 Chapter 148 of Varni the Vampire, Volume 3 The road and the travellers, the pleasures of doing good, the beggar-woman, Sir Francis Varni, a philanthropist. The road was pleasantly bounded on either side by hill-and-dale scenery, while it was itself of a very diversified character, and at one moment they passed through long avenues of trees, at other times a bare heath, without so much as a dwarf hedge, and then well-cultivated country would succeed, studded with handsome villas and country-seats, old half-castellated mansions and halls, where gentlemen lived in the abodes of their ancestors and felt pride in doing so. The air was balmy and beautiful, every object appeared fresh, and every tree and shrub looked as though new life had been infused into it. The birds sang merrily, and the whole party were in high spirits. Such scenes as these, said Sir Francis Varni, please me better than the gayities and follies of the town. I am sure there is much more happiness to be found by a contented mind than there is in the feverish pleasures of a city. There is much truth in that, Sir Francis, said the captain. But in my own case, connected as I am with my professional friends, I cannot follow which is the natural bent of my taste, but I find pleasure wherever I go, for I am determined to make the best of all that passes beneath my observation. Sweets can be extracted from every bitter, and therefore it is good policy to take the bright side of a picture in all the ordinary relations of life. We are better men and better subjects by so doing. Thus the distance was soon passed over, and a stage was but the same as a pleasant morning ride, and then an hour or two spent of the heat of the day in quiet and some small but respectable inn, with wine and pleasing conversation, gave them a relish for the life they led. The style of the conversation of the stranger, Sir Francis Varni, was pleasing in the extreme. He was evidently a man of great and varied talents and attainments, and one of great experience and who had seen much of life. Two days passed this way, and they had not reached Bath. They were tempted to stop longer by the way than they would have done. Tomorrow observed Sir Francis. We must reach Bath. About three short stages will place us within its precincts, and then I presume the assembly room as well as the pump room will occupy much of your attention. We shall certainly go there. Have you been in Bath before? Yes, but many years ago when we were quite children, so that I have no recollection of the place. And you, Captain Frazier? No, I have not. I am quite a stranger there. But for the kindness of your offer I should have to trust to strangers, or to my own good fortune to find out those things which strangers usually seek, and those places they usually visit. I shall have great pleasure in showing you that which is worthy of your attention. It is now some years since I was there. But I believe, though there may be improvements, yet the place is essentially the same. No doubt, cities seldom alter much unless it be in their suburbs. If the alteration be great it will point itself out. Exactly so. The party proceeded beneath a large cedar tree, which stood in the in-garden with a table upon which were spread some wine and biscuits, walnuts and a few things besides, of a character agreeing much with the place. Into this garden crept an unfortunate beggar woman, who, espying the party from the road, escaped the vigilance of the waiters and menials who hung about the inn, and entered. She crept timidly towards the party, looking wistfully but yet fearful of the consequences of the intrusion, for there was a notice in the village which gave forth fearful threats to them, should they dare to beg for the bread for which they were starving. Presently finding the captain's eye fixed upon her, with a beseeching look, she dropped her curtsy. Who is that woman, and what does she want? I'll turn to look upon the unfortunate creature, who began her petition by saying, Kind ladies and gentlemen, pity a poor woman who is starving. I am very weary, and am weak with travelling. Hey, what do you do here? exclaimed the waiter. Come, come, we don't allow beggars in this place. The high roads or the bridewell are the only places we have in these here parts. Do not be in a hurry, said Sir Francis, to the officious waiter. It might have been right enough to prevent her entering, but now we have seen her. I cannot, if she deserve it, refuse to aid her in her affliction. The woman dropped a very low curtsy. My good woman, where have you come from? From Bath, sir, said the unfortunate creature. From Bath, eh? And what took you there? I lived there. You lived there? If that were the case, why should you leave a place where you did live, to wander about where you cannot live? That is a bad policy, me thinks. What do you say, Captain? I think so too, Sir Francis, said the Captain. But that may be only a verbal blunder of the woman. We can't expect propriety in speaking from such people. It would be expecting too much. So it would, said Mrs. Frazier. I have left Bath for two reasons, Sir, said the woman. One is, I was too unwell to work, and then my rent got into arrears. While I could work, I did pay my way, though living very hard. And what was the other reason? Why, sir, I was turned out of my lodging, and having nowhere to go to, and finding nobody would assist me, was compelled to beg. What induced you to take this road, my good woman? Because, sir, it will, if I live long enough, carry me to Portsmouth. Are you known there? No, sir. What induces you to go so far? Speak out, and do not be afraid. We have no object in asking you questions, save with the view of assisting you if we find you a worthy object. I am going to Portsmouth, replied the poor creature, in the hope that I may hear from my son, whom I have not seen these many years, and who went to see about seven years ago. You have a son, then? Yes, sir. I had one. God knows if I have one now. The poor woman uttered these words with such sorrowing accents that all were convinced of the truthfulness of them. Speak out, and tell us your story. Bring the poor woman some refreshment, said Sir Francis. Her tale may interest us, and give us food for reflection. I am sure one cannot hear the misfortunes of others, without feeling grateful for the luxuries and blessings one enjoys over and above the common lot of mankind. That is very true, Sir Francis, said Mrs. Frazier. And I am sure we ought not to pass those whom we can assist by a trifle when our means will permit our doing so. You are perfectly correct, ma'am. Have you no husband? inquired Mrs. Frazier. None, ma'am, none. When I had one I had a good home over my head. I would not wish for happier or better days to come again. What was your husband? A respectable tradesman, who kept a good house and his own servants. We spent such a life as that for nearly fifteen years. And how came it to a close? His death, Sir, which was brought on by a sudden cold. In a few days he was a corpse. I can never forget that dreadful day. We were living very comfortably and happy. My husband had, just at that time, entered into some speculations that promised to make a handsome fortune in a few years, and all promised success and happiness, complete and continued. How great a change, said Miss Stevens. Yes, Miss, great indeed. My husband, hearing some news that caused him to be anxious to ascertain its truth, he left home one wet night, and got drenched through. And where he went to he was obliged to remain in damp clothes, and, not being a strong man, he took a violent cold, and inflammation followed. After this he had medical advice, but he soon sank, and was pronounced beyond recovery. He died a very few hours after that, and I was left a widow. A few short hours caused a great change in my circumstances. What became of the business? Why, that was carried on for a time, but an accident deprived me of that. What was that? I will tell you, sir. My son was about fourteen years of age when his father died, and was just able to carry on the business, and I believe we should have done pretty well, because he was a steady youth and I could trust him, and he looked after the men employed, and I was not robbed. However, a severe misfortune awaited me. I thought the loss of my husband a dreadful misfortune, and I believe it was. But in his case he left one behind who could help to maintain me. His loss I mourned, but it did not produce the same disastrous results that the loss of my son produced. How came you to lose him? inquired the captain. Why, sir, I had occasion to have some business transacted at Bristol. I could send no one else, though I could ill spare him, but then I was compelled to send him and did send him. It was to accommodate some terms of sale, and he only knew the affair. He therefore went to Bristol. He was pleased enough, being his first journey, and I could hardly have resisted his importunity if I had been so inclined. He left me, and arrived safely in Bristol, and was there a day or two, when, walking about one evening by the waterside, he was seized by a press-gang and carried out to sea. It was useless for him to complain or to entreat. They would take him and forced him on board a manor-war. He served his king and country, then, said the captain. I honour him upon my soul, and you are going to learn something of him if he be dead or alive? Yes, sir. I know this much. He was alive about two years ago, and expected to reach Portsmouth in a couple of years. Well, proceed. When I heard my fate, the detention of my son, I was thrown on a bed of illness, in which I lay for nearly three months, during which time I was completely robbed and run into debt, and when I recovered I had but a few pounds in the world, for an execution had been put into the house and all was sold. Thus I was left without a friend or a soul to comfort me, or any relative upon whom I could call for aid and assistance. I had no right to do so to any one, and after my misfortunes I found that my former friends deserted me. I found that it was necessary to have the means of purchasing friends, just the same as anything else. I could obtain them for money, but without money I had no friends. I was by far too independent to ask for what I felt I was capable of earning. I could live upon little, and I had once left all who had formally known me before I attempted anything. I was determined that I would not even ask work at their hands, but get it among strangers. Of course this caused me to seek a substance in the lowest capacity, and I cared not for it, because it put a still greater barrier between me and my