Chapter CXLVIII…

Chapter CXLVIII

THE ROAD, AND THE TRAVELLERS.—THE PLEASURES OF DOING GOOD.—THE BEGGAR WOMAN.—SIR FRANCIS VARNEY A PHILANTHROPIST.

The road was pleasantly bounded on either side by hill and dale scenery, while it was itself of a very diversified character; and at one moment they passed through long avenues of trees, at other times a bare heath, without so much as a dwarf hedge; and then well-cultivated country would succeed, studded with handsome villas, and country seats, old half-castellated mansions and halls, where gentlemen lived in the abodes of their ancestors, and felt pride in doing so.

The air was balmy and beautiful—every object appeared fresh, and every tree and shrub looked as though new life had been infused into it; the birds sang merrily, and the whole party were in high spirits.

“Such scenes as these,” said Sir Francis Varney, “please me better than the gaieties and follies of the town. I am sure there is much more happiness to be found by a contented mind, than there is in the feverish pleasures of a city.”

“There is much truth in that, Sir Francis,” said the captain; “but, in my own case, connected as I am with my professional friends, I cannot follow what is the natural bent of my taste; but I find pleasure wherever I go, for I am determined to make the best of all that passes beneath my observation.”

“Sweets can be extracted from every bitter, and therefore it is good philosophy to take the bright side of a picture, in all the ordinary relations of life; we are better men and better subjects by so doing.”

Thus the distance was soon passed over, and a stage was but the same as a pleasant morning ride; and then an hour or two spent of the heat of the day in quiet in some small, but respectable, inn, with wine and pleasing conversation, gave them a relish for the life they led.

The style of the conversation of the stranger, Sir Francis Varney, was pleasing in the extreme; he was evidently a man of great and varied talents and attainments, and one of great experience, and who had seen much of life.

Two days passed this way, and they had not reached Bath; they were tempted to stop longer by the way than they would have done.

“To-morrow,” observed Sir Francis, “we must reach Bath. About three short stages will place us within its precincts, and then I presume the assembly-room, as well as the pump-room, will occupy much of your attention.

“We shall certainly go there.”

“Have you been in Bath before?”

“Yes, but many years ago, when we were quite children, so that I have no recollection of the place.”

“And you, Captain Fraser?”

“No, I have not, I am quite a stranger there; but for the kindness of your offer, I should have to trust to strangers, or my own good fortune, to find out those things which strangers usually seek, and those places they usually visit.”

“I shall have great pleasure in showing you that which is worthy of your attention. It is now some years since I was there; but I believe, though there may be improvements, yet the place is essentially the same.”

“No doubt; cities seldom alter much, unless it be in their suburbs. If the alteration be great, it will point itself out.”

“Exactly so.”

The party were seated beneath a large cedar tree, which stood in the inn garden, with a table, upon which were spread some wine and biscuits, walnuts, and a few things besides, of a character agreeing much with the place.

Into this garden crept an unfortunate beggar woman, who, espying the party from the road, escaped the vigilance of the waiters and menials who hung about the inn, and entered. She crept timidly towards the party, looking wistfully, but yet fearful of the consequences of the intrusion; for there was a notice in the village, which gave forth fearful threats to them, should they dare to beg for the bread for which they were starving.

Presently, finding the captain’s eye fixed upon her, with a beseeching look, she dropped her curtsey.

“Who is that woman, and what does she want?”

All turned to look upon the unfortunate creature, who began her petition by saying,—

“Kind ladies and gentlemen, pity a poor woman who is starving. I am very weary, and am weak with travelling—”

“Eh! what do you do here?” exclaimed the waiter. “Come, come, we don’t allow beggars in this place. The high roads, or the Bridewell, are the only places we have in these here parts.”

“Do not be in a hurry,” said Sir Francis, to the officious waiter. “It might have been right enough to prevent her entering; but now we have seen her, I cannot, if she deserve it, refuse to aid her in her affliction.”

The woman dropped a very low curtsey.

“My good woman, where have you come from?”

“From Bath, sir,” said the unfortunate creature.

“From Bath, eh? And what took you there?”

“I lived there.”

“You lived there; if that were the case, why should you leave a place where you did live, to wander about where you cannot live? That is a bad policy, methinks. What do you say, captain?”

“I think so too, Sir Francis,” said the captain; “but that may be only a verbal blunder of the woman; we can’t expect propriety in speaking from such people; it would be expecting too much.”

“So it would,” said Mrs. Fraser.

“I have left Bath for two reasons, sir,” said the woman; “one is, I was too unwell to work, and then my rent got into arrears. While I could work, I did pay my way, though living very hard.”

“And what was the other reason?”

“Why, sir, I was turned out of my lodging, and having nowhere to go to, and finding nobody would assist me, was compelled to beg.”

“What induced you to take this road, my good woman?”

“Because, sir, it will, if I live long enough, carry me to Portsmouth.”

“Are you known there?”

“No, sir.”

“What induces you to go so far? Speak out and do not be afraid; we have no object in asking you questions, save with the view of assisting you if we find you a worthy object.”

“I am going to Portsmouth,” replied the poor creature, “in the hope that I may hear from my son, whom I have not seen these many years, and who went to sea about seven years ago.”

“You have a son then?”

“Yes, sir, I had one. God knows if I have one now.”

The poor woman uttered these words with such sorrowing accents, that all were convinced of the truthfulness of them.

“Speak out and tell us your story. Bring the poor woman some refreshment,” said Sir Francis; “her tale may interest us, and give us food for reflection. I am sure one cannot hear the misfortunes of others, without feeling grateful for the luxuries and blessings one enjoys over and above the common lot of mankind.”

“That is very true, Sir Francis,” said Mrs. Fraser; “and I am sure we ought not to pass those whom we can assist by a trifle, when our means will permit our doing so.”

“You are perfectly correct, ma’am.”

“Have you no husband?” inquired Mrs. Fraser.

“None, ma’am, none. When I had one, I had a good home over my head. I would not wish for happier or better days to come again.”

“What was your husband?”

“A respectable tradesman, who kept a good house and his own servants. We spent such a life as that for nearly fifteen years.”

“And how came it to a close?”

“His death, sir, which was brought on by a sudden cold; in a few days he was a corpse. I can never forget that dreadful day. We were living very comfortably and happy. My husband had just at that time entered into some speculations that promised to make a handsome fortune in a few years; and all promised success and happiness, complete and continued.”

“How great a change!” said Miss Stevens.

“Yes, miss, great indeed. My husband hearing some news that caused him to be anxious to ascertain its truth, he left home one wet night, and got drenched through; and where he went to, he was obliged to remain in damp clothes, and not being a strong man, he took a violent cold, and inflammation followed.

“After this he had medical advice; but he soon sank, and was pronounced beyond recovery; he died a very few hours after that, and I was left a widow. A few short hours caused a great change in my circumstances.”

“What became of the business?”

“Why, that was carried on for a time; but an accident deprived me of that.”

“What was that?”

“I will tell you, sir. My son was about fourteen years of age when his father died, and was just able to carry on the business; and I believe we should have done pretty well, because he was a steady youth, and I could trust him; and he looked after the men employed, and I was not robbed.

“However, a severe misfortune awaited me. I thought the loss of my husband a dreadful misfortune; and I believe it was; but in his case he left one behind who could help to maintain me. His loss I mourned; but it did not produce the same disastrous results that the loss of my son produced.”

“How came you to lose him?” inquired the captain.

“Why, sir, I had occasion to have some business transacted at Bristol. I could send no one else, though I could ill spare him; but then I was compelled to send him, and did send him. It was to accommodate some terms of sale; and he only knew the affair. He, therefore, went to Bristol. He was pleased enough, being his first journey; and I could hardly have resisted his importunity, if I had been so inclined.

“He left me, and arrived safely in Bristol, and was there a day or two, when, walking about one evening by the water-side, he was seized by a press-gang, and carried out to sea. It was useless for him to complain or to entreat; they would take him, and forced him on board a man-of-war.”

“He served his king and country, then?” said the captain. “I honour him, upon my soul; and you are going to learn something of him—if he be dead or alive?”

“Yes, sir; I know this much, he was alive about two years ago, and expected to reach Portsmouth in a couple of years.”

“Well, proceed.”

“When I heard my fate—the detention of my son—I was thrown on a bed of illness, in which I lay for nearly three months, during which time I was completely robbed, and run into debt; and when I recovered, I had but a few pounds in the world, for an execution had been put into the house, and all was sold.

“Thus was I left without a friend or a soul to comfort me, or any relative upon whom I could call for aid and assistance. I had no right to do so to any one; and after my misfortunes, I found that my former friends deserted me. I found that it was necessary to have the means of purchasing friends, just the same as anything else. I could obtain them for money; but without money I had no friends.”

“I was by far too independent to ask for what I felt I was capable of earning. I could live upon little, and I at once left all who had formerly known me, before I attempted anything. I was determined that I would not even ask work at their hands, but get it among strangers.

“Of course this caused me to seek a subsistence in the lowest capacity, and I cared not for it, because it put a still greater barrier between me and my late acquaintances. It was a long time before I obtained any employment, because I was unknown to any one who could recommend me, or who wanted my services.

“This was to be expected; but the first place I obtained work at was through the interest of my landlady; and then I obtained more afterwards, and one led to another, till I obtained a hard-earned but honest living.

“I had a little money by me—some two or three pounds; in case of being out of work, or in case illness overtook me, then I had something to fly to, the workhouse being a place of all others I most dreaded; sooner than go there I would consent to die by the roadside, and I have put my resolution to the test.”

“You lost your work?”

“I fell ill for some months; all my little store of money was gone, and my rent grew in arrears. I became more and more deeply indebted, and what food I obtained was given me by others out of charity; but this could not last long, and as soon as I was able to walk, my landlady asked me for my rent.

“I then told her that I had no money, but that, in a few weeks, if I could find food to enable me to get up my strength, I should then be able to work, and I would then pay her off by degrees, until I was out of debt.

“She knew what I had been, and had some thought that I had money, or if I pleased I could obtain it from my former friends, and expected me to make the attempt; but this I refused, and upon my doing so, she, after the first expressions of astonishment and anger, gave me the alternative of doing so or leaving the house.

“I was turned out, and had no refuge. I wandered about, and knew not where to go, or what to do; indeed, I was houseless and friendless—a wanderer without a penny. I could not now obtain work—I could not do it; and my appearance caused people to shut their doors against me, and I wandered about begging.

“This was the first time I ever took what I had not earned, save what was voluntarily given me when I was ill.

“One evening, as I was creeping about, I heard some men conversing about the different vessels that were out at sea, and one of them named the one in which my son was. I instantly listened, and heard one of them say that she was on her voyage homewards, and would be home in a month.

“I had no sooner heard this than I had some hope.

“‘I will go,’ I said, ‘to Portsmouth. I will meet my son, and he will not refuse to support his unfortunate mother. I know his disposition too well to dream of it; and should he be unable to do so, I will beg for him.’

“I slept in Bath that night, and then began to consider how I should get to Portsmouth. It was a long road; many weary miles must be walked over ere I could get there; and as for the means, I must trust to the charity of the passengers. It would not be much more than what I was doing. I could sit on a doorstep and beg; but to walk on the road where there were few or no passengers, I might starve.

“However, I resolved to make the attempt, because I loved my son; and if I could see him I should see an end to my misery.

“I started out about four days ago, and I have got this far; but I have had only bread on the road, and almost despair of being able to reach there; and the charity of people is not enough to support life upon.”

“And where have you slept as you came along?”

“Wherever I could, sir; beneath the haystack, or even a hedge.”

“Where did you sleep last night?”

“Beneath a haystack about seven miles from this place.”

“And is that all you have got through to-day?”

“Yes, sir, every step; and considering my weak state, I consider it good travelling, and shall feel thankful for even that rate of travelling. You do not know how intensely I wish to get to see my son.”

“I have no doubt of it, my good woman, and if I can, I will help you on the road. I think yours is a case that deserves some attention. If you choose to remain here all night and rest, you may. You shall have food till you go, and some food shall be placed in your hands before you go.”

“Got bless you, sir,” said the poor woman, in tears; “you will, indeed, do an act of kindness to me.”

“You will stop?”

“And be grateful to you for your kindness.”

“Here, waiter,” said Sir Francis.

“Yes, sir,” said that worthy, running up.

“Just take this person, and see that she wants for nothing—let her have a bed here and breakfast in the morning, and let me know what the charges are, and I will pay for it—do you hear what I say to you.”

“Yes, sir,” exclaimed the waiter, who considered the charge as one beneath his dignity; but he was forced to obey, and the woman was desired to follow him, which she did, after thanking Sir Francis Varney for his humanity and generosity.

• • • • •

“Upon my word, Sir Francis,” said Mrs. Fraser, “you do those things as if they were common occurrences to you.”

“Why, madam, I am—and perhaps I ought to abstain from making the confession—one who does not love to come in contact with misery; but then one does not feel justified in turning away from it.”

“You must have a deep purse to be able to satisfy all such claimants.”

“I cannot do that, if I were inclined, or they were deserving, which many are not, as you no doubt must be well aware.”

“Indeed, that is a fact. Very few of the claimants possess the same strength of right to our pity and commiseration. I am certainly struck with the woman’s manners, and her artless mode of telling her story.”

“Exactly. It bears the impress of genuineness about it.”

“So it does.”

“And when that is the case, I cannot resist the sense of my duty, which impels me to aid the distressed. But then I injure no one. I have ample means; and, therefore, others may do less, and yet deserve more credit. I have no heirs to come into my property, and I cannot, therefore, injure any one; if I were to give it all away, I should be entitled to do so.”

“You are as good, Sir Francis, as you are courageous and fortunate,” said Miss Stevens; “I am sure I have every reason to be thankful to you for two preservations.”

“Nay, say no more about the past; you say things at which I ought to blush to hear, for my modesty is greater than you imagine; but, seriously, I take more pleasure in it than most people, and that may be a set-off against my disinterestedness, for I am only laying out my money in pleasure and amusement.”

“No, no, that will not pass.”

“It will, I hope; but permit me to return and see how they have disposed of this temporary protege of mine.”

“Certainly, Sir Francis; don’t let us detain you; we shall remain here some time longer, and then we shall leave the shelter of this house.”

• • • • •

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Chapter CXLIX

THE ENTRANCE INTO BATH.—A NEW SCENE.—THE HOTEL AND THE LODGINGS.—THE ATTENTIONS OF SIR FRANCIS VARNEY.

After Sir Francis Varney had left the place where the Frasers were sitting, there was a long silence, in which each of the party appeared to be engaged in meditating deeply upon something or other, and yet each shrunk from expressing them. The first who broke the silence was Captain Fraser, who said,—

“Well, my dear, what do you think of our new acquaintance?”

“I think he is a most amiable man.”

“Very courtly,” observed his sister.

“Yes; a sure sign of good breeding—of good company.”

“He is that,” said Captain Fraser. “I never met with one in whom dignity, ease, and complete and unceremonious courtesy were so blended.”

“And he appears to be a very kind and amiable man.”

“But,” said Miss Stevens, “he is also a very strange and a very singular man—a very singular man indeed! I never saw such a man before, or any one approaching him. What a strange complexion!”

“He has a singular complexion, and it strikes me he is well aware of it, and that is the reason why he prefers a country to a town life; and his solitariness, together with his manners, all indicate that his peculiarity in this respect causes him much annoyance.”

“I dare say it may,” said Captain Fraser.

“I never saw anything so truly terrible!” said Charles.

“Hush! do not speak in that way, Charles; it is ungrateful.”

“I hope not; it is merely the truth. I never saw a corpse so pale! Indeed he is just such an one as you might imagine to have started out of a grave with an unwholesome life, and whoever had resuscitated him had forgotten to warm his blood, or to put blood into his veins.”

“How very absurd you are, Charles! I am sure Sir Frances Varney deserves better of you than that. You are under a great obligation to him. I feel assured he feels the peculiarity of his complexion—I mean it has an effect upon his mind; and, if we knew the cause of it, it is possible some disinterested action, terminating in evil to himself, has been the cause of it.”

“Well, sister, I do not mean to say that you can admire such a visage; but you ought not to say I am ungrateful, for I am not; and, moreover, I never saw any gentleman whom I liked better—his conversation is quite superior; but then, gratitude, surely, does not prevent one noticing so glaring a circumstance.”

“Certainly not,” said Captain Fraser; “though I fancy it would be better to remain silent upon such topics, if we cannot commiserate them.”

“I think you are quite right, Fraser,” said Mrs. Fraser; “he deserves respect at our hands, and the less that is said in regard to his misfortunes the better.”

“I think the evening is getting very cool,” said Miss Stevens; “will you remain here any longer?—I shall return to the house.”

“We may as well all go—especially if you feel chilly.”

“I do.”

“Then come along; to-morrow we shall be in Bath. Come, sister, you must be quite well to share in the gaieties of the place. You know you said you should have the greatest pleasure there—you have been anticipating it all along.”

“I did,” said her sister.

“Well, but you will do so now. Why should your expectations not be fulfilled? I can see no reason why they should not. Bath is a gay place, and a city apparently made solely for the amusement of those who can pay for them.”

“I have been so alarmed and terrified, sister.”

“I know that, my dear; but you have had now two days’ constant change of scene, and lived, I may say, almost wholly in the open air, so that you ought not now to be very nervous, sister.”

“I might have been worse under other treatment,” replied Miss Stevens; “but at the same time you can have no idea of what it is to suffer from such an outrage; you cannot conceive anything like it.”

“I dare say not; I am sure it must have been dreadful.”

“It must,” said the captain; “but we will not say anything about a matter so disagreeable and so inexplicable.”

“Suppose we go in.”

“With all my heart; we shall be in Bath to-morrow, and you will have nothing to fear; how does your arm feel now?”

“Sore, but much of the inflammation has gone down; that I think will soon be well, and then I shall be able to use it as I used to do; I don’t think it will leave any permanent injury or evil behind.”

“I am glad of it,” said the captain.

They now all returned to the inn, while the whole of the party passed the remainder of the evening in company, retiring at an early hour with the view of rising early for the purpose of getting into Bath in the afternoon, or before the evening set in, at all events.

• • • • •

The next morning came, and with it a cloudless sky. They were all in high health and spirits, and sat down to a breakfast that was especially prepared for them.

“What has become of your protege?” said Mrs. Fraser to Sir Francis.

“I have not seen her this morning. I have not risen long, and I have had no time to spare, but intend to see her before I go, and see that she has means to reach Portsmouth in safety.”

“Will you send for her here, Sir Francis?”

“Certainly, if you wish it,” said Sir Francis; “I will tell the waiter to inquire if she be ready, and, before she goes, to send her up.”

“That will be the best.”

