XCIV. THE VISITOR, AND THE DEATH IN THE SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGE…

XCIV. THE VISITOR, AND THE DEATH IN THE SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGE

About an hour and a half after the baron had retired to rest, and while the landlord was still creeping about enjoining silence on the part of the establishment, so that the slumbers of a wealthy and, no doubt, illustrious personage should not be disturbed, there arrived a horseman at the Anderbury Arms.

He was rather a singular-looking man, with a shifting, uneasy-looking glance, as if he were afraid of being suddenly pounced upon and surprised by some one; and although his apparel was plain, yet it was good in quality, and his whole appearance was such as to induce respectful attention.

The only singular circumstance was, that such a traveller, so well mounted, should be alone; but that might have been his own fancy, so that the absence of an attendant went for nothing. Doubtless, if the whole inn had not been in such a commotion about the illustrious and wealthy baron, this stranger would have received more consideration and attention than he did.

Upon alighting, he walked at once into what is called the coffee-room of the hotel, and after ordering some refreshments, of which he partook but sparingly, he said, in a mild but solemn sort of tone, to the waiter who attended upon him,—

“Tell the Baron Stolmuyer, of Saltzburgh, that there is one here who wants to see him.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the waiter, “but the baron is gone to bed.”

“It matters not to me. If you nor no one else in this establishment will deliver the message I charge you with, I must do so myself.”

“I’ll speak to my master, sir; but the baron is a very great gentleman indeed, and I don’t think my master would like to have him disturbed.”

The stranger hesitated for a time, and then he said,—

“Show me the baron’s apartment. Perhaps I ought not to ask any one person connected with this establishment to disturb him, when I am quite willing to do so myself. Show me the way.”

“Well, but, sir, the baron may get in a rage, and say, very naturally, that we had no business to let anybody walk up to his room and disturb him, because we wouldn’t do so ourselves. So that you see, sir, when you come to consider, it hardly seems the right sort of thing.”

“Since,” said the stranger, rising, “I cannot procure even the common courtesy of being shown to the apartment of the person whom I seek, I must find him myself.”

As he spoke he walked out of the room, and began ascending the staircase, despite the remonstrances of the waiter, who called after him repeatedly, but could not induce him to stop; and when he found that such was the case, he made his way to the landlord, to give the alarm that, for all he knew to the contrary, some one had gone up stairs to murder the baron.

This information threw the landlord into such a fix, that he knew not what to be at. At one moment he was for rushing up stairs and endeavouring to interfere, and at another he thought the best plan would be to pretend that he knew nothing about it.

While he was in this state of uncertainty, the stranger succeeded in making his way up stairs to the floor from which proceeded the bedrooms, and, apparently, having no fear whatever of the Baron Stolmuyer’s indignation before his eyes, he opened door after door, until he came to one which led him into the apartment occupied by that illustrious individual.

The baron, half undressed only, lay in an uneasy slumber upon the bed, and the stranger stood opposite to him for some minutes, as if considering what he should do.

“It would be easy,” he said, “to kill him; but it will pay me better to spare him. I may be wrong in supposing that he has the means which I hope he has; but that I shall soon discover by his conversation.”

Stretching out his hand, he tapped the baron lightly on the shoulder, who thereupon opened his eyes and sprang to his feet instantly, glancing with fixed earnestness at the intruder, upon whose face shone the light of a lamp which was burning in the apartment.

Then the baron shrunk back, and the stranger, folding his arms, said,—

“You know me. Let our interview be as brief as possible. There needs no explanations between us, for we both know all that could be said. By some accident you have become rich, while I continue quite otherwise. It matters not how this has occurred, the fact is everything. I don’t know the amount of your possessions; but, from your style of living, they must be great, and therefore it is that I make no hesitation in asking of you, as a price for not exposing who and what you are, a moderate sum.”

“I thought that you were dead.”

“I know you did; but you behold me here, and, consequently, that delusion vanishes.”

“What sum do you require, and what assurance can I have that, when you get it, the demand will not be repeated on the first opportunity?”

“I can give you no such assurance, perhaps, that would satisfy you entirely; but, for more reasons than I choose to enter into, I am extremely anxious to leave England at once and forever. Give me the power to do so that I require, and you will never hear of me again.”

The baron hesitated for some few seconds, during which he looked scrutinizingly at his companion, and then he said, in a tone of voice that seemed as if he were making the remark to himself rather than to the other,—

“You look no older than you did when last we parted, and that was years ago.”

“Why should I look older? You know as well as I that I need not. But, to be brief, I do not wish to interfere with any plans or projects you may have on hand. I do not wish to be a hindrance to you. Let me have five thousand pounds, and I am off at once and forever, I tell you.”

“Five thousand! the man raves—five thousand pounds! Say one thousand, and it is yours.”

“No; I have fixed my price; and if you do not consent, I now tell you that I will blazon forth, even in this house, who and what you are; and, let your schemes of ambition or of cupidity be what they may, you may be assured that I will blast them all.”

“This is no place in which to argue such a point; come out into the open air; ‘walls have ears;’ but come out, and I will give you such special reasons why you should not now press your claim at all, that you shall feel much beholden to me for them, and not regret your visit.”

“If that we come to terms, I no more desire than you can do that any one should overhear our conversation. I prefer the open air for any conference, be it whatever it may—much prefer it; and therefore most willingly embrace your proposition. Come out.”

The baron put on his travelling cap, and the rich velvet cloak, edged with fur, that he possessed, and leaving his chamber a few paces in advance of his strange visitor, he descended the staircase, followed by him. In the hall of the hotel they found the landlord and almost the whole of the establishment assembled, in deep consultation as to whether or not any one was to go up stairs and ascertain if the stranger who had sought the baron’s chamber was really a friend or an enemy.

But when they saw the two men coming down, at all events apparently amicably, it was a great relief, and the landlord rushed forward and opened the door, for which piece of service he got a very stately bow from the baron, and a slight inclination of the head from his visitor, and then they both passed out.

“I have ascertained,” said the man who came on horseback, “that for the last week in London you have lived in a style of the most princely magnificence, and that you came down here, attended as if you were one of the first nobles of the land.”

“These things amuse the vulgar,” said the baron. “I do not mind admitting to you that I contemplate residing on this spot, and perhaps contracting a marriage.”

“Another marriage?”

“And why not? If wives will die suddenly, and no one knows why, who is to help it. I do not pretend to control the fates.”

“This, between us, is idle talk indeed—most idle; for we know there are certain circumstances which account for the strangest phenomena; but what roaring sound is that which comes so regularly and steadily upon the ear.”

“It is the sea washing upon the coast. The tide is no doubt advancing, and, as the eddying surges roll in upon the pebbly shore, they make what, to my mind, is this pleasant music.”

“I did not think we were so near the ocean. The moon is rising; let us walk upon the beach, and as that sound is such pleasant music, you shall hear it while I convince you what unpleasant consequences will arise from a refusal of the modest and moderate terms I offer you.”

“We shall see, we shall see; but I must confess it does seem to me most extraordinary that you ask of me a positive fortune, for fear you should deprive me of a portion of one; but you cannot mean what you say.”

While they were talking they reached a long strip of sand which was by the seashore, at the base of some cliffs, through which was excavated the passage from the coast into the grounds of Anderbury House, and which had been so expatiated upon by the landlord of the inn, in his description of the advantages attendant upon that property.

There were some rude steps, leading to a narrow arched door-way, which constituted an entrance to this subterraneous region; and as the moonlight streamed over the wide waste of waters, and fell upon this little door-way in the face of the cliff, he became convinced that it was the entrance to that excavation, and he eyed it curiously.

“What place is that?” said his companion.

“It is a private entrance to the grounds of a mansion in this neighbourhood.”

“Private enough, I should presume; for if there be any other means of reaching the house, surely no one would go through such a dismal hole as that towards it; but come, make up your mind at once. There need be no quarrelling upon the subject of our conference, but let it be a plain matter of yes or no. Is it worth your while to be left alone in peace, or is it not?”

“It is worth my while, but not at such a price as that you mentioned; and I cannot help thinking that some cheaper mode of accomplishing the same object will surely present itself very shortly.”

“I do not understand you; you talk ambiguously.”

“But my acts,” said the baron, “shall be clear and plain enough, as you shall see. Could you believe it possible that I was the sort of person to submit tamely to any amount of extortion you chose to practise upon me. There was a time when I thought you possessed great sense and judgment, when I thought that you were a man who weighed well the chances of what you were about; but now I know to the contrary; and I think for less than a thousand pounds I may succeed in ridding myself of you.”

“I do not understand you; you had better beware how you tamper with me, for I am not one who will be calmly disposed to put up with much. The sense, tact, and worldly knowledge which you say you have before, from time to time, given me credit for, belongs to me still, and I am not likely easily to commit myself.”

“Indeed; do you think you bear such a charmed life that nothing can shake it?”

“I think nothing of the sort; but I know what I can do—I am armed.”

“And I; and since it comes to this, take the reward of your villany; for it was you who made me what I am, and would now seek to destroy my every hope of satisfaction.”

As the baron spoke he drew from his breast a small pistol, which, with the quickness of thought, he held full in the face of his companion, and pulled the trigger.

There can be no doubt on earth that his intention was to commit the murder, but the pistol missed fire, and he was defeated in his intention at that moment. Then the stranger laughed scornfully, and drawing a pistol from his pocket, he presented it at the baron’s head, saying,—

“Do I not bear a charmed life? If I had not, should I have escaped death from you now? No, I could not; but you perceive that even a weapon that might not fail you upon another occasion is harmless against me; and can you expect that I will hesitate now to take full and ample revenge upon you for this dastardly attempt?”

These words were spoken with great volubility, so much so, indeed, that they only occupied a few very brief seconds in delivering; and then, perhaps, the baron’s career might have ended, for it seemed to be fully the intention of the other to conclude what he said by firing the pistol in his face; but the wily aspect of the baron’s countenance was, after all, but a fair index of the mind, and, just as the last words passed the lips of his irritated companion, he suddenly dropped in a crouching position to the ground, and, seizing his legs, threw him over his head in an instant.

The pistol was discharged, at the same moment, and then, with a shout of rage and satisfaction, the baron sprang upon his foe, and, kneeling upon his breast, he held aloft in his hand a glittering dagger, the highly-polished blade of which caught the moonbeams, and reflected them into the dazzled eyes of the conquered man, whose fate now appeared to be certain.

“Fool!” said the baron, “you must needs, then, try conclusions with me, and, not content with the safety of insignificance, you must be absurd enough to think it possible you could extort from me whatever sums your fancy dictated, or with any effect threaten me, if I complied not with your desires.”

“Have mercy upon me. I meant not to take your life; and, therefore, why should you take mine?”

“You would have taken it, and, therefore, you shall die. Know, too, as this is your last moment, that, vampyre as you are, and as I, of all men, best know you to be, I will take especial care that you shall be placed in some position after death where the revivifying moonbeams may not touch you, so that this shall truly be your end, and you shall rot away, leaving no trace behind of your existence, sufficient to contain the vital principle.”

“No—no! you cannot—will not. You will have mercy.”

“Ask the famished tiger for mercy, when you intrude upon his den.”

As he spoke the baron ground his teeth together with rage, and, in an instant, buried the poniard in the throat of his victim. The blade went through to the yellow sand beneath, and the murderer still knelt upon the man’s chest, while he who had thus received so fatal a blow tossed his arms about with agony, and tried in vain to shriek.

The nature of the wound, however, prevented him from uttering anything but a low gurgling sound, for he was nearly choked with his own blood, and soon his eyes became fixed and of a glassy appearance; he stretched out his two arms, and dug his fingers deep into the sand.

The baron drew forth the poniard, and a gush of blood immediately followed it, and then one deep groan testified to the fact, that the spirit, if there be a spirit, had left its mortal habitation, and winged its flight to other realms, if there be other realms for it to wing its flight to.

“He is dead,” said the baron, and, at the same moment, a roll of the advancing tide swept over the body, drenching the living, as well as the dead, with the brine of the ocean.

The baron stooped and rinsed the dagger in the advancing tide from the clotted blood which had clung to it, and then, wiping it carefully, he returned it to its sheath, which was hidden within the folds of his dress; and, rising from his kneeling posture upon the body, he stood by its side, with folded arms, gazing upon it, for some minutes, in silence, heedless of the still advancing water, which was already considerably above his feet.

Then he spoke in his ordinary accents, and evidently caring nothing for the fact that he had done such a deed.

“I must dispose of this carcass,” he said, “which now seems so lifeless, for the moon is up, and if its beams fall upon it, I know, from former experience, what will happen; it will rise again, and walk the earth, seeking for vengeance upon me, and the thirst for that vengeance will become such a part of its very nature, that it will surely accomplish something, if not all that it desires.”

After a few moments’ consideration, he stooped, and, with more strength than one would have thought it possible a man reduced almost, as he was, to a skeleton could have exerted, he lifted the body, and carried it rapidly up the beach towards the cliffs. He threw it down upon the stone steps that led to the small door of the excavation in the cliff, and it fell upon them with a sickening sound, as if some of the bones were surely broken by the fall.

The object, then, of the baron seemed to be to get this door open, if he possibly could; but that was an object easier to be desired than carried into effect, for, although he exerted his utmost power, he did not succeed in moving it an inch, and he began evidently to think that it would be impossible to do so.

But yet he did not give up the attempt at once, but looking about upon the beach, until he found a large heavy stone, he raised it in his arms, and, approaching the door, he flung it against it with such tremendous force, that it flew open instantly, disclosing within a dark and narrow passage.

Apparently rejoiced that he had accomplished this much, he stepped cautiously within the entrance, and then, taking from a concealed pocket that was in the velvet cloak which he wore a little box, he produced from it some wax-lights and some chemical matches, which, by the slightest effort, he succeeded in igniting, and then, with one of the lights in his hand to guide him on his way, he went on exploring the passage, and treading with extreme caution as he went, for fear of falling into any of the ice-wells which were reported to be in that place.

After proceeding about twenty yards, and finding that there was no danger, he became less cautious; but, in consequence of such less caution, he very nearly sacrificed his life, for he came upon an ice-well which seemed a considerable depth, and into which he had nearly plunged headlong.

He started back with some degree of horror; but that soon left him, and then, after a moment’s thought, he sought for some little nook in the wall, in which he might place the candle, and soon finding one that answered the purpose well, he there left it, having all the appearance of a little shrine, while he proceeded again to the mouth of that singular and cavernous-looking place. He had, evidently, quite made up his mind what to do, for, without a moment’s hesitation, he lifted the body again, and carried it within the entrance, walking boldly and firmly, now that he knew there was no danger between him and the light, which shed a gleam through the darkness of the place of a very faint and flickering character.

He reached it rapidly, and when he got to the side of the well, he, without a moment’s hesitation, flung it headlong down, and, listening attentively, he heard it fall with a slight plash, as if there was some water at the bottom of the pit.

It was an annoyance, however, for him to find that the distance was not so deep as he had anticipated, and when he took the light from the niche where he had placed it, and looked earnestly down, he could see the livid, ghastly-looking face of the dead man, for the body had accidentally fallen upon its back, which was a circumstance he had not counted upon, and one which increased the chances greatly of its being seen, should any one be exploring, from curiosity, that not very inviting place.

This was annoyance, but how could it be prevented, unless, indeed, he chose to descend, and make an alteration in the disposition of the corpse? But this was evidently what he did not choose to do; so, after muttering to himself a few words expressive of his intention to leave it where it was, he replaced the candle, after extinguishing it, in the box from whence he had taken it, and carefully walked out of the dismal place.

The moonbeams were shining very brightly and beautifully upon the face of the cliffs, when he emerged from the subterranean passage, so that he could see the door, the steps, and every object quite distinctly; and, to his gratification, he found that he had not destroyed any fastening that was to the door, but that when it was slammed shut, it struck so hard and fast, that the strength of one man could not possibly move it, even the smallest fraction of an inch.

“I shall be shown all this to-morrow,” he said; “and if I take this house I must have an alteration made in this door, so that it may open with a lock, instead of by main violence, as at present; but if, in the morning, when I view Anderbury House, I can avoid an entrance into this region, I will do so, and at my leisure, if I become the possessor of the estate, I can explore every nook and cranny of it.”

He then folded his cloak about him, after pulling the door as closely as he could. He walked slowly and thoughtfully back to the inn. It was quite evident that the idea of the murder he had committed did not annoy him in the least, and that in his speculations upon the subject he congratulated himself much upon having so far succeeded in getting rid of certainly a most troublesome acquaintance.

“’Tis well, indeed,” he said, “that just at this juncture he should throw himself in my way, and enable me so easy to feel certain that I shall never more be troubled with him. Truly, I ran some risk, and when my pistol missed fire, it seemed as if my evil star was in its ascendant, and that I was doomed myself to become the victim of him whom I have laid in so cold a grave. But I have been victorious, and I am willing to accept the circumstance as an omen of the past—that my fortunes are on the change. I think I shall be successful now, and with the ample means which I now possess, surely, in this country, where gold is loved so well, I shall be able to overcome all difficulties, and to unite myself to some one, who—but no matter, her fate is an after consideration.”

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XCV. THE MARRIAGE IN THE BANNERWORTH FAMILY ARRANGED

After the adventure of the doctor with regard to the picture about which such an air of mystery and interest has been thrown, the Bannerworth family began to give up all hopes of ever finding a clue to those circumstances concerning which they would certainly have liked to have known the truth, but of which it was not likely they would ever hear anything more.

Dr. Chillingworth now had no reserve, and when he had recovered sufficiently to feel that he could converse without an effort, he took an opportunity, while the whole of the family were present, to speak of what had been his hopes and his expectations.

“You are all aware,” he said, “now, of the story of Marmaduke Bannerworth, and what an excessively troublesome person he was, with all deference, to you, Henry; first of all, as to spending all his money at the gaming-table, and leaving his family destitute; and then, when he did get a lump of money which might have done some good to those he left behind him—hiding it somewhere where it could not be found at all, and so leaving you all in great difficulty and distress, when you might have been independent.”

“That’s true enough, doctor,” said Henry; “but you know the old proverb,—that ill-gotten wealth never thrives; so that I don’t regret not finding this money, for I am sure we should have been none the happier with it, and perhaps not so happy.”

“Oh, bother the old proverb; thirty or forty thousand pounds is no trifle to be talked lightly of, or the loss of which to be quietly put up with, on account of a musty proverb. It’s a large sum, and I should like to have placed it in your hands.”

“But as you cannot, doctor, there can be no good possibly done by regretting it.”

“No, certainly; I don’t mean that; utter regret is always a very foolish thing; but it’s questionable whether something might not be done in the matter, after all, for you, as it appears, by all the evidence we can collect, that it must have been Varney, after all, who jumped down upon me from the garden-wall in so sudden a manner; and, if the picture be valuable to him, it must be valuable to us.”

“But how are we to get it, and if we could, I do not see that it would be of much good to anybody, for, after all, it is but a painting.”

“There you go again,” said the doctor, “depreciating what you know nothing about; now, listen to me, Master Henry, and I will tell you. That picture evidently had some sort of lining at the back, over the original canvas; and do you think I would have taken such pains to bring it away with me if that lining had not made me suspect that between it and the original picture the money, in bank notes, was deposited?”

“Had you any special reason for supposing such was the case?”

“Yes; most unquestionably I had; for when I got the picture fairly down, I found various inequalities in the surface of the back, which led me to believe that rolls of notes were deposited, and that the great mistake we had all along made was in looking behind the picture, instead of at the picture itself. I meant immediately to have cut it to pieces when I reached here with it; but now it has got into the hands of somebody else, who knows, I suspect, as much I do.”