late acquaintances. It was a long time before I obtained any employment, because I was unknown to anyone who could recommend me or who wanted my services. This was to be expected, but the first place I obtained work at was through the interest of my landlady, and then I obtained more afterwards, and one led to another until I obtained a hard-earned but honest living. I had a little money by me, some two or three pounds, in case of being out of work or in case illness overtook me, then I had something to fly to, the work-house being a place of all others I most dreaded. Sooner than go there I would consent to die by the roadside, and I have put my resolution to the test. You lost your work? I fell ill for some months. All my little store of money was gone, and my rent grew in a rear. I became more and more deeply indebted, and what food I obtained was given me by others out of charity, but this could not last long, and as soon as I was able to walk my landlady asked me for my rent. I then told her that I had no money, but that in a few weeks, if I could find food to enable me to get up my strength, I should then be able to work, and I would then pay her off by degrees until I was out of debt. She knew what I had been, and had some thought that I had money, or if I pleased I could obtain it from my former friends, and expected me to make the attempt, but this I refused, and upon my doing so, she, after the first expressions of astonishment and anger, gave me the alternative of doing so, or leaving the house. I was turned out, and had no refuge. I wandered about, and knew not where to go or what to do. Indeed I was houseless and friendless, a wanderer without a penny. I could not now obtain work. I could not do it, and my appearance caused people to shut their doors against me, and I wandered about, begging. This was the first time I ever took what I had not earned, safe what was voluntarily given me when I was ill. One evening, as I was creeping about, I heard some men conversing about the different vessels that were out at sea, and one of them named the one in which my son was. I instantly listened, and heard one of them say that she was on her voyage homewards, and would be home in a month. I had no sooner heard this than I had some hope. I will go, I said, to Portsmouth. I will meet my son, and he will not refuse to support his unfortunate mother. I know his disposition too well to dream of it, and should he be unable to do so, I will beg for him. I slept in Bath that night, and then began to consider how I should get to Portsmouth. It was a long road, many weary miles must be walked over ere I could get there, and as for the means I must trust to the charity of the passengers. It would not be much more than what I was doing. I could sit on a doorstep and beg, but to walk on the road where there were few or no passengers I might starve. However I resolved to make the attempt, because I loved my son, and if I could see him I should see an end to my misery. I started out about four days ago, and I have got this far, but I have had only bread on the road, and almost despair of being able to reach there, and the charity of people is not enough to support life upon. And where have you slept as you came along? However I could, sir, beneath a haystack or even a hedge. Where did you sleep last night? Beneath a haystack about seven miles from this place. And is that all you have got through to-day? Yes, sir, every step, and considering my weak state I consider it good travelling, and shall feel thankful for even that rate of travelling. You do not know how intensely I wish to get to see my son. I have no doubt of it, my good woman, and if I can I will help you on the road. I think yours is a case that deserves some attention. If you choose to remain here all night and rest you may. You shall have food till you go, and some food shall be placed in your hands before you go. God bless you, sir, said the poor woman in tears. You will indeed do an act of kindness to me. You will stop? And be grateful to you for your kindness. Here, waiter, said Sir Francis. Yes, sir, said that worthy, running up. Just take this person and see that she wants for nothing. Let her have a bed here and breakfast in the morning, and let me know what the charges are, and I will pay for it. Do you hear what I say to you? Yes, sir, exclaimed the waiter, who considered the charge as one beneath his dignity, but he was forced to obey, and the woman was desired to follow him, which she did after thanking Sir Francis Barney for his humanity and generosity. Upon my word, Sir Francis, said Mrs. Frazier, you do those things as if they were common occurrences to you. Why, madam, I am, and perhaps I ought to abstain from making the confession one who does not love to come in contact with misery, but then one does not feel justified in turning away from it. You must have a deep purse to be able to satisfy all such claimants. I cannot do that, if I were inclined, or they were deserving, which many are not, as you no doubt must be well aware. Indeed, that is a fact. Very few of the claimants possess the same strength of right to our pity and commiseration. I am certainly struck with the woman's manners and her artless mode of telling her story. Exactly. It bears the impressive genuineness about it. So it does. And when that is the case, I cannot resist the sense of my duty, which impels me to aid the distressed. But then I injure no one. I have ample means, and therefore others may do less, and yet deserve more credit. I have no heirs to come into my property, and I cannot therefore injure any one. If I were to give it all away, I should be entitled to do so. You are so good, Sir Francis. As you are courageous and fortunate, said Miss Stevens, I am sure I have every reason to be thankful to you for two preservations. Nay, say no more about the past. You say things at which I ought to blush to hear, for my modesty is greater than you imagine. But seriously I take more pleasure in it than most people, and that may be a set-off against my disinterestedness, for I am only laying out my money in pleasure and amusement. No, no, that will not pass. It will, I hope, but permit me to return and see how they have disposed of this temporary protégé of mine. Certainly Sir Francis, don't let us detain you. We shall remain here some time longer, and then we shall leave the shelter of this house. After Sir Francis Varney had left the place where the Frasiers were sitting, there was a long silence in which each of the party appeared to be engaged in meditating deeply upon something or other, and yet each shrunk from expressing them. The first who broke the silence was Captain Frazier, who said, Well, my dear, what do you think of our new acquaintance? I think he is a most amiable man. Very courtly, observed his sister, yes, a sure sign of good breeding, of good company. He is that, said Captain Frazier. I never met with one in whom dignity, ease, and complete and unceremonious courtesy were so blended. And he appears to be a very kind and amiable man. But, said Miss Stevens, he is also a very strange and a very singular man, a very singular man indeed. I never saw such a man before, or anyone approaching him. What a strange complexion! He has a singular complexion, and it strikes me he is well aware of it, and that is the reason why he prefers a country to a town life, and his solitaryness, together with his manners, all indicate that his peculiarity in this respect causes him much annoyance. I dare say it may, said Captain Frazier. I never saw anything so truly terrible. Said Charles. Hush, do not speak in that way, Charles, it is ungrateful. I hope not, it is merely the truth, I never saw a corpse so pale. Indeed he is just such as one you might imagine to have started out of a grave with an unwholesome life. And whoever had resurrected him had forgotten to warm his blood, or to put blood in his veins. How very absurd of you, Charles. I'm sure St. Francis Varney deserves better of you than that. You're under a great obligation to him. I feel assured he feels the peculiarity of his complexion, I mean it has an effect upon his mind, and if we knew the cause of it, it is possible some disinterested action terminating an evil to himself has been the cause of it. Well, sister, I do not mean to say that you can admire such a visage, but you ought not to say I am ungrateful, for I am not. And moreover I never saw any gentleman whom I liked better, his conversation is quite superior. But then gratitude surely does not prevent one noticing so glaring a circumstance. Certainly not, said Captain Frazier, though I fancy it would be better to remain silent upon such topics if we cannot commiserate them. I think you're quite right, Frazier, said Mrs. Frazier. He deserves respect at our hands, and the less that is said in regard to his misfortunes, the better. I think the evening is getting very cool, said Miss Stevens. Will you remain here any longer? I shall return to the house. We may as well all go, especially if you feel chilly. I do. Then come along, tomorrow we shall be in Bath. Come, sister, you must be quite well to share in the gayities of the place. You know you said you should have all the greatest pleasure there, and have been anticipating it all along. I did, said her sister. Well, but you will do so now. Why should your expectations not be fulfilled? I see no reason why they should not. Bath is a gay place, and a city apparently made solely for the amusement of those who can pay for them. I have been so alarmed and terrified, sister. I know that, my dear, but you have now had two days constant change of scene and lived I must say almost wholly in the open air, so that you ought not now to be very nervous, sister. I might have been worse under other treatment, replied Miss Stevens, but at the same time you can have no idea of what it is to suffer from such an outrage. You cannot conceive anything like it. I dare say not. I am sure it must have been dreadful. It must, said the captain, but we will not say anything about a matter so disagreeable and so inexplicable. Suppose we go in. With all my heart, we shall be in bath tomorrow and you will have nothing to fear. How does your arm feel now? Sore, but much of the inflammation has gone down, that I think will soon be well, and then I shall be able to use it as I used to do. I don't think it will leave any permanent injury of evil behind. I'm glad of it, said the captain. Now they all return to the inn, while the whole of the party passed the remainder of the evening in company, retiring at an early hour with the view of rising early for the purpose of getting into