Varney the Vampyre 199The Disappointment at the Grange.—the News of Despair.—the Finding of the Body
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Literature · Horror
Varney the Vampyre 199
The Disappointment at the Grange.—the News of Despair.—the Finding of the Body
RymerEnglish
It was a fine old place the Grange, view it from what aspect you might, and had not the mind of Varney, the vampyre, been so fearfully irritated by the circumstances of his horrible existence, he must have paused to admire it.
It was one of those ancient English edifices, which, alas, are fast disappearing from the face of once merry England. Railways have gone tearing and screaming through the old parks and shady glens. Alas, all is altered now, and for the sake of getting to some abominable place, such as Manchester, or Birmingham, in a very short space of time, many a lonely spot of nature’s own creating is marred by noise and smoke.
“So,” said Varney, “this then is the home of these young men who have done me such an injury as to rescue me from the sea.”
He ground his teeth together as he spoke, and it was quite clear that he felt disposed to consider that a most deadly injury had been done to him by Edwin and Charles Crofton, who had only followed the proper dictates of humanity in rescuing him from the waves.
“It shall go hard with me,” added Varney, “but I will teach such meddling fools to leave the great sea in charge of its dead. Oh, had I but been allowed to remain until now, which but for these officious persons might still have been the case, I should have sunk deep—deep into the yellow sands, and there rotted.”
His passion as he uttered these words had in it something fearful, but in a few moments the external symptoms of it passed away, and he walked slowly and to all appearance calmly enough towards the Grange.
The distance he had to go was still as before, a deceiving one, for he had to wind round a clump of trees before he really got to the gate, which appeared to be just in sight, but at length he reached it, and paused as he saw an old man, who was a kind of warder there.
“Is this Sir George Crofton’s?” he said, and he threw into his voice all that silvery softness which at times had been so fascinating to the Bannerworth family.
“It is, sir.”
“Will you announce me?”
“I do not leave this gate, sir, but if you go down this avenue, you will reach the mansion, and some of the servants will attend to you.”
Varney walked on.
The avenue was one formed by two stately rows of chestnuts, the spreading branches of which met over head, forming a beautiful canopy, and notwithstanding that they were so near the sea—that foe to vegetation, these trees were in good truth most luxuriantly beautiful.
“There was a time,” muttered Varney, “when I should have admired such a spot as this, but all that has long since passed away. I am that which I am.”
He now arrived in front of the house itself, and being perceived by one of the domestics, he was politely asked what he wanted.
“Say that Mr. Smith is here,” was the message that Varney gave.
The servant had already heard that such was the name of the person who had been rescued from the sea by his young masters Edwin and Charles, he now hastened with the information to the drawing-room, where the family was assembled.
“Oh, if you please, sir, he has come.”
“Who has come?”
“The drowned man, Mr. Smith.”
“Admit him instantly.”
The servant ran back to Varney, and then politely ushered him into the large really handsome room, in which the family sat awaiting his arrival with no small share of curiosity. What the sexton had said of him had excited much speculation, and the eagerness to see a man who was, as it were, a present from the sea, was extreme.
“Mr. Smith,” announced the servant; and Varney with one of his courtly bows, and a smile that was half hideous, half charming, entered.
There was a decided effect produced by his appearance, and perhaps that effect is best described by the word awe. They all seemed as if they were in the presence of something very peculiar, if not something very superior.
Sir George Crofton broke the rather awkward silence that ensued by addressing his visitor with all the frankness that was a part of his nature.
“Sir,” he said, “I am glad to see you and hope you will make yourself as much at home as if you were in a house of your own.”
“Sir,” said Varney, “you know how much I owe your family already, and I fear to increase the heavy debt of gratitude.”
“Oh, you are welcome, most welcome. Stay here as long as you like; we are rather dull at times in this isolated house, and the arrival of an intelligent guest is always an event.”
Varney bowed, and Edwin advanced.
“Mr. Smith,” he said, “I suppose I may almost call myself an old acquaintance.”
“And I,” said Charles.
“Gentlemen, if you be those to whom I am indebted for my preservation, I owe you my warmest thanks.”
“Oh, think nothing of it,” said Sir George; “it was not at all likely that my two boys would see a fellow creature in such a situation, and not, dead or alive, take possession of him. Your recovery is the only remarkable thing in the whole affair.”
“Very remarkable,” said Varney.
They waited a moment as if he was expected to make some sort of explanation of that part of the business, but as he did not, Sir George said—
“You have no idea of how you became resuscitated.”
“Not the least.”
“Well, that is strange indeed.”
“Perhaps the good fellow who afforded me an immediate shelter, applied before that, some means of recovering suspended vitality.”
“Oh no. Will Stephens is to the full as much surprised as any one. But, however, I dare say, to you, sir, that is not the most entertaining subject in the world, so we will say no more about it, except that we are very glad to have a living guest instead of a dead one.”
“I much fear, from what I have heard,” said Varney, “that I shall be intruding at a time like this into your family circle.”
“Oh, you allude to the marriage to-day of one of my daughters, and that puts me in mind of really quite an omission on my part. Mr. Smith—my daughters, Clara and Emma.”
The vampyre bowed low, and the young ladies went with established grace through the ceremony of the introduction to the remarkable personage before them.
At this moment there came upon the ears of all assembled there the sound of hurried footsteps, and a servant without any ceremony burst into the apartment, exclaiming—
“Oh, Sir George—Oh, oh, sir—”
“What is it? Speak!”
“Oh, oh. They have found him—killed in the ravine.”
“Who, who?”
“Mr. Ringwood, as was to be married—”
“My daughter.”
Clara uttered a cry of despair, and sank into a chair in a state of insensibility. The scene of confusion and general consternation that now ensued baffles all description, and the only person who looked calm and collected upon the occasion was Mr. Smith, although it was not the insulting calmness of seeming indifference.
In a few minutes, however, Sir George himself recovered from the first shock which the intelligence had given to him, and he said,—
“Where is he? Where is he? Let me to the spot.”
“And allow me, sir, to accompany you,” said Varney. “Believe me, sir, I feel deeply for the family misfortune. Let me be useful.”
“Thank you, sir, thank you—Edwin, Charles, come with me and this gentleman, and we will see if this dreadful report be true. Let us hope that fear and ignorance have exaggerated a very simple affair into so seemingly dreadful a circumstance.
Leaving Clara to the care of her sister and some of the female domestics of the Grange, who were hastily summoned to attend upon her, the little party, consisting of Sir George, his two sons, Varney, and several of the men-servants, turned from the Grange in the direction of the ravine.
Their intimate acquaintance with all the neighbourhood enabled them to reach the place much sooner than Varney thought it possible to do, and as they came within sight of the spot where the accident had occurred, they saw a crowd of villagers and fishermen assembled.
They quickened their pace, and forcing through the throng, Sir George Crofton saw his intended son-in-law, to all appearance, lying dead and bleeding on the sands.
Such a sight was enough, for a moment, to paralyse every faculty, and it really had, for a time, that effect upon Sir George.