“It is rather provoking.”

“Rather provoking! is that the way to talk of the loss of Heaven knows how many thousands of pounds! I am quite aggravated myself at the idea of the thing, and it puts me in a perfect fever to think of it, I can assure you.”

“But what can we do?”

“Oh! I propose an immediate crusade against Varney, the vampyre, for who but he could have made such an attack upon me, and force me to deliver up such a valuable treasure?”

“Never heed it, doctor,” said Flora; “let it go; we have never had or enjoyed that money, so it cannot matter, and it is not to be considered as the loss of an actual possession, because we never did actually possess it.”

“Yes,” chimed in the admiral; “bother the money! what do we care about it; and, besides, Charley Holland is going to be very busy.”

“Busy!” said the doctor, “how do you mean?”

“Why, isn’t he going to be married directly to Flora, here, and am not I going to settle the whole of my property upon him on condition that he takes the name of Bell instead of Holland? for, you see, his mother was my sister, and of course her name was Bell. As for his father Holland, it can’t matter to him now what Charley is called; and if he don’t take the name of Bell I shall be the last in the family, for I am not likely to marry, and have any little Bells about me.”

“No,” said the doctor; “I should say not; and that’s the reason why you want to ring the changes upon Charles Holland’s name. Do you see the joke, admiral?”

“I can’t say I do—where is it? It’s all very well to talk of jokes, but if I was like Charles, going to be married, I shouldn’t be in any joking humour, I can tell you, but quite the reverse; and as for you and your picture, if you want it, doctor, just run after Varney yourself for it; or, stay—I have a better idea than that—get your wife to go and ask him for it, and if she makes half such a clamour about his ears that she did about ours, he will give it her in a minute, to get rid of her.”

“My wife!—you don’t mean to say she has been here?”

“Yes, but she has though. And now, doctor, I can tell you I have seen a good deal of service in all parts of the world, and, of course, picked up a little experience; and, if I were you, some of these days, when Mrs. Chillingworth ain’t very well, I’d give her a composing draught that would make her quiet enough.”

“Ah! that’s not my style of practice, admiral; but I am sorry to hear that Mrs. Chillingworth has annoyed you so much.”

“Pho, pho, man!—pho, pho! do you think she could annoy me? Why, I have encountered storms and squalls in all latitudes, and it isn’t a woman’s tongue now that can do anything of an annoying character, I can tell you; far from it—very far from it; so don’t distress yourself upon that head. But come, doctor, we are going to have the wedding the day after to-morrow.”

“No, no,” said Flora; “the week after next, you mean.”

“Is it the week after next? I’ll be hanged if I didn’t think it was the day after to-morrow; but of course you know best, as you have settled it all among you. I have nothing to do with it.”

“Of course, I shall, with great pleasure,” returned the doctor, “be present on the interesting occasion; but do you intend taking possession of Bannerworth Hall again?”

“No, certainly not,” said Henry; “we propose going to the Dearbrook estate, and there remaining for a time to see how we all like it. We may, perchance, enjoy it very much, for I have heard it spoken of as an attractive little property enough, and one that any one might fancy, after being resident a short time upon it.”

“Well,” said the admiral; “that is, I believe, settled among us, but I am sure we sha’n’t like it, on account of the want of the sea. Why, I tell you, I have not seen a ship myself for this eighteen months; there’s a state of things, you see, that won’t do to last, because one would get dry-mouldy; it’s a shocking thing to see nothing but land, land, wherever you go.”

From the preceding conversation may be gathered what were the designs of the Bannerworth family, and what progress had been made in carrying them out. From the moment they had discovered the title-deeds of the Dearbrook property, they had ceased to care about the large sum of money which Marmaduke Bannerworth had been supposed to have hidden in some portion of Bannerworth Hall.

They had already passed through quite enough of the busy turmoils of existence to be grateful for anything that promised ease and competence, and that serenity of mind which is the dearest possession which any one can compass.

Consequently was it, that, with one accord, they got rid of all yearning after the large sum which the doctor was so anxious to procure for them, and looked forward to a life of great happiness and contentment. On the whole, too, when they came to talk the matter over quietly among themselves, they were not sorry that Varney had taken himself off in the way he had, for really it was a great release; and, as he had couched his farewell in words which signified it was a final one, they were inclined to think that he must have left England, and that it was not likely they should ever again encounter him, under any circumstances whatever.

It was to be considered quite as a whim of the old admiral’s, the changing of Charles Holland’s name to Bell; but, as Charles himself said when the subject was broached to him,—“I am so well content to be called whatever those to whom I feel affection think proper, that I give up my name of Holland without a pang, willingly adopting in its stead one that has always been hallowed in my remembrance with the best and kindest recollections.”

And thus this affair was settled, much to the satisfaction of Flora, who was quite as well content to be called Mrs. Bell as to be called Mrs. Holland, since the object of her attachment remained the same. The wedding was really fixed for the week after that which followed the conversation we have recorded; but the admiral was not at all disposed to allow Flora and his nephew Charles to get through such an important period of their lives without some greater demonstration and show than could be made from the little cottage where they dwelt; and consequently he wished that they should leave that and proceed at once to a larger mansion, which he had his eye upon a few miles off, and which was to be had furnished for a time, at the pleasure of any one.

“And we won’t shut ourselves up,” said the admiral; “but we will find out all the Christian-like people in the neighbourhood, and invite them to the wedding, and we will have a jolly good breakfast together, and lots of music, and a famous lunch; and, after that, a dinner, and then a dance, and all that sort of thing; so that there shall be no want of fun.”

As may be well supposed, both Charles and Flora shrunk from so public an affair; but, as the old man had evidently set his heart upon it, they did not like to say they positively would not; so, after a vain attempt to dissuade him from removing at all from the cottage until they removed for good, they gave up the point to him, and he had it all his own way.

He took the house, for one month, which had so taken his fancy, and certainly a pretty enough place it was, although they found out afterwards, that why it was he was so charmed with it consisted in the fact that it bore the name of a vessel which he had once commanded; but this they did not know until a long time afterwards, when it slipped out by mere accident.

They stipulated with the admiral that there should not be more than twenty guests at the breakfast which was to succeed the marriage ceremony; and to that he acceded; but Henry whispered to Charles Holland,—

“I know this public wedding to be distasteful to you, and most particularly do I know it is distasteful to Flora; so, if you do not mind playing a trick upon the old man, I can very easily put you in the way of cheating him entirely.”

“Indeed; I should like to hear, and, what is more, I should like to practise, if you think it will not so entirely offend him as to make him implacable.”

“Not at all, not at all; he will laugh himself, when he comes to know it, as much as any of us; the present difficulty will be to procure Flora’s connivance; but that we must do the best way we can by persuasion.”

What this scheme was will ultimately appear; but, certain it is, that the old admiral had no suspicion of what was going on, and proceeded to make all his arrangements accordingly.

From his first arrival in the market town—in the neighbourhood of which was Bannerworth Hall—it will be recollected that he had taken a great fancy to the lawyer, in whose name a forged letter had been sent him, informing him of the fact that his nephew, Charles Holland, intended marrying into a family of vampyres.

It was this letter, as the reader is aware, which brought the old admiral and Jack Pringle into the neighbourhood of the Hall; and, although it was a manœuvre to get rid of Charles Holland, which failed most signally, there can be no doubt but that such a letter was the production of Sir Francis Varney, and that he wrote it for the express purpose of getting rid of Charles from the Hall, who had begun materially to interfere with his plans and projects there.

After some conversation with himself, the admiral thought that this lawyer would be just the man to recommend the proper sort of people to be invited to the wedding of Charles and Flora; so he wrote to him, inviting himself to dinner, and received back a very gracious reply from the lawyer, who declared that the honour of entertaining a gentleman whom he so much respected as Admiral Bell, was greater than he had a right to expect by a great deal, and that he should feel most grateful for his company, and await his coming with the greatest impatience.

“A devilish civil fellow, that attorney,” said the admiral, as he put the letter in his pocket, “and almost enough to put one in conceit of lawyers.”

“Yes,” said Jack Pringle, who had overheard the admiral read the letter. “Yes, we will honour him; and I only hope he will have plenty of grog; because, you see, if he don’t——D—n it! what’s that? Can’t you keep things to yourself?”

This latter exclamation arose from the fact that the admiral was so indignant at Jack for listening to what he had been saying, as to throw a leaden inkstand, that happened to be upon the table, at his head.

“You mutinous swab!” he said, “cannot a gentleman ask me to dinner, or cannot I ask myself, without you putting your spoke in the windlass, you vagabond?”

“Oh! well,” said Jack, “if you are out of temper about it, I had better send my mark to the lawyer, and tell him that we won’t come, as it has made some family differences.”

“Family, you thief!” said the admiral. “What do you mean? What family do you think would own you? D—n me, if I don’t think you came over in some strange ship. But, I tell you what it is, if you interfere in this matter, I’ll be hanged if I don’t blow your brains out.”

“And you’ll be hanged if you do,” said Jack, as he walked out of the room; “so it’s all one either way, old fizgig.”

“What!” roared the admiral, as he sprang up and ran after Jack. “Have I lived all these years to be called names in my own ship—I mean my own house? What does the infernal rascal mean by it?”

The admiral, no doubt, would have pursued Jack very closely, had not Flora intercepted him, and, by gentle violence, got him back to the room. No one else could have ventured to have stopped him, but the affection he had for her was so great that she could really accomplish almost anything with him; and, by listening quietly to his complaints of Jack Pringle—which, however, involved a disclosure of the fact which he had intended to keep to himself, that he had sought the lawyer’s advice—she succeeded in soothing him completely, so that he forgot his anger in a very short time.

But the old man’s anger, although easily aroused, never lasted very long; and, upon the whole, it was really astonishing what he put up with from Jack Pringle, in the way of taunts and sneers, of all sorts and descriptions, and now and then not a little real abuse.

And, probably, he thought likewise that Jack Pringle did not mean what he said, on the same principle that he (the admiral), when he called Jack a mutinous swab and a marine, certainly did not mean that Jack was those things, but merely used them as expletives to express a great amount of indignation at the moment, because, as may be well supposed, nothing in the world could be worse, in Admiral Bell’s estimation, than to be a mutinous swab or a marine.

It was rather a wonder, though, that, in his anger some day, he did not do Jack some mischief; for, as we have had occasion to notice in one or two cases, the admiral was not extremely particular as to what sorts of missiles he used when he considered it necessary to throw something at Jack’s head.

It would not have been a surprising thing if Jack had really made some communication to the lawyer; but he did stop short at that amount of pleasantry, and, as he himself expressed it, for once in a way he let the old man please himself.

The admiral soon forgot this little dispute, and then pleased himself with the idea that he should pass a pleasant day with the attorney.

“Ah! well,” he said; “who would have thought that ever I should have gone and taken dinner with a lawyer—and not only done that, but invited myself too! It shows us all that there may be some good in all sorts of men, lawyers included; and I am sure, after this, I ought to begin to think what I never thought before, and that is, that a marine may actually be a useful person. It shows that, as one gets older, one gets wiser.”

It was an immense piece of liberality for a man brought up, as Admiral Bell had been, in decidedly one of the most prejudiced branches of the public service, to make any such admissions as these. A very great thing it was, and showed a liberality of mind such as, even at the present time, is not readily found.

It is astonishing, as well as amusing, to find how the mind assimilates itself to the circumstances in which it is placed, and how society, being cut up into small sections, imagines different things merely as a consequence of their peculiar application. We shall find that even people, living at different ends of a city, will look with a sort of pity and contempt upon each other; and it is much to be regretted that public writers are found who use what little ability they may possess in pandering to their feelings.

It was as contemptible and silly as it was reprehensible for a late celebrated novelist to pretend that he believed there was a place called Bloomsbury-square, but he really did not know; because that was merely done for the purpose of raising a silly laugh among persons who were neither respectable on account of their abilities or their conduct.

But to return from this digression. The admiral, attired in his best suit, which always consisted of a blue coat, the exact colour of the navy uniform, an immense pale primrose coloured waistcoat, and white kerseymere continuations, went to the lawyer’s as had been arranged.

If anything at all could flatter the old man’s vanity successfully, it certainly would be the manner in which he was received at the lawyer’s house, where everything was done that could give him satisfaction.

A very handsome repast was laid before him, and, when the cloth was removed, the admiral broached the subject upon which he wished to ask the advice of his professional friend. After telling him of the wedding that was to come off, he said,—

“Now, I have bargained to invite twenty people; and, of course, as that is exclusive of any of the family, and as I don’t know any people about this neighbourhood except yourself, I want you and your family to come to start with, and then I want you to find me out some more decent people to make up the party.”

“I feel highly flattered,” said the attorney, “that, in such a case as this, you should have come to me, and my only great fear is, that I should not be able to give you satisfaction.”

“Oh! you needn’t be afraid of that; there is no fear on that head; so I shall leave it all to you to invite the folks that you think proper.”

“I will endeavour, certainly, admiral, to do my best. Of course, living in the town, as I have for many years, I know some very nice people as well as some very queer ones.”

“Oh! we don’t want any of the queer ones; but let those who are invited be frank, hearty, good-tempered people, such as one will be glad to meet over and over again without any ceremony—none of your simpering people, who are afraid to laugh for fear of opening their mouths too wide, but who are so mighty genteel that they are afraid to enjoy anything for fear it should be vulgar.”

“I understand you, admiral, perfectly, and shall endeavour to obey your instructions to the very letter; but, if I should unfortunately invite anybody you don’t like, you must excuse me for making such a mistake.”

“Oh, of course—of course. Never mind that; and, if any disagreeable fellow comes, we will smother him in some way.”

“It would serve him right, for no one ought to make himself disagreeable, after being honoured with an invitation from you; but I will be most especially careful, and I hope that such a circumstance will not occur.”

“Never mind. If it should, I’ll tell you what I’ll do; I’ll set Jack Pringle upon him, and if he don’t worry his life out it will be a strange thing to me.”

“Oh,” said the lawyer, “I am glad you have mentioned him, for it gives me an opportunity of saying that I have done all in my power to make him comfortable.”

“All in your power to make him comfortable! What do you mean?”

“I mean that I have placed such a dinner before him as will please him; I told him to ask for just whatever he likes.”

The admiral looked at the lawyer with amazement, for a few moments, in silence, and then he said,

“D—n it! why, you don’t mean to tell me, that that rascal is here.”

“Oh, yes; he came about ten minutes I before you arrived, and said you were coming, and he has been down stairs feasting all the while since.”

“Stop a bit. Do you happen to have any loaded fire arms in the house?”

“We have got an old blunderbuss; but what for, admiral?”

“To shoot that scoundrel, Pringle. I’ll blow his brains out, as sure as fate. The impudence of his coming here, directly against my orders, too.”

“My dear sir, calm yourself, and think nothing of it; it’s of no consequence whatever.”

“No consequence; where is that blunderbuss of yours? Do you mean to tell me that mutiny is of no consequence? Give me the blunderbuss.”

“But, my dear sir, we only keep it in terrorem, and have no bullets.”

“Never mind that, we can cram in a handful of nails, or brass buttons, or hammer up a few halfpence—anything of that sort will do to settle his business with.”

“How do you get on, old Tarbarrel?” said Jack, putting his head in at the door. “Are you making yourself comfortable? I’ll be hanged if I don’t think you have a drop too much already, you look so precious red about the gills. I have been getting on famous, and I thought I’d just hop up for a minute to make your mind easy about me, and tell you so.”

It was quite evident that Jack had done justice to the good cheer of the lawyer, for he was rather unsteady, and had to hold by the door-post to support himself, while there was such a look of contentment upon his countenance as contrasted with the indignation that was manifest upon the admiral’s face that, as the saying is, it would have made a cat laugh to see them.

“Be off with ye, Jack,” said the lawyer; “be off with ye. Go down stairs again and enjoy yourself. Don’t you see that the admiral is angry with you.”

“Oh, he be bothered,” said Jack; “I’ll soon settle him if he comes any of his nonsense; and mind, Mr. Lawyer, whatever you do, don’t you give him too much to drink.”

The lawyer ran to the door, and pushed Jack out, for he rightly enough suspected that the quietness of the admiral was only that calm which precedes a storm of more than usual amount and magnitude, so he was anxious to part them at once.

He then set about appeasing, as well as he could, the admiral’s anger, by attributing the perseverance of Jack, in following him wherever he went, to his great affection for him, which, combined with his ignorance, might make him often troublesome when he had really no intention of being so.

This was certainly the best way of appeasing the old man; and, indeed, the only way in which it could be done successfully, and the proof that it was so, consisted in the fact, that the admiral did consent, at the suggestion of the attorney, to forgive Jack once more for the offence he had committed.

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Chapter XCVI

THE BARON TAKES ANDERBURY HOUSE, AND DECIDES UPON GIVING A GRAND ENTERTAINMENT.

It was not considered anything extraordinary that, although the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh went out with the mysterious stranger who had arrived at the Anderbury Arms to see him, he should return without him for certainly he was not bound to bring him back, by any means whatever.

Moreover, he entered the inn so quietly, and with such an appearance of perfect composure, that no one could have suspected for a moment that he had been guilty really of the terrific crime which had been laid to his charge—a crime which few men could have committed in so entirely unmoved and passionless a manner as he had done it.

But he seemed to consider the taking of a human life as a thing not of the remotest consequence, and not to be considered at all as a matter which was to put any one out of the way, but as a thing to be done when necessity required, with all the ease in the world, without arousing or awaking any of those feelings of remorse which one would suppose ought to find a place in the heart of a man who had been guilty of such monstrous behaviour.

He walked up to his own apartment again, and retired to rest with the same feeling, apparently, of calmness, and the same ability to taste of the sweets of repose as had before characterized him.

The stranger’s horse, which was a valuable and beautiful animal, remained in the stable of the inn, and as, of course, that was considered a guarantee for his return, the landlord, when he himself retired to rest, left one of his establishment sitting up to let in the man who now lay so motionless and so frightful in appearance in one of the ice-wells of the mysterious passage leading from the base of the cliff, to the grounds of Anderbury House.

But the night wore on, and the man who had been left to let the stranger in, after making many efforts to keep himself awake, dropped into sound repose, which he might just as well have done in the first instance, inasmuch as, although he knew it not, he was engaged in the vain task of waiting for the dead.

The morning was fresh and beautiful, and, at a far earlier hour than a person of his quality was expected to make his appearance, the baron descended from his chamber; for, somehow or other, by common consent, it seems to be agreed that great personages must be late in rising, and equally late in going to bed.

But the baron was evidently not so disposed to turn night into day, and the landlord congratulated himself not a little upon the fact that he was ready for his illustrious guest when he descended so unexpectedly from his chamber as he did.

An ample breakfast was disposed of; that is to say, it was placed upon the table, and charged to the baron, who selected from it what he pleased; and when the meal was over the landlord ventured to enter the apartment, and said to him, with all due humility,—

“If you please, sir, Mr. Leek, who has the letting of Anderbury-on-the-Mount, that is, Anderbury House, as it is usually called, is here, sir, and would be happy to take your orders as to when you would be pleased to look at those premises?”

“I shall be ready to go in half a hour,” said the baron; “and, as the distance is not great, I will walk from here to the mansion.”

This message was duly communicated to Mr. Leek, who thereupon determined upon waiting until the baron should announce his readiness to depart upon the expedition; and he was as good as his word, for, in about half-an-hour afterwards, he descended to the hall, and then Mr. Leek was summoned, who came out of the bar with such a grand rush, that he fell over a mat that was before him, and saluted the baron by digging his head into his stomach, and then falling sprawling at his feet, and laying hold of his ankle.