This accordingly was done, and in about a quarter of an hour the poor woman came up to the room; there were several alterations for the better in her appearance, and she did not look so careworn and cast down as she had done; she appeared thankful, and refreshed with rest and food.

“You are now ready to start, my good woman?” said Sir Francis.

“I am, sir, thanks to you.”

“I wish you all possible success in your mission, and I hope your son may be living, and prove grateful to you, as his mother.”

“If living, I am sure he will, sir; and I do not doubt now but I shall be able to meet with him, thanks to your bounty.”

“I hope you may. Have they treated you well in the house, below?”

“Yes, very well, sir, and kindly.”

“I am glad of it. Have you any food given you to carry you on your road?”

“I have, thank you, sir.”

“Then there remains now nothing to be done, but to give you some silver to enable you to provide lodgings, and now and then a lift on the road.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the unfortunate widow, as she took the silver which Sir Francis held out to her. She could only shed tears of gratitude; and Miss Stevens added some to it from her own pocket.

“You have our best wishes,” said Sir Francis Varney. “Go now; we have done all we can for you—good day.”

“God bless you,” said the woman; “may you never experience misfortune, or ever know the want of even luxuries; you who can give, deserve to have. The poor and unfortunate have few such as you, sir, for benefactors.”

“That will do,” said Sir Francis. “Good day to you.”

“Good day, ladies and gentlemen,” said the woman, curtseying low, and then turning round, she left the apartment.

“Poor thing,” said Sir Francis, “she has a long journey before her. A temporary aid given to poor people, often lifts them above want, and places them in a decent position in society.

“So it does,” said Mrs. Fraser.

“Yet, you see, people disclaim charity, and say private charity is pernicious in its effects. But are there not two sides to any picture? An individual might as well say it was pernicious to take medicine because people sometimes poison themselves with some of the ingredients. Besides that, it does good to the state; for it often prevents such a one from coming to the state, and being a burthen upon society at large. I am really of opinion that much temporary distress might by aid be avoided; while, without that aid, it would, in all probability, become permanent.”

“There is much wisdom in what you have said, Sir Francis; though you must be aware that it opens a door to much abuse and reliance upon the charity of others, which can scarcely be credible.”

“Oh, yes; I expect there is an abuse of everything; but we do not, from that, argue its total cessation.”

At that moment the landlord entered the room, saying the carriage was ready, as it had been ordered.

“Then we may as well at once proceed to the carriage, which is waiting, and we are ready to depart.”

“And,” added Sir Francis, “I am ready too.”

They once more left the house they had slept in, and the carriage again bore them onwards towards the city of Bath, which was now only three short stages from them; and where they could arrive at almost any hour they pleased, if they chose rapid travelling; but this they did not, because it deprived them of much of the pleasure of travelling—the views and beauties on the road.

There were many gentlemen’s seats on the road, which called forth comment and admiration; as well as many smaller estates and houses, that were often picturesquely situated, as well as lonely.

At length they came within sight of the famed city; and, each moment they neared it, saw fresh evidences of a large and populous place. However, they stopped not; but the closer they came to the town the faster they went, until they were really within the city.

“Here we are in Bath at length,” said Sir Francis. “It is a fine city, and much of fashion and talent may be found here.”

“I am glad we have arrived here at last,” said Captain Fraser.

“And so am I,” said Mrs. Fraser, “for I am almost tired of riding every day. I begin to want rest; I want to stop for a time in one place.”

“We get fatigued, even with a change,” said the captain, “after a time; and yet our lives are a complete round of change.”

“Yes; if you consider the character of time.”

They now stopped at one of the principal hotels, into which they all entered, and ordered their dinner; and, while the ladies arranged themselves for the occasion, Sir Francis Varney and Charles walked out into the town, where they amused themselves with looking at the different objects which were presented to the gaze of the stranger. In all these things Sir Francis appeared to be well versed—knew what was now, and what had been formerly.

• • • • •

Two days had passed by, and there had been but little time lost, so far as the visiting of one part of the city and another was concerned, and they gradually became acquainted with and visited the different places of amusement—at least, so many of them as could be visited by them in the time.

Sir Francis Varney was the chaperon; and, as he obtained attention and consideration wherever he went, he was a valuable aid and assistance, and the family had now got quite used to him, and he to the family.

The peculiarity of his countenance or complexion wore off, his pleasing manners producing an effect that acted as an antidote to that, which was likely to cause some peculiar feeling in all who looked at him; but his courtly manners completely took from any one with whom he came in contact the power and the desire to exhibit any dislike or aversion.

However, there was not one among all those who looked upon him who did not look upon him with various emotions; but they were only such as result from a source that acted upon their feelings and tastes, without producing any deep or permanent emotion in any one.

Great care was taken by Sir Francis in dress, and his display was altogether good, but there was no ostentation; his manners were those of a man who was used to the position and sphere above what he even then moved in.

There was no mistake in the matter at all, and the Frasers were well convinced that he was what he appeared to be; and there was, moreover, an evident partiality for Miss Stevens manifested by him, which had already been more than once remarked by the captain and his lady, who tacitly approved of the honour, though nothing was broached on either side.

“Sir Francis appears to be a very gentlemanly man,” said the captain.

“Very,” said the lady—“very. I never saw one whom I could find so little fault with; indeed, I may say he had none.”

“That is a very extensive compliment, at all events,” said the captain. “No fault is a thing you can say of but very few people indeed.”

“I mean, as far as personal behaviour is concerned. Of course I know nothing more; his demeanour appears perfectly unexceptionable. I am sure I never saw any one at all his equal in that respect.”

“Perhaps not. He appears to be very attentive to your sister; indeed, I should say he appears to be very partial.”

“I think so too. What do you say to Sir Francis Varney, Mary,” inquired Mrs. Fraser, “as a lover, eh?”

“I cannot think of him in such a light,” said Miss Stevens.

“And wherefore not?” inquired the captain.

“Because I could not bear the idea. I don’t know why—I can’t tell you; but I could not do so—it would be against my nature to accept of such a lover. It would much pain me to refuse one who had done so much for me; but I could not accept of him.”

“Upon my word you appear to feel strangely upon this matter,” said the captain; “but I think you might think twice before you answered thus.”

“No; think how much I might, it could make no alteration in my mind; for the more gratefully I think, and the more I endeavour to be, yet the stronger would be my repugnance to have such a man for a lover.”

“Dear me, Mary! how can you say so?”

“I do indeed.”

“Ah, well! girls will be girls; but he has not done you the distinguished honour to ask you, so you must not refuse in anticipation. You may consider the grapes are sour because they hang so high.”

“You ask me a question, to which I have given you the best answer I can upon the moment. Besides, we know nothing of Sir Francis.”

“We know enough of him, I think, to speak and think with the utmost gratitude of him. Not that that should make any of us overlook the precautions that are usual on such occasions. And as for your opinion, why, that might be amended by time; and I am sure that what we do know of him is enough to cause us to respect him, and to have confidence in him. He has not sought our acquaintance, and that is one guarantee in his favour.”

“So it is.”

“But all this is useless. Sir Francis appears very sensitive. He is of retired habits and tastes, and, perhaps, something of that may result from the disadvantage under which he lies, which he may feel severely.”

“So he might; and, therefore, I would never, if I could help it, make any personal allusion of any character before him, even though I were speaking of some one else, and it had no reference to him, as he might apply it to himself.”

“That is quite right, and just what it ought to be.”

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Chapter CL

SIR FRANCIS VARNEY IN BATH.—THE OLD WOMAN AND HER FANCIES.—THE MURDER IN BATH.—THE TREASURE.

Sir Francis Varney, when he walked out into the city of Bath, appeared to be lost in deep thought, and walked along as if he saw nothing that was going on around him; he was lost in meditation—something weighed heavy upon his mind, and he now and then muttered inaudibly to himself.

Whatever might have been his purpose, he merely wandered about without going to any one place, as if he were in the search for an adventure, rather than having any specific and determinate object. But, after much wandering about, he came near the corner of a street, where he saw two persons conversing together. A stray word appeared to rivet his attention, and he paused, and then stepped into the shadow of a doorway and listened.

“You see, Matthew, Aunt Martha is an old miser. She would sooner see all the world at the last gasp, before she would dream of parting with a shilling. I am sure it is much too bad.”

“What is too bad?”

“Why, that she, and such as she, should have so much money, and others, who would work hard, should have none, or even the means of procuring it.”

“Yes, it is hard; and yet if those who have it did not keep it, there would be no one who would be worth money.”

“That is all very well; but the more money circulates, the more hands it gets into; and that, of course, enriches every one who has for a time the possession of it, for they do not part with it unless they have value for it.”

“Well, well, that may do very well; but it does not appear to me to be any business of mine that such an one should beg anything of anybody else; but no matter, she has money enough.”

“She is single, is she not?”

“Yes,” replied the other.

“Then you may, after all, possess all she has.”

“I may, but she is fat and forty; she may live for years, and in the meantime I may be a beggar all my life.”

“No, no, not so bad as that.”

“And what is worse than all, while she is living, she is decreasing the money she has, and it will yearly get less and less, till, if any comes to me, it will be so small a portion of it, that I am sure there will be but little good come of it.”

“Indeed. If she be such a miser as you speak of, I should have imagined that the property, personal or real, would increase under such management as that.”

“It would, if she were not living on the principal.”

“On the principal—what do you mean?”

“That she lives on the principal, as I told you. She has got some strange fancies in her head, and one of them is, that the banks will break, all and every one of them, from one end of the kingdom to the other.”

“What a notion.”

“Yes, and that is not all; she believes that all the banks will break, so all the public securities will be of no use, but only so much waste paper; and real property will all be seized, and there will be I don’t know what universal ruin, desolation, and disorganisation.”

“What does she do?”

“Why, keeps all her cash at home; and then goes to her strong box and takes out her bright gold guineas, which appear in such abundance, that it would seem as if it could never sensibly diminish; and thus she has been going on for a matter of two years or more.”

“Upon my word, what can she dream of? If she go on in that manner, I am sure, too, that she will be a beggar.”

“That is certain; but she thinks not, and you can’t argue her into any other belief whatever that is contrary to this matter. However, I have no favour in her eyes, because I am her relative.”

“And why should that be?”

“Because, being her relative, she thinks I may be wishing her dead every day she lives; so, you see, if she go on with this feeling about her, she may take a complete dislike to me, and I should never have a farthing left me, even if she died before all was gone, and dissipated.”

“Very true. Where do you live?”

“I have been living with my aunt.

“Indeed! And where may that be?” inquired her companion.

“Where—why, don’t you know number one hundred and nine, Chapel-street? but I have left there—that is, I shall do so to-night.”

“Will you? You are wrong.”

“I doubt it, very much—very much indeed.”

“What motive can you assert there is, to make it good policy in doing this?”

“She will think I do not care about waiting for her money; and that motive being observed, I am sure it will influence her in my favour.”

“Then, you will not go back to-night?”

“No, not at all.”

“Well, you know best; but I should. However, I must now leave you, and bid you good day. I must go.”

“Good day,” said the other, and they quitted the place.

When the two speakers had left the spot, Sir Francis Varney came forth from his hiding-place, and gazed after them for some moments in silence; but when they were no longer in sight, he muttered,—

“Could anything be more fortunate! I am reduced to the last guinea. I have not another pound to pay my way with. Just at a moment, too, when I think I may be successful at last in securing a victim.”

He then walked onwards until he came to the neighbourhood of the street he had heard the stranger name, and then he paused and approached the house with some curiosity, but passed by it without stopping.

It was a corner house, and a blank wall ran a short way down the street, being the side of the house, and a small portion of ground called a yard; here the wall was lower—here there was a chance of getting over, and here Sir Francis Varney paused a moment, as if examining the place with care and scrutiny.

He looked all around, and saw no one approaching; he heard no sound, and he saw no face in any window that was within sight. It was, moreover, too dark to be seen, and he, without a moment’s hesitation, ran a few paces towards the wall, and by a violent effort succeeded in placing one hand upon the summit, and then the other soon followed.

Sir Francis Varney was a man of great agility and strength, and he was not long in drawing himself up to the top, and then he dropped down.

It was fortunate he dropped heavy, and also fortunate, from that circumstance, he fell upon something soft. The good fortune of the occurrences was dependent upon each other. We say it was fortunate he fell heavy, because he fell upon the old lady’s yard-dog, an unamiable cur, and prevented an alarm, for the dog was crushed, and unable to utter a single howl before the animal died.

There was now nothing to do but enter the house if the back door was open; but upon trial this proved not to be the case.

This was a matter that required some consideration; the door was not to be forced, and he hoped to get in by that means, but he was foiled; but yet it was something to have possession of the yard, he could hide here; but yet that increased his danger, for if he remained there, he was liable to a discovery, and that, too, before any attempt had been made upon the coffers of the old woman, and no good effected by him.

What to do he could scarcely tell; but after some thought, he determined to attempt the back windows in the parlour, or room above the ground; and to effect this purpose, he would have to get upon a water-butt, and thence to the railings facing the window of the room, and which appeared to have no shutters.

Having once made up his mind, he set about it at once, and was soon on the top of the water-butt, and made good his hold upon the small balcony, and then he drew himself up.

This was a work of some difficulty, because the balcony was very close to the window, and left him no room to lean over; but yet he succeeded, and found to his great joy that the window was only closed without being fastened; he had only cautiously and noiselessly to lift it up, and he could enter it.

This he did at once, and then stood in the room; but all was dark, and he could not hear a sound throughout the house, for he listened many minutes, lest he might be suddenly intruded on by some one, and then there would be no escape from there, and he would possibly lose all.

Caution, therefore, was the order of the day, and he gently closed the window, lest the draught might be felt in some of the other parts of the house.

That was very fortunate, for there was every possibility of a discovery resulting from such a course; for any one, feeling a greater than usual draught, would soon inquire into the cause.

Having got thus far, he opened the door and walked into the passage, and then he heard the sound of conversation being carried on in an undertone; he listened at the door, and heard two female voices.

“Betty,” said one.

“Yes, ma’am,” replied the other.

“Have you shut the shutters, and locked up all the doors?”

“Yes, ma’am.

“The kitchen-door?”

“Yes, ma’am—all right as can be; nobody can get in, I’ll warrant.”

“You don’t say so?”

“Oh, but I do; the dog’s out in the yard, too.”

“When you have had tea, I’ll have him brought in; he mustn’t lay out there, poor creature, to spoil his coat, and catch cold. I’m almost thinking I ought not to let him stay out to this hour.”

“He’s well enough—he’ll not hurt—he’s got the kennel to sleep in, and he’s plenty of straw; there’s many a one about these parts as would be glad of such a bed. I’ve taken care of him.”

“Very well, Betty; sit down to tea, and, when it is over, I’ll bet you anything that old Martha Bell will be here.”

“Lord bless me, ma’am, you don’t say so!”

“Yes, I do; but I won’t be at home; she and I have fallen out of late, and I’m not inclined to make up the quarrel, for she won’t believe the banks will break, and you know they will, Betty.”

“To be sure, ma’am, they will—I know very well they will; it’s quite certain—as certain as the almanac.”

“Yes; and, what’s worse, she wanted to borrow ten pounds, and that, you know, will never do at any price; she would break, too, and then I should have loss number one, and no one can tell how soon number two might follow.”

“He! he! he!” said Betty; “oh, lawks, I shall split.”

“What’s the matter now—what are you laughing at, silly?”

“Oh, you are so funny, ma’am; I’m sure you’d make anybody laugh—you do joke so, it makes one laugh.”

“Laugh!—what is there funny in losing ten pounds, I should like to know? Nobody would laugh at that, I should imagine; I am sure I should laugh at nothing of that sort. If you were to lose ten shillings, I am sure that I should not laugh at you, nor do I think you would, either.”

“No, ma’am, I’m sure you would not, and I am sure I should not; but you do say such things that make me forget all about the money.”

“Well, then, go down stairs and fetch some more coals.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Betty; and, before Sir Francis Varney had time to slip back and open the door of the other room, the door of the one he was listening at was suddenly opened, and Betty stood before him.

She came out plump, before he had time to step back; and she ran against him before she was aware any one was there; for coming from a room where there was light, she could not see at all in the dark passage.

“Oh, my ——”

She had got thus far in her exclamation, when she received a heavy blow from the intruder, which felled her senseless to the floor, and, as quick as thought, he drew his dress sword, and plunged the point through her heart. Not a groan followed—she was dead, and might be said to have died while bereft of sense or motion.

“What is the matter, Betty?” said the woman—her mistress.

No answer was returned, and Varney paused, as if uncertain what to do. He was in some doubt if he should or not go in, or await the woman’s approach to where he stood. He had not been seen, or she would have screamed out; and if he went to her she would see him, and have time to alarm people.

He paused, and awaited her coming; but she appeared to defer doing so, and merely said,—

“Betty—Betty, what has ailed you? What can be the matter? You don’t mean to say that the tea has got into your head? No, no,” she muttered, after a pause; “that can’t be the case. She must have been to my medicine bottle, and that has been too strong for her. I shall discharge her. She’ll be breaking something or other, and then who knows where that will end—begin by breaking a basin, and end by breaking a bank.”

So saying, she muttered something unintelligible to Varney, and then began to rise and walk along the room towards the door.

This was a moment of suspense—the door opened suddenly, and then she stood before Varney, who made a rapid thrust with his sword. This would have been as fatal as that which he had dealt Betty, but the mistress was more fortunate, at the moment, for a steel busk was the means of preventing its taking effect.

“Murder! What do you want! Oh, you wretch—I know you now! Depend upon it you shall be hanged! Murder—murder!”

“One word, and you are a corpse,” said Varney.

“Mercy—mercy! Will you spare me—will you spare my life?”

“I will.”

“Oh, thank you—thank you! I never hurt you, and I don’t think you would me. I am very sorry that I made any noise—but you will spare me?”

“Yes, upon one condition.”

“On a condition?” said the woman, tremblingly.

“Yes, upon a condition.”

“Tell me what it is you require of me, and I will comply.”

“Then,” said Varney, after a moment’s pause, “show me where you keep your money. I must have money, so give me plenty.”

“Plenty of money, did you say?”

“Yes, plenty. I want some. You have money I know—gold—gold in quantity.”

“Ha, ha, ha! gold! Oh, yes—gold! Ha, ha! how funny!”

“Funny! Is my sword funny?” asked Varney; “because, if you think so, you may have a small portion of it, which you may consider funnier still.”

“No, no; but I have no money—none at all, save a little money I have for immediate expenses. I have but little; for nobody now-a-days keeps money in houses, if they can get any at any time.”

“But you have plenty of money.”

“I haven’t any, upon my ——”

“You have. You keep it in the house, you know, because the banks might break, and you would lose all. Now give me some at once, or you are dead as any nail in your house—mark that!”

