THE TWO SISTERS.—MARY STEVENS’S DISLIKE OF SIR FRANCIS VARNEY.—AN
USELESS SUIT.—DISUNION.
There was much stir in Bath next day on account of the murder that had
occurred, and everybody spoke of it. The papers were filled with it,
and it was thought to have been the most barbarous murder that had ever
been committed, and most active exertions were being made to discover
the perpetrators of this horrid deed. All sorts of conjectures were
being made as to who the murderer might be, and his object in becoming
one. Gold, of course, was assigned as that.
There was something terrible in the fact that this should have occurred
just as the Frasers had arrived in Bath—it was startling, they thought,
though they could of course have no connexion with it whatever.
While the examinations were being proceeded with, Sir Francis Varney
appeared out in the streets as seldom as possible; not that he had any
fear of recognition, for that was impossible; but, at the same time, he
would not run unnecessary risk, while so much was to be won.
The days passed, and many very pleasant hours were spent, and the
gaieties of Bath were enjoyed to their fullest; while Sir Francis was
their great friend everywhere, for, somehow or other, Sir Francis
obtained the precedence go where he would, and they shared it with him.
He pressed his suit with much ardour, and Mary Stevens appeared each
day less and less inclined to accept of Sir Francis Varney for a lover.
She felt a greater and greater repugnance to Sir Francis, who, however,
pressed her more hardly and more assiduously than ever.
However, Captain Fraser and his lady were sensible of the advantages of
such a match to themselves and to Mary, for they could not believe that
one so courteous and brave could do otherwise than make any lady happy;
the first objection would wear away in the person of such a man as
Varney; they therefore espoused his cause warmly when they found that
Mary was averse to the match.
“What can be your objection, Mary?” inquired Mrs. Fraser.
“I cannot tell.”
“Surely it cannot be an insurmountable objection,” said Captain Fraser,
“since you do not know what it consists of. You cannot have a very
definite idea; and possibly a little explanation may set the matter to
rights.”
“I know well enough what it means.”
“Do you, dear? Why not tell us?”
“I will. It consists of a strong dislike to Sir Francis. I cannot tell
you why; but it is a very strong and yet distinct feeling.”
“What can it arise from?”
“That I cannot explain.”
“If you could, we should be able to come to some conclusion respecting
it; but at present it appears like a blind, causeless antipathy, and,
against one so well calculated to make any female happy as Sir Francis
Varney, is so extraordinary that it really exceeds belief. I cannot
express my regret and astonishment.”
“I cannot understand it.”
“I am sorry for it.”
“And more like ingratitude, Mary, than I though you capable of. There
are two occasions upon which you stand indebted to him for your life.
He risked his own greatly on the last occasion.”
“I am truly sorry it should happen so, sister.”
“Well, then, Mary, amend the error; for if it were an ordinary affair,
common dislike might pass very well; but towards such a man as Sir
Francis Varney it is decidedly wrong. Indeed, when I recollect the
horrors of that night—when I remember the flames and smoke, and saw you
wrapped up safely from the effects of the fire, while he was exposed to
every breath of hot air——”
“Hush! I recollect it all; but it makes me shudder.”
“Can you, then, regard such a man with cold dislike? Upon my word, I am
shocked at your baseness.”
“Sister, sister, you are too severe—too severe.”
“Only just, Mary—only just.”
“More than just. Do not turn persecutor.”
“I would not; but this conduct of yours make me feel strongly—very
strongly, and I can hardly face Sir Francis Varney and tell him that
one who belongs to me can treat him in such a manner.”
“Does love always spring from gratitude?”
“It is useless to ask such questions, Mary, or I might retort by asking
if such services as his always produced dislike. But Sir Francis is no
ordinary man. Suppose you do not love him, which might be explicable;
but then you have no other love; you are fancy free, are you not?”
“Yes, yes:”
“Well, then, you have no motive for dislike, though you might be
indifferent. In such a case, I should not have thought it possible that
there could have been less than gratitude and the warmest esteem for
his services and his own good qualities; for he has as good qualities
as a man can have.”