This little incident was duly apologised for, and explained; after which Mr. Leek walked on through the town, towards Anderbury-on-the-Mount, followed by the illustrious personage whom he sincerely hoped he should be able to induce to take it.

It was a curious thing to see how they traversed the streets together; for while the baron walked right on, and with a solemn and measured step, Mr. Leek managed to get along a few paces in front of him, sideways, so that he could keep up a sort of conversation upon the merits of Anderbury House, and the neighbourhood in general, without much effort; to which remarks the baron made such suitable and dignified replies as a baron would be supposed to make.

“You will find, sir,” said Mr. Leek, “that everything about Anderbury is extremely select, and amazingly correct; and I am sure a more delightful place to live in could not be found.”

“Ah!” said the baron; “very likely.”

“It’s lively, too,” continued Mr. Leek; “very lively; and there are two chapels of ease, besides the church.”

“That’s a drawback,” said the baron.

“A drawback, sir! well, I am sorry I mentioned it; but perhaps you are a Roman Catholic, sir, and, in that case, the chapels of ease have no interest for you.”

“Not the slightest; but do not, sir, run away with any assumption concerning my religious opinions, for I am not a Roman Catholic.”

“No, sir, no, sir; nor more am I; and, as far as I think, and my opinion goes, I say, why shouldn’t a gentleman with a large fortune be what he likes, or nothing, if he likes that better? but here we are, sir, close to one of the entrances of Anderbury House. There are three principal entrances, you understand, sir, on three sides of the estate, and the fourth side faces the sea, where there is that mysterious passage that leads down from the grounds to the beach, which, perhaps, you have heard of, sir.”

“The landlord of the inn mentioned it.”

“We consider it a great curiosity, sir, I can assure you, in these parts—a very great curiosity; and it’s an immense advantage to the house, because, you see, sir, in extremely hot weather, all sorts of provisions can be taken down there, and kept at such a very low temperature as to be quite delightful.”

“That is an advantage.”

Mr. Leek rang the bell that hung over one of the entrances, and his summons for admission was speedily answered by the old couple who had charge of the premises, and then, with a view of impressing them with a notion of the importance of the personage whom he had brought to look at the place, he said, aloud,—

“The Baron Stoltmayor, of Saltsomething, has come to look at the premises.”

This announcement was received with all due deference and respect, and the task of showing the baron the premises at once fairly commenced.

“Here you have,” said Mr. Leek, assuming an oratorical attitude—“here you have the umbrageous trees stooping down to dip their leaves in the purling waters; here you have the sweet foliage lending a delicious perfume to the balmy air; here you have the murmuring waterfalls playing music of the spheres to the listening birds, who sit responsive upon the dancing boughs; here you have all the fragrance of the briny ocean, mingling with the scent of a bank of violets, and wrapping the senses in Elysium; here you may never tire of an existence that presents never-ending charms, and that, in the full enjoyment of which, you may live far beyond the allotted span of man.”

“Enough—enough,” said the baron.

“Here you have the choicest exotics taking kindly to a soil gifted by nature with the most extraordinary powers of production; and all that can pamper the appetite, or yield delight to the senses, is scattered around by nature with a liberal hand. It is quite impossible that royalty should come near the favoured spot without visiting it as a thing of course; and I forgot to mention that a revenue is derived from some cottages, which, although small, is yet sufficient to pay the tithe on the whole estate.”

“There, there—that will do.”

“Here you have purling rills and cascades, and fish-ponds so redundant with the finny tribe, that you have but to wish for sport, and it is yours; here you have in the mansion, chambers that vie with the accommodation of a palace—ample dormitories and halls of ancient grandeur; here you have——”

“Stop,” said the baron, “stop; I cannot be pestered in this way with your description. I have no patience to listen to such mere words—show me the house at once, and let me judge for myself.”

“Certainly, sir; oh! certainly; only I thought it right to give you a slight description of the place as it really was; and now, sir, that we have reached the house, I may remark that here we have——”

“Silence!” said the baron; “if you begin with here we have, I know not when you will leave off. All I require of you is to show me the place, and to answer any question which I may put to you concerning it. I will draw my own conclusions, and nothing you can say, one way or another, will affect my imagination.”

“Certainly, sir, certainly; I shall only be too happy to answer any questions that may be put to me by a person of your lordship’s great intelligence; and all I can remark is, that when you reach the drawing-room floor, any person may truly say, here you have—I really beg your pardon, sir—I had not the slightest intention of saying here you have, I assure you; but the words came out quite unawares, I assure you.”

“Peace—peace!” cried again the baron; “you disturb me by this incessant clatter.”

Thus admonished, Mr. Leek was now quiet, and allowed the baron in his own way to make what investigation he pleased concerning Anderbury House.

The investigation was not one that could be gone over in ten minutes; for the house was extremely extensive, and the estate altogether presented so many features of beauty and interest, that it was impossible not to linger over it for a considerable period of time.

The grounds were most extensive, and planted with such a regard to order and regularity, everything being in its proper place, that it was a pleasure to see an estate so well kept. And although the baron was not a man who said much, it was quite evident, by what little he did utter, that he was very well pleased with Anderbury-on-the-Mount.

“And now,” said Mr. Leek, “I will do myself the pleasure, sir, of showing your grace the subterranean passage.”

At this moment a loud ring at one of the entrance gates was heard, and upon the man who had charge of the house answering the summons for admission, he found that it was a gentleman, who gave a card on which was the name of Sir John Westlake, and who desired to see the premises.

“Sir John Westlake,” said Mr. Leek; “oh! I recollect he did call at my office, and say that he thought of taking Anderbury-on-the-Mount. A gentleman of great wealth and taste is Sir John, but I must tell him, baron, that you have the preference if you choose to embrace it.”

At this moment the stranger advanced, and when he saw the baron, he bowed courteously, upon which Mr. Leek said,—

“I regret, Sir John, that if you should take a fancy to the place, I am compelled first of all to give this gentleman the refusal of it.”

“Certainly,” said Sir John Westlake; “do not let me interfere with any one. I have nearly made up my mind, and came to look over the property again; but of course, if this gentleman is beforehand with me, I must be content. I wish particularly to go down to the subterranean passage to the beach, if it is not too much trouble.”

“Trouble! certainly not, sir. Here, Davis, get some links, and we can go at once; and as this gentleman likewise has seen everything but that strange excavation, he will probably descend with us.”

“Certainly,” said the baron; “I shall have great pleasure;” and he said it with so free and unembarrassed an air, that no one could have believed for a moment in the possibility that such a subject of fearful interest to him was there to be found.

The entrance from the grounds into this deep cavernous place was in a small but neat building, that looked like a summer-house; and now, torches being procured, and one lit, a door was opened, which conducted at once into the commencement of the excavation; and Mr. Leek heading the way, the distinguished party, as that gentleman loved afterwards to call it in his accounts of the transaction, proceeded into the very bowels of the earth, as it were, and quickly lost all traces of the daylight.

The place did not descend by steps, but by a gentle slope, which it required some caution to traverse, because, being cut in the chalk, which in some places was worn very smooth, it was extremely slippery; but this was a difficulty that a little practice soon overcame, and as they went on the place became more interesting every minute.

Even the baron allowed Mr. Leek to make a speech upon the occasion, and that gentleman said,—

“You will perceive that this excavation must have been made, at a great expense, out of the solid cliff, and in making it some of the most curious specimens of petrifaction and fossil remains were found. You see that the roof is vaulted, and that it is only now and then a lump of chalk has fallen in, or a great piece of flint; and now we come to one of the ice-wells.”

They came to a deep excavation, down which they looked, and when the man held the torch beneath its surface, they could dimly see the bottom of it, where there was a number of large pieces of flint stone, and, apparently, likewise, the remains of broken bottles.

“There used to be a windlass at the top of this,” said Mr. Leek, “and the things were let down in a basket. They do say that ice will keep for two years in one of these places.”

“And are there more of these excavations?” said the baron.

“Oh, dear, yes, sir; there are five or six of them for different purposes; for when the family that used to live in Anderbury House had grand entertainments, which they sometimes had in the summer season, they always had a lot of men down here, cooling wines, and passing them up from hand to hand to the house.”

From the gradual slope of this passage down to the cliffs, and the zigzag character of it, it may be well supposed that it was of considerable extent. Indeed, Mr. Leek asserted that it was half a mile in actual measured length.

The baron was not at all anxious to run any risk of a discovery of the dead body which he had cast into that ice-well which was nearest to the opening on to the beach, so, as he went on, he negatived the different proposals that were made to look down into the excavations, and succeeded in putting a stop to that species of inquiry in the majority of instances, but he could not wholly do so.

Perhaps it would have been better for his purpose if he had encouraged a look into every one of the ice-wells; for, in that case, their similarity of appearance might have tired out Sir John Westlake before they got to the last one; but as it was, when they reached the one down which the body had been precipitated, he had the mortification to hear Mr. Leek say,—

“And now, Sir John, and you, my lord baron, as we have looked at the first of these ice-wells and at none of the others, suppose we look at the last.”

The baron was afraid to say anything; because, if the body were discovered, and identified as that of the visitor at the inn, and who had been seen last with him, any reluctance on his part to have that ice-well examined, might easily afterwards be construed into a very powerful piece of circumstantial evidence against him.

He therefore merely bowed his assent, thinking that the examination would be but a superficial one, and that, in consequence, he should escape easily from any disagreeable consequences.

But this the fates ordained otherwise; and there seemed no hope of that ice-well in particular escaping such an investigation as was sure to induce some uncomfortable results.

“Davis,” said Mr. Leek, “these places are not deep, you see, and I was thinking that if you went down one of them, it would be as well; for then you would be able to tell the gentlemen what the bottom was fairly composed of, you understand.”

“Oh, I don’t mind, sir,” said Davis. “I have been down one of them before to-day, I can tell you, sir.”

“I do not see the necessity,” said Sir John Westlake, “exactly, of such a thing; but still if you please, and this gentleman wishes——”

“I have no wish upon the occasion,” said the baron; “and, like yourself, cannot see the necessity.”

“Oh, there is no trouble,” said Mr. Leek; “and it’s better, now you are here, that you see and understand all about it. How can you get down, Davis?”

“Why, sir, it ain’t above fourteen feet altogether; so I sha’n’t have any difficulty, for I can hang by my hands about half the distance, and drop the remainder.”

As he spoke he took off his coat, and then stuck the link he carried into a cleft of the rock, that was beside the brink of the excavation.

The baron now saw that there would be no such thing as avoiding a discovery of the fact of the dead body being in that place, and his only hope was, that in its descent it might have become so injured as to defy identification.

But this was a faint hope, because he recollected that he had himself seen the face, which was turned upwards, and the period after death was by far too short for him to have any hope that decomposition could have taken place even to the most limited extent.

The light, which was stuck in a niche, shed but a few inefficient rays down into the pit, and, as the baron stood, with folded arms, looking calmly on, he expected each moment a scene of surprise and terror would ensue.

Nor was he wrong; for scarcely had the man plunged down into that deep place, than he uttered a cry of alarm and terror, and shouted,—

“Murder! murder! Lift me out. There is a dead man down here, and I have jumped upon him.”

“A dead man!” cried Mr. Leek and Sir John Westlake in a breath.

“How very strange!” said the baron.

“Lend me a hand,” cried Davis; “lend me a hand out; I cannot stand this, you know. Lend me a hand out, I say, at once.”

This was easier to speak of than to do, and Mr. Davis began to discover that it was easier by far to get into a deep pit, than to get out of one, notwithstanding that his assertion of having been down into those places was perfectly true; but then he had met with nothing alarming, and had been able perfectly at his leisure to scramble out the best way he could.

Now, however, his frantic efforts to release himself from a much more uncomfortable situation than he had imagined it possible for him to get into, were of so frantic a nature, that he only half buried himself in pieces of chalk, which he kept pulling down with vehemence from the sides of the pit, and succeeded in accomplishing nothing towards his rescue.

“Oh! the fellow is only joking,” said the baron, “and amusing himself at our expense.”

But the manner in which the man cried for help, and the marked terror which was in every tone, was quite sufficient to prove that he was not acting; for if he were, a more accomplished mimic could not have been found on the stage than he was.

“This is serious,” said Sir John Westlake, “and cannot be allowed. Have you any ropes here by which we can assist him from the pit? Don’t be alarmed, my man, for if there be a dead body in the pit, it can’t harm you. Take your time quietly and easily, and you will assuredly get out.”

“Aye,” said the baron, “the more haste, the worst speed, is an English proverb, and in this case it will be fully exemplified. This man would easily leave the pit, if he would have the patience, with care and quietness, to clamber up its sides.”

It would appear that Davis felt the truth of these exhortations, for although he trembled excessively, he did begin to make some progress in his ascent, and get so high, that Mr. Leek was enabled to get hold of his hand, and give him a little assistance, so that, in another minute or so, he was rescued from his situation, which was not one of peril, although it was certainly one of fright.

He trembled so excessively, and stuttered and stammered, that for some minutes no one could understand very well what he said; but at length, upon making himself intelligible, he exclaimed,—

“There has been a murder! there has been a murder committed, and the body thrown into the ice pit. I felt that I jumped down upon something soft, and when I put down my hand to feel what it was, it came across a dead man’s face, and then, of course, I called out.”

“You certainly did call out.”

“Yes, and so would anybody, I think, under such circumstances. I suppose I shall be hung now, because I had charge of the house?”

“That did not strike me until this moment,” said the baron; “but if there be a dead body in that pit, it certainly places this man in a very awkward position.”

“What the deuce do you mean?” said Davis; “I don’t know no more about it than the child unborn. There is a dead man in the ice-well, and that is all I know about it; but whether he has been there a long time, or a short time, I don’t know any more than the moon, so it’s no use bothering me about it.”

“My good man,” said the baron, “it would be very wrong indeed to impute to you any amount of criminality in this business, since you may be entirely innocent; and I, for one, believe that you are so, for I cannot think that any guilty man would venture into the place where he had put the body of his victim, in the way that you ventured into that pit. I say I cannot believe it possible, and therefore I think you innocent, and will take care to see that no injustice is done you; but at the same time I cannot help adding, that I think, of course, you will find yourself suspected in some way.”

“I am very much obliged to you, sir,” said Davis; “but as I happen to be quite innocent, I am very easy about it, and don’t care one straw what people say. I have not been in this excavation for Heaven knows how long.”

“But what’s to be done?” said Mr. Leek. “I suppose it’s our duty to do something, under such circumstances.”

“Unquestionably,” said the baron; “and the first thing to be done, is to inform the police of what has happened, so that the body may be got up; and as I have now seen enough of the estate to satisfy me as regards its capabilities, I decide at once upon taking it, if I can agree upon the conditions of the tenancy, and I will purchase it, if the price be such as I think suitable.”

“Well,” said Mr. Leek, “if anything could reconcile me to the extraordinary circumstance that has just occurred, it certainly is, baron, the having so desirable a tenant for Anderbury-on-the-Mount as yourself. But we need not traverse all this passage again, for it is much nearer now to get out upon the sea-coast at once, as we are so close to the other opening upon the beach. It seems to me that we ought to proceed at once to the town, and give information to the authorities of the discovery which we have made.”

“It is absolutely necessary,” said the baron, “so to do; so come along at once. I shall proceed to my inn, and as, of course, I have seen nothing more than yourselves, and consequently could only repeat your evidence, I do not see that my presence is called for. Nevertheless, of course, if the justices think it absolutely necessary that I should appear, I can have no possible objection to so do.”

This was as straightforward as anything that could be desired, and, moreover, it was rather artfully put together, for it seemed to imply that he, Mr. Leek, would be slighted, if his evidence was not considered sufficient.

“Of course,” said Mr. Leek; “I don’t see at all why, as you, sir, have only the same thing to say as myself, I should not be sufficient.”

“Don’t call upon me on any account,” said Sir John Westlake.

“Oh! no, no,” cried Mr. Leek; “there is no occasion. I won’t, you may depend, if it can be helped.”

Sir John, in rather a nervous and excited manner, bade them good day, before they got quite into the town, and hurried off; while the baron, with a dignified bow, when he reached the door of his hotel, said to Mr. Leek,—

“Of course I do not like the trouble of judicial investigations more than anybody else, and therefore, unless it is imperatively necessary that I should appear, I shall take it as a favour to be released from such a trouble.”

“My lord baron,” said Mr. Leek, “you may depend that I shall mention that to the magistrates and the coroner, and all those sort of people;” and then Mr. Leek walked away, but he muttered to himself, as he did so, “They will have him, as sure as fate, just because he is a baron; and his name will look well in the ‘County Chronicle.’”

Mr. Leek then repaired immediately to the house of one of the principal magistrates, and related what had occurred, to the great surprise of that gentleman, who suggested immediately the propriety of making the fact known to the coroner of the district, as it was more his business, than a magistrate’s, in the first instance, since nobody was accused of the offence.

This suggestion was immediately followed, and that functionary directed that the body should be removed from where it was to the nearest public-house, and immediately issued his precept for an inquiry into the case.

By this time the matter had begun to get bruited about in the town, and of course it went from mouth to mouth with many exaggerations; and although it by no means did follow that a murder had been committed because a dead body had been found, yet, such was the universal impression; and the matter began to be talked about as the murder in the subterranean passage leading to Anderbury House, with all the gusto which the full particulars of some deed of blood was calculated to inspire. And how it spread about was thus:—

The fact was, that Mr. Leek was so anxious to let Anderbury-on-the-Mount to the rich Baron Stolmuyer, of Saltzburgh, that he got a friend of his to come and personate Sir John Westlake, while he, the baron, was looking at the premises, in order to drive him at once to a conclusion upon the matter; so that what made Sir John so very anxious that he should not be called forward in the matter, consisted in the simple fact that he was nothing else than plain Mr. Brown, who kept a hatter’s shop in the town; but he could not keep his own counsel, and, instead of holding his tongue, as he ought to have done, about the matter, he told it to every one he met, so that in a short time it was generally known that something serious and startling had occurred in the subterranean passage to Anderbury House, and a great mob of persons thronged the beach in anxious expectation of getting more information on the matter.

The men, likewise, who had been ordered by the coroner to remove the body, soon reached the spot, and they gave an increased impetus to the proceedings, by opening the door of the subterranean passage, and then looking earnestly along the beach as if in expectation of something or somebody of importance.

When eagerly questioned by the mob, for the throng of persons now assembled quite amounted to a mob, to know what they waited for, one of them said,—

“A coffin was to have been brought down to take the body in.”

This announcement at once removed anything doubtful that might be in the minds of any of them upon the subject, and at once proclaimed the fact not only that there was a dead body, but that if they looked out they would see it forthwith.

The throng thickened, and by the time two men were observed approaching with a coffin on their shoulders, there was scarcely anybody left in the town, except a few rare persons, indeed, who were not so curious as their neighbours.

It was not an agreeable job, even to those men who were not the most particular in the world, to be removing so loathsome a spectacle as that which they were pretty sure to encounter in the ice-well; but they did not shrink from it, and, by setting about it as a duty, they got through it tolerably well.

They took with them several large torches, and then, one having descended into the pit, fastened a rope under the arms of the dead man, and so he was hauled out, and placed in the shell that was ready to receive him.

They were all surprised at the fresh and almost healthful appearance of the countenance, and it was quite evident to everybody that if any one had known him in life, they could not have the least possible difficulty in recognising him now that he was no more.

And the only appearance of injury which he exhibited was in that dreadful wound which had certainly proved his death, and which was observable in his throat the moment they looked upon him.

