Penny Dreadful Multipack Vol. 1 (Illustrated. Annotated. 'Wagner The Wehr-Wolf,' 'Varney The Vampire,' 'The Mysteries of London Vol. 1' + Bonus Features) (Penny Dreadful Multipacks) (123 page)

THE BURNING OF VARNEY'S HOUSE.—A NIGHT SCENE.—POPULAR
SUPERSTITION.

The
officer ceased to speak, and then the party whom he had sent round the house
and grounds returned, and gained the main body orderly enough, and the sergeant
went forward to make his report to his superior officer.

After
the usual salutation, he waited for the inquiry to be put to him as to what he
had seen.

"Well,
Scott, what have you done?"

"I
went round the premises, sir, according to your instructions, but saw no one
either in the vicinity of the house, or in the grounds around it."

"No
strangers, eh?"

"No,
sir, none."

"You
saw nothing at all likely to lead to any knowledge as to who it was that has
caused this catastrophe?"

"No,
sir."

"Have
you learnt anything among the people who are the perpetrators of this
fire?"

"No,
sir."

"Well,
then, that will do, unless there is anything else that you can think of."

"Nothing
further, sir, unless it is that I heard some of them say that Sir Francis
Varney has perished in the flames."

"Good
heavens!"

"So
I heard, sir."

"That
must be impossible, and yet why should it be so? Go back, Scott, and bring me
some person who can give me some information upon this point."

The
sergeant departed toward the people, who looked at him without any distrust,
for he came single-handed, though they thought he came with the intention of
learning what they knew of each other, and so stroll about with the intention
of getting up accusations against them. But this was not the case, the officer
didn't like the work well enough; he'd rather have been elsewhere.

At
length the sergeant came to one man, whom he accosted, and said to him,—

"Do
you know anything of yonder fire?"

"Yes:
I do know it is a fire."

"Yes,
and so do I."

"My
friend," said the sergeant, "when a soldier asks a question he does
not expect an uncivil answer."

"But
a soldier may ask a question that may have an uncivil end to it."

"He
may; but it is easy to say so."

"I
do say so, then, now."

"Then
I'll not trouble you any more."

The
sergeant moved on a pace or two more, and then, turning to the mob, he said,—

"Is
there any one among you who can tell me anything concerning the fate of Sir
Francis Varney?"

"Burnt!"

"Did
you see him burnt?"

"No;
but I saw him."

"In
the flames?"

"No;
before the house was on fire."

"In
the house?"

"Yes;
and he has not been seen to leave it since, and we conclude he must have been
burned."

"Will
you come and say as much to my commanding officer? It is all I want."

"Shall
I be detained?"

"No."

"Then
I will go," said the man, and he hobbled out of the crowd towards the
sergeant. "I will go and see the officer, and tell him what I know, and
that is very little, and can prejudice no one."

"Hurrah!"
said the crowd, when they heard this latter assertion; for, at first, they
began to be in some alarm lest there should be something wrong about this, and
some of them get identified as being active in the fray.

The
sergeant led the man back to the spot, where the officer stood a little way in
advance of his men.

"Well,
Scott," he said, "what have we here?"

"A
man who has volunteered a statement, sir."

"Oh!
Well, my man, can you say anything concerning all this disturbance that we have
here?"

"No,
sir."

"Then
what did you come here for?"

"I
understood the sergeant to want some one who could speak of Sir Francis
Varney."

"Well?"

"I
saw him."

"Where?"

"In
the house."

"Exactly;
but have you not seen him out of it?"

"Not
since; nor any one else, I believe."

"Where
was he?"

"Upstairs,
where he suddenly disappeared, and nobody can tell where he may have gone to.
But he has not been seen out of the house since, and they say he could not have
gone bodily out if they had not seen him."

"He
must have been burnt," said the officer, musingly; "he could not
escape, one would imagine, without being seen by some one out of such a
mob."

"Oh,
dear no, for I am told they placed a watch at every hole, window, or door
however high, and they saw nothing of him—not even fly out!"

"Fly
out! I'm speaking of a man!"

"And
I of a vampire!" said the man carelessly.

"A
vampyre! Pooh, pooh!"

"Oh
no! Sir Francis Varney is a vampyre! There can be no sort of doubt about it.
You have only to look at him, and you will soon be satisfied of that. See his
great sharp teeth in front, and ask yourself what they are for, and you will
soon find the answer. They are to make holes with in the bodies of his victims,
through which he can suck their blood!"

