CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE STRANGE INTERVIEW.--THE CHASE THROUGH THE HALL.
It was with the most melancholy aspect that anything human could wellbear, that Sir Francis Varney took his lonely walk, although perhaps insaying so much, probably we are instituting a comparison whichcircumstances scarcely empower us to do; for who shall say that thatsingular man, around whom a very atmosphere of mystery seemed to beperpetually increasing, was human?
Averse as we are to believe in the supernatural, or even to investhumanity with any preternatural powers, the more than singular facts andcircumstances surrounding the existence and the acts of that man bringto the mind a kind of shuddering conviction, that if he be indeed reallymortal he still must possess some powers beyond ordinary mortality, andbe walking the earth for some unhallowed purposes, such as ordinary menwith the ordinary attributes of human nature can scarcely guess at.
Silently and alone he took his way through that beautiful tract ofcountry, comprehending such picturesque charms of hill and dale whichlay between his home and Bannerworth Hall. He was evidently intent uponreaching the latter place by the shortest possible route, and in thedarkness of that night, for the moon had not yet risen, he showed noslight acquaintance with the intricacies of that locality, that he wasat all enabled to pursue so undeviatingly a tract as that which he took.
He muttered frequently to himself low, indistinct words as he went, andchiefly did they seem to have reference to that strange interview he hadso recently had with one who, from some combination of circumstancesscarcely to be guessed at, evidently exercised a powerful control overhim, and was enabled to make a demand upon his pecuniary resources ofrather startling magnitude.
And yet, from a stray word or two, which were pronounced moredistinctly, he did not seem to be thinking in anger over that interview;but it would appear that it rather had recalled to his remembrancecircumstances of a painful and a degrading nature, which time had notbeen able entirely to obliterate from his recollection.
"Yes, yes," he said, as he paused upon the margin of the wood, to theconfines of which he, or what seemed to be he, had once been chased byMarchdale and the Bannerworths--"yes, the very sight of that man recallsall the frightful pageantry of a horrible tragedy, which I cannever--never forget. Never can it escape my memory, as a horrible, aterrific fact; but it is the sight of this man alone that can recall allits fearful minutiae to my mind, and paint to my imagination, in themost vivid colours, every, the least particular connected with that timeof agony. These periodical visits much affect me. For months I dreadthem, and for months I am but slowly recovering from the shocks theygive me. 'But once more,' he says--'but once more,' and then we shallnot meet again. Well, well; perchance before that time arrives, I may beable to possess myself of those resources which will enable me toforestall his visit, and so at least free myself from the pang ofexpecting him."
He paused at the margin of the wood, and glanced in the direction ofBannerworth Hall. By the dim light which yet showed from out the lightsky, he could discern the ancient gable ends, and turret-like windows;he could see the well laid out gardens, and the grove of stately firsthat shaded it from the northern blasts, and, as he gazed, a strongemotion seemed to come over him, such as no one could have supposedwould for one moment have possessed the frame of one so apparentlyunconnected with all human sympathies.
"I know this spot well," he said, "and my appearance here on thateventful occasion, when the dread of my approach induced a crime onlysecond to murder itself, was on such a night as this, when all was sostill and calm around, and when he who, at the merest shadow of mypresence, rather chose to rush on death than be assured it was myself.Curses on the circumstances that so foiled me! I should have been mostwealthy. I should have possessed the means of commanding the adulationof those who now hold me but cheaply; but still the time may come. Ihave a hope yet, and that greatness which I have ever panted for, thatmagician-like power over my kind, which the possession of ample meansalone can give, may yet be mine."
Wrapping his cloak more closely around him, he strode forward with thatlong, noiseless step which was peculiar to him. Mechanically he appearedto avoid those obstacles of hedge and ditch which impeded his pathway.Surely he had come that road often, or he would not so easily havepursued his way. And now he stood by the edge of a plantation which insome measure protected from trespassers the more private gardens of theHall, and there he paused, as if a feeling of irresolution had come overhim, or it might be, as indeed it seemed from his subsequent conduct,that he had come without any fixed intention, or if with a fixedintention, without any regular plan of carrying it into effect.
Did he again dream of intruding into any of the chambers of thatmansion, with the ghastly aspect of that terrible creation with which,in the minds of its inhabitants, he seemed to be but too closelyidentified? He was pale, attenuated, and trembled. Could it be that sosoon it had become necessary to renew the life-blood in his veins in theawful manner which it is supposed the vampyre brood are compelled toprotract their miserable existence?
It might be so, and that he was even now reflecting upon how once morehe could kindle the fire of madness in the brain of that beautiful girl,who he had already made so irretrievably wretched.
He leant against an aged tree, and his strange, lustrous-looking eyesseemed to collect every wandering scintillation of light that wasaround, and to shine with preternatural intensity.
