me, although those words were rising to my lips, because you know, Henry, that everything which concerns you or yours is something to me. And therefore it is that I feel extremely anxious for the solution of all this mystery. Before I hear the sequel of that which Barney the Vampire has so strongly made me a confidant of, I will, at all events, make an effort to procure his permission to communicate it to all those who are in any way beneficially interested in the circumstances. Should he refuse me that permission, I am almost inclined myself to beg him to withhold his confidence. Nay, do not do so, Charles. Do not do that. I implore you. Recollect, although you cannot make us joint recipients with you in your knowledge, you can make use of it, probably, to our advantage in saving us per chance from the different consequences, so that you can make what you know in some way beneficial to us, although not in every way. There is reason in that, and I give in at once. Be it so, Henry. I will wait on him, and if I cannot induce him to change his determination, and allow me to tell some other as well as Flora, I must give in and take the thing as a secret, although I shall not abandon a hope, even after he has told me all he has to tell, that I may induce him to permit me to make a general confidence instead of a partial one he has empowered me to do. It may be so, and at all events, we must not reject a proffered good because it is not quite so complete as might be. You are right. I will keep my appointment with him, entertaining the most sanguine hope that are troubles and disasters. I say our because I consider myself quite associated in thought, interest, and feelings with your family, may soon be over. Heaven grant it may be so for yours and Flora's sake, but I feel that Bannerworth Hall will never again be the place it was to us. I should prefer that we sought for new associations, which I have no doubt we may find, and that among us we get up some other home that would be happier because not associated with so many sad scenes in our history. Be it so, and I am sure that the Admiral would gladly give way to such an arrangement. He has often intimated that he thought Bannerworth Hall was a dull place. Consequently, although he pretends to have purchased it of you, I think he will be very glad to leave it. Be it so then, if it should really happen that we are upon the eve of any circumstances that will really tend to relieve us from our mystery and embarrassments, we will seek for some pleasanter abode than the Hall, which you may well imagine since it became the scene of that dreadful tragedy that left us fatherless, as borne but a distasteful appearance to all our eyes. I don't wonder at that. I am only surprised that, after such a thing had happened, any of you liked to inhabit the place. We did not like, but our poverty forced us. You have no notion of the difficulties through which we have struggled, and the fact that we had a home rent free was one of so much importance to us that had it been surrounded by a thousand more disagreeables than it was, we must have put up with it. But now that we owe so much to the generosity of your uncle, I suppose we can afford to talk of what we like and of what we don't like. You can, Henry, and it shall not be my fault if you do not always afford to do so. And now, as the time is drawing on, I think I will proceed at once to Varney, for it is better to be soon than late to get from him the remainder of the story. There were active influences at work to prevent Sir Francis Varney from so quickly as he had arranged to do, carrying out his intention of making Charles Holland acquainted with the history of the eventful period of his life, which had been associated with Marmaduke Bannerworth. One would have scarcely thought it possible that anything now would have prevented Varney from concluding his strange narrative, but that he was prevented will appear. The boy who had been promised such liberal payment by the Hungarian nobleman for betraying the place of Varney's concealment, we have already stated, felt bitterly the disappointment of not being met, according to promise, at the corner of the lane by that individual. Yet not only deprived him of the half-crowns, which already an imagination he had laid out, but it was a great blow to his own importance. For after his discovery of the residence of the vampire, he looked upon himself as quite a public character and expected great applause for his cleverness. But when the Hungarian nobleman came not, all these dreams began to vanish into thin air, and, like the unsubstantial fabric of a vision, to leave no trace behind them. He got dreadfully aggravated, and his first thought was to go to Varney and see what he could get from him by betraying the fact that someone was actively in search of him. That seemed, however, a doubtful good, and perhaps there was some personal dread of the vampire mixed up with the rejection of this proposition. But rejected he did, and then he walked moodily into the town without any fixed resolution of what he should do. All that he thought of was a general idea that he should like to create some mischief, if possible, what it was he cared not, so long as it made a disturbance. Now he knew well that the most troublesome and fidgety man in the town was to buy us Philpots, a Saddler, who was always full of everybody's business but his own, and ever ready to hear any scandal of his neighbors. I have a good mind, says the boy, to go to old Philpots and tell him all about it, that I have. The good mind soon strengthened itself into a fixed resolution, and full of disdain and indignation at the supposed want of faith of the Hungarian nobleman, he paused opposite the Saddler's door. Could he but for a moment have suspected the real reason why the appointment had not been kept with him, all his curiosity would have been doubly aroused, and he would have followed the landlord of the inn and his associate upon the track of the second vampire that had visited the town. But of this he knew nothing, for that proceeding had been conducted with amazing quietness, and the fact of the Hungarian nobleman, when he found that he was followed, taking a contrary course to that in which Barney was concealed, prevented the boy from knowing anything of his movements. Hence the thing looked to him like a piece of sheer neglect and contemptuous indifference which he felt bound to resent. He did not pause long at the door of the Saddler's, but after a few moments he walked boldly in and said, Master Philpots, I have got something extraordinary to tell you, and you may give me what you like for telling you. Go on then, said the Saddler, that's just the price I always likes to pay for everything. Will you keep it secret? said the boy. Of