“Oh, dear!—oh, yes! What would you have of me?”

“Money,” said Varney, pressing the point of his sword against her side.

“Oh, mercy! I’ll tell you all; but—but you must be satisfied with what I have got, and not leave me a beggar, or kill me because I have no more.”

“I will be satisfied with what you have got; but that I know to be much more than I can carry away with me.”

“Oh, good lord, you don’t know me, or else you would know the reverse of that. A poor lodging-housekeeper is not the person to have much money in the house; but if the truth must be told, I have up stairs my quarter’s rent, which I ought to give my landlord. I can give you that, but God knows how he will believe me when I tell him I have lost it.”

“You have all your property about you. You have gold in quantities.”

“I have not.”

“Then take the fruits of your obstinacy,” said Varney, in a fury; and, making a savage and sudden lunge at her, he passed his sword through her breast, and with a smothered scream she fell to the earth, where she lay gasping and writhing for several seconds, when a rapid gurgling sound came from her throat, and she died.

“’Tis done;” said Varney to himself; “’tis done, and it would have been as well if I had done it as first; but no matter, ’tis done quietly.”

There lay the two bodies upon the flooring, the one in the passage by the door, and the other in the parlour. There was a long pool of black blood, extending from one to the other of the two corpses—they mingled their blood in death, though they held different positions in life. What could be done? there they were, and even Varney could not pick his way without treading in the blood.

He at once entered the apartment, and began to examine the whole place, but he did not find much there—a few odd pounds, and yet he turned everything upside down, to use a common phrase; but yet there was nothing of the sort which he hoped for, and expected to find.

“Can I have mistaken the place?” was his first thought.

Upon consideration, he saw reason enough to make his mind easy upon the score of mistakes in that matter. There was the number and the street, and the old woman, and her conversation answered exactly to what he had heard; and after a few moments’ consideration, he muttered,—

“It must be right; there are more rooms than one in the house. I will go and search through the rooms, and if I don’t find any, I will set the house on fire. Indeed, I think that will be better done, it will prevent the deed taking light, and as little suspicion may be as well incurred as can be.”

This was a thing only thought of to be resolved on; but he cast that aside, and proceeded with his search, and having finished that room, he splashed through the blood, and once more stood in the passage.

“And now for the bedrooms,” he muttered.

The candle he held was the only one he could obtain, and he was compelled to walk steadily, lest he should lose its aid by going out; however, he soon got up stairs, and walked into the best bedroom, where he again began to search about for the hidden treasure, but found it not.

“Curses upon the stupidity of the old fool, where does she hide her money? I am sure she has it here, and I wanted to get back without delay. I did not want to be away long, and here I have been, I dare say, an hour.”

This was true, and he turned things over and about in great haste; but his endeavours had liked to have been useless, as regarded the discovery, only his eye chanced to light upon a panel.

He started up and pulled away a part the bed-curtains, behind which it was partially concealed.

“Ha! ha! what have we here? What I have been wishing to find, no doubt. This is the secret hiding-place of her gold—the treasury.”

However, whatever it might be, it did not appear to be in his power to determine, for he could not open it.

This was, of course, a provoking state of things; and Varney seized hold of each implement that came to his hands, but threw each down again, being unable to effect his object by any means whatever.

He started up suddenly, after making many desperate attempts to break the door open, which, however, were futile, and exclaimed,—

“There are keys to these places, and I am sure the old woman must have them about her, if this place be really the receptacle of her wealth, as I have every reason to believe it is. I will find out, if I can; no doubt, however, I shall find it upon her somewhere—I’ll try.”

He immediately went down stairs and found the body of the old woman; it was fast stiffening; but the clothes were all sopping in blood, and he turned her over hastily until he found out the pocket; and from that he drew a bunch of keys. They were all bloody, but he did not hesitate about seizing them.

“These will, no doubt, let me into the secret. I shall find my way in, now, and then the house will no longer hold me.”

He turned, and quitted the corpse; and, in going upstairs, he saw for the first time that the stairs all bore the imprint of his own foot; he saw they were stained in blood, and were clear, distinct, and well defined.

“It matters not,” he muttered; “fire will, and shall efface that; and, besides, if it did not, what care I?”

He ran up the stairs, and again entered the bedroom, and was once more kneeling before the door of the cupboard. The bunch of keys was composed of many, and he tried one after the other, until, after many trials, he came to one, which was of a peculiar make and shape, and which convinced him he was now in possession of the right key.

“I think I have succeeded, now,” he muttered, as he put the key into the lock. It fitted very closely into the lock, and then it slowly turned, and he saw the door open; but it only disclosed another door.

“What is the meaning of this?” muttered Varney; “what, is there another door to be found? I suppose some of these keys will fit this as well.”

However, he was not compelled to make the search, for the key of this inner door hung up by one corner, on a little hook, in a niche which had been apparently cut out on purpose.

This was soon opened, and then came rather a startling sight.

In a small cupboard were packed a heap of human bones—more than bones, for they had yet the flesh dried and sticking to them—the skull was brown and bare, save here and there remained some hair.

“What is the meaning of this?” he muttered, angrily—“and have I troubled myself in this manner for only these few bones?”

It was, however, an apparent fact. There was the place, and it was now opened, and the contents were plain enough—bones!—bones!—human bones! There could be no mistake; and Varney rested his hand on his knee, and gazed intently into the cupboard at the bones, and everywhere else.

He was about to rise, when, somehow or other, he was induced to push the bottom shelf—why, he could not tell; but, when he had done so, he found it give downwards. Yes, the whole cupboard went down; he pushed, and pushed, until the roof was no higher than the floor; then, indeed, he saw a sight that caused him to feel a satisfaction.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “ah! this is what I have sought, and I will have it—gold!—gold!—aye, here is gold in heaps, more than I can carry.”

He stretched forth his arm, and leaned into the cupboard, and then examined the contents, and felt assured that there were several thousands of pounds; the glittering heap before him was what he wanted, and for which he had remorselessly committed such fearful crimes.

“But I must make haste—I must make haste. I shall lose what I have such a certainty of possessing.”

So muttering to himself, he put as much gold into his pockets as he could, and carrying a bag under his arm, he re-locked the cupboard. Having retraced his steps below, he replaced everything; while at the same time he carefully examined his person, to see that there were no traces of his deeds upon him; and then, wrapping himself up in his cloak, he left the house, and proceeded towards his hotel.

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Chapter CLI

THE SCENE AT THE HOTEL.—THE RELATION OF THE CAUSE OF SIR FRANCIS VARNEY’S PALENESS.

When Sir Francis Varney reached his hotel, he hurried to his own apartment, and then he called for his luggage; and when that was brought to him, and he was alone, he unlocked a portmanteau, and placed his gold in it; and then, having taken care to dress himself, he again met the Frasers below, at the evening meal.

“I have been strolling the streets for an odd hour,” he said, “and find things pretty much as they used to be; I don’t see many alterations worth speaking of.”

“And yet they say they are improving daily.”

“They may be; but only in parts and places; and it does not alter the general plan of the place, though appearances may be benefited.”

“Exactly; that, I dare say, may be the case; as, indeed, it is most likely to be the fact, especially when we see that, save in the case of entire new streets, all improvements are effected by individual exertions.”

“Exactly; but life and happiness is the result of individual exertions,” said Sir Francis; “but yet many shrink from prosecuting a scheme of happiness, lest barriers be placed in their path that would be as injurious to all as they are effectual.”

“Indeed, that is often the case.”

“I have met with many instances of blighted devotion since I have wandered about over the green vales of England.”

“I dare say you have met with some adventures?”

“I have, sir. I have met with many that, perhaps, few men would have ventured into, and ever expect to come out alive; but I have not done so without paying dearly for my temerity.”

“Indeed; have you incurred much danger?”

“I have, sir.”

“But still it must be pleasant to fall back upon the remembrances of the past, and recall scenes and events that possess interest to your mind.”

“It is so. I remember well that, some years ago, when I was in the north, that an occurrence took place that has left a lasting memorial upon me, and one I can never forget as long as I live.”

“It must have been a serious affair.”

“It was a serious affair—a very serious affair. I was going to Scotland, when, by some accident, the carriage in which I was travelling broke down, and it was unable to proceed, and I took up my abode at the nearest inn; where I determined to remain until the carriage was repaired, which would, it was said, take a couple of days, at the least.

Well, in the evening of the first day, I walked about visiting the different places where I could hope for any pleasure; in doing so, I was wandering slowly down a lane, when I heard voices on before me. The wind blew from them to me, and I heard all they said.

“Then this evening,” said one.

“Yes, yes; I consider this the most favourable opportunity than can be taken advantage of.”

“Well, then, we had better go at once.”

“Yes; now we are on our road there, you see, and we shall be soon there; there will just be light enough to reconnoitre.”

“Very well. We can secret ourselves somewhere about the place, where we shall not be discovered, and then we can get into the house at our leisure.”

“But we may have to meet with opposition.”

“Then, we must resist, too. You don’t intend to be taken, I suppose?”

“No, not I.”

“What did you intend to do if you were caught?”

“Fight my way out, or, if need be, I can push my knife into the ribs of any one who may be in my way.”

“Right. I shall be inclined to do for any one who wants to keep me against my will—you may reckon upon that for a certainty; and if the old man but as much as moves or utters a single cry, I will do for him.”

“You don’t mean that, do you?”

“I do, and will do it.”

“Then I know, and I will do the same. I like to have a pal that will stick by me, and have no nonsense. However, we need not be in a hurry, and just do what is necessary—go to work steadily and determinedly.”

“Agreed. We will now go on—strike off to the left here, and we come then to the house. There’s only one man servant, but he can be dealt with; and as for the old man himself, he cannot do much.”

Then they both proceeded across the fields until they came to some thick wood, when I lost sight of them.

Well, I knew the house they were both going to, and I determined to proceed by another route to the same place.

I followed the lane as far as it would go, and found it led up to the very house which I had heard the men declare their intention of robbing, and possibly of murdering the owners—the inhabitants, I might say, for master or servant alike they would not hesitate in destroying.

I entered the house—the door was open,—after having walked up a broad and stately avenue of linden trees which lined the way up to the hall door. I was for some moments unable to make any one hear, but soon after I heard some one approaching the hall. I paused, therefore, and presently there came an elderly gentleman, with a grave but pleasant countenance, upon whose shoulders fell a profusion of snow-white locks; he was venerable, yet pleasing in the expression of countenance.

He bowed when he saw me, but looked rather surprised.

“I dare say, sir, you appear surprised at my intrusion; but I do not come without a motive.”

“I dare say not, sir. But you are welcome; will you walk in?”

“Thank you,” I said, “but I have come to put you on your guard against an attempt at robbery, and possibly murder, that is to be made upon your house to-night.”

“Indeed, sir. I can hardly believe any one would be so wicked as to do anything of the kind; and yet, I am sure you would not say so if you had not some grounds for such a belief.”

“I have,” I replied, “and I will relate them.”

I then related to him distinctly all that I had overheard in the lane, and the direction the men had taken. He appeared very thoughtful for some moments, and then he said to me, as he led the way up stairs,—

“Will you walk up stairs with me?”

I did as he desired, and followed him up stairs, until he came to a small observatory erected in the top part of the house.

“You say you saw them enter the copse between here and the lane yonder.”

“Yes, I did; and I imagine they may be seen if watch is kept in such a place as this; for I am sure they intend to examine the house, as to the means of approaching it, and they expect to find only yourself and a man-servant.”

“They would have met but little more, indeed; however, I am fore-warned, and I will take care to be fore-armed.”

“That is my object in coming to you; to effect this is all I seek; and now I will bid you good evening, for I have got some distance to walk before I can get back to the hotel where I am staying.”

“Are you staying at an hotel?”

“Yes,” I replied; and I named the place where I was stopping, when he said,—

“You are welcome, if you are pleased to do so, to remain here; I shall be most happy with your company.”

“Thank you,” I said; “and frankly I must say, I should like to see the issue of this affair, and will accept of your invitation, though, perhaps, I have accepted of your invitation too readily.”

“Not at all—not at all, you are heartily welcome; we will sit up and wait for these fellows; when we have beaten them off, we can retire in security to rest, without fear of disturbance.”

“Do you see them?” I inquired, as he was looking through a telescope towards the point I had named.

“No, I do not see them yet,” he said; “no, no; and yet I—I think I see something now through a portion of the copse—it’s difficult to tell what they are about; if they go much further in that direction, they will be plain enough; there—there they are; I can see them both plainly enough.”

“Two of them?” said I.

“Yes,” he replied, “I see two; they appear to be looking this way; what are they doing now? Oh, I see, they are making for a place of concealment nearer the house. Well, sir, I am much obliged to you—very much, indeed; for you have evidently saved my house from being robbed, and myself from murder—I owe you my life.”

“Nay, sir, not so bad as that; the villains might not have been successful enough to have effected an entrance before you were alarmed.”

“And if they had, what could I have done? Why, truly, I have fire-arms, but I should have been loth to have used them, and my hesitating might have cost me my life; so I have to thank you for life and property.”

“As you please,” I said; “but what steps do you intend to take towards your own and your property’s preservation?”

“I shall obtain the aid of another, and quietly await their coming; but as I think, from their appearance, they are not mere country people who come about robbing from distress, but men who make a kind of profession of housebreaking, I will have both taken and dealt with according to law.”

“It is their deserts,” I said, “for a more deliberately planned affair I never yet heard of; and what makes it so very black, is the fact of their early making up their minds to murder any one.”

“No doubt,” he replied; “but that is an inducement to take them in the fact. I will send for one man, and, what with ourselves, we can secure the villains; we are enough to do that.”

“They are desperate,” I said.

“But they will yield to numbers,” he said.

“No doubt; but there must be a yet greater number; the odds, in my opinion, are not great enough to secure victory. These are desperate men, for they will not be taken, and two to one will not deter them—one, or even two lives may be sacrificed before they are secured, if they do not get off.”

“Well, then, you appear to think that we had better obtain more aid?”

“I do,” I replied. “At least, a couple of men, if not, three, over the number you first spoke of, if you wish it to be perfectly harmless in its results.”

“I should so desire it,” he replied.

“Then you’ll find that requisite,” I answered.

Then I was invited down stairs, and great hospitality shown me by the old gentleman, who was an exceedingly pleasant companion. He was well informed, and a well read man, and was the only inhabitant of that large mansion.

He had been many years a widower, and had but one child, a son, a young man of great promise; he was abroad on a tour, and he was awaiting his return with great anxiety, as he was somewhat longer than he had anticipated.

We sat conversing for some hours. We had a handsome supper, and afterwards some choice wine, and then in came three stout countrymen.

“My friends,” he said, “I want you to keep watch and ward to-night in my house, to protect it from robbers.”

They agreed to do so, but expressed some surprise at what had occurred, and appeared to believe it hardly possible that any one could have been wicked enough to compass such an object.

However, he told them all I had said, and they were sent below, where they were served with a very good supper, and promised reward, with injunctions not to speak after a certain hour.

This all arranged, I and my host seated before a fire, and with some wine, we passed the time agreeably enough.

• • • • •

“The time passes,” said my host, as the clock chimed the hours. “I wonder if anybody is about now?”

“I should think,” I replied, “they must be about thinking of what they have in contemplation. I am sure it is a quiet hour in this part of the world, and I should imagine that no human being can be awake about here.”

“None, I dare say, save ourselves, and our assailants, if they have not altered their minds, and given up their intentions, or altered the night they intended for the attempt. Who can tell? they may have done so.”

“I hope not.”

“No; it will be very uncomfortable to be in constant dread, never knowing any night I lay down what I may come to before morning; I may lose my life, and never again see my son.”

“Yes,” I replied; “but had we better not put out the lights?”

“I will order it to be done.”

As he spoke, he rang a bell, and when a servant appeared, he said to him,—

“William, you had better put out all lights, and be quite silent; and if you hear any noise, get out of the way, and remain silent, unless they try to get away and elude us.”

“Very well, sir.”

“And as soon as you hear them at work, you had better steal up and let me know, as I intend to be present when they are taken into custody, as I have a particular desire to see it done.”

“Very well, sir; but you don’t know the danger you run. These men are desperate men, and they care not what they do.”

“I know all that, William; but hasten down, and see my orders executed.”

“Very well, sir,” said the servant, who at once left the room.

“These people,” said my host, “are not willing that I should run any risk; perhaps they think they will not have so indulgent a master in the next. Perhaps they are right; for I give but little trouble, and my servants are mostly out visiting some of their relatives.”

“Indeed. I thought you were somewhat slenderly attended.”

“I am. I have two very ill away at this moment, and I have another away on a visit to some relative.”

“Indeed; they have an easy life under you.”

“It is much the same as not having them at all; and yet, I must say, I have nothing to complain of; my wishes are complied with, and I have all my work done well, and punctually to a minute; and, if they have extra work to do, they never complain, but set about it cheerfully.”

At that moment we heard William creeping up the stairs, and my thoughts soon reverted from the contemplation of the calm contentment in which all here appeared to dwell, to the confusion and bustle that was now likely to ensue.

“Hilloa, William!”

“Yes, sir, they are come,” said William, in a low voice.

“Where are they getting in at?”

“In at the pantry window, sir. I can hear them unbolting the shutters. They have cut a hole out of it, and they will be clear in another minute.”

“Very good. Now do you all keep together, and, at the appointed signal, rush upon them, and bind them hand and foot.”

“It shall be done, sir, as soon as they get into the kitchen.”

“Very well. I will come down and watch the operations; but don’t let them get back again.”

“Oh, we’ll take care of that.”

“Make haste,” he said, “and station some of them under the stairs, so that they cannot escape. They must both be taken.”

“And they shall.”

“Go on. Will you come down with me,” he said, turning to me, “or will you remain here till we have secured them? You, sir, are a stranger, and, perhaps, you had better remain here.”

“No, not I,” said I. “I will go down with you, by all means, and we will see how these fellows behave themselves under these circumstances. Let me see them. I was the first to discover them, and I hope you will not refuse me permission to be present at a denouement which I have, in some measure, been instrumental in bringing about. I wish to be present.”

“Then follow me,” said my host; “we shall not be too soon, for several minutes have elapsed.”

I waited not a moment, but hurried down stairs, and found that, as I was going down the kitchen stairs, the robbers were well aware of the fact that they were entrapped; and, in their rage, they fought with desperation, and forced their way out of the kitchen, and through the barrier placed below; and, seeing they would effect an escape, I jumped over the rails, and stood between them and the way out.

I had but my sword, and I drew that, and placed myself in a position, threatening destruction to the first who should attempt to pass.

This, however, was disregarded; and the two men rushed at me, hoping to bear me down, but my weapon ran through the first, when a pistol bullet laid me low, and the man rushed over me.

