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) (113 page)

"If
anything," pursued Henry, "could add to the annoyance of vexation and
misery we have suffered, it would assuredly be the being made subjects of
every-day gossip, and every-day clamour."

"You
hear him?" said Mr. Marchdale.

"Yes,
we does," said a man; "but we comes out to catch a vampyre, for all
that."

"Oh,
to be sure," said the humane woman; "nobody's feelings is nothing to
us. Are we to be woke up in the night with vampyres sucking our bloods while
we've got a stake in the country?"

"Hurrah!"
shouted everybody. "Down with the vampyre! where is he?"

"You
are wrong. I assure you, you are all wrong," said Mr. Chillingworth,
imploringly; "there is no vampyre here, you see. Sir Francis Varney has
not only escaped, but he will take the law of all of you."

This
was an argument which appeared to stagger a few, but the bolder spirits pushed
them on, and a suggestion to search the wood having been made by some one who
was more cunning than his neighbours, that measure was at once proceeded with,
and executed in a systematic manner, which made those who knew it to be the
hiding-place of Sir Francis Varney tremble for his safety.

It
was with a strange mixture of feeling that Henry Bannerworth waited the result
of the search for the man who but a few minutes before had been opposed to him
in a contest of life or death.

The
destruction of Sir Francis Varney would certainly have been an effectual means
of preventing him from continuing to be the incubus he then was upon the
Bannerworth family; and yet the generous nature of Henry shrank with horror
from seeing even such a creature as Varney sacrificed at the shrine of popular
resentment, and murdered by an infuriated populace.

He
felt as great an interest in the escape of the vampyre as if some great
advantage to himself had been contingent upon such an event; and, although he
spoke not a word, while the echoes of the little wood were all awakened by the
clamorous manner in which the mob searched for their victim, his feelings could
be well read upon his countenance.

The
admiral, too, without possessing probably the fine feelings of Henry
Bannerworth, took an unusually sympathetic interest in the fate of the vampyre;
and, after placing himself in various attitudes of intense excitement, he
exclaimed,—

"D—n
it, Jack, I do hope, after all, the vampyre will get the better of them. It's
like a whole flotilla attacking one vessel—a lubberly proceeding at the best,
and I'll be hanged if I like it. I should like to pour in a broadside into
those fellows, just to let them see it wasn't a proper English mode of
fighting. Shouldn't you, Jack?"

"Ay,
ay, sir, I should."

"Shiver
me, if I see an opportunity, if I don't let some of those rascals know what's
what."

Scarcely
had these words escaped the lips of the old admiral than there arose a loud
shout from the interior of the wood. It was a shout of success, and seemed at
the very least to herald the capture of the unfortunate Varney.

"By
Heaven!" exclaimed Henry, "they have him."

"God
forbid!" said Mr. Marchdale; "this grows too serious."

"Bear
a hand, Jack," said the admiral: "we'll have a fight for it yet; they
sha'n't murder even a vampyre in cold blood. Load the pistols and send a flying
shot or two among the rascals, the moment they appear."

"No,
no," said Henry; "no more violence, at least there has been
enough—there has been enough."

Even
as he spoke there came rushing from among the trees, at the corner of the wood,
the figure of a man. There needed but one glance to assure them who it was. Sir
Francis Varney had been seen, and was flying before those implacable foes who
had sought his life.

He
had divested himself of his huge cloak, as well as of his low slouched hat,
and, with a speed which nothing but the most absolute desperation could have
enabled him to exert, he rushed onward, beating down before him every obstacle,
and bounding over the meadows at a rate that, if he could have continued it for
any length of time, would have set pursuit at defiance.

"Bravo!"
shouted the admiral, "a stern chase is a long chase, and I wish them joy
of it—d——e, Jack, did you ever see anybody get along like that?"

"Ay,
ay, sir."

"You
never did, you scoundrel."

"Yes,
I did."

"When
and where?"

"When
you ran away off the sound."

The
admiral turned nearly blue with anger, but Jack looked perfectly imperturbable,
as he added,—

"You
know you ran away after the French frigates who wouldn't stay to fight
you."

"Ah!
that indeed. There he goes, putting on every stitch of canvass, I'll be
bound."

"And
there they come," said Jack, as he pointed to the corner of the wood, and
some of the more active of the vampyre's pursuers showed themselves.

It
would appear as if the vampyre had been started from some hiding-place in the
interior of the wood, and had then thought it expedient altogether to leave
that retreat, and make his way to some more secure one across the open country,
where there would be more obstacles to his discovery than perseverance could
overcome. Probably, then, among the brushwood and trees, for a few moments he
had been again lost sight of, until those who were closest upon his track had
emerged from among the dense foliage, and saw him scouring across the country
at such headlong speed. These were but few, and in their extreme anxiety
themselves to capture Varney, whose precipate and terrified flight brought a
firm conviction to their minds of his being a vampyre, they did not stop to get
much of a reinforcement, but plunged on like greyhounds in his track.

"Jack,"
said the admiral, "this won't do. Look at that great lubberly fellow with
the queer smock-frock."

"Never
saw such a figure-head in my life," said Jack.

"Stop
him."

"Ay,
ay, sir."

The
man was coming on at a prodigious rate, and Jack, with all the deliberation in
the world, advanced to meet him; and when they got sufficiently close together,
that in a few moments they must encounter each other, Jack made himself into as
small a bundle as possible, and presented his shoulder to the advancing
countryman in such a way, that he flew off it at a tangent, as if he had run
against a brick wall, and after rolling head over heels for some distance,
safely deposited himself in a ditch, where he disappeared completely for a few
moments from all human observation.