The crush to obtain a sight of the body was tremendous at the moment it was brought out, and a vast concourse of persons followed it in procession to the town, where the greatest excitement prevailed. It was easily discovered that no known person was missing, and some who had caught a sight of the body, went so far as to assert that it must have been in the ice-well for years, and that the extreme cold had preserved it in all its original freshness.

The news, of course, came round, although not through the baron, for he did not condescend to say one word about it at the inn, and it was the landlord who first started the suggestion of—

“What suppose it is the gentleman who left his horse here?”

This idea had no sooner got possession of his brain, than it each moment seemed to him to assume a more reasonable and tangible form, and without saying any more to any one else about it, he at once started off to where the body lay awaiting an inquest, to see if his suspicions were correct.

When he arrived at the public-house and asked to see the body, he was at once permitted to do so; for the landlord knew him, and was as curious as he could be upon the subject by any possibility. One glance, of course, was sufficient, and the landlord at once said,—

“Yes, I have seen him before, though I don’t know his name. He came to my house last night, and left his horse there; and, although I only saw him for a moment as he passed through the hall, I am certain I am not mistaken. I dare say all my waiters will recognise him, as well as the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh, who is staying with me, and who no doubt knows very well who he is, for he went out with him late and came home alone, and I ordered one of my men to wait up all night in order to let in this very person who is now lying dead before us.”

“The deuce you did! But you don’t suppose the baron murdered him, do you?”

“It’s a mystery to me altogether—quite a profound mystery. It’s very unlikely, certainly; and what’s the most extraordinary part of the whole affair is, how the deuce could he come into one of the ice-wells belonging to Anderbury House. That’s what puzzles me altogether.”

“Well, it will all come out, I hope, at the inquest, which is to be held at four o’clock to day. There must have been foul play somewhere, but the mystery is where, and that Heaven only knows, perhaps.”

“I shall attend,” said the landlord, “of course, to identify him; and I suppose, unless anybody claims the horse, I may as well keep possession of it.”

“Don’t you flatter yourself that you will get the horse out of the transaction. Don’t you know quite well that the government takes possession of everything as don’t belong to nobody?”

“Yes; but I have got him, and possession, you know, is nine points of the law.”

“It may be so; but their tenth point will get the better of you for all that. You take my word for it, the horse will be claimed of you; but I don’t mind, as an old acquaintance, putting you up to a dodge.”

“In what way?”

“Why, I’ll tell you what happened with a friend of mine; but don’t think it was me, for if it was I would tell you at once, so don’t think it. He kept a country public-house; and, one day, an elderly gentleman came in, and appeared to be unwell. He just uttered a word or two, and then dropped down dead. He happened to have in his fob a gold repeater, that was worth, at least, a hundred guineas, and my friend, before anybody came, took it out, and popped in, in its stead, an old watch that he had, which was not worth a couple of pounds.”

“It was running a risk.”

“It was; but it turned out very well, because the old gentleman happened to be a very eccentric person, and was living alone, so that his friends really did not know what he had, or what he had not, but took it for granted that any watch produced belonged to him. So, if I were you in this case, when the gentleman’s horse is claimed. I’d get the d—dest old screw I could, and let them have that.”

“You would?”

“Indeed would I, and glory in it, too, as the very best thing that could be done. Now, a horse is of use to you?”

“I believe ye, it is.”

“Exactly; but what’s the use of it to government? and, what’s more, if it went to the government, there might be some excuse; but the government will know no more about it, and make not so much as I shall. Some Jack-in-office will lay hold of it as a thing of course and a perquisite, when you might just as well, and a great deal better, too, keep it yourself, for it would do you some good, as you say, and none to them.”

“I’ll do it; it is a good and a happy thought. There is no reason on earth why I shouldn’t do it, and I will. I have made up my mind to it now.”

“Well, I am glad you have. What do you think now the dead man’s horse is worth?”

“Oh! fifty or sixty guineas value.”

“Then very good. Then, when the affair is all settled, I will trouble you for twenty pounds.

“You?”

“Yes, to be sure. Who else do you suppose is going to interfere with you? One is enough, ain’t it, at a time; and I think, after giving you such advice as I have, that I am entitled, at all events, to something.”

“I tell you what,” said the landlord of the hotel, “taking all things into consideration, I have altered my mind rather, and won’t do it.”

“Very good. You need not; only mind, if you do, I am down upon you like a shot.”

The excitement contingent upon the inquest was very great; indeed, the large room in the public-house, where it was held, was crowded to suffocation with persons who were anxious to be present at the proceedings. When the landlord reached home, of course he told his guest, the baron, of the discovery he had made, that the murdered man was the strange visitor of the previous night; for now, from the frightful wound he had received in his throat, the belief that he was murdered became too rational a one to admit of any doubts, and was that which was universally adopted in preference to any other suggestion upon the occasion; although, no doubt, people would be found who would not scruple to aver that he had cut his own throat, after making his way into the well belonging to Anderbury House.

The landlord had his own misgivings concerning his guest, the baron, now that something had occurred of such an awful and mysterious a nature to one who was evidently known to him. It did not seem to be a pleasant thing to have such an intimate friend of a man who had been murdered in one’s house, especially when it came to be considered that he was the last person seen in his company, and that, consequently, he was peculiarly called upon to give an explanation of how, and under what circumstances, he had parted with him.

The baron was sitting smoking in the most unconcerned manner in the world, when the landlord came to bring him this intelligence, and, when he had heard him to an end, the remark he made was,—

“Really, you very much surprise me; but, perhaps, as you are better acquainted with the town than I am, you can tell me who he was?”

“Why, sir, that is what we hoped you would be able to tell us.”

“How should I tell you? He introduced himself to me as a Mr. Mitchell, a surveyor, and he said that, hearing I talked of purchasing or renting Anderbury-on-the-Mount, he came to tell me that the principal side wall, that you could see from the beach, was off the perpendicular.”

“Indeed, sir!”

“Yes; and as this was a very interesting circumstance to me, considering that I really did contemplate such a purchase or renting, and do so still, as it was a moonlight night, and he said he could show me in a minute what he meant if I would accompany him, I did so; but when we got there, and on the road, I heard quite enough of him to convince me that he was a little out of his senses, and, consequently, I paid no more attention to what he said, but walked home and left him on the beach.”

“It’s a most extraordinary circumstance, sir; there is no such person, I assure you, as Mitchell, a surveyor, in the town; so I can’t make it out in the least.”

“But, I tell you, I consider the man out of his senses, and perhaps that may account for the whole affair.”

“Oh, yes, sir, that would, certainly; but still, it’s a very odd thing, because we don’t know of such a person at all, and it does seem so extraordinary that he should have made his appearance, all of a sudden, in this sort of way. I suppose, sir, that you will attend the inquest, now, that’s to be held upon him?”

“Oh, yes; I have no objection whatever to that; indeed, I feel myself bound to do so, because I suppose mine is the latest evidence that can be at all produced concerning him.”

“Unquestionably, sir; our coroner is a very clever man, and you will be glad to know him—very glad to know him, sir, and he will be glad to know you, so I am sure it will be a mutual gratification. It’s at four o’clock the inquest is to be, and I dare say, sir, if you are there by half-past, it will be time enough.”

“No doubt of that; but I will be punctual.”

We have already said the room in which the inquest was to be held was crowded almost to suffocation, and not only was that the case, but the lower part of the house was crammed with people likewise; and there can be very little doubt but the baron would have shrunk from such an investigation from a number of curious eyes, if he could have done so; while the landlord of the house would have had no objection, as far as his profit was concerned in the sale of a great quantity of beer and spirits, to have had such an occurrence every day in the week, if possible.

The body lay still in the shell where it had been originally placed. After it had been viewed by the jury, and almost every one had remarked upon the extraordinary fresh appearance it wore, they proceeded at once to the inquiry, and the first witness who appeared was Mr. Leek, who deposed to have been in company with some gentlemen viewing Anderbury House, and to have found the body in one of the ice-wells of that establishment.

This evidence was corroborated by that of Davis, who had so unexpectedly jumped into the well, without being aware that it contained already so disagreeable a visitor as it did in the person of the murdered man, regarding the cause of whose death the present inquiry was instituted.

Then the landlord identified the body as that of a gentleman who had come to his house on horseback, and who had afterwards walked out with Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh, who was one of his guests.

“Is that gentleman in attendance?” said the coroner.

“Yes, sir, he is; I told him about it, and he has kindly come forward to give all the evidence in his power concerning it.”

There was a general expression of interest and curiosity when the baron stepped forward, attired in his magnificent coat, trimmed with fur, and tendered his evidence to the coroner, which, of course, was precisely the same as the statement he had made to the landlord of the house; for, as he had made up such a well connected story, he was not likely to prevaricate or to depart from it in the smallest particular.

He was listened to with breathless attention, and, when he had concluded, the coroner, with a preparatory hem! said to him,

“And you have reason to suppose, sir, that this person was out of his senses?”

“It seemed to me so; he talked wildly and incoherently, and in such a manner as to fully induce such a belief.”

“You left him on the beach?”

“I did. I found when I got there that it was only a very small portion, indeed, of Anderbury House that was visible; and, although the moon shone brightly, I must confess I did not see, myself, any signs of deviation from the perpendicular; and, such being the case, I left the spot at once, because I could have no further motive in staying; and, moreover, it was not pleasant to be out at night with a man whom I thought was deranged. I regretted, after making this discovery, that I had come from home on such a fool’s errand; but as, when one is going to invest a considerable sum of money in any enterprise, one is naturally anxious to know all about it, I went, little suspecting that the man was insane.”

“Did you see him after that?”

“Certainly not, until to-day, when I recognised in the body that has been exhibited to me the same individual.”

“Gentlemen,” said the coroner to the jury, “it appears to me that this is a most mysterious affair; the deceased person has a wound in his throat, which, I have no doubt, you will hear from a medical witness has been the cause of death; and the most singular part of the affair is, how, if he inflicted it upon himself, he has managed to dispose of the weapon with which he did the deed.”

“The last person seen in his company,” said one of the jury, “was the baron, and I think he is bound to give some better explanation of the affair.”

“I am yet to discover,” said the baron, “that the last person who acknowledges to having been in the company of a man afterwards murdered, must, of necessity, be the murderer?”

“Yes; but how do you account, sir, for there being no weapon found by which the man could have done the deed himself?”

“I don’t account for it at all—how do you?”

“This is irregular,” said the coroner; “call the next witness.”

This was a medical man, who briefly stated that he had seen the deceased, and that the wound in his throat was amply sufficient to account for his death; that it was inflicted with a sharp instrument having an edge on each side.

This, then, seemed to conclude the case, and the coroner remarked,—

“Gentlemen of the jury,—I think this is one of those peculiar cases in which an open verdict is necessary, or else an adjournment without date, so that the matter can be resumed at any time, if fresh evidence can be procured concerning it. There is no one accused of the offence, although it appears to me impossible that the unhappy man could have committed the act himself. We have no reason to throw the least shade of suspicion or doubt upon the evidence of the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh; for as far as we know anything of the matter, the murdered man may have been in the company of a dozen people after the baron left him.”

A desultory conversation ensued, which ended in an adjournment of the inquest, without any future day being mentioned for its re-assembling, and so the Baron Stolmuyer entirely escaped from what might have been a very serious affair to him.

It did not, however, appear to shake him in his resolution of taking Anderbury-on-the-Mount, although Mr. Leek very much feared it would; but he announced to that gentleman his intention fully of doing so, and told him to get the necessary papers drawn up forthwith.

“I hope,” he said, “within a few weeks’ time to be fairly installed in that mansion, and then I will trouble you, Mr. Leek, to give me a list of the names of all the best families in the neighbourhood; for I intend giving an entertainment on a grand scale in the mansion and grounds.”

“Sir,” said Mr. Leek, “I shall, with the greatest pleasure, attend upon you in every possible way in this affair. This is a very excellent neighbourhood, and you will have no difficulty, I assure you, sir, in getting together an extremely capital and creditable assemblage of persons. There could not be a better plan devised for at once introducing all the people who are worth knowing, to you.”

“I thank you,” said the baron; “I think the place will suit me well; and, as the Baroness Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh is dead, I have some idea of marrying again; and therefore it becomes necessary and desirable that I should be well acquainted with the surrounding families of distinction in this neighbourhood.”

This was a hint not at all likely to be thrown away upon Mr. Leek, who was the grand gossip-monger of the place, and he treasured it up in order to see if he could not make something of it which would be advantageous to himself.

He knew quite enough of the select and fashionable families in that neighbourhood, to be fully aware that neither the baron’s age nor his ugliness would be any bar to his forming a matrimonial alliance.

“There is not one of them,” he said to himself, “who would not marry the very devil himself and be called the Countess Lucifer, or any name of the kind, always provided there was plenty of money; and that the baron has without doubt, so it is equally without doubt he may pick and choose where he pleases.”

This was quite correct of Mr. Leek, and showed his great knowledge of human nature; and we entertain with him a candid opinion, that if the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh had been ten times as ugly as he was, and Heaven knows that was needless, he might pick and choose a wife almost when he pleased.

This is a general rule; and as, of course, to all general rules there are exceptions, this one cannot be supposed to be free from them. Under all circumstances, and in all classes of society, there are single-minded beings who consult the pure dictates of their own hearts, and who, disdaining those things which make up the amount of the ambition of meaner spirits, stand aloof as bright and memorable examples to the rest of human nature.

Such a being was Flora Bannerworth. She would never have been found to sacrifice herself to the fancied advantages of wealth and station, but would have given her heart and hand to the true object of her affection, although a sovereign prince had made the endeavour to wean her from it.

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XCVII. THE ADMIRAL’S PREPARATIONS, AND THE VISIT TO DEARBROOK

It was quite finally settled between the admiral and the Bannerworths that he was to have the whole conducting of the marriage business, and he even succeeded in getting a concession from Flora Bannerworth, that he might invite more than twenty guests as had at first been stipulated. Indeed, she told him that he might ask forty if he pleased.

The admiral had asked for this enlargement of his powers, because he had received from the lawyer such a satisfactory list of people who were eligible to be invited, that he found it extremely difficult to draw any invidious distinction; and, accordingly, he felt fully inclined, as far as he was concerned, to invite them all, which was a piece of liberality he scarcely expected Flora would accede to.

When, however, he got leave to double the number, he considered that he was all right, and he said to Jack Pringle, to whom, as usual, he had got completely reconciled,—

“I say, Jack, my boy, we’ll have the whole ship’s crew, and no mistake; for, at a wedding, the more the merrier, you know.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” said Jack, “that’s true. I have not been married more than a dozen times myself, at the outside, and I always took care to have lots of fun.”

“A dozen times, Jack! you don’t mean that?”

“I rather think I does. You know I was married at different ports of India twice; and then wasn’t I married in Jamaky; and then after that wasn’t I married in the South Seas, in one of the Friendly Islands?”

“A deuced deal too friendly, I should say. Why, confound you, Jack, you must have the impudence of the very devil.”

“Yes, I believe ye I have. I look upon it that it’s our impudence has got us on in the world.”

“How dare you say our, you vagabond? But, however, I won’t quarrel with you now, at any rate, for I expect you to dance a hornpipe at the wedding. But mind me now, Jack, I am serious—I won’t have any drunkenness.”

“Well, it’s rather a hard thing that a fellow can’t get drunk at a wedding; but I suppose I must put up with that deadly injury, and do the best I can. And now, admiral, as you have looked over that little affair of mine, in going to the lawyer’s when you didn’t want me, I’ll make you a voluntary promise, and that is, that I’ll only take two bottles all the day long.

“Two bottles of what?”

“Oh, rum, of course.”

“Well, that’s moderate; for as I have known you, I think, take about five, of course I can’t very well say anything to two; so you may take that much, Jack, for I really think you won’t be much the worse of it.”

“The worse of it! I should think not, sir. It rather strikes me that two bottles of rum wouldn’t hurt a new-born baby. It’s just for all the world like milk, you know; it has no effect upon me; and as far as being fond of drink goes, I’d just as soon take pump water, if it had a different taste, and was a d—d deal stronger.”

“Well, well, Jack, that’s a bargain, you know, so we need say nothing more about it.”

“I suppose there will be a fiddle, and all that sort of thing?”

“Oh, don’t doubt that there shall be lots of fun.”

“Then I am your man. I’ll show them a thing or two that will make them open their eyes a bit; and if so be as they wants anything in the shape of a yarn, I’m the proper sort of individual to give it them, I rather think, and no mistake. I’ll tell them how you ran away once, with a female savage after you, with a long thing like a skewer, that she called a spear, and how you called to all the ship’s crew to come and help you, as if the very devil was at your heels.”

Jack very prudently did not wait for an answer to this; for he was rather well aware that it was not the sort of thing that was exactly pleasing to the admiral, who was just upon the point, of course, of getting into one of his rages, which would have produced another quarrel, only, as a matter of course, to end in another reconciliation.

The old man, however, was too well pleased with the unlimited commission he had to do as he pleased regarding the marriage affair, to allow himself to be put much out of the way in the matter, and he bent all his mind and energies towards the completion of that piece of business which he had in hand, and which was certainly the most interesting to him that he had ever been permitted to engage in.

Passing as he did almost the whole of his life upon the ocean, he had never married, and his affection for Charles Holland, who was the only relative he had in the world, was of that concentrated nature which is only to be found under such circumstances.

Charles’s mother had always had a large portion of the admiral’s regards, and when upon returning home once from a cruise of three years’ duration he found that she was dead, and had left behind her an orphan child, he at once avowed his intention of filling the place of a parent to it, and that he had both in the spirit and the letter kept his word, we know that Charles Holland was always most ready to admit.

Perhaps the severest shock he ever experienced was when that letter purporting to be from Charles, but which was really the production of Marchdale and Varney, was produced, and which seemed at the first blush to imply a dishonourable breaking of his contract with Flora; and if anything could have increased his admiration of her, it certainly was the generous and noble manner in which she repudiated that attempt to injure Charles in her esteem, and at once declared her belief that the letter was a forged document.

We may easily imagine, then, from these preceding circumstances, that the marriage of Charles with one whom he so entirely approved of was one of the most gratifying affairs in the old man’s life, and that he viewed it with an extraordinary interest.

As we have before stated, he got possession for a month of the house on which he had fixed his fancy, and an extremely handsome and commodious place it was.

It was arranged that after they had remained there for some time they should all move off to Dearbrook together, and as it was only in early infancy that the Bannerworths had seen that estate, they purposed paying it a visit before the marriage ceremony took place.

This was an idea of the old admiral’s, for he said truly enough, “You can’t possibly know what state it is in till you go there, and it may be necessary, for all we know, to do a great deal to it before it is fit for occupation.”

Apart from this consideration, too, it seemed likely enough that somebody might be in it; for of late it had changed hands, and, for all they knew, the Bannerworth family might have to institute a suit at law for its recovery.

The distance was sufficient to make it a whole day’s journey; but it was a very pleasant one, for they went in a travelling carriage, replete with every accommodation, and the road passed through one of the most fertile and picturesque counties of England, being interspersed with hill and dale most charmingly, and reminding the younger branches of the Bannerworths of some of those delightful continental excursions which they once had the means of making, but which, for a long time, they had not had an opportunity of enjoying.

It was towards the close of a day of great beauty, for the season, that they reached the village of Dearbrook, close to where the estate was situated, and put up at the principal inn, to which they were directed.

The circumstances under which the Dearbrook property had been left for a long time had been such, that there was likely to be some difficulty concerning it.

In fact, it had been used by Marmaduke Bannerworth as a kind of security from time to time for his gambling debts, so it was probable that hardly any one had had it long enough to trouble himself about rentals.