“Good Heavens! and were you shot, Sir Francis?”

“Oh, yes, and was severely injured; and it was some months before I was cured, the bullet having wounded an artery.”

“That was dangerous.”

“Yes, so much so, that two surgeons declared that, had I bled another half-second, I must have been dead—that I must in fact have bled to death, and I should never have recovered; for I had, they thought, scarcely half an ounce of blood in my whole body—scarcely sufficient to cause the heart to beat.”

“It was a fearful state—where did you remain?”

“I remained at this gentleman’s house the whole of the time; he was very liberal, and very generous; I wanted for nothing. He said that, but for the immediate attention of the surgeons, he thought I must have bled to death; he saw me fall, and one of the men, without waiting for orders to do so, ran for a surgeon, and hence the rapidity with which the medical man was in attendance. And, what was worse, I had, in about two months afterwards, to undergo an operation to have the bullet extracted.”

“Good Heavens! you had a severe time of it?”

“I had; and I had nearly lost my life a second time, for I lost a vast quantity of blood again; and, ever since that, I have been of the extraordinary pale complexion which you now see.”

“I thought it was natural,” said Mrs. Fraser, suddenly; but a look from Mr. Fraser told her she had done wrong.

“No, ma’am, it is not, indeed, natural.”

“It was not until the loss of blood occasioned it, I presume?”

“No, captain, it was not; it resulted partly from the dreadful loss of the vital fluid which I sustained, and partly from a most violent virulent typhus, which I took in consequence of my looseness of system—that, I believe, did more than anything else towards bringing me to my present position—for, before, I was considered fair and florid in complexion, but my friends hardly knew me, or professed they did not, and I have not seen them from that day to this.”

“Upon my word, Sir Francis Varney, you have had some extraordinary occurrences in your life. I am amazed at them; indeed I could scarcely believe one person, especially a gentleman of your property and standing——”

“Why, as for that, I can only say that my position and rank have given me the means to enable me to go through them without any inconvenience, for I have no home or place dedicated to domestic delights; such a life I should be proud and happy to possess, but which I can never accomplish; indeed, I may say, I fear to make the attempt; but, no matter. The prime of life will, in a few years, pass away, and then I shall be past the desire for a home; and yet Varney-hall, in the north, is an ancient, palace-like abode, that would grace a duchess.”

“Is that your ancestral hall?”

“It is,” said Varney, with emotion.

“And now uninhabited?”

“Oh, dear, no. When I determined to lead the life I do, I could not permit the old place to become ruinous and deserted and, therefore, let it, and those who now live there, are well able and willing to keep the place in repair.”

“That is fortunate.”

“Well, sir, I hardly know what is fortunate or unfortunate as regards myself; but I have one of my old fits of melancholy come over me.”

“Nay, you must battle against them, Sir Francis.”

“I have ever endeavoured to do so, but I don’t know how it is—I cannot, somehow or other, bear up—I feel a terrible depression of spirits.”

“I am truly sorry to hear it; but let us hope that the gaieties of Bath will restore you to your wonted serenity.”

“I am sure I wish it,” said Mrs. Fraser; “but where are we to go to-morrow?—can you tell me that, Sir Francis?”

“To the pump-room in the morning—the library and the assembly in the evening, if you are inclined to do all at once.”

“Yes; well, then, suppose we make the attempt; we can but give in if we find it too much exertion, though I am inclined to believe we shall not find it beyond our strength,” said Mrs. Fraser.

“Then that is our agreement,” said Sir Francis.

“Yes; it is.”

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Chapter CLII

THE SCENE OF THE MURDER.—THE VISIT TO THE HOUSE.—THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF THE TREASURE.

The next day came; there was much excitement in the family of the Frasers; each one could see the partiality of Sir Francis Varney for Miss Stevens. She herself could not pretend that it was not so, or that she was unable to see it. It was quite plain and evident, and yet it gave her great pain, because she had an unconquerable aversion to him, who was her benefactor, and to whom she owed so much.

This, however, was a strong and inexplicable feeling in her own mind, and she felt that if death or Sir Francis were her only alternatives, she must choose the former. This was from some feeling, from what source it sprung she could not tell you, that appeared to forbid her permitting the approach of such a lover.

It might have been instinct, or it might have been that she had taken a personal dislike to him on account of his complexion; and yet she could not admit so much even to herself as that, and yet it must have had an origin.

She looked at him much more and more each hour, and more and more did she dislike him. At length she felt so much repugnance to him, that, if it were not for the deep gratitude she owed him, she would fly from and not even endure his society, good as that she was compelled to admit really was.

When he offered her his arm in their walk to the assembly-rooms and the pump-room, they were much pleased with the appearance of everything, and with the attentions of Sir Francis, who certainly did all he could to make the party comfortable and amused, he was so well acquainted with every object.

As they returned to the hotel, at which they all remained, they passed the house of the old woman who had been so cruelly murdered the night before. Sir Francis cast a cursory glance at it as they passed, but there was no sign of the door having been opened, and the murder had not yet been discovered; and this arose from the fact that the old woman was an eccentric, and her shutters had remained in that way before; and, therefore, no one took any particular notice of it.

When the party had reached the hotel, Sir Francis said,—

“You will, I presume, attend the ball this evening at the assembly-rooms?”

“We should wish to do so,” replied the captain. “Do you intend to go, Sir Francis?”

“I will, captain. It is now some time since I went to such a place, and I think the change will be so great and agreeable, that I will go.”

“Then we shall have the advantage of your guidance,” said Captain Fraser; “and I hope we shall long have the pleasure of doing so.”

“You are very good in saying so, captain; and, if agreeable to yourself and the ladies, I am willing, and shall be happy to bear you company.”

“I am sure,” replied Mrs. Fraser, “we shall always be happy with Sir Francis Varney’s company, and thank him for his condescension—shall we not, sister?”

“Yes. I am sure I shall be much obliged to Sir Francis for this, as well as many other services he has done us.”

“Do not talk in this manner,” said Sir Francis,—“do not speak of the past, Miss Stevens; it is the present I would wish you to think of; at the same time, I desire only to be accepted, because I may not be thought intruding.”

“Dear me, Sir Francis, how you talk! Really, I am afraid we have said something to give you displeasure, or my sister, here, has misbehaved herself; if so, I shall really take her to task for so doing.”

“You will be acting unjustly if you do. But permit me to leave you for a short time. I have some matters to transact. I expect a remittance of money to this place, for I usually appoint some particular town or city, for I do not consider it safe to carry any great amount of money about me; it gives such temptations to robbery and violence that, travelling as I do, from place to place, I am especially liable to such attempts.”

“Certainly, you are.”

“Then I will bid you good evening, for the present,” said the baronet, and he left the room.

• • • • •

When Sir Francis left the apartment in which he had been with the Frasers, he walked to his own apartment, and taking a large cloak and a small portmanteau he had purchased, he made his way to the very house where he had the night before committed such a double murder.

Before he reached there, however, he put the cloak on, and when he approached the house, he found the street entirely deserted; then hastily stepping up, he put the key into the keyhole, and at once opened the door and walked in.

He paused a moment or two, and then went down the passage a few feet, until he came to the body, for which he felt with his foot.

“Ah!” he muttered; “I see all is right—quite right; here is the body—nobody has been here to disturb it.”

He took out materials for obtaining a light, and then he pushed past, and walked up stairs, until he came to the bed-room, where he again opened the strange receptacle of gold and bones; but, as he did so, what was his amazement to find a small packet of paper lying down, but all the gold gone!

He started up in an instant, and laid his hand upon his sword, but at the same time he appeared rivetted to the spot, and paused in this attitude for more than a minute.

Then, recovering himself, he gazed round slowly and carefully from side to side, as if to assure himself he was not trapped. But hearing no sound—nothing stirring from any quarter whatever, he began to think there might be some mistake in his vision.

“Surely—surely,” he muttered, “no one could have come in, and, seeing the bodies, possessed themselves of the money, and then walked out. They would surely have given the alarm; besides, any one who had entered would never have gone further than the bodies.

“It is impossible,” he muttered, and he again stooped down to examine the cupboard from which the treasure appeared to be abstracted. But there was nothing to be seen, save the bare boards; no signs of the treasure remained. This was a strange and mysterious disappearance of what could not have gone without human means.

“How did they get at it?” he muttered; “the place was locked, and in the same order as I left it; there is no getting into such a place without unlocking or forcing open the cupboard, or, I may say, chest, for this is a strong place; it is not broken open, and I have the key.”

Varney paused for several moments, and then he picked up some paper, which was folded up, and seeing it was written upon, he thrust it into his pocket, and again looked into the treasure coffer, but all was gone.

“D——n!” muttered Varney, furiously stamping his foot, as if at that moment only he had become perfectly aware of his disappointment. “What can be the meaning of this? But this is no place for me; some one has been here, and the murder is known. I must quit it—eh?”

At that moment there came such a peal at the door with the knocker, that made the house appear as if it were a pandemonium of noises and echoes, which followed the first stunning sounds that filled the place.

Varney started and listened.

“Ah,” he said, “they have tracked me here. What can that mean? Have they, indeed, laid a trap for me? Do they think I am caught? But, no—no, I am too fast; they know me not, nor can any one have traced me here, for they know not where I came from, and—but there, it is useless speculating; they may have laid a trap to catch whom they could, or they—ah, they have seen the light, and the house being shut all day, they now want to see if anything is the matter; but I’ll warrant all is safe and clear; there is nothing known, and all I have to do, is to get away.”

That was very true; all Sir Francis had to do was to get away; but it was somewhat more difficult to perform than he had any notion; for, as he came out into the landing, he found there was an unexpected obstacle in his path. As soon as he attempted to descend to the back parlour for the purpose of getting out of the back window, he found the door had been burst open by the impatience of the mob who stood below, and the door not being very strong, the shoulders of those who were nearest were sufficient to force it open.

In a moment the passage was filled with the crowd, the foremost of whom tumbled over the body, and were up in a moment.

“Good God!” exclaimed one, “here is somebody lying down in the passage.”

“It is a corpse,” said another.

“The woman’s murdered,” said another, “Get a light—get a light, and let us see what is the matter. Here is a dead body—a light—get a light, can’t some of you?”

“Well, I suppose we can; but what of it? I expect it can’t be done without giving anybody time to do it in; if you think it can, you had better do it yourself, and perhaps you’ll begin now.”

However, there was a light produced, and that put an end to the altercation, and silence was immediately restored, when they saw the congealed blood, and the body lying in it; and then one, on pushing his way into the parlour, exclaimed,—

“And here’s the old woman, she’s dead and cold.”

“She’s murdered!”

“Yes, there’s no doubt about that, poor creatures; and no one at hand to lend them any assistance. What a horrible affair!”

“Yes, horrible; but who’s done it? There are rooms up stairs; they had better be searched; let’s go up at once.”

“Aye—aye.”

Sir Francis waited not a moment more; he had heard enough to convince him his only chance was to escape while he could, for if they once seized him under such circumstances, he would not be able to escape again, and he immediately rushed to the back window; but there was no balcony there; he could not get out there, so came to the landing, and just reached the short steps that led to the roof, and there, had scarcely got the trap-door unbolted, when the heard a voice say,

“Up stairs, lad—up stairs. I hear somebody there trying to get out—up stairs, lads, and follow him—up stairs.”

There was a shout, and then all rushed up stairs, and Varney had scarcely got into the loft, when some one called out,—

“I see his legs—he’s got into the loft. Up the steps.”

“Hurrah! hurrah! up the steps, my boys; follow me,” said one man, as he got on the landing, and ran to seize the ladder; but Varney saw the necessity of preventing immediate and hot pursuit, lest he should be recognised and followed to the hotel, when that would be death to his hopes.

Just as the man had reached the ladder, Varney lifted it off the hooks upon which it hung, and flung it back against the man, who fell back, and he, with the fallen ladder, created a dreadful confusion amongst those who were coming up stairs, many being knocked down, and the remainder retreated, thinking that at least there were a battalion of murderers.

This gave Varney time to get to the roof, and he then crept along several house-tops, without being discovered, though he could hear the shouts and hum of the mob, as they gathered round the house he had left.

Then how to get out of his present position was a question he was not well able to tell. He must let himself out through some of the houses, and to do that without raising a hue-and-cry, was a question he was not able to solve. Once or twice he thought of letting himself down from the outside; but this he gave up as being impossible, for destruction to himself would be the instant result.

“I must get into one of these houses, and remain concealed,” he thought, “till the dead of the night, and then I could get through the house without any trouble, or fear of detection—but then the Frasers. I must not disappoint them.”

This last consideration appeared to determine him, for he immediately crawled to one house that appeared to be the best calculated for his purpose, and he at once entered it by means of a small window that belonged to an attic. In this room was to be seen only a bed, and a few chairs, and a table.

All was silent, no one was moving; he stepped up to the bed, but was somewhat startled to find it occupied by some odd-looking human form, wrapped up in a curious and uninviting manner.

“Ah!” thought Varney, “I didn’t think to have found any one in possession of this place so early; but they sleep, and that is enough.”

He had scarce said so, when a voice said,

“Nurse, nurse—confound you, why don’t you bring my posset? Do you hear, cuss you? here have I been kept here for two hours without my supper, and what you gave me last night had no rum in it. How’s a man to get well, and kept upon short allowance? I tell you it cannot be done, not at any price. Will you bring me my grog posset, or won’t you? You inhuman wretch, to keep an old sailor upon short allowance of grog and won’t give him any except in the shape of a posset!”

This was pathetic, but Varney paid no attention to it, and gently glided out of the room. When he quitted the apartment, he descended the stairs, and then he came to the passage or hall, when he was met by a stout female.

“Whom do you want?” exclaimed the fat female.

“Madam,” said Varney, “are you aware of the calamity that has befallen you?”

“No, sir. What—what is it?”

“The lunatic in the top room has in a fit of malignity set the upper part of your house in flames. You had better take care of yourself.”

“Oh, my God! the house is on fire!” said the fat woman. “Oh, mercy, mercy! Fire! fire! fire! The house is a fire.”

Varney turned round and opened the door, just as several people were rushing out of their rooms at hearing these alarming exclamations.

“That will do,” muttered Varney, as he closed the door behind him, and then walked hastily towards the hotel, to which, however, he did not go quite straight; he went a little on one side to avoid meeting the crowd, as being an unpleasant mass of human creatures which are singularly unpleasant to meet with, leaving them to secure themselves and find the murderer, if they were able to do so.

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Chapter CLIII

THE ASSEMBLY.—SIR FRANCIS’S FIRST OVERTURES TO MARY STEVENS.—THE BREAKFAST SCENE.—AND THE HONOUR DECLINED.

Sir Francis Varney, as soon as he reached his hotel, changed his habiliments, and sought the Frasers, whom he found ready for the assembly, and somewhat fearful he was not coming; but he easily excused himself on the score of illness, and then they persuaded him to remain at their abode, and they would all do so too; but at the same time Sir Francis insisted that his indisposition was but temporary, and he would rather visit the place, as it was a ball night.

Thus persuaded, they agreed, and the five of them proceeded to the assembly rooms, where they amused themselves as fashionable people usually do. They danced, and were highly delighted with the place, which was certainly of a very superior description, contained the very elite of the Bath visitors, and appeared to advantage.

The wealth and beauty to be found in the room would have caused many a heart to bound with rapture, whether it was the miser’s or the lover’s; for both could there find that which gladdened them most, gold and beauty—wealth and youth; each could gloat his eyes on that he held dearest.

“Did you ever witness a scene like this?” said Sir Francis Varney, as he led Miss Stevens to a seat, and handed her refreshments. “Did you ever behold one in which was collected so much beauty and youth?”

“There are many happy faces,” said Mary Stevens.

“And hearts, too, I hope,” said Varney.

“I hope so, too,” replied Mary.

“There are several here who have never been to a ball before; ’tis their debut in life, and a fine and lovely commencement it is; and if all their future years should be such a round of pleasure and gaiety as this, they needs must be happy.”

“I am sure they must. People here seem to wish to make each other happy.”

“And if they strive in heart, they must succeed in doing so, and in making themselves happy too.”

“No doubt they do.”

“And you, Miss Stevens, would you not make yourself happy when you make others happy?” inquired Sir Francis Varney.

“I certainly do feel happy when I am an instrument in the hands of another doing good, and seeing it really gives others happiness.”

“That is one of the noblest ends of life.”

“And one which you, Sir Francis, have pursued to some purpose. You ought to be happy, if any man can claim happiness.”

“I am, in one respect; but when there is a great void in life, which has to be filled—when that void is in the affections, can it be surprising that sorrow and grief are there?”

“I cannot give you an answer, because I have no knowledge of such an existence; had I, it would be otherwise; but I cannot say yea, or nay.”

“Well,” said Sir Francis, “it is so; that void is in my heart; and, before I saw you, I felt it not; but now,” he paused, “but now I feel it—feel it deeply, and I shall ever do so unless—but I hardly dare say more—my heart will never again know sorrow, and never again feel tranquil. Wants and wishes have sprung up which, until now, have never presented themselves in the shape of possibilities, much less probabilities, and which now are realities.”

“This is a strange conversation, Sir Francis.”

“It is, Miss Stevens, and I feel it to be so; but, unfortunately, I have a certain difficulty to overcome, which, perhaps, accident, more than courage, will enable me to break through. But, to speak plainly, before I saw you, the whole world was alike to me; I cared not for one more than another; but, now the world has new charms, I have new hopes and wishes. God knows if they are to be dissipated, like the morning mist before the glories of the rising sun. Love has made sad havoc in my heart; and to love and despair is the bitterest lot humanity can fall into. Man can bear all that adverse fate may entail upon him; but that saps at the foundation of the superstructure, our love of life, without which, society could not hold together; and, with disappointed love, there is no love of existence.”

“Indeed, Sir Francis, I regret to hear it.”

“Will you prevent it?”

“I cannot now answer you any such question, if I were inclined to do so—I have not the power. See, Sir Francis, there is another set.”

“Will you dance?”

“No; I do not think I will dance any more to-night; but I shall be glad to rejoin my sister and brother.”

“I will lead you to them, with pleasure; but will you allow me to name this matter to Captain Fraser?”

“I have no right to dictate to you, Sir Francis,” said Mary, with evident embarrassment, “much less would I do so, or endeavour to do so to one to whom I owe so much; and yet I fear it will be fruitless.”

“There, yonder, are your friends.”

As Sir Francis spoke, he pointed to another end of the room, to which he was leading her, and which was occupied by many of the most fashionable and beautiful; they also had to pass down a lane of fashionables who were occupying seats, having been fatigued by dancing—many not having danced at all, but come to keep watchful and Argus eyes upon the sons and daughters whom they brought with them.

