by Oscar Wilde
“Well, well, we can do without him,” said Henry.
“Without him! I should think so. Do you hear those fellows in the Hall at work? damn me, if I haven’t all of a sudden thought what the reason of it all is.”
“What—what?” said the doctor, anxiously.
“Why, that rascal Varney, you know, had his house burnt down.”
“Yes; well?”
“Yes, well. I dare say he didn’t think it well. But, however, he no doubt wants another; so, you see, my idea is, that he’s stealing the material from Bannerworth Hall.”
“Oh, is that your notion?”
“Yes, and a very natural one, I think, too, Master Doctor, whatever you may think of it. Come, now, have you a better?”
“Oh, dear, no, certainly not; but I have a notion that something to eat would comfort the inward man much.”
“And so would something to drink, blow me if it wouldn’t,” said Jack Pringle, suddenly making his appearance.
The admiral made a rush upon him; but he was restrained by the others, and Jack, with a look of triumph, said—
“Why, what’s amiss with you now? I ain’t drunk now. Come, come, you have something dangerous in the wind, I know, so I’ve made up my mind to be in it, so don’t put yourself out of the way. If you think I don’t know all about it, you are mistaken, for I do. The vampire is in the house yonder, and I’m the fellow to tackle him, I believe you, my boys.”
“Good God!” said the doctor, “what shall we do?”
“Nothing,” said Jack, as he took a bottle from his pocket and applied the neck of it to his lips—“nothing—nothing at all.”
“There’s something to begin with,” said the admiral, as with his stick he gave the bottle a sudden blow that broke it and spilt all its contents, leaving Jack petrified, with the bit of the neck of it still in his mouth.
“My eye, admiral,” he said, “was that done like a British seaman? My eye—was that the trick of a lubber, or of a thorough-going first-rater? first-rater? My eye—”
“Hold your noise, will you; you are not drunk yet, and I was determined that you should not get so, which you soon would with that rum-bottle, if I had not come with a broadside across it. Now you may stay; but, mark me, you are on active service now, and must do nothing without orders.”
“Ay, ay, your honour,” said Jack, as he dropped the neck of the bottle, and looked ruefully upon the ground, from whence arose the aroma of rum—“ay, ay; but it’s a hard case, take it how you will, to have your grog stopped; but, damn it, I never had it stopped yet when it was in my mouth.”
Henry and Charles could not forbear a smile at Jack’s discomfiture, which, however, they were very glad of, for they knew full well his failing, and that in the course of another half hour he would have been drunk, and incapable of being controlled, except, as on some former occasions, by the exercise of brute force.
But Jack was evidently displeased, and considered himself to be grievously insulted, which, after all, was the better, inasmuch as, while he was brooding over his wrongs, he was quiet; when, otherwise, it might have been a very difficult matter to make him so.
They partook of some refreshments, and, as the day advanced, the brothers Bannerworth, as well as Charles Holland, began to get very anxious upon the subject of the proceedings of Sir Francis Varney in the Hall.
They conversed in low tones, exhausting every, as they considered, possible conjecture to endeavour to account for his mysterious predilection for that abode, but nothing occurred to them of a sufficiently probable motive to induce them to adopt it as a conclusion.
They more than suspected Dr. Chillingworth, because he was so silent, and hazarded no conjecture at all of knowing something, or of having formed to himself some highly probable hypothesis upon the subject; but they could not get him to agree that such was the case.
When they challenged him upon the subject, all he would say was—
“My good friends, you perceive that, there is a great mystery somewhere, and I do hope that tonight it will be cleared up satisfactorily.”
With this they were compelled to be satisfied; and now the soft and sombre shades of evening began to creep over the scene, enveloping all objects in the dimness and repose of early night.
The noise from the house had ceased, and all was profoundly still. But more than once Henry fancied he heard footsteps outside the garden.
He mentioned his suspicions to Charles Holland, who immediately said—
“The same thing has come to my ears.”
“Indeed! Then it must be so; we cannot both of us have merely imagined such a thing. You may depend that this place is beleaguered in some way, and that tonight will be productive of events which will throw a great light upon the affairs connected with this vampire that have hitherto baffled conjecture.”
“Hush!” said Charles; “there, again; I am quite confident I heard a sound as of a broken twig outside the garden-wall. The doctor and the admiral are in deep discussion about something—shall we tell them?”
“No; let us listen, as yet.”
They bent all their attention to listening, inclining their ears towards the ground, and, after a few moments, they felt confident that more than one footstep was creeping along, as cautiously as possible, under the garden wall. After a few moments’ consultation, Henry made up his mind—he being the best acquainted with the localities of the place—to go and reconnoitre, so he, without saying anything to the doctor or the admiral, glided from where he was, in the direction of a part of the fence which he knew he could easily scale.
CHAPTER LXXIX.
THE VAMPIRE’S DANGER.—THE LAST REFUGE.—THE RUSE OF HENRY BANNERWORTH.