“If we find any one,” said Henry Bannerworth, “in possession, I shall not trouble them to pay anything for the use of the house they have had, provided they quietly give up possession, and leave the place in a decent state.”

“Oh, that of course they will do,” said Charles Holland, “and be too glad to escape arrears of rent; but it would be no bad thing to ask the landlord of this house what is the state of the property; no doubt he can not only let us know whether it be tenanted or not, but, if so, what sort of people they are who occupy it.”

This suggestion was agreed to, and when the landlord was summoned, and the question put, he said,—

“Oh, yes, I know the Dearbrook estate quite well; it’s a very handsome little property, and is at present occupied by a Mr. Jeremiah Shepherd, a Quaker—a very worthy gentleman indeed, I believe; but I suppose all Quakers are worthy people, because, you see, sir, they wear broad brimmed hats and no collars to their coats.”

“An excellent reason,” said the admiral; “but I had a friend who did know something about Quakers, and he used to say that they had got such a reputation for honesty that they could afford to be rogues for the rest of their existence.”

“Well, well,” said Henry, “we can but call upon him. Do you think that this would be a reasonable hour?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said the landlord; “he is sure to be at home at this hour if you have any business to transact with Mr. Shepherd. He is a very respectable man, sir, and as it is his own property that he lives upon, he is quite a gentleman, and never wears anything but drab breeches and gaiters.”

Without waiting to enter into any further conversation with the landlord, who had such extraordinary reasons for his opinions, Henry, and Charles, and the admiral, leaving the rest of the party at the inn, proceeded to Dearbrook Lodge, as it was called, and found as they approached it that it exceeded in appearance their warmest anticipations.

It was a substantial red brick house, of the Tudor style of architecture, and had that air of dignified and quiet repose about it which a magnificent lawn, of the greenest possible turf, in the front always gives to a country mansion.

The grounds, too, seemed to be extensive, and, to take it for all in all, the Bannerworth family had every reason to be well pleased with this first view that they got of their acquired property.

“You will have some trouble,” said the admiral, “with the Quaker, you may depend. They are a race that cry hold fast to anything in the shape of pounds, shillings, and pence, and are not very easy to be dealt with.”

“Oh, the man will not be so absurd, I should think,” said Charles. “It can be proved that the estate was in the Bannerworth family for many years, and your possession, Henry, of the title deeds will set the question at rest. But see what a stately looking servant is coming in answer to the ring which I have just given to the bell.”

A footman, most certainly having all the appearance of what is so frequently advertised for as “a serious man servant,” advanced to the gate, and, in answer to the inquiry if Mr. Shepherd was within, he said,—

“Yes, truly is he; but he liketh not to be disturbed, for he is at prayers—that is to say, at dinner, and is not accustomed to be disturbed thereat.”

“I regret that we must disturb him,” said Henry, “for our business happens to be important, and we must positively see him.”

Upon this remonstrance the servant unlocked the gate, and conducted them up a path by the side of the lawn which led to the house, and the more they saw of it the more pleased they were with the many natural beauties with which it abounded, and Henry whispered to Charles,—

“I am quite sure that Flora will be delighted with this place, for, if I know anything of her taste, it will just suit it agreeably and comfortably, and I do sincerely hope that we shall be able to get possession without the disagreeable necessity of a law suit.”

They were ushered into a handsome apartment, and then told that Mr. Shepherd would be with them very shortly; and they were not sorry to have a little leisure for studying the place before its reputed owner made his appearance.

“I suppose,” said Henry, “the best way will be at once to state that I am the owner of the place, and upon what conditions I am willing to forego any claim that I might otherwise succeed in setting up for arrears of rental during the time that he has been here.”

“Oh, yes,” said Charles; “you cannot be too explicit; but hush! here he comes, and you will soon know what sort of an individual you have to deal with in this matter.”

At this moment, the door opened, and Mr. Shepherd, the present ostensible possessor of the Dearbrook estate, and whose appearance spoke to the truth of the landlord’s word, make his appearance. But as what he said was sufficiently important to deserve a new chapter, we shall oblige him with one.

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XCVIII. THE INTERVIEW WITH THE QUAKER AT DEARBROOK

The Quaker was a man of about middle age, and was duly attired in the garb of the particular sect to which he belonged. There was about his countenance all that affectation of calmness and abandonment of worldly thoughts and desires which is mistaken by so many people for the reality of self-denial, when, really, those who know this sect well, are perfectly aware that there is not a more money-loving, grasping people on the face of the earth.

After gravely motioning his visitors to be seated, Mr. Shepherd cast his eyes up to the ceiling, as if he were muttering some prayer, and then he said,—

“Verily, may I ask to what I am to attribute this visit from individuals who, in this vale of unblessedness, are unknown to me.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Henry; “you are entitled, of course, at once, to such an explanation of us. I have called upon you because I am the proprietor of this estate, to know how it is that you became in possession of it, and under what pretence you hold that possession?”

Mr. Shepherd slightly changed colour, and staggered back a pace or two before he said,—

“The property is mine, but I naturally decline to produce my title to any body who may ask for it. Thou mayest go, now; behind thee is the door.”

“Mr. Shepherd,” said Henry, “I am fully in a condition, as to means and evidence both, to prove my title to the estate, and an action of ejectment will soon force you from it; but I am unwilling, under any circumstances, to do what I fully may do if anything short of that will answer my purpose. I therefore give you fair notice, that if, upon my convincing you that I am the owner of the estate, you go out quietly within fourteen days, I will make no inquiry as to how long you have been here, and will say nothing whatever upon the subject of rental owing to me on account of such occupation.”

“I defy thee, friend,” said the Quaker; “and if thou givest me any trouble I shall put thee in Chancery, from whence thou wilt not get out for the term of thy natural life; so I give thee due notice, and thou mayest please thyself in the transaction; and again I tell thee the door is exactly behind thee, out of which I beg to request thou shouldest at once walk.”

“I tell you what, Mr. Quaker,” said the admiral, who had with difficulty restrained himself thus far, “I look upon you as one of the greatest humbugs ever I came across, and that’s saying a great deal, for in my time I have come across some thumpers; and if we don’t make you smart for this confounded obstinacy, you wolf in sheep’s clothing, we will know the reason why. If it costs me a thousand pounds I will make you suffer for it.”

“Thou mayest be damned, friend,” said the Quaker; “possession is a great number of points of the law, and, as I have it, I mean to keep it. I have a friend who is in the law, and who will put thee as comfortably in Chancery, and with as little expense to me as possible. This is a very charming estate, and I have not the slightest intention of giving it up.”

“But you must,” said Charles, “give it up to the right owner. How can you be so foolish as to run yourself to legal expenses for nothing?”

“Teach thy grandmother, young man, to suck eggs,” said the Quaker. “I wish thee all a remarkably good day, and thou mayest all return from whence thou camest, and hang thyselves, if thou pleasest, for all I care; and having made up my mind to live and die on this very pleasant property. I shall have to put thee all into Chancery.”

“Why, you canting thief!” said the admiral.

“Thou mayest be damned,” said the Quaker. “In speaking so to thee, I use the language which I am perfectly well aware thou wilt best understand; so I say unto thee again, thou mayest be damned. Obediah, show these sinners off the premises; and, should they refuse to go with that quickness that shall seem to be fitting and proper, thou mayest urge them on with divers kicks on their hinder persons, and thou mayest likewise call to thy aid, Towzer, the large dog, to bite singularly great mouthfuls out of them.”

The Quaker turned, and was walking in a very stately manner out of the room, when the admiral stepped forward, and exhilarated his movements with such a kick, that away he went as if he had been shot out of a gun.

“There, friend,” said the admiral, “since you seem found of kicking, I think that is a very good beginning. It strikes me you didn’t know who you had to deal with; and now, Mr. Obediah, it’s your turn, and we’ll manage Towzer when we get outside.”

“I thank thee all the same, friend,” said Obediah, “but would rather be excused.”

“Perhaps you would like your nose pulled instead, then?”

“No, friend, it is quite long enough already; and I shall take myself off to the lower regions of these premises forthwith.”

So saying, Obediah rushed from the room with great precipitancy, leaving, most certainly, the admiral and his party masters of the field; and although both Henry and Charles both disapproved of the assault which the admiral had committed, they could not interfere for laughing, and, as they left the house, which they did now of their own accord, Charles said,—

“Uncle, you may depend you will be pulled up to the quarter session.”

“Damn the quarter session!” said the admiral. “Do you think I was going to sit still, quietly, while that vagabond promised to kick me; but, as it is, it’s all up with coming to Dearbrook to live for one while to come; for, if he is really as good as his word, and puts the matter into Chancery, there’s an end of it. I have heard it’s like ducking in head foremost into a hollow tree, with a wasp’s nest at the bottom of it; you may kick, but I’ll be damned if you can get out.”

“Well,” said Henry, “I believe that’s rather an apt illustration; but we must do the best we can in such a case, and, in the meantime, seek out some other place to reside in. Your friend, the little lawyer in the town, shall have the case to conduct for us, and perhaps, after all, we shall defeat the Quaker sooner than you imagine.”

“I long to see the day come,” said the admiral, “when that fellow will have to troop out of the place; for, in all my life, I never did know such confounded impudence as he treated us with.”

“Never mind, never mind,” said Charles; “the time must come, of course, when this pleasant estate, to which we have taken such a fancy, will be ours; and, until then, we shall have no difficulty whatever in finding some sweet verdant spot, full of exquisite and natural beauties, which we can make a home of well and easily, caring nothing for being a short time only kept from possession of that which, of right, shall, in a short time, belong to us; and there is one thing that I am rejoiced at, which is, that Flora has not seen this place; so that she can have no regret about it, because she don’t know of its existence farther than by name, and it can hold no place in her imagination which could make it a subject matter of regret.”

When they reached the inn, they informed Mrs. Bannerworth and Flora of the ill success of their enterprise, and of the obstinacy of the tenant of the house; and on that evening they had a good laugh with each other about the little scene that had occurred between the admiral and the Quaker; so that, upon the whole, perhaps, they were quite as happy—for people can but laugh and be merry—as if they had at once got possession of the Dearbrook estate without any trouble or difficulty whatever.

They determined upon staying there for that night, although they might have got fresh horses and gone back, if it had pleased them so to do; but there was much to tempt them in the romantic scenery, around which they took a stroll, when it was lit up by the sweet moonlight, and everything came out in silvery relief, looking so beautiful and serene, so pensively quiet and so admirable, that it was calculated to draw the mind entirely from all thought of earthly matters, and to completely rid them of even the shadow of an annoyance connected with that Dearbrook property which was so wrongfully detained from them.

“It is at such seasons as this,” said Flora, “that contentment steals into the heart, and we really feel with how little we should be satisfied, provided it be sufficient to insure those ordinary comforts of existence which we all look for.”

“It is, indeed,” said Charles; “and you and I, Flora, would not repine if our lot had been much more humble than it is, provided Heaven had left us youth and love.”

“Those, indeed,” said Henry, “are dear possessions.”

“Well, then,” remarked the admiral, “you have got youth on your side, and I once knew a worse looking fellow than even you are; so why don’t you fall in love with somebody at once?”

“Don’t make so sure, uncle,” said Flora archly, “that he has not.”

The old admiral laughed—for he liked Flora to call him uncle, and said,—

“You shall tell me all about it, Flora, some day when we are alone; but not now, while these chaps are listening to every word we utter.”

“I will,” said Flora; “it’s a grand secret of Henry’s, which I am determined to tell.”

“That’s very unkind of you,” said Henry, “to say the least of it.”

“Not at all. If you had trusted me, Henry, it would be quite another thing; but as I found it out from my own natural sagacity, I cannot see that I am bound in the slightest to bestow upon you any consolation on account of it, or to shew you any mercy on the subject.”

“And she hopes,” said Charles, “that that will be a lesson to you to tell her upon another occasion everything whatever, without the slightest stint or hindrance.”

“I stand convicted,” said Henry; “and my only consolation is, that I don’t mind a straw the admiral knowing all about it, and I meant to tell him myself, as a matter of course.”

“Did you?” said the admiral; “that’s a very good attempt to get out of it; but it won’t answer exactly, Henry, with those who know better; so say no more.”

In such light and pleasant conversation they passed some time, until the chill night air, grateful and pleasant as it was to the senses, made them think it prudent to retire to the inn again.

After they had partaken of the evening meal, and Flora and Mrs. Bannerworth had retired to rest, the gentlemen sat up, at the express desire of the admiral, to talk over the affair upon which they were all in common so deeply interested.

A general feeling of anxiety evidently pervaded all their minds to ascertain something of the whereabouts or the fate of Varney, who had so very mysteriously taken himself off at a time when they least of all expected he would have executed such a manœuvre.

“You all see,” said the admiral, “that what is bred in the bone, as I told you, will never be out of the flesh; and this vampyre fellow could not possibly be quiet, you see, for long, but he must be at his old tricks.”

“I do not know,” said Charles Holland, “but I am rather inclined to think that he has somehow become aware that he had become rather a trouble to us, and so his pride, of which I think we have had evidence enough that he has a large share of, took the alarm; and he went off as quick as he could.”

“It may be so,” said Henry; “and, of course, in the absence of anything to the contrary, I feel inclined to give even Varney, the Vampyre, credit for as much purity of motive as I can.”

“That’s all very well, in its way,” said the admiral; “but you must acknowledge that he did not leave in the most polite manner in the world; and then I, for one, cannot exactly approve of his jumping upon Dr. Chillingworth’s back, from off a garden wall, as a cat would upon a mouse.”

“Be liberal, uncle,” said Charles, “and recollect that we are not quite sure it was Varney, for the doctor declines to be positive upon the subject, and he ought to know.”

“Stuff,” said the admiral; “the doctor knows well enough; but he is like the man that threatened to kick the other for laughing at his wife—he said he was sure he had done it, but if he had been d—d sure, he would have kicked him into the middle of next week.”

“Certainly,” said Charles, “the doctor seems quite clearly of opinion, that whoever committed that assault upon him, did so with a full knowledge of the worth of the picture, which he believes contained within its extra lining, bank notes to a large amount.”

“And which,” said Henry, “after all, is but a supposition, and Varney, after such an attempt to possess himself of such a treasure, if it was he that made it, may be actually now a houseless wanderer; but I consider that such has been the notoriety of his proceedings, that if he now attempts any vampyre tricks, he very soon will be discovered, and we shall hear of him.”

“From his own account,” said Charles Holland, “he has not been the most scrupulous person in the world with regard to the means by which he has, from time to time, recruited an exhausted exchequer; and we can easily imagine that this vampyre business of his would so terrify and paralyse people, that he would have little difficulty in robbing a house under such circumstances.”

“You may depend,” added Charles, “that he has done one of two things. He has either commenced a much more reckless career than ever he has yet attempted, or he has gone away completely into obscurity, and will never be heard of again. I sincerely myself hope that the latter is the case, for it will be better for him, and better for everybody connected with him.”

“Hang the fellow,” said the admiral; “I should not like him to starve, although he has given us so much trouble; and I hope that if anything very queer happens to him, he will not scruple to let us know, and he shall not positively want. But come, is it to be another tumbler a-piece, or to bed?”

Bed was voted, for such they knew was the admiral’s wish, or he never would have mentioned the alternative; and in the course of another half hour the whole of these persons, in whose fate we profess to have so profound an interest, were wrapped in repose.

We will now turn to a consideration of what this singular and mysterious Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh was about, for that he has some ulterior objects in view, which, by no means, at present, shew themselves, we cannot doubt; and, likewise, there can be no question but that very shortly some of his views and projects will develop themselves.

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Chapter XCIX

THE BARON BECOMES MASTER OF ANDERBURY-ON-THE-MOUNT, AND BEGINS TO CONGRATULATE HIMSELF.—THE DREAM.

It was a wonderful relief to Mr. Leek to find that the fact of a dead body having been found in the subterranean passage of Anderbury House, was really no bar to the baron possessing himself of those premises.

Mr. Leek could not disguise from himself that, to many persons, it would have been a serious impediment, and the very mystery in which that affair was still wrapped up, would have made the impediment greater, because people don’t so much think of a murder, which is all found out, and for which the perpetrator suffers; but a murdered body found, and yet no murderer, keeps public curiosity upon the stretch, and is almost certain destruction to house property.

But now, whether the baron bought Anderbury House, or rented it, was much the same to Mr. Leek; for, in the former case, he got his per centage all at once; and, in the latter, acting as agent, he got more, but he got it by degrees.

He waited, therefore, with some degree of feverish impatience to know which way that illustrious individual would make up his mind; and when he said, at length, in his strange calm way, that he would give £10,000 for Anderbury-on-the-Mount, Mr. Leek wrote off, in violent haste, to the owner, advising him to accept the same without delay; and, as the owner never intended again to set foot in Anderbury House, and, moreover, wanted money, he wrote back again in as violent haste that he would take £10,000 most certainly, and wished the transaction concluded as quickly as it very well could be, promising Mr. Leek, which was a very gratifying thing to that gentleman, not on account of the money, as he himself said, “Oh, dear, no!” but as a matter of feeling, a handsome bonus, in addition to his per centage, if he quickly got the matter completed.

Armed with this authority, the agent showed an amount of generalship which must, if he had been placed in the situation of Field Marshal the Duke of Wellington, have won for him all the continental battles.

He went at once to the baron, and told him that he had received a letter from the owner of Anderbury-on-the-Mount, asking £10,500 for the estate, but leaving it at his, Mr. Leek’s option to take £10,000 if he chose.

“Now, my lord baron,” said Mr. Leek, “business is business, and I may as well put £250 in my pocket, and your lordship put £250 in yours, as not.”

“That is to say,” said the baron, “that you are willing to sell your employer’s interest to me.”

“Oh, why, it isn’t exactly that, you know, my lord; only you know, in these transactions, everybody does the best he can for himself; and I am sure I should be very sorry if you thought that—that——”

“Mr. Leek,” interrupted the baron, “you need have no delicacy with me, whatever. I believe you to be as great a rogue as ever stepped; so you need make no excuses, only, of course, you cannot expect me to assist you in your villainy—that is quite out of the question; so you will understand that I decline giving more than the £10,000 for Anderbury House; and, if that is not accepted in one hour from this time, I will not have it at all.”

“It’s accepted now at once,” groaned Mr. Leek, who found that the baron was too many for him. “It’s accepted at once, my lord; and I beg that you will bury the past in what do you call it—oblivion.”

“Very good,” said the baron. “I presume, if I give you a check for a thousand pounds as a deposit, I may have possession at once, while the deeds are preparing.”

“Certainly, my lord baron; oh! certainly.”

The baron then gave Mr. Leek, and took his acknowledgement for the same, a check for a thousand pounds on one of the most eminent banking-houses in London; and in two hours from that time, such was the celerity and precision of his movements, he took possession of Anderbury House, and engaged the man and woman who had been minding it to be his temporary servants, until he could get up an establishment suitable to his rank, and the place he inhabited.

It would have been a strange sight to Mr. Leek, and would have made him open his eyes a little with wonder, if he could have seen the baron traversing the apartments of Anderbury House alone.

“And am I at last settled?” he said to himself, as he stood in a large saloon. “Am I at last settled in a home such as I can really call my own?—and shall I not be hunted from it by my enemies? Let me consider—I will be quick in giving such an entertainment here, that it shall be talked of for many a day to come. It shall be such an entertainment as shall present to me all of youth, beauty, rank, and wealth, that can be found in the neighbourhood; and out of them I will choose some one who shall be the baroness, and, for a time, pace the stately halls as their mistress—for a time; yes, I have said only for a time. I wonder if there be a family vault to this property, because, if there be, I may want to use it.”

