THE STRANGE MEETING AT THE HALL BETWEEN MR. CHILLINGWORTH AND THE
MYSTERIOUS FRIEND OF VARNEY.
When we praise our friend Mr. Chillingworth for not telling his wife
where he was going, in pursuance of a caution and a discrimination so
highly creditable to him, we are quite certain that he has no such
excuse as regards the reader. Therefore we say at once that he had his
own reasons now for taking up his abode at Bannerworth Hall for a time.
These reasons seemed to be all dependant upon the fact of having met
the mysterious man at Sir Francis Varney’s; and although we perhaps
would have hoped that the doctor might have communicated to Henry
Bannerworth all that he knew and all that he surmised, yet have we no
doubt that what he keeps to himself he has good reasons for so keeping,
and that his actions as regards it are founded upon some very just
conclusions.
He has then made a determination to take possession of, and remain
in, Bannerworth Hall according to the full and free leave which the
admiral had given him so to do. What results he anticipated from so
lonely and so secret a watch we cannot say, but probably they will soon
exhibit themselves. It needed no sort of extraordinary discrimination
for any one to feel it once that not the least good, in the way of an
ambuscade, was likely to be effected by such persons as Admiral Bell
or Jack Pringle. They were all very well when fighting should actually
ensue, but they both were certainly remarkably and completely deficient
in diplomatic skill, or in that sort of patience which should enable
them at all to compete with the cunning, the skill, and the nice
discrimination of such a man as Sir Francis Varney.
If anything were to be done in that way it was unquestionably to
be done by some one alone, who, like the doctor, would, and could,
remain profoundly quiet and await the issue of events, be they what
they might, and probably remain a spy and attempt no overt act which
should be of a hostile character. This unquestionably was the mode, and
perhaps we should not be going too far when we say it was the only mode
which could be with anything like safety relied upon as one likely to
lead really to a discovery of Sir Francis Varney’s motives in making
such determined exertions to get possession of Bannerworth Hall.
That night was doomed to be a very eventful one, indeed; for on it had
Charles Holland been, by a sort of wild impulsive generosity of Sir
Francis Varney, rescued from the miserable dungeon in which he had
been confined, and on that night, too, he, whom we cannot otherwise
describe than as the villain Marchdale, had been, in consequence of the
evil that he himself meditated, and the crime with which he was quite
willing to stain his soul, been condemned to occupy Charles’s position.
On that night, too, had the infuriated mob determined upon the
destruction of Bannerworth Hall, and on that night was Mr.
Chillingworth waiting with what patience he could exert, at the
Hall, for whatever in the chapter of accidents might turn up of an
advantageous character to that family in whose welfare and fortunes he
felt so friendly and so deep an interest.
Let us look, then, at the worthy doctor as he keeps his solitary watch.
He did not, as had been the case when the admiral shared the place
with him in the hope of catching Varney on that memorable occasion
when he caught only his boot, sit in a room with a light and the means
and appliances for making the night pass pleasantly away; but, on the
contrary, he abandoned the house altogether, and took up a station in
that summer-house which has been before mentioned as the scene of a
remarkable interview between Flora Bannerworth and Varney the Vampyre.
Alone and in the dark, so that he could not be probably seen, he
watched that one window of the chamber where the first appearance of
the hideous vampyre had taken place, and which seemed ever since to be
the special object of his attack.
By remaining from twilight, and getting accustomed to the gradually
increasing darkness of the place, no doubt the doctor was able to see
well enough without the aid of any artificial light whether any one was
in the place besides himself.
“Night after night,” he said, “will I watch here until I have succeeded
in unravelling this mystery; for that there is some fearful and
undreamt of mystery at the bottom of all these proceedings I am well
convinced.”
When he made such a determination as this, Dr. Chillingworth was not at
all a likely man to break it, so there, looking like a modern statue in
the arbour, he sat with his eyes fixed upon the balcony and the window
of what used to be called Flora’s room for some hours.
