DR. CHILLINGWORTH MAKES URGENT INQUIRIES FOR THE VAMPYRE; AND THE
LAWYER GIVES SOME ADVICE CONCERNING THE QUAKER.
If the Bannerworth family and the admiral were inclined to put up
quietly with the loss of the large sum of money which Dr. Chillingworth
fully believed that Varney, the vampyre, had gone off with, he could
not fully divest himself of the idea that it was recoverable.
When he went home, he succeeded in silencing the clamours of his wife,
by assuring her that his practice for half-a-dozen years would not at
all be equal to what he should gain if he could successfully carry
out what he was aiming at; and as everything, to Mrs. Chillingworth,
resolved itself into a question of pounds, shillings, and pence, she
was tolerable well satisfied, and consented to remain quiet, more
especially as he gave her sufficient to keep the household comfortably
for some time while he again left home.
So thoroughly had he made up his mind not to let the matter rest, that
he carefully resolved the best means of setting about, systematically,
to inquire for Varney.
He thought it impossible that he could have left the cottage home of
the Bannerworths with such great secrecy that no one had observed him.
He was too remarkable a man, too, in personal appearance to escape
notice; and if any one saw him, with a grain of curiosity in their
composition, they would be sure to look after him with speculative eyes
as to who and what he was.
The cottage had not many dwellings near it, and the doctor thought it
highly possible that if he visited them all, and made proper inquiries,
some one among their inhabitants might be able to tell him that such a
man as Varney had been seen.
Accordingly he commenced his tour, and, as luck would have it, at the
very second cottage he went to, a woman stated that a tall, dark,
singular-looking man had asked leave to sit down for a few minutes, and
to be accommodated with a glass of water.
“Had he any parcel or bundle with him?” asked Mr. Chillingworth.
“No,” was the reply; “he certainly had nothing of the kind that I could
see, and only seemed very weary and exhausted indeed.”
“Do you know which direction he went in?”
“I watched him from my cottage door, and after looking about him for
some few minutes, he walked away slowly in the direction of the London
road.”
This was all the information that Dr. Chillingworth could obtain in
that quarter; but it strengthened him in his own opinion, that Varney
had left that part of the country, and proceeded to London; but with
what motives or intentions could not be guessed even, although probably
it was with an intention of finding a wider sphere of action.
“If,” thought the doctor, “he has gone on the London road, and walked,
he must have stopped, in the very weak state that he was, within a very
few miles for rest and refreshment; in which case I shall hear tidings
of him, if I take myself the same path.”
He pursued this plan, and walked on, inquiring at the different inns
that he passed, but all in vain, for such a man.
No one had seen anybody resembling Varney; and the doctor, with a sense
of great disappointment, was compelled, himself, to stop for rest at
a roadside inn, where the mails and stage coaches stopped to change
horses.
The landlord of the inn was a good-tempered, conversable man, and was
listening, with quiet complacency, to the rather long description of
the personal appearance of the individual he sought, that was given
by Dr. Chillingworth, when the mail coach from London, which was
proceeding to a very distant part of the country, stopped to change
horses, and the coachman came to the bar to take his usual glass of
refreshment.
While so engaged, he heard something of what Mr. Chillingworth was
saying, and he remarked to that gentleman,—
“Do you mean, sir, a long fellow, that looked as if he had been buried
a month and dug up again?”
“Well,” said the doctor, “he certainly had something of that
appearance; but the man I am inquiring about disappeared last Thursday.”
“The very day, sir; I was going up with the mail, when he hailed it,
and got up on the outside. It’s the very man, you many depend; I
remember well enough his getting up, but somehow or another when we got
to London he wasn’t to be found; and so he had his ride as far as it
went, and I have not the least idea of how far that was, for nothing.”
“I thank you for your information, and I have no doubt that it was
the man I seek for. Although he had a large sum of money with him, I
think, yet it was not in an available shape to use, and I dare say he
would not be very scrupulous about the means he adopted to avoid the
inconvenience of any detention.”
“Not he, sir, he wasn’t very particular. I dare say he got down
somewhere in London, most probably at Piccadilly, where there is always
a crowd, and I draw up for about five minutes. I don’t look to see who
gets down, or who stays up, so, as regards that, he might take himself
off easy enough, if he liked.”
“But you missed him?”
“Yes, I did, when it was too late. Can you tell me who, or what he is,
sir?”
“Yes,” said Dr. Chillingworth; “it was Varney, the vampyre, of whom, no
doubt, you have all heard so much, and who has made such a commotion in
the countryside.”
