Chapter LXXXVIII (1)

THE RECEPTION OF THE VAMPYRE BY FLORA.—VARNEY SUBDUED.

We must say that the irruption into the house of the Bannerworths by Sir Francis Varney, was certainly unpremeditated by him, for he knew not into whose house he had thus suddenly rushed for refuge from the numerous foes who were pursuing him with such vengeful ire. It was a strange and singular incident, and one well calculated to cause the mind to pause before it passed it by, and consider the means to an end which are sometimes as wide of the mark, as it is in nature possible to be.

But truth is stronger than fiction by far, and the end of it was, that, pressed on all sides by danger, bleeding, faint, and exhausted, he rushed into the first house he came to, and thus placed himself in the very house of those whom he had brought to such a state of misfortune.

Flora Bannerworth was seated at some embroidery, to pass away an hour or so, and thus get over the tedium of time; she was not thinking, either, upon the unhappy past; some trifling object or other engaged her attention. But what was her anguish when she saw a man staggering into the room bleeding, and bearing the marks of a bloody contest, and sinking at her feet.

Her astonishment was far greater yet, when she recognised that man to be Sir Francis Varney.

“Save me!—save me! Miss Bannerworth, save me!—only you can save me from the ruthless multitude which follows, crying aloud for my blood.”

As he spoke, he sank down speechless. Flora was so much amazed, not to say terrified, that she knew not what to do. She saw Sir Francis a suppliant at her feet, a fugitive from his enemies, who would show him no mercy—she saw all this at a moment’s glance; and yet she had not recovered her speech and presence of mind enough to enable her to make any reply to him.

“Save me! Miss Flora Bannerworth, save me!” he again said, raising himself on his hands. “I am beset, hunted like a wild beast—they seek my life—they have pursued me from one spot to another, and I have unwittingly intruded upon you. You will save me; I am sure your kindness and goodness of heart will never permit me to be turned out among such a crew of blood-thirsty butchers as those who pursue me are.”

“Rise, Sir Francis Varney,” said Flora, after a moment’s hesitation; “in such an extremity as that which you are in, it would be inhuman indeed to thrust you out among your enemies.”

“Oh! it would,” said Varney. “I had thought, until now, I could have faced such a mob, until I was in this extremity; and then, disarmed and thrown down, bruised, beaten, and incapable of stemming such a torrent, I fled from one place to another, till hunted from each, and then instinct alone urged me to greater exertion than before, and here I am—this is now my last and only hope.”

“Rise, Sir Francis.”

“You will not let me be torn out and slaughtered like an ox. I am sure you will not.”

“Sir Francis, we are incapable of such conduct; you have sought refuge here, and shall find it as far as we are able to afford it to you.”

“And your brother—and——”

“Yes—yes—all who are here will do the same; but here they come to speak for themselves.”

As she spoke, Mrs. Bannerworth entered, also Charles Holland, who both started on seeing the vampyre present, Sir Francis Varney, who was too weak to rise without assistance.

“Sir Francis Varney,” said Flora, speaking to them as they entered, “has sought refuge here; his life is in peril, and he has no other hope left; you will, I am sure, do what can be done for him.”

“Mr. Holland,” said Sir Francis, “I am, as you may see by my condition, a fugitive, and have been beaten almost to death; instinct alone urged me on to save my life, and I, unknowingly, came in here.”

“Rise, Sir Francis,” said Charles Holland; “I am not one who would feel any pleasure in seeing you become the victim of any brutal mob. I am sure there are none amongst us who would willingly do so. You have trusted to those who will not betray you.”

“Thank you,” said Sir Francis, faintly. “I thank you; your conduct is noble, and Miss Bannerworth’s especially so.”

“Are you much hurt, Sir Francis?” inquired Charles.

“I am much hurt, but not seriously or dangerously; but I am weak and exhausted.”

“Let me assist you to rise,” said Charles Holland.

“Thank you,” said Sir Francis, as he accepted of the assistance, and when he stood up, he found how incapable he really was, for a child might have grappled with him.

“I have been sore beset, Mrs. Bannerworth,” he said, endeavouring to bow to that lady; “and I have suffered much ill-usage. I am not in such a plight as I could wish to be seen in by ladies; but my reasons for coming will be an excuse for my appearance in such disorder.”

“We will not say anything about that,” said Charles Holland; “under the circumstances, it could not be otherwise.”

“It could not,” said Sir Francis, as he took the chair Miss Flora Bannerworth placed for him.

“I will not ask you for any explanation as to how this came about; but you need some restorative and rest.”

“I think I suffer more from exhaustion than anything else. The bruises I have, of course, are not dangerous.”

“Can you step aside a few moments?” said Mrs. Bannerworth. “I will show you where you can remove some of those stains, and make yourself more comfortable.”

“Thank you, madam—thank you. It will be most welcome to me, I assure you.”

Sir Francis rose up, and, with the aid of Charles Holland, he walked to the next room, where he washed himself, and arranged his dress as well as it would admit of its being done.

