CHAPTER LXXXVI.
THE DISCOVERY OF THE POCKET BOOK OF MARMADUKE BANNERWORTH.--ITSMYSTERIOUS CONTENTS.
The little episode had just taken place which we have recorded betweenthe old admiral and Jack Pringle, when Henry Bannerworth and CharlesHolland stepped aside to converse.
"Charles," said Henry, "it has become absolutely necessary that I shouldput an end to this state of dependence in which we all live upon youruncle. It is too bad to think, that because, through fighting thebattles of his country, he has amassed some money, we are to eat it up."
"My dear friend," said Charles, "does it not strike you, that it wouldbe a great deal worse than too bad, if my uncle could not do what heliked with his own?"
"Yes; but, Charles, that is not the question."
"I think it is, though I know not what other question you can make ofit."
"We have all talked it over, my mother, my brother, and Flora; and mybrother and I have determined, if this state of things should last muchlonger, to find out some means of honourable exertion by which we may,at all events, maintain ourselves without being burdensome to any."
"Well, well, we will talk of that another time."
"Nay, but hear me; we were thinking that if we went into some branch ofthe public service, your uncle would have the pleasure, such we arequite sure it would be to him, of assisting us greatly by his name andinfluence."
"Well, well, Henry, that's all very well; but for a little time do notthrow up the old man and make him unhappy. I believe I am his onlyrelative in the world, and, as he has often said, he intended leaving meheir to all he possesses, you see there is no harm done by you receivinga small portion of it beforehand."
"And," said Henry, "by that line of argument, we are to find an excusefor robbing your uncle; in the fact, that we are robbing you likewise."
"No, no; indeed, you do not view the matter rightly."
"Well, all I can say is, Charles, that while I feel, and while we allfeel, the deepest debt of gratitude towards your uncle, it is our dutyto do something. In a box which we have brought with us from the Hall,and which has not been opened since our father's death, I have stumbledover some articles of ancient jewellery and plate, which, at all events,will produce something."
"But which you must not part with."
"Nay, but, Charles, these are things I knew not we possessed, and mostill-suited do they happen to be to our fallen fortunes. It is money wewant, not the gewgaws of a former state, to which we can have now nosort of pretension."
"Nay, I know you have all the argument; but still is there something sadand uncomfortable to one's feelings in parting with such things as thosewhich have been in families for many years."
"But we knew not that we had them; remember that, Charles. Come and lookat them. Those relics of a bygone age may amuse you, and, as regardsmyself, there are no circumstances whatever associated with them thatgive them any extrinsic value; so laugh at them or admire them, as youplease, I shall most likely be able to join with you in either feeling."
"Well, be it so--I will come and look at them; but you must think betterof what you say concerning my uncle, for I happen to know--which youought likewise by this time--how seriously the old man would feel anyrejection on your part of the good he fancies he is doing you. I tellyou, Henry, it is completely his hobby, and let him have earned hismoney with ten times the danger he has, he could not spend it withanything like the satisfaction that he does, unless he were allowed todispose of it in this way."
"Well, well; be it so for a time."
"The fact is, his attachment to Flora is so great--which is a mostfortunate circumstance for me--that I should not be at all surprisedthat she cuts me out of one half my estate, when the old man dies. Butcome, we will look at your ancient bijouterie."
Henry led Charles into an apartment of the cottage where some of the fewthings had been placed that were brought from Bannerworth Hall, whichwere not likely to be in constant and daily use.
Among these things happened to be the box which Henry had mentioned, andfrom which he had taken a miscellaneous assortment of things of anantique and singular character.
There were old dresses of a season and of a taste long gone by; ancientarticles of defence; some curiously wrought daggers; and a fewornaments, pretty, but valueless, along with others of more sterlingpretensions, which Henry pointed out to Charles.
"I am almost inclined to think," said the latter, "that some of thesethings are really of considerable value; but I do not I profess to be anaccurate judge, and, perhaps, I am more taken with the beauty of anarticle, than the intrinsic worth. What is that which you have justtaken from the box?"
"It seems a half-mask," said Henry, "made of silk; and here are initialletters within it--M. B."
"To what do they apply?"
"Marmaduke Bannerworth, my father."
"I regret I asked you."
