Varney the Vampire | Page 4

one of those works of
art which owe their existence to the Elizabethan era. It is hung with
heavy silken and damask furnishing; nodding feathers are at its
corners--covered with dust are they, and they lend a funereal aspect to
the room. The floor is of polished oak.
God! how the hail dashes on the old bay window! Like an occasional
discharge of mimic musketry, it comes clashing, beating, and cracking
upon the small panes; but they resist it--their small size saves them; the
wind, the hail, the rain, expend their fury in vain.
The bed in that old chamber is occupied. A creature formed in all
fashions of loveliness lies in a half sleep upon that ancient couch--a girl
young and beautiful as a spring morning. Her long hair has escaped

from its confinement and streams over the blackened coverings of the
bedstead; she has been restless in her sleep, for the clothing of the bed
is in much confusion. One arm is over her head, the other hangs nearly
off the side of the bed near to which she lies. A neck and bosom that
would have formed a study for the rarest sculptor that ever Providence
gave genius to, were half disclosed. She moaned slightly in her sleep,
and once or twice the lips moved as if in prayer--at least one might
judge so, for the name of Him who suffered for all came once faintly
from them.
She has endured much fatigue, and the storm does not awaken her; but
it can disturb the slumbers it does not possess the power to destroy
entirely. The turmoil of the elements wakes the senses, although it
cannot entirely break the repose they have lapsed into.
Oh, what a world of witchery was in that mouth, slightly parted, and
exhibiting within the pearly teeth that glistened even in the faint light
that came from that bay window. How sweetly the long silken
eyelashes lay upon the cheek. Now she moves, and one shoulder is
entirely visible--whiter, fairer than the spotless clothing of the bed on
which she lies, is the smooth skin of that fair creature, just budding into
womanhood, and in that transition state which presents to us all the
charms of the girl--almost of the child, with the more matured beauty
and gentleness of advancing years.
Was that lightning? Yes--an awful, vivid, terrifying flash--then a
roaring peal of thunder, as if a thousand mountains were rolling one
over the other in the blue vault of Heaven! Who sleeps now in that
ancient city? Not one living soul. The dread trumpet of eternity could
not more effectually have awakened any one.
The hail continues. The wind continues. The uproar of the elements
seems at its height. Now she awakens--that beautiful girl on the antique
bed; she opens those eyes of celestial blue, and a faint cry of alarm
bursts from her lips. At least it is a cry which, amid the noise and
turmoil without, sounds but faint and weak. She sits upon the bed and
presses her hands upon her eyes. Heavens! what a wild torrent of wind,
and rain, and hail! The thunder likewise seems intent upon awakening
sufficient echoes to last until the next flash of forked lightning should
again produce the wild concussion of the air. She murmurs a prayer--a
prayer for those she loves best; the names of those dear to her gentle

heart come from her lips; she weeps and prays; she thinks then of what
devastation the storm must surely produce, and to the great God of
Heaven she prays for all living things. Another flash--a wild, blue,
bewildering flash of lightning streams across that bay window, for an
instant bringing out every colour in it with terrible distinctness. A
shriek bursts from the lips of the young girl, and then, with eyes fixed
upon that window, which, in another moment, is all darkness, and with
such an expression of terror upon her face as it had never before known,
she trembled, and the perspiration of intense fear stood upon her brow.
"What--what was it?" she gasped; "real, or a delusion? Oh, God, what
was it? A figure tall and gaunt, endeavouring from the outside to
unclasp the window. I saw it. That flash of lightning revealed it to me.
It stood the whole length of the window."
There was a lull of the wind. The hail was not falling so
thickly--moreover, it now fell, what there was of it, straight, and yet a
strange clattering sound came upon the glass of that long window. It
could not be a delusion--she is awake, and she hears it. What can
produce it? Another flash of lightning--another shriek--there could be
now no delusion.
A tall figure is standing on the ledge immediately outside the long