“Yes, sister; but that dreadful night has left such an impression upon
my mind, that I cannot, dearest, do what you desire—I mean I cannot
love Sir Francis Varney.”
“What! not love him because of the remembrance of his services?”
“You quite misunderstood my feelings upon that occasion. I can never
feel grateful enough for the rescue from the horrible monster who
attacked me while I slept at the inn. I can never forget that moment of
horror and terror. I cannot even to this day make out the object of the
intruder. It was not robbery, and it could not have been any ordinary
attack, for it was not carried on in the usual manner. To seize any one
by the arm, and suck the blood from their veins, appears to me to be a
proceeding quite unaccountable in the ordinary course of things.”
“It was very strange.”
“Yes; and, stranger than all, it has given me a perfect horror of man
in general. I cannot abide the thought of being married at all; indeed,
I won’t, and I hope that is enough.”
“Upon my word, my good sister,” said Captain Fraser, half angry and
half jestingly, “you would almost make me believe you were desirous
of taking the veil; but you cannot have any reason for taking such
a strong antipathy to male creatures. You must know very well that,
because you have got a fright in a country inn, that all the abodes of
men in the world are not filled with goblins, spirits, and the like,
and wicked ogres, who are only waiting to eat up young maidens.”
“It was no jesting matter to me.”
“I do not say but what it was a frightful reality; but, at the same
time, such terrible occurrences as these cannot be supposed to happen
every day in one’s life; indeed, one in a long life would be a terrible
frequency which is never known, and I think you might dismiss the
subject from your mind, as an inexplicable event, unpleasant and
unprofitable to recall.”
“But it has been too terrible and too mysterious for me to ever forget;
and, least of all, could I do it in so short a time.”
“Well, I do not expect you could forget it immediately; but, at the
same time, I cannot see how it could affect your opinion of your
preserver. Indeed, it is a strange perversion of intellect, not to say
a degree of ingratitude, that it is difficult, if not impossible, to
understand or believe.”
“Well, I can say no more,” said Mary.
“That is very resigned and easy on your part; but what we are to say to
Sir Francis Varney I am sure I cannot tell. It appears to me that you
have a childish dislike to him—one for which you can allege no reason,
and, therefore, improper. I wonder what he, or any impartial person,
could think of it, if they had all fully and carefully explained to
them.”
“I am sure I do not know; but it is usually sufficient, in a case of
this kind, to say one cannot love the party, and to escape from what
becomes an infliction, or, in time, a persecution.”
“But this is not such a case as you would appear to imagine. There is
no persecution, and Sir Francis only desires that you will permit him
to attempt to obtain your good will.”
“But knowing he cannot obtain that—speaking in the light you mean—it
becomes a serious annoyance to me to think I should always be attended
by a person who, on the score of having done me some services, expects
me to listen to his addresses, and to accept him as a lover. It is
becoming a slave, indeed, when one must not exercise one’s discretion
in a matter that so nearly concerns the happiness of my future life.”
“You are making mountains out of mole-hills, Mary.”
“I have not taken the same view of this matter that you have,” replied
Miss Stevens, “and therefore you quarrel with me. I think that a great
deal too bad; I did not believe you would have quarrelled with me upon
such a subject—one that concerns me so much, too, as this.”
“Exactly; it does concern you, and it concerns us also, and that is
the reason why we feel warmly upon the subject. Your want of motive
is so apparent that it quite concerns us—we are completely staggered.
What it can all end in I am sure I cannot tell; but Sir Francis must
think us an ungrateful set, or at, least, he must believe you are
actuated by the worst and most ungracious caprice, and capable of great
ingratitude.”
“I am sorry for it; but for all that, I cannot consent to marry Sir
Francis Varney. I know not why, but I do.”
“You really ought to be ashamed of such an admission, for I am sure he
does not deserve such treatment.”
“I am compelled to admit that to be true.”