These, at least, noticed them—all eyes were fixed upon them, and Sir Francis, certainly with an air of triumph, led the beautiful Mary Stevens towards her friends, who were gazing at them with attention.

Mary thought herself somewhat awkwardly situated, and knew not how to release herself; and also felt that any attempt of the kind would really be as ungracious as it would be ungrateful, and so resigned herself.

A few yards more, and then she was once again in the company of her friends, but not released from Sir Francis, for he seated himself by her side with the ease of one who was well accustomed to their society, and of those around him.

“Well, Sir Francis,” said Mrs. Fraser, “you have not been unnoticed in the ball-room. You have created quite a sensation; your dancing is superior, and your tall figure has set you off.”

“You mistake, Mrs. Fraser; the object of such general attention was no other than your beautiful sister—my fair partner.”

“Don’t make her vain.”

“That, indeed, would be a misfortune; but she has such an excellent capacity of mind, that she runs no danger of such a misfortune; but even were it not so, there would be much excuse.”

“You are flattering, Sir Francis.”

“Not I, I assure you. How do you find yourself?”

“I am getting fatigued. My recent journeys must plead an excuse for my weariness at such a time and in such a place as this.”

“I am not surprised at this, considering how you have been riding about for many days past. Would you choose to retire to-night, and remain later on another occasion?”

“I think,” said Captain Fraser, “it may be as well. What do you say, my dear?”

“I am quite willing.”

“And so am I,” said Mary. “Indeed I would much sooner we left early—if midnight can be called early.”

“It is much past that hour now.”

“Then I think we are decided upon going.”

“Very well,” said Sir Francis; “then I will obtain a carriage for our use, and then we shall retire to our homes.”

“If you please, Sir Francis.”

Varney then rose, and went out for the purpose of procuring what was wanted, and, by the aid of a little silver, he soon obtained what he desired, and then returned to inform his friends of the success of his mission.

They then left the ball-room, and proceeded at once to enter the carriage, which was so placed that they could at once enter without any inconvenience; and they soon gained their hotel, and, after a slight repast, they separated.

• • • • •

It was late next morning when Sir Francis Varney entered the room in which he usually took breakfast with the Frasers; but, though late, he only met Captain Fraser.

“I am afraid, Captain Fraser,” said Varney, “I have kept you all. Perhaps the ladies are gone out?”

“No, no; they have not yet come down. Indeed, had you been in five minutes earlier than this, you would not have found me here.”

“Well, I know not the reason, but I slept well myself. To be sure,” said Sir Francis, “I did not fall readily to sleep, and that may account for it.”

“Indeed! and do you not sleep sound?”

“Usually—I may say, generally; but sometimes some reflections keep the mind actively employed against one’s own wishes.”

“They do so, Sir Francis. I have myself found that to be the case; but I am sorry my female folks do not come down.”

“Nay, nay, Captain Fraser, do no wish that on my account. I am rather pleased they are not down than otherwise.”

“Indeed, Sir Francis!”

“Yes,” replied Sir Francis, “as it leaves me an opportunity of saying a few words to you, Captain Fraser, upon a subject that concerns myself nearly and deeply.”

“You amaze me, Sir Francis.”

“I had hoped you might have had some guess at it, Captain Fraser, as it would have helped me through my task; for my heart almost fails me when I think of the possibility of want of success—my want of nerve is not habitual.”

“I can depose to so much, Sir Francis; you showed courage, and nerve, where courage and nerve were most wanted.”

“Ah, well, Captain Fraser, If I had been brought up to your noble profession, I should have been better able to make an impression; but I will do my best; but the subject is a grave one, as it relates to my feelings toward your sister-in-law, Miss Mary Stevens.”

“Indeed, Sir Francis!”

“Yes, Captain Fraser. I, who have passed through so many ordeals of beauty, have at last been compelled to bow before the shrine of beauty. I am a devoted and humble admirer of Miss Stevens’s charms and virtues.”

“Well, Sir Francis?”

“I now beg your permission to visit her, and be accepted in your family in the character of one who ardently wishes and desires to become a member of it by means of an union between myself and that young lady.”

“Personally, Sir Francis, I have the greatest pleasure in hearing you say so much.”

“Then I am likely to be fortunate.”

“So far as my approbation, and my consent are concerned, Sir Francis, you certainly are successful; but, according to the vulgar proverb, as one swallow makes no summer, so one individual’s consent is not decisive where two are required to concur.”

“Certainly, Captain Fraser. I was not wishing to put the young lady aside; but having your consent, I may go on to endeavour to obtain the happiness I so much look forward to—but I may count upon your good offices?”

“You may, most certainly.”

“And your amiable lady?”

“Yes, I think I may say she will unite with me in using all due means of aiding you in your wishes—but here she is.”

At that moment, Mrs. Fraser entered the apartment, and advancing to Sir Francis, offering him her hand and saying,—

“Sir Francis, how do you do this morning? I am afraid I have kept you—ah, I see you are alone with Captain Fraser—where is my sister?”

“Mary has not yet come down,” said Fraser.

“Ah, we are both late, I think.”

“I am, madam; but you have come at a right moment.”

“Have I? Why do you reckon it so?”

“Because I was just at that moment speaking of you, and here you are; so that I can speak to you, which is much better.”

“Well, so it is—but what is it about?”

“Your amiable and lovely sister.”

“Ah, that is what you men always say—it is just what Captain Fraser said to me.”

“Then may I hope for a like success?”

“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Fraser, doubtfully.

“Why, I was saying to Captain Fraser, if he could obtain your aid in my behalf in an attack upon your sister’s heart. I have been unable to hold out any longer—I am deeply and desperately in love.”

“Well, that is a very dangerous disorder, and I must see what Mary can do to console you in your affliction.”

“You will indeed deserve my best thanks if you will do so; and, should success crown our efforts, how deep a debt of gratitude will mine be to you.”

“How much are we not yours already?”

“But my whole happiness will be through your efforts.”

“Oh, no, no; remember, you said but just now it was my sister you meant to wed, and not me.”

“Good God! how could you imagine I had any such profane thought?”

“Ha! ha! Sir Francis, I must see what I can do with Mary; but, she comes—another of the dramatis personae.”

Mary Stevens at that moment entered the room, and felt most abashed at finding all eyes rivetted upon her without speaking, and she advanced towards the fire, having made an inclination to Sir Francis, saying, as she came down,—

“I fear I have been the means of keeping you waiting. I am sorry you did so; but I was really not aware of the hour.”

“Nor were we,” said Mrs. Fraser; “and it appears we have all been late, save Sir Francis, who, like a true knight, has been at his post, I don’t know how long before I came down myself.”

“Nay, don’t you listen to any charges, Miss Stevens. I have been here but a very short time, though I ought to have been here earlier.”

“It is fortunate then you did, Sir Francis, and I am relieved of the charge of detaining breakfast to an unusual hour.”

“It matters but little when it is had, so long as it is to be had when it is wanted. What say you, Sir Francis?”

“I believe that the grand object of all our wishes and wants, is to have what we want when we want it. An eastern potentate could not be better served, or more powerful, or richer, than to be able to say so much.”

“You are his equal.”

“I am in some things certainly,” replied Sir Francis; “but I want an empress, and thus, you see, I am dethroned and rendered powerless by a few words.”

“You can obtain even that.”

“Not exactly; for she whom I might choose might refuse to become mine; then, I am a weary wanderer upon earth’s surface—I am no longer one among men; but a mere existence, moving about without filling any allotted position.”

“This is very doleful, Sir Francis,” said Mary; “if you say much more, you will spoil your appetite for breakfast.”

“Mary, that is a cruel cut, you did not mean it, I dare say; but it is a sufficient rebuke. I must come to plain speaking, and at once hope you recollect the subject upon which I spoke to you in the ball-room last night.”

“I do, Sir Francis; it would be affectation to say I did not.”

“Well, I have sought Captain and Mrs. Fraser’s permission to endeavour to win those smiles and good wishes, that I so much desire should be mine.”

“You can never deserve less than good wishes from me,” said Mary Stevens; “you cannot have less, I am too deeply indebted——”

“There, now, pray permit me to interrupt you. I must not hear any more of that; I did my duty on that occasion——”

“Occasions!”

“Well, occasions; and I hope no gentleman, having the power, would have done otherwise; and if so, I have only done what others would have done under the same circumstances—a very ordinary act indeed.”

“You are making less of it than it deserves, were it only for our sakes.”

“I see you won’t entertain my wishes seriously; but, recollect, what is sport to you is death to me—the affections of a blighted heart cannot weigh lightly when the evil is consummated.”

“Do not think, Sir Francis, I wish to evade or to slight any wishes you may form; as far as I am concerned, they are a great honour to me; but I am yet too young, and averse to anything of the kind yet to feel justified in seriously entertaining such matters as those you allude to.”

“That, indeed, must be a mistake; you are not too young. Let me hope that you will not refuse to allow me the satisfaction and pleasure of your company; that would indeed be a greater misfortune than could otherwise happen to me to be deprived suddenly of that, I assure you.”

“Certainly I cannot feel otherwise than gratitude to you, Sir Francis, and derive that pleasure in your society which others feel, and which all your friends must experience; but we will say no more upon this subject, except that I have given as serious and positive an answer as I can.”

There were many other observations made during breakfast-time to much the same effect, but it is unnecessary to record them, and the breakfast passed off as pleasantly as possible, under the circumstances.

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Chapter CLIV

THE TWO SISTERS.—MARY STEVENS’S DISLIKE OF SIR FRANCIS VARNEY.—AN USELESS SUIT.—DISUNION.

There was much stir in Bath next day on account of the murder that had occurred, and everybody spoke of it. The papers were filled with it, and it was thought to have been the most barbarous murder that had ever been committed, and most active exertions were being made to discover the perpetrators of this horrid deed. All sorts of conjectures were being made as to who the murderer might be, and his object in becoming one. Gold, of course, was assigned as that.

There was something terrible in the fact that this should have occurred just as the Frasers had arrived in Bath—it was startling, they thought, though they could of course have no connexion with it whatever.

While the examinations were being proceeded with, Sir Francis Varney appeared out in the streets as seldom as possible; not that he had any fear of recognition, for that was impossible; but, at the same time, he would not run unnecessary risk, while so much was to be won.

The days passed, and many very pleasant hours were spent, and the gaieties of Bath were enjoyed to their fullest; while Sir Francis was their great friend everywhere, for, somehow or other, Sir Francis obtained the precedence go where he would, and they shared it with him.

He pressed his suit with much ardour, and Mary Stevens appeared each day less and less inclined to accept of Sir Francis Varney for a lover. She felt a greater and greater repugnance to Sir Francis, who, however, pressed her more hardly and more assiduously than ever.

However, Captain Fraser and his lady were sensible of the advantages of such a match to themselves and to Mary, for they could not believe that one so courteous and brave could do otherwise than make any lady happy; the first objection would wear away in the person of such a man as Varney; they therefore espoused his cause warmly when they found that Mary was averse to the match.

“What can be your objection, Mary?” inquired Mrs. Fraser.

“I cannot tell.”

“Surely it cannot be an insurmountable objection,” said Captain Fraser, “since you do not know what it consists of. You cannot have a very definite idea; and possibly a little explanation may set the matter to rights.”

“I know well enough what it means.”

“Do you, dear? Why not tell us?”

“I will. It consists of a strong dislike to Sir Francis. I cannot tell you why; but it is a very strong and yet distinct feeling.”

“What can it arise from?”

“That I cannot explain.”

“If you could, we should be able to come to some conclusion respecting it; but at present it appears like a blind, causeless antipathy, and, against one so well calculated to make any female happy as Sir Francis Varney, is so extraordinary that it really exceeds belief. I cannot express my regret and astonishment.”

“I cannot understand it.”

“I am sorry for it.”

“And more like ingratitude, Mary, than I though you capable of. There are two occasions upon which you stand indebted to him for your life. He risked his own greatly on the last occasion.”

“I am truly sorry it should happen so, sister.”

“Well, then, Mary, amend the error; for if it were an ordinary affair, common dislike might pass very well; but towards such a man as Sir Francis Varney it is decidedly wrong. Indeed, when I recollect the horrors of that night—when I remember the flames and smoke, and saw you wrapped up safely from the effects of the fire, while he was exposed to every breath of hot air——”

“Hush! I recollect it all; but it makes me shudder.”

“Can you, then, regard such a man with cold dislike? Upon my word, I am shocked at your baseness.”

“Sister, sister, you are too severe—too severe.”

“Only just, Mary—only just.”

“More than just. Do not turn persecutor.”

“I would not; but this conduct of yours make me feel strongly—very strongly, and I can hardly face Sir Francis Varney and tell him that one who belongs to me can treat him in such a manner.”

“Does love always spring from gratitude?”

“It is useless to ask such questions, Mary, or I might retort by asking if such services as his always produced dislike. But Sir Francis is no ordinary man. Suppose you do not love him, which might be explicable; but then you have no other love; you are fancy free, are you not?”

“Yes, yes:”

“Well, then, you have no motive for dislike, though you might be indifferent. In such a case, I should not have thought it possible that there could have been less than gratitude and the warmest esteem for his services and his own good qualities; for he has as good qualities as a man can have.”

“Yes, sister; but that dreadful night has left such an impression upon my mind, that I cannot, dearest, do what you desire—I mean I cannot love Sir Francis Varney.”

“What! not love him because of the remembrance of his services?”

“You quite misunderstood my feelings upon that occasion. I can never feel grateful enough for the rescue from the horrible monster who attacked me while I slept at the inn. I can never forget that moment of horror and terror. I cannot even to this day make out the object of the intruder. It was not robbery, and it could not have been any ordinary attack, for it was not carried on in the usual manner. To seize any one by the arm, and suck the blood from their veins, appears to me to be a proceeding quite unaccountable in the ordinary course of things.”

“It was very strange.”

“Yes; and, stranger than all, it has given me a perfect horror of man in general. I cannot abide the thought of being married at all; indeed, I won’t, and I hope that is enough.”

“Upon my word, my good sister,” said Captain Fraser, half angry and half jestingly, “you would almost make me believe you were desirous of taking the veil; but you cannot have any reason for taking such a strong antipathy to male creatures. You must know very well that, because you have got a fright in a country inn, that all the abodes of men in the world are not filled with goblins, spirits, and the like, and wicked ogres, who are only waiting to eat up young maidens.”

“It was no jesting matter to me.”

“I do not say but what it was a frightful reality; but, at the same time, such terrible occurrences as these cannot be supposed to happen every day in one’s life; indeed, one in a long life would be a terrible frequency which is never known, and I think you might dismiss the subject from your mind, as an inexplicable event, unpleasant and unprofitable to recall.”

“But it has been too terrible and too mysterious for me to ever forget; and, least of all, could I do it in so short a time.”

“Well, I do not expect you could forget it immediately; but, at the same time, I cannot see how it could affect your opinion of your preserver. Indeed, it is a strange perversion of intellect, not to say a degree of ingratitude, that it is difficult, if not impossible, to understand or believe.”

“Well, I can say no more,” said Mary.

“That is very resigned and easy on your part; but what we are to say to Sir Francis Varney I am sure I cannot tell. It appears to me that you have a childish dislike to him—one for which you can allege no reason, and, therefore, improper. I wonder what he, or any impartial person, could think of it, if they had all fully and carefully explained to them.”

“I am sure I do not know; but it is usually sufficient, in a case of this kind, to say one cannot love the party, and to escape from what becomes an infliction, or, in time, a persecution.”

“But this is not such a case as you would appear to imagine. There is no persecution, and Sir Francis only desires that you will permit him to attempt to obtain your good will.”

“But knowing he cannot obtain that—speaking in the light you mean—it becomes a serious annoyance to me to think I should always be attended by a person who, on the score of having done me some services, expects me to listen to his addresses, and to accept him as a lover. It is becoming a slave, indeed, when one must not exercise one’s discretion in a matter that so nearly concerns the happiness of my future life.”

“You are making mountains out of mole-hills, Mary.”

“I have not taken the same view of this matter that you have,” replied Miss Stevens, “and therefore you quarrel with me. I think that a great deal too bad; I did not believe you would have quarrelled with me upon such a subject—one that concerns me so much, too, as this.”

“Exactly; it does concern you, and it concerns us also, and that is the reason why we feel warmly upon the subject. Your want of motive is so apparent that it quite concerns us—we are completely staggered. What it can all end in I am sure I cannot tell; but Sir Francis must think us an ungrateful set, or at, least, he must believe you are actuated by the worst and most ungracious caprice, and capable of great ingratitude.”

“I am sorry for it; but for all that, I cannot consent to marry Sir Francis Varney. I know not why, but I do.”

“You really ought to be ashamed of such an admission, for I am sure he does not deserve such treatment.”

“I am compelled to admit that to be true.”

“Then why, in the name of Heaven, should you let prejudice surmount reason—and reason that you acknowledge ought to be paramount? You know your folly, and yet you persist in it. Was there ever such folly? Come, Mary, come, you must give up this kind of nonsense; you must act as I have always believed you would; you must meet Sir Francis in a proper spirit, and the result will no doubt be that you will banish all these idle fancies.”

“I should be glad to do so, for they make me very unhappy.”

“Well, well, they are calculated to do so, and when you have cast them aside, your own happiness and that of your friends will be much increased.”

• • • • •

There was much stir in Bath on account of the murder, and the papers were filled with terrific descriptions of the scene, which some even went to the trouble and expense of producing sketches of, which, what with being badly drawn, badly copied, blotted, and printed, and being as unlike the original as possible, gave the inhabitants and strangers not a very vivid idea of the place.

When, however, the details were adverted to they were terrible enough; and when Sir Francis Varney entered the apartment in which he usually dined, he found his friends were full of the discussion.

“Have you seen anything of the murder, Sir Francis?”

“No, sir,” replied Sir Francis.

“Well, there is a dreadful affair happened. How horrible to think—they might not have been discovered at all, but for the neighbours breaking the doors in.”

“What is it all about, captain?”

“Why, two old women were murdered a few nights ago, and they have but just been discovered; the papers are full of it.”

“What, the murderers? Well, that was a quick discovery.”

“No, no; I mean it was not discovered at all, as it is supposed, till at least four-and-twenty hours after the deed.”

“Dear me; how was that?”

“I cannot tell, except the old woman was an eccentric, and her shutters had been closed before for a whole day; but there were no other signs of life about the house the whole day, which alarmed the neighbours much, and they began to take precautions towards the evening to force the door, when a tall, peculiar-looking man was observed entering the house by means of a key.”

“They observed that, did they?”

“Yes; he was seen quite plain.”

“It will be fortunate, if he should have been the murderer, because they can identify him.”

“Undoubtedly they can.”

“They know him again, then?” said Varney.