"Don't
say I hit you," said Jack. "Curse yer, what did yer run against me
for? Sarves you right. Lubbers as don't know how to steer, in course runs agin
things."

"Bravo,"
said the admiral; "there's another of them."

The
pursuers of Varney the vampyre, however, now came too thick and fast to be so
easily disposed of, and as soon as his figure could be seen coursing over the
meadows, and springing over road and ditch with an agility almost frightful to
look upon, the whole rabble rout was in pursuit of him.

By
this time, the man who had fallen into the ditch had succeeded in making his appearance
in the visible world again, and as he crawled up the bank, looking a thing of
mire and mud, Jack walked up to him with all the carelessness in the world, and
said to him,—

"Any
luck, old chap?"

"Oh,
murder!" said the man, "what do you mean? who are you? where am I?
what's the matter? Old Muster Fowler, the fat crowner, will set upon me
now."

"Have
you caught anything?" said Jack.

"Caught
anything?"

"Yes;
you've been in for eels, haven't you?"

"D—n!"

"Well,
it is odd to me, as some people can't go a fishing without getting out of
temper. Have it your own way; I won't interfere with you;" and away Jack
walked.

The
man cleared the mud out of his eyes, as well as he could, and looked after him
with a powerful suspicion that in Jack he saw the very cause of his mortal
mishap: but, somehow or other, his immersion in the not over limpid stream had
wonderfully cooled his courage, and casting one despairing look upon his
begrimed apparel, and another at the last of the stragglers who were pursuing
Sir Francis Varney across the fields, he thought it prudent to get home as fast
he could, and get rid of the disagreeable results of an adventure which had
turned out for him anything but auspicious or pleasant.

Mr.
Chillingworth, as though by a sort of impulse to be present in case Sir Francis
Varney should really be run down and with a hope of saving him from personal
violence, had followed the foremost of the rioters in the wood, found it now
quite impossible for him to carry on such a chase as that which was being
undertaken across the fields after Sir Francis Varney.

His
person was unfortunately but ill qualified for the continuance of such a
pursuit, and, although with the greatest reluctance, he at last felt himself
compelled to give it up.

In
making his way through the intricacies of the wood, he had been seriously
incommoded by the thick undergrowth, and he had accidentally encountered
several miry pools, with which he had involuntarily made a closer acquaintance
than was at all conducive either to his personal appearance or comfort. The
doctor's temper, though, generally speaking, one of the most even, was at last
affected by his mishaps, and he could not restrain from an execration upon his
want of prudence in letting his wife have a knowledge of a secret that was not
his own, and the producing an unlooked for circumstance, the termination of
which might be of a most disastrous nature.

Tired,
therefore, and nearly exhausted by the exertions he had already taken, he
emerged now alone from the wood, and near the spot where stood Henry
Bannerworth and his friends in consultation.

The
jaded look of the surgeon was quite sufficient indication of the trouble and
turmoil he had gone through, and some expressions of sympathy for his condition
were dropped by Henry, to whom he replied,—

"Nay,
my young friend, I deserve it all. I have nothing but my own indiscretion to
thank for all the turmoil and tumult that has arisen this morning."

"But
to what possible cause can we attribute such an outrage?"

"Reproach
me as much as you will, I deserve it. A man may prate of his own secrets if he
like, but he should be careful of those of other people. I trusted yours to
another, and am properly punished."

"Enough,"
said Henry; "we'll say no more of that, Mr. Chillingworth. What is done
cannot be undone, and we had better spend our time in reflection of how to make
the best of what is, than in useless lamentation over its causes. What is to be
done?"

"Nay,
I know not. Have you fought the duel?"

"Yes;
and, as you perceive, harmlessly."

"Thank
Heaven for that."

"Nay,
I had my fire, which Sir Francis Varney refused to return; so the affair had
just ended, when the sound of approaching tumult came upon our ears."

"What
a strange mixture," exclaimed Marchdale, "of feelings and passions
this Varney appears to be. At one moment acting with the apparent greatest
malignity; and another, seeming to have awakened in his mind a romantic
generosity which knows no bounds. I cannot understand him."

"Nor
I, indeed," said Henry; "but yet I somehow tremble for his fate, and
I seem to feel that something ought to be done to save him from the fearful
consequences of popular feeling. Let us hasten to the town, and procure what
assistance we may: but a few persons, well organised and properly armed, will
achieve wonders against a desultory and ill-appointed multitude. There may be a
chance of saving him, yet, from the imminent danger which surrounds him."

"That's
proper," cried the admiral. "I don't like to see anybody run down. A
fair fight's another thing. Yard arm and yard arm—stink pots and
pipkins—broadside to broadside—and throw in your bodies, if you like, on the
lee quarter; but don't do anything shabby. What do you think of it, Jack?"

"Why,
I means to say as how if Varney only keeps on sail as he's been doing, that the
devil himself wouldn't catch him in a gale."

"And
yet," said Henry, "it is our duty to do the best we can. Let us at
once to the town, and summons all the assistance in our power. Come on—come
on!"

His
friends needed no further urging, but, at a brisk pace, they all proceeded by
the nearest footpaths towards the town.

It
puzzled his pursuers to think in what possible direction Sir Francis Varney
expected to find sustenance or succour, when they saw how curiously he took his
flight across the meadows. Instead of endeavouring, by any circuitous path, to
seek the shelter of his own house, or to throw himself upon the care of the
authorities of the town, who must, to the extent of their power, have protected
him, he struck across the fields, apparently without aim or purpose, seemingly
intent upon nothing but to distance his pursuers in a long chase, which might
possibly tire them, or it might not, according to their or his powers of
endurance.