CHAPTER XLIV.
VARNEY'S DANGER, AND HIS RESCUE.--THE PRISONER AGAIN, AND THESUBTERRANEAN VAULT.
We have before slightly mentioned to the reader, and not unadvisedly,the existence of a certain prisoner, confined in a gloomy dungeon, intowhose sad and blackened recesses but few and faint glimmering rays oflight ever penetrated; for, by a diabolical ingenuity, the narrowloophole which served for a window to that subterraneous abode was soconstructed, that, let the sun be at what point it might, during itsdiurnal course, but a few reflected beams of light could ever find theirway into that abode of sorrow.
The prisoner--the same prisoner of whom we before spoke--is there.Despair is in his looks, and his temples are still bound with thosecloths, which seemed now for many days to have been sopped in blood,which has become encrusted in their folds.
He still lives, apparently incapable of movement. How he has lived solong seems to be a mystery, for one would think him scarcely in a state,even were nourishment placed to his lips, to enable him to swallow it.
It may be, however, that the mind has as much to do with that apparentabsolute prostration of all sort of physical energy as those bodilywounds which he has received at the hands of the enemies who havereduced him to his present painful and hopeless situation.
Occasionally a low groan burst from his lips; it seems to come from thevery bottom of his heart, and it sounds as if it would carry with itevery remnant of vitality that was yet remaining to him.
Then he moves restlessly, and repeats in hurried accents the names ofsome who are dear to him, and far away--some who may, perchance, bemourning him, but who know not, guess not, aught of his presentsufferings.
As he thus moves, the rustle of a chain among the straw on which he liesgives an indication, that even in that dungeon it has not beenconsidered prudent to leave him master of his own actions, lest, by toovigorous an effort, he might escape from the thraldom in which he isheld.
The sound reaches his own ears, and for a few moments, in the deepimpatience of his wounded spirit, he heaps malediction on the heads ofthose who have reduced him to his present state.
But soon a better nature seems to come over him, and gentler words fallfrom his lips. He preaches patience to himself--he talks not of revenge,but of justice, and in accents of more hopefulness than he had beforespoken, he calls upon Heaven to succour him in his deep distress.
Then all is still, and the prisoner appears to have resigned himselfonce more to the calmness of expectation or of despair; but hark! hissense of hearing, rendered doubly acute by lying so long alone in nearlydarkness, and in positive silence, detects sounds which, to ordinarymortal powers of perception, would have been by far too indistinct toproduce any tangible effect upon the senses.
It is the sound of feet--on, on they come; far overhead he hears them;they beat the green earth--that sweet, verdant sod, which he may neversee again--with an impatient tread. Nearer and nearer still; and nowthey pause; he listens with all the intensity of one who listens forexistence; some one comes; there is a lumbering noise--a hasty footstep;he hears some one labouring for breath--panting like a hunted hare; hisdungeon door is opened, and there totters in a man, tall and gaunt; hereels like one intoxicated; fatigue has done more than the work ofinebriation; he cannot save himself, and he sinks exhausted by the sideof that lonely prisoner.
The captive raises himself as far as his chains will allow him; heclutches the throat of his enervated visitor.
"Villain, monster, vampyre!" he shrieks, "I have thee now;" and lockedin a deadly embrace, they roll upon the damp earth, struggling for lifetogether.
* * * * *
It is mid-day at Bannerworth Hall, and Flora is looking from thecasement anxiously expecting the arrival of her brothers. She had seen,from some of the topmost windows of the Hall, that the wholeneighbourhood had been in a state of commotion, but little did she guessthe cause of so much tumult, or that it in any way concerned her.
She had seen the peasantry forsaking their work in the fields and thegardens, and apparently intent upon some object of absorbing interest;but she feared to leave the house, for she had promised Henry that shewould not do so, lest the former pacific conduct of the vampyre shouldhave been but a new snare, for the purpose of drawing her so far fromher home as to lead her into some danger when she should be far fromassistance.