In this purchase of Anderbury-on-the-Mount, the ancient furniture of the place had been all included; so that, in truth, the baron had but to walk in and to find himself, if he could make himself so, quite at home.

A costly bed-chamber was prepared for him; the bed-linen and furniture of which was sent by Mr. Leek from his own house; and, no doubt, he fully intended to be well paid for the same.

The baron, after about two hours spent in the examination of his house, sat down in one of the principal apartments, and partook of a very slight repast; and after that, folding his arms upon his bosom, he seemed to give himself up to thought entirely; and from the smile that occasionally showed itself on his remarkable physiognomy, it would seem that those thoughts of his were of a pleasant and felicitous character.

Now and then, too, from a few and unsettled words that fell from his lips, it would seem as if he were greatly felicitating himself upon something which he had achieved that was of a character to give him intense satisfaction.

Perhaps it was the death of this singular man who called upon him, that gave him so much pleasure; and we are inclined to think that was the case, for, after the commission of a murder such as that, one of two feelings were pretty sure to possess him.

Remorse might take possession of him, and he might suffer much mental anguish in consequence of the deed; or the object which he achieved by that death might be of such a nature as to become quite a subject of congratulation, so as, whenever he thought upon it, to give him the pleasantest and most delightful feelings.

It looked very much as if this was the case as regarded the baron, because it was as clear and evident as the sun at noon day, that he had felt no degree of remorse or regret for that deed; and that, as regards his conscience, certainly the murder he had committed sat as easy upon it as anything well could.

The evening was now drawing on, and the large apartments of the ancient house began to be enveloped in gloom; but, unlike the generality of persons who have committed crimes, and whose consciences are charged with injustice, the gathering gloom of night seemed to have no terror whatever for the Baron Stolmuyer.

But at length, with something of a sense of weariness, he rose and rang for attendance, desiring to be shown to the bedchamber which had been prepared for his reception.

It was a strange thing; but it seemed to be customary with him not to undress when he retired to rest; but, as he had done at the hotel, he only took off a portion of his apparel, and then cast himself upon the bed, and, in a few moments, it seemed as if a deep repose crept over him.

We say seemed; but, in reality, it was a disturbed and anxious sleep which the baron had; and soon he began to toss his arms to and fro restlessly, and to utter deep groans, indicative of mental anguish.

Occasionally, likewise, a muttered word or two, scarcely articulately pronounced, would come from his lips, such as—“Save me, save me! Not yet, not yet—my doom—no—no—the moonlight—the moonlight—kill him—strike him down!”

This state of mind continued for a considerable time, until with a shrill cry he sprung to his feet, and stood in an attitude of horror, trembling in every limb, and exhibiting a most horrible and frightful picture of mental distress.

Then there came a loud knocking at his chamber-door, and the voice of the man Davis, who had been alarmed at the strange shriek that had come from the baron’s lips, fell upon his ears. The sound of any human voice, at such a time, was like music to him.

“Are you ill, sir?” cried Davis; “are you ill?”

“No—no—it was nothing but a dream—only a dream;” and then he added to himself, “but it was a dream of such absolute horror, that I shall dread to close my eyes in rest again, lest once more so fearful a vision should greet me. It was a dream of such frightful significance, that it will live in my remembrance like a reality, and be dreamed of again as such.”

He sat down, and wiped the cold perspiration from his brow; then rising, he walked with unsteady steps towards the window, and throwing aside the massive curtain which shut out the night without by making a still deeper night within, a flood of beautiful and tender moonlight fell into the apartment.

As the cold rays fell upon his face, he breathed more freely, and seemed more to revive beneath their influence than as if he had suddenly found the bright sunshine beaming upon him in all the refulgence of its mid-day glory.

“I am better now,” he muttered; “I am much better now. What a fearful vision that was which came across my heated fancy! Welcome, welcome, beautiful moonbeams, welcome; for deep in my very heart I feel your cheering influence now.”

The violent trembling which had seized him passed away, and once more he resumed his wonted composure and calm hideousness of expression, if we may be allowed the word.

Now, for some time, he sat in silence, and then, in a low deep tone, he spoke.

“It was a strange dream! A dream made up of strange fancies and strange impulses! I thought that I stood in a vaulted chamber, and that all around me depicted nothing but gloom and desolation; but, as I there stood, the chamber filled with hideous forms, coming from where I knew not, but still crowding, crowding in, until the shadow of the merest shade could not have found a place.

“And so they crushed me into the smallest possible space; and there I stood, with a hundred grinning faces close around me, and in such a mad paroxysm of terror, that I would have given the world for escape from that dreadful thraldom.

“But they gibed at me, filling my ears with shrieking noises, and then at once there was a proposition—a proposition yelled out with shrieking vehemence by every voice. It was, to place me in the tomb even as I was, a living man.

“‘Heap mountains of earth upon him,’ cried a voice. ‘Endow him with the rare gift of immortality, and then let him lie buried for thousands of years yet to come.’

“They seized upon me, those gaunt and terrific forms, and deep into the bowels of the earth I was hurried—a depth beyond all calculation; and when I thought my fate was sealed, a change came over me, and I found myself in one of the ice-wells of this mansion, cold and death-like, while a crowd of eager, curious faces, illumined by the light of torches, gazed down upon me, but no one spoke; and then they began to cast large fragments of the rocky cliff upon me.

“I called for aid, and asked for death; but still they proceeded to fill up the pit, while I lay, incapable of anything but agonised thought, at the bottom of it.

“Then it was, I presume, that in my despair I shook off that fearful slumber and awakened.”

He was silent, and seemed again much to rejoice in the moonbeams, as they fell upon his face; and, after a time, in order, it would appear, that he might feel more of their influence, he opened the window, and stepped out upon a balcony which was immediately in front of it.

The view that he now had was a beautiful one in the extreme, spreading far over, in one direction, a beautiful tract of highly cultivated country; and on the other, as far as the eye could reach, upon the boundless ocean, on which the moonbeams fell with such beauty and power, that, still and placid as the waters were on that particular night, the sea looked like a sheet of radiant silver, broken into gentle irregularities.

It was a scene upon which a poet or a painter—but painters should all be poets, although poets may not be painters—might gaze with rapture and delight.

Not the slightest breath of air stirred the gentlest leaf upon a forest tree; but such a calmness and such a serenity reigned over all things, that one might imagine oneself looking upon some new and beautiful world, the harmony of which had never yet been disturbed by the jarring sounds of elemental strife.

Strange thoughts and feelings seemed to come over the baron, as he then looked upon that mild and placid scene without, and, after a time, he spoke, saying,—

“And what do I struggle for now? What is it now but mere existence that is the end and aim of all these anxious thoughts and feelings? Nothing more, nothing more, but the mere liberty to breathe and to be anxious—the capacity to endure pain. That is what I live for—nothing else—nothing else in the wide world; for when and how can I expect that calm contentment of the soul which man takes such pains to cast from him, but which I know the full value of, can ever be mine?”

Once more he cast his eyes around him, upon the great extent of cultivated country, and although he felt he could call the most of it, that lay immediately beneath his observation, his own, it yet gave him but little gratification to do so, and probably he looked with about as much indifference upon his own possessions as any one possibly could.

“This is a new career,” he said, “and something tells me that it is my last; so, while it continues, I will not shrink from it, but, on the contrary, enjoy it; and I will endeavour to lose the recollection of those stormy periods of my existence which have passed away in a complete round and whirl of what the world calls enjoyments and delights. I will spend large sums on brilliant entertainments, and this house, which they tell me has been so long deserted by everything in the shape of festivity and hilarity, shall once again ring with joyous laughter, and I will make an endeavour to forget what I am.”

He evidently dreaded again to lie down to repose, for, after some time further spent in thought, and in the expression of the feelings that lay uppermost in his mind, he put on again that portion of his apparel which he had taken off.

“In this soft and pleasant moonlight,” he said, “which is so grateful to my senses, I will walk in the gardens of this mansion; and, should a sense of weariness oppress me, I shall be able to find, no doubt, some pleasant spot where I can lie down to rest, and I shall not fear horrifying or anxious dreams when I can repose beneath the beams of the moon, which cool my fevered brow.”

With a slow and stately step he moved across the long and beautiful corridor from which his chamber opened, and then, descending the grand staircase, and in that house a grand staircase it really was, he made his way across the hall, and, undoing the fastening of a window which opened into a large and handsome conservatory, he passed through that again, and soon found himself in the extensive gardens of Anderbury.

Certainly, if there be any sight more chaste and beautiful than another, it is a highly-cultivated and well-wooded garden by moonlight, and we cannot but admire the taste of the Baron Stolmuyer in preferring it even to the stately bed-chamber he had so recently left, and which, notwithstanding all the advantages and beauties that art could bestow upon it, could never hope to rival, or even to come near, the natural beauties of that highly-cultivated piece of ground.

And there are some flowers, too, that give out their sweetest odours to the night air, and some again that unfold their choicest beauties only when the sun has set, and the cold moonbeams can but look down upon them.

When he got fairly into the garden, he found that there was a light, gentle breeze playing among the shorter shrubs and flowers, but that it reached not high enough to stir the leaves of the trees; but it is extremely doubtful if, completely taken up as this man was, no doubt, with worldly pursuits, he did not, after the first few moments, completely forget the world of natural beauties by which he was surrounded.

Folding his arms, he walked along the stately avenues with a solemn tread, and then, soon banishing from his mind those feelings of melancholy sadness which had oppressed him, he began evidently to indulge in dreams of felicity which, by the manner in which he spoke of them, were evidently but dreams.

“What can I desire or want more than I have?” he said, “Immense wealth—consequently, immense power. Golden opinions may always be purchased with gold, and what is there then really to hinder me pursuing to the full the career which I have marked out to myself? Surely I can surround myself with all that is young, and delightful, and beautiful? Can I not make these halls echo with such laughter, that surely it must awaken, even in my breast, joyous emotions? Then there is the wine cup; why should not that flow with rich abundance, gladdening the hearts of all, and adding even to genius, for the time, a new fire, and a more delightful expression of its thoughts and feelings?

“And music, too; surely I can have abundance of music, to shed the witchery of its charms about me; and, with these inducements and allurements, I must and will succeed in banishing reflection, if I achieve no more.”

As he now stood, and turned his eyes towards the east, he fancied he saw that the morning light was beginning faintly to show itself in the far off horizon.

“Another day is coming,” he said, “and how much, how very much might be done in a day. I will, with the assistance of that man Leek, who, I can readily perceive, is quite willing to bow down to any idol, provided it be of gold, to commence the career of festivities that I have set my heart upon, and we shall soon see how striking an alteration will take place in the halls of Anderbury.”

He entered a small summer-house which was built in the garden, and through the stained glass of which the moon shone with a variegated light, and there he sat down, and, after a time, tasted of that repose which, upon the bed of down that he had left, and surrounded by all the costly litter of his handsome bedchamber he had courted in vain.

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C. MR. LEEK SPECULATES UPON THE BARON’S MATRIMONIAL INTENTIONS

Mr. Leek pondered deeply over what the baron had said to him regarding his intention to take unto himself a wife, and viewed the resolution in all its bearings, with a view of discovering in what way such a thing could be turned to account, and whether that account might not be managed to his own advantage, which was a matter that Mr. Leek very often considered of paramount importance to himself, as being the pivot upon which things moved.

In Mr. Leek was certainly centered all those notions which usually arise from a desire to benefit oneself, and causing, as far as in him lay, all events to circle around him when they least appeared to do so.

“I must make this move of the baron’s matrimonial alliance redound to my own advantage in some way or other, though I cannot precisely say in what way; but, if I have any hand in it, there must be a way, of that there can be no doubt; the only thing is to discover the way.”

Mr. Leek set himself steadily to consider the subject in all its various bearings, determined he would not give up the chase until he had discovered what was to be done.

“I have it—I have it!” he muttered—“I have it; who can suggest anything better? I must have something to do in the suggestive style. I will persuade the baron to invite some one with whom I can have a few words in private. I will have some few words in the way of a bargain with them.

“Yes, yes; I will do my best to make somebody else’s fortune; but at the same time they must do something for me in return. I must have a quid for my quo, as the parsons say. They cannot preach the gospel without they have a full stomach; for who can be pious and hungry at the same moment? I can’t, my thoughts would be diverted; but the case holds good in every relation in life; even those whom I would benefit must benefit me, else I lose the natural desire I have to benefit them. This reciprocity is the motto I like to apply in cases of this kind, and very proper too.”

Thus did Mr. Leek argue the matter within his own mind, and then, having thus made a resolution, his next step was to consider how he should put it in practice—how he should be able to realise his hopes, and give life and being to the suggestions of his inventive faculties, which were usually of a practical nature.

“Well, well,” he muttered. “Let me see—it’s difficult to say who’s who now-a-days; but that must not cause me to lose a chance, and I think I can make pretty sure of my bargain. I think, if I undertake anything, I can go through it and not fail. I will have so much of security as will prove a bargain, and thus bring shame and disgrace upon them if they refuse to make good the conditions.”

Thus Mr. Leek had an eye to the future, and the contingencies that might, under different circumstances, arise by any possibility.

Men like Mr. Leek do not often fail in their endeavours when they take a comprehensive view of any affair in which they might engage, and thus, by contemplating it in all its various phases, insure, as much as may be, success to all their schemes.

The next consideration that presented itself to Mr. Leek was the party. It was all very well to chalk out a plan of action—the mode in which a thing should be done; but it was another to adapt the tools to the occasion, and make them subservient to the purpose he had in view.

He did not choose his tools first, and then adapt his work; no, he saw his object and adapted the means to the end; and, in considering this part of the affair, he came to the following resolution.

“I think I know who to pitch upon,” muttered Mr. Leek to himself, in a thoughtful tone. “Aye, she has several children, and is a widow, too. I know she is comparatively poor, and not too much troubled with compunction, or any absurd notions of delicacy upon this matter. I can tell her what I mean better than I could to a good many. Yes, I will go and visit her. I can come to an understanding at once.”

This was satisfactory, and he arose to quit the house, and proceeded to the residence of Mrs. Williams, the lady whose accommodating disposition, and whose desire to see her daughters well provided for, would cause her to bargain about matters that many would think too serious and too much a matter of the affections to be permitted to be looked upon in the light of a mere affair of pounds, shillings, and pence.

Now, Mrs. Williams was a lady who possessed something very much like a genteel independence, which is a very mysterious matter, and one which puzzled many people to divine. No one can understand what a genteel independence means.

It is one of those things that enables people to flit about, apparently comfortable in circumstances, with genteel clothes, and fingers on which no marks of toil are observable, but which are white and soft, through often lean and attenuated, in consequence of privations.

However, to return to Mrs. Williams. She was a widow, had several marriageable daughters, and was most anxious that they should be settled out in life, so that she might be sure of their future welfare. She was a sharp-sighted, clever woman in some respects; and, in others, she was as women usually are, which is not saying much.

The house the widow occupied was one a pattern of neatness and gentility, and ornamented with woman’s work from one end to the other; the ladies were accomplished and well educated, and possessed of some personal charms; and they were not altogether unacquainted with the fact.

“Yes, yes,” he muttered; “I will go to Mrs. Williams, and there we can come to an immediate understanding. Helen Williams will, I think, stand a very good chance indeed. I must go and have some conversation with her, and learn her sentiments before I break ground with him; else she may try something without my aid on her own account.”

This was a laudable object, and was but, as he said, merely putting another person in the way of making a fortune, and putting something into his own pocket at the same time; which was doing two good things at once, charitable acts of the first class, because charity begins at home, and then it gives to one’s neighbours when we have a surplus.

It did not take Mr. Leek very long to reach the widow’s house; and it was not without some degree of confidence that he rang the bell for admission; and, when a servant appeared, he said,—

“Is Mrs. Williams at home?”

“Yes, sir, she is,” answered the drudge; “do you want her?”

“I wish to see her, else I should not have come here,” replied Mr. Leek. “Tell her Mr. Leek desires to speak with her.”

“Very well, sir,” said the girl, who left the hall, and then walked to the parlour, in which Mrs. Williams was seated, and overheard all that was said in the passage.

“Mr. Leek, ma’am,” said the girl.

“Tell Mr. Leek to walk in,” said the lady; and, in due form, Mr. Leek did walk in, introduced by the servant, who soon departed, leaving the two worthies in each other’s presence.

“Good morning, Mrs. Williams.”

“And good morning, Mr. Leek; this visit is unexpected, but valued. I am happy to see you. Will you be seated?”

“Thank you,” said Leek, “I will. Unexpected incidents give rise to other unexpected incidents; so, you see, one event gives rise to another, and they follow each other in rapid succession.”

“So they do,” said Mrs. Williams.

“Well,” said Mr. Leek, as if greatly relieved in mind, giving sound to something very much like a sigh, “and how do you find yourself this variable weather—eh, Mrs. Williams?”

“As well as can be expected, you know, at my time of life.”

“Your time of life! Upon my word, you are a young woman; and, if I might hazard an opinion, one with no small share of charms; indeed, you are decidedly a beautiful woman, Mrs. Williams.”

“Ah! Mr. Leek, I though you were too much a man of business to be given to flattery; but I am afraid of you.”

“There is no need, ma’am, I assure you. But how are your lovely daughters?—in the enjoyment of good health and spirits?”

“Yes, they are very well, I thank you, Mr. Leek—very well indeed; they usually are; they are considered to enjoy very good health.”

“That is a good thing, I am sure—a very good thing, upon my word; they usually are well?”

“Yes; they have very little that ails them.”

“It will be a blessing to you when they are comfortably provisioned off, under the protection of some one who will seek their future happiness as his own,” said Mr. Leek.

“Why, as to that,” said Mrs. Williams, “I am not so anxious as many might be. I love to see my children round about me; I love to be in their company, and to know that no one can ill-use them.”

“That is very true,” said Mr. Leek.

“And yet, I have, I must say, at times, a wish that I might, before I die, see them comfortably settled in life, and their future happiness secured.”

“Certainly; it is quite a mother’s wish that it should be so; that her children might enter the world, and that they might be provided for and subject to none of the disagreeable contingencies of life.”

“Those are my feelings.”

“I thought as much, Mrs. Williams. Have you heard of the Kershaws lately?” inquired Mr. Leek.

“Yes; I did hear there was a marriage in the family; pray is it true?”

“It is.”

“A good marriage?”

“Yes, I believe a very good marriage; one in which a great deal of money is floating about from one to the other; indeed, I hear the gentleman is very rich.”

“How did they become acquainted with such a man? I did not think they had any friends who could have brought them into contact with such a person.”

“A friend,” said Leek.

“Indeed! Why, as I said, I did not know they possessed such friends; but still, I suppose, there was some drawback—either low-bred contracted friendships, or some circumstances or other, that caused him to settle there.”

“I believe not,” said Leek.

“And what is he then?” inquired Mrs. Williams.

“Why, he was a stranger in those parts; but he had an excellent fortune, and was, according to all accounts, a very excellent match.”

“How came they to find him out? who introduced them to him? I should like to know such a person.”

“Why, some friend.”

“How very disinterested of that friend,” said Mrs. Williams.

“Not quite. It was a mutual understanding, I believe.”

“How?”

“Why, thus; the friend wanted money, and the lady wanted a husband for her daughter.”

“Well, I dare say she did, and I should have thought she was like to have waited long enough.”

“And so she would; but an active man of business may have the means of pushing a family’s fortune, if they will but make it worth his while; it was in this manner the Kershaws have made their fortune.”

“And what did they do?”