“The deuce it was!” said the coachman; “and I have actually had one
of these creatures upon my coach, have I! I only wish I had known it,
that’s all; I would have pretty soon got rid of such a customer, I can
tell him. They don’t suit me, those sort of gentry; but I’m off, now;
good day, sir. I hope you may catch him.”
The coachman got upon his box, and drove away; and Dr. Chillingworth
began to think that unless he took a journey to London, which he was
scarcely prepared to do, he must give up, for a time, the pursuit of
Varney.
Besides, he thought, and justly enough too, that even if he went to the
metropolis in search of him, its extent would baffle all inquiry, and
make it almost impossible that it could be set about with any prospect
of success; so he resolved, before he went any further in the matter,
to urge the admiral and the Bannerworths once more upon the subject.
He was firmly, himself, of opinion that something more, and that,
perhaps, too, of a very uncomfortable character regarding Varney, would
soon be heard, unless they could communicate to him in some manner, and
persuade him either to retire from England altogether, or to lead a
quiet life with a portion of the wealth he had acquired.
It will be seen with what great pertinacity the doctor clung to that
idea which to the Bannerworths appeared such a very doubtful one,
namely, that Varney had really got possession of all the money which
had been hidden by Marmaduke Bannerworth; but we must leave the
doctor for the present inactive, because he felt that, at the period
of Flora’s marriage, they would be too much occupied to give him the
attention he required, and, therefore, he determined to wait until that
ceremony, at all events, was completely over.
And now we may as well state at this juncture that the admiral was
quite as good as his word, as regarded taking the advice of his friend,
the lawyer, concerning the Quaker who still held possession of the
Dearbrook estate.
With all the indignation that he felt upon the matter, he laid it
before the man of law, explaining how liberally Henry had dealt with
him, and what a very uncourteous reception they had met with.
“I am afraid,” said the lawyer, “that he may keep you out of it for a
year or two, unless you compromise with him.”
“What do you mean by compromise?”
“Just this; he knows very well, of course, that he cannot hold
possession, and he wants to be paid out, that’s the whole of the
affair. He considers that you may take friendly advice, and that then
you will be told how much shorter, cheaper, and less vexatious a course
it is, to put up with almost any amount of imposition, than to get
involved in a law suit.”
“That’s all very fine,” said the admiral; “but do you think I’d let
that rascally Quaker have a farthing of my money? No, indeed; I should
think not. If he expects us to compromise he will be disappointed.”
“Well, then, if your determination is to proceed, I will, if you like,
take the necessary steps in the name or Mr. Henry Bannerworth. Do you
know if he administered to his father’s estate?”
“No; I know very little about it. But you had better see him.”
“Certainly,” said the lawyer; “that will be the best plan. I had better
see him, as you say, and I dare say,” added the lawyer to himself, “I
shall find him more reasonable that you are by a great deal.”
The lawyer did see Henry; for he called upon him and so strongly
advised him to compromise the matter with the Quaker, that Henry gave
him full instructions to do as he pleased.
“Your title is so clear,” said the lawyer, “that it cannot prejudice
you to make the offer, or, rather, to allow me to make it for you;
besides, I will take care it shall be made without prejudice, and
I dare say you will get possession pretty quickly of the Dearbrook
estate.”
The lawyer wrote to the Quaker, asking for the name of some solicitor
who would act in his behalf, and at once received an answer, referring
him to a Quaker attorney, who was tolerably notorious for sharp
practice, and who was about as great a rogue as could be found in a
profession somewhat notorious for such characters.
The shortest plan and the best was that which was at once adopted by
the admiral’s friend, the attorney; for he went to town and saw the
Quaker upon the subject.
The result of their conference was, that Mr. Shepherd wanted a sum
equivalent to two years’ rental of the premises he occupied, before
giving up possession of them; and in reply one year was offered, and
there the matter rested for mutual consideration of the principals.
Henry did not feel exactly disposed to do anything in the affair,
in actual defiance of the admiral, so he resolved upon trying, at
all events, to persuade him into the compromise, if possible; and
the principal argument he intended using was, that Flora had heard
sufficient of the Dearbrook property, and that it would be a thousand
pities, consequently, to keep her out of possession of it, since,
from what they had all seen of it, they felt that it would be a very
desirable residence indeed.
The admiral’s anger, however, had been so roused by the insolent
conduct of the Quaker, that it required great care and tact to
introduce the subject to him in such a shape, and Henry set about it
not without some fear of the result.
“I have seen, admiral,” he said, “your friend, the lawyer, about the
Dearbrook property, and we shall not have possession in our lifetimes.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Oh, our ghosts may perhaps haunt its verdant shades; but we shall be
all dead long before the Court of Chancery decides in our favour; for,
owning to the manner of my father’s death, some difficulties may be
thrown in the way to protract time.”
