THE DECISION AGAINST THE DOCTOR, AND MORE NEWS OF VARNEY, THE VAMPYRE.
It will be remembered that Dr. Chillingworth, although he had, without
doubt, ascertained that Varney had proceeded to London, hesitated about
following him there without the full connivance and consent of the
Bannerworths; and now, at the very first opportunity he had, when he
found the admiral and Henry together, he introduced the subject.
He detailed what he had already done in the way of tracing Varney from
place to place, and ended by declaring his conviction the he was to be
found in London.
“It is not only of importance,” he said, “to discover Varney on account
of the property which I think he has taken with him, but it really
amounts almost to a public duty to do so, when we consider the evil he
has succeeded in bringing upon us, and that some other family may be
soon suffering from similar machinations.”
“But, doctor,” said Henry, “I presume you have no disinclination to
admit that the principal view you take of this subject, is as regards
its connexion with the supposed sum of money which Varney has taken
with him?”
“I freely own,” said the doctor, “that I should like to place that
money in your hands, because I think you are entitled to it; and,
perhaps, that is my principal motive, but it certainly is not my only
one; for, as I consider Varney quite a curiosity in a medical point of
view, I certainly wish to follow him up, and should be extremely sorry
to lose sight of him altogether.”
“But you must be aware, doctor,” said Henry, “that there really is
something like positive danger in following such a man up; and,
although he feels himself under such great obligations to you, that
I do not think he would willingly do you an injury, yet there is no
knowing what so strange and irascible a temper might not be goaded to.”
“I have no dread of danger.”
“I dare say you have not,” said the admiral; “but I give my vote
against having anything further to do with Varney.”
“And,” said Henry, “although I cannot withhold an expression of
admiration for the doctor’s perseverance, I beg him to think that we
oppose his pilgrimage in search of the vampyre, because we feel more
for his personal safety than we fear any of the machinations of Varney.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said the doctor, “since I am in a minority, of
course I must give in, and say no more about it. I should certainly
have liked to find the fellow; for it is my impression that he
certainly has a good many thousands of your money in his possession.
But, as it is, I will say no more about it; although I shall retain my
opinion that you are ill-advised in not following him up.”
“Oh,” said the admiral, “it wouldn’t do to follow people up always.”
“I don’t know that. There’s that Quaker, for instance, who has got
possession of Dearbrook.”
“The Quaker!” shouted the admiral. “D—n the Quaker! I’ll follow him up
while I have a guinea left, or a leg to stand on. What the deuce made
you mention him? for you know the very sound of his name is enough to
put me in a fever. The Quaker be hanged, an infernal thief as he is!”
It was well known to both Henry and the doctor, and, in fact, to all
the family now, that the mention of the Quaker was always enough to
drive the admiral nearly frantic; so that we are inclined to think
Dr. Chillingworth was actuated by a little spirit of vengeance when
he made that remark, and that, on the whole, he was so vexed at the
non-participation of the Bannerworths and the admiral in his views
concerning Sir Francis Varney, that, on the irritation of the moment,
he did not scruple to say something which he thought would be annoying;
but his downright good feeling so got the better of anything of that
sort, that, turning to the admiral, he said,—
“I do apologise—I ought to apologise for my calling to your attention
anything of a disagreeable character; for I have no right whatever to
do so; and it was only upon the impulse of a moment, I assure you, that
I uttered the words.”
“Doctor,” said the admiral, “I know all that as well as you can tell
me; so just say no more about it, if you please, for I don’t want to
hear one word upon such a subject.”
“Well, then,” said the doctor, “now that I stand acquitted of doing or
saying anything of a doubtful or disagreeable character, I can only
tell you that I shall persevere in my opinion, and that it is just
possible, though not very likely, that I may, upon my own account, do
something in the matter.”
“All of which,” said Henry, “I am very sorry to hear you say, doctor.”
“But why are you sorry?”
“Because I cannot help anticipating danger. I feel almost certain that
it will ensue, and, in that case, no one will more bitterly regret that
you mixed yourself up in the affair than I shall.”
“Oh, do not presume any such thing,” said the doctor, jestingly. “You
may depend Varney and I understand each other too well for there to be
much danger in my intercourse with him. There is something about the
fellow yet that will not permit him to do any deliberate wrong to me;
and, strange as the feeling may appear, I cannot help acknowledging
that I like him in some things, and that, having been the means of
restoring him to life, I feel, somehow or another, as if I were bound
to look after him.”
“Well, that is rather absurd,” said the admiral, “I must confess. But,
however, doctor, if you have any such feeling, by all means carry it
out—I won’t say nay; but by any means find him out, if you like, and if
you can make him a decent member of society, in Heaven’s name do so.”
“I do not expect that,” said the doctor; “and if I only keep him out
of mischief, I shall be sufficiently satisfied, for that would be
accomplishing a great deal with such a man.”
“Promise me one thing,” said Henry, “in connection with this affair.”
“What may that be?”
“It is that you will not take any step in the matter without letting
us know. Of course, you are a free-agent in the transaction, and have
as much right as anybody to say or to do anything as regards Varney,
the vampyre; but still, knowing so much of him as we do, I, for
one, certainly would be glad to be made aware of anything you were
attempting concerning him.”
“That I will promise you, so you need be under no possible apprehension
on such a score, but feel completely at your ease that nothing is being
done unless you know of it.”
At this juncture, a servant entered the room with a letter, which was
addressed to Henry Bannerworth, and, upon opening it, he uttered a
sudden exclamation of surprise.
“What is it?” said the admiral; “you seem astonished, Henry.”