“Why, they pushed a daughter into certain company into which she was introduced by the man of business; not by himself, but he managed it so that she was introduced, in a manner that made it appear as if they had no connection, and then he could exert himself in another manner, and so contrived to serve them by spreading favourable reports.”

“And that’s how Mary Kershaw got her husband, is it?” inquired Mrs. Williams, with a serious air.

“Yes, it is, indeed.”

“How very immoral!”

“Eh?”

“How very immoral of a mother speculating in matrimonial matters for her daughter. How could she expect that she could procure happiness for her, when she uses such means?”

“What better could she use? You mistake the motive of the affair altogether, Mrs. Williams; give me leave to say you do.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes, decidedly. Thus, you don’t attempt to buy a daughter’s happiness; you only pay an agent; that is all. But it can be no crime that that agent is engaged upon matters connected with the happiness of your daughter, which is the great object of a mother’s care.”

“Certainly—certainly; how plain all that is,” said Mrs. Williams; “but I can’t think it is exactly what I should do myself.”

“Perhaps not. But I have exactly such a chance, at this very moment.”

“You, Mr. Leek?”

“Yes, I. I have the means, I believe, of obtaining a good fortune for the daughter of a very respectable person, of the first respectability, and with natural advantages in her favour. Such a one, if it were worth my while to lose time in carrying such an affair——”

“Why, then, the matter looks a little different to what it did, and certainly who could object to do what was just and right?”

“Exactly. Now, if you were desirous of seeing your daughter Helen, for instance, comfortably provided for, what would you give—making it a suppositious case—what would you give to see your daughter happy and comfortable for life, with a good home over her head?”

“A good deal.”

“What?”

“I cannot say; but, of course, that would depend much upon the value of such a prize; but I would not hesitate at a trifle in such a matter as that, come what may.”

“Well—well, that is really the best way to consider the affair in all its various branches; you become more satisfied in the end. Now, do you really think you would be able to tolerate such an attempt to benefit yourself and daughter?”

“I do.”

“Will you enter into particulars?”

“Yes, Mr. Leek; whenever you please. I am willing to attend to your proposal, and will be bound to anything I may say; for, in matters of this kind, I must consider anything one may say or undertake, as a debt of honour.”

“Exactly. But what we agree to now we must put in black and white, because, by-and-bye, we may not think of it so well as we should when we see it drawn up before one.”

“Agreed. But what of this person?”

“Why, I think, if we were to agree, you would find this gentleman very rich and munificent, and living in a princely style; he is, in fact, a man of rank—of title, in fact.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is, I assure you, because I know him, and have had business matters to do with him; and, though a correct man, he is not at all nice about matters in which money is the chief ingredient. He pays eight hundred a year for rent, so you may guess he is not at all unlikely to give your daughter a handsome settlement.”

“If he will have her.”

“Exactly; if he have her; there is the contingency, of course, which, however, cannot affect you.”

“Yes, it must, since my daughter does not obtain her husband.”

“And you pay no money. If the benefit is contingent to you, it is to me also. I do not wish to bind you to anything that will cause you to be a loser under any circumstances.”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Williams. “Say what you please; there is pen, ink, and paper; make it out, and I will sign any memorandum you may please, provided it be of the complexion you have mentioned.”

“I wish for no other.”

Mr. Leek, accordingly, sat down near a table, and produced an agreement, which was, to give him a certain sum of money, provided Helen Williams was married to the baron.

“And who is he, my dear Mr. Leek?” said the lady.

“There,” said Leek, “read that, and you will see his name.”

And, as he spoke, he pushed the memorandum towards her, and she took it up and read it carefully over, and when she had so done, she signed it, and returned it, saying,—

“So he is a baron.”

“Yes; I told you he was a man of rank and title.”

“You did; and where will he live?”

“At Anderbury House.”

“A fine place; I know it. A splendid and princely place it is, too. He must have a large fortune there. It will be a splendid match for Helen. I wonder if there be any prospect—success; it appears almost too great a catch.”

“I should say there was every prospect of success.”

“But we must not let Helen know anything of our compact. I know her feelings so well, that I am fully persuaded that she would not acquiesce in the arrangement at all.”

“Certainly; it may for ever remain our own secret, with which no human being need be acquainted.”

“That is precisely what I wish; but now how are we to manage the introduction?”

“That will be easy enough.”

“I am glad of it; but how is it to be managed at all?”

“Thus: the baron will give grand entertainments, and as he knows I am very well acquainted with the generality of the gentry about, he has asked me to point out those whom he might safely invite to his splendid banquets.”

“Then you will have the kindness to invite us,” said Mrs. Williams. “I see through it now. Ay, a very good plan. Then you can say everything that is necessary.”

“To be sure I can, and will,” said Leek.

“Well, I am glad you have called about this to-day, for we have had some little scheme in view, but unknown to the principal party concerned; however, as this one is in view, I shall prosecute no other.”

“It would be dangerous to attempt two such speculations at once, else he would be unlikely to fulfil a promise even after he had gone some way towards doing so.”

“I would run no risk in landing such a prize,” said Mrs. Williams, who began to have a keen relish for the chance they had in view, such as they had not yet heard of from any quarter.

“Then I may fully rely upon your putting Helen forward upon every occasion that may present itself?”

“You may.”

“And in the meantime keep as much to yourself as you can. You must profess to be unbounded in your admiration for all he says or does, and then you will obtain a preference for companionship, and every little is an aid in such matters.”

“I shall be careful.”

“And in the meantime I will bid you good day,” said Mr. Leek.

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Chapter CI

THE GRAND ENTERTAINMENT GIVEN BY THE BARON AT ANDERBURY HOUSE, AND HIS ANNOUNCEMENT.

The baron made quick work of it, for in five days after the one on which he took Anderbury House, he gave his first entertainment. Money works wonders, and in the baron’s hands it seemed to have lost none of its magical power; for Anderbury House in that time was furnished like a palace; rich and costly were the decorations—the ornamental parts were bold and florid.

The house and grounds were of a most magnificent character, though they had been viewed as separate features; but when considered as one, as that which was part and parcel of one great whole, it was truly princely.

Great care, labour, and expense had been exerted to make the mansion one befitting the habitation of a prince; and the baron himself was looked upon as little less than a prince; his disregard of money, his liberality, all concurred in making him looked upon as one of the most popular men in that neighbourhood.

Indeed, none such as he had ever been seen or heard of in that quarter. He was safe to be considered as one of the grandees of the day.

Anderbury House was now a theme of conversation with every one in the whole town. His magnificence, liberality, and all things connected with him, were all well calculated to cause a feeling of prejudice to be made in his favour.

When people saw the men that were at work, the loads of articles which were sent there, they were amazed, and could hardly credit their senses. Then they all considered how very rich he must be to be able to spend so much in furniture, in hangings, in beautifying, and in ornamental work, which must have been very heavy.

The baron was fully determined to do all he had intended to do in the way of opening his first grand entertainment with great eclat, and in a manner that would take the whole country by surprise.

The day came; the house was furnished, decorated, filled with servants, and everything that could make it appear as though it had been for years in that state.

It is surprising how soon a place can be made to lose all signs of its ever having been uninhabited, and the fact of human beings being in a place soon wears away the look of desolation by which it is otherwise enveloped; but how much easier must it have been, with ample means, for a man like the baron to cause such a house as that of Anderbury House to become what it was.

The great wonder being, not what was done with ample means, but the short time in which it had all been collected together, which was done with such celerity and such small signs of bustle and disturbance, that it appeared as if performed by the wand of a magician, so sudden and so quiet was it done, comparatively.

At the end of five days there was a number of invitations fairly written out and directed, by order of the baron, to the principal inhabitants and gentry of the place to visit Anderbury House, and partake of a grand banquet given by the baron to them and his friends on that occasion.

The day was named, and the information supplied by Mr. Leek to the baron, was of a character that to that individual was extremely valuable, and of which he freely availed himself.

It must not be imagined that the worthy Mr. Leek was in any way oblivious of the promise or obligation into which he had entered with Mrs. Williams, whose name he had taken very great care to insert in the list of invitations that the baron had sent out.

The evening arrived, and the carriages drove up to Anderbury House in rapid succession. There were few or none who knew the baron; they were all, however, anxious, most anxious to see who and what the baron was, who occupied the estate.

The title and name sounded well, and that was what dwelt upon people’s minds, and made an impression upon them, and they freely accepted the invitations, especially when they inquired among themselves what was the extent of invitations that had been issued, and they were confined wholly to the elite of the place.

What was thought or said upon the occasion, it would be difficult to say, because it was so various, and there were none who could in any way form an opinion at all, that wore any appearance of probability about it.

But there was a rumour spread about that he was a foreigner who had immense riches, desirous of marrying an Englishwoman, and yet unable to obtain introductions in the usual way, or else he was merely acting in accordance with the customs and habits of his own country.

The carriage drive of Anderbury House was completely occupied by the strings of carriages that had taken up and set down for two hours or more, as rapidly as they could.

The fine apartments that Anderbury House contained, that were destined to be used for the occasion, were indeed a splendid suit of rooms; but they were now lit up with chandeliers, and adorned with glasses, and mirrors, and pictures.

As for the ornamental part of the mansion, it was superb. Nothing had been spared in expense, and by the way in which that was laid out, it was evident the baron was a man of taste and judgment, and had converted a nobleman’s residence into a palace.

• • • • •

The gentry came dashing up to the door. The place was crowded, and many were announced, and met and welcomed by the baron, who gave them a cordial and distinguished greeting.

There were many persons present; they were astonished at the display of magnificence and wealth of the baron; they were delighted by his reception of them—his conversation, and general manners; and many, too, were much astonished by the splendid entertainment which he had provided for them.

All that art or the season could produce was there—superb wines and liqueurs—fruits—to an extent they had never before contemplated or thought of.

Anderbury House was without a rival.

The wines were good, and they warmed the blood; and courtesies and civilities of life were by the aid of the alchemy of old port, splendid and sparkling champagne, sherries, Burgundies, and other wines, soon turned into friendships and cordialities.

“Baron,” said one of the guests, “you have a superb place, and you certainly are the proper individual to own such a place.”

“And why, my dear sir?” inquired the baron, blandly.

“Because you have the taste and heart to decorate and array the place in a manner befitting its extent, and you have the hospitality of one of the ancients of the east.”

“Ha! Ha! very good, my dear sir. You are kind, very kind; but I must admit I do like to see neighbours act honestly, and in good faith with each other; besides, I am of opinion that man is a social animal, and one who lives only in society. I cannot be a hermit.”

“Right. If the world were all of your opinion—and I believe they are, practice only is opposed—what a state of kindliness and comfort we should all be in—I am sure of it.”

“Ay, so am I. Do you like music?”

“I do,” was the answer.

“Then you shall hear some. We shall have the dance presently, and then there will be no heart that will not beat in unison with the harmonious strain.”

“I think they deserve not to be here in the centre of happiness, if they did not.”

“Ho! music, there!” said the baron, as he stamped on the floor of the grand saloon, in which several hundred guests stood.

The call was answered by a loud crash of instrumental music, that came suddenly and startlingly upon the ears of the guests; but then it was followed by a lighter strain, with a pretty but marked melody, such a one, that it instantly communicated to those present, the feeling of being participators, and even actors, in the scene that was about to be enacted upon the floor.

It required but very little exertion to form the dance, where every one was willing and anxious to take their places. There was a slight degree of excitement in the procuring of partners.

Here for a moment the baron was at fault; but, by some means that were not at that moment explained, or even thought of, Mrs. Williams led the beautiful Helen past the spot at the moment. He had spoken to her before, and was well pleased with her. He perceived she was beautiful and amiable. Her mother, too, was with her, and in another moment the baron stepped forward, saying,—

“Madam, if the hand of your daughter is not already engaged, I beg respectfully to claim it for the opening dance?”

Mrs. Williams curtseyed with condescension, saying, in reply,—

“Yes, my lord. My daughter is disengaged.”

“Miss Williams,” said the baron, with much deference, “may I request the honour of your hand?”

Helen Williams curtseyed, and said she was not engaged, and accepted of his offer with a smile, but with some diffidence.

The baron immediately led her to the top of the room, where, by this time, there was a perfect lane for them to pass through, until they reached the top.

All had taken their places by an instinctive sort of feeling that was almost universal in the ball-room.

The signal was given, and then the baron led Helen down the first dance, amidst the admiration of all, and the envy of not a few. The giddy whirl of the dance, the throng of beauty, and the sweet but gay notes of the bands, added to the coup-d’œil of the scene—a scene of so much happiness and gaiety, that there were few who could have looked coldly upon It.

The baron, himself, appeared in the highest spirits, and with the greatest hospitality he sought to administer to the wants of his guests, every moment that he could abstract from the present leadership of the dance.

He first visited one, and then the other, until he had made a fair round, and then he found that the night was far advanced, and that, in but a short time, he was convinced that daylight would come.

The guests were well pleased with the splendour of the entertainment, and the profusion that was there. Nothing was wanting. All were well pleased with the arrangements. Great care and great expense had been gone to to gratify and pleasure them, and it had succeeded indeed; if it had not, they would have been captious and ungrateful to an extreme.

The guests, however well pleased with their entertainment, were still unable to bear up against the excitement and fatigue of pleasure for hours, and the animal power fails.

Indeed, there is no one sense which may not be exhausted by an overindulgence; even hearing will, as soon as any other, become invariably tired by listening too long to music; ay, and even become unable to distinguish between the different melodies; and the guests began to flag, and to pay more attention to the side tables, and then to look drowsy, while some few of the younger spirits appeared to have the dance to themselves.

The baron now saw the proper moment had arrived for dismissing the company; and, causing the music to cease, he advanced to the middle of the room, and, waving his hand, said,—

“My honoured guests, the sun begins to peep over the hills, and the bright car of Phœbus rapidly ascends the skies, telling us that another day has begun. The happiest mortals must part, and so must we. Let me thank you all for this kindness, for thus honouring my banquet with your presence, and let me hope it may often be thus.

“Often, I say. Yes, fair ladies, your presence will always be a distinguished honour. While I am a bachelor, I shall continue these fetes once a fortnight regularly, until somebody takes the arrangement of such matters out of my hands, by legally assuming the title of baroness.”

There was a long pause after this announcement, and then a sudden buzz of admiration, which was heard on all sides; and the ladies looked at each other, the baron, and the magnificent place they were in. We cannot tell what passed in their minds, but a shrewd guess might readily be formed, and to the performance of that task we leave the reader. There were many courtesies before the separation was effected, and an hour had passed before the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh found himself alone.

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CII. THE WEDDING FEAST.—THE ADMIRAL’S DISAPPOINTMENT

And now the day arrived, at length, when Charles Holland was to call Flora Bannerworth his bride.

On this most auspicious event, as may be well imagined, the admiral was in his glory, and he declared his intention of dancing, if any very handsome young lady should ask him to be her partner at the ball, but not otherwise; for it had been agreed to have a ball in the evening.

Jack Pringle, too, was restored completely to favour upon the occasion; indeed, as far as the admiral was concerned, he seemed to have granted a general amnesty to all offenders, because he was heard to say,—

“Well, I really should not mind if any poor devil of a Frenchman was to come; he should know that good eating and drinking was for once in his life; or even that vagabond, old Varney, the vampyre. What a fool he was to take himself off before the wedding, to be sure.”

Henry Bannerworth had undertaken to take off the old man’s hand all the trouble connected with the actual ceremony. That is to say, letting the clergyman know, and so on; therefore he, the admiral, had nothing at all upon his mind but the festivities that were to be gone into upon the occasion.

The numerous guests recommended by the lawyer were invited to a breakfast, which was to be at one o’clock; while a favoured few, which, together with the family party, made up, altogether, about eighteen persons, were to come to the wedding itself, and to be actually present at the ceremony.

The admiral was rather annoyed at Jack Pringle, about ten o’clock, looking very anxiously at the sky, and shaking his head in a manner which seemed to indicate that he had something of importance on his mind.

“What the deuce is in the wind, now?” said the admiral. “You are always looking for foul weather, you are, and be hanged you!”

“Oh!” said Jack, “I was only a considering what they calls the blessed aspect of the sky, and it seems to me there is a sort of kind of look about things as says that there won’t be no marriage at all to-day.”

“No marriage!”

“No, not a bit of it; I’m tolerably sure there won’t. I was a going on one of my numerous occasions to be married, and there was just that there kind of look in the sky, and I wasn’t.”

“What kind of look, you lubber? I rather think, after living afloat a matter of forty years and more, I ought to know the looks of the sky rather, and I don’t see any thing unusual in it.”

“Don’t you? Then I does; and there won’t be no marriage.”

“Why you infernal croaking swab, you are drunk or out of your senses, one of the two. I would bet my head to a bottle of rum, that there will be a marriage.”

“I don’t mind,” said Jack, “betting one bottle to twenty that there won’t.”

“Done, then—done; and, Jack, for once in a way, you will find yourself regularly done, I can tell you. I know you have got some crotchet or another in your head, by which you think you will get the better of the old man; but it won’t do; for I won’t stand any quibbling or lawyer-like sneaking out of it.”

“Oh! I won’t sneak out of it, you shall see. It shall be all plain sailing and above board, I can tell you, admiral.”

The old man rather puzzled himself to think what Jack could mean; but after a time he gave it up, and forgot it; for his mind began to be too actively engaged upon what was going on to pay much attention to what he considered was some joke of Jack’s, which would turn out to be a mere quibble of words after all.

The admiral was right when he said there was no appearance of anything in the weather to indicate that any stop would be put to the festivity on that account; for a more pleasant, and a more genial, delightful day for the occasion never shone out of the heavens.

Indeed, if anything could have been considered as a gratifying omen of the future felicity which Charles Holland was likely to enjoy in the society of Flora Bannerworth, it was the aspect of that day—a day so replete with beauties that, had it been picked out specially for that occasion, it could not have been more gratifying or delightful.

The house was a large and a handsome one which the admiral had taken, and, since, of course, he considered it to be his own, he was from an early hour in the morning in a perpetual fidget, and here, and there, and everywhere, for the purpose of seeing that all the arrangements were complete for the day’s proceedings.

As may be well supposed, he was a great hindrance to everybody, and most especially the servants, whom he had temporarily engaged, wished him at the very devil for his interference.

But, however, notwithstanding all these drawbacks, by ten o’clock everything was in a tolerable state of readiness; and then the admiral vociferously congratulated the first of the guests who arrived, for that was a great merit in the old man’s eyes, and, although he did not know the person a bit, he almost terrified him by the cordiality of his greeting.

“That’s right,” he said; “take old Time by the forelock, and always be too soon instead of too late. I’ll tell you some capital stories some of these days about the advantage of being a little too soon—But, hilloa! here comes somebody else. Egad! we shall have them all here soon. Here, Jack Pringle! where are you?”

“Here!” cried Jack; “hard on to your larboard bow.”

“Pipe all hands among the flunkies!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Jack.

Producing then a boatswain’s whistle, he blew a shrill call, which pleased the admiral, for, as he said, that was the proper way to begin anything like an entertainment.

People know they must be punctual at weddings, and generally are tolerably so, with the exception of those persons who are never punctual at anything; so that, in a short time, nearly the whole of those who had been invited to be present at the ceremony had arrived, and the hour was fast getting on towards that when the marriage was to take place.

The admiral would have been blind, indeed, if he had not perceived that there was a great deal of whispering going on among the Bannerworth family, and he got rather indignant and a little uneasy to know what it could all be about; but, most of all, he began to be annoyed at Jack Pringle, for that individual’s conduct was certainly of a peculiar and extraordinary character.