bath in the afternoon or before the evening set in at all events. The next morning came, and with it a cloudless day. They were all in high health and spirits and sat down to a breakfast that was especially prepared for them. What has become of your protege? said Mrs. Frazier to Sir Francis. I have not seen her this morning. I've not risen long, and I've had no time to spare, but intend to see her before I go, and see that she has means to reach Port's mouth in safety. Will you send for her here, Sir Francis? Certainly, if you wish it, said Sir Francis, I will tell the waiter to inquire if she be ready, and, before she goes, to send her up. That will be best. This accordingly was done, and in about a quarter of an hour the poor woman came up to the room. There were several alterations for the better in her appearance, and she did not look so care-worn and cast down as she had done. She appeared thankful and refreshed with rest and food. You are now ready to start, my good woman, said Sir Francis. I am, Sir, thanks to you. I wish you all possible success in your mission, and I hope your son may be living and prove grateful to you as his mother. If living I am sure he will, Sir, and I do not doubt now, but I shall be able to meet with him, thanks to your bounty. I hope you may. Have they treated you well in the house below? Yes, very well, Sir, and kindly. I'm glad of it. Have you any food given you to carry you on your road? I have, thank you, Sir. In there remains now nothing to be done but to give you some silver to enable you to provide lodgings and now and then a lift on the road. Thank you, Sir, said the unfortunate widow as she took the silver which Sir Francis held out to her. She could only shed tears of gratitude, and Miss Stephens added some to it from her own pocket. You have our best wishes, said Sir Francis Varney. Go now. We have done all we can for you. Good day. God bless you, said the woman. May you never experience misfortune or ever know the want of even luxuries. You who can give deserve to have. The poor and unfortunate have few such as you, Sir, for benefactors. That will do, said Sir Francis. Good day to you. Good day, ladies and gentlemen, said the woman, curtsying low and then turning round she left the apartment. Poor thing, said Sir Francis. She has a long journey before her. A temporary aid given to poor people often lifts them above want and places them in a decent position in society. So it does, said Mrs. Frazier. Yet you see, people disclaim charity, and say private charity is pernicious in its effects. But are there not two sides to any picture? An individual might as well say it was pernicious to take medicine because people sometimes poison themselves with some of the ingredients. Besides that, it does good to the state, for it often prevents such a one from coming to the state, and being a burden upon society at large. I'm really of opinion that much temporary distress might, by aid, be avoided, while without that aid it would, in all probability, become permanent. There is much wisdom in what you have said, Sir Francis, though you must be aware that it opens a door to much abuse and reliance upon the charity of others, which can scarcely be credible. Oh, yes, I expect there is an abuse of everything, but we do not from that argue its total cessation. At that moment the landlord entered the room, saying the carriage was ready as it had been ordered. Then we may as well, at once, proceed to the carriage which is waiting and we are ready to depart. And, added Sir Francis, I am ready too. They once more left the house they had slept in, and the carriage again bore them onwards towards the city of Bath, which was now only three short stages from them, and where they could arrive at almost any hour they pleased, if they chose rapid traveling. But this they did not, because it deprived them of much of the pleasure of traveling, the views and beauties on the road. There were many gentlemen's seats on the road which called forth comment and admiration, as well as many smaller estates and houses that were often picturesquely situated, as well as lonely. At length they came within sight of the famed city, and each moment they neared it saw fresh evidence of a large and populous place. However they stopped not, but the closer they came to the town the faster they went, until they were really within the city. Here we are in Bath at length, said Sir Francis. It is a fine city and much of fashion and talent may be found here. I am glad we arrived here at last, said Captain Frazier, and so my, said Mrs. Frazier, for I am almost tired of riding every day. I began to want rest. I want to stop for a time in one place. We get fatigued even with change, said the Captain. After a time, and yet our lives, are a complete round of change. Yes, if you consider the character of time. Now they stopped at one of the principal hotels into which they all entered and ordered their dinner, and while the ladies arranged themselves for the occasion, Sir Francis Barney and Charles walked out into the town, where they amused themselves with looking at the different objects which were presented to the gaze of the stranger. In all these things Sir Francis appeared to be well versed, knew what was now and what had been, formerly. Two days had passed, and there had been but little time lost, so far as the visiting of one part of the city and another was concerned, and they gradually became acquainted with and visited the different places of amusement, at least so many of them as could be visited by them in the time. Sir Francis Barney was the chaperone, and as he obtained attention and consideration wherever he went, he was a valuable aide and assistance, and the family had now got quite used to him and he to the family. The peculiarity of his countenance or complexion wore off, his pleasing manners producing an effect that acted as an antidote to that, which was likely to cause some peculiar feelings in all who looked at him, but his courtly manners completely took from any one with whom he came in contact the power and the desire to exhibit any dislike or aversion. However, there was not one among all those who looked upon him, who did not look upon him with various emotions, but they were only such as a result from a source that acted upon their feelings and tastes without producing any deep or permanent emotion in anyone. Great care was taken by Sir Francis in dress, and his display was altogether good, but there was no ostentation, his manners were those of a man who was used to the position and sphere above what he had even then moved in. There was no mistake in the matter at all, and the Frazier's were well convinced that he was what he appeared to be, and there was, moreover, an evident partiality for Miss Stevens manifested by him, which had already been more than once remarked by the captain and his lady, who tacitly approved the honor, though nothing was broached on either side. Sir Francis appears to be a very gentlemanly man, said the captain. Very, said the lady, very, I never saw one whom I could find so little fault with. Indeed, I may say he had none. That is a very extensive compliment in all events, said the captain. No fault is a thing that you can say of but very few people indeed. I mean, as far as personal behavior is concerned, of course, I know nothing more. His demeanor appears perfectly unexceptionable. I am sure I never saw anyone at all his equal in that respect. Perhaps not. He appears to be very attentive to your sister. Indeed, I should say he appears to be very partial. I think so, too. What do you say to Sir Francis Varney, Mary? inquired Mrs. Frazier, as a lover, eh? I cannot think of him in such a light, said Miss Stevens. And wherefore not, inquired the captain, because I could not bear the idea. I don't know why. I can't tell you. But I could not do so. It would be against my nature to accept of such a lover. It would much pain me to refuse one who had done so much for me, but I could not accept of him. Upon my word you appear to feel strangely upon this matter, said the captain, but I think you might think twice before you answered thus. No. Think how much I might. It could make no alternation in my mind, for the more gratefully I think, and the more I endeavour to be, yet the stronger would be my repugnance to have such a man for a lover. Dear me, Mary, how can you say so? I do indeed. Ah, well, girls will be girls, but he has not done you with the distinguished honor to ask you, so you must not refuse in anticipation. You may consider the grapes are sour, because they hang so high. You ask me a question, to which I have given you the best answer I can upon the moment, besides we know nothing of Sir Francis. We know enough of him, I think, to speak and think with the utmost gratitude of him. Not that that should make any of us overlook the precautions that aren't usual on such occasions, and as for your opinion, why, that might be amended by time, and I'm sure that what we do know of him is enough to cause us to respect him and to have confidence in him. He has not sought our acquaintance, and that is one guarantee in his favor. So it is. But all this is useless. Sir Francis appears very sensitive. He is of retired habits and tastes, and perhaps something of that may result from the disadvantage under which he lies, which he may feel severely. So he might, and therefore I would never, if I could help it, make any personal illusion of any character before him, even though I were speaking of someone else, and it had no reference to him, as he might apply it to himself. That is quite right, and just what it ought to be. CHAPTER NUMBER 150 OF VARNEY THE VAMPIRE VOLUME 3 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sandra Estenson. VARNEY THE VAMPIRE VOLUME 3 By Thomas Prescott Prest CHAPTER 150 Sir Francis Varney, when he walked out into the city of Bath, appeared to be lost in deep thought, and walked along as if he saw nothing that was going on around him. He was lost in meditation, something weighed heavy upon his mind, and he now and then muttered inaudibly to himself. Whatever might have been his purpose, he merely wandered about without going to any one place as if he were in search for an adventure, rather than having any specific and determinant object. But after much wandering about, he came near the corner of a street where he saw two persons conversing together. A stray word appeared to rivet his attention, and he paused and stepped into the shadow of a doorway, and listened. You see, Martha, Aunt Matthew is an old miser. She would sooner see all the world at the last gasp before she would dream of