"Nay, Charles, you need not. Years have now elapsed since that misguidedman put a period to his own existence, in the gardens of BannerworthHall. Of course, the shock was a great one to us all, although I mustconfess that we none of us knew much of a father's affections. But timereconciles one to these dispensations, and to a friend, like yourself, Ican talk upon these subjects without a pang."
He laid down the mask, and proceeded further in his search in the oldbox.
Towards the bottom of it there were some books, and, crushed in by theside of them, there was an ancient-looking pocket-book, which Charlespointed out, saying,--
"There, Henry, who knows but you may find a fortune when you leastexpect it?"
"Those who expect nothing," said Henry, "will not be disappointed. Atall events, as regards this pocket-book, you see it is empty."
"Not quite. A card has fallen from it."
Charles took up the card, and read upon it the name of Count Barrare.
"That name," he said, "seems familiar to me. Ah! now I recollect, I haveread of such a man. He flourished some twenty, or five-and-twenty yearsago, and was considered a _roue_ of the first water--a finishedgamester; and, in a sort of brief memoir I read once of him, it saidthat he disappeared suddenly one day, and was never again heard of."
"Indeed! I'm not puzzled to think how his card came into my father'spocket-book. They met at some gaming-house; and, if some old pocket-bookof the Count Barrare's were shaken, there might fall from it a card,with the name of Mr. Marmaduke Bannerworth upon it."
"Is there nothing further in the pocket-book--no memoranda?"
"I will look. Stay! here is something upon one of the leaves--let mesee--'Mem., twenty-five thousand pounds! He who robs the robber, stealslittle; it was not meant to kill him: but it will be unsafe to use themoney for a time--my brain seems on fire--the remotest hiding-place inthe house is behind the picture."
"What do you think of that?" said Charles.
"I know not what to think. There is one thing though, that I do know."
"And what is that?"
"It is my father's handwriting. I have many scraps of his, and hispeculiar hand is familiar to me."
"It's very strange, then, what it can refer to."
"Charles--Charles! there is a mystery connected with our fortunes, thatI never could unravel; and once or twice it seemed as if we were uponthe point of discovering all; but something has ever interfered toprevent us, and we have been thrown back into the realms of conjecture.My father's last words were, 'The money is hidden;' and then he tried toadd something; but death stopped his utterance. Now, does it not almostseem that this memorandum alluded to the circumstance?"
"It does, indeed."
"And then, scarcely had my father breathed his last, when a man comesand asks for him at the garden-gate, and, upon hearing that he is dead,utters some imprecations, and walks away."
"Well, Henry, you must trust to time and circumstances to unravel thesemysteries. For myself, I own that I cannot do so; I see no earthly wayout of the difficulty whatever. But still it does appear to me as if Dr.Chill
ingworth knew something or had heard something, with which hereally ought to make you acquainted."
"Do not blame the worthy doctor; he may have made an error of judgment,but never one of feeling; and you may depend, if he is keeping anythingfrom me, that he is doing so from some excellent motive: most probablybecause he thinks it will give me pain, and so will not let me endureany unhappiness from it, unless he is quite certain as regards thefacts. When he is so, you may depend he will be communicative, and Ishall know all that he has to relate. But, Charles, it is evident to methat you, too, are keeping something."
"I!"
"Yes; you acknowledge to having had an interview, and a friendly one,with Varney; and you likewise acknowledge that he had told you thingswhich he has compelled you to keep secret."
"I have promised to keep them secret, and I deeply regret the promisethat I have made. There cannot be anything to my mind more essentiallydisagreeable than to have one's tongue tied in one's interview withfriends. I hate to hear anything that I may not repeat to those whom Itake into my own confidence."
"I can understand the feeling; but here comes the worthy doctor."
"Show him the memorandum."
"I will."
As Dr. Chillingworth entered the apartments Henry handed him thememorandum that had been found in the old pocket-book, saying as he didso,--
"Look at that, doctor, and give us your candid opinion upon it."
Dr. Chillingworth fitted on his spectacles, and read the papercarefully. At its conclusion, he screwed up his mouth into an extremelysmall compass, and doubling up the paper, he put it into his capaciouswaistcoat pocket, saying as he did so,--
"Oh! oh! oh! oh! hum!"
"Well, doctor," said Henry; "we are waiting for your opinion."
"My opinion! Well, then, my dear boy, I must say, my opinion, to thebest of my belief is, that I really don't know anything about it."