The
officer looked at the man in astonishment for a few moments, as if he doubted
his own ears, and then he said,—

"Are
you serious?"

"I
am ready to swear to it."

"Well,
I have heard a great deal about popular superstition, and thought I had seen
something of it; but this is decidedly the worst case that ever I saw or heard
of. You had better go home, my man, than, by your presence, countenance such a
gross absurdity."

"For
all that," said the man, "Sir Francis Varney is a vampyre—a
blood-sucker—a human blood-sucker!"

"Get
away with you," said the officer, "and do not repeat such folly
before any one."

The
man almost jumped when he heard the tone in which this was spoken, for the
officer was both angry and contemptuous, when he heard the words of the man.

"These
people," he added, turning to the sergeant, "are ignorant in the
extreme. One would think we had got into the country of vampires, instead of a
civilised community."

The
day was going down now; the last rays of the setting sun glimmered upwards, and
still shone upon the tree-tops. The darkness of night was still fast closing
around them. The mob stood a motley mass of human beings, wedged together, dark
and sombre, gazing upon the mischief that had been done—the work of their
hands. The military stood at ease before the burning pile, and by their order
and regularity, presented a contrast to the mob, as strongly by their bright
gleaming arms, as by their dress and order.

The
flames now enveloped the whole mansion. There was not a window or a door from
which the fiery element did not burst forth in clouds, and forked flames came
rushing forth with a velocity truly wonderful.

The
red glare of the flames fell upon all objects around for some distance—the more
especially so, as the sun had sunk, and a bank of clouds rose from beneath the
horizon and excluded all his rays; there was no twilight, and there was, as
yet, no moon.

The
country side was enveloped in darkness, and the burning house could be seen for
miles around, and formed a rallying-point to all men's eyes.

The
engines that were within reach came tearing across the country, and came to the
fire; but they were of no avail. There was no supply of water, save from the
ornamental ponds. These they could only get at by means that were tedious and
unsatisfactory, considering the emergency of the case.

The
house was a lone one, and it was being entirely consumed before they arrived,
and therefore there was not the remotest chance of saving the least article.
Had they ever such a supply of water, nothing could have been effected by it.

Thus
the men stood idly by, passing their remarks upon the fire and the mob.

Those
who stood around, and within the influence of the red glare of the flames,
looked like so many demons in the infernal regions, watching the progress of
lighting the fire, which we are told by good Christians is the doom of the
unfortunate in spirit, and the woefully unlucky in circumstances.

It
was a strange sight that; and there were many persons who would, without doubt,
have rather been snug by their own fire-side than they would have remained
there but it happened that no one felt inclined to express his inclination to
his neighbour, and, consequently, no one said anything on the subject.

None
would venture to go alone across the fields, where the spirit of the vampyre
might, for all they knew to the contrary, be waiting to pounce upon them, and
worry them.

No,
no; no man would have quitted that mob to go back alone to the village; they
would sooner have stood there all night through. That was an alternative that
none of the number would very willingly accept.

The
hours passed away, and the house that had been that morning a noble and
well-furnished mansion, was now a smouldering heap of ruins. The flames had become
somewhat subdued, and there was now more smoke than flames.

The
fire had exhausted itself. There was now no more material that could serve it
for fuel, and the flames began to become gradually enough subdued.

Suddenly
there was a rush, and then a bright flame shot upward for an instant, so bright
and so strong, that it threw a flash of light over the country for miles; but
it was only momentary, and it subsided.

The
roof, which had been built strong enough to resist almost anything, after being
burning for a considerable time, suddenly gave way, and came in with a
tremendous crash, and then all was for a moment darkness.

After
this the fire might be said to be subdued, it having burned itself out; and the
flames that could now be seen were but the result of so much charred wood, that
would probably smoulder away for a day or two, if left to itself to do so. A
dense mass of smoke arose from the ruins, and blackened the atmosphere around,
and told the spectators the work was done.

CHAPTER LV.

THE RETURN OF THE MOB AND MILITARY TO THE TOWN.—THE MADNESS
OF THE MOB.—THE GROCER'S REVENGE.

On
the termination of the conflagration, or, rather, the fall of the roof, with
the loss of grandeur in the spectacle, men's minds began to be free from the
excitement that chained them to the spot, watching the progress of that element
which has been truly described as a very good servant, but a very bad master;
and of the truth of this every one must be well satisfied.