parting with a shilling, and I'm sure it is much too bad. What is too bad? Why, that she, and such a she, should have so much money, and others who work hard should have none, or even the means of procuring it. Yes, it is hard, and yet if those who have it did not keep it, there would be no one who would be worth money. That is all very well, but the more money circulates, the more hands it gets into, and that, of course, enriches everyone who has for a time the possession of it, for they do not part with it, unless they have value for it. Well, well, that may do very well, but it does not appear to me to be any business of mine that such as one should beg anything of anybody else, but no matter, she has money enough. She is single, is she not? Yes, replied the other. Then you may, after all, possess all she has. I may, but she is fat and forty. She may live for years, and in the meantime I am a beggar all my life. No, no, not so bad is that. And what is worse than all, while she is living, she is decreasing the money she has, and it will yearly get less and less till, if any, comes to me, it will be so small a portion of it, that I am sure there will be but little good come of it. Indeed, if she is such a miser, as you speak of, I should have imagined that the property, personal or real, would increase under such management as that. It would, if she were not living on the principle. On the principle? What do you mean? That she lives on the principle, as I told you. She has got some strange fancies in her head, and one of them is that the banks will break, all and every one of them, from one end of the kingdom to the other. What a notion. Yes, and that is not all. She believes that all banks will break, so all the public securities will be of no use, but only so much waste paper, and real property will all be seized, and there will be, I don't know what, universal ruin, desolation, and disorganization. What does she do? Why, keeps all of her cash at home, and then goes to her strongbox and takes out her bright gold guineas, which appear in such abundance that it would seem as if it could never sensibly diminish, and thus she's been going on for a matter of two years or more. In my word, what can she dream of? If she go on in that manner, I'm sure too that she will be a beggar. That is certain, but she thinks not, and you can't argue her into any other belief whatever that is contrary to this matter. However, I have no favor in her eyes because I am a relative. And why should that be? Because bring her relative. She thinks I may be wishing her dead every day she lives. So you see, if she go on with this feeling about her, she may take a complete dislike to me, and I should never have a farthing left, even if she died before all was gone and dissipated. Very true. Where do you live? I have been living with my aunt. Indeed. And where may that be? inquired her companion. Why, don't you know number 109 Chapel Street? But I have left there, that is, I shall do so tonight. Will you? You are wrong. I doubt it very much, very much indeed. What motive can you assert there is to make a good policy in doing this? She will think I do not care about waiting for her money, and that motive being observed. I am sure it will influence her in my favor. Then you will not go back tonight? No, not at all. Well, you know best. But I should go, however. I must now leave you and bid you good day. I must go. Good day, said the other, and they quitted the place. When the two speakers had left the spot, Sir Francis Varney came forth from his hiding-place, and gazed after them for some moments in silence. But when they were no longer in sight, he muttered, Could anything be more fortunate? I am reduced to the last guinea. I have not another pound to pay my way with, just at a moment too, when I think I may be successful at last in securing a victim. He then walked onwards until he came to the neighborhood of the street he had heard the stranger name, and then he paused and approached the house with some curiosity, but passed by it without stopping. It was a corner house, and a blank wall ran a short way down the street, being the side of the house, and a small portion of ground called a yard. Here the wall was lower. There was a chance of getting over, and here Sir Francis Varney paused a moment, as if examining the place with care and scrutiny. He looked all around, and saw no one approaching. He heard no sound, and he saw no face in any window that was within sight. It was, moreover, too dark to be seen, and he, without a moment's hesitation, ran a few paces towards the wall, and by a violent effort succeeded in placing one hand upon the summit, and then the other soon followed. Sir Francis Varney was a man of great agility and strength, and he was not long in drawing himself up to the top, and then he dropped down. It was fortunate he dropped heavy, and also fortunate, from that circumstance, he fell upon something soft. The good fortune of the occurrences was dependent upon each other. We say it was fortunate he fell heavy, because he fell upon the old lady's yard dog, an unamiable cure, and prevented an alarm, for the dog was crushed and unable to utter a single howl before the animal died. There was now nothing to do but enter the house, if the backdoor was opened. But upon trial this proved not to be the case. This was a matter that required some consideration. The door was not to be forced, and he hoped to get in by that means, but he was foiled, but yet it was something to have possession of the yard he could hide there, but yet that increased his danger, for if he remained there he was liable to a discovery, and that too before any attempt had been made upon the coffers of the old woman, and no good affected by him. What to do he could scarcely tell, but after some thought he determined to attempt the back windows in the parlor, or room above the ground, and to affect this purpose he would have to get upon a water-butt, and thence to the railings facing the window of the room, and which appeared to have no shutters. Having once made up his mind he said about it at once, and was soon on the top of the water-butt, and made good his hold upon the small balcony, and then he drew himself up. This was a work of some difficulty, because the balcony was very close to the window, and left him no room to lean over, but yet he succeeded, and found to his great joy, that the window was only closed without being fastened. He had only cautiously and noiselessly to lift it up, and he could enter it. This he did at once, and then stood in the room. But all was dark, and he could not hear a sound throughout the house, for he listened many minutes, lest he might be suddenly interrupted on by someone, and then there would be no escape from there, and he would possibly lose all. Caution therefore was the order of the day, and he gently closed the window, lest the draft might be felt in some other parts of the house. That was very fortunate, for there was every possibility of a discovery resulting from such a course, for anyone feeling a greater than usual draft would soon inquire into the cause. Having got thus far, he opened the door, and walked into the passage, and then he heard the sound of conversation being carried on in an undertone. He listened at the door, and heard two female voices. "'Betty,' said one. "'Yes, ma'am,' replied the other. "'Have you shut the shutters and locked up all the doors?' "'Yes, ma'am.' "'The kitchen door?' "'Yes, ma'am, all right as can be. Nobody can get in, I'll warrant.' "'You don't say so.' "'Oh, but I do. The dog's out in the yard, too.' "'When you have had tea, I'll have him brought in. He mustn't lay out there, poor creature, to spoil his coat and catch cold. I'm almost thinking I ought not to let him stay out to this hour.' "'He's well enough. He'll not hurt. He's got the kennel to sleep in, and he's plenty of straw. There's many a one about these parts as would be glad of such a bed. I've taken care of him.' "'Very well, Betty, sit down to tea, and when it's over, I'll bet you anything that old Martha Bell will be here.' "'Lord bless me, ma'am, you don't say so. "'Yes, I do, but I won't be at home. She and I have fallen out of late, and I'm not inclined to make up the quarrel, for she won't believe the banks will break, and you know they will, Betty. "'To be sure, ma'am, they will. I know very well they will. It's quite certain, as certain as the Almanac. "'Yes, and what's worse, she wanted to borrow ten pounds, and that, you know, will never do at any price. She would break, too. And then I should have lost number one, and no one can tell how soon number two might follow.' "'He he he he,' said Betty, "'Oh, locks, I shall split. What's the matter now? What are you laughing at, silly? "'Oh, you're so funny, ma'am. I'm sure you'd make anybody laugh. You do joke so. It makes one laugh.'" "'Laf?' "'What is there funny in losing ten pounds? I should like to know. Nobody would laugh at that. I should imagine. I'm sure I should laugh at nothing of that sort. If you were to lose ten shillings, I'm sure that I should not laugh at you. Nor do I think you would either. No, ma'am. I'm sure you would not, and I'm sure I should not. But you do say such things that make me forget all about money.'" "'Well, then, go downstairs and fetch some more coals.'" "'Yes, ma'am,' said Betty. And before Sir Francis Varney had time to slip back and open the door of the other room, the door of the one he was listening at was suddenly opened, and Betty stood before him. She came out plump before he had time to step back, and she ran against him before she was aware anyone was there, for coming from a room where there was light she could not see at all in the dark passage. Oh, my! She had got thus far in her exclamation, when she received a heavy blow from the intruder which felled her senseless to the floor, and as quick as thought, he drew his dress-sword and plunged the point through her heart. Not a groan followed. She was dead, and might be said to have died while bereft of sense or motion. "'What is the matter, Betty?' said the woman, her mistress. No answer was returned, and Varney paused, as if uncertain what to do. He was in some doubt if he should or not go in, or await the woman's approach to where he stood. He had not been seen, or she would have screamed out, and if he went to her she would see him and have time to alarm people. He paused and waited her coming. But she appeared to defer doing so, and merely said, "'Betty! Betty, what has ailed you? What can be the matter? You don't mean to say that the tea has got into your head?' "'No, no,' she muttered, after