The doctor was a contemplative man, and therefore he did not so
acutely feel the loneliness of his position as many persons would have
done; moreover, he was decidedly not of a superstitious turn of mind,
although certainly we cannot deny an imagination to him. However, if
he really had harboured some strange fears and terrors they would have
been excusable, when we consider how many circumstances had combined to
make it almost a matter of demonstration that Sir Francis Varney was
something more than mortal.
What quantities of subjects the doctor thought over during his vigil
in that garden it is hard to say, but never in his whole life,
probably, had he such a glorious opportunity for the most undisturbed
contemplation of subjects requiring deep thought to analyze, than as he
had then. At least he felt that since his marriage he had never been so
thoroughly quiet, and left so completely to himself.
It is to be hoped that he succeeded in settling any medical points of a
knotty character that might be hovering in his brain, and certain it is
that he had become quite absorbed in an abstruse matter connected with
physiology, when his ears were startled, and he was at once aroused to
a full consciousness of where he was, and why he had come there, by the
distant sound of a man’s footstep.
It was a footstep which seemed to be that of a person who scarcely
thought it at all necessary to use any caution, and the doctor’s heart
leaped within him as in the lowest possible whisper he said to himself,—
“I am successful—I am successful. It is believed now that the Hall is
deserted, and no doubt that is Sir Francis Varney come with confidence,
to carry out his object in so sedulously attacking it, be that object
what it may.”
Elated with this idea, the doctor listened intently to the advancing
footstep, which each moment sounded more clearly upon his ears.
It was evidently approaching from the garden entrance towards the
house, and he thought, by the occasional deadened sound of the person’s
feet, be he whom he might, that he could not see his way very well,
and, consequently, frequently strayed from the path, on to some of the
numerous flower-beds which were in the way.
“Yes,” said the doctor, exultingly, “it must be Varney; and now I have
but to watch him, and not to resist him; for what good on earth is it
to stop him in what he wishes to do, and, by such means, never wrest
his secret from him. The only way is to let him go on, and that will I
do, most certainly.”
Now he heard the indistinct muttering of the voice of some one, so low
that he could not catch what words were uttered; but he fancied that,
in the deep tones, he recognised, without any doubt, the voice of Sir
Francis Varney.
“It must be he,” he said, “it surely must be he. Who else would come
here to disturb the solitude of an empty house? He comes! he comes!”
Now the doctor could see a figure emerge from behind some thick
beeches, which had before obstructed his vision, and he looked
scrutinisingly about, while some doubts stole slowly over his mind
now as to whether it was the vampyre or not. The height was in favour
of the supposition that it was none other than Varney; but the figure
looked so much stouter, that Mr. Chillingworth felt a little staggered
upon the subject, and unable wholly to make up his mind upon it.
The pausing of this visitor, too, opposite that window where Sir
Francis Varney had made his attempts, was another strong reason why the
doctor was inclined to believe it must be him, and yet he could not
quite make up his mind upon the subject, so as to speak with certainty.
A very short time, however, indeed, must have sufficed to set such a
question as that at rest; and patience seemed the only quality of mind
necessary under those circumstances for Mr. Chillingworth to exert.
The visitor continued gazing either at that window, or at the whole
front of the house, for several minutes, and then he turned away from a
contemplation of it, and walked slowly along, parallel with the windows
of that dining-room, one of which had been broken so completely on the
occasion of the admiral’s attempt to take the vampyre prisoner.
The moment the stranger altered his position, from looking at the
window, and commenced walking away from it, Mr. Chillingworth’s mind
was made up. It was not Varney—of that he felt now most positively
assured, and could have no doubt whatever upon the subject.
The gait, the general air, the walk, all were different; and then arose
the anxious question of who could it be that had intruded upon that
lonely place, and what could be the object of any one else but Varney
the vampyre to do so.
The stranger looked a powerful man, and walked with a firm tread,
and, altogether, he was an opponent that, had the doctor been ever so
belligerently inclined, it would have been the height of indiscretion
for him to attempt to cope with.