"I must, I will," he said, "be master of Bannerworth Hall. It must cometo that. I have set an existence upon its possession, and I will haveit; and then, if with my own hands I displace it brick by brick andstone by stone, I will discover that hidden secret which no one butmyself now dreams of. It shall be done by force or fraud, by love or bydespair, I care not which; the end shall sanctify all means. Ay, even ifI wade through blood to my desire, I say it shall be done."
There was a holy and a still calmness about the night much at variancewith the storm of angry passion that appeared to be momentarilygathering power in the breast of that fearful man. Not the least soundcame from Bannerworth Hall, and it was only occasionally that from afaroff on the night air there came the bark of some watchdog, or the low ofdistant cattle. All else was mute save when the deep sepulchral tones ofthat man, if man he was, gave an impulse to the soft air around him.
With a strolling movement as if he were careless if he proceeded in thatdirection or not, he still went onward toward the house, and now hestood by that little summer-house once so sweet and so dear a retreat,in which the heart-stricken Flora had held her interview with him whomshe loved with a devotion unknown to meaner minds.
This spot scarcely commanded any view of the house, for so enclosed wasit among evergreens and blooming flowers, that it seemed like a verywilderness of nature, upon which, with liberal hand, she had showereddown in wild luxuriance her wildest floral beauties.
In and around that spot the night air was loaded with sweets. Themingled perfume of many flowers made that place seem a very paradise.But oh, how sadly at variance with that beauty and contentedness ofnature was he who stood amidst such beauty! All incapable as he was ofappreciating its tenderness, or of gathering the faintest moral from itsglory.
"Why am I here?" he said. "Here, without fixed design or stability ofpurpose, like some miser who has hidden his own hoards so deeply withinthe bowels of the earth he cannot hope that he shall ever again be ableto bring them to the light of day. I hover around this spot which Ifeel--which I know--contains my treasure, though I cannot lay my handsupon it, or exult in its glistening beauty."
Even as he spoke he cowered down like some guilty thing, for he heard afaint footstep upon the garden path. So light, so fragile was the step,that, in the light of day, the very hum of summer insects would havedrowned the noise; but he heard it, that man of crime--of unholy andawful impulses. He heard it, and he shrunk down among the shrubs andflowers till he was hidden completely from observation amid a world offragrant essences.
Was it s
ome one stealthily in that place even as he was, unwelcome orunknown? or was it one who had observed him intrude upon the privacy ofthose now unhappy precincts, and who was coming to deal upon him thatdeath which, vampyre though he might be, he was yet susceptible of frommortal hands?
The footstep advanced, and lower down he shrunk until his coward-heartbeat against the very earth itself. He knew that he was unarmed, acircumstance rare with him, and only to be accounted for by thedisturbance of his mind consequent upon the visit of that strange man tohis house, whose presence had awakened so many conflicting emotions.
Nearer and nearer still came that light footstep, and his deep-seatedfears would not let him perceive that it was not the step of caution orof treachery, but owed its lightness to the natural grace and freedom ofmovement of its owner.
The moon must have arisen, although obscured by clouds, through which itcast but a dim radiance, for the night had certainly grown lighter; sothat although there were no strong shadows cast, a more diffusedbrightness was about all things, and their outlines looked not sodancing, and confused the one with the other.
He strained his eyes in the direction whence the sounds proceeded, andthen his fears for his personal safety vanished, for he saw it was afemale form that was slowly advancing towards him.
His first impulse was to rise, for with the transient glimpse he got ofit, he knew that it must be Flora Bannerworth; but a second thought,probably one of intense curiosity to know what could possibly havebrought her to such a spot at such a time, restrained him, and he wasquiet. But if the surprise of Sir Francis Varney was great to see FloraBannerworth at such a time in such a place, we have no doubt, that withthe knowledge which our readers have of her, their astonishment wouldmore than fully equal his; and when we come to consider, that since thateventful period when the sanctity of her chamber had been so violated bythat fearful midnight visitant, it must appear somewhat strange that shecould gather courage sufficient to wander forth alone at such an hour.
Had she no dread of meeting that unearthly being? Did the possibilitythat she might fall into his ruthless grasp, not come across her mindwith a shuddering consciousness of its probability? Had she noreflection that each step she took, was taking her further and furtherfrom those who would aid her in all extremities? It would seem not, forshe walked onward, unheeding, and apparently unthinking of the presence,possible or probable, of that bane of her existence.
But let us look at her again. How strange and spectral-like she movesalong; there seems no speculation in her countenance, but with a strangeand gliding step, she walks like some dim shadow of the past in thatancient garden. She is very pale, and on her brow there is the stamp ofsuffering; her dress is a morning robe, she holds it lightly round her,and thus she moves forward towards that summer-house which probably toher was sanctified by having witnessed those vows of pure affection,which came from the lips of Charles Holland, about whose fate there nowhung so great a mystery.