a pause. That can't be the case. She must have been to my medicine-bottle, and that has been too strong for her. I shall discharge her. She'll be breaking something or other, and then who knows where that will end? Begin by breaking a basin, and end by breaking the bank.' So saying she muttered something unintelligible to Varney, and then began to rise and walk along the room towards the door. This was a moment of suspense. The door opened suddenly, and then she stood before Varney, who made a rapid thrust with his sword. This would have been as fatal as that which she had dealt Betty. But the mistress was more fortunate. At the moment, for a steel busk was the means of preventing its taking effect. "'Murder! What do you want? Oh, you rich! I know you now. Depend upon it. You shall be hanged. Murder! Murder!' One word, and you are a corpse,' said Varney. "'Mercy! Mercy, will you spare me? Will you spare my life?' "'I will.' "'Oh, thank you, thank you. I never hurt you, and I don't think you would me. I'm very sorry that I made any noise. But you will spare me?' "'Yes, upon one condition.' "'On a condition?' said the woman tremblingly. "'Yes, upon a condition. Tell me what it is that you require of me. I will comply.' "'Then,' said Varney, after a moment's pause, show me where you keep your money. I must have money, so give me plenty.' "'Plenty of money, did you say?' "'Yes, plenty. I want some. You have money. I know. Gold. Gold in quantity.' "'Gold? Oh, yes, gold. How funny!' "'Funny? Is my sword funny?' asked Varney, because if you think so, you may have a small portion of it, which you may consider funnier still. "'No, no, but I have no money. None at all. Save a little money I have for immediate expenses. I have but little, for nobody nowadays keeps money in houses if they can get any at any time. But you have plenty of money. I haven't any, upon my you have. You keep it in the house, you know, because the banks might break, and you would lose all. Now give me some at once, or you are dead as any nail in your house. Mark that. "'Oh, dear. Oh, yes. What will you have of me?' "'Money,' said Varney, pressing the point of his sword against her side. "'Oh, Mercy, I'll tell you all, but you must be satisfied with what I have got, and not leave me a beggar or kill me because I have no more. I will be satisfied with what you have got. But then I know to be much more than I can carry away with me. "'What would, Lord, you don't know me? Or else you would know the reverse of that. A poor lodging housekeeper is not the person to have money in the house. But if the truth must be told, I have upstairs my quarters rent, which I ought to give my landlord. I can give you that. But God knows how he will believe me when I tell him that I have lost it. You have all your property about you. You have gold in quantities. I have not!' "'Then take the fruits of your obstinacy,' said Varney in a fury, and making a savage and sudden lunge at her. He passed his sword through her breast, and with a smothered scream she fell to the earth, where she lay gasping and writhing for several seconds when a rapid gurgling sound came from her throat. And she died. "'Tis done,' said Varney to himself, "'Tis done, and it would have been as well if I had done it first. But no matter, tis done quietly. There lay the two bodies upon the flooring, the one in the passage by the door and the other in the parlor. There was a long pool of black blood extending from one to the other of the two corpses. They mingled their blood in death. Though they held different positions in life. What could be done? There they were. And even Varney could not pick his way without treading in the blood. He at once entered the apartment and began to examine the whole place. But he did not find much there. A few odd pounds. And yet he turned everything upside down, to use a common phrase, but yet there was nothing of the sort which he hoped for and expected to find. Can I have a mistake in the place? Was his first thought. Upon consideration he saw reason enough to make his mind easy upon the score of mistakes in that matter. There was the number and the street. The old woman and her conversation answered exactly to what he had heard. And after a few moments' consideration, he muttered. It must be right. There are more rooms than one in the house. I will go and search through the rooms and if I don't find any, I will set the house on fire, indeed. I think that will be better done and it will prevent the deed taking light and as little suspicion may be as well incurred as can be. This was a thing only thought of to be resolved on. But he cast that aside and proceeded with his search. And having finished that room, he splashed through the blood and once more stood in the passage. And now for the bedrooms, he muttered. The candle he held was the only one he could obtain and he was compelled to walk steadily, lest he should lose its aid by going out. However, he soon got up the stairs and walked into the best bedroom where he again began to search about for the hidden treasure, but found it not. Curses upon the stupidity of the old fool, where does she hide her money? I'm sure that she has it here and I want to get back without delay. I did not want to be away long and I have been, I dare say, an hour. This was true and he turned things over and about in great haste. But his endeavors had likened to have been useless as regarded the discovery. Only his eye chanced a light upon a panel. He started up and pulled away apart the bed curtains, behind which it was partially concealed. Ha ha, what have we here? What I've been wishing to find, no doubt, this is the secret hiding place of her gold, the treasury. However, whatever it might be, it did not appear to be in his power to determine, for he could not open it. This was, of course, a provoking state of things and Varney seized hold of each implement that came to his hands, but through each down again, being unable to affect his object by any means, whatever. He started up suddenly after making many desperate attempts to break the door open, which, however, were futile and exclaimed, there are keys to these places and I'm sure the old woman must have them about her. If this place be really the receptacle of her wealth as I have every reason to believe it is, I will find out if I can, no doubt, however, I shall find it upon her somewhere. I'll try. He immediately went downstairs and found the body of the old woman. It was fast stiffening, but the clothes were all sopping in blood and he turned her over hastily until he found out the pocket and from that he drew a bunch of keys, they were all bloody, but he did not hesitate about seizing them. These will no doubt let me into the secret, I shall find my way in now and then the house will no longer hold me. He turned and quitted the corpse and in going upstairs, he saw for the first time that the stairs all bore the imprint of his own foot. He saw they were stained in blood and were clear, distinct and well-defined. It matters not, he muttered, the fire will and shall he face that and besides, if it did not, what care I? He ran up the stairs and again entered the bedroom and was once more kneeling in front of the door of the cupboard. The bunch of keys was composed of many and he tried one after the other until after many trials he came to one which was of a peculiar make and shape and which convinced him he was now in possession of the right key. I think I have succeeded now, he muttered, as he put the key into the lock. It fitted very closely into the lock and then it slowly turned and he saw the door open but it only disclosed another door. What is the meaning of this, muttered Varney? What, is there another door to be found? I suppose some of these keys will fit this as well. However, he was not compelled to make the search for the key of this inner door hung up by one corner on a little hook in a niche which had been apparently cut out on purpose. This was soon opened and then came rather a startling sight. In a small cupboard were packed a heap of human bones, more than bones for they had yet the flesh dried and sticking to them. The skull was brown and bare, save here and there remained some hair. What's the meaning of this, he muttered angrily and have I troubled myself in this matter for only a few bones? It was, however, an apparent fact. There was the place and it was now opened and the contents were plain enough, bones, bones, human bones. There could be no mistake and Varney rested his hand on his knee and gazed intently into the cupboard at the bones and everywhere else. He was about to rise when somehow or other he was induced to push the bottom shelf. Why he could not tell, but when he had done so he found it give downwards. Yes, the whole cupboard went down. He pushed and pushed until the roof was no higher than the floor. Then indeed he saw a sight that caused him to feel a satisfaction. Ah, he exclaimed, ah, this is what I have sought and I will have it. Gold, gold, aye, here's gold in heaps more than I can carry. He stretched forth his arm and leaned into the cupboard and then examined the contents and felt assured that there were several thousands of pounds. The glittering heat before him was what he wanted and for which he had remorselessly committed such fearful crimes. But I must make haste, I must make haste. I shall lose what I have such a certainty of possessing. So muttering to himself, he put as much gold into his pockets as he could and carrying a bag under his arm, he relocked the cupboard, having retraced his steps below. He replaced everything. While at the same time he carefully examined his person to see that there were no traces of his deeds upon him and then wrapping himself up in his cloak he left the house and proceeded towards his hotel. End of chapter 150. Recording by Sandra Estenson. Chapter 151 of Varni the Vampire, volume three. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Chessie. Varni the Vampire, volume three. By Thomas Prescott Prest. Chapter 151. The scene at the hotel. The relation of the course of Sir Francis Varni's paleness. When Sir Francis Varni reached his hotel he hurried to his own apartment and then he called for his luggage. And when that was brought to him and he was alone he unlocked a portmanteau and placed his gold in it. And then having taken care to dress himself he again matched the phrases below at the evening meal. I have been strolling the streets for an odd hour, he said, and find things pretty much as they used to be. I don't see many alterations worth speaking of. And yet they say they are improving daily. They may be, but only in parts and places. And it does not alter the general plan of the place, though appearances may be benefited. Exactly, that I dare say may be the case. As indeed it is most likely to be the fact, especially when we see that, save in the case of entire new streets, all improvements are effected by individual exertions. Exactly, but life and happiness is the result of individual exertions, said Sir Francis. But yet many shrink from prosecuting a scheme of happiness lest barriers be placed in their path that would be as injurious to all as they are effectual. Indeed, that is often the case. I have met with many instances of blighted devotion since I have wandered about over the green whales of England. I dare say you have met with some adventures. I have, Sir. I have met with many that, perhaps, few men would have ventured into and ever expect to come out alive. But I have not done so without paying dearly for my temerity. Indeed, have you incurred much danger? I have, Sir. But still, it must be pleasant to fall back upon the remembrances of the past and recall scenes and events that possess interest to your mind. It is so. I remember well that, some years ago, when I was in the North, that an occurrence took place that has left a lasting memorial upon me and one I can never forget as long as I live. It must have been a serious affair. It was a serious affair, a very serious affair. I was going to Scotland when, by some accident, the carriage in which I was travelling broke down and it was unable to proceed. And I took up my abode at Stenerist Inn, where I determined to remain until the carriage was repaired, which would, it was said, take a couple of days at the least. Well, in the evening of the first day, I walked about visiting the different places where I could hope for any pleasure. In doing so, I was wandering slowly down a lane when I heard voices on before me. The wind blew from them to me and I heard all they said. Then this evening, said one, Yes, yes, I consider this the most favourable opportunity that can be taken advantage of. Well, then we had better go at once. Yes, now we are on our road there, you see, and we shall be soon there. There will be just light enough to reconnoit her. Very well, we can secret ourselves somewhere about the place where we shall not be discovered and then we can get into the house at our leisure. But we may have to meet with opposition. Then we must resist, too. You don't intend to be taken, I suppose. No, not I. What did you intend to do if you were caught? Fight my way out. Or, if need be, I can push my knife into the ribs of anyone who may be in my way. Right, I shall be inclined to do for anyone who wants to keep me against my will. You may reckon upon that for a certainty. And, if the old man but as much as moves or utters a single cry, I will do for him. You don't mean that, do you? I do and will do it. Then I know and I will do the same. I like to have a pal that will stick by me and have no nonsense. However, we need not be in a hurry and just do what is necessary. Go to work steadily and determinately. Agreed. We will now go on. Strike off to the left here and we come then to the house. There's only one man's servant, but he can be dealt with. And, as for the old man himself, he cannot do much. Then they both proceeded across the fields until they came to some thick wood, where I lost sight of them. Well, I knew the house they were both going to and I determined to proceed by another route to the same place. I followed the lane as far as it would go and found it led up to the very house which I had heard the man declare the intention of robbing and possibly of murdering the owners. The inhabitants, I must say, for master or servant alike they would not hesitate in destroying. I entered the house, the door was open, after having walked up a broad and stately avenue of linden trees which lined the way up to the hall door. I was for some moments unable to make anyone here, but soon after I heard someone approaching the hall. I paused therefore and presently there came an elderly gentleman with a grave but pleasant countenance upon whose shoulders fell a profusion of snow-white locks. He was venerable yet pleasing in the expression of countenance. He bowed when he saw me, but looked rather surprised. I there say, sir, you appear surprised at my intrusion, but I do not come without a motive. I there say not, sir, but you are welcome. Will you walk in? Thank you, I said, but I have come to put you on your guard against an attempt at robbery and possibly murder that is to be made upon your house tonight. Indeed, sir, I can hardly believe anyone would be so wicked as to do anything of the kind. And yet I am sure you would not say so if you had not some grounds for such a belief. I have, I replied, and I will relate them. I then related to him distinctly all that I had overheard in the lane and the direction the man had taken. He appeared very thoughtful for some moments, and then he sat to me as he led the way upstairs. Will you walk upstairs with me? I did as he desired, and followed him upstairs until he came to a small observatory erected in the top part of the house. You say you saw them enter the cobs between here and the lane yonder? Yes, I did, and I imagine they may be seen if watch is kept in such a place as this. For I am sure they intend to examine the house as to the means of approaching it, and they expect to find only yourself and a man-servant. They would have met but little more indeed. However, I am forewarned, and I will take care to be forearmed. That is my object in coming to you. To effect this is all I seek. And now I will bid you good evening, for I have got some distance to walk before I can get back to the hotel where I am staying. Are you staying at the hotel? Yes, I replied, and I named the place where I was stopping when he said, You are welcome, if you are pleased to do so, to remain here. I shall be most happy with your company. Thank you, I said, and frankly I must say I should like to see the issue of this affair and will accept of your invitation, though perhaps I have accepted of your invitation too readily. Not at all! Not at all! You are heartily welcome. We will sit up and wait for these fellows. When we have beaten them off, we can retire in security to rest without fear of disturbance. Do you see them? I inquired as he was looking through a telescope towards the point I had named. No, I do not see them yet, he said. No, no, and yet I... I think I see something now through a portion of the cops. It's difficult to tell what they are about. If they go much further in that direction, they will be plain enough. There! There they are! I can see them both plainly enough. Two of them, said I. Yes, he replied. I see two. They appear to be looking this way. What are they doing now? Oh, I see. They are making for a place of concealment nearer the house. Well, sir, I am much obliged to you, very much indeed, for you have evidently saved my house from being robbed and myself from murder. I owe you my life. Nay, sir, not so bad as that. The villains might not have been successful enough to have effected an entrance before you were alarmed. And if they had, what could I have done? Why, truly, I have firearms, but I should have been loath to have used them and my hesitating might have cost me my life. So I have to thank you for life and property. As you please, I said, but what steps do you intend to take towards your own and your property's preservation? I shall obtain the aid of another and quietly await their coming. But, as I think from their appearance, they are not mere country people who come about robbing from distress, but a man who make a kind of profession of housebreaking, I will have both taken and dealt with according to law. It is their deserts, I said, for a more deliberately planned affair I never yet heard of. And what makes it so very black is the fact of their early making up their minds to murder anyone. No doubt, he replied, but that is an inducement to take them in effect. I will send for one man, and what with ourselves we can secure the villains. We are enough to do that. They are desperate, I said, but they will yield to numbers, he said. No doubt, but there must be a yet greater number. The odds, in my opinion, are not great enough to secure victory. These are desperate men, for they will not be taken, and two to one will not deter them. One, or even two, lives may be sacrificed before they are secured, if they do not get off. Well, then, you appear to think that we had better obtain more aid? I do, I replied. At least a couple of men, if not three, over the number you first spoke of, if you wish it to be perfectly harmless in its results. I should so desire it, he replied. Then you find that requisite, I answered. Then I was invited downstairs, and great hospitality shown me by the old gentleman who was an exceedingly pleasant companion. He was well informed and a well-read man, and was the only inhabitant of that large mansion. He had been many years a widower, and had but one child, a son, a young man of great promise. He was abroad on a tour, and he was awaiting his return with great anxiety, as he was somewhat longer than he had anticipated. We sat conversing for some hours. We had a handsome supper, and afterwards some choice wine. And then in came three stout countrymen. My friends, he said, I want you to keep watch and watch tonight in my house, to protect it from robbers. They agreed to do so, but expressed some surprise at what had occurred, and appeared to believe it hardly possible that anyone could have been wicked enough to compass such an object. However, he told them all I had said, and they were sent below where they were served with a very good supper and promised reward, with injunctions not to speak after a certain hour. This all arranged I and my host seated before a fire, and with some wine we passed the time agreeably enough. The time passes, said my host as the clock chimed the hours. I wonder if anybody is about now. I should think, I replied, they must be about thinking of what they have in contemplation. I am sure it is a quiet hour in this part of the world, and I should imagine that no human being can be awake about here. None, I dare say, save ourselves and our assailants, if they have not altered their minds and given up their intentions, or altered the night they intended for the attempt. Who can tell? They may have done so. I hope not. No, it will be very uncomfortable to be in constant dread, never knowing any night I lay down what I may come to before morning. I may lose my life and never again see my son. Yes, I replied, but had we