And yet more than once was she tempted to forget her promise, and toseek the open country, for fear that those she loved should beencountering some danger for her sake, which she would willingly eithershare with them or spare them.
The solicitation, however, of her brother kept her comparatively quiet;and, moreover, since her last interview with Varney, in which, at allevents, he had shown some feeling for the melancholy situation to which,he had reduced her, she had been more able to reason calmly, and to meetthe suggestions of passion and of impulse with a sober judgment.
About midday, then, she saw the domestic party returning--that party,which now consisted of her two brothers, the admiral, Jack Pringle, andMr. Chillingworth. As for Mr. Marchdale, he had given them a politeadieu on the confines of the grounds of Bannerworth Hall, stating, thatalthough he had felt it to be his duty to come forward and second HenryBannerworth in the duel with the vampyre, yet that circumstance by nomeans obliterated from his memory the insults he had received fromAdmiral Bell, and, therefore, he declined going to Bannerworth Hall, andbade them a very good morning.
To all this, Admiral Bell replied that he might go and be d----d, if heliked, and that he considered him a swab and a humbug, and appealed toJack Pringle whether he, Jack, ever saw such a sanctified looking prigin his life.
"Ay, ay," says Jack.
This answer, of course, produced the usual contention, which lasted themuntil they got fairly in the house, where they swore at each other to anextent that was enough to make any one's hair stand on end, until Henryand Mr. Chillingworth interfered, and really begged that they wouldpostpone the discussion until some more fitting opportunity.
The whole of the circumstances were then related to Flora; who, whileshe blamed her brother much for fighting the duel with the vampyre,found in the conduct of that mysterious individual, as regarded theencounter, yet another reason for believing him to be strictly sincerein his desire to save her from the consequences of his future visits.
Her desire to leave Bannerworth Hall consequently became more and moreintense, and as the admiral really now considered himself the master ofthe house, they offered no amount of opposition to the subject, butmerely said,--
"My dear Flora, Admiral Bell shall decide in all these matters, now. Weknow that he is our sincere friend; and that whatever he says we oughtto do, will be dictated by the best possible feelings towards us."
"Then I appeal to you, sir," said Flora, turning to the admiral.
"Very good," replied the old man; "then I say--"
"Nay, admiral," interrupted Mr. Chillingworth; "you promised me, but ashort time since, that you would come to no decision whatever upon thisquestion, until you had heard some particulars which I have to relate toyou, which, in my humble opinion, will sway your judgment."
"And so I did," cried the admiral; "but I had forgotten all about it.Flora, my dear, I'll be with you in an hour or two. My friend, thedoctor, here, has got some sow by the ear, and fancies it's the rightone; however, I'll hear what he has got to say, first, before we come toa conclusion. So, come along, Mr. Chillingworth, and let's have it outat once."
"Flora," said Henry, when the admiral had left the room, "I can see thatyou wish to leave the Hall."
"I do, brother; but not to go far--I wish rather to hide from Varneythan to make myself inaccessible by distance."
"You still cling to this neighbourhood?"
"I do, I do; and you know with what hope I cling to it."
"Perfectly; you still think it possible that Charles Holland may beunited to you."
"I do, I do."
"You believ
e his faith."
"Oh, yes; as I believe in Heaven's mercy."
"And I, Flora; I would not doubt him now for worlds; something even nowseems to whisper to me that a brighter sun of happiness will yet dawnupon us, and that, when the mists which at present enshroud ourselvesand our fortunes pass away, they will disclose a landscape full ofbeauty, the future of which shall know no pangs."
"Yes, brother," exclaimed Flora, enthusiastically; "this, after all, maybe but some trial, grievous while it lasts, but yet tending eventuallyonly to make the future look more bright and beautiful. Heaven may yethave in store for us all some great happiness, which shall springclearly and decidedly from out these misfortunes."
"Be it so, and may we ever thus banish despair by such hopefulpropositions. Lean on my arm, Flora; you are safe with me. Come,dearest, and taste the sweetness of the morning air."