“I am, indeed, astonished, and I may be. Who do you suppose, admiral,
this letter is from?”
“I can’t possibly take upon myself to say.”
“Why, from no other person than Varney, the vampyre.”
“Indeed!” cried Dr. Chillingworth; “and does he offer restitution?—does
he offer to return the money he so wrongfully has got possession
of?—tell me that.”
“I cannot answer you, for I have not read one word of the epistle; I
only see by the signature that it is his; but as it is impossible that
there can be any secrets between myself and Varney, I shall read it to
you aloud, and you shall both of you be able to judge concerning it.”
The admiral and the doctor assumed attitudes of attention, while Henry,
after glancing his eyes slightly down the contents of the letter,
commenced reading it as follows:—
“To Henry Bannerworth.
“Sir,—Probably the last person in the world from whom you might expect
to receive a communication, is he who now pens this epistle; but as it
is penned with a good feeling towards you and yours, I hope and trust
it will be received in a kindly spirit.
“Admitting that the circumstances under which I left the protection of
your house were such as to require some explanation from me, it is that
explanation which I now proceed to give.
“Circumstances made it imperatively necessary that I should adopt a
course of conduct that should no longer make me a burden to those
who had more cause to wish me dead, than to assist me in maintaining
existence.
“Without, then, the least sinister motive towards you or any one
belonging to you, I left your home secretly, and at once, not being
willing to listen to remonstrances that I knew would be spoken kindly,
but which I knew at the same time could not be very serious, inasmuch
as my presence cannot possibly be otherwise than a severe tax upon your
kindness and your patience.
“I cannot be so besotted as to think for a moment, that you can forget,
although a generosity of temper, for which I give you full credit,
might enable you to forgive, the injuries you have received from me;
but I could not make up my mind to reside under your roof on such
terms; and since my recovery from the violence of a lawless mob, the
question in my mind has been, not whether I should leave you or not,
but how I should leave you, and where I should betake myself to.
“At length, finding it impossible to come to any rational conclusion
upon these points, and that time was rapidly wearing, so that it
became necessary, if I came to a conclusion at all, I should come to
it quickly, I resolved to leave without giving you any notice of the
fact, and set up my staff, as it were, in the wilderness, and proceed
in whatever direction chance might point out to me.
“This, I say, was my resolve, and I have carried it into execution. All
I ask of you is, to forget me, and not to waste any thought upon the
man who will never do any injury to you, or to any one belonging to
you, and who hopes you will make no inquiry for him; but, should you
meet him ever, you will pass him by as if you knew him not.
“These few words come from him who was
“+Varney, the Vampyre+.”
There was a dead silence when this epistle was concluded, and all
seemed busy with their own opinions as regarded this communication,
which certainly was one of a singular nature, and highly calculated to
excite their surprise.
Upon the whole, though, there was one extremely evident conclusion to
be drawn from it, and that was, that Varney was extremely anxious not
to be interfered with.
“Can anything be more transparent?” exclaimed the doctor; “it is just
as I say, Varney wants to try some new scheme, and is very much afraid
that he may come across us in some way, and be baulked in it, by our
exposing what his real character is; and, if anything could give me a
stronger impulse than another to follow him and see what he is about,
it would certainly be that letter.”
“I do not think you need be afraid,” said Henry; “for the letter,
bearing as it does that signification, is such a one as induces me to
believe he is fearful that some circumstances may throw him in our way,
and in that case, that we may spoil his sport; and of the likelihood
of such a thing occurring, he is, of course, a much better judge than
we can be. So I should say, let him alone, and see if anything really
turns up concerning him; if it does, we have a fair principle of
action before us, for we have no occasion, merely because he has asked
us, to be quiet and peaceable, if we find him playing any pranks, or
attempting to play any pranks.”
“That’s my opinion, too,” said the admiral; “be quiet and take no
notice, and it will be an odd thing to me, then, if you don’t soon hear
something of Master Varney, and that may be a something, too, that may
astonish us.”
“It that all the letter?” said Dr. Chillingworth.
“Yes, with the exception of these words in a postscript,—
“Any communication addressed to V. V., General Post-office, London,
will reach my hands promptly.”
“Ah! then there’s the gist of the matter,” said the doctor; “the
vagabond wants to be assured that we shall not interfere with him; and
then he has got some rascality in hand, you may depend, which he would
set to work about in real earnest.”
“I shall not write to him,” said Henry, “but shall pursue quite a
different course of policy, and wait patiently for what may happen,
for I am convinced that is the only plan to pursue with any chance of
benefit or success.”
“And you will bear in mind, doctor,” said the admiral, “that the fellow
in this letter talks of giving us an explanation, and yet not one word
does he say about jumping upon your back from the garden-wall. The
deuce a bit does he explain that.”
“No,” said the doctor; “nor did I expect he would. Such a man as Varney
is not likely to criminate himself; and, while there is a doubt about
whether he is that person or not, you may depend he will not be the man
to take any pains to dispel it.”
“Of course not—of course not.”
“Well,” said the doctor, “I can only tell you all one thing, and that
is, that, whatever you may think or flatter yourselves, this affair is
very far indeed from being over, and sooner or later, something yet
very serious will occur in connection with Varney, the vampyre. Do not
fancy that you have got rid of him, for, most certainly, you have not.”
The doctor spoke these words so oracularly, that they sounded extremely
like one of those predictions founded upon such a firm basis, that they
are sure to be carried out by future facts, and both Henry and the
admiral felt as if they had heard truth from some one who knew well!
what he was uttering, and was not likely to be mistaken.