Has madness really seized upon the brain of that beautiful girl? Has thestrong intellect really sunk beneath the oppressions to which it hasbeen subjected? Does she now walk forth with a disordered intellect, thequeen of some fantastic realm, viewing the material world with eyes thatare not of earth; shunning perhaps that which she should have sought,and, perchance, in her frenzy, seeking that which in a happier frame ofmind she would have shunned.
Such might have been the impression of any one who had looked upon herfor a moment, and who knew the disastrous scenes through which she hadso recently passed; but we can spare our readers the pangs of such asupposition. We have bespoken their love for Flora Bannerworth, and weare certain that she has it; therefore would we spare them, even for afew brief moments, from imagining that cruel destiny had done its worst,and that the fine and beautiful spirit we have so much commended hadlost its power of rational reflection. No; thank Heaven, such is not thecase. Flora Bannerworth is not mad, but under the strong influence ofsome eccentric dream, which has pictured to her mind images which haveno home but in the airy realms of imagination. She has wandered forthfrom her chamber to that sacred spot where she had met him she loved,and heard the noblest declaration of truth and constancy that everflowed from human lips.
Yes, she is sleeping; but, with a precision such as the somnambulist sostrangely exerts, she trod the well-known paths slowly, but surely,toward that summer's bower, where her dreams had not told her laycrouching that most hideous spectre of her imagination, Sir FrancisVarney. He who stood between her and her heart's best joy; he who haddestroyed all hope of happiness, and who had converted her dearestaffections into only so many causes of greater disquietude than theblessings they should have been to her.
Oh! could she have imagined but for one moment that he was there, withwhat an eagerness of terror would she have flown back again to theshelter of those walls, where at least was to be found some protectionfrom the fearful vampyre's embrace, and where she would be within hailof friendly hearts, who would stand boldly between her and every thoughtof harm.
But she knew it not, and onwards she went until the very hem of hergarment touched the face of Sir Francis Varney.
And he was terrified--he dared not move--he dared not speak! The ideathat she had died, and that this was her spirit, come to wreak someterrible vengeance upon him, for a time possessed him, and so paralysedwith fear was he, that he could neither move nor speak.
It had been well if, during that trance of indecision in which hiscoward heart placed him, Flora had left the place, and again sought herhome; but unhappily such an impulse came not over her; she sat upon thatrustic seat, where she had reposed when Charles had clasped her to hisheart, and through her very dream the remembrance of that pure affectioncame across her, and in the tenderest and most melodious accents, shesaid,--
"Charles! Charles! and do you love me still? No--no; you have notforsaken me. Save me, save me from the vampyre!"
She shuddered, and Sir Francis Varney heard her weeping.
"Fool that I am," he muttered, "to be so terrified. She sleeps. This isone of the phases which a disordered imagination oft puts on. Shesleeps, and perchance this may be an opportunity of further increasingthe dread of my visitation, which shall make Bannerworth Hall far tooterrible a dwelling-place for her; and well I know, if she goes, theywill all go. It will become a deserted house, and that is what I want. Ahouse, too, with such an evil reputation, that none but myself, who havecreated that reputation, will venture within its walls:--a house, whichsuperstition will point out as the abode of evil spirits;--a house, asit were, by general opinion, ceded to the vampyre. Yes, it shall be myown; fit dwelling-place for a while for me. I have sworn it shall bemine, and I will keep my oath, little such as I have to do with vows."
He rose, and moved slowly to the narrow entrance of the summer-house; amovement he could make, without at all disturbing Flora, for the rusticseat, on which she sat, was at its further extremity. And there hestood, the upper part of his gaunt and hideous form clearly defined uponthe now much lighter sky, so that if Flora Bannerworth had not been inthat trance of sleep in which she really was, one glance upward wouldlet her see the hideous companion she had, in that once much-lovedspot--a spot hitherto sacred to the best and noblest feelings, but nowdoomed for ever to be associated with that terrific spectre of despair.
But she was in no state to see so terrible a sight. Her hands were overher face, and she was weeping still.
"Surely, he loves me," she whispered; "he has said he loved me, and hedoes not speak in vain. He loves me still, and I shall again look uponhis face, a Heaven to me! Charles! Charles! you will come again? Surely,they sin against the divinity of love, who would tell me that you loveme not!"
"Ha!" muttered Varney, "this passion is her first, and takes a stronghold on her young heart--she loves him--but what are human affections tome? I have no right to count myself in the great muster-roll ofhumanity. I look not like an inhabitant of the earth, and yet am on it.I love no one, expect no love from any one, bu
t I will make humanity aslave to me; and the lip-service of them who hate me in their hearts,shall be as pleasant jingling music to my ear, as if it were quitesincere! I will speak to this girl; she is not mad--perchance she maybe."
There was a diabolical look of concentrated hatred upon Varney's face,as he now advanced two paces towards the beautiful Flora.
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