Yet knowing to what deeds of violence the passions of a lawless mob will sometimes lead them, and having the experience of what had been attempted by the alarmed and infuriated populace on a former occasion, against the Hall, Henry Bannerworth was, reasonably enough, not without his fears that something might occur of a nature yet highly dangerous to the stability of his ancient house.
He did not actually surmount the fence, but he crept so close to it, that he could get over in a moment, if he wished; and, if any one should move or speak on the other side, he should be quite certain to hear them.
For a few moments all was still, and then suddenly he heard some one say, in a low voice,
“Hist! hist! did you hear nothing?”
“I thought I did,” said another; “but I now am doubtful.”
“Listen again.”
“What,” thought Henry, “can be the motives of these men lying secreted here? It is most extraordinary what they can possibly want, unless they are brewing danger for the Hall.”
Most cautiously now he raised himself, so that his eyes could just look over the fence, and then, indeed, he was astonished.
He had expected to see two or three persons, at the utmost; what was his surprise! to find a compact mass of men crouching down under the garden wall, as far as his eye could reach.
For a few moments, he was so surprised, that he continued to gaze on, heedless of the danger there might be from a discovery that he was playing the part of a spy upon them.
When, however, his first sensations of surprise were over, he cautiously removed to his former position, and, just as he did, so, he heard those who had before spoken, again, in low tones, breaking the stillness of the night.
“I am resolved upon it,” said one; “I am quite determined. I will, please God, rid the country of that dreadful man.”
“Don’t call him a man,” said the oilier.
“Well, well; it is a wrong name to apply to a vampire.”
“It is Varney, after all, then,” said Henry. Bannerworth, to himself;—“it is his life that they seek. What can be done to save him?—for saved he shall be if I can compass such an object. I feel
that there is yet a something in his character which is entitled to consideration, and he shall not be savagely murdered while I have an arm to raise in his defence. But if anything is now to be done, it must be done by stratagem, for the enemy are, by far, in too great force to be personally combatted with.”
Henry resolved to take the advice of his friends, and with that view he went silently and quietly back to where they were, and communicated to them the news that he had so unexpectedly discovered.
They were all much surprised, and then the doctor said,
“You may depend, that since the disappointment of the mob in the destruction of this place, they have had their eye upon Varney. He has been dogged here by some one, and then by degrees that assemblage has sought the spot.”
“He’s a doomed man, then,” remarked the admiral; “for what can save him from a determined number of persons, who, by main force, will overcome us, let us make what stand we may in his defence.”
“Is there no hiding-place in the house,” said Charles, “where you might, after warring him of his danger, conceal him?”
“There are plenty, but of what avail would that be, if they burn down the Hall, which in all probability they will!”
“None, certainly.”
“There is but one chance,” said Henry, “and that is to throw them off the scent, and induce them to think that he whom they seek is not here; I think that may possibly be done by boldness.”
“But how!”
“I will go among them and make the effort.”
He at once left the friends, for he felt that there might be no time to lose, and hastening to the same part of the wall, ever which he had looked so short a time before, he clambered over it, and cried, in a loud voice,
“Stop the vampire! stop the vampire!”
“Where, where?” shouted a number of persons at once, turning their eyes eagerly towards the spot where Henry stood.
“There, across the fields,” cried Henry. “I have lain in wait for him long; but he has eluded me, and is making his way again towards the old ruins, where I am sure he has some hiding-place that he thinks will elude all search. There, I see his dusky form speeding onwards.”
“Come on,” cried several; “to the ruins! to the ruins! We’ll smoke him out if he will not come by fair means: we must have him, dead or alive.”
“Yes, to the ruins!” shouted the throng of persons, who up to this time had preserved so cautious a silence, and, in a few moments more, Henry Bannerworth had the satisfaction of finding that his ruse had been perfectly successful, for Bannerworth Hall and its vicinity were completely deserted, and the mob, in a straggling mass, went over hedge and ditch towards those ruins in which there was nothing to reward the exertions they might choose to make in the way of an exploration of them, but the dead body of the villain Marchdale, who had come there to so dreadful, but so deserved a death.
CHAPTER LXXX.
THE DISCOVERY OF THE BODY OF MARCHDALE IN THE RUINS BY THE MOB.—THE BURNING OF THE CORPSE.—THE MURDER OF THE HANGMAN.
The mob reached the ruins of Bannerworth Hall, and crowded round it on all sides, with the view of ascertaining if a human creature, dead or alive, were there; various surmises were afloat, and some were for considering that everybody but themselves, or their friends, must be nothing less than vampires. Indeed, a strange man, suddenly appearing among them, would have caused a sensation, and a ring would no doubt have been formed round him, and then a hasty council held, or, what was more probable, some shout, or word uttered by some one behind, who could not understand what was going on in front, would have determined them to commit some desperate outrage, and the sacrifice of life would have been the inevitable result of such an unfortunate concurrence of circumstances.
There was a pause before anyone ventured among the ruins; the walls were carefully looked to, and in more than one instance, but they were found dangerous, what were remaining; some parts had been so completely destroyed, that there were nothing but heaps of rubbish.