“Yes; so it appears they can.”

“I am glad of it,” said Varney.

“Well; he was seen to go in, and then to go over the house, because there was a light seen to travel up stairs, and stop there some time; and then they knocked for admission, but not being answered, they at once forced open the door, and they all rushed in, but were horrified to find themselves tumbling over the dead bodies of the old woman who kept the house, and her servant.”

“Ah! it must have been a startling thing, certainly.”

“Well; they stopped a moment or two—as was most probable at such a sight—and then they ran up stairs, believing the murderer was there.”

“And was he there?”

“He must have been so, because they heard him get up to the roof, and they followed, but were baffled, because he threw the ladder down, which caused them some confusion, and during that the murderer contrived to escape.”

“Well; it was quite a field of adventure; but it is to be lamented,” said Varney, “they were not successful in their endeavours to catch the murderer; but what is the alleged motive for the deed?”

“They say that she had some strange fancies, and that, among others, she had all her money in the house—her capital, upon which she lived, without any fear of exhausting it. That was known to some one or other, and got whispered about, and it is presumed that for this purpose the poor woman was murdered.”

“How horribly barbarous! but ain’t there any suspicion upon any one, because it is usually the case?”

“There is, I believe.”

“And upon whom does it fall?”

“Upon a relation of her own, who has not been seen for some days, and who had been known to have spoken with impatience at the old woman’s life, and the mode in which she spent her money.”

“That speaks for itself,” said Varney.

“So it does; but they have not taken him yet.”

“I hope they will, I am sure; because the whole affair is so truly horrible!”

“So it is. Will you go to the theatre to-night; there is no ball—we can have an excellent box?”

“What do you say, my dear?” said Captain Fraser to his lady.

“I am willing. Are you agreeable Mary?”

“Yes; I am quite content with your decision.”

“Then we are all agreed to the proposal. There will be a celebrated actress from London there, and I hope we shall find the entertainment well worthy of our patronage—indeed, I have little doubt of it.”

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Chapter CLV

THE EFFECTS OF PERSEVERANCE.—SIR FRANCIS VARNEY AND MARY STEVENS.—AN EVENING PARTY AND CONVERSATION.

The evening was spent agreeably enough at the Bath theatre; Sir Francis Varney having taken the greatest pains to ingratiate himself with Mary Stevens so much and so delicately, that she could not but feel ashamed at her antipathy towards him, and certainly did all she could to get the better of it, and succeeded in some measure in doing so.

They all returned home in very good humour with themselves and everything. Captain Fraser and his lady were completely predisposed to look upon Sir Francis Varney as one of the first men in England for rank and breeding; even Mary Stevens was compelled to admit she never saw any one whose demeanour was to be more admired more than his.

The next morning they all assembled at the breakfast-table, and were all full of lively images and thoughts of the preceding evening.

There was much more of cordiality and intimacy than had been felt among them before; for Sir Francis Varney’s courtliness gave way, and he became almost as one of the family. Mary looked upon him with something like wonder, to see how agreeable a man could be whom she disliked.

One or two days more passed in this manner; and the dislike of Mary Stevens to Sir Francis, if not less, was at least not so active or violent; but she received him as an old friend.

That much emboldened Sir Francis, who again resolved he would speak to her, and that in the presence of her brother and sister, hoping by such a proceeding he should be able to overcome her dislike or fears by his own efforts, aided by Captain and Mrs. Fraser, who would create a diversion in his favour.

“I wish not,” he said, “to be importunate; but, in a matter that concerns one’s future hopes and wishes—one cannot well slumber over them—I wish to become one of such a family as that into which I find myself so strangely and accidentally introduced, though I fear I have failed to make myself as acceptable as I could wish.”

“No one could think Sir Francis Varney otherwise than acceptable,” said Captain Fraser; “your services to us alone would be enough to endow us all with the most lively gratitude and admiration, were you only to appear amongst us with no other qualification; but you add those which evidently make any gentleman an ornament to the circle he may grace with his acquaintance and friendship.”

“You take a favourable view of all that you see, Captain Fraser.”

“No, no; I merely speak what I think upon a subject which I have had, I may say, some experience. I have myself had some dealings in the world; my profession puts me forward, and I may repeat what I said.”

“No, no, I will not suffer you to do that; what I wish to do is, to impress, if possible, my fair friend here with favourable sentiments towards myself. I am not as some of the young men of these times, who win by the violence of their suit, which they urge with all the haste of violence to attack and storm the citadel.”

“That is a very good plan, Sir Francis; why don’t you yourself pursue such a system? It must carry the citadel by assault.”

“No, no,” said Mary, “you will not do anything of the kind. Was that the way in which you yourself acted? If so, I am sure I pity my sister; for what can she hope for when she was taken in such a violent manner?”

“Oh, no, no; Fraser was the unfortunate victor, who was taken prisoner in the moment of victory.”

“Yes, that is the fact; I was taken prisoner; but I have since been appointed governor in the enemy’s country.”

“Ha! ha! ha! well, that is a fortunate issue to your adventure. I would that mine were as fortunate—I love, and yet fear to say so.”

“Fear never won a fair lady,” said Fraser; “so don’t be afraid.”

“What does my fair enemy say here?”

“I have said so much upon the subject, sir, before, that I was in hopes I should not have had any occasion to say more.”

“I am sorry to hear you say so.”

“Why, it is a pity to render a matter that is settled uncertain, without the prospect of anything being gained by it.”

“So it is; but I hope that is not the present case, Miss Stevens. My petition, I hope, is not rejected merely because it has suffered so before. I cannot but hope, though despair for ever stare me in the face for it; but perhaps devotion and heartfelt love may make some impression upon you, and soften the rigours of a heart that cannot, I am sure, feel any pleasure in the distress of another.”

“No, no, Sir Francis; you only do me justice in saying so much. I can, indeed, feel no pleasure in such things. You may rely upon it, gratitude alone would prompt me to comply with any request you might make at once and cheerfully; but you must admit that this is a question that alters the complexion of other matters, and what might be proper under other circumstances, cannot be expected under this.”

“Nor am I so unreasonable as to expect anything of the kind. Now, Miss Stevens, you much mistake Sir Francis Varney if you think him capable of such meanness. I wish you to act from your own unbiased judgment, and, however painful the result, yet I would in silence put up with your decision. But still I hope you will not act imperatively—that you will look upon my suit with, at least, not a harsh and averse spirit. Have some compassion upon one who is entirely at your mercy.”

“Come, Mary, do not act unkindly.”

“I—I do not know what to say. I—I cannot give any other answer.”

“Nay, I won’t hear of such a thing, Mary,” said Mrs. Fraser; “now or never. I will not say that you must not be mindful of the past; but you were never ungrateful, that I know. You cannot be otherwise than happy.”

“You embarrass me.”

“Miss Stevens, let nothing weigh with you, save your own happiness; that is my object, and my own at the same time.”

“Say yes, Mary.”

“I—I cannot.”

“Will not! What objection? What on earth could you wish for more?”

“Do not press me.”

“I should be sorry to do so at such a moment, were it decidedly your desire not to give an answer now; but I do beg you will not let me linger longer than necessary. Indeed, I find I cannot exist in your society and be deprived of the hope that I may call you one day mine own.”

“Do, Mary, say yes—say yes!”

“Will Miss Stevens give me leave to suppose that there may be a time when I may be rewarded for my patience? I will not press you for a plain answer now, but give me some token that I am not to remain unhappy.”

“Come, Mary, come—Sir Francis gives you every indulgence.”

But Mary was obstinate some time longer, until Sir Francis, in a transport, pressed her hand, and placed it to his lips; at the same time she suffered her silence to be construed into a consent to his wishes.

• • • • •

“Well, Sir Francis,” said Captain Fraser, “let me congratulate you in having subdued the enemy, and you, Mary, in having such a conqueror. I protest it was a hard fought battle, and one that I could not tell who would prove triumphant.”

“I feel well assured you may congratulate me, Captain Fraser. I congratulate myself, I assure you; therefore you may do so to me.”

“I do heartily.”

“Thank you; I shall be happy. But what are the tactics for the night?”

“What are we to do?”

“Yes, precisely.”

“Oh, suppose we have a nice party among ourselves. We can amuse ourselves, I dare say. I am fatigued myself, and care not to go out to-night. We have all gone out so lately that it will be a change and a rest.”

“So it will,” said Miss Stevens. “I am really glad that we shall have one night, on which we can retire at early hours.”

“Are you willing, Sir Francis, to spend a dull evening?”

“It cannot be dull, at all events, in such company. I shall be happy to remain with you, indeed. I feel that a quiet, happy evening is a thing that would be very acceptable to me, at least; but still I can do as you please.”

“Then we’ll have a quiet evening among ourselves.”

“Have you heard anything more about the murder that took place the other day?”

“No,” replied Sir Francis. “Have you?”

“I have,” said Mrs. Fraser.

“What have you heard?” inquired Sir Francis.

“I will tell you,” replied Mrs. Fraser. “You recollect that the nephew had been suspected of having murdered the two women, and committed a robbery afterwards.”

“Yes, yes; I heard so much.”

“Well, they have taken the nephew now, and he has been examined before a police-constable, and will be again examined in another day or two.”

“Indeed! they have made quick work of it. How can they suspect he had any hand in the affair?”

“I believe they knew he had been very poor, and had been very impatient for the old woman’s death, that he might have it all. Now, such a line of conduct was bad, and has caused persons to suspect him; and, also, the fact, that he has got a quantity of gold about him, for the possession of which he cannot account.”

“Ay, that seems bad; but what kind of excuse can he give for the possession of such treasure—he is surely not silent?”

“Oh, dear, no, he is not silent. All he says, however, is, that his aunt gave it him to leave the country with.”

“That is strange—very singular.”

“It is, and that is why they disbelieve it; besides; he had made no preparations for his departure, that have yet been discovered—besides, his shoes were evidently soiled with human blood, and the footsteps in the passage and on the stairs—at least, some of them, were exactly of the same size.”

“That is a strong proof.”

“So it is; but there appears to have been an accomplice, for there are other footmarks of a different size, much larger and longer.”

“Dear me,” said Varney; “didn’t you say there were many people who ran up stairs after the man, who got away?”

“Yes; to be sure.”

“Well, some of them might have left a foot-print.”

“Well, I suppose they might, and yet they must have reasons for saying that these footsteps were those of an accomplice; perhaps they were fresher than the others, or it may be they have a different appearance from the more recent ones.”

“It may be so.”

“However it may be; it is quite certain that he has done the deed; whether he had any help or not, he, at least, will be punished.”

“No doubt he ought to suffer for such a deed; it is that which gives security to the rest of society.”

“But it was a dreadful thing. A murder committed by a friend or relation is, I think, more heinous, if possible, than when committed casually, by ordinary murderers, whose sole crimes are murder and robbery.”

“To be sure; when any tie that can bind one individual to another is broken, who would have taken precautions against such as those whom we value; but he was ungrateful, and killed his benefactress—for such she had been.”

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Chapter CLVI

THE WEDDING MORNING.—THE PROGRESS OF JUSTICE, AND THE DISCOVERY OF THE MURDERER.—THE DISSIPATION OF A SCENE.

The days flew by, and the aspect of affairs insensibly changed. Sir Francis Varney gradually drew over the scene such an appearance of candour and disinterestedness, that the Frasers were delighted with the prospect of such an alliance, and they left no means of propitiating and influencing Miss Stevens in his favour; and they succeeded to a certain extent in stifling all expressions of dissent, and brought her to a state of passive obedience.

She had nothing to allege against Sir Francis but her dislike to him, and even that she felt was weaker, and the more she exerted her mind, the weaker such impressions appeared to be; a convincing proof to her that it was a mere blind, reasonless prejudice which it was her duty to throw off, and she exerted herself to do so.

Thus it was she became passive in the hands of her friends; and Sir Francis Varney had the satisfaction of seeing that he was about to pick up a bride at length. His pleasure knew no bounds, and his eyes glistened in a manner, that once or twice Mary recoiled from him in terror, and she had nearly revived her first feelings against him.

However that might have been, he saw his error, and he conducted himself differently afterwards; for he too well knew the effect it must have upon the artless and beautiful young girl, whose affections he cared not to win, so that he stifled her objections, and obtained her hand—her heart was not with him an object.

“I think now,” said Captain Fraser to Sir Francis, when they were alone—“I think, now, Sir Francis, that we ought to come to some understanding.”

“I shall be but too happy, Captain Fraser, to do so, in every sense of the word, and upon every subject we can have in common.”

“Then we shall have no difficulty in this affair.”

“I hope not, I assure you.”

“Well, then, Sir Francis, you desire to marry into our family?”

“Most unquestionably; my heart and fortune are at the disposal of Miss Stevens. I care for nothing else but her—fortune, Captain Fraser, is no object to me; I do not care for a single penny piece. I have enough for myself.”

“Money is not happiness itself,” pursued the captain.

“I believe it—I feel it.”

“And yet Mary is not penniless; she has her dower, though by no means a large one; yet she has one.”

“Then let the whole, whatever it may be, be safely, securely made over for her own use, and that of her children.”

“It is generous—very generous of you, Sir Francis; and your generosity much embarrasses me, and I hardly know how to proceed with a little matter which I deem a part of my duty to perform.”

“Do not let me be an hindrance to you; I am sure I should regret it much; besides, the more we know of each other, the greater confidence we have in each other, provided our knowledge is of that character that will increase our respect.”

“You are quite right, Sir Francis.”

“Well, captain, I hope what you are going to say, will not give me cause to feel myself less happy than I am.”

“I hope not; I believe not; but what I was about to say is a very ordinary and common occurrence on an occasion like the present.”

“Well, let me know all about it, and then the murder will be out.”

“Good. We have but little more than personal communication with each other, apart from our respective homes; and we do not know much of each other in the ordinary acceptation of the word. I wish to know something relative to your private affairs.”

“I really cannot do so, unless you travel northward with me.”

“Indeed—indeed——”

“Stop. I can give you corroborative proof; I have none direct about me; but I can do that much; but perhaps it will not do.”

“Quite enough. I am satisfied—if you can give me corroborative proof of what you say, and that without premeditation, it will be still stronger and more valuable.”

“If you think so, what do you say to those two letters, Captain Fraser?”

“Two letters.”

“The one is from my gamekeeper, and the other is from my bailiff, who has to overlook my property, and advise me of what was being done on the estate, and the state of my financial affairs.”

“They will do, sir, I believe.”

As Captain Fraser took the two letters, he looked at the post-marks, and saw that they were plain and readable, and the date; they had been correctly described by Sir Francis Varney—they came from the north, and one was a business-like letter from the bailiff, and one quite in keeping from the head gamekeeper, both of whom mentioned many local and petty matters, that fully bore out all that was to be expected from them.

“And do you keep up an establishment of this character, Sir Francis?”

“I do. I can afford it, and I do not like to turn the knaves adrift on the world, who have, ever since they have been born, looked for abundance from the soil that produced them; and I don’t think I shall be justified in having the hardness of heart to turn them off.”

“You are a kind and good master.”

“I wish to be so.”

“And when, Sir Francis, do you intend to return there?”

“I am glad you ask the question. I should like to take my bride there to spend the honeymoon. I wish now to leave other objects, and to get back as soon as the ceremony is over. There I should like to take her; it would be a rare and splendid life to lead in the old gothic mansion—as much like a castle as anything I can describe; but an ornamented castle, of course, for I don’t mean high walls, and no windows.”

“Certainly not.”

“But will you assist me in obtaining her consent to a speedy union; and, that effected, we will whirl off for the mansion, and you can follow us at leisure. The union will, I hope and believe, be most happy.”

“I hope so. I trust and believe it will.”

“In the meantime, any more information or proof you can desire shall be obtained for you. Do not be backward upon this head.”

“I am quite satisfied, Sir Francis.”

• • • • •

Thus Sir Francis Varney had succeeded in hoodwinking Captain Fraser and his wife, and had now entirely subdued all shew of objection, and had so far succeeded as to obtain a quiet and tacit consent to all he desired.

The interview described was reported to Mrs. Fraser and her sister, and was considered liberal and satisfactory, and the marriage was spoken of as likely to be immediate, which brought forth no remark from Mary, and the matter was considered as nearly settled; the day only was to be appointed, and that could not be very distant.

One morning as they were seated at breakfast, and that after the day had been fixed at a greater distance of time than Sir Francis Varney liked, the subject of the murder was again brought up, and Mrs. Fraser said,—

“There is nothing more about the murder now—is there?”

“No,” replied Sir Francis; “not that I have heard of. I believe the unfortunate man will be tried one of these days—he stands committed.”

“Stop,” said Captain Fraser, “here is something in the paper.”

“What is in it?”

“Something more about the murder.”

“What is it?” inquired Sir Francis. “I am anxious to learn if they have done anything more, for I was sick of it, and wish to know when such a horrible tragedy will end—the sooner it is past and forgotten, the better.”

“That is true; for knowing a man is lying waiting for the hour to arrive when he shall die a violent death, is truly terrible.”

“So it is. They seem to say there is some clue to another person, of a most remarkable appearance, who escaped through another house, and deceived the inmates by describing a fire that was up stairs.”

“Indeed! How strange,” said Sir Francis.

“Yes; they say they will not publish more, lest it defeat the ends of justice.”

“Something else sprung up, I suppose?”

“No doubt. But here is something more: the prisoner will be tried in a few days, and, if condemned, executed in a very short time.”

“Then I wish that one happy marriage would come off before that time. I am sure Mary will be wretched, and I cannot be so happy as I could wish to be.”

“Then postpone it for a few weeks.”

“No, no, no; that would never do; hasten it. Besides, we should have to pass through all the wretchedness consequent upon knowing a man—a murderer, it is true, and perhaps two of them—that is waiting to die.”

“I think myself,” said Captain Fraser, “that we might, with advantage, leave Bath before the trial takes place. It would certainly be more comfortable.”

“So it would,” said Mrs. Fraser; “and, to tell the truth, I begin to get tired of this place, beautiful as it is. In fact, I want to get to your mansion in the north.”

“Not more than I do, madam,” said Sir Francis. “Will Miss Stevens permit me to persuade her to shorten my period of probation, to escape some of the disagreeables we have mentioned relative to this unhappy affair?”

• • • • •

The wedding morning was arrived. Sir Francis Varney had not been sparing of his ill-gotten gains. He willingly made some handsome presents to Mrs. Fraser and Mary Stevens; jewels were the form he gave them in; and Sir Francis himself took care to display no small degree of ornament, and yet he appeared to be a man who, though wearing and having the best of all, still wore but little ornament.