There was, indeed now, a hopefulness about the manner in which HenryBannerworth spoke, such as Flora had not for some weary months had thepleasure of listening to, and she eagerly rose to accompany him into thegarden, which was glowing with all the beauty of sunshine, for the dayhad turned out to be much finer than the early morning had at allpromised it would be.
"Flora," he said, when they had taken some turns to and fro in thegarden, "notwithstanding all that has happened, there is no convincingMr. Chillingworth that Sir Francis Varney is really what to us heappears."
"Indeed!"
"It is so. In the face of all evidence, he neither will believe invampyres at all, nor that Varney is anything but some mortal man, likeourselves, in his thoughts, talents, feelings, and modes of life; andwith no more power to do any one an injury than we have."
"Oh, would that I could think so!"
"And I; but, unhappily, we have by far too many, and too conclusiveevidences to the contrary."
"We have, indeed, brother."
"And though, while we respect that strength of mind in our friend whichwill not allow him, even almost at the last extremity, to yield to whatappear to be stern facts, we may not ourselves be so obdurate, but mayfeel that we know enough to be convinced."
"You have no doubt, brother?"
"Most reluctantly, I must confess, that I feel compelled to considerVarney as something more than mortal."
"He must be so."
"And now, sister, before we leave the place which has been a home to usfrom earliest life, let us for a few moments consider if there be anypossible excuse for the notion of Mr. Chillingworth, to the effect thatSir Francis Varney wants possession of the house for some purpose stillmore inimical to our peace and prosperity than any he has yetattempted."
"Has he such an opinion?"
"He has."
"'Tis very strange."
"Yes, Flora; he seems to gather from all the circumstances, nothing butan overwhelming desire on the part of Sir Francis Varney to become thetenant of Bannerworth Hall."
"He certainly wishes to possess it."
"Yes; but can you, sister, in the exercise of any possible amount offancy, imagine any motive for such an anxiety beyond what he alleges?"
"Which is merely that he is fond of old houses."
"Precisely so. That is the reason, and the only one, that can be gotfrom him. Heaven only knows if it be the true one."
"It may be, brother."
"As you say, it may; but there's a doubt, nevertheless, Flora. I muchrejoice that you have had an interview with this mysterious being, foryou have certainty, since that time, been happier and more composed thanI ever hoped to see you again."
"I have indeed."
"It is sufficiently perceivable."
"Somehow, brother, since that interview, I have not had the same sort ofdread of Sir Francis Varney which before made the very sound of his namea note of terror to me. His words, and all he said to me during thatinterview which took place so strangely between us, indeed how I knownot, tended altogether rather to make him, to a certain extent, anobject of my sympathies rather than my abhorrence."
"That is very strange."
"I own that it is strange, Henry; but when we come for but a briefmoment to reflect upon the circumstances which have occurred, we shall,I think, be able to find some cause even to pity Varney the vampyre."
"How?"
"Thus, brother. It is said--and well may I who have been subject to anattack of such a nature, tremble to repeat the saying--that those whohave been once subject to the visitations of a vampyre, are themselvesin a way to become one of the dreadful and maddening fraternity."
"I have heard so much, sister," replied Henry.
"Yes; and therefore who knows but that Sir Francis Varney may, at onetime, have been as innocent as we are ourselves of the terrible andfiendish propensity which now makes him a terror and a reproach to allwho know him, or are in any way obnoxious to his attacks."
"That is true."
"There may have been a time--who shall say there was not?--when he, likeme, would have shrunk, with a dread as great as any one could haveexperienced, from the contamination of the touch even of a vampyre."
"I cannot, sister, deny the soundness of your reasoning," said Henry,with a sigh; "but I still no not see anything, even from a fullconviction that Varney is unfortunate, which should induce us totolerate him."
"Nay, brother, I said not tolerate. What I mean is, that even with thehorror and dread we must naturally feel at such a being, we may affordto mingle some amount of pity, which shall make us rather seek to shunhim, than to cross his path with a resolution of doing him an injury."