However, curiosity was exerted to such an extraordinary pitch that it overcame the fear of danger, in search of the horrible; for they believed that if there were any one in the ruins he must be a vampire, of course, and they were somewhat cautious in going near such a creature, lest in so doing they should meet with some accident, and become vampires too.
This was a dreadful reflection, and one that every now and then impressed itself upon the individuals composing the mob; but at the same time any new impulse, or a shout, and they immediately became insensible to all fear; the mere impulse is the dominant one, and then all is forgotten.
The scene was an impressive one; the beautiful house and grounds looked desolate and drear; many of the trees were stripped and broken down, and many scorched and burned, while the gardens and flower beds, the delight of the Bannerworth family, were rudely trodden under foot by the rabble, and all those little beauties so much admired and tended by the inhabitants, were now utterly destroyed, and in such a state that their site could not even be detected by the former owners.
It was a sad sight to see such a sacrilege committed—such violence done to private feelings, as to have all these places thrown open to the scrutiny of the brutal and vulgar, who are incapable of appreciating or understanding the pleasures of a refined taste.
The ruins presented a remarkable contrast to what the place had been but a very short time before; and now the scene of desolation was complete, there was no one spot in which the most wretched could find shelter.
To be sure, under the lee of some broken and crumbling wall, that tottered, rather than stood, a huddled wretch might have found shelter from the wind, but it would have been at the risk of his life, and not there complete.
The mob became quiet for some moments, but was not so long; indeed, a mob of people—which is, in fact, always composed of the most disorderly characters to be found in a place, is not exactly the assembly that is most calculated for quietness; somebody gave a shout, and then somebody else shouted, and the one wide throat of the whole concourse was opened, and sent forth a mighty yell.
After this exhibition of power, they began to run about like mad—traverse the grounds from one end to the other, and then the ruins were in progress of being explored.
This was a tender affair, and had to be done with some care and caution by those who were so engaged; and they walked over crumbling and decayed masses.
In one or two places, they saw what appeared to be large holes, into which the building materials had been sunk, by their own weight, through the flooring, that seemed as roofs to some cellars or dungeons.
Seeing this, they knew not how soon some other part might sink in, and carry their precious bodies down with the mass of rubbish; this gave an interest to the scene—a little danger is a sort of salt to an adventure, and enables those who have taken part in it to talk of their exploits, and of their dangers, which is pleasant to do, and to hear in the ale-house, and by the inglenook in the winter.
However, when a few had gone some distance, others followed, when they saw them enter the place in safety: and at length the whole ruins were covered with living men, and not a few women, who seemed necessary to make up the elements of mischief in this case.
There were some shouting and hallooing from one to the other as they hurried about the ruins.
At length they had explored the ruins nearly all over, when one man, who had stood a few minutes upon a spot, gazing intently upon something, suddenly exclaimed—
“Hilloa! hurrah! here we are, altogether—come on—I’ve found him—I’ve found—recollect it’s me, and nobody else has found—hurrah!”
Then, with a wild kind of frenzy, he threw his hat up into the air, as if to attract attention, and call others round him, to see what it was he had found.
“What’s the matter, Bill?” exclaimed one who came up to him, and who ha
d been close at hand.
“The matter? why, I’ve found him; that’s the matter, old man,” replied the first.
“What, a whale?
“No, a wampyre; the blessed wampyre! there he is—don’t you see him under them ere bricks?”
“Oh, that’s not him; he got away.”
“I don’t care,” replied the other, “who got away, or who didn’t; I know this much, that he’s a wampyre—he wouldn’t be there if he warn’t.”
This was an unanswerable argument, and nobody could deny it; consequently, there was a cessation of talk, and the people then came up, as the two first were looking at the body.
“Whose is it?” inquired a dozen voices.
“Not Sir Francis Varney’s!” said the second speaker; the clothes are not his—”
“No, no; not Sir Francis’s”
“But I tell you what, mates,” said the first speaker; “that if it isn’t Sir Francis Varney’s, it is somebody else’s as bad. I dare say, now, he’s a wictim.”
“A what!”
“A wictim to the wampyre; and, if he sees the blessed moonlight, he will be a wampyre hisself, and so shall we be, too, if he puts his teeth into us.”
“So we shall—so we shall,” said the mob, and their flesh begin to run cold, and there was a feeling of horror creeping over the whole body of persons within hearing.
“I tell you what it is; our only plan will be to get him out of the ruins, then, remarked another.
“What!” said one; “who’s going to handle such cattle? if you’ve a sore about you, and his blood touches you, who’s to say you won’t be a vampire, too!”
“No, no you won’t,” said an old woman.
“I won’t try,” was the happy rejoinder; “I ain’t a-going to carry a wampyre on my two legs home to my wife and small family of seven children, and another a-coming.”
There was a pause for a few moments, and then one man more adventurous than the rest, exclaimed—
“Well, vampire, or no vampire, his dead body can harm no one; so here goes to get it out, help me who will; once have it out, and then we can prevent any evil, by burning it, and thus destroying the whole body.