But the occasion made the change in his habit. And now the post horses are ready at the door—ready to bear them northwards. They are at the church. Sir Francis, and Mary Stevens leaning upon his arm, come before the altar, and the friends of the bride were on either side of them. The clergyman was about to read, but asked first, if any knew any causes or impediment, &c., to the marriage.

No answer was returned; when there was some bustle at the other end of the church, and the clergy man paused to ascertain its character.

In a moment more there was a motley group of persons making towards the altar; and foremost among these were two or three peace officers, and after them a woman, dressed in many clothes, which added to her natural obesity.

“Ah, that’s him—that’s the wagabone that said my house was on fire when it warn’t; that’s him as frightened me so, that I’m quite thin through it.”

“Shiver my timbers, and they begin to creak a bit now—d—n the gout!—but that’s Varney, the vampyre! Who’d a thought he would always be turning up in this way, like an old mop as nobody can use?”

Varney turned to the clergyman, and begged that these mad people might be turned out, and, after the ceremony, he would meet any proper accusation at a proper time and place; but he showed his anger so strongly, that Mary shrank from him; while the two officers demanded him as a prisoner.

The clergyman yielded; and Sir Francis, striking the officer near him down, made a rush at a side door, and escaped.

The fact was, there had been more than one doubt about the murder; and Sir Francis had been followed to the hotel the night of the murder by one of the waiters, who came up behind him. They took his shoes, and found they were bloody; and all things being traced home to him, it was agreed to capture him at home; but he had left for the church, when the officers followed him. Old Admiral Bell, who was gouty, happened to see him pass, and determined to unmask him, which he did.

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CLVII. THE MURDER IN THE WOOD DEL NOTTI.—A NEAPOLITAN SCENE

There had been a great heat during the day, even for the sunny shore of Naples. Not a cloud had been seen all day, not a breath of air had been stirring; all was golden sunshine—all was fair; the very sea glittered like molten gold, and the heat was oppressive in the extreme—so much so that even the Neapolitans themselves stirred not out of doors, but sank listless and sleepy on the couch, fanning themselves, and endeavouring to create an air that would give some slight refreshment.

Even the sea was calm—the very waves lashed the shore lazily, and appeared to partake of the general weariness that came over all nature—all things that moved.

There was no soul stirring in the villas that were seen dotted about the environs of Naples, most of them like palaces, surrounded on every side by gardens and fountains, walled in, and secure from the intrusion of a stranger.

There was one of great magnificence adjoining the small wood Del Notti, that reared its stately structure on a slope looking towards the sea, though at a mile or two’s distance, but close adjoining the wood.

The gardens were extensive, and abutted on the wood, which was a cool and shady spot at most times, and if such a one were now to be found, it would certainly be found in the wood Del Notti.

The trees grew tall, and spread their branches out until they interlaced each other so completely, that when the foliage was on them the light rarely found its way to the earth, save in a dim and diluted form.

Here there might now and then be found some of those who had been overtaken by the heat of the day, or who from choice preferred the coolness of the woods to the walls of their houses. Here, then, reposing beneath the great trees, might occasionally be found a few individuals who slept in coolness and shade.

Near the wall of the villa where the wood ran were some tall black trees, mostly fir and cedar; there beneath one of the latter lay a tall, gaunt-looking man, who, notwithstanding the weather, was wrapped up in a cloak of large dimensions, and sable colour.

There was something strange in that man’s appearance; above all, the cloak which he wore was a thing so much out of place, that none other than himself could or would have worn it. What was his motive none could divine, were it not for the concealment of his person, which seemed likely enough.

His slouched hat was bent over his eyes; his face was scarcely distinguishable between the collar of the cloak and the hat, though he lay on his back motionless, and without heeding aught that neared him.

It was true, there did not exist any reason why he should take any heed, seeing that at that point no one ever came. It was a spot that was not frequented, having a bad name, which usually deters people from trusting themselves in such a place.

However, the stranger lay motionless, and apparently without fear. Perhaps it was the long two-edged sword he wore, that gave him his security; at all events, he lay there in silence, and almost motionless—quite and entirely so, save the motion in breathing; and his eye now and then turned in a particular direction.

The hours rolled by, and no one approached, till the sun sunk towards the ocean, there to bury himself till another morrow appeared.

The heat of the high noon was past, and the shadows of the trees reduced the light in the wood to a twilight; and the stranger arose and stood beneath the shadow of a tall one, while he appeared to be listening for some sound which he appeared to expect from some particular quarter of the wood.

The hour of noon is some hours past; and with it a gentle sea breeze begins to fan the heated shores, and here and there might be seen some of the inhabitants creeping about in the shady places.

The stranger listened, and from the quarter to which he appeared most to direct his attention, he heard sounds proceed. These were those made by persons walking over the dried leaves and sticks which lay scattered about from the effects of the storms that sometimes visit even these pleasant shores.

“She comes!” he muttered, and his eye glanced round, and he grasped the hilt of his sword. “She comes! but does she come alone?”

He paused, and again listened.

“She comes not alone—another is with her; but no matter; she shall come. I have the means of security here. But, above all, I need her.”

He paused again, and listened, but quietly drew his sword, which was long and sharp, and stood beneath the tree, while the voices and sounds slowly approached, until they came quite distinct and audible.

“And so,” said a man’s voice, but in a low key, “the marchese is not well.”

“She is quite indisposed.”

“I was about to say I could hardly feel it in my heart to regret it.”

“And why could you be so unfeeling?”

“Because, by dear Fiametta, had she been well, you would scarce have got away from her this evening, and I should have had but little of your sweet company.”

“I admit that; but were you not selfish in desiring it?”

“Yes, I was.”

“And are you not ashamed to say so?”

“No, I am not, Fiametta. I can acknowledge anything that concerns myself and you; for I must admit a great deal of selfishness in this matter. I love you tenderly, and that puts all the world beside us. I think nothing of any one save you, and for you I would sacrifice the whole world.”

“I am fearful of you.”

“And wherefore should you be fearful of me, fair one? Am I not willing and ready to fight and die for you? I would not fear the summons of death this moment, if I knew that I could save you but one hour’s pang.”

“I hope,” said Fiametta, leaning on her lover’s arm, “I hope that you will never be called upon for so sad a sacrifice. I am sure I should never know an hour’s happiness if I thought there was a possibility of it.”

“I do not think there is any possibility of that happening. But, Fiametta, when do you hope for an end to this slavery? Can’t you leave the old marchese?—she is anything but kind to you, and would marry you to one of her poor relatives; and unless you marry with her consent, you will never be rewarded for the many listless hours you have passed, night after night, at her bedside.”

“But she will reward me when she dies.”

“What an age to wait!”

“Surely you cannot grudge her life!”

“I do not, only so long as it is a term of imprisonment for you. If you would leave her, and come back with me, I will make you happy. You shall have a happy home, and form new ties, and new affections.”

“I have not got so tired of the old, that it is necessary to change them; but I cannot leave the marchese. She is almost alone—no one goes near her to do her a good office, and I am her only friend.”

“And yet she won’t give you liberty.”

“She says I am too young, and, if you must know all, she says I am too pretty to be trusted in everybody’s company.”

“I must admit there is much of truth in that, and yet I cannot see its application in this instance, as far as I am concerned.”

“No; that is not to be expected from you, you know; but this must be admitted, that she speaks of men in general. Besides, she says, if I have patience to await her death, she will handsomely endow me.”

“Upon my word, I think the old woman only wants to lease her life a few years longer, or, I should say, wishes to live forever.”

“How can you make that appear?”

“Thus—when you are waiting for people’s deaths, you never do succeed in hearing of their dying within any reasonable space. It gives them new life, and the spirit of opposition and obstinacy is created within them, and they won’t die.”

“For shame.”

“Nay, you will find, Fiametta, that we shall both grow grey-headed in waiting for the happy moment when you and I are man and wife. Do not stay, then, any longer, leave here, and come with me; we shall be happy, and defy the world.”

“But look what a dowry I shall lose.”

“Never mind about that. Such a dowry would not make you young again, nor would it recall many years of past service and attendance upon her. You must know how very precarious such a life must be. It may so happen that you may forfeit all you have deserved through some fancy of this old woman. She may take it into her head to insist upon your marrying her poor cousin there. You know, if you were to displease her, she might very easily leave you nothing for your pains.”

“I admit all that; but it amounts to nothing, because she has said as much that she would never force me, only she wished me to marry him, as being a worthy man and one who would act justly to me through life.”

“Justly through life! What a sound! It sounds but little of love. Justly, indeed! I would I could act no otherwise to others, but to you, Fiametta, I should as soon think of forgetting you as merely acting justly. I love you; I would, at this moment, lay down my life for you.”

At that moment they neared the stranger, who was standing silently and motionless, with his sword concealed beneath his cloak, but eagerly watching them, and devouring every word they uttered; and, by degrees, they drew nearer and nearer.

“I am sure it will be wise to wait awhile. I am sure the poor old marchese will not live long. She cannot eat and drink, save with great difficulty. I am sure we shall not have long to wait.”

“I am willing to abide by your wishes, Fiametta; but it cannot be well to wait for an age—it cannot be well to wait till we are old.”

“I know that; but——”

Fiametta screamed, as her eye fell upon the stranger, who rushed out upon them, with his sword drawn. This gave her male companion time to defend himself, by, in the first instance, jumping aside.

“Mercy! mercy!” screamed Fiametta.

Her lover drew his sword, and put himself upon his defence, saying, as he parried the first thrust of his enemy,—

“Villain! what mean you? Is it robbery you would attempt, or murder alone? Will nothing but shedding blood satisfy you?”

The stranger made no reply, but pressed on furiously, and with great strength and skill, for two or three minutes, when Fiametta’s lover, by changing his ground, contrived to elude so desperate an assault upon his life.

Fiametta, however, believed her lover was getting the worst of it. She screamed out for help several times, but none came. However, it caused the stranger to press his adversary more quickly, and to hasten his own movements, for he was quite desperate and furious; but this laid him open to the assaults of the other. But, so fierce was the attack, and such was the strength exhibited, that Fiametta’s lover was compelled to give ground.

“What is your object, villain?—speak!”

But the stranger spoke not, but furiously threw himself upon him, and endeavoured to beat down his guard, which his great strength and height almost enabled him to do; but as the other gave ground he was obliged to follow him, and then his foot caught against some of the tangled roots that grew out of the earth, and threw him forward; and his adversary, not slow to profit by it, and rid himself of so dangerous an enemy, stepped forward and received him upon the point of his sword.

“A good deliverance,” said the lover, drawing his sword out of the body as it fell to the earth—“a timely deliverance, truly.”

He wiped his forehead, for the perspiration streamed down his face; the day was warm, and his exertion great.

“Oh, Jose,” exclaimed Fiametta, “what a horrid man!”

“A brigand, I suppose.”

“But he said nothing—he asked nothing.”

“No, he meant murder; there is no doubt of it, now, in the world; but I never saw such an ill-looking wretch before.”

As Jose spoke, he kicked the hat and cloak off which the brigand wore, and which remained partially on. There was a ghastly wound in his breast where Jose’s sword entered and let out the life of the stranger.

He was very tall, but thin and emaciated; his features remarkable, and he wore some straight, straggling hair, that was disordered, and fell over his forehead and face of more than marble paleness.

“Well, I never met with such an encounter before, and I never met with such an ill-looking villain,” said Jose. “Come away, Fiametta; we need not say anything to any one about the affair. I will not come here again, though it may be needless to take the precaution, seeing that none could be brought to match this fellow in villainy and ugliness; at least, it is so to my mind. Come away.”

Wiping his sword on the cloak of the fallen man, and sheathing it, he took the hand of Fiametta, and drawing it through his arm, left the spot.

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Chapter CLVIII

A MAIDEN’S MIND DISTURBED.—AN EASY WAY OF PROMOTING COMFORT OF CONSCIENCE.—THE MONK.

The spot was deserted, and no soul came near; but the body lay, with its ghastly wound, all sopping in its gore. It was a fitting place for such a scene as this; no sound was heard, and the lazy hours turned slowly over, till the shades of evening came on apace; the light grew dim, and darkness increased; but there the dead body of the tall, remarkable-looking stranger lay, without motion. It was cold and bloodless—death had long since deprived it of its last spark of animation.

• • • • •

Jose and Fiametta quitted the neighbourhood of the deed of darkness as quickly as they could, and it was many minutes before either of them spoke, so filled were their minds with the reflections natural to, and consequent upon, the strange occurrence that had just before fallen upon them.

At length Fiametta broke silence, by saying,—

“Oh, Jose, what a dreadful thing has happened!”

“Truly, it had like to have been a dreadful affair; but it don’t matter now, he’s settled, I believe.”

“Yes; but you have killed a man.”

“Truly, my dear Fiametta, I have killed a man, or devil, I don’t yet know which; but that man would have killed me if I had not done so.”

“Yes, he would; but how dreadful.”

“So that being the case, it is, in my opinion, a very good job he is dead; a very good job, indeed; he will be safe where he is:”

“But still,” said Fiametta, crossing herself, “how dreadful it must be to be slain thus; with all one’s sins upon one’s head.”

“What would have been my fate?”

“As bad, and to me it would have been worse by far; but still it is really dreadful to think that there should be a soul thus sent to heaven without so much as the good offices of a priest.”

“He would have killed me without giving me time for repentance. He would have forced me to leave a world in which I have all happiness yet to know; a world which I am by no means prepared to quit.”

“Truly no, Jose, nor I; but what a state for this man to be in; he is so much the worse prepared than even you, because his end was bad; now, you had no evil intention.”

“None—none.”

“You did not know even that you were in danger from him.”

“I did not. Fiametta, else I had never brought you there. I cannot understand what brought him there—what he wanted, or why it was he made such a desperate attack upon me; my life was aimed at.”

“It was, Jose; but have you no private enemy, whom you believe capable of such a deed as this? Surely—surely it cannot be done, save from some motive.”

“That is the thing that most puzzles me; I cannot understand the motive. I know him not; I have no enemy who would hire an assassin; but there let him and his deed lie buried in oblivion.”

“He has no burial.”

“He deserves none,” said Jose.

“But, dear Jose, do you not think we ought to give him one.”

“Are we his executors or heirs?”

“God forbid!—but we saw him die, and not for his sake, but for the sake of human nature, do not let us leave him unburied like a dog. He may not deserve it, but he has answered all his offence.”

“Yes, yes; I admit he has been punished—he paid to the uttermost all he owed me, and I gave him a receipt in full. He will never make another demand upon me; we have quite done with each other, I believe.”

“I shall never forget the horrible sight; it will haunt me day and night; I shall not be able to banish the terrible features from my mind. I shall, in truth, pass a sad life; I wish this had never happened.”

“Why, so do I, dear Fiametta; but, surely, you do not accuse me of wrong, in having, to save my life, killed this man. I was compelled, forced to do it; it was either his life or mine; and, the truth to tell, I never was in such peril, from any single sword, in all my life, and but for the lucky accident that laid him open, I had not been here with you, but where he now is.”

“Thank God for your deliverance, Jose; but—but what a revolting thing to remember, that in the wood Del Notti, there lies a corrupting mass of humanity, over which loathsome insects crawl; a thing that had once been a living soul like ourselves; but now, alas! what is he?”

“But, Fiametta, your grief appears misplaced; you mourn this stranger as if he was near and dear to you. Do you know him?”

“Not I,” said Fiametta, sorrowfully.

“Then what have you to grieve about, Fiametta? Tell me truly. You have nothing to blame yourself with. I do not feel I have acted wrongly. Say what it is that causes you so much sorrow.”

“I grieve to think that the body of that sinful and wicked man lies unburied, and that no masses have been said for the repose of his soul.”

“If that be all you require to set your mind at rest—though the villain deserves it not—I will see that he is buried and masses said for him.”

“Will you, indeed, Jose?”

“Upon my conscience, I will see your desire executed.”

“Well, then, Jose, yonder lives a holy monk. He is a pious and good man, and will, I am sure, do all that is required—watch and pray by the body till midnight, and continue there until the sun shall illumine the wood.”

“Be it so, my dear Fiametta—be it so. We will go to the holy man and tell him of our distress, and will reward him; and then I will see you in safety, and return to conduct him to the spot where you know we left the body. I would the villain had come by a less noble death than falling by the sword.”

“It will be a danger that will never be forgotten by me,” said Fiametta.

“Nor by me,” replied Jose. “What that man meant I cannot conceive. But then there can be but one answer to the question—he meant robbery; nothing else could have tempted him to draw his sword upon me.”

“But why did he not demand your money at once?”

“Because he might meet with what he has met; and he took me at a disadvantage, and, of course, gave him a better chance of killing me, and running less danger in doing so. I am not, therefore, surprised at it.”

“Here is the holy father’s residence. He is poor—very poor; but, withal, he is very good. He is a holy man.”

“Then he will serve our turn the better; for it would, in my opinion, take something more than a saint to pray out of purgatory such a soul as his must be. It must wing its way through space very much like a bat.”

“Hush, Jose—hush! Not a word about that. Here is the holy man’s abode. Shall I enter with you?”

“If you will, Fiametta—if you will.”

Fiametta stood by her lover’s side while he knocked at the holy man’s door, and, after a pause of about a minute, a deep voice said,—

“Who is it that knocks at my door?”

“’Tis one who needs your service, good father.”

“Enter,” said the monk, and a bolt was withdrawn. The door opened, and Fiametta followed her lover into a hovel, or rather a bare room, in which was nothing, save some straw in one corner, and some few clothes; besides which there were one or two articles of necessary use and convenience, but they were very few indeed.

“Well, my son, what wouldst thou? Dost thou require mine aid to bind thee to this maiden, and she to thee?”

“I do indeed wish so much, but she is not willing.”

“Not willing! Then wherefore dost thou come to me?”

“You see, holy father, as we were walking in the wood Del Notti, which I dare say you well enough know——”

“I do, my son.”

“Well, I was talking to my companion, heedless of danger, nor dreaming any could be at hand, when my attention was attracted to a spot on the right of me whence a man rushed out upon me, with a drawn sword, and attacked me.”

“I should not have had time to see him, much less time to draw and defend myself, but for the scream of her who was by my side. I looked where I saw her look, and saw him advancing, and had time to spring back and draw.”

“Did you kill your opponent?”

“As it fell out, good father, I did. He rushed on and pressed me so hard, that I had no alternative. My life was in great danger, and I could not rid myself of my enemy, or preserve my own life, except at the expense of his.”

“Did you slay him?”

“I did.”

“Another soul ushered into eternity,” said the monk, gloomily. “How long will it be before the wickedness of men shall cease to bear such fruits?”

“But, holy father, I did but act lawfully in saving my life. It was only the law that nature has implanted in us, and can hardly be called wickedness, since Heaven itself gives us the power and impulse.”

“Hold thy peace, my son, thou knowest nothing of these matters; therefore I say hold thy peace, and let me know what it is you desire of me.”