better not put out the lights? I will order it to be done. As he spoke he rang a bell, and when a servant appeared he said to him, William, you had better put out all lights and be quite silent. And if you hear any noise, get out of the way and remain silent, unless they try to get away and elude us. Very well, sir. And as soon as you hear them at work, you had better steal up and let me know, as I intend to be present when they are taken into custody, as I have a particular desire to see it done. Very well, sir, but you don't know the danger you run. These men are desperate men, and they care not what they do. I know all that, William, but hasten down and see my orders executed. Very well, sir, sets the servant who at once left the room. These people, said my host, are not willing that I should run any risk. Perhaps they think they will not have so indulged a master in the next. Perhaps they are right, for I give but little trouble, and my servants are mostly out visiting some of their relatives. Indeed, I thought you were somewhat slenderly attended. I am. I have two very ill away at this moment, and I have another away on a visit to some relative. Indeed, they have an easy life under you. It is much the same as not having them at all. And yet I must say I have nothing to complain of. My wishes are complied with, and I have all my work done well and punctually to a minute. And if they have extra work to do, they never complain, but sad about it cheerfully. At that moment we heard William creeping up the stairs, and my thoughts soon reverted from the contemplation of the calm contentment in which all here appeared to dwell to the confusion and bustle that was now likely to ensue. Hello, our William. Yes, sir, they have come, said William in a low voice. Where are they getting in at? In at the pantry window, sir. I can hear them unboating the shutters. They have cut a hole out of it, and they will be clear in another minute. Very good. Now do you all keep together, and at the appointed signal rush upon them and bind them hand and foot. It shall be done, sir, as soon as they get into the kitchen. Very well. I will come down and watch the operations. But don't let them get back again. Oh, we'll take care of that. Make haste, he said, and station some of them under the stairs so that they cannot escape. They must both be taken. And they shall. Go on. Will you come down with me, he said, turning to me. Or will you remain here till we have secured them? You will come down with me, he said, turning to me. Or will you remain here till we have secured them? You, sir, are a stranger, and perhaps you had better remain here. No, not I, said I. I will go down with you by all means, and we will see how these fellows behave themselves under these circumstances. Let me see them. I was the first to discover them, and I hope you will not refuse me permission to be present at Edénement, which I have in some measure been instrumental in bringing about. I wish to be present. Then follow me, said my host. We shall not be too soon, for several minutes have elapsed. I waited not a moment, but hurried downstairs, and found that as I was going down the kitchen stairs, the robbers were well aware of the fact that they were entrapped, and in their rage they fought with desperation and forced their way out of the kitchen and through the barrier placed below. And seeing they would effect an escape, I jumped over the rails and stood between them and the way out. I had but my sword, and I drew that and placed myself in a position, threatening destruction to the first who should attempt to pass. This however was disregarded, and the two men rushed at me hoping to bear me down, but my weapon ran through the first, when a pistol bullet laid me low and the man rushed over me. Good heavens! And were you short, Sir Francis? Oh yes, and was severely injured, and it was some months before I was cured the bullet having wounded an artery. That was dangerous! Yes, so much so that two surgeons declared that had I bled another half-second I must have been dead, that I must in fact have bled to death and I should never have recovered. For I had, they thought, scarcely half an ounce of blood in my whole body, scarcely sufficient to cause the heart to beat. It was a fearful state. Where did you remain? I remained at this gentleman's house the whole of the time. He was very liberal and very generous. I wanted for nothing. He said that, but for the immediate attention of the surgeons, he thought I must have bled to death. He saw me fall, and one of the men, without waiting for orders to do so, ran for a surgeon, and hence the rapidity with which the medical man was in attendance. And what was worse, I had in about two months afterwards to undergo an operation to have the bullet extracted. Good heavens! You had a severe time of it. I had, and I had nearly lost my life a second time, for I lost a vast quantity of blood again. And ever since that, I have been of the extraordinary pale complexion which you now see. I thought it was natural, said Mrs Fraser suddenly, but a look from Mr Fraser told her she had done wrong. No, ma'am, it is not, indeed, natural. It was not until the loss of blood occasioned it, I presume? No, Captain, it was not. It resulted partly from the dreadful loss of the vital fluid which I sustained, and partly from a most violent virulent typhus which I took in consequence of my looseness of system. That, I believe, did more than anything else towards bringing me to my present position. For before, I was considered fair and florid in complexion. But my friends hardly knew me, or professed they did not, and I have not seen them from that day to this. Upon my words, Sir Francis Varney, you have had some extraordinary occurrences in your life. I am amazed at them. Indeed, I could scarcely believe one person, especially a gentleman of your property and standing. Why, as for that, I can only say that my position and rank here have given me the means to enable me to go through them without inconvenience, for I have no home or place dedicated to domestic delights. Such a life I should be proud and happy to possess, but which I can never accomplish. Indeed, I may say I fear to make the attempt, but no matter. The prime of life will, in a few years, pass away, and then I shall be past the desire for a home. And yet Varney Hall in the north is an ancient palace-like abode that would grace a duchess. Is that your ancestral hall? It is, Sir Varney, with emotion. And now uninhabited? Oh dear no! When I determined to lead the life I do, I could not permit the old place to become ruinous and deserted, and therefore lent it. And those who now live there are well able and willing to keep the place in repair. That is fortunate. Well, Sir, I hardly know what is fortunate or unfortunate as regards myself, but I have one of my old fits of melancholy come over me. Nay, you must battle against them, Sir Francis. I have ever endeavoured to do so, but I don't know how it is. I cannot, somehow or other, bear up. I feel a terrible depression on me. I am truly sorry to hear it, but let us hope that the gayities of Bath will restore you to your wanted serenity. I am sure I wish it, said Mrs. Fraser. But where are we to go tomorrow? Can you tell me that, Sir Francis? To the pump room in the morning, the library and the assembly in the evening. If you are inclined to do all at once. Yes. Well, then, suppose we make the attempt. We can but give in if we find it too much exertion. Though I am inclined to believe we shall not find it beyond our strength, said Mrs. Fraser. Then, that is all. Though I am inclined to believe we shall not find it beyond our strength, said Mrs. Fraser. Then, that is our agreement, said Sir Francis. Yes, it is. End of chapter 151. Barney the Vampire, Volume 3, by Thomas Prescott-Prest, Chapter 152 The scene of the murder, the visit to the house, the mysterious disappearance of the treasure. The next day came, there was much excitement in the family of the Fraser's. Each one could see the partiality of Sir Francis Barney for Miss Stevens. She herself could not pretend that it was not so, or that she was unable to see it. It was quite plain and evident, and yet it gave her great pain, because she had an unconquerable aversion to him who was her benefactor, and to whom she owed so much. This, however, was a strong and inexplicable feeling in her own mind, and she felt that if death or Sir Francis were her only alternatives, she must choose the former. This was from some feeling, from what source it sprung, she could not tell you, that appeared to forbid her permitting the approach of such a lover. It might have been instinct, or it might have been that she had taken a personal dislike to him on account of his complexion, and yet she could not admit so much even to herself as that, and yet it must have had an origin. She looked at him much more and more each hour, and more and more did she dislike him. At length she felt so much repugnance to him, that if it were not for the deep gratitude she owed him, she would fly from and not even endure his society, good as that she was compelled to admit really was. When he offered her his arm in their walk to the assembly-rooms and the pump-room, they were much pleased with the appearance of everything, and with the attentions of Sir Francis, who certainly did all he could to make the party comfortable and amused. He was so well acquainted with every object. As they returned to the hotel, at which they all remained, they passed the house of the old woman who had been so cruelly murdered the night before. Sir Francis cast a cursory glance at it as they passed, but there was no sign of the door having been opened, and the murder had not yet been discovered. And this arose from the fact that the old woman was an eccentric, and her shutters had remained in that way before, and therefore no one took any particular notice of it. When the party had reached the hotel, Sir Francis said, You will, I presume, attend the ball this evening at the assembly-rooms? We should wish to do so, replied the captain. Do you intend to go, Sir Francis? I will, Captain. It is now some time since I went to such a place, and I think the change will be so great and agreeable that I will go. Then we shall have the advantage of your guidance, said Captain Fraser, and I hope we shall long have the pleasure of doing so. You are very good in saying so, Captain, and, if agreeable to yourself and the ladies, I am willing and shall be happy to bear you company. I am sure, replied Mrs. Fraser, we shall always be happy with Sir Francis Barney's company and thank him for his condescension. Shall