Every now and then he would burst out into such an amazing roar of laughter, apparently at nothing, that it became seriously annoying to the old man; and, finally, taking up a pair of nut-crackers that were upon the table, he gave Jack a hard rap upon the top of the head, as he said,—

“Are you out of your senses? what are you going on about?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Jack; “I was only a thinking. Don’t you recollect our wager?”

“Yes, I do; you have laid me one bottle of rum to twenty that Charles and Flora won’t be married to-day.”

“Very good,” said Jack, “that’s quite correct, and mind, I hold you to it.”

“Hold me to it—I’ll hold you to it. I know well enough it’s some stupid joke you have got hold of.”

“Very good,” said Jack; “we shall see.”

The time crept on, and half-past eleven o’clock came, and the guests were assembled in the drawing-room, where, by a special licence, the ceremony was to have been performed; and on the mantle-shelf of which there was a time-piece, indicating the rapid arrival of the hour named for the ceremony.

“You know, Henry,” said the admiral, “I left everything to you. I hope it’s all correct, now, and that you have not made any blunders.”

“None whatever, I assure you, admiral. I have arranged everything; but Flora has just told me that she wants to speak to you.”

“Speak to me! then why the deuce doesn’t she speak? I suppose she can speak to me without asking your leave?”

“Admiral,” said Flora, “I am extremely anxious to ask you if you will forgive me for something which may possibly annoy you a little, and which certainly I feel myself answerable for.”

“What is it?”

“You must promise to forgive me first.”

“Well, well, of course—of course I do; what is it?”

“Then, I must say, I would rather not be married to-day.”

“What!” cried the admiral.

“I told you so,” shouted Jack. “I saw it in the look of the clouds this morning. I never knew anybody get married when there was a light breeze blowing from the nor’-east.”

“You be quiet,” said the admiral; “I’ll be the death of you, presently. What is the meaning of this, Flora? Is it not rather a cruel jest to say such a thing to me now?”

“It is no jest, sir, but a fact; I must beg to be excused.”

“And I, uncle,” said Charles Holland, advancing, “am of the same mind; and I join with Flora in begging that you will look over the little disappointment this may occasion you.”

“Little disappointment!” cried the admiral; “am I awake—am I out of my senses? Jack, you rascal, where am I?”

“Can’t say,” cried Jack; “but I think as how you are abut two points to the south’ard.”

“Flora, speak again. You do not, cannot mean to tell me that any foolish quarrel has interfered to prevent this union, upon which I have set my heart? If you are not jesting, there must be some very special reason for this alteration of intention.”

“There is,” said Flora, as she looked the old man kindly in the face; “there is a very special reason, sir, and one which I will mention to you at once; a reason which makes it next to impossible that the ceremony should proceed. The real fact is——”

“Well, go on—go on.”

“That Charles and I were married a fortnight ago.”

“D—n me,” said the admiral, “if ever I was so taken in my life. A fortnight ago! shiver my timbers——”

“Go on, old pepper-castor,” said Jack; “only remember you owe me twenty bottles of rum.”

“I won’t look over it,” said the admiral; “I won’t and I can’t; it’s treating me ill, Flora—I tell you, it is treating me ill.”

“But you know you have looked over it, admiral,” said Flora, “and I have your positive promise to forgive me.”

“Besides,” said Jack, “she won’t do so no more; and, as far as I sees of these ere things, it’s a deuced good thing as we ain’t bothered with any parson coming here this morning, casting up his eyes like a dying dolphin if one outs with so much as a natural d—n or two. I can’t stand such rubbish, not I; and its my out and out opinion that we shall be all the merrier; and as for the old man——”

Jack’s oratory was put a stop to by the admiral seizing a piece of confectionery that was upon the table, and throwing it with such a dab in his face that he was half choked and covered with currant jam; and he made such a spluttering that the guests could keep their countenances no longer, but burst into a roar of laughter consequent upon that proceeding.

“And you, too, Henry,” said the admiral, “I suppose you were in the plot?”

“Why yes,” said Henry, “I rather think I was. The fact is, that Flora disliked the public marriage, although she looked forward with pleasure to the meeting with this pleasant party on the present occasion; so, among us, we all cast about for some means for securing the agreeable without the disagreeable, and so, a fortnight ago, they were married quietly and privately, and I plead guilty.”

“I thought as much,” said the admiral, “I’ll be hanged if I didn’t; but now just answer me one question, Charles.”

“A hundred, if you please, uncle.”

“No, one will suffice. I want to know whether you were married in the name of Bell, or in the name of Holland?”

“I took legal advice, uncle, as to the validity of my marriage in the name of Bell; and as I found that a man’s marriage was quite legal, let him call himself whatever he pleases, and as I knew that it was your wish I should take the name of Bell, I was married in that name, and Flora now calls herself Mrs. Bell.”

“Then I’ll say no more about it,” said the admiral, “but let it pass so—let’s be as merry as possible; and first of all, we will have a bumper all round to the bride.”

This affair, upon which Charles really had had some misgivings, being thus agreeably settled, there was certainly nothing to interfere with the hilarity of the meeting, and as there was an abundance of good cheer, and the guests had been selected judiciously, and were persons who could and would enjoy themselves, an extremely pleasant day was passed.

For about an hour, perhaps, only, the admiral now and then exhibited some symptoms of indignation, and shook his head occasionally at Flora; but a smile from her soon restored him, and he did actually contrive to get through a quadrille in some extraordinary manner, by almost knocking every lady down, and ending by falling sprawling himself.

The only great interruption—and that lasted for nearly half an hour—to the proceedings arose from that incorrigible Jack Pringle, who, as usual, did not get a glass too much, but a whole bottle too much; and then an obscure idea seized him that it was absolutely impossible for him to avoid kissing all the ladies, as it was a wedding, or ought to have been a wedding.

Blaming himself, therefore, very much for not having thought of it before, he made a wild rush into the drawing-room, and commenced operations.

A scene of confusion ensued which quite baffles description, and Jack had to be carried out at last by main force, thinking himself a very ill-used person, when he was only doing what was right and proper.

The admiral apologised to the ladies for Jack, calling their attention to the fact that he wasn’t such a fool as he looked, and that, after all, it wasn’t a bad notion of Jack’s, only that he had not set about it in the right way.

“Howsomedever,” said the admiral, “I don’t mind showing you how he ought to have done it.”

This, however, was universally declined, and that with so much decision, too, that the admiral was forced to forego the generous intention; but long before the parties separated for the night, he admitted that it was just as well the marriage business had been all settled before; and it was shrewdly suspected that, from the fact of the admiral singing “Rule Britannia,” after he had gone to bed, he had just slightly exceeded the bounds of that moderation which he was always preaching to Jack.

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Chapter CIII

DR. CHILLINGWORTH MAKES URGENT INQUIRIES FOR THE VAMPYRE; AND THE LAWYER GIVES SOME ADVICE CONCERNING THE QUAKER.

If the Bannerworth family and the admiral were inclined to put up quietly with the loss of the large sum of money which Dr. Chillingworth fully believed that Varney, the vampyre, had gone off with, he could not fully divest himself of the idea that it was recoverable.

When he went home, he succeeded in silencing the clamours of his wife, by assuring her that his practice for half-a-dozen years would not at all be equal to what he should gain if he could successfully carry out what he was aiming at; and as everything, to Mrs. Chillingworth, resolved itself into a question of pounds, shillings, and pence, she was tolerable well satisfied, and consented to remain quiet, more especially as he gave her sufficient to keep the household comfortably for some time while he again left home.

So thoroughly had he made up his mind not to let the matter rest, that he carefully resolved the best means of setting about, systematically, to inquire for Varney.

He thought it impossible that he could have left the cottage home of the Bannerworths with such great secrecy that no one had observed him.

He was too remarkable a man, too, in personal appearance to escape notice; and if any one saw him, with a grain of curiosity in their composition, they would be sure to look after him with speculative eyes as to who and what he was.

The cottage had not many dwellings near it, and the doctor thought it highly possible that if he visited them all, and made proper inquiries, some one among their inhabitants might be able to tell him that such a man as Varney had been seen.

Accordingly he commenced his tour, and, as luck would have it, at the very second cottage he went to, a woman stated that a tall, dark, singular-looking man had asked leave to sit down for a few minutes, and to be accommodated with a glass of water.

“Had he any parcel or bundle with him?” asked Mr. Chillingworth.

“No,” was the reply; “he certainly had nothing of the kind that I could see, and only seemed very weary and exhausted indeed.”

“Do you know which direction he went in?”

“I watched him from my cottage door, and after looking about him for some few minutes, he walked away slowly in the direction of the London road.”

This was all the information that Dr. Chillingworth could obtain in that quarter; but it strengthened him in his own opinion, that Varney had left that part of the country, and proceeded to London; but with what motives or intentions could not be guessed even, although probably it was with an intention of finding a wider sphere of action.

“If,” thought the doctor, “he has gone on the London road, and walked, he must have stopped, in the very weak state that he was, within a very few miles for rest and refreshment; in which case I shall hear tidings of him, if I take myself the same path.”

He pursued this plan, and walked on, inquiring at the different inns that he passed, but all in vain, for such a man.

No one had seen anybody resembling Varney; and the doctor, with a sense of great disappointment, was compelled, himself, to stop for rest at a roadside inn, where the mails and stage coaches stopped to change horses.

The landlord of the inn was a good-tempered, conversable man, and was listening, with quiet complacency, to the rather long description of the personal appearance of the individual he sought, that was given by Dr. Chillingworth, when the mail coach from London, which was proceeding to a very distant part of the country, stopped to change horses, and the coachman came to the bar to take his usual glass of refreshment.

While so engaged, he heard something of what Mr. Chillingworth was saying, and he remarked to that gentleman,—

“Do you mean, sir, a long fellow, that looked as if he had been buried a month and dug up again?”

“Well,” said the doctor, “he certainly had something of that appearance; but the man I am inquiring about disappeared last Thursday.”

“The very day, sir; I was going up with the mail, when he hailed it, and got up on the outside. It’s the very man, you many depend; I remember well enough his getting up, but somehow or another when we got to London he wasn’t to be found; and so he had his ride as far as it went, and I have not the least idea of how far that was, for nothing.”

“I thank you for your information, and I have no doubt that it was the man I seek for. Although he had a large sum of money with him, I think, yet it was not in an available shape to use, and I dare say he would not be very scrupulous about the means he adopted to avoid the inconvenience of any detention.”

“Not he, sir, he wasn’t very particular. I dare say he got down somewhere in London, most probably at Piccadilly, where there is always a crowd, and I draw up for about five minutes. I don’t look to see who gets down, or who stays up, so, as regards that, he might take himself off easy enough, if he liked.”

“But you missed him?”

“Yes, I did, when it was too late. Can you tell me who, or what he is, sir?”

“Yes,” said Dr. Chillingworth; “it was Varney, the vampyre, of whom, no doubt, you have all heard so much, and who has made such a commotion in the countryside.”

“The deuce it was!” said the coachman; “and I have actually had one of these creatures upon my coach, have I! I only wish I had known it, that’s all; I would have pretty soon got rid of such a customer, I can tell him. They don’t suit me, those sort of gentry; but I’m off, now; good day, sir. I hope you may catch him.”

The coachman got upon his box, and drove away; and Dr. Chillingworth began to think that unless he took a journey to London, which he was scarcely prepared to do, he must give up, for a time, the pursuit of Varney.

Besides, he thought, and justly enough too, that even if he went to the metropolis in search of him, its extent would baffle all inquiry, and make it almost impossible that it could be set about with any prospect of success; so he resolved, before he went any further in the matter, to urge the admiral and the Bannerworths once more upon the subject.

He was firmly, himself, of opinion that something more, and that, perhaps, too, of a very uncomfortable character regarding Varney, would soon be heard, unless they could communicate to him in some manner, and persuade him either to retire from England altogether, or to lead a quiet life with a portion of the wealth he had acquired.

It will be seen with what great pertinacity the doctor clung to that idea which to the Bannerworths appeared such a very doubtful one, namely, that Varney had really got possession of all the money which had been hidden by Marmaduke Bannerworth; but we must leave the doctor for the present inactive, because he felt that, at the period of Flora’s marriage, they would be too much occupied to give him the attention he required, and, therefore, he determined to wait until that ceremony, at all events, was completely over.

And now we may as well state at this juncture that the admiral was quite as good as his word, as regarded taking the advice of his friend, the lawyer, concerning the Quaker who still held possession of the Dearbrook estate.

With all the indignation that he felt upon the matter, he laid it before the man of law, explaining how liberally Henry had dealt with him, and what a very uncourteous reception they had met with.

“I am afraid,” said the lawyer, “that he may keep you out of it for a year or two, unless you compromise with him.”

“What do you mean by compromise?”

“Just this; he knows very well, of course, that he cannot hold possession, and he wants to be paid out, that’s the whole of the affair. He considers that you may take friendly advice, and that then you will be told how much shorter, cheaper, and less vexatious a course it is, to put up with almost any amount of imposition, than to get involved in a law suit.”

“That’s all very fine,” said the admiral; “but do you think I’d let that rascally Quaker have a farthing of my money? No, indeed; I should think not. If he expects us to compromise he will be disappointed.”

“Well, then, if your determination is to proceed, I will, if you like, take the necessary steps in the name or Mr. Henry Bannerworth. Do you know if he administered to his father’s estate?”

“No; I know very little about it. But you had better see him.”

“Certainly,” said the lawyer; “that will be the best plan. I had better see him, as you say, and I dare say,” added the lawyer to himself, “I shall find him more reasonable that you are by a great deal.”

The lawyer did see Henry; for he called upon him and so strongly advised him to compromise the matter with the Quaker, that Henry gave him full instructions to do as he pleased.

“Your title is so clear,” said the lawyer, “that it cannot prejudice you to make the offer, or, rather, to allow me to make it for you; besides, I will take care it shall be made without prejudice, and I dare say you will get possession pretty quickly of the Dearbrook estate.”

The lawyer wrote to the Quaker, asking for the name of some solicitor who would act in his behalf, and at once received an answer, referring him to a Quaker attorney, who was tolerably notorious for sharp practice, and who was about as great a rogue as could be found in a profession somewhat notorious for such characters.

The shortest plan and the best was that which was at once adopted by the admiral’s friend, the attorney; for he went to town and saw the Quaker upon the subject.

The result of their conference was, that Mr. Shepherd wanted a sum equivalent to two years’ rental of the premises he occupied, before giving up possession of them; and in reply one year was offered, and there the matter rested for mutual consideration of the principals.

Henry did not feel exactly disposed to do anything in the affair, in actual defiance of the admiral, so he resolved upon trying, at all events, to persuade him into the compromise, if possible; and the principal argument he intended using was, that Flora had heard sufficient of the Dearbrook property, and that it would be a thousand pities, consequently, to keep her out of possession of it, since, from what they had all seen of it, they felt that it would be a very desirable residence indeed.

The admiral’s anger, however, had been so roused by the insolent conduct of the Quaker, that it required great care and tact to introduce the subject to him in such a shape, and Henry set about it not without some fear of the result.

“I have seen, admiral,” he said, “your friend, the lawyer, about the Dearbrook property, and we shall not have possession in our lifetimes.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, our ghosts may perhaps haunt its verdant shades; but we shall be all dead long before the Court of Chancery decides in our favour; for, owning to the manner of my father’s death, some difficulties may be thrown in the way to protract time.”

“What! does he tell you so?”

“Yes, indeed he does, admiral; and then, you see, Heaven knows how many claimants may arise for the estate, if it was known how recently we came by the title-deeds.”

“The deuce they would! I can’t say but there is some reason in that, after all; but what is to be done? You can’t say that the Quaker, Shepherd, is to be allowed to retain possession of the Dearbrook estate, just because there are some difficulties in the way of getting it out of his clutches?”

“Certainly not; but the whole question resolves itself into what is the best means of accomplishing that object, and the great difficulty seems to be this; that he actually has possession, which you have heard, of course, is nine points of the law, and puts a man in such a position that he can give a deal of trouble to any one who is not so fortunately situated.”

“Can he; then I tell you what I’ll do, Henry; I’ll pretty soon alter that state of things.”

“But how can you, admiral?”

“By going and taking possession, to be sure; and if possession be indeed nine points of the law, I don’t see why we shouldn’t have them. I have taken a ship or two from an enemy when they have been under their own batteries, and it ain’t the most likely thing in the world that a Quaker, who, in the navy, we call a wooden gun, should stop me taking possession of the house.”

“I am quite sure,” said Henry, “that if you were to set about it, you would do it,—there can be no doubt whatever upon that head; but it’s a very difficult thing to treat the law in that sort of way, and you may depend there would be an amazing fuss made about it, so much so, indeed, that some serious consequences might ensue, and we should perhaps lose the estate altogether.”

“Hang the estate! it’s the Quaker I want to serve out.”

“But you have served him out. Don’t you recollect the kick you gave him?”

“Why, yes; I certainly did give him a kick.”

“And a good one too.”

“You think it was a good one, do you, Henry? Well, I must say, I am very glad of that—very glad of it. It’s some consolation, that’s quite clear.”

“And I think then, after that, admiral—after feeling that you have served him out in that kind of manner, and that he has put up with the degradation of having been kicked by you, you might just as well forego a little of your resentment, and allow me to ascertain if I cannot make something like terms with him.”

“Terms with a vagabond like that!”

“Yes. What say you to giving him a trifle, and then let him go; provided he clears out of the estate at once, and gives us no further trouble?”

“I’d ten times rather kick him again.”

“Why, yes; and I must confess he deserves kicking most certainly. I admit all that, that a greater scamp you could not find; but, after all, you see, admiral, it comes to a question of pounds, shillings, and pence. Nothing in the world makes a man like that suffer but touching his pocket.”

“Very likely; but you propose to put something into his pocket.”

“Yes, at first; but it is to save more, as would easily be found; and, besides, you see how he has been afraid to take any notice of your kicking him.”

“To be sure he has; such fellows are always afraid. You didn’t expect he would take any notice, did you? and, if you did, I knew better. Afraid, indeed! Ah! to be sure; that’s just what he was likely to be—afraid, as a matter of course.”

“If you please, sir,” said a servant, coming in to the admiral, “here is a gentleman wants to speak to you.”

“To me? Who the deuce can that be, I wonder?”

“He says it’s on particular business, sir.”

“Well, well; show him in here.”

A mere youth was shown into the apartment, who, addressing the admiral, said,

“Pray, sir, is your name Bell?”

“To be sure it is; and what of that?”

“Nothing particular, sir; only I have the honour of serving this upon you.”

“And what the devil is it?”

Before this question was well out of the admiral’s lips the lad had disappeared, and when the old man unfolded the paper, he found that it was a notice of action from Shepherd, the Quaker, on account of the assault which Admiral Bell had committed upon him.

“And this is the fellow,” cried the admiral, “that you want me to compromise with. No, Master Henry, that won’t do; and, since he has had the imprudence now to commence war with me, he shall not find that I am backward in taking up the cudgels in my own defence, I’ll pretty soon let him know that he has got rather an obstinate foe to deal with, and we will see how long he will find it worth his while to persevere.”

Henry felt at once that this imprudent act of the Quaker, which, no doubt, was intended to hasten and facilitate a compromise, placed it further off than ever, and that, in the admiral’s present state of mind, it was quite absurd to think of talking to him in anything like a peaceable strain, for such could not be done.

The utmost that could be hoped was that he would not actually give way to some act of violence, and that he would, at all events, do nothing more than what the law allowed him to do in the matter.

This was what Henry did not feel quite sure of, and he only hoped it.

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