THE MYSTERIOUS ARRIVAL AT THE INN.—THE HUNGARIAN NOBLEMAN.—THE LETTER
TO VARNEY.
While these affairs are proceeding, and when there seems every
appearance of Sir Francis Varney himself quickly putting an end to
some of the vexatious circumstances connected with himself and the
Bannerworth family, it is necessary that we should notice an occurrence
which took place at the same inn which the admiral had made such a
scene of confusion upon the occasion of his first arrival in the town.
Not since the admiral had arrived with Jack Pringle, and so disturbed
the whole economy of the household, was there so much curiosity excited
as on the morning following the interview which Charles Holland had had
with Varney, the vampyre.
The inn was scarcely opened, when a stranger arrived, mounted on a
coal-black horse, and, alighting, he surrendered the bridle into the
hands of a boy who happened to be at the inn-door, and stalked slowly
and solemnly into the building.
He was tall, and of a cadaverous aspect; in attire he was plainly
apparelled, but there was no appearance of poverty about him; on the
contrary, what he really had on was of a rich and costly character,
although destitute of ornament.
He sat down in the first room that presented itself, and awaited the
appearance of the landlord, who, upon being informed that a guest of
apparently ample means, and of some consequence, had entered the place,
hastily went to him to receive his commands.
With a profusion of bows, our old friend, who had been so obsequious
to Admiral Bell, entered the room, and begged to know what orders the
gentleman had for him.
“I presume,” said the stranger, in a deep, solemn voice, “I presume
that you have no objection, for a few days that I shall remain in this
town, to board and lodge me for a certain price which you can name to
me at once?”
“Certainly, sir,” said the landlord; “any way you please; without wine,
sir, I presume?”
“As you please; make your own arrangements.”
“Well, sir, as we can’t tell, of course, what wine a gentleman may
drink, but when we come to consider breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper,
and a bed, and all that sort of thing, and a private sitting-room, I
suppose, sir?”
“Certainly.”
“You would not, then, think, sir, a matter of four guineas a week will
be too much, perhaps.”
“I told you to name your own charge. Let it be four guineas; if you had
said eight I should have paid it.”
“Good God!” said the publican, “here’s a damned fool that I am. I beg
your pardon, sir, I didn’t mean you. Now I could punch my own head—will
you have breakfast at once, sir, and then we shall begin regular, you
know, sir?”
“Have what?”
“Breakfast, breakfast, you know, sir; tea, coffee, cocoa, or chocolate;
ham, eggs, or a bit of grilled fowl, cold sirloin of roast beef, or a
red herring—anything you like, sir.”
“I never take breakfast, so you may spare yourself the trouble of
providing anything for me.”
“Not take breakfast, sir! not take breakfast! Would you like to take
anything to drink then, sir? People say it’s an odd time, at eight
o’clock in the morning, to drink; but, for my part, I always have
thought that you couldn’t begin a good thing too soon.”
“I live upon drink,” said the stranger; “but you have none in the
cellar that will suit me.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“No, no, I am certain.”
“Why, we’ve got some claret now, sir,” said the landlord.
“Which may look like blood, and yet not be it.”
“Like what, sir?—damn my rags!”
“Begone, begone.”
The stranger uttered these words so peremptorily that the landlord
hastily left the room, and going into his own bar, he gave himself so
small a tap on the side of the head, that it would not have hurt a fly,
as he said,—
“I could punch myself into bits, I could tear my hair out by the
roots;” and then he pulled a little bit of his hair, so gently and
tenderly that it showed what a man of discretion he was, even in the
worst of all his agony of passion.
“The idea,” he added, “of a fellow coming here, paying four guineas a
week for board and lodging, telling me he would not have minded eight,
and then not wanting any breakfast; it’s enough to aggravate half a
dozen saints; but what an odd fish he looks.”
At this moment the ostler came in, and, standing at the bar, he wiped
his mouth with his sleeve, as he said,—
“I suppose you’ll stand a quart for that, master?”