we not, sister? Yes, I am sure I shall be much obliged to Sir Francis for this, as well as many other services he has done us. Do not talk in this manner, said Sir Francis. Do not speak of the past, Miss Stevens. It is the present I would wish you to think of. At the same time, I desire only to be accepted, because I may not be thought intruding. Dear me, Sir Francis, how you talk. Really, I am afraid we have said something to give you displeasure, or my sister here has misbehaved herself. If so, I shall really take her to task for so doing. You will be acting unjustly if you do, but permit me to leave you for a short time. I have some matters to transact. I expect a remittance of money to this place, for I usually appoint some particular town or city, for I do not consider it safe to carry any great amount of money about me. It gives such temptations to robbery and violence that, travelling as I do from place to place, I am especially liable to such attempts. Certainly you are. Then I bid you good evening for the present, said the Baronet, and he left the room. When Sir Francis left the apartment in which he had been with the Fraser's, he walked to his own apartment, and taking a large cloak and a small portmanteau he had purchased, he made his way to the very house where he had the night before committed such a double murder. Before he reached there, however, he put the cloak on, and when he approached the house, he found the street entirely deserted. Then hastily stepping up, he put the key into the keyhole, and at once opened the door and walked in. He paused a moment or two, and then went down the passage a few feet, until he came to the body for which he felt with his foot. Ah, he muttered, I see all is right, quite right, here is the body, nobody has been here to disturb it. He took out materials for obtaining a light, and then he pushed past and walked upstairs until he came to the bedroom where he again opened the strange receptacle of gold and bones. But as he did so, what was his amazement to find a small packet of paper lying down, but all the gold gone? He started up in an instant and laid his hand upon his sword, but at the same time he appeared riveted to the spot and paused in this attitude for more than a minute. Then recovering himself, he gazed around slowly and carefully from side to side as if to assure himself he was not trapped. But hearing no sound, nothing stirring from any quarter whatever, he began to think there might be some mistake in his vision. Surely, surely, he muttered, no one could come in and, seeing the bodies, possessed themselves of the money and then walked out. They would surely have given the alarm, besides anyone who had entered would never have gone further than the bodies. It is impossible, he muttered, and he again stooped down to examine the cupboard from which the treasure appeared to be extracted. But there was nothing to be seen, save the bare boards. No signs of the treasure remained. This was a strange and mysterious disappearance of what could have not gone without human means. How did they get at it? he muttered. The place was locked and in the same order as I left it. There is no getting into such a place without unlocking or forcing open the cupboard, or I may say chest, for this is a strong place. It is not broken open and I have the key. Varney paused for several moments and then he picked up some paper which was folded up and seeing it was written upon, he thrust it into his pocket and again looked into the treasure coffer, but all was gone. D'hum! muttered Varney, furiously stamping his foot as if at that moment only he had become perfectly aware of his disappointment. What can be the meaning of this? But this is no place for me. Someone has been here and the murder is known. I must quit it, eh? At that moment there came such a peel at the door with the knocker that made the house appear as if it were a pandemonium of noises and echoes which followed the first stunning sounds that filled the place. Varney started and listened. Ah! he said. They have tracked me here. What can that mean? Have they indeed laid a trap for me? Do they think I am caught? But no, no, I am too fast. They know me not, nor can they have traced me here, for they know not where I came from and but there it is useless speculating. They may have laid a trap to catch whom they could, or they have seen the light and the house being shut all day. They now want to see if anything is the matter. But I'll warrant all is safe and clear. There is nothing known, and all I have to do is to get away. That was very true. All serfances had to do was to get away, but it was somewhat more difficult to perform than he had any notion. For, as he came out into the landing, what he found there was an unexpected obstacle in his path. As soon as he attempted to descend to the back parlor for the purpose of getting out the back window, he found the door had been burst open by the impatience of the mob who stood below, and the door not being very strong, the shoulders of those who were nearest were sufficient to force it open. In a moment the passage was filled with the crowd, the foremost of whom tumbled over the body and were up in a moment. Good God! exclaimed one. Here is somebody lying down in the passage. It is a corpse, said another. The woman's murdered, said another. Get a light. Get a light and let us see what is the matter. Here is a dead body. A light. Get a light. Can't some of you? Well, I suppose we can, but what of it? I expect it can't be done without giving anybody time to do it in. If you think it can, you had better do it yourself, and perhaps you'll begin now. However, there was a light produced, and that put an end to the altercation, and silence was immediately restored when they saw the congealed blood and the body lying in it, and then one on pushing his way into the parlor exclaimed. And here's the old woman. She's dead and cold. She's murdered. Yes, there's no doubt about that, poor creatures, and no one at hand to lend them any assistance. What a horrible affair. Yes, horrible, but who's done it? There are rooms upstairs. They had better be searched. Let's go up at once. Aye, aye! Sir Francis waited not a moment more. He had heard enough to convince him his only chance was to escape while he could, for if they once seized him under such circumstances, he would not be able to escape again, and he immediately rushed to the back window. But there was no balcony there. He could not get out there, so came to the landing, and just reached the short steps that led to the roof, and there had scarcely got the trap door unbolted when he heard a voice say, Upstairs, lad, upstairs. I hear somebody there trying to get out. Upstairs, lads, and follow him. Upstairs. There was a shout, and then all rushed upstairs, and Varney had scarcely got into the loft when someone called out. I see his legs. He's got into the loft. Up the steps. Hurrah! Hurrah! Up the steps, my boys! Follow me! said one man, as he got on the landing and ran to seize the ladder. But Varney saw the necessity of preventing immediate and hot pursuit, lest he should be recognized and followed to the hotel, when that would be death to his hopes. Just as the man had reached the ladder, Varney lifted it off the hooks upon which it hung, and flung it back against the man who fell back, and he, with the fallen ladder, created a dreadful confusion amongst those who were coming upstairs, many being knocked down, and the remainder retreated, thinking that at least there were a battalion of murderers. This gave Varney time to get to the roof, and then he crept along several housetops without being discovered, though he could hear the shouts and hum of the mob as they gathered round the house he had left. Then, how to get out of his present position was a question he was not well able to tell. He must let himself out through some of the houses, and to do that without raising a hue and cry was a question he was not able to solve. Once or twice he thought of letting himself down from the outside, but this he gave up as being impossible for destruction to himself would be the instant result. I must get into one of these houses and remain concealed, he thought, till the dead of the night, and then I could get through the house without any trouble or fear of detection, but then the phrasers I must not disappoint them. This last consideration appeared to determine him, for he immediately crawled to one house that appeared to be the best calculated for his purpose, and he had once entered it by means of a small window that belonged to an attic. In this room was to be seen only a bed and a few chairs and a table. All was silent, no one was moving. He stepped up to the bed, but was somewhat startled to find it occupied by some odd looking human form wrapped up in a curious and uninviting manner. Ah, thought Varney, I didn't think to have found anyone in possession of this place so early, but they sleep and that is enough. He had scarce said so when a voice said, Nurse, nurse, confound you, why don't you bring my poset? Do you hear, cuss you? Here I have been kept here for two hours without my supper, and what you gave me last night had no rum in it. How's a man to get well and kept upon short allowance? I tell you it cannot be done, not by any price. Will you bring me my grog poset or won't you? You in human wretch to keep an old sailor upon short allowance of grog and won't give him any except in the shape of a poset. This was pathetic, but Varney paid no attention to it and gently glided out of the room. When he quitted the apartment, he descended the stairs, and then he came to the passage or hall when he was met by a stout female. Whom do you want? exclaimed the fat female. Madam, said Varney, are you aware of the calamity that has befallen you? No, sir, what, what is it? The lunatic in the top room has in a fit of malignity set the upper part of your house in flames. You had better take care of yourself. Oh, my God! The house is on fire! said the fat woman. Oh, mercy, mercy! Fire, fire, fire! The house is a fire! Varney turned round and opened the door, just as several people were rushing out of their rooms, adhering these alarming exclamations. That will do, muttered Varney, as he closed the door behind him, and then walked hastily towards the hotel, to which, however, he did not go quite straight. He went a little on one side to avoid meeting the crowd, as being an unpleasant mass of human creatures which are singularly unpleasant to meet with, leaving them to secure themselves and find the murderer if they were able to do so. End of chapter 152. Recording by Tricia G.