"I perceive well, sister, what you mean. Rather than remain here, andmake an attempt to defy Sir Francis Varney, you would fly from him, andleave him undisputed master of the field."
"I would--I would."
"Heaven forbid that I or any one should thwart you. You know well,Flora, how dear you are to me; you know well that your happiness hasever been to us all a matter which has assumed the most important ofshapes, as regarded our general domestic policy. It is not, therefore,likely now, dear sister, that we should thwart you in your wish toremove from here."
"I know, Henry, all you would say," remarked Flora, as a tear started toher eyes. "I know well all you think, and, in your love for me, Ilikewise know well I rely for ever. You are attached to this place, as,indeed, we all are, by a thousand happy and pleasant associations; butlisten to me further, Henry, I do not wish to wander far."
"Not far, Flora?"
"No. Do I not still cling to a hope that Charles may yet appear? and ifhe do so, it will assuredly be in this neighbourhood, which he knows isnative and most dear to us all."
"True."
"Then do I wish to make some sort of parade, in the way of publicity, ofour leaving the Hall."
"Yes, yes."
"And yet not go far. In the neighbouring town, for example, surely wemight find some means of living entirely free from remark or observationas to who or what we were."
"That, sister, I doubt. If you seek for that species of solitude whichyou contemplate, it is only to be found in a desert."
"A desert?"
"Yes; or in a large city."
"Indeed!"
"Ay, Flora; you may well believe me, that it is so. In a small communityyou can have no possible chance of evading an amount of scrutiny whichwould very soon pierce through any disguise you could by any possibilityassume."
"Then there is no resource. We must go far."
"Nay, I will consider for you, Flora; and although, as a generalprinciple, what I have said I know to be true, yet some more specialcircumstance may arise that may point a course that, while it enablesus, for Charles Holland's sake, to remain in this immediateneighbourhood, yet will procure to us all the secrecy we may desire."
"Dear--dear brother," said Flora, as she flung herself upon Henry'sneck, "you speak cheeringly to me, and, what is more, you believe inCharles's faithfulness and truth."
"As Heaven is my judge, I do."
"A thousand, thousand thanks for such an as
surance. I know him too wellto doubt, for one moment, his faith. Oh, brother! could he--couldCharles Holland, the soul of honour, the abode of every noble impulsethat can adorn humanity--could he have written those letters? No, no!perish the thought!"
"It has perished."
"Thank God!"
"I only, upon reflection, wonder how, misled for the moment by theconcurrence of a number of circumstances, I could ever have suspectedhim."
"It is like your generous nature, brother to say so; but you know aswell as I, that there has been one here who has, far from feeling anysort of anxiety to think as well as possible of poor Charles Holland,has done all that in him lay to take the worst view of his mysteriousdisappearance, and induce us to do the like."
"You allude to Mr. Marchdale?"
"I do."
"Well, Flora, at the same time that I must admit you have cause forspeaking of Mr. Marchdale as you do, yet when we come to consider allthings, there may be found for him excuses."
"May there?"
"Yes, Flora; he is a man, as he himself says, past the meridian of life,and the world is a sad as well as a bad teacher, for it soon--too soon,alas! deprives us of our trusting confidence in human nature."
"It may be so; but yet, he, knowing as he did so very little of CharlesHolland, judged him hastily and harshly."
"You rather ought to say, Flora, that he did not judge him generously."
"Well, be it so."
"And you must recollect, when you say so, that Marchdale did not loveCharles Holland."
"Nay, now," said Flora, while there flashed across her cheek, for amoment, a heightened colour, "you are commencing to jest with me, and,therefore, we will say no more. You know, dear Henry, all my hopes, mywishes, and my feelings, and I shall therefore leave my future destinyin your hands, to dispose of as you please. Look yonder!"
"Where?"
"There. Do you not see the admiral and Mr. Chillingworth walking amongthe trees?"
"Yes, yes; I do now."