course I will. When did you ever hear of me telling anything to a single individual? Never to a single individual, but I have heard you tell things to the whole town. Khan found your impudence. Get out of my shop directly. Oh, very good. I can go and tell old Mitchell the pork butcher. No, I say. Stop. Don't tell him. If anybody is to know, let it be me, and I'll promise you I'll keep it secret, so that if it gets known, you know it cannot be any fault of mine. The fact was, the boy was anxious it should be known, only that in case some consequences might arise, he thought he would quiet his own conscience by getting a promise of secrecy from Tobias Philpots, which he well knew that individual would not think of keeping. He then related to him the interview he had had with the Hungarian nobleman at the inn, how he promised a number of half-crowns, but a very small installment of which he had received. All this master Philpots cared very little for, but the information that the much-dreaded Barney the Vampire was concealed so close to the town was a matter of great and abounding interest, and at that part of the story he suddenly pricked up his ears amazingly. Why, you don't mean to say that, he exclaimed. Are you sure it was he? Yes, I am quite certain I have seen him more than once. It was Sir Francis Barney without any mistake. Why, then, you may depend he's only waiting until it's very dark, and then he will walk into somebody and suck his blood. Here's a horrid discovery. I thought we had had enough of Master Barney, and that he would hardly show himself here again, and now you tell me he is not ten minutes walk off. It's a fact, said the boy. I saw him go in, and he looks thinner and more horrid than ever. I am sure he wants a dollop of blood from somebody. I shouldn't wonder. Now there is Mrs. Philpots, you know, sir. She's rather big and seems most ready to burst always. I shouldn't wonder if the Vampire came to her tonight. Wouldn't you, said Mrs. Philpots, who had walked into the shop and overheard the whole conversation. Wouldn't you, really? I'll Vampire you and teach you to make these remarks about respectable married women. You young wretch, take that, will you? She gave the boy such a box on the ears that the place seemed to spin round with him. As soon as he recovered sufficiently to be enabled to walk, he made his way from the shop with abundance of precipitation, much regretting that he had troubled himself to make a confidant of Master Philpots. But, however, he could not but tell himself that if the object was to make a general disturbance through the whole place, he had certainly succeeded in doing so. He slung home, perhaps with a feeling that he might be called upon to take part in something that might ensue, and at all events be compelled to become a guide to the place of Sir Vance's Barney's retreat, in which case, for all he knew, the Vampire might by some more than mortal means discover what a hand he had had in the matter and punish him accordingly. The moment he had left the Saddlers, Mrs. Philpots, after using some bitter reproaches to her husband for not at once sacrificing the boy upon the spot for the disrespectful manner in which he had spoken to her, hastily put on her bonnet and shawl, and the Saddler, although it was a full hour before the usual time, began putting up the shutters of his shop. Why, my dear, he said to Mrs. Philpots, when she came downstairs equipped for the streets, why, my dear, where are you going? And praise, sir, what are you shutting up the shop for at this time of the evening? Oh, why, the fact is, I thought I'd just go to the Rose and Crown and mention that the Vampire is so near at hand. Well, Mr. Philpots, and in that case there can be no harm in my calling upon some of my acquaintance and mentioning it likewise. Why, I don't suppose there would be much harm, only remember, Mrs. Philpots, remember if you please. Remember what? To tell everyone to keep it a secret. Oh, of course I will, and mind you, do it likewise. Most decidedly. The shop was closed, Mr. Philpots ran off to the Rose and Crown, and Mrs. Philpots, with as much expedition as she could, purposed making the grand tour of all her female acquaintance in the town just to tell them, as a great secret, that the Vampire, Sir Francis Barney, as he called himself, had taken refuge at the house that was to let down the lane leading to Higgs Farm. But by no means, she said, let it go no further, because it is a very wrong thing to make any disturbance, and you will understand that it's quite a secret. She was listened to with breathless attention, as may well be supposed, and it was a singular circumstance that at every house she left, some other lady put on her bonnet and shawl, and ran out to make the circle of her acquaintance, with precisely the same story, and precisely the same injunctions to secrecy. And, as Mr. Philpots pursued an extremely similar course, we are not surprised that in the short space of one hour the news should have spread through all the town, and that there was scarcely a child old enough to understand what was being talked about, who was ignorant of the fact that Sir Francis Barney was to be found at the empty house down the lane. It was an unlucky time, too, for the night was creeping on, a period at which people's apprehension of the supernatural becomes each moment stronger and more vivid, a period at which a number of idlers are let loose for different employments, and when anything in the shape of a row or a riot presents itself in pleasant colors to those who have nothing to lose and who expect under the cover of darkness, to be able to commit outrages they would be afraid to think of in the daytime when recognition would be more easy. Thus it was that Sir Francis Barney's position, although he knew it not, became momentarily one of extreme peril, and the danger he was about to run was certainly greater than any he had yet experienced. Had Charles Holland but known what was going on, he would undoubtedly have done something to preserve the supposed vampire from the mischief that threatened him, but the time had not arrived when he had promised to pay him a second visit so that he had no idea of anything serious having occurred. Perhaps, too, Mr. and Mrs. Philpots scarcely anticipated creating so much confusion, but when they found that the whole place was in an uproar and that a tumultuous assemblage of persons called aloud for vengeance upon Barney the Vampire, they made their way home again in no small fright. And now what was the result of all these proceedings will be best known by our introducing the reader to the interior of the house in which Barney had found a temporary refuge and following in detail his proceedings as he awaited for the arrival of Charles Holland.