“A quart for what, you vagabond? A quart because I’ve done myself up in
heaps; a quart because I’m fit to pull myself into fiddlestrings?”
“No,” said the ostler; “because I’ve just put up the gentleman’s horse.”
“What gentleman’s horse?”
“Why, the big-looking fellow with the white face, now in the parlour.”
“What, did he come on a horse, Sam? What sort of a looking creature is
it? you may judge of a man from the sort of horse-company he keeps.”
“Well, then, sir, I hardly know. It’s coal black, and looks as knowing
as possible; it’s tried twice to get a kick at me, but I was down upon
him, and put the bucket in his way. Howsomdever, I don’t think it’s a
bad animal, as a animal, mind you, sir, though a little bit wicious or
so.”
“Well,” said the publican, as he drew the ostler half a pint instead of
a quart, “you’re always drinking; take that.”
“Blow me,” said the ostler, “half a pint, master!”
“Plague take you, I can’t stand parleying with you, there’s the parlour
bell; perhaps, after all, he will have some breakfast.”
While the landlord was away the ostler helped himself to a quart of the
strongest ale, which, by a singular faculty that he had acquired, he
poured down his throat without any effort at swallowing, holding his
head back, and the jug at a little distance from his mouth.
Having accomplished this feat, he reversed the jug, giving it a knowing
tap with his knuckles as though he would have signified to all the
world that it was empty, and that he had accomplished what he desired.
In the meantime, the landlord had made his way to his strange guest,
who said to him, when he came into the room,
“Is there not one Sir Francis Varney residing in this town?”
“The devil!” thought the landlord; “this is another of them, I’ll bet a
guinea. Sir Francis Varney, sir, did you say? Why, sir, there was a Sir
Francis Varney, but folks seem to think as how he’s no better than he
should be—a sort of vampyre, sir, if you know what that is.”
“I have, certainly, heard of such things; but can you not tell me
Varney’s address? I wish to see him.”
“Well, then, sir, I cannot tell it to you, for there’s really been such
a commotion and such a riot about him that he’s taken himself off, I
think, altogether, and we can hear nothing of him. Lord bless you, sir,
they burnt down his house, and hunted him about so, that I don’t think
that he’ll ever show his face here again.”
“And cannot you tell me where he was seen last?”
“That I cannot, sir; but, if anybody knows anything about him, it’s Mr.
Henry Bannerworth, or perhaps Dr. Chillingworth, for they have had more
to do with him than anybody else.”
“Indeed; and can you tell me the address of the former individual?”
“That I can’t, sir, for the Bannerworths have left the Hall. As for
the doctor, sir, you’ll see his house in the High-street, with a large
brass plate on the door, so that you cannot mistake it. It’s No. 9, on
the other side of the way.”
“I thank you for so much information,” said the stranger, and rising,
he walked to the door. Before, however, he left, he turned, and
added,—“You can say, if you should by chance meet Mr. Bannerworth, that
a Hungarian nobleman wishes to speak to him concerning Sir Francis
Varney, the vampyre?”
“A what, sir?”
“A nobleman from Hungary,” was the reply.
“The deuce!” said the landlord, as he looked after him. “He don’t
seem at all hungry here, not thirsty neither. What does he mean by a
nobleman from Hungary? The idea of a man talking about hungry, and not
taking any breakfast. He’s queering me. I’ll be hanged if I’ll stand
it. Here I clearly lose four guineas a week, and then get made game of
besides. A nobleman, indeed! I think I see him. Why, he isn’t quite so
big as old Slaney, the butcher. It’s a do. I’ll have at him when he
comes back.”
Meanwhile, the unconscious object of this soliloquy passed down the
High-street, until he came to Dr. Chillingworth’s, at whose door he
knocked.
Now Mrs. Chillingworth had been waiting the whole night for the return
of the doctor, who had not yet made his appearance, and, consequently,
that lady’s temper had become acidulated to an uncommon extent, and
when she heard a knock at the door, something possessed her that it
could be no other than her spouse, and she prepared to give him that
warm reception which she considered he had a right, as a married man,
to expect after such conduct.