“Mr. Holland,” he said, “I cannot tell you how grateful I feel for this. I have been hunted from the house where you saw me. From what source they learned my abode—my place of concealment—I know not; but they found me out.”

“I need hardly say, Sir Francis, that it could not have occurred through me,” said Charles Holland.

“My young friend,” said Sir Francis, “I am quite sure you were not; and, moreover, I never, for one moment, suspected you. No, no; some accidental circumstance alone has been the cause. I have been very cautious—I may say extremely so—but at the same time, living, as I have, surrounded by enemies on all sides, it is not to be wondered at that I should be seen by some one, and thus traced to my lair, whither they followed me at their leisure.”

“They have been but too troublesome in this matter. When they become a little reasonable, it will be a great miracle; for, when their passions and fears are excited, there is no end to the extremes they will perpetrate.”

“It is so,” said Varney, “as the history of these last few days amply testifies to me. I could never have credited the extent to which popular excitement could be carried, and the results it was likely to produce.”

“It is an engine of very difficult control,” pursued Charles Holland; “but what will raise it will not allay it, but add fuel to the fire that burns so fiercely already.”

“True enough,” said Sir Francis.

“If you have done, will you again step this way?”

Sir Francis Varney followed Charles Holland into the sitting-room, and sat down with them, and before him was spread a light supper, with some good wine.

“Eat, Sir Francis,” said Mrs. Bannerworth. “Such a state as that in which you are, must, of necessity, produce great exhaustion, and you must require food and drink.”

Sir Francis bowed as well as he was able, and even then, sore and bruised as he was, fugitive as he had been, he could not forget his courtesy; but it was not without an effort. His equanimity was, however, much disturbed, by finding himself in the midst of the Bannerworths.

“I owe you a relation,” he said, “of what occurred to drive me from my place of concealment.”

“We should like to hear it, if you are not too far fatigued to relate it,” said Charles.

“I will. I was sitting at the top of that house in which I sought to hide myself, when I heard sounds come that were of a very suspicious nature; but did not believe that it could happen that they had discovered my lurking-place; far from it; though, of late, I had been habitually cautious and suspicious, yet I thought I was safe, till I heard the noise of a multitude coming towards me. I could not be mistaken in it, for the sounds are so peculiar that they are like nothing else. I heard them coming.

“I moved not; and when they surrounded the house as far as was practicable, they gave an immense shout, and made the welkin ring with the sound.”

“I heard a confused noise at a distance,” remarked Flora; “but I had no idea that anything serious was contemplated. I imagined it was some festival among some trade, or portion of the townspeople, who were shouting from joy.”

“Oh, dear no,” said Sir Francis; “but I am not surprised at the mistake, because there are such occurrences occasionally; but whenever the mob gained any advantage upon me they shouted, and when I was able to oppose them with effect, they groaned at me most horribly.”

“The deuce,” said Charles; “the sound, I suppose, serves to express their feelings, and to encourage each other.”

“Something of the sort, I dare say,” said Varney; “but at length, after defending the house with all the desperation that despair imparted to me, I was compelled to fly from floor to floor, until I had reached the roof; there they followed me, and I was compelled again to fly. House after house they followed me to, until I could go no farther,” said Varney.

“How did you escape?”

“Fortunately I saw some ivy growing and creeping over the coping-stones, and by grasping that I got over the side, and so let myself down by degrees, as well as I was able.”

“Good heavens! what a dreadful situation,” exclaimed Flora; “it is really horrible!”

“I could not do it again, under, I think, any circumstances.”

“Not the same?” said Mrs. Bannerworth.

“I really doubt if I could,” said Varney. “The truth is, the excitement of the moment was great, and I at that moment thought of nothing but getting away.

“The same circumstances, the same fear of death, could hardly be produced in me again, and I am unable to account for the phenomenon on this occasion.”

“Your escape was very narrow indeed,” said Flora; “it makes me shudder to think of the dangers you have gone through; it is really terrible to think of it.”

“You,” said Sir Francis, “are young and susceptible, and generous in your disposition, You can feel for me, and do; but how little I could have expected it, it is impossible to say; but your sympathy sinks into my mind and causes such emotions as never can be erased from my soul.

“But to proceed. You may guess how dreadful was my position, by the fact that the first man who attempted to get over tore the ivy away and fell, striking me in his fall; he was killed, and I thrown down and stunned. I then made for the wood, closely pursued, and got into it; then I baffled them; they searched the wood, and I went through it. I then ran across the country to these houses here; I got over the fence, and in at the back door.”

“Did they see you come?” inquired Charles Holland.

“I cannot say, but I think that they did not; I heard them give a loud shout more than once when on this side of the wood.”

“You did? How far from here were you when you heard the shouts?” inquired Mrs. Bannerworth.

“I was close here; and, as I jumped over the fence, I heard them shout again; but I think they cannot see so far; the night was moonlight, to be sure, but that is all; the shadow of the hedge, and the distance together, would make it, if not impossible, at least very improbable.”

“That is very likely,” said Mrs. Bannerworth.

“In that case,” said Charles Holland, “you are safe here; for none will suspect your being concealed here.”

