THE DISCOVERY OF THE POCKET BOOK OF MARMADUKE BANNERWORTH.—ITS
MYSTERIOUS CONTENTS.
The little episode had just taken place which we have recorded between
the old admiral and Jack Pringle, when Henry Bannerworth and Charles
Holland stepped aside to converse.
“Charles,” said Henry, “it has become absolutely necessary that I
should put an end to this state of dependence in which we all live upon
your uncle. It is too bad to think, that because, through fighting the
battles 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 would
be a great deal worse than too bad, if my uncle could not do what he
liked 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 of
it.”
“We have all talked it over, my mother, my brother, and Flora; and my
brother and I have determined, if this state of things should last much
longer, 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
of the public service, your uncle would have the pleasure, such we are
quite sure it would be to him, of assisting us greatly by his name and
influence.”
“Well, well, Henry, that’s all very well; but for a little time do not
throw up the old man and make him unhappy. I believe I am his only
relative in the world, and, as he has often said, he intended leaving
me heir to all he possesses, you see there is no harm done by you
receiving a small portion of it beforehand.”
“And,” said Henry, “by that line of argument, we are to find an excuse
for 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 all
feel, the deepest debt of gratitude towards your uncle, it is our duty
to 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 stumbled
over 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 most
ill-suited do they happen to be to our fallen fortunes. It is money we
want, not the gewgaws of a former state, to which we can have now no
sort of pretension.”
“Nay, I know you have all the argument; but still is there something
sad and uncomfortable to one’s feelings in parting with such things as
those which have been in families for many years.”
“But we knew not that we had them; remember that, Charles. Come and
look at them. Those relics of a bygone age may amuse you, and, as
regards myself, there are no circumstances whatever associated with
them that give them any extrinsic value; so laugh at them or admire
them, as you please, 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 better
of what you say concerning my uncle, for I happen to know—which you
ought likewise by this time—how seriously the old man would feel any
rejection on your part of the good he fancies he is doing you. I tell
you, Henry, it is completely his hobby, and let him have earned his
money with ten times the danger he has, he could not spend it with
anything like the satisfaction that he does, unless he were allowed to
dispose 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 most
fortunate circumstance for me—that I should not be at all surprised
that she cuts me out of one half my estate, when the old man dies. But
come, we will look at your ancient bijouterie.”
Henry led Charles into an apartment of the cottage where some of the
few things had been placed that were brought from Bannerworth Hall,
which were not likely to be in constant and daily use.
Among these things happened to be the box which Henry had mentioned,
and from which he had taken a miscellaneous assortment of things of an
antique and singular character.
There were old dresses of a season and of a taste long gone by;
ancient articles of defence; some curiously wrought daggers; and a few
ornaments, pretty, but valueless, along with others of more sterling
pretensions, which Henry pointed out to Charles.
“I am almost inclined to think,” said the latter, “that some of these
things are really of considerable value; but I do not I profess to be
an accurate judge, and, perhaps, I am more taken with the beauty of an
article, than the intrinsic worth. What is that which you have just
taken from the box?”
“It seems a half-mask,” said Henry, “made of silk; and here are initial
letters 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
misguided man put a period to his own existence, in the gardens of
Bannerworth Hall. Of course, the shock was a great one to us all,
although I must confess that we none of us knew much of a father’s
affections. But time reconciles one to these dispensations, and to a
friend, like yourself, I can talk upon these subjects without a pang.”
He laid down the mask, and proceeded further in his search in the old
box.
Towards the bottom of it there were some books, and, crushed in by the
side of them, there was an ancient-looking pocket-book, which Charles
pointed out, saying,—
“There, Henry, who knows but you may find a fortune when you least
expect it?”
“Those who expect nothing,” said Henry, “will not be disappointed. At
all 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
have read of such a man. He flourished some twenty, or five-and-twenty
years ago, and was considered a _roue_ of the first water—a finished
gamester; and, in a sort of brief memoir I read once of him, it said
that 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’s
pocket-book. They met at some gaming-house; and, if some old
pocket-book of 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 me
see—‘Mem., twenty-five thousand pounds!’ He who robs the robber, steals
little; it was not meant to kill him; but it will be unsafe to use the
money for a time—my brain seems on fire—the remotest hiding-place in
the 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 his
peculiar 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, that
I never could unravel; and once or twice it seemed as if we were upon
the point of discovering all; but something has ever interfered to
prevent 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
to add something; but death stopped his utterance. Now, does it not
almost seem that this memorandum alluded to the circumstance?”