It was a very vexatious thing, too, for any one to come there at such a
juncture, perhaps only from motives of curiosity, or possibly just to
endeavour to commit some petty depredations upon the deserted building,
if possible; and most heartily did the doctor wish that, in some way,
he could scare away the intruder.
The man walked along very slowly, indeed, and seemed to be quite taking
his time in making his observations of the building; and this was the
more provoking, as it was getting late, and if having projected a visit
at all, it would surely soon be made, and then, when he found any one
there, of course, he would go.
Amazed beyond expression, the doctor felt about on the ground at his
feet, until he found a tolerably large stone, which he threw at the
stranger with so good an aim, that it hit him a smart blow on the back,
which must have been anything but a pleasant surprise.
That it was a surprise, and that, too, a most complete one, was evident
from the start which the man gave, and then he uttered a furious oath,
and rubbed his back, as he glanced about him to endeavour to ascertain
from whence the missile had come.
“I’ll try him again with that,” thought the doctor; “it may succeed in
scaring him away;” and he stooped to watch for another stone.
It was well that he did so at that precise moment; for, before he
rose again, he heard the sharp report of a pistol, and a crashing
sound among some of the old wood work of which the summer-house was
composed, told him that a shot had there taken effect. Affairs were now
getting much too serious; and, accordingly, Dr. Chillingworth thought
that, rather than stay there to be made a target of, he would face the
intruder.
“Hold—hold!” he cried. “Who are you, and what do you mean by
that?”—“Oh! somebody is there,” cried the man, as he advanced. “My
friend, whoever you are, you were very foolish to throw a stone at me.”
“And, my friend, whoever you are,” responded the doctor, “you were very
spiteful to fire a pistol bullet at me in consequence.”—“Not at all.”
“But I say yes; for, probably, I can prove a right to be here, which
you cannot.”—“Ah!” said the stranger, “that voice—why—you are Dr.
Chillingworth?”
“I am; but I don’t know you,” said the doctor, as he emerged now from
the summer-house, and confronted the stranger who was within a few
paces of the entrance to it. Then he started, as he added,—
“Yes, I do know you, though. How, in the name of Heaven, came you here,
and what purpose have you in so coming?”
“What purpose have you? Since we met at Varney’s, I have been
making some inquiries about this neighbourhood, and learn strange
things.”—“That you may very easily do here; and, what is more
extraordinary, the strange things are, for the most part, I can assure
you, quite true.”
The reader will, from what has been said, now readily recognise this
man as Sir Francis Varney’s mysterious visitor, to whom he gave, from
some hidden cause or another, so large a sum of money, and between whom
and Dr. Chillingworth a mutual recognition had taken place, on the
occasion when Sir Francis Varney had, with such cool assurance, invited
the admiral to breakfast with him at his new abode.
“You, however,” said the man, “I have no doubt, are fully qualified to
tell me of more than I have been able to learn from other people; and,
first of all, let me ask you why you are here?”—“Before I answer you
that question, or any other,” said the doctor, “let me beg of you to
tell me truly, is Sir Francis Varney—”
The doctor whispered in the ear of the stranger some name, as if he
feared, even there, in the silence of that garden, where everything
conspired to convince him that he could not be overheard, to pronounce
it in an audible tone.
“He is,” said the other.—“You have no manner of doubt of it?”
“Doubt?—certainly not. What doubt can I have? I know it for a positive
certainty, and he knows, of course, that I do know it, and has
purchased my silence pretty handsomely, although I must confess that
nothing but my positive necessities would have induced me to make the
large demands upon him that I have, and I hope soon to be able to
release him altogether from them.”
The doctor shook his head repeatedly, as he said,—
“I suspected it; I suspected it, do you know, from the first
moment that I saw you there in his house. His face haunted me ever
since—awfully haunted me; and yet, although I felt certain that I had
once seen it under strange circumstances, I could not identify it
with—but no matter, no matter. I am waiting here for him.”