“It is the last place I should myself have thought of,” said Varney; “and I may say the last place I would knowingly have come to; but had I before known enough of you, I should have been well assured of your generosity, and have freely come to claim your aid and shelter, which accident has so strangely brought me to be a candidate for, and which you have so kindly awarded me.”

“The night is wearing away,” said Flora, “and Sir Francis is doubtless fatigued to an excess; sleep, I dare say, will be most welcome to him.”

“It will indeed, Miss Bannerworth,” said Varney; “but I can do that under any circumstances; do not let me put you to any inconvenience; a chair, and at any hour, will serve me for sleep.”

“We cannot do for you what we would wish,” said Flora, looking at her mother; “but something better than that, at all events, we can and will provide for you.”

“I know not how to thank you,” said Sir Francis Varney; “I assure you, of late I have not been luxuriously lodged, and the less trouble I give you the greater I shall esteem the favour.”

The hour was late, and Sir Francis Varney, before another half hour had elapsed, was consigned to his own reflections, in a small but neat room, there to repose his bruised and battered carcass, and court the refreshing influence of sleep.

His reflections were, for nearly an hour, of the most contradictory character; some one passion was trying to overcome the other; but he seemed quite subdued.

“I could not have expected this,” he muttered; “Flora Bannerworth has the soul of a heroine. I deserved not such a reception from them; and yet, in my hour of utmost need, they have received me like a favoured friend; and yet all their misfortunes have taken their origin from me; I am the cause of all.”

Filled with these thoughts, he fell asleep; he slept till morning broke. He was not disturbed; it seemed as though the influence of sleep was sweeter far there, in the cottage of the Bannerworths, than ever he had before received.

It was late on that morning before Sir Francis rose, and then only through hearing the family about, and, having performed his toilet, so far as circumstances permitted, he descended, and entered the front-parlour, the room he had been in the night before.

Flora Bannerworth was already there; indeed, breakfast was waiting the appearance of Sir Francis Varney.

“Good morning, Miss Bannerworth,” said Sir Francis, bowing with his usual dignified manner, but in the kindest and sincerest way he was able to assume.

“Good morning, Sir Francis,” said Flora, rising to receive him; and she could not avoid looking at him as he entered the room. “I hope you have had a pleasant night?”

“It has been the best night’s rest I have had for some time, Miss Bannerworth. I assure you I have to express my gratitude to you for so much kindness. I have slept well, and soundly.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“I think yet I shall escape the search of these people who have hunted me from so many places.”

“I hope you may, indeed, Sir Francis.”

“You, Miss Bannerworth! and do you hope I may escape the vengeance of these people—the populace?”

“I do, Sir Francis, most sincerely hope so. Why should I wish evil to you, especially at their hands?”

Sir Francis did not speak for a minute or two, and then he said, turning full upon Flora—

“I don’t know why, Miss Bannerworth, that I should think so, but perhaps it is because there are peculiar circumstances connected with myself, that have made me feel conscious that I have not deserved so much goodness at your hands.”

“You have not deserved any evil. Sir Francis, we could not do that if it were in our power; we would do you a service at any time.”

“You have done so, Miss Bannerworth—the greatest that can be performed. You have saved my life.”

At that moment Charles Holland entered, and Sir Francis bowed, as he said,—

“I hope you, Mr. Holland, have slept as well, and passed as good a night as I have passed?”

“I am glad you, at least, have passed a quiet one,” said Charles Holland; “you, I dare say, feel all the better for it? How do you feel yourself? Are you much hurt?”

“Not at all, not at all,” said Sir Francis Varney. “Only a few bruises, and so forth, some of which, as you may perceive, do not add to one’s personal appearance. A week or two’s quiet would rid me of them. At all events, I would it may do the same with my enemies.”

“I wish they were as easily gotten rid of myself,” said Charles; “but as that cannot be, we must endeavour to baffle them in the best way we may.”

“I owe a debt to you I shall never be able to repay; but where there is a will, they say there is a way; and if the old saying be good for anything, I need not despair, though the way is by no means apparent at present.”

“Time is the magician,” said Flora, “whose wand changes all things—the young to the aged, and the aged to nothing.”

“Certainly, that is true,” said Varney, “and many such changes have I seen. My mind is stored with such events; but this is sadness, and I have cause to rejoice.”

• • • • •

The breakfast was passed off in pleasing conversation, and Varney found himself much at home with the Bannerworths, whose calm and even tenour was quite new to him.

He could not but admit the charms of such a life as that led by the Bannerworths; but what it must have been when they were supplied by ample means, with nothing to prey upon their minds, and no fearful mystery to hang on and weigh down their spirits, he could scarcely imagine.

They were amiable, accomplished; they were in the same mind at all times, and nothing seemed to ruffle them; and when night came, he could not but acknowledge to himself that he had never formed half the opinion of them they were deserving of.

Of course during that day he was compelled to lie close, so as not to be seen by any one, save the family. He sat in a small room, which was overlooked by no other in the neighbourhood, and he remained quiet, sometimes conversing, and sometimes reading, but at the same time ever attentive to the least sound that appeared at all of a character to indicate the approach of persons for any purpose whatever.

