THE EFFECTS OF PERSEVERANCE.—SIR FRANCIS VARNEY AND MARY STEVENS.—AN
EVENING PARTY AND CONVERSATION.
The evening was spent agreeably enough at the Bath theatre; Sir Francis
Varney having taken the greatest pains to ingratiate himself with Mary
Stevens so much and so delicately, that she could not but feel ashamed
at her antipathy towards him, and certainly did all she could to get
the better of it, and succeeded in some measure in doing so.
They all returned home in very good humour with themselves and
everything. Captain Fraser and his lady were completely predisposed to
look upon Sir Francis Varney as one of the first men in England for
rank and breeding; even Mary Stevens was compelled to admit she never
saw any one whose demeanour was to be more admired more than his.
The next morning they all assembled at the breakfast-table, and were
all full of lively images and thoughts of the preceding evening.
There was much more of cordiality and intimacy than had been felt among
them before; for Sir Francis Varney’s courtliness gave way, and he
became almost as one of the family. Mary looked upon him with something
like wonder, to see how agreeable a man could be whom she disliked.
One or two days more passed in this manner; and the dislike of Mary
Stevens to Sir Francis, if not less, was at least not so active or
violent; but she received him as an old friend.
That much emboldened Sir Francis, who again resolved he would speak
to her, and that in the presence of her brother and sister, hoping by
such a proceeding he should be able to overcome her dislike or fears by
his own efforts, aided by Captain and Mrs. Fraser, who would create a
diversion in his favour.
“I wish not,” he said, “to be importunate; but, in a matter that
concerns one’s future hopes and wishes—one cannot well slumber over
them—I wish to become one of such a family as that into which I find
myself so strangely and accidentally introduced, though I fear I have
failed to make myself as acceptable as I could wish.”
“No one could think Sir Francis Varney otherwise than acceptable,” said
Captain Fraser; “your services to us alone would be enough to endow us
all with the most lively gratitude and admiration, were you only to
appear amongst us with no other qualification; but you add those which
evidently make any gentleman an ornament to the circle he may grace
with his acquaintance and friendship.”
“You take a favourable view of all that you see, Captain Fraser.”
“No, no; I merely speak what I think upon a subject which I have had, I
may say, some experience. I have myself had some dealings in the world;
my profession puts me forward, and I may repeat what I said.”
“No, no, I will not suffer you to do that; what I wish to do is, to
impress, if possible, my fair friend here with favourable sentiments
towards myself. I am not as some of the young men of these times, who
win by the violence of their suit, which they urge with all the haste
of violence to attack and storm the citadel.”
“That is a very good plan, Sir Francis; why don’t you yourself pursue
such a system? It must carry the citadel by assault.”
“No, no,” said Mary, “you will not do anything of the kind. Was that
the way in which you yourself acted? If so, I am sure I pity my sister;
for what can she hope for when she was taken in such a violent manner?”
“Oh, no, no; Fraser was the unfortunate victor, who was taken prisoner
in the moment of victory.”
“Yes, that is the fact; I was taken prisoner; but I have since been
appointed governor in the enemy’s country.”
“Ha! ha! ha! well, that is a fortunate issue to your adventure. I would
that mine were as fortunate—I love, and yet fear to say so.”
“Fear never won a fair lady,” said Fraser; “so don’t be afraid.”
“What does my fair enemy say here?”
“I have said so much upon the subject, sir, before, that I was in hopes
I should not have had any occasion to say more.”
“I am sorry to hear you say so.”
“Why, it is a pity to render a matter that is settled uncertain,
without the prospect of anything being gained by it.”
“So it is; but I hope that is not the present case, Miss Stevens. My
petition, I hope, is not rejected merely because it has suffered so
before. I cannot but hope, though despair for ever stare me in the
face for it; but perhaps devotion and heartfelt love may make some
impression upon you, and soften the rigours of a heart that cannot, I
am sure, feel any pleasure in the distress of another.”
“No, no, Sir Francis; you only do me justice in saying so much. I
can, indeed, feel no pleasure in such things. You may rely upon it,
gratitude alone would prompt me to comply with any request you might
make at once and cheerfully; but you must admit that this is a question
that alters the complexion of other matters, and what might be proper
under other circumstances, cannot be expected under this.”
“Nor am I so unreasonable as to expect anything of the kind. Now, Miss
Stevens, you much mistake Sir Francis Varney if you think him capable
of such meanness. I wish you to act from your own unbiased judgment,
and, however painful the result, yet I would in silence put up with
your decision. But still I hope you will not act imperatively—that you
will look upon my suit with, at least, not a harsh and averse spirit.
Have some compassion upon one who is entirely at your mercy.”
“Come, Mary, do not act unkindly.”
“I—I do not know what to say. I—I cannot give any other answer.”
