CHAPTER CXCVII.
[Chapter 227]
VARNEY OPENS THE VAST STORE-HOUSE OF HIS MEMORY.
A more singular conversation than that which took place between Varney,
the Vampyre, and this minister of religion, could not be conceived. If there
was any one particle of goodness existing in Varney's disposition, we may
suspect it would now be developed.
Perhaps the whole domestic history of the world never yet exhibited so
remarkable an association as that between Mr. Bevan and Varney; and when they
sat down together in the little cheerful study of the former, never had four
walls enclosed two beings of the same species, and yet of such opposite
pursuits.
But we can hardly call Varney, the Vampyre, human—his space of
existence had been lengthened out beyond the ordinary routine of human
existence, and the kind of vitality that he now enjoyed, if one might be
allowed the expression, was something distinct and peculiar.
It speaks volumes, however, for the philantrophy and liberality of the
minister of any religion who could hold out the hand of fellowship to so
revolting and to so horrible an existence.
But Mr. Bevan was no common man. His religion was doctrinal, certainly,
but it was free from bigotry; and his charity to the feelings, opinions, and
prejudices of others was immense.
He was accustomed to say "may not my feelings be prejudices," and one of
the sublimest precepts of the whole Scriptures was to him that which says,
"Judge not, lest ye, too, should be judged."
Hence it was that he would not allow himself to revolt at Varney. It had
seemed right to the great Creator of all things that there should be such a
being, and therefore, he, Mr. Bevan, would neither question nor contemn it.
"Look about you," he said to Varney with a disordered gaze; "you seem to
look very about you as if there was danger in the atmosphere you breathe, but
be assured you are safe here; it shall be my life for your life if any harm
should be attempted to be done you."
Varney looked at him for a few moments silence, and then in his deep and
sepulchral voice he spoke, saying, —
"My race is run."
"What mean you by that expression?"
"I mean I shall no longer be a terror to the weak, nor a curiosity to the
strong. In time past, more than once I have tried to shuffle off the evil of
this frightful existence, but some accident, strange, wild, and wonderful, has
brought me back to life again."
"Perhaps not an accident," said Mr. Bevan.
"You may be right, but when I have sought to rid the world of my own bad
company, I have been moved to do so by some act of kindness and consideration,
most contrary to my deserts; and then again when I have been cast back by the
waves of fate upon the shores of existence, my heart is burdened, and I have
begun to plan to work mischief and misery and woe to all."
"I can understand how your feelings have alternated, but I hope that out
association will have better result."
"Yes, a better result, for with consumate art, with cool perseverance and
extended knowledge, I trust I may think of some means which cannot fail of
changing this living frame to that dust from which it sprung, and to which it
should long since have returned."
"You believe in that, but do you not think there is a pure spirit that
will yet live, independent of the grovelling earth?"
"There are times when I have hoped that even that fable were true; but
you have promised me rest, will you keep your word?"
"That will I most certainly; but will you keep yours? You have promised
me some details of your extraordinary existence, and as a divine, and I hope
in some degree as a philosopher, I look for them with some degree of anxiety."
"You shall have them—leave me pens, ink and paper, and in the solitude
of this room, until to-morrow morning, and you shall have what I believe to be
the origin of this most horrible career."
"Your wishes shall be consulted—but, will you not take refreshment?"
"Nothing—nothing. My refreshment is one I need not name to you, and
when forced by the world's customs and considerations of my own safety, I have
partaken of man's usual food, if has but ill accorded with my preternatural
existence, I eat not—drink not—here. You know me as I am."
As he continued speaking, Varney evidently grew weaker, and Mr. Bevan
could scarcely persuade himself that it was not through actual want of
nourishment, but the Vampyre assured him that it was not so, and that rest
would recruit him, to which opinion, as the experience of human nature
generally afforded no index to Varney's peculiar habits, he was forced to
subscribe.
There was a couch in the room, and upon that Varney laid himself, and as
he seemed indisposed for further conversation, Mr. Bevan left him, promising
to return to him as he himself requested in the morning, with the hope of
finding that he had completed some sort of narrative to the effect mentioned.
It can scarcely be said that Mr. Bevan had thoroughly made up his mind to
leave his guest for so long a period, and as there was a window that looked
from the study in his little garden, he thought, that by now and then peeping
in, to see that all was right, he could scarcely be considered as breaking
faith with his mysterious guest.
"He will surely attempt nothing against his own life," thought Mr. Bevan,
"for already he seems to be impressed with the futility of such an attempt,
and to think that when he has made them he has been made the sport of
circumstances that had forced him back to life again, despite all his wishes
to the contrary."
Mr. Bevan reasoned thus, but he little knew what was passing in the mind
of Varney the Vampire.
After about two hours more, when the night was profoundly dark, the
liberal-minded but anxious clergyman went into his garden, for the purpose of
peeping into his study, and he then saw, as he supposed, his visitor lying
enveloped in his large brown cloak, lying upon the couch.
He was better pleased to see he was sleeping, and recovering from the
great fatigue of which he complained, instead of writing, although that
writing promised to be of so interesting a character, and he crept softly
away for fear of awakening him.
The hour had now arrived at which Mr. Bevan usually retired to rest, but
he delayed doing so, and let two hours more elapse, after which, he again
stole out of his garden, and peeped into the study.
There lay the long, gaunt, slumbering figure upon the couch.
"I am satisfied," said Mr. Bevan to himself; "fatigue has completely
overcome him, and he will sleep till morning now. I long much to become
acquainted with his strange eventful history."
After this, Mr. Bevan retired to rest, but not until in prayer he had
offered up his thanks, and stated his hopes of being able to turn aside from
the wicked path he had been pursuing, the wretched man who at that moment was
slumbering peacefully beneath his roof.
We should have less of opposition to churchmen, if they were all like Mr.
Bevan, and not the wily, ravenous, illiberal, grasping crew they really are.
There was no priestcraft in him, he was almost enough to make one in love with
his doctrines, be they what they might, so that they were his.
Although we say that he retired to rest, we should more properly say he
retired to try to rest; for, after all, there were feelings of excitement and
anxiety about him which he could not repress wholly; and although he had every
reason to believe his guest was sleeping, and clamly sleeping too, yet he
found he was becoming painfully alive to the slightest sound.
He became nervously alive to the least interruption, and kept fancying
that he heard the slightest indications of movements in the house, such as at
any other time he would have paid no attention to.
It always happened too, provokingly, that just as he was dropping into a
slight slumber, that he thought he heard one of these noises, and then he
would start, awake, and sit up in his bed, and listen attentively, until tired
nature forced him to repose again.
Those who have passed such a night of watchfulness need not be told how
very very exciting it becomes, and hour after hour becomes more intense and
acute, and the power of escaping its fell influence less and less.
Indeed, it was not until the dawn of morning that Mr. Bevan tasted the
sweets of sound repose, then, as is generally usual after nights of fever and
disquietude, the cool, pure, life-giving air of early morn, produced quite a
different state of feeling, and his repose was calm and serene.
—