At supper time he spoke to Flora and to Charles Holland, saying,—

“There are certain matters connected with myself—I may say with you now—sure all that has happened will make it so—of which you would be glad to hear some thing.”

“You mean upon the same subject upon which I had some conversation with you a day or two back?”

“Yes, the same. Allow me one week, and you shall know all. I will then relate to you that which you so much desire to know—one week, and all shall be told.”

“Well,” said Charles Holland, “this has not been exacted from you as the price of your safety, but you can choose your own time, of course; what you promise is most desired, for it will render those happy who now are much worse than they were before these occurrences took place.”

“I am aware of all that; grant me but one week, and then you shall be made acquainted with all.”

“I am satisfied, Sir Francis,” said Flora; “but while here under our roof, we should never have asked you a question.”

“Of this, Miss Bannerworth, the little I have seen of you assures me you would not do so; however, I am the more inclined to make it—I am under so deep an obligation to you all, that I can never repay it.”

• • • • •

Sir Francis Varney retired to rest that night—his promise to the Bannerworths filled his mind with many reflections—the insecurity of his own position, and the frail tenure which he even held in the hands of those whom he had most injured.

This produced a series of reflections of a grave and melancholy nature, and he sat by his window, watching the progress of the clouds, as they appeared to chase each other over the face of the scene—now casting a shade over the earth, and then banishing the shadows, and throwing a gentle light over the earth’s surface, which was again chased away, and shadows again fell upon the scene below.

How long he had sat there in melancholy musing he knew not; but suddenly he was aroused from his dreams by a voice that shook the skies, and caused him to start to his feet.

“Hurrah!—hurrah!—hurrah!” shouted the mob, which had silently collected around the cottage of the Bannerworths.

“Curses!” muttered Sir Francis, as he again sank in his chair, and struck his head with his hand. “I am hunted to death—they will not leave me until my body has graced a cross-road.”

“Hurrah!—down with the vampyre—pull him out!”

Then came an instant knocking at the doors, and the people on the outside made so great a din, that it seemed as though they contemplated knocking the house down at once, without warning the inmates that they waited there.

There was a cessation for about a minute, when one of the family hastened to the door, and inquired what was wanted.

“Varney, the vampyre,” was the reply.

“You must seek him elsewhere.”

“We will search this place before we go further,” replied a man.

“But he is not here.”

“We have reason to believe otherwise. Open the door, and let us in—no one shall be hurt, or one single object in the house; but we must come in, and search for the vampyre.”

“Come to-morrow, then.”

“That will not do,” said the voice; “open, or we force our way in without more notice.”

At the same a tremendous blow was bestowed upon the door, and then much force was used to thrust it in. A consultation was suddenly held among the inmates, as to what was to be done, but no one could advise, and each was well aware of the utter impossibility of keeping the mob out.

“I do not see what is to become of me,” said Sir Francis Varney, suddenly appearing before them. “You must let them in; there is no chance of keeping them off, neither can you conceal me. You will have no place, save one, that will be sacred from their profanation.”

“And which is that?”

“Flora’s own room.”

All started at the thought that Flora’s chamber could in any way be profaned by any such presence as Sir Francis Varney’s.

However, the doors below were suddenly burst open, amid loud cries from the populace, who rushed in in great numbers, and began to search the lower rooms, immediately.

“All is lost!” said Sir Francis Varney, as he dashed away and rushed to the chamber of Flora, who, alarmed at the sounds that were now filling the house, stood listening to them.

“Miss Bannerworth—” began Varney.

“Sir Francis!”

“Yes, it is indeed I, Miss Bannerworth; hear me, for one moment.”

“What is the matter?”

“I am again in peril—in more imminent peril than before; my life is not worth a minute’s purchase, unless you save me. You, and you alone, can now save me. Oh! Miss Bannerworth, if ever pity touched your heart, save me from those only whom I now fear. I could meet death in any shape but that in which they will inflict it upon me. Hear their execrations below!”

“Death to the vampyre! death to Varney! burn him! run a stake through his body!”

“What can I do, Sir Francis?”

“Admit me to your chamber.”

“Sir Francis, are you aware of what you are saying?”

“I am well. It is a request which you would justly scorn to reply to; but now my life—recollect you have saved me once—my life;—do not now throw away the boon you have so kindly bestowed. Save me, Miss Bannerworth.”

“It is not possible. I—”

“Nay, Miss Bannerworth, do you imagine this is a time for ceremony, or the observances of polished life? On my honour, you run no risk of censure.”

“Where is Varney? Where is the vampyre? He ain’t far off.”

“Hear—hear them, Miss Bannerworth. They are now at the foot of the stairs. Not a moment to lose. One minute more, and I am in the hands of a crew that has no mercy.”

“Hurrah! upstairs! He’s not below. Upstairs, neighbours, we shall have him yet!”

These words sounded on the stairs; half-a-dozen more steps, and Varney would be seen. It was a miracle he was not heard begging for his life.