"How very serious and intent they are upon the subject of theirdiscourse. They seem quite lost to all surrounding objects. I could nothave imagined any subject that would so completely have absorbed theattention of Admiral Bell."
"Mr. Chillingworth had something to relate to him or to propose, of anature which, perchance, has had the effect of enchaining all hisattention--he called him from the room."
"Yes; I saw that he did. But see, they come towards us, and now weshall, probably, hear what is the subject-matter of their discourse andconsultation."
"We shall."
Admiral Bell had evidently seen Henry and his sister, for now, suddenly,as if not from having for the first moment observed them, and, inconsequence, broken off their private discourse, but as if they arrivedat some point in it which enabled them to come to a conclusion to becommunicative, the admiral came towards the brother and sister.
"Well," said the bluff old admiral, when they were sufficiently near toexchange words, "well, Miss Flora, you are looking a thousand timesbetter than you were."
"I thank you, admiral, I am much better."
"Oh, to be sure you are; and you will be much better still, and no sortof mistake. Now, here's the doctor and I have both been agreeing uponwhat is best for you."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, to be sure. Have we not, doctor?"
"We have, admiral."
"Good; and what, now, Miss Flora, do you suppose it is?"
"I really cannot say."
"Why, it's change of air, to be sure. You must get away from here asquickly as you can, or there will be no peace for you."
"Yes," added Mr. Chillingworth, advancing; "I am quite convinced thatchange of scene and change of place, and habits, and people, will tendmore to your complete recovery than any other circumstances. In the mostordinary cases of indisposition we always find that the invalid recoversmuch sooner away from the scene of his indisposition, than by remainingin it, even though its general salubrity be much greater than the placeto which he may be removed."
"Good," said the admiral.
"Then we are to understand," said Henry, with a smile, "that we are nolonger to be your guests, Admiral Bell?"
"Belay there!" cried the admiral; "who told you to understand any suchthing, I should like to know?"
"Well, but we shall look upon this house as yours, now; and, that beingthe case, if we remove from it, of course we cease to be your guests anylonger."
"That's all you know about it. Now, hark ye. You don't command thefleet, so don't pretend to know what the admiral is going to do. I havemade money by knocking about some of the enemies of old England, andthat's the most gratifying manner in the world of making money, so faras I am concerned."
"It is an honourable mode."
"Of course it is. Well, I am going to--what the deuce do you call it?"
"What?"
"That's just what I want to know. Oh, I have it now. I am going to whatthe lawyers call invest it."
"A prudent step, admiral, and one which it is to be hoped, before now,has occurred to you."
"Perhaps it has and perhaps it hasn't; however, that's my business, andno one's else's. I am going to invest my spare cash in taking houses;so, as I don't care a straw where the houses may be situated, you canlook out for one somewhere that will suit you, and I'll take it; so,after all, you will be my guests there just the same as you are here."
"Admiral," said Henry, "it would be imposing upon a generosity as rareas it is noble, were we to allow you to do so much for us as youcontemplate."
"Very good."
"We cannot--we dare not."
"But I say you shall. So you have had your say, and I've had mine, afterwhich, if you please, Master Henry Bannerworth, I shall take upon myselfto consider the affair as altogether settled. You can commenceoperations as soon as you like. I know that Miss Flora, here--bless hersweet eyes--don't want to stay at Bannerworth Hall any longer than shecan help it."
"Indeed I was urging upon Henry to remove," said Flora; "but yet Icannot help feeling with him, admiral, that we are imposing upon yourgoodness."
"Go on imposing, then."
"But--"
"Psha! Can't a man be imposed upon if he likes? D--n it, that's a poorprivilege for an Englishman to be forced to make a row about. I tell youI like it. I will be imposed upon, so there's an end of that; and nowlet's come in and see what Mrs. Bannerworth has got ready for luncheon."
* * * * *
It can hardly be supposed that such a popular ferment as had beencreated in the country town, by the singular reports concerning Varneythe Vampyre, should readily, and without abundant satisfaction, subside.