“Nay, I won’t hear of such a thing, Mary,” said Mrs. Fraser; “now or
never. I will not say that you must not be mindful of the past; but you
were never ungrateful, that I know. You cannot be otherwise than happy.”
“You embarrass me.”
“Miss Stevens, let nothing weigh with you, save your own happiness;
that is my object, and my own at the same time.”
“Say yes, Mary.”
“I—I cannot.”
“Will not! What objection? What on earth could you wish for more?”
“Do not press me.”
“I should be sorry to do so at such a moment, were it decidedly your
desire not to give an answer now; but I do beg you will not let me
linger longer than necessary. Indeed, I find I cannot exist in your
society and be deprived of the hope that I may call you one day mine
own.”
“Do, Mary, say yes—say yes!”
“Will Miss Stevens give me leave to suppose that there may be a time
when I may be rewarded for my patience? I will not press you for a
plain answer now, but give me some token that I am not to remain
unhappy.”
“Come, Mary, come—Sir Francis gives you every indulgence.”
But Mary was obstinate some time longer, until Sir Francis, in a
transport, pressed her hand, and placed it to his lips; at the same
time she suffered her silence to be construed into a consent to his
wishes.
• • • • •
“Well, Sir Francis,” said Captain Fraser, “let me congratulate you in
having subdued the enemy, and you, Mary, in having such a conqueror. I
protest it was a hard fought battle, and one that I could not tell who
would prove triumphant.”
“I feel well assured you may congratulate me, Captain Fraser. I
congratulate myself, I assure you; therefore you may do so to me.”
“I do heartily.”
“Thank you; I shall be happy. But what are the tactics for the night?”
“What are we to do?”
“Yes, precisely.”
“Oh, suppose we have a nice party among ourselves. We can amuse
ourselves, I dare say. I am fatigued myself, and care not to go out
to-night. We have all gone out so lately that it will be a change and a
rest.”
“So it will,” said Miss Stevens. “I am really glad that we shall have
one night, on which we can retire at early hours.”
“Are you willing, Sir Francis, to spend a dull evening?”
“It cannot be dull, at all events, in such company. I shall be happy to
remain with you, indeed. I feel that a quiet, happy evening is a thing
that would be very acceptable to me, at least; but still I can do as
you please.”
“Then we’ll have a quiet evening among ourselves.”
“Have you heard anything more about the murder that took place the
other day?”
“No,” replied Sir Francis. “Have you?”
“I have,” said Mrs. Fraser.
“What have you heard?” inquired Sir Francis.
“I will tell you,” replied Mrs. Fraser. “You recollect that the nephew
had been suspected of having murdered the two women, and committed a
robbery afterwards.”
“Yes, yes; I heard so much.”
“Well, they have taken the nephew now, and he has been examined before
a police-constable, and will be again examined in another day or two.”
“Indeed! they have made quick work of it. How can they suspect he had
any hand in the affair?”
“I believe they knew he had been very poor, and had been very impatient
for the old woman’s death, that he might have it all. Now, such a
line of conduct was bad, and has caused persons to suspect him; and,
also, the fact, that he has got a quantity of gold about him, for the
possession of which he cannot account.”
“Ay, that seems bad; but what kind of excuse can he give for the
possession of such treasure—he is surely not silent?”
“Oh, dear, no, he is not silent. All he says, however, is, that his
aunt gave it him to leave the country with.”
“That is strange—very singular.”
“It is, and that is why they disbelieve it; besides; he had made no
preparations for his departure, that have yet been discovered—besides,
his shoes were evidently soiled with human blood, and the footsteps in
the passage and on the stairs—at least, some of them, were exactly of
the same size.”
“That is a strong proof.”
“So it is; but there appears to have been an accomplice, for there are
other footmarks of a different size, much larger and longer.”
“Dear me,” said Varney; “didn’t you say there were many people who ran
up stairs after the man, who got away?”
“Yes; to be sure.”
“Well, some of them might have left a foot-print.”
“Well, I suppose they might, and yet they must have reasons for saying
that these footsteps were those of an accomplice; perhaps they were
fresher than the others, or it may be they have a different appearance
from the more recent ones.”
“It may be so.”
“However it may be; it is quite certain that he has done the deed;
whether he had any help or not, he, at least, will be punished.”
“No doubt he ought to suffer for such a deed; it is that which gives
security to the rest of society.”
“But it was a dreadful thing. A murder committed by a friend or
relation is, I think, more heinous, if possible, than when committed
casually, by ordinary murderers, whose sole crimes are murder and
robbery.”
“To be sure; when any tie that can bind one individual to another is
broken, who would have taken precautions against such as those whom we
value; but he was ungrateful, and killed his benefactress—for such she
had been.”