“What! does he tell you so?”
“Yes, indeed he does, admiral; and then, you see, Heaven knows how many
claimants may arise for the estate, if it was known how recently we
came by the title-deeds.”
“The deuce they would! I can’t say but there is some reason in that,
after all; but what is to be done? You can’t say that the Quaker,
Shepherd, is to be allowed to retain possession of the Dearbrook
estate, just because there are some difficulties in the way of getting
it out of his clutches?”
“Certainly not; but the whole question resolves itself into what is the
best means of accomplishing that object, and the great difficulty seems
to be this; that he actually has possession, which you have heard, of
course, is nine points of the law, and puts a man in such a position
that he can give a deal of trouble to any one who is not so fortunately
situated.”
“Can he; then I tell you what I’ll do, Henry; I’ll pretty soon alter
that state of things.”
“But how can you, admiral?”
“By going and taking possession, to be sure; and if possession be
indeed nine points of the law, I don’t see why we shouldn’t have them.
I have taken a ship or two from an enemy when they have been under
their own batteries, and it ain’t the most likely thing in the world
that a Quaker, who, in the navy, we call a wooden gun, should stop me
taking possession of the house.”
“I am quite sure,” said Henry, “that if you were to set about it, you
would do it,—there can be no doubt whatever upon that head; but it’s
a very difficult thing to treat the law in that sort of way, and you
may depend there would be an amazing fuss made about it, so much so,
indeed, that some serious consequences might ensue, and we should
perhaps lose the estate altogether.”
“Hang the estate! it’s the Quaker I want to serve out.”
“But you have served him out. Don’t you recollect the kick you gave
him?”
“Why, yes; I certainly did give him a kick.”
“And a good one too.”
“You think it was a good one, do you, Henry? Well, I must say, I am
very glad of that—very glad of it. It’s some consolation, that’s quite
clear.”
“And I think then, after that, admiral—after feeling that you have
served him out in that kind of manner, and that he has put up with the
degradation of having been kicked by you, you might just as well forego
a little of your resentment, and allow me to ascertain if I cannot make
something like terms with him.”
“Terms with a vagabond like that!”
“Yes. What say you to giving him a trifle, and then let him go;
provided he clears out of the estate at once, and gives us no further
trouble?”
“I’d ten times rather kick him again.”
“Why, yes; and I must confess he deserves kicking most certainly. I
admit all that, that a greater scamp you could not find; but, after
all, you see, admiral, it comes to a question of pounds, shillings, and
pence. Nothing in the world makes a man like that suffer but touching
his pocket.”
“Very likely; but you propose to put something into his pocket.”
“Yes, at first; but it is to save more, as would easily be found; and,
besides, you see how he has been afraid to take any notice of your
kicking him.”
“To be sure he has; such fellows are always afraid. You didn’t expect
he would take any notice, did you? and, if you did, I knew better.
Afraid, indeed! Ah! to be sure; that’s just what he was likely to
be—afraid, as a matter of course.”
“If you please, sir,” said a servant, coming in to the admiral, “here
is a gentleman wants to speak to you.”
“To me? Who the deuce can that be, I wonder?”
“He says it’s on particular business, sir.”
“Well, well; show him in here.”
A mere youth was shown into the apartment, who, addressing the admiral,
said,
“Pray, sir, is your name Bell?”
“To be sure it is; and what of that?”
“Nothing particular, sir; only I have the honour of serving this upon
you.”
“And what the devil is it?”
Before this question was well out of the admiral’s lips the lad had
disappeared, and when the old man unfolded the paper, he found that it
was a notice of action from Shepherd, the Quaker, on account of the
assault which Admiral Bell had committed upon him.
“And this is the fellow,” cried the admiral, “that you want me to
compromise with. No, Master Henry, that won’t do; and, since he has had
the imprudence now to commence war with me, he shall not find that I am
backward in taking up the cudgels in my own defence, I’ll pretty soon
let him know that he has got rather an obstinate foe to deal with, and
we will see how long he will find it worth his while to persevere.”
Henry felt at once that this imprudent act of the Quaker, which, no
doubt, was intended to hasten and facilitate a compromise, placed it
further off than ever, and that, in the admiral’s present state of
mind, it was quite absurd to think of talking to him in anything like a
peaceable strain, for such could not be done.
The utmost that could be hoped was that he would not actually give way
to some act of violence, and that he would, at all events, do nothing
more than what the law allowed him to do in the matter.
This was what Henry did not feel quite sure of, and he only hoped it.