"Then, perhaps, you'll surrender us the memorandum," said Charles;"because, if you don't know anything, we may as well make a littleinquiry."
"Ha!" said the worthy doctor; "we can't put old heads upon youngshoulders, that's quite clear. Now, my good young men, be patient andquiet; recollect, that what you know you're acquainted with, and thatthat which is hidden from you, you cannot very well come to any verycorrect conclusion upon. There's a right side and a wrong one you maydepend, to every question; and he who walks heedlessly in the dark, isvery apt to run his head against a post. Good evening, my boys--goodevening."
Away bustled the doctor.
"Well," said Charles, "what do you think of that, Mr. Henry?"
"I think he knows what he's about."
"That may be; but I'll be hanged if anybody else does. The doctor is byno means favourable to the march of popular information; and I reallythink he might have given us some food for reflection, instead ofleaving us so utterly and entirely at fault as he has; and you know he'staken away your memorandum even."
"Let him have it, Charles--let him have it; it is safe with him. The oldman may be, and I believe is, a little whimsical and crotchety; but hemeans abundantly well, and he's just one of those sort of persons, andalways was, who will do good his own way, or not at all; so we must takethe good with the bad in those cases, and let Dr. Chillingworth do as hepleases."
"I cannot say it is nothing to me, although those words were rising tomy lips, because you know, Henry, that everything which concerns you oryours is something to me; and therefore it is that I feel extremelyanxious for the solution of all this mystery. Before I hear the sequelof that which Varney, the vampyre, has so strongly made me a confidantof, I will, at all events, make an effort to procure his permission tocommunicate it to all those who are in any way beneficially interestedin the circumstances. Should he refuse me that permission, I am almostinclined myself to beg him to withhold his confidence."
"Nay, do not do so, Charles--do not do that, I implore you. Recollect,although you cannot make us joint recipients with you in your knowledge,you can make use of it, probably, to our advantage, in saving us,perchance, from the different consequences, so that you can make whatyou know in some way beneficial to us, although not in every way."
"There is reason in that, and I give in at once. Be it so, Henry. I willwait on him, and if I cannot induce him to change his determination, andallow me to tell some other as well as Flora, I must give in, and takethe thing as a secret, although I shall not abandon a hope, even afterhe has told me all he has to tell, that I may induce him to permit me tomake a general confidence, instead of the partial one he has empoweredme to do."
"It may be so; and, at all events, we must not reject a proffered goodbecause it is not quite so complete as it might be."
"You are right; I will keep my appointment with him, entertaining themost sanguine hope that our troubles and disasters--I say our, because Iconsider myself quite associated in thought, interest, and feelings withyour family--may soon be over."
"Heaven grant it may be so, for your's and Flora's sake; but I feel thatBannerworth Hall will never again be the place it was to us. I shouldprefer that we sought for new associations, which I have no doubt we mayfind, and that among us we get up some other home that would be happier,because not associated with so many sad scenes in our history."
"Be it so; and I am sure that the admiral would gladly give way to suchan arrangement. He has often intimated that he thought Bannerworth Halla dull place; consequently, although he pretends to have purchased it ofyou, I think he will be very glad to leave it."
"Be it so, then. If it should really happen that we are upon the eve ofany circumstances that will really tend to relieve us from our miseryand embarrassments, we will seek for some pleasanter abode than theHall, which you may well imagine, since it became the scene of thatdreadful tragedy that left us fatherless, has borne but a distastefulappearance to all our eyes."
"I don't wonder at that, and am only surprised that, after such a thinghad happened any of you liked to inhabit the place."
"We did not like, but our poverty forced us. You have no notion of thedifficulties through which we have struggled; and the fact that we had ahome rent free was one of so much importance to us, that had it beensurrounded by a thousand more disagreeables than it was, we must haveput up with it; but now that we owe so much to the generosity of youruncle, I suppose we can afford to talk of what we like and of what wedon't like."
"You can, Henry, and it shall not be my fault if you do not alwaysafford to do so; and now, as the time is drawing on, I think I willproceed at once to Varney, for it is better to be soon than late, andget from him the remainder of his story."
* * * * *
There were active influences at work, to prevent Sir Francis Varney fromso quickly as he had arranged to do, carrying out his intention ofmaking Charles Holland acquainted with the history of the eventfulperiod of his life, which had been associated with MarmadukeBannerworth.