Varney cast a look of despair at the stairhead and felt for his sword, but it was not there, he had lost it. He struck his head with his clenched hand, and was about to rush upon his foes, when he heard the lock turn; he looked, and saw the door opened gently, and Flora stood there; he passed in, and sank cowering into a chair, at the other end of the room, behind some curtains.

The door was scarcely shut ere some tried to force it, and then a loud knocking came at the door.

“Open! open! we want Varney, the vampyre. Open! or we will burst it open.”

Flora did open it, but stood resolutely in the opening, and held up her hand to impose silence.

“Are you men, that you can come thus to force yourselves upon the privacy of a female? Is there nothing in the town or house, that you must intrude in numbers into a private apartment? Is no place sacred from you?”

“But, ma’am—miss—we only want Varney, the vampyre.”

“And can you find him nowhere but in a female’s bedroom? Shame on you! shame on you! Have you no sisters, wives, or mothers, that you act thus?”

“He’s not there, you may be sure of that, Jack,” said a gruff voice. “Let the lady be in quiet; she’s had quite enough trouble with him to sicken her of a vampyre. You may be sure that’s the last place to find him in.”

With this they all turned away, and Flora shut the door and locked it upon them, and Varney was safe.

“You have saved me,” said Varney.

“Hush!” said Flora. “Speak not; there may be some one listening.”

Sir Francis Varney stood in the attitude of one listening most anxiously to catch some sounds; the moon fell across his face, and gave it a ghastly hue, that, added to his natural paleness and wounds, gave him an almost unearthly aspect.

The sounds grew more and more distant; the shouts and noise of men traversing the apartments subsided, and gradually the place became restored to its original silence. The mob, after having searched every other part of the house, and not finding the object of their search, they concluded that he was not there, but must have made his escape before.

• • • • •

This most desperate peril of Sir Francis Varney seemed to have more effect upon him than anything that had occurred during his most strange and most eventful career.

When he was assured that the riotous mob that had been so intent upon his destruction was gone, and that he might emerge from his place of concealment, he did so with an appearance of such utter exhaustion that the Bannerworth family could not but look upon him as a being who was near his end.

At any time his countenance, as we long have had occasion to remark, was a strange and unearthly looking one; but when we come to superadd to the strangeness of his ordinary appearance the traces of deep mental emotion, we may well say that Varney’s appearance was positively of the most alarming character.

When he was seated in the ordinary sitting apartment of the Bannerworths, he drew a long sighing breath, and placing his hand upon his heart, he said, in a faint tone of voice,—

“It beats now laboriously, but it will soon cease its pulsations for ever.”

These words sounded absolutely prophetic, there was about them such a solemn aspect, and he looked at the same time that he uttered them so much like one whose mortal race was run, and who was now a candidate for the grave.

“Do not speak so despairingly,” said Charles Holland; “remember, that if your life has been one of errors hitherto, how short a space of time may suffice to redeem some of them at least, and the communication to me which you have not yet completed may to some extent have such an effect.”

“No, no. It may contribute to an act of justice, but it can do no good to me. And yet do not suppose that because such is my impression that I mean to hesitate in finishing to you that communication.”

“I rejoice to hear you say so, and if you would, now that you must be aware of what good feelings towards you we are all animated with, remove the bar of secrecy from the communication, I should esteem it a great favour.”

Varney appeared to be considering for a few moments, and then he said,—

“Well, well. Let the secrecy no longer exist. Have it removed at once. I will no longer seek to maintain it. Tell all, Charles Holland—tell all.”

Thus empowered by the mysterious being, Charles Holland related briefly what Varney had already told him, and then concluded by saying,—

“That is all that I have myself as yet been made aware of, and I now call upon Sir Francis Varney to finish his narration.”

“I am weak,” said Varney, “and scarcely equal to the task; but yet I will not shrink from the promise that I have made. You have been the preservers of my life, and more particularly to you, Flora Bannerworth, am I indebted for a continued existence, which otherwise must have been sacrificed upon the altar of superstition.”

“But you will recollect, Master Varney,” said the admiral, who had sat looking on for some time in silent wonder, “you must recollect, Master Varney, that the people are, after all, not so much to blame for their superstition, because, whether you are a vampyre or not, and I don’t pretend to come to a positive opinion now, you took good care to persuade them you were.”

“I did,” said Varney, with a shudder; “but why did I?”

“Well, you know best.”

“It was, then, because I did believe, and do believe, that there is something more than natural about my strangely protracted existence; but we will waive that point, and, before my failing strength, for it appears to me to be failing, completely prevents me from doing so, let me relate to you the continued particulars of the circumstances that made me what I am.”

Flora Bannerworth, although she had heard before from the lips of Charles Holland the to her dreadful fact, that her father, in addition to having laid violent hands upon his own life, was a murderer, now that that fearful circumstance was related more publicly, felt a greater pang than she had done when it was whispered to her in the accents of pure affection, and softened down by a gentleness of tone, which Charles Holland’s natural delicacy would not allow him to use even to her whom he loved so well in the presence of others.