“Then why, in the name of Heaven, should you let prejudice surmount
reason—and reason that you acknowledge ought to be paramount? You know
your folly, and yet you persist in it. Was there ever such folly? Come,
Mary, come, you must give up this kind of nonsense; you must act as I
have always believed you would; you must meet Sir Francis in a proper
spirit, and the result will no doubt be that you will banish all these
idle fancies.”
“I should be glad to do so, for they make me very unhappy.”
“Well, well, they are calculated to do so, and when you have cast
them aside, your own happiness and that of your friends will be much
increased.”
• • • • •
There was much stir in Bath on account of the murder, and the papers
were filled with terrific descriptions of the scene, which some even
went to the trouble and expense of producing sketches of, which, what
with being badly drawn, badly copied, blotted, and printed, and being
as unlike the original as possible, gave the inhabitants and strangers
not a very vivid idea of the place.
When, however, the details were adverted to they were terrible enough;
and when Sir Francis Varney entered the apartment in which he usually
dined, he found his friends were full of the discussion.
“Have you seen anything of the murder, Sir Francis?”
“No, sir,” replied Sir Francis.
“Well, there is a dreadful affair happened. How horrible to think—they
might not have been discovered at all, but for the neighbours breaking
the doors in.”
“What is it all about, captain?”
“Why, two old women were murdered a few nights ago, and they have but
just been discovered; the papers are full of it.”
“What, the murderers? Well, that was a quick discovery.”
“No, no; I mean it was not discovered at all, as it is supposed, till
at least four-and-twenty hours after the deed.”
“Dear me; how was that?”
“I cannot tell, except the old woman was an eccentric, and her shutters
had been closed before for a whole day; but there were no other signs
of life about the house the whole day, which alarmed the neighbours
much, and they began to take precautions towards the evening to force
the door, when a tall, peculiar-looking man was observed entering the
house by means of a key.”
“They observed that, did they?”
“Yes; he was seen quite plain.”
“It will be fortunate, if he should have been the murderer, because
they can identify him.”
“Undoubtedly they can.”
“They know him again, then?” said Varney.
“Yes; so it appears they can.”
“I am glad of it,” said Varney.
“Well; he was seen to go in, and then to go over the house, because
there was a light seen to travel up stairs, and stop there some time;
and then they knocked for admission, but not being answered, they at
once forced open the door, and they all rushed in, but were horrified
to find themselves tumbling over the dead bodies of the old woman who
kept the house, and her servant.”
“Ah! it must have been a startling thing, certainly.”
“Well; they stopped a moment or two—as was most probable at such a
sight—and then they ran up stairs, believing the murderer was there.”
“And was he there?”
“He must have been so, because they heard him get up to the roof,
and they followed, but were baffled, because he threw the ladder
down, which caused them some confusion, and during that the murderer
contrived to escape.”
“Well; it was quite a field of adventure; but it is to be lamented,”
said Varney, “they were not successful in their endeavours to catch the
murderer; but what is the alleged motive for the deed?”
“They say that she had some strange fancies, and that, among others,
she had all her money in the house—her capital, upon which she lived,
without any fear of exhausting it. That was known to some one or other,
and got whispered about, and it is presumed that for this purpose the
poor woman was murdered.”
“How horribly barbarous! but ain’t there any suspicion upon any one,
because it is usually the case?”
“There is, I believe.”
“And upon whom does it fall?”
“Upon a relation of her own, who has not been seen for some days, and
who had been known to have spoken with impatience at the old woman’s
life, and the mode in which she spent her money.”
“That speaks for itself,” said Varney.
“So it does; but they have not taken him yet.”
“I hope they will, I am sure; because the whole affair is so truly
horrible!”
“So it is. Will you go to the theatre to-night; there is no ball—we can
have an excellent box?”
“What do you say, my dear?” said Captain Fraser to his lady.
“I am willing. Are you agreeable Mary?”
“Yes; I am quite content with your decision.”
“Then we are all agreed to the proposal. There will be a celebrated
actress from London there, and I hope we shall find the entertainment
well worthy of our patronage—indeed, I have little doubt of it.”