“It does, indeed.”
“And then, scarcely had my father breathed his last, when a man comes
and 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 these
mysteries. For myself, I own that I cannot do so; I see no earthly way
out of the difficulty whatever. But still it does appear to me as if
Dr. Chillingworth knew something or had heard something, with which he
really 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 anything
from me, that he is doing so from some excellent motive; most probably
because he thinks it will give me pain, and so will not let me endure
any unhappiness from it, unless he is quite certain as regards the
facts. When he is so, you may depend he will be communicative, and I
shall know all that he has to relate. But, Charles, it is evident to me
that 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 things
which he has compelled you to keep secret.”
“I have promised to keep them secret, and I deeply regret the promise
that I have made. There cannot be anything to my mind more essentially
disagreeable than to have one’s tongue tied in one’s interview with
friends. I hate to hear anything that I may not repeat to those whom I
take 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 the
memorandum that had been found in the old pocket-book, saying as he did
so,—
“Look at that, doctor, and give us your candid opinion upon it.”
Dr. Chillingworth fitted on his spectacles, and read the paper
carefully. At its conclusion, he screwed up his mouth into an extremely
small compass, and doubling up the paper, he put it into his capacious
waistcoat 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 the
best 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 little
inquiry.”
“Ha!” said the worthy doctor; “we can’t put old heads upon young
shoulders, that’s quite clear. Now, my good young men, be patient and
quiet; recollect, that what you know you’re acquainted with, and that
that which is hidden from you, you cannot very well come to any very
correct conclusion upon. There’s a right side and a wrong one you may
depend, to every question; and he who walks heedlessly in the dark, is
very apt to run his head against a post. Good evening, my boys—good
evening.”
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
by no means favourable to the march of popular information; and I
really think he might have given us some food for reflection, instead
of leaving us so utterly and entirely at fault as he has; and you know
he’s taken away your memorandum even.”
“Let him have it, Charles—let him have it; it is safe with him. The old
man may be, and I believe is, a little whimsical and crotchety; but he
means abundantly well, and he’s just one of those sort of persons, and
always was, who will do good his own way, or not at all; so we must
take the good with the bad in those cases, and let Dr. Chillingworth do
as he pleases.”
“I cannot say it is nothing to me, although those words were rising to
my lips, because you know, Henry, that everything which concerns you
or yours is something to me; and therefore it is that I feel extremely
anxious for the solution of all this mystery. Before I hear the sequel
of that which Varney, the vampyre, has so strongly made me a confidant
of, I will, at all events, make an effort to procure his permission to
communicate it to all those who are in any way beneficially interested
in the circumstances. Should he refuse me that permission, I am almost
inclined 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 what you 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 will wait on him, and if I cannot induce him to change his
determination, and allow me to tell some other as well as Flora, I must
give in, and take the thing as a secret, although I shall not abandon a
hope, even after he has told me all he has to tell, that I may induce
him to permit me to make a general confidence, instead of the partial
one he has empowered me to do.”
“It may be so; and, at all events, we must not reject a proffered good
because it is not quite so complete as it might be.”
“You are right; I will keep my appointment with him, entertaining the
most sanguine hope that our troubles and disasters—I say our, because
I consider myself quite associated in thought, interest, and feelings
with your family—may soon be over.”
“Heaven grant it may be so, for your’s and Flora’s sake; but I feel
that Bannerworth Hall will never again be the place it was to us. I
should prefer that we sought for new associations, which I have no
doubt we may find, 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 such
an arrangement. He has often intimated that he thought Bannerworth
Hall a dull place; consequently, although he pretends to have purchased
it of you, 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 of
any circumstances that will really tend to relieve us from our misery
and embarrassments, we will seek for some pleasanter abode than the
Hall, which you may well imagine, since it became the scene of that
dreadful tragedy that left us fatherless, has borne but a distasteful
appearance to all our eyes.”