There
was now remaining little more than the livid glare of the hot and burning
embers; and this did not extend far, for the walls were too strongly built to
fall in from their own weight; they were strong and stout, and intercepted the
little light the ashes would have given out.

The
mob now began to feel fatigued and chilly. It had been standing and walking
about many hours, and the approach of exhaustion could not be put off much
longer, especially as there was no longer any great excitement to carry it off.

The
officer, seeing that nothing was to be done, collected his men together, and
they were soon seen in motion. He had been ordered to stop any tumult that he
might have seen, and to save any property. But there was nothing to do now; all
the property that could have been saved was now destroyed, and the mob were
beginning to disperse, and creep towards their own houses.

The
order was then given for the men to take close order, and keep together, and
the word to march was given, which the men obeyed with alacrity, for they had
no good-will in stopping there the whole of the night.

The
return to the village of both the mob and the military was not without its
vicissitudes; accidents of all kinds were rife amongst them; the military,
however, taking the open paths, soon diminished the distance, and that, too,
with little or no accidents, save such as might have been expected from the
state of the fields, after they had been so much trodden down of late.

Not
so the townspeople or the peasantry; for, by way of keeping up their spirits,
and amusing themselves on their way home, they commenced larking, as they
called it, which often meant the execution of practical jokes, and these
sometimes were of a serious nature.

The
night was dark at that hour, especially so when there was a number of persons
traversing about, so that little or nothing could be seen.

The
mistakes and blunders that were made were numerous. In one place there were a
number of people penetrating a path that led only to a hedge and deep ditch;
indeed it was a brook very deep and muddy.

Here
they came to a stop and endeavoured to ascertain its width, but the little
reflected light they had was deceptive, and it did not appear so broad as it
was.

"Oh,
I can jump it," exclaimed one.

"And
so can I," said another. "I have done so before, and why should I not
do so now."

This
was unanswerable, and as there were many present, at least a dozen were eager
to jump.

"If
thee can do it, I know I can," said a brawny countryman; "so I'll do
it at once.

"The
sooner the better," shouted some one behind, "or you'll have no room
for a run, here's a lot of 'em coming up; push over as quickly as you
can."

Thus
urged, the jumpers at once made a rush to the edge of the ditch, and many
jumped, and many more, from the prevailing darkness, did not see exactly where
the ditch was, and taking one or two steps too many, found themselves up above
the waist in muddy water.

Nor
were those who jumped much better off, for nearly all jumped short or fell
backwards into the stream, and were dragged out in a terrible state.

"Oh,
lord! oh, lord!" exclaimed one poor fellow, dripping wet and shivering
with cold, "I shall die! oh, the rheumatiz, there'll be a pretty winter
for me: I'm half dead."

"Hold
your noise," said another, "and help me to get the mud out of my eye;
I can't see."

"Never
mind," added a third, "considering how you jump, I don't think you
want to see."

"This
comes a hunting vampyres."

"Oh,
it's all a judgment; who knows but he may be in the air: it is nothing to laugh
at as I shouldn't be surprised if he were: only think how precious
pleasant."

"However
pleasant it may be to you," remarked one, "it's profitable to a good
many."

"How
so?"

"Why,
see the numbers, of things that will be spoiled, coats torn, hats crushed,
heads broken, and shoes burst. Oh, it's an ill-wind that blows nobody any
good."

"So
it is, but you may benefit anybody you like, so you don't do it at my
expence."

In
one part of a field where there were some stiles and gates, a big countryman
caught a fat shopkeeper with the arms of the stile a terrible poke in the
stomach; while the breath was knocked out of the poor man's stomach, and he was
gasping with agony, the fellow set to laughing, and said to his companions, who
were of the same class—

"I
say, Jim, look at the grocer, he hasn't got any wind to spare, I'd run him for
a wager, see how he gapes like a fish out of water."

The
poor shopkeeper felt indeed like a fish out of water, and as he afterwards
declared he felt just as if he had had a red hot clock weight thrust into the
midst of his stomach and there left to cool.

However,
the grocer would be revenged upon his tormentor, who had now lost sight of him,
but the fat man, after a time, recovering his wind, and the pain in his stomach
becoming less intense, he gathered himself up.