She hurriedly filled a tolerably sized hand-basin with not the cleanest
water in the world, and then, opening the door hurriedly with one hand,
she slouced the contents into the face of the intruder, exclaiming,—
“Now you’ve caught it!”
“D——n!” said the Hungarian nobleman, and then Mrs. Chillingworth
uttered a scream, for she feared she had made a mistake.
“Oh, sir! I’m very sorry; but I thought it was my husband.”
“But if you did,” said the stranger, “there was no occasion to drown
him with a basin of soap-suds. It is your husband I want, madam, if he
be Dr. Chillingworth.”
“Then, indeed, you must go on wanting him, sir, for he’s not been to
his own home for a day and a night. He takes up all his time in hunting
after that beastly vampyre.”
“Ah! Sir Francis Varney, you mean.”
“I do; and I’d Varney him if I caught hold of him.”
“Can you give me the least idea of where he can be found?”
“Of course I can.”
“Indeed! where?” said the stranger, eagerly.
“In some churchyard, to be sure, gobbling up the dead bodies.”
With this Mrs. Chillingworth shut the door with a bang that nearly
flattened the Hungarian’s nose with his face, and he was fain to walk
away, quite convinced that there was no information to be had in that
quarter.
He returned to the inn, and having told the landlord that he would give
a handsome reward to any one who would discover to him the retreat of
Sir Francis Varney, he shut himself up in an apartment alone, and was
busy for a time in writing letters.
Although the sum which the stranger offered was an indefinite one,
the landlord mentioned the matter across the bar to several persons;
but all of them shook their heads, believing it to be a very perilous
adventure indeed to have anything to do with so troublesome a subject
as Sir Francis Varney. As the day advanced, however, a young lad
presented himself, and asked to see the gentleman who had been
inquiring for Varney.
The landlord severely questioned and cross-questioned him, with the
hope of discovering if he had any information; but the boy was quite
obdurate, and would speak to no one but the person who had offered
the reward, so that mine host was compelled to introduce him to the
Hungarian nobleman, who, as yet, had neither eaten nor drunk in the
house.
The boy wore upon his countenance the very expression of juvenile
cunning, and when the stranger asked him if he really was in possession
of any information concerning the retreat of Sir Francis Varney, he
said,—
“I can tell you where he is, but what are you going to give?”
“What sum do you require?” said the stranger.
“A whole half-crown.”
“It is your’s; and, if your information prove correct, come to-morrow,
and I’ll add another to it, always provided, likewise, you keep the
secret from any one else.”
“Trust me for that,” said the boy. “I live with my grandmother; she’s
precious old, and has got a cottage. We sell milk and cakes, sticky
stuff, and pennywinkles.”
“A goodly collection. Go on.”
“Well, sir, this morning, there comes a man in with a bottle, and he
buys a bottle full of milk and a loaf. I saw him, and I knew it was
Varney, the vampyre.”
“You followed him?”
“Of course I did, sir; and he’s staying at the house that’s to let down
the lane, round the corner, by Mr. Biggs’s, and past Lee’s garden,
leaving old Slaney’s stacks on your right hand, and so cutting on
till you come to Grants’s meadow, when you’ll see old Madhunter a
brick-field staring of you in the face; and, arter that—”
“Peace—peace!—you shall yourself conduct me. Come to this place at
sunset; be secret, and, probably, ten times the reward you have already
received may be yours,” said the stranger.
“What, ten half-crowns?”
“Yes, I will keep my word with you.”
“What a go! I know what I’ll do. I’ll set up as a showman, and what a
glorious treat it will be, to peep through one of the holes all day
myself, and get somebody to pull the strings up and down, and when I’m
tired of that, I can blaze away upon the trumpet like one o’clock. I
think I see me. Here you sees the Duke of Marlborough a whopping of
everybody, and here you see the Frenchmen flying about like parched
peas in a sifter.”