An idea like that which had lent so powerful an impulse to the popularmind, was one far easier to set going than to deprecate or extinguish.The very circumstances which had occurred to foil the excited mob intheir pursuit of Sir Francis Varney, were of a nature to increase thepopular superstition concerning him, and to make him and his acts appearin still more dreadful colours.
Mobs do not reason very closely and clearly; but the very fact of thefrantic flight of Sir Francis Varney from the projected attack of theinfuriated multitude, was seized hold of as proof positive of thereality of his vampyre-like existence.
Then, again, had he not disappeared in the most mysterious manner? Hadhe not sought refuge where no human being would think of seeking refuge,namely, in that old, dilapidated ruin, where, when his pursuers were soclose upon his track, he had succeeded in eluding their grasp with afacility which looked as if he had vanished into thin air, or as if thevery earth had opened to receive him bodily within its cold embraces?
It is not to be wondered at, that the few who fled so precipitately fromthe ruin, lost nothing of the wonderful story they had to tell, in thecarrying it from that place to the town. When they reached theirneighbours, they not only told what had really occurred, but they addedto it all their own surmises, and the fanciful creation of all their ownfears,
so that before mid-day, and about the time when Henry Bannerworthwas conversing so quietly in the gardens of the Hall with his beautifulsister, there was an amount of popular ferment in the town, of whichthey had no conception.
All business was suspended, and many persons, now that once the idea hadbeen started concerning the possibility that a vampyre might have beenvisiting some of the houses in the place, told how, in the dead of thenight, they had heard strange noises. How children had shrieked from noapparent cause--doors opened and shut without human agency; and windowsrattled that never had been known to rattle before.
Some, too, went so far as to declare that they had been awakened out oftheir sleep by noises incidental to an effort made to enter theirchambers; and others had seen dusky forms of gigantic proportionsoutside their windows, tampering with their fastenings, and onlydisappearing when the light of day mocked all attempts at concealment.
These tales flew from mouth to mouth, and all listened to them with suchan eager interest, that none thought it worth while to challenge theirinconsistencies, or to express a doubt of their truth, because they hadnot been mentioned before.
The only individual, and he was a remarkably clever man, who made theslightest remark upon the subject of a practical character, hazarded asuggestion that made confusion worse confounded.
He knew something of vampyres. He had travelled abroad, and had heard ofthem in Germany, as well as in the east, and, to a crowd of wonderingand aghast listeners, he said,--
"You may depend upon it, my friends, this has been going on for sometime; there have been several mysterious and sudden deaths in the townlately; people have wasted away and died nobody knew how or wherefore."
"Yes--yes," said everybody.
"There was Miles, the butcher; you know how fat he was, and then how fathe wasn't."
A general assent was given to the proposition; and then, elevating onearm in an oratorical manner, the clever fellow continued,--
"I have not a doubt that Miles, the butcher, and every one else who hasdied suddenly lately, have been victims of the vampyre; and what's more,they'll all be vampyres, and come and suck other people's blood, till atlast the whole town will be a town of vampyres."
"But what's to be done?" cried one, who trembled so excessively that hecould scarcely stand under his apprehension.
"There is but one plan--Sir Francis Varney must be found, and put out ofthe world in such a manner that he can't come back to it again; and allthose who are dead that we have any suspicion of, should be taken up outof their graves and looked at, to see if they're rotting or not; if theyare it's all right; but, if they look fresh and much, as usual, you maydepend they're vampyres, and no mistake."
This was a terrific suggestion thrown amongst a mob. To have caught SirFrancis Varney and immolated him at the shrine of popular fury, theywould not have shrunk from; but a desecration of the graves of thosewhom they had known in life was a matter which, however much it had torecommend it, even the boldest stood aghast at, and felt some qualms ofirresolution.
There are many ideas, however, which, like the first plunge into a coldbath, are rather uncomfortable for the moment; but which, in a littletime, we become so familiarized with, that they become stripped of theirdisagreeable concomitants, and appear quite pleasing and natural.