"My
name ain't Jones," he muttered, "if I don't be one to his one for
that; I'll do something that shall make him remember what it is to insult a
respectable tradesman. I'll never forgive such an insult. It is dark, and
that's why it is he has dared to do this."

Filled
with dire thoughts and a spirit of revenge, he looked from side to side to see
with what he could effect his object, but could espy nothing.

"It's
shameful," he muttered; "what would I give for a little retort. I'd
plaster his ugly countenance."

As he
spoke, he placed his hands on some pales to rest himself, when he found that
they stuck to them, the pales had that day been newly pitched.

A
bright idea now struck him.

"If
I could only get a handful of this stuff," he thought, "I should be
able to serve him out for serving me out. I will, cost what it may; I'm
resolved upon that. I'll not have my wind knocked out, and my inside set on
fire for nothing. No, no; I'll be revenged on him."

With
this view he felt over the pales, and found that he could scrape off a little
only, but not with his hands; indeed, it only plastered them; he, therefore,
marched about for something to scrape it off with.

"Ah;
I have a knife, a large pocket knife, that will do, that is the sort of thing I
want."

He
immediately commenced feeling for it, but had scarcely got his hand into his
pocket when he found there would be a great difficulty in either pushing it in
further or withdrawing it altogether, for the pitch made it difficult to do
either, and his pocket stuck to his hands like a glove.

"D—n
it," said the grocer, "who would have thought of that? here's a
pretty go, curse that fellow, he is the cause of all this; I'll be revenged
upon him, if it's a year hence."

The
enraged grocer drew his hand out, but was unable to effect his object in withdrawing
the knife also; but he saw something shining, he stooped to pick it up,
exclaiming as he did so, in a gratified tone of voice,

"Ah,
here's something that will do better."

As he
made a grasp at it, he found he had inserted his hand into something soft.

"God
bless me! what now?"

He
pulled his hand hastily away, and found that it stuck slightly, and then he saw
what it was.

"Ay,
ay, the very thing. Surely it must have been placed here on purpose by the
people."

The
fact was, he had placed his hand into a pot of pitch that had been left by the
people who had been at work at pitching the pales, but had been attracted by
the fire at Sir Francis Varney's, and to see which they had left their work,
and the pitch was left on a smouldering peat fire, so that when Mr. Jones, the
grocer, accidentally put his hand into it he found it just warm.

When
he made this discovery he dabbed his hand again into the pitch-pot,
exclaiming,—

"In
for a penny, in for a pound."

And
he endeavoured to secure as large a handful of the slippery and sticky stuff as
he could, and this done he set off to come up with the big countryman who had
done him so much indignity and made his stomach uncomfortable.

He
soon came up with him, for the man had stopped rather behind, and was larking,
as it is called, with some men, to whom he was a companion.

He
had slipped down a bank, and was partially sitting down on the soft mud. In his
bustle, the little grocer came down with a slide, close to the big countryman.

"Ah—ah!
my little grocer," said the countryman, holding out his hand to catch him,
and drawing him towards himself. "You will come and sit down by the side
of your old friend."

As he
spoke, he endeavoured to pull Mr. Jones down, too; but that individual only
replied by fetching the countryman a swinging smack across the face with the
handful of pitch.

"There,
take that; and now we are quits; we shall be old friends after this, eh? Are
you satisfied? You'll remember me, I'll warrant."

As
the grocer spoke, he rubbed his hands over the face of the fallen man, and then
rushed from the spot with all the haste he could make.

The
countryman sat a moment or two confounded, cursing, and swearing, and
spluttering, vowing vengeance, believing that it was mud only that had been
plastered over his face; but when he put his hands up, and found out what it
was, he roared and bellowed like a town-bull.

He
cried out to his companions that his eyes were pitched: but they only laughed
at him, thinking he was having some foolish lark with them.

It
was next day before he got home, for he wandered about all night: and it took
him a week to wash the pitch off by means of grease; and ever afterwards he
recollected the pitching of his face; nor did he ever forget the grocer.

Thus
it was the whole party returned a long while after dark across the fields, with
all the various accidents that were likely to befal such an assemblage of
people.

The
vampyre hunting cost many of them dear, for clothes were injured on all sides:
hats lost, and shoes missing in a manner that put some of the rioters to much
inconvenience. Soon afterwards, the military retired to their quarters; and the
townspeople at length became tranquil and nothing more was heard or done that
night.