CHAPTER CCIX.
[Chapter 226]
THE STRANGE GUEST. —THE LITTLE CHAPEL. —VARNEY'S NARRATIVE.
Mr. Bevan could not but see that he had made some impression, even upon
the obdurate heart of Varney, and he was determined to follow that impression
up by [e]very means in his power.
"Always have in mind," he said, that by trusting me, you trust one who is
not in the habit of condemning his fellows. You will be safe from anything
like sanctified reproach, for to my thinking, religion should be a principle
of love and tenderness, and not a subject upon which people who, perhaps are
themselves liable and obnoxious to all sorts of reproach, should deal forth
denunciations against their neighbours."
"Is that indeed your faith?"
"It is; and it is the real faith, taught by my Great Master."
"You are as one among many thousands."
"Nay, you may have been unfortunate in meeting with bad specimens of
those who are devoted in the priesthood. Do not condemn hastily."
"Hastily! I have been some hundreds of years in condemning."
"You will come with me."
"I will for once again put faith in human nature."
"Tell me then, before we leave this spot, if you know aught of what has
happened to, or become of the body of Clara Croton."
"I can tell you; it was left here buried, but uncovered."
"Indeed—the ground is level, and I see no trace of a grave."
"No; I have obliterated all such traces, I have placed the earth upon
her—may she now rest in peace. Oh, that such a flower should have been so
rudely plucked, and I the cause. Is not that enough to make Heaven's angels
mutiny if I should essay to pass the golden gates."
"Say no more of that. I thank God that the body is so disposed of, and
that it will not come in the way of any of the Crofton family. This affair
had far better now be let sink into oblivion—alas! poor Sir George is now
the most pitiable sufferer."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; madness has seized upon him. He only sits and smiles to himself,
weaving in his imagination strange fancies."
"And call you that unhappy?"
"It is called, and considered so."
"Oh, fatal error—he is happy. Reason! boasted, God-like reason—what
are you but the curse of poor humanity. The maniac, who will in his cell,
fancy it a gorgeous hall, and of the damp straw that is his couch make up a
glittering coronet, is a king indeed, and most happy."
"This is poetical," said Mr. Bevan, "if not true[.]"
"It is true."
"Well, well; we will talk on that as well as other themes at our leisure.
Come on, and I will at once take you to my home, where you wil be safe, and I
hope more happy."
"Are you not afraid?"
"I am not."
"You are right, confidence is safety—lead on, sir, I'll follow you,
although I little thought to make any human companionship to-night."
Mr. Bevan walked only about a step in advance as they proceeded towards
the parsonage house, and on the way he conversed with Varney with calmness
which considering the very perculiar circumstances, few men could have brought
to bear upon the occasion.
But Mr. Bevan was no common man. He looked upon nature, and all the
living creatures that make up its vital portion with peculiar eyes, and if the
bishop of his diocese had known one half of what Mr. Bevan thought, he would
not have suffered him to remain in his religious situation.
But he kept the mass of his liberal opinions to himself, although he
alwasys acted upon them, and a man more completely free from sectarian dogmas,
and illiberal fancies of superstition, which are nicknamed faith, could not
be.
There was still, notwithstanding all the circumstances, a hope lingering
in his mind that Varney might after all not be even what he thought himself to
be, but some enthusiast who had dreamt himself into a belief of his own
horrible powers.
We know that such was not the case. But it was natural enough for Mr.
Bevan to hold as long as he could by such an idea.
And so those two most strangly assorted beings, the clergyman and the
vampyre, walked together towards the pretty and picturesque dwelling of the
former.
"The distance is short," said Mr. Bevan.
"Nay, that matters not," replied Varney.
"I spoke because I thought you seemed fatigued."
"No, my frame is of iron. My heart is bowed down with many griefs, but
the physical structure knows no feeling of dejection. The life I possess is
no common one. Oh! would that it were so, that I might shuffle it off as any
ordinary men can do."
"Do not say that. Who knows but that after all your living accomplishes
better things?"
"I cannot say that it accomplishes aught completely but one thing."
"And that?"
"That is my most exquisite misery."
"Even that may pass away. But here we are at my little garden gate.
Come in, and fear nothing; for if you will seek Heaven, as I would wish you,
you will find this place such a haven of peace, and such a refuge against the
storms of life, as you hardly fancied existed, I dare say, in this world."
"Not for me. I did not fancy that there existed a spot on earth on which
I could lie down in peace, and yet it may be here."
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