So it was with this notion of exhuming the dead bodies of thosetownspeople who had recently died from what was called a decay ofnature, and such other failures of vitality as bore not the tangiblename of any understood disease.
From mouth to mouth the awful suggestion spread like wildfire, until atlast it grew into such a shape that it almost seemed to become a duty,at all events, to have up Miles the butcher, and see how he looked.
There is, too, about human nature a natural craving curiosity concerningeverything connected with the dead. There is not a man of education orof intellectual endowment who would not travel many miles to look uponthe exhumation of the remains of some one famous in his time, whetherfor his vices, his virtues, his knowledge, his talents, or his heroism;and, if this feeling exist in the minds of the educated and refined in asublimated shape, which lends to it grace and dignity, we may look forit among the vulgar and the ignorant, taking only a grosser and meanerform, in accordance with their habits of thought. The rude materials, ofwhich the highest and noblest feelings of educated minds are formed,will be found amongst the most grovelling and base; and so this vulgarcuriosity, which, combined with other feelings, prompted an ignorant andilliterate mob to exhume Miles, the once fat butcher, in a differentform tempted the philosophic Hamlet to moralise upon the skull ofYorick.
And it was wonderful to see how, when these people had made up theirminds to carry out the singularly interesting, but, at the same,fearful, suggestion, they assumed to themselves a great virtue in sodoing--told each other what an absolute necessity there was, for thepublic good, that it should be done; and then, with loud shouts andcries concerning the vampyre, they proceeded in a body to the villagechurchyard, where had been lain, with a hope of reposing in peace, thebones of their ancestors.
A species of savage ferocity now appeared to have seized upon the crowd,and the people, in making up their minds to do something which wasstrikingly at variance with all their preconceived notions of right andwrong, appeared to feel that it was necessary, in order that they mightbe consistent, to cast off many of the decencies of life, and to becomeriotous and reckless.
As they proceeded towards the graveyard, they amused themselves bybreaking the windows of the tax-gatherers, and doing what passingmischief they could to the habitations of all who held any officialsituation or authority.
This was something like a proclamation of war against those who mightthink it their duty to interfere with the lawless proceedings of anignorant multitude. A public-house or two, likewise, _en route_, wassacked of some of its inebriating contents, so that, what with themadness of intoxication, and the general excitement consequent upon thevery nature of the business which took them to the churchyard, a morewild and infuriated multitude than that which paused at two iron gateswhich led into the sanctuary of that church could not be imagined.
Those who have never seen a mob placed in such a situation as to havecast off all moral restraint whatever, at the same time that it feelsthere is no physical power to cope with it, can form no notion of themass of terrible passions which lie slumbering under what, in ordinarycases, have appeared harmless bosoms, but which now run riot, andovercame every principle of restraint. It is a melancholy fact, but,nevertheless, a fact, despite its melancholy, that, even in a civilisedcountry like this, with a generally well-educated population, nothingbut a well-organised physical force keeps down, from the commission ofthe most outrageous offences, hundreds and thousands of persons.
We have said that the mob paused at the iron gates of the churchyard,but it was more a pause of surprise than one of vacillation, becausethey saw that those iron gates were closed, which had not been the casewithin the memory of the oldest among them.
At the first building of the church, and the enclosure of its graveyard,two pairs of these massive gates had been presented by some munificentpatron; but, after a time, they hung idly upon their hinges, ornamentalcertainly, but useless, while a couple of turnstiles, to keep cattlefrom straying within the sacred precincts, did duty instead, andestablished, without trouble, the regular thoroughfare, which long habithad dictated as necessary, through the place of sepulture.
But now those gates were closed, and for once were doing duty. Heavenonly knows how they had been moved upon their rusty and time-wornhinges. The mob, however, was checked for the moment, and it was clearthat the ecclesiastical authorities were resolved to attempt somethingto prevent the desecration of the tombs.