“I don’t wonder at that, and am only surprised that, after such a thing
had happened, any of you liked to inhabit the place.”
“We did not like, but our poverty forced us. You have no notion of the
difficulties through which we have struggled; and the fact that we had
a home rent free was one of so much importance to us, that had it been
surrounded by a thousand more disagreeables than it was, we must have
put up with it; but now that we owe so much to the generosity of your
uncle, I suppose we can afford to talk of what we like and of what we
don’t like.”
“You can, Henry, and it shall not be my fault if you do not always
afford to do so; and now, as the time is drawing on, I think I will
proceed at once to Varney, for it is better to be soon than late, and
get from him the remainder of his story.”
• • • • •
There were active influences at work, to prevent Sir Francis Varney
from so quickly as he had arranged to do, carrying out his intention
of making Charles Holland acquainted with the history of the eventful
period of his life, which had been associated with Marmaduke
Bannerworth.
One would have scarcely thought it possible that anything now would
have prevented Varney from concluding his strange narrative; but that
he was prevented, will appear.
The boy who had been promised such liberal payment by the Hungarian
nobleman, for betraying the place of Varney’s concealment, we have
already 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 in
imagination he had laid out, but it was a great blow to his own
importance, for after his discovery of the residence of the vampyre,
he looked upon himself as quite a public character, and expected great
applause for his cleverness.
But when the Hungarian nobleman came not, all these dreams began to
vanish into thin air, and, like the unsubstantial fabric of a vision,
to leave 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 one was actively in search of him.
That seemed, however, a doubtful good, and perhaps there was some
personal dread of the vampyre mixed up with the rejection of this
proposition. But reject it he did, and then he walked moodily into the
town without any fixed resolution of what he should do.
All that he thought of was a general idea that he should like to create
some mischief, if possible—what it was he cared not, so long as it made
a disturbance.
Now, he knew well that the most troublesome and fidgetty man in the
town was Tobias Philpots, a saddler, who was always full of everybody’s
business but his own, and ever ready to hear any scandal of his
neighbours.
“I have a good mind,” said the boy, “to go to old Philpots, and tell
him all about it, that I have.”
The good mind soon strengthened itself into a fixed resolution, and
full of disdain and indignation at the supposed want of faith of the
Hungarian nobleman, he paused opposite the saddler’s door.
Could he but for a moment have suspected the real reason why the
appointment had not been kept with him, all his curiosity would have
been doubly aroused, and he would have followed the landlord of the inn
and his associate upon the track of the second vampyre that had visited
the town.
But of this he knew nothing, for that proceeding had been conducted
with amazing quietness; and the fact of the Hungarian nobleman, when he
found that he was followed, taking a contrary course to that in which
Varney was concealed, prevented the boy from knowing anything of his
movements.
Hence the thing looked to him like a piece of sheer neglect and
contemptuous indifference, which he felt bound to resent.
He did not pause long at the door of the saddler’s, but, after a few
moments, he walked boldly in, and said,—
“Master Philpots, I have got something extraordinary to tell you, and
you may give me what you like for telling you.”
“Go on, then,” said the saddler, “that’s just the price I always likes
to 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 a
single individual?”
“Never to a single individual, but I have heard you tell things to the
whole 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,
you have promised me to keep it secret, so that if it gets known, you
know it cannot be any fault of mine.”
The fact was, the boy was anxious it should be known, only that in
case some consequences might arise, he thought he would quiet his own
conscience, by getting a promise of secrecy from Tobias Philpots, which
he well knew that individual would not think of keeping.
He then related to him the interview he had had with the Hungarian
nobleman at the inn, how he had promised a number of half-crowns, but a
very small instalment of which he had received.
All this Master Philpots cared very little for, but the information
that the dreaded Varney, the vampyre, was concealed so close to the
town was a matter of great and abounding interest, and at that part of
the story he suddenly pricked up his ears amazingly.
“Why, you don’t mean to say that?” he exclaimed. “Are you sure it was
he?”
“Yes, I am quite certain. I have seen I him more than once. It was Sir
Francis Varney, without any mistake.”