One would have scarcely thought it possible that anything now would haveprevented Varney from concluding his strange narrative; but that he wasprevented, will appear.
The boy who had been promised such liberal payment by the Hungariannobleman, for betraying the place of Varney's concealment, we havealready stated, felt bitterly the disappointment of not being met,according to promise, at the corner of the lane, by that individual.
It not only deprived him of the half-crowns, which already inimagination he had laid out, but it was a great blow to his ownimportance, for after his discovery of the residence of the vampyre, helooked upon himself as quite a public character, and expected greatapplause for his cleverness.
But when the Hungarian nobleman came not, all these dreams began tovanish into thin air, and, like the unsubstantial fabric of a vision, toleave no trace behind them.
He got dreadfully aggravated, and his first thought was to go to Varney,and see what he could get from him, by betraying the fact that some onewas actively in search of him.
That seemed
, however, a doubtful good, and perhaps there was somepersonal dread of the vampyre mixed up with the rejection of thisproposition. But reject it he did, and then he walked moodily into thetown without any fixed resolution of what he should do.
All that he thought of was a general idea that he should like to createsome mischief, if possible--what it was he cared not, so long as it madea disturbance.
Now, he knew well that the most troublesome and fidgetty man in the townwas Tobias Philpots, a saddler, who was always full of everybody'sbusiness but his own, and ever ready to hear any scandal of hisneighbours.
"I have a good mind," said the boy, "to go to old Philpots, and tell himall about it, that I have."
The good mind soon strengthened itself into a fixed resolution, and fullof disdain and indignation at the supposed want of faith of theHungarian nobleman, he paused opposite the saddler's door.
Could he but for a moment have suspected the real reason why theappointment had not been kept with him, all his curiosity would havebeen doubly aroused, and he would have followed the landlord of the innand his associate upon the track of the second vampyre that had visitedthe town.
But of this he knew nothing, for that proceeding had been conducted withamazing quietness; and the fact of the Hungarian nobleman, when he foundthat he was followed, taking a contrary course to that in which Varneywas concealed, prevented the boy from knowing anything of his movements.
Hence the thing looked to him like a piece of sheer neglect andcontemptuous indifference, which he felt bound to resent.
He did not pause long at the door of the saddler's, but, after a fewmoments, he walked boldly in, and said,--
"Master Philpots, I have got something extraordinary to tell you, andyou may give me what you like for telling you."
"Go on, then," said the saddler, "that's just the price I always likesto pay for everything."
"Will you keep it secret?" said the boy.
"Of course I will. When did you ever hear of me telling anything to asingle individual?"
"Never to a single individual, but I have heard you tell things to thewhole town."
"Confound your impudence. Get out of my shop directly."
"Oh! very good. I can go and tell old Mitchell, the pork-butcher."
"No, I say--stop; don't tell him. If anybody is to know, let it be me,and I'll promise you I'll keep it secret."
"Very good," said the boy, returning, "you shall know it; and, mind, youhave promised me to keep it secret, so that if it gets known, you knowit cannot be any fault of mine."
The fact was, the boy was anxious it should be known, only that in casesome consequences might arise, he thought he would quiet his ownconscience, by getting a promise of secrecy from Tobias Philpots, whichhe well knew that individual would not think of keeping.
He then related to him the interview he had had with the Hungariannobleman at the inn, how he had promised a number of half-crowns, but avery small instalment of which he had received.
All this Master Philpots cared very little for, but the information thatthe dreaded Varney, the vampyre, was concealed so close to the town wasa matter of great and abounding interest, and at that part of the storyhe suddenly pricked up his ears amazingly.
"Why, you don't mean to say that?" he exclaimed. "Are you sure it washe?"
"Yes, I am quite certain. I have seen I him more than once. It was SirFrancis Varney, without any mistake."
"Why, then you may depend he's only waiting until it's very dark, andthen he will walk into somebody, and suck his blood. Here's a horriddiscovery! I thought we had had enough of Master Varney, and that hewould hardly show himself here again, and now you tell me he is not tenminutes' walk off."
"It's a fact," said the boy. "I saw him go in, and he looks thinner andmore horrid than ever. I am sure he wants a dollop of blood fromsomebody."
"I shouldn't wonder."