Those gates were sufficiently strong to resist the first vigorous shakewhich was given to them by some of the foremost among the crowd, andthen one fellow started the idea that they might be opened from theinside, and volunteered to clamber over the wall to do so.
Hoisted up upon the shoulders of several, he grasped the top of thewall, and raised his head above its level, and then something of amysterious nature rose up from the inside, and dealt him such a whackbetween the eyes, that down he went sprawling among his coadjutors.
Now, nobody had seen how this injury had been inflicted, and the policyof those in the garrison should have been certainly to keep up themystery, and leave the invaders in ignorance of what sort of person itwas that had so foiled them. Man, however, is prone to indulge in vainglorification, and the secret was exploded by the triumphant waving ofthe long staff of the beadle, with the gilt knob at the end of it, justover the parapet of the wall, in token of victory.
"It's Waggles! it's Waggles!" cried everybody "it's Waggles, thebeadle!"
"Yes," said a voice from within, "it's Waggles, the beadle; and hethinks as he had yer there rather; try it again. The church isn't indanger; oh, no. What do you think of this?"
The staff was flourished more vigorously than ever, and in the secureposition that Waggles occupied it seemed not only impossible to attackhim, but that he possessed wonderful powers of resistance, for the staffwas long and the knob was heavy.
It was a boy who hit upon the ingenious expedient of throwing up a greatstone, so that it just fell inside the wall, and hit Waggles a greatblow on the head.
The staff was flourished more vigorously than ever, and the mob, in theecstasy at the fun which was going on, almost forgot the errand whichhad brought them.
Perhaps after all the affair might have passed off jestingly, had notthere been some really mischievous persons among the throng who weredetermined that such should not be the case, and they incited themultitude to commence an attack upon the gates, which in a few momentsmust have produced their entire demolition.
Suddenly, however, the boldest drew back, and there was a pause, as thewell-known form of the clergyman appeared advancing from the churchdoor, attired in full canonicals.
"There's Mr. Leigh," said several; "how unlucky he should be here."
"What is this?" said the clergyman, approaching the gates. "Can Ibelieve my eyes when I see before me those who compose the worshippersat this church armed, and attempting to enter for the purpose ofviolence to this sacred place! Oh! let me beseech you, lose not amoment, but return to your homes, and repent of that which you havealready done. It is not yet too late; listen, I pray you, to the voiceof one with whom you have so often joined in prayer to the throne of theAlmighty, who is now looking upon your actions."
This appeal was heard respectfully, but it was evidently very far fromsuiting the feelings and the wishes of those to whom it was addressed;the presence of the clergyman was evidently an unexpected circumstance,and the more especially too as he appeared in that costume which theyhad been accustomed to regard with a reverence almost amounting toveneration. He saw the favourable effect he had produced, and anxious tofollow it up, he added,--
"Let this little ebullition of feeling pass away, my friends; and,believe me, when I assure you upon my sacred word, that whatever groundthere may be for complaint or subject for inquiry, shall be fully andfairly met; and that the greatest exertions shall be made to restorepeace and tranquillity to all of you."
"It's all about the vampyre!" cried one fellow--"Mr. Leigh, how shouldyou like a vampyre in the pulpit?"
"Hush, hush! can it be possible that you know so little of the works ofthat great Being whom you all pretend to adore, as to believe that hewould create any class of beings of a nature such as those you ascribeto that terrific word! Oh, let me pray of you to get rid of thesesuperstitions--alike disgraceful to yourselves and afflicting to me."
The clergyman had the satisfaction of seeing the crowd rapidly thinningfrom before the gates, and he believed his exhortations were having allthe effect he wished. It was not until he heard a loud shout behind him,and, upon hastily turning, saw that the churchyard had been scaled atanother place by some fifty or sixty persons, that his heart sunk withinhim, and he began to feel that what he had dreaded would surely come topass.
Even then he might have done something in the way of pacific exertion,but for the interference of Waggles, the beadle, who spoilt everything.
Varney the Vampire; Or, the Feast of Blood Page 43