“Indeed!”—“Ay, that I am; and I flung a stone at you, not knowing you,
with hope that you would be, by such means, perhaps, scared away, and
so leave the coast clear for him.”
“Then you have an appointment with him?”—“By no means; but he has made
such repeated and determined attacks upon this house that the family
who inhabited it were compelled to leave it, and I am here to watch
him, and ascertain what can possibly be his object.”
“It is as I suspected, then,” muttered this man. “Confound him! Now can
I read, as if in a book, most clearly, the game that he is playing!”
“Can you?” cried the doctor, energetically—“can you? What is it? Tell
me, for that is the very thing I want to discover.”—“You don’t say so?”
“It is, indeed; and I assure you that it concerns the peace of a
whole family to know it. You say you have made inquiries about this
neighbourhood, and, if you have done so, you have discovered how the
family of the Bannerworths have been persecuted by Varney, and how, in
particular, Flora Bannerworth, a beautiful and intelligent girl, has
been most cruelly made to suffer.”
“I have heard all that, and I dare say with many exaggerations.”—“It
would be difficult for any one really to exaggerate the horrors that
have taken place in this house, so that any information which you can
give respecting the motives of Varney will tend, probably, to restore
peace to those who have been so cruelly persecuted, and be an act of
kindness which I think not altogether inconsistent with your nature.”
“You think so, and yet know who I am.”—“I do, indeed.”
“And what I am. Why, if I were to go into the market-place of yon town,
and proclaim myself, would not all shun me—ay, even the very lowest and
vilest; and yet you talk of an act of kindness not being altogether
inconsistent with my nature!”—“I do, because I know something more of
you than many.”
There was a silence of some moments’ duration, and then the stranger
spoke in a tone of voice which looked as if he were struggling with
some emotion.
“Sir, you do know more of me than many. You know what I have been, and
you know how I left an occupation which would have made me loathed. But
you—even you—do not know what made me take to so terrible a trade.”—“I
do not.”
“Would it suit you for me now to tell you?”—“Will you first promise
me that you will do all you can for this persecuted family of the
Bannerworths, in whom I take so strange an interest?”
“I will. I promise you that freely. Of my own knowledge, of course, I
can say but little concerning them, but, upon that warranting, I well
believe they deserve abundant sympathy, and from me they shall have it.”
“A thousand thanks! With your assistance, I have little doubt of being
able to extricate them from the tangled web of dreadful incidents which
has turned them from their home; and now, whatever you may choose to
tell me of the cause which drove you to be what you became, I shall
listen to with abundant interest. Only let me beseech you to come into
this summer-house, and to talk low.”
“I will, and you can pursue your watch at the same time, while I
beguile its weariness.”—“Be it so.”
“You knew me years ago, when I had all the chances in the world of
becoming respectable and respected. I did, indeed; and you may,
therefore, judge of my surprise when, some years since, being in the
metropolis, I met you, and you shunned my company.”—“Yes; but, at last,
you found out why it was that I shunned your company.”
“I did. You yourself told me once that I met you, and would not leave
you, but insisted upon your dining with me. Then you told me, when you
found that I would take no other course whatever, that you were no
other than the—the——”—“Out with it! I can bear to hear it now better
than I could then! I told you that I was the common hangman of London!”
“You did, I must confess, to my most intense surprise.”
“Yes, and yet you kept to me; and, but that I respected you too much to
allow you to do so, you would, from old associations, have countenanced
me; but I could not, and I would not, let you do so. I told you then
that, although I held the terrible office, that I had not been yet
called upon to perform its loathsome functions. Soon—soon—come the
first effort—it was the last!”
“Indeed! You left the dreadful trade?”—“I did—I did. But what I want to
tell you, for I could not then, was why I went ever to it. The wounds
my heart had received were then too fresh to allow me to speak of them,
but I will tell you now. The story is a brief one, Mr. Chillingworth. I
pray you be seated.”