She let her beautiful face be hidden by her hands, and she wept as she listened to the sad detail.

Varney looked inquiringly in the countenance of Charles Holland, because, having given him leave to make Flora acquainted with the circumstance, he was rather surprised at the amount of emotion which it produced in her.

Charles Holland answered the appealing look by saying,—

“Flora is already aware of the facts, but it naturally affects her much to hear them now repeated in the presence of others, and those too, towards whom she cannot feel——”

What Charles Holland was going to say was abruptly stopped short by the admiral, who interposed, exclaiming,—

“Why, what do you mean, you son of a sea cook? The presence of who do you mean? Do you mean to say that I don’t feel for Miss Flora, bless her heart! quite as much as a white-faced looking swab like you? Why, I shall begin to think you are only fit for a marine.”

“Nay, uncle, now do not put yourself out of temper. You must be well aware that I could not mean anything disrespectful to you. You should not suppose such a state of things possible; and although, perhaps, I did not express myself so felicitously as I might, yet what I intended to say, was——”

“Oh, bother what you intended to say. You go on, Mr. Vampyre, with your story. I want to know what became of it all; just you get on as quick as you can, and let us know what you did after the man was murdered.”

“When the dreadful deed was committed,” said Varney, “and our victim lay weltering in his blood, and had breathed his last, we stood like men who for the first time were awakened to the frightful consequences of what they had done.

“I saw by the dim light that hovered round us a great change come over the countenance of Marmaduke Bannerworth, and he shook in every limb.

“This soon passed away, however, and the powerful and urgent necessity which arose of avoiding the consequences of the deed that we had done, restored us to ourselves. We stooped and took from the body the ill-gotten gains of the gambler. They amounted to an immense sum, and I said to Marmaduke Bannerworth,—

“‘Take you the whole of this money and proceed to your own home with it, where you will be least suspected. Hide it in some place of great secrecy, and to-morrow I will call upon you, when we will divide it, and will consider of some means of safely exchanging the notes for gold.’

“He agreed to this, and placed the money in his pocket, after which it became necessary that we should dispose of the body, which, if we did not quickly remove, must in a few hours be discovered, and so, perchance, accompanied by other criminating circumstances, become a frightful evidence against us, and entail upon us all those consequences of the deed which we were so truly anxious to escape from.

“It is ever the worst part of the murderer’s task, that after he has struck the blow that has deprived his victim of existence, it becomes his frightful duty to secrete the corpse, which, with its dead eyes, ever seems to be glaring upon him such a world of reproach.

“That it is which should make people pause ere they dipped their hands in the blood of others, and that it is which becomes the first retribution that the murderer has to endure for the deep crime that he has committed.

“We tore two stakes from a hedge, and with their assistance we contrived to dig a very superficial hole, such a hole as was only sufficient, by placing a thin coating of earth over it, to conceal the body of the murdered man.

“And then came the loathsome task of dragging him into it—a task full of horror, and from which we shrunk aghast; but it had to be done, and, therefore, we stooped, and grasping the clothes as best we might, we dragged the body into the chasm we had prepared for its reception. Glad were we then to be enabled to throw the earth upon it and to stamp upon it with such vehemence as might well be supposed to actuate men deeply anxious to put out of sight some dangerous and loathsome object.

“When we had completed this, and likewise gathered handsfull of dust from the road, and dry leaves, and such other matter, to sprinkle upon the grave, so as to give the earth an appearance of not having been disturbed, we looked at each other and breathed from our toil.

“Then, and not till then, was it that we remembered that among other things which the gambler had won of Marmaduke were the deeds belonging to the Dearbrook property.”

“The Dearbrook property!” exclaimed Henry Bannerworth; “I know that there was a small estate going by that name, which belonged to our family, but I always understood that long ago my father had parted with it.”

“Yes; it was mortgaged for a small sum—a sum not a fourth part of its value—and it had been redeemed by Marmaduke Bannerworth, not for the purpose of keeping it, but in order that he might sell it outright, and so partially remedy his exhausted finances.”

“I was not aware of that,” returned Henry.

“Doubtless you were not, for of late—I mean for the twelve months or so preceding your father’s death—you know he was much estranged from all the family, so that you none of you knew much of what he was doing, except that he was carrying on a very wild and reckless career, such as was sure to end in dishonour and poverty; but I tell you he had the title deeds of the Dearbrook property, and that they were only got from him, along with everything else of value that he possessed, at the gaming table, by the man who paid such a fearful penalty for his success.

“It was not until after the body was completely buried, and we had completed all our precautions for more effectually hiding it from observation, that we recollected the fact of those important papers being in his possession. It was Marmaduke Bannerworth who first remembered it, and he exclaimed,—

“‘By Heaven, we have buried the title deeds of the property, and we shall have again to exhume the corpse for the purpose of procuring them.’

“Now those deeds were nothing to me, and repugnant as I had felt from the first to having anything whatever to do with the dead body, it was not likely that I would again drag it from the earth for such an object.