“Why, then you may depend he’s only waiting until it’s very dark, and
then he will walk into somebody, and suck his blood. Here’s a horrid
discovery! I thought we had had enough of Master Varney, and that he
would hardly show himself here again, and now you tell me he is not ten
minutes’ walk off.”
“It’s a fact,” said the boy. “I saw him go in, and he looks thinner
and more horrid than ever. I am sure he wants a dollop of blood from
somebody.”
“I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Now there is Mrs. Philpots, you know, sir; she’s rather big, and seems
most ready to burst always; I shouldn’t wonder if the vampyre came to
her to-night.”
“Wouldn’t you?” said Mrs. Philpots, who had walked into the shop, and
overheard the whole conversation; “wouldn’t you, really? I’ll vampyre
you, and teach you to make these remarks about respectable married
women. You young wretch, take that, will you!”
She gave the boy such a box on the ears, that the place seemed to spin
round with him. As soon as he recovered sufficiently to be enabled to
walk, he made his way from the shop with abundance of precipitation,
much regretting that he had troubled himself to make a confidant of
Master Philpots.
But, however, he could not but tell himself that if his object was to
make a general disturbance through the whole place, he had certainly
succeeded in doing so.
He slunk home perhaps with a feeling that he might be called upon to
take part in something that might ensue, and at all events be compelled
to become a guide to the place of Sir Francis Varney’s retreat, in
which case, for all he knew, the vampyre might, by some more than
mortal means, discover what a hand he had had in the matter, and punish
him accordingly.
The moment he had left the saddler’s Mrs. Philpots, after using some
bitter reproaches to her husband for not at once sacrificing the boy
upon the spot for the disrespectful manner in which he had spoken of
her, hastily put on her bonnet and shawl, and the saddler, although it
was a full hour before the usual time, began putting up the shutters of
his shop.
“Why, my dear,” he said to Mrs. Philpots, when she came down stairs
equipped for the streets, “why, my dear, where are you going?”
“And pray, sir, what are you shutting up the shop for at this time of
the evening?”
“Oh! why, the fact is, I thought I’d just go to the Rose and Crown, and
mention that the vampyre was so near at hand.”
“Well, Mr. Philpots, and in that case there can be no harm in my
calling upon 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, and
Mrs. Philpots, with as much expedition as she could, purposed making
the grand tour of all her female acquaintance in the town, just to tell
them, as a great secret, that the vampyre, Sir Francis Varney, as he
called himself, had taken refuge at the house that was to let down the
lane leading to Higgs’s farm.
“But by no means,” she said, “let it go no further, because it is a
very wrong thing to make any disturbance, and you will understand that
it’s quite 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 some
other lady put on her bonnet and shawl, and ran out to make the circle
of her acquaintance, with precisely the same story, and precisely the
same injunctions to secrecy.
And, as Mr. Philpots pursued an extremely similar course, we are not
surprised that in the short space of one hour the news should have
spread through all the town, and that there was scarcely a child old
enough to understand what was being talked about, who was ignorant of
the fact, that Sir Francis Varney was to be found at the empty house
down the lane.
It was an unlucky time, too, for the night was creeping on, a period
at which people’s apprehension of the supernatural becomes each moment
stronger and more vivid—a period at which a number of idlers are let
loose for different employments, and when anything in the shape of a
row or a riot presents itself in pleasant colours to those who have
nothing to lose and who expect, under the cover of darkness, to be able
to commit outrages they would be afraid to think of in the daytime,
when recognition 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 to run, was certainly greater than any he had as yet experienced.
Had Charles Holland but known what was going on, he would undoubtedly
have done something to preserve the supposed vampyre from the mischief
that threatened him, but the time had not arrived when he had promised
to pay him a second visit, so he had no idea of anything serious having
occurred.
Perhaps, too, Mr. and Mrs. Philpots scarcely anticipated creating so
much confusion, but when they found that the whole place was in an
uproar, and that a tumultuous assemblage of persons called aloud for
vengeance upon Varney, the vampyre, they made their way home again in
no small fright.
And, now, what was the result of all these proceedings will be best
known by our introducing the reader to the interior of the house in
which Varney had found a temporary refuge, and following in detail his
proceedings as he waited for the arrival of Charles Holland.