"Now there is Mrs. Philpots, you know, sir; she's rather big, and seemsmost ready to burst always; I shouldn't wonder if the vampyre came toher to-night."
"Wouldn't you?" said Mrs. Philpots, who had walked into the shop, andoverheard the whole conversation; "wouldn't you, really? I'll vampyreyou, and teach you to make these remarks about respectable marriedwomen. You young wretch, take that, will you!"
She gave the boy such a box on the ears, that the place seemed to spinround with him. As soon as he recovered sufficiently to be enabled towalk, he made his way from the shop with abundance of precipitation,much regretting that he had troubled himself to make a confidant ofMaster Philpots.
But, however, he could not but tell himself that if his object was tomake a general disturbance through the whole place, he had certainlysucceeded in doing so.
He slunk home perhaps with a feeling that he might be called upon totake part in something that might ensue, and at all events be compelledto become a guide to the place of Sir Francis Varney's retreat, in whichcase, for all he knew, the vampyre might, by some more than mortalmeans, discover what a hand he had had in the matter, and punish himaccordingly.
The moment he hid left the saddler's Mrs. Philpots, after using somebitter reproaches to her husband for not at once sacrificing the boyupon the spot for the disrespectful manner in which he had spoken ofher, hastily put on her bonnet and shawl, and the saddler, although itwas a full hour before the usual time, began putting up the shutters ofhis shop.
"Why, my dear," he said to Mrs. Philpots, when she came down stairsequipped for the streets, "why, my dear, where are you going?"
"And pray, sir, what are you shutting up the shop for at this time ofthe evening!"
"Oh! why, the fact is, I thought I'd just go to the Rose and Crown, andmention that the vampyre was so near at hand."
"Well, Mr. Philpots, and in that case there can be no harm in my callingupon some of my acquaintance and mentioning it likewise."
"Why, I don't suppose there would be much harm; only remember, Mrs.Philpots, remember if you please---"
"Remember what?"
"To tell everybody to keep it secret."
"Oh, of course I will; and mind you do it likewise."
"Most decidedly."
The shop was closed, Mr. Philpots ran off to the Rose and Crown, andMrs, Philpots, with as much expedition as she could, purposed making thegrand tour of all her female acquaintance in the town, just to tellthem, as a great secret, that the vampyre, Sir Francis Varney, as hecalled himself, had taken refuge at the house that was to let down thelane leading to Higgs's farm.
"But by no means," she said, "let it go no further, because it is a verywrong thing to make any disturbance, and you will understand that it'squite a secret."
She was listened to with breathless attention, as may well be supposed,and it was a singular circumstance that at every house she left someother lady put on her bonnet and shawl, and ran out to make the circleof her acquaintance, with precisely the same story, and precisely thesame injunctions to secrecy.
And, as Mr. Philpots pursued an extremely similar course, we are notsurprised that in the short space of one hour the news should havespread through all the town, and that there was scarcely a child oldenough to understand what was being talked about, who was ignorant ofthe fact, that Sir Francis Varney was to be found at the empty housedown the lane.
It was an unlucky time, too, for the night was creeping on, a period atwhich people's apprehension of the supernatural becomes each momentstronger and more vivid--a period at which a number of idlers are letloose for different employments, and when anything in the shape of a rowor a riot presents itself in pleasant colours to those who have nothingto lose and who expect, under the cover of darkness, to be able tocommit outrages they would be afraid to think of in the daytime, whenrecognition would be more easy.
Thus was it that Sir Francis Varney's position, although he knew it not,became momentarily one of extreme peril, and the danger he was about torun, was certainly greater than any he had as yet experienced. HadCharles Holland but known what was going on,
he would undoubtedly havedone something to preserve the supposed vampyre from the mischief thatthreatened him, but the time had not arrived when he had promised to payhim a second visit, so he had no idea of anything serious havingoccurred.
Perhaps, too, Mr. and Mrs. Philpots scarcely anticipated creating somuch confusion, but when they found that the whole place was in anuproar, and that a tumultuous assemblage of persons called aloud forvengeance upon Varney, the vampyre, they made their way home again in nosmall fright.
And, now, what was the result of all these proceedings will be bestknown by our introducing the reader to the interior of the house inwhich Varney had found a temporary refuge, and following in detail hisproceedings as he waited for the arrival of Charles Holland.
Varney the Vampire; Or, the Feast of Blood Page 85