“‘Marmaduke Bannerworth,’ I said, ‘you can do what you please, and take the consequences of what you do, but I will not again, if I can help it, look upon the face of that corpse. It is too fearful a sight to contemplate again. You have a large sum of money, and what need you care now for the title deeds of a property comparatively insignificant?’

“‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘I will not, at the present time, disturb the remains; I will wait to see if anything should arise from the fact of the murder; if it should turn out that no suspicion of any kind is excited, but that all is still and quiet, I can then take measures to exhume the corpse, and recover those papers, which certainly are important.’

“By this time the morning was creeping on apace, and we thought it prudent to leave the spot. We stood at the end of the lane for a few moments conversing, and those moments were the last in which I ever saw Marmaduke Bannerworth.”

“Answer me a question,” said Henry.

“I will; ask me what you please, I will answer it.”

“Was it you that called at Bannerworth Hall, after my father’s melancholy death, and inquired for him?”

“I did; and when I heard of the deed that he had done, I at once left, in order to hold counsel with myself as to what I should do to obtain at least a portion of the property, one-half of which, it was understood, was to have been mine. I heard what had been the last words used by Marmaduke Bannerworth on the occasion of his death, and they were amply sufficient to let me know what had been done with the money—at all events, so far as regards the bestowal of it in some secret place; and from that moment the idea of, by some means or another, getting the exclusive possession of it, never forsook my mind.

“I thought over the matter by day and, by night; and with the exception of having a knowledge of the actual hiding-place of the money, I could see, in the clearest possible manner, how the whole affair had been transacted. There can be no doubt but that Marmaduke Bannerworth had reached home safely with the large sum of which he had become possessed, and that he had hidden it securely, which was but an ordinary measure of precaution, when we come to consider how the property had been obtained.

“Then I suspect that, being alone, and left to the gloom of his own miserable thoughts, they reverted so painfully to the past that he was compelled to drink deeply for the purpose of drowning reflection.

“The natural consequence of this, in his state, was, that partial insanity supervened, and at a moment when frenzy rose far above reflection, he must have committed the dreadful act which hurried him instantaneously to eternity.”

“Yes,” said Henry; “it must have been so; you have guessed truly. He did on that occasion drink an immense quantity of wine; but instead of stilling the pangs of remorse it must have increased them, and placed him in such a frenzied condition of intellect, that he found it impossible to withstand the impulse of it, unless by the terrific act which ended his existence.”

“Yes, and which at once crushed all my expectations of the large fortune which was to have been mine; for even the one-half of the sum which had been taken from the gamester’s pocket would have been sufficient to have enabled me to live for the future in affluence.

“I became perfectly maddened at the idea that so large a sum had passed out of my hands. I constantly hovered about Bannerworth Hall, hoping and expecting that something might arise which would enable me to get admittance to it, and make an active search through its recesses for the hidden treasure.

“All my exertions were in vain. I could hit upon no scheme whatever; and at length, wearied and exhausted, I was compelled to proceed to London for the sake of a subsistence. It is only in that great metropolis that such persons as myself, destitute of real resources, but infinitely reckless as regards the means by which they acquire a subsistence, can hope to do so. Once again, therefore, I plunged into the vortex of London life, and proceeded, heedless of the criminality of what I was about, to cater for myself by robbery, or, indeed, in any manner which presented a prospect of success. It was during this career of mine, that I became associated with some of the most desperate characters of the time; and the offences we committed were of that daring character that it could not be wondered at eventually so formidable a gang of desperadoes must be by force broken up.

“It so occurred, but unknown to us, that the police resolved upon making one of the most vigorous efforts to put an end to the affair, and in consequence a watch was set upon every one of our movements.

“The result of this was, as might have been expected, our complete dispersion, and the arrest of some our members, and among them myself.

“I knew my fate almost from the first. Our depredations had created such a sensation, that the legislature, even, had made it a matter of importance that we should be suppressed, and it was an understood thing among the judges, that the severest penalties of the law should be inflicted upon any one of the gang who might be apprehended and convicted.

“My trial scarcely occupied an hour, and then I was convicted and sentenced to execution, with an intimation from the judge that it would be perfectly absurd of me to dream, for one moment, of a remission of that sentence.

“In this state of affairs, and seeing nothing but death before me, I gave myself up to despair, and narrowly missed cheating the hangman of his victim.

“More dead than alive, I was, however, dragged out to be judicially murdered, and I shall never forget the crowd of frightful sensations that came across my mind upon that terrific occasion.

“It seemed as if my fate had then reached its climax, and I have really but a dim recollection of the terrible scene.

“I remember something of the confused murmur arising from an immense throng of persons. I remember looking about me, and seeing nothing but what appeared to me an immense sea of human heads, and then suddenly I heard a loud roar of execration burst from the multitude.

“I shrunk back terrified, and it did, indeed, seem to me a brutal thing thus to roar and shout at a man who was brought out to die. I soon, however, found that the mob who came to see such a spectacle was not so debased as I imagined, but that it was at the hangman, who had suddenly made his appearance on the scaffold, at whom they raised that fearful yell.

“Some one—I think it was one of the sheriffs—must have noticed that I was labouring under the impression that the cry from the mob was levelled at me, for he spoke, saying,—

“‘It is at the hangman they shout,’ and he indicated with his finger that public functionary. In my mind’s eye I think I see him now, and I am certain that I shall never forget the expression of his face. It was perfectly fearful; and afterwards, when I learned who and what he was, I was not surprised that he should feel so acutely the painfully degrading office which he had to perform.

“The fatal rope was in a few minutes adjusted to my neck. I felt its pressure, and I heard the confused sounds of the monotonous voice of the clergyman, as he muttered some prayers, that I must confess sounded to me at the time like a mockery of human suffering.

“Then suddenly there was a loud shout—I felt the platform give way beneath my feet—I tried to utter a yell of agony, but could not—it seemed to me as if I was encompassed by fire, and then sensation left me, and I knew no more.

• • • • •

“The next feelings of existence that came over me consisted in a frightful tingling sensation throughout my veins, and I felt myself making vain efforts to scream. All the sensations of a person suffering from a severe attack of night-mare came across me, and I was in such an agony, that I inwardly prayed for death to release me from such a cruel state of suffering. Then suddenly the power to utter a sound came to me, and I made use of it well, for the piercing shriek I uttered, must have struck terror into the hearts of all who heard it, since it appalled even myself.

“Then I suppose I must have fainted, but when I recovered consciousness again, I found myself upon a couch, and a man presenting some stimulus to me in a cup. I could not distinguish objects distinctly, but I heard him say, ‘Drink, and you will be better.’

“I did drink, for a raging thirst consumed me, and then I fell into a sound sleep, which, I was afterwards told, lasted nearly twenty-four hours, and when I recovered from that, I heard again the same voice that had before spoken to me, asking me how I was.

“I turned in the direction of the sound, and, as my vision was now clearer, I could see that it was the hangman, whose face had made upon the scaffold such an impression upon me—an impression which I then considered my last in this world, but which turned out not to be such by many a mingled one of pain and pleasure since.

“It was some time before I could speak, and when I did, it was only in a few muttered words, to ask what had happened, and where I was.

“‘Do you not remember,’ he said, ‘that you were hanged?’

“‘I do—I do,’ was my reply. ‘Is this the region of damned souls?’

“‘No; you are still in this world, however strange you may think it. Listen to me, and I will briefly tell you how it is that you have come back again, as it were, from the very grave, to live and walk about among the living.’

“I listened to him with a strange and rapt attention, and then he told how a young and enthusiastic medical man had been anxious to try some experiments with regard to the restoration of persons apparently dead, and he proceeded to relate how it was that he had given ear to the solicitations of the man, and had consented to bring my body after it was hung for him to experiment upon. He related how the doctor had been successful, but how he was so terrified at his own success, that he hastily fled, and had left London, no one knowing whither he had gone.

“I listened to this with the most profound attention, and then he concluded, by saying to me,—

“‘There can be no doubt but my duty requires of me to give you up again to the offended laws of your country. I will not, however, do that, if you will consent to an arrangement that I shall propose to you.’

“I asked him what the arrangement was, and he said that if I would solemnly bind myself to pay to him a certain sum per annum, he would keep my secret, and forsaking his calling as hangman, endeavour to do something that should bring with it pleasanter results. I did so solemnly promise him, and I have kept my word. By one means or another I have succeeded in procuring the required amount, and now he is no more.”

“I believe,” cried Henry, “that he has fallen a victim to the blind fury of the populace.”

“You are right, he has so, and accordingly I am relieved from the burden of those payments; but it matters little, for now I am so near the tomb myself, that, together with all my obligations, I shall soon be beyond the reach of mortal cavilling.”

“You need not think so, Varney; you must remember that you are at present suffering from circumstances, the pressure of which will soon pass away, and then you will resume your wonted habits.”

“What did you do next?” said the admiral. “Let’s know all while you are about it.”

“I remained at the hangman’s house for some time, until all fear of discovery was over, and then he removed me to a place of greater security, providing me from his own resources with the means of existence, until I had fully recovered my health, and then he told me to shift for myself.

“During my confinement though, I had not been idle mentally, for I concocted a plan, by which I should be enabled not only to live well myself, but to pay to the hangman, whose name was Mortimore, the annual sum I had agreed upon. I need not go into the details of this plan. Of course it was neither an honest nor respectable one, but it succeeded, and I soon found myself in a position to enable me thereby to keep my engagement, as well as to supply me with means of plotting and planning for my future fortunes.

“I had never for a moment forgotten that so large a sum of money was somewhere concealed about Bannerworth Hall, and I still looked forward to obtaining it by some means or another.

“It was in this juncture of affairs, that one night I was riding on horseback through a desolate part of England. The moon was shining sweetly, as I came to a broad stream of water, across which, about a mile further on, I saw that there was a bridge, but being unwilling to waste time by riding up to it, and fancying, by the lazy ripple of the waters, that the river was not shallow, I plunged my horse boldly into the stream.