“That you will say masses for the repose of his soul, and give him Christian burial. I do not like—we do not like such a portion of humanity to remain where it is; we would it were not entirely neglected, or deprived of burial rites.”

“It is but just of thee, my son; but I have known many who would have neglected it altogether, and permitted the body of one of God’s creatures to lie and rot like a dog. My son, you have done well, and I will, for your sake, do mine office.”

“Nay, holy father, I cannot permit thee to do it wholly without giving the church some due, and here in this purse you will find all I have.”

“I take it, my son, not for my own sake, but for that of the church, to whom belongs all that is offered her.”

“And this, too, holy father,” said Fiametta, giving a small purse; “take that, and for my sake do what may be done by those on earth for those who have departed from it by a violent and sudden death.”

“I will, daughter.”

“And now, holy father,” said Jose, “if you will, I am ready to take you to the spot where fell this man.”

“I will follow, my son,” said the monk, concealing his two gifts beneath his garments, but rising at the same time—“I’ll follow thee.”

They all left the place, but went a circuitous route, to enable Jose to leave Fiametta in safety at the marquise’s villa, where she resided in half dependence, being a distant relative of her’s.

Jose led on the monk until he came to the spot where the stranger fell, and where he yet lay just as he had fallen—a ghastly corpse.

“Here, holy father, you see the caitiff, a treacherous villain, who has now been paid for his villainy—for, perhaps, a life of villainy.”

“Perhaps so, my son. He does not appear to have been formed by nature when in one of her most kindly moods; but yet it might have been she impressed his character upon his features as a warning to the rest of mankind.”

“It was so, most likely; but you see he is slain. Fiametta would never have known peace again unless the body was watched through the night by some holy man, and prayed for. That is what is desired, holy father; and now I will leave you to your task, bidding you adieu, and wishing your office a prosperous one, and a pleasant night to watch by.”

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Chapter CLIX

THE WATCH BY THE DEAD MAN’S SIDE.—THE DEAD ALIVE.—THE DEATH-STRUGGLE, AND THE MURDER OF THE MONK.

The monk gazed after Jose for some moments, until he had vanished from his sight; even then he continued gazing upon the vacant space that he lately filled, as if meditating in his own mind, and quite unmindful of the present. At length he turned and gazed upon the clay-cold corpse before him.

There it lay in all its hideousness—all its horrible reality. The slouched hat was knocked off in the fall, and the face was exposed to view.

“Ave Maria!” muttered the monk, telling his beads. “I never before saw so unfavourable a looking creature. I pray Heaven he may have been better favoured in grace than in features—that he may make a better appearance spiritually than bodily. I would I had had time to speak with him before his spirit fled, for I misdoubt me much of his salvation—but I will not charge him with unknown sin.”

“That,” he muttered, after a pause, “might, indeed, be quite unnecessary, seeing his appearance and his deeds—at least the only one I know of is of a like character; were it otherwise, I would be loth to doubt him; but two such proofs are enough to damn the best spoken-of being in all Christendom.”

He paused again; examined the features of the dead man, but could not appear at all satisfied with the success of his ministry.

“I would sooner have had some poor, but honest corpse to watch by,” he said as he gazed upon the long white visage of the dead man, whose leaden eye appeared fixed upon him; “I would,” he continued, “much sooner have had some early flower cut down before its prime—I could have wept and prayed for him, then; but this, alas! was but full-grown iniquity, I strongly fear—it cannot be otherwise.”

The monk sank down upon a tree.

“Alas! what a sinner I am, for uttering such a thought—nay, I am worse for conceiving such a thought, and expressing it must be heinous. To have such a one would be to cut off the most worthy, instead of looking at the destruction of the full grown sinner in all his pride and moral deformity, as being the full extent of the length he was permitted to go by Divine wisdom and intelligence. He has filled his measure of iniquity, and the Lord hath cut him off in the midst of his sins.”

The monk now devoutly crossed himself, and muttered several of his Ave Marias and paternosters, and prayed in bad Latin for some time, nearly an hour, when he appeared to think he might be indulged in a rest from his theological labour, and that his mind might refresh itself.

The monk arose and paced about the body for some minutes in solemn and deep wonder at the place chosen for such a deed.

A number of fresh thoughts now rushed through his mind, as he assigned all possible motives for the deed that had been done, or attempted to be done; and, also, for the choice of spot; but this speculation was more curious than useful.

Time passed by, and the hours rolled on, and darkness came on apace. A heavy atmosphere seemed to hang over him, and the light gradually faded away, and the moon showed no light on that night.

“It is dark,” muttered the monk, “but the Lord is my light, and darkness has no fears for me. I am in the discharge of my ministry, and am safe. The dead man lies quiet and still—no sound comes thence.”

He listened, but no sound; not the rustle of a leaf could be heard; not a breath of air stirred. All was silent and still; no one sound disturbed the stillness of the night—all was quiet.

“It is a night of death,” said the monk to himself—“a night such as might be supposed to exist if the last man had ceased to live.”

There was a weight in the air that appeared stronger, and had an effect upon the monk, and made a gloomy feeling come over him.

“What ails me?” he said to himself. “I am not strong and confident as I am wont to be—the reverse; I am doubting, and very sad. Yet why should I be sad—I, a minister of religion? I, at all times, am prepared to die, or ought to be.”

“And yet there is the clinging after life, as in all; but I am mortal, as other men are. I have not all the motives for life they have. I am alone in the world. I am but a pilgrim, whose stay is short, and who leaves behind him nothing to remember, and no one to remember me. It is better it is so than otherwise.”

The monk paused again, and approached the trunk of the tree, upon which he sat in deep meditation for more than an hour, without altering his posture, or uttering a single word. A whole hour passed thus.

“Now,” muttered the monk, as if waking up from a profound meditation, “man is here but in a state of probation. If he were not, what would be the explanation of the chequered course he runs, what the use of all the various stages he goes through during a long life, and then to drop into rottenness at last?”

“Why are we educated and improved, if for any other purpose? Why should we spend years in improving ourselves, only to be deprived of the jewel at last, and to have it not only taken, but destroyed.”

“No—no; it is for better use.”

The monk’s mind was evidently disturbed in regard to some speculation which had been suggested by the solitary moments of his watch. At such times, all the strange and inquiring thoughts that could be devised by man usually arise and enter his mind, and strange doubts and fancies will supervene, when all other thoughts have been banished, and they take their place.

Man’s mind is always liable to these fanciful intrusions, and will remain so, while there is a single important assertion or circumstances existing, incapable of positive and mathematical demonstration.

When all shall be clear, and when there shall be no longer any play for the mind—any room for imagination—any possibility of conception left, then doubt may be cleared up, and an unanimity might be raised upon such a structure that never would be raised under any other circumstances whatever.

But, as this is not likely to happen, human doubt will exist, more or less, to all; we shall none of us be freed from that great cause of all the calamities of races. But to proceed with our narrative.

The monk looked around him. He could, however, see nothing, save the few trees near him, but beyond that he was unable to see. There was a strong mist up—one that limited vision, and left no room for any other object to shine through, and diversify the scene.

“I would,” muttered the monk, “that the morning would come. There is no light; the moon is hidden; no rays penetrate the dense air; and all the while the air is close and muggy, Not a star out, or luminary visible.”

He looked upwards, and found he could see the spot where the moon was striving to force its rays through some thinner stratum of the clouds; but it was doubtful, and the monk, of very weariness, began to count his beads and to repeat his paternosters, between whiles and alternately, until he grew weary.

It wanted yet an hour of midnight, and the night would not be passed for many hours, and the monk thought that the nights were long.

“It is cold,” he muttered; “but yet ’tis not midnight. ’Tis the moisture with which the air is loaded, and thus it is cool more rapidly than it could have otherwise happened; but it matters not to me—if I were to lose my life, I shall only be called home in my ministry; therefore it matters not. I am in the discharge of my duty, and shall have the reward appropriate to the service.”

A slight breeze sprung up, and in a short time the mist was cleared off, and not a cloud was to be seen on the horizon.

There might be seen the moon rising slowly and majestically, while a gentle and diffused light shed its influence throughout the wood. Of course its direct rays could not enter until it had risen to its full height.

“Ha!” said the monk, “now I shall be relieved of some of the terrors of my watch; it will cease to be so tedious and so long; but, no matter, I am content, quite content. Soon I shall be able to see the body, and then I will close its eyes. I had forgotten to do so before; but it is time enough.”

“Pater noster,” again began the monk, until he came to the last word, by which time the light was enough to enable him to discover the body plainly; then he knelt down by its side to pray, and gazed on its features.

“I see its eyes are glaring wildly—aye, no wonder! no wonder! he met with a sudden, painful, and violent death.”

“Poor erring mortality! what an end to come to; but, alas! what can men expect? He who lives by the sword will die by the sword.”

The monk closed the eyes of the dead man, and pulled the cloak, which lay open, over him, and then leaned back against a tree, and shut his eyes for a moment; but they did not remain long shut, for some fancied noise drew him out of a train of speculation he was indulging in.

“He moves not!” he muttered.

However, he knelt down by the side of the body, and began to repeat his paternoster again, and for a few moments shut his eyes, as if he had no service for them, and continued his prayers without intermission.

The moon’s rays now came with their full effulgence, and the forest appeared like some enormous piece of lattice work; for the moon’s rays were able to penetrate the leaves and branches of many of the trees.

The moonbeams at length fell upon the body of the dead man, and he got slowly up until he rested on his elbow with his face towards the moon; and the monk, who yet remained kneeling, was still praying with his eyes wholly shut.

“Ha!” groaned the stranger.

The monk stopped in his prayer, started, and opened his eyes, which were fixed, in an extremity of terror and horror, upon the apparition before him—he was entranced, and had no power to remove his eyes.

“Ha!” said the figure, slowly rising to a sitting posture, but, at the same time, immediately facing the unfortunate and wretched monk, who was prostrated by fear.

“Ha!” groaned the figure, by a strange effort.

“My God—my God!” exclaimed the monk, “save me—save me!”

He endeavoured to rise, but shook so much he could not do it, for the figure kept its horrible eye fixed upon him, and he shook violently; but after a while he contrived to say, scarcely audible though,

“Avaunt, Satan, I command thee.”

The figure heeded it not, but took some ominous proceedings, by laying its hands upon the monk’s shoulder; but this had the effect of releasing him from his spell, and he sprang to his feet, exclaiming,—

“The Lord of Hosts aid me!”

The figure replied not, but rising without taking his hand off, a deadly struggle ensued between the two, which lasted some minutes. The monk, being driven desperate, resisted with great strength; but he had one to deal with, whose strength was far beyond his, and he felt himself gradually sinking, till, after another effort, which ended in a wild shriek, he was forced on his knees.

In this posture the strange man seized him by the throat, which he compressed, and thrust his knees into his chest, until the unfortunate and wretched man was quite dead and senseless.

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Chapter CLX

THE DEVIL A MONK WOULD BE.—THE DEMAND FOR ADMISSION INTO THE CONVENT OF ST. MARY MAGDALEN.—THE PORTRESS AND THE MONK.

It was some minutes before the stranger, who had so newly risen from the dead, let go of the grasp he had of the monk’s throat. He held him firmly by the throat by both hands; but as he stood grasping him, his face was turned upwards towards the moon’s rays, which fell upon his breast and features, insomuch that he appeared to gain strength at every breath he drew.

But what a ghastly face he wore; what a death-like paleness spread over his forehead; the horrible looking eyes appeared to throw back the light of the moon, much the same as its rays are reflected by glass.

The unfortunate monk was partially kneeling, his back forced against the trunk of the tree, upon which he had been sitting, his face turned upwards, and his eyes almost bursting from their sockets, while his hands convulsively grasped those of his enemy; but his strength decreased as that of the other increased; his cowl fell off, and his bare head was exposed to the moonlight.

There was a death-like pause, and the figure slowly released its hold upon the throat of the monk and stepped back a pace or two to look upon his work. The monk’s body retained the posture given to it by the efforts to extinguish his life, and appeared as though his muscles had rigidly set in death, but the trunk of the tree itself was a sufficient support.

“Dead!” muttered the figure; “dead!”

Again he moved about, and went into an open space, where the moonlight came uninterruptedly, without any barrier, and from this spot he surveyed the hideous work of his hands.

“Dead—dead!” muttered the figure.

This was undoubtedly true; and yet there remained the body of the monk, which, but for the turn of the head backwards, and its face upwards, it might be easily supposed that he had died in the attitude of devotion or supplication; but, as it was, it was evident by what means he had come by his death.

“I must have a victim,” muttered the stranger; “am I always to meet with the pangs of death but to renew such a life on such terms! Never to obtain a renewal without the pangs of death; and why? because I have not been able to obtain the voluntary consent of one that is young, beautiful and a virgin; I might then for a season escape the dreaded alternative.”

He walked round and round the body of the monk for some time, and then he came and sat down by its side upon the trunk of the tree, and appeared lost in contemplation; but at length he looked at the body, saying,—

“Ay, ay—I have a plan. The church has furnished many a victim—let it furnish me with one. The church will furnish the sacrifice, and will give me the means of obtaining the offering. Well and good; it shall be done.”

He arose, and walked about the body once more, and then approached it; having apparently made up his mind, he came to it, saying,—

“I will become a monk, too, of the most holy order of St. Francis; yes, that will serve me well enough. I will take his cassock, it will serve my turn, and be a ready introduction to the religious world. I am the good monk Francis myself. My learning and sanctity is great; it will carry all before it, and I shall be in great request. It will indeed be strange if there be no fruit upon such a tree. I am sure I shall deserve it.”

He seized the body, and pulled off the monk’s clothing, and quickly apparelled himself in it, leaving the body as if fell by the side of the tree; and, having thrown his own clothes on one side, he drew the cowl over his head, and, seizing the staff he brought with him, he was about to leave the spot; but a sudden thought occurred to him, and he turned back, and began to rummage among the pockets of the monk.

“These churchmen, I have heard, never travel without something of value about them, and his gold, if he have any, may as well be mine as any one else’s who may be passing this way.”

He found the two purses that had been given him by Fiametta and Jose, and some that he had beside; moreover, there were some letters and papers, which he put into his pocket, merely observing,—

“These will enable me to pass for the character I assume successfully. I am and will be a monk. I will shrive and confess poor deluded souls, and send them on their eternal journeys.”

A ghastly and hideous smile crossed his face; and having burthened himself with what he thought necessary, or worth while, he quitted the spot.

• • • • •

There were two convents, or nunneries, near the city of Naples, at some short distance apart from each other.

One was the convent of St. Mary Magdalen, and the other was the convent of St. Cecilia, about a mile and a half apart, or perhaps more—some said a league; and so it was by the road, but not in a direct line.

It was late one evening, when the great bell of the convent of St. Mary Magdalen gave warning from without that some one demanded admission. The superior of the convent, a woman far advanced in age, and somewhat proud of her character, and not a little disposed to personal comfort, was much annoyed at the sound which gave some promise of trouble.

“Well,” muttered the portress, as she rose from before a fire, and tottered towards the gate, looking through the iron grating for the object that disturbed her in her meditations and her devotion to the good things that Providence had furnished her with,—“well, what do you want?”

“I am a poor travelling brother of the order of St. Francis; I am benighted, and I wish for a lodging and food.”

“Friend, brother of St. Francis, this is at a later hour than that at which we open our gates to strangers.”

“They little think at Rome,” said the monk, “that, to obtain a shelter, we have to get to the gates of a holy house before a certain time; and those who most need shelter, because it is less to be had, must wait and perish in the cold.”

“The gates are shut.”

“I see it.”

“And the abbess has got the keys.”

“Will she not give me shelter and food?”

“I may not ask her.”

“I must, then, remain here outside the walls until the morning, and then I will wend my way back to the holy city, where I will say their messenger could not obtain rest and shelter at the convent here.”

“Do you come from Rome?”

“I do; and do you refuse to tell your abbess an unworthy brother of holy St. Francis is here, and waiting for admission?”

The portress made no reply; she was by far to indignant to make any answer, and yet too fearful to refuse to do his bidding; for he spoke in a peremptory tone, that indicated an authority beyond what was usual in his appearance.

She, therefore, found her way to the lady abbess, to whom she began with every expression of submission and respect.

“My lady,” said the portress, “there is one without who wants to come in.”

“Well,” said the abbess, “we can’t let him in.”

“I told him so,” replied the portress; “but you would hardly credit it what he said about a holy pilgrim from Rome, stopping outside the gate all night, and returning to the holy city and speaking of our inhospitality.”

“Did he,” said the abbess, “say so much?”

“He did.”

“Then let him in,” said the abbess.

“Let him in!” said the portress, in an extasy of surprise, opening her eyes very wide, and repeating the words “Let him in.”

“Yes; do as we bid you,” said the abbess.

“Yes,” replied the portress, “certainly; whatever our holy superior orders, it is for me to obey. I do your bidding.”

Away went the holy portress to discharge her spleen in privacy; and, at the same time, unable to account for the orders given her, she returned to the portal, and having unbarred the gate, she drew the bolts and turned the lock, and opening the door, stood for the monk to enter.

“Come in,” she said. “What do you mean?—do you not want to come in?”

“Am I free to enter?”

“Wherefore do I hold the gate open—for pleasure?”

“No, sister,” said the monk, “through anger, I believe; but if you can find it in your conscience to be angry because I am at the door and give you this trouble, what will be the feelings of St. Peter, who keeps the gates of Heaven, when you present yourself thereat a hungry being and erring sinner; but peace be upon this place.”

“Amen,” said the portress.

At that moment one of the nuns came from the superior of the convent, saying,—“Holy father, when you have rested and refreshed yourself, our worthy abbess will be glad to converse with you.”

“I am even now at her commands,” said the holy man.

“Will you not taste food, and rest yourself?”

“I never tire or need food, when I have aught to do that in any way concerns our religion.”

“But, holy father, the body needs refreshment.”

“It can be supported upon spiritual food alone, if the Lord wills,” said the monk, crossing himself most devoutly.

“You must have great gifts, holy father!”

“Not I, but he that sent me,” said the monk, solemnly.

“Will you follow me, holy man, and I will lead you to the abbess, who will be right glad to speak with you? She wishes to speak to one lately come from the holy city; you can tell her news of the holy father.”

“I can, my sister.”

“Then, come this way,” said the nun, who immediately led the way to the abbess, and the monk followed her closely, till he was lost sight of by those in the waiting-room.

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Chapter CLXI

FATHER FRANCIS’S INTERVIEW WITH THE ABBESS OF ST. MARY MAGDALEN.—THE OBJECTS AND WISHES OF THE HOLY FATHER.

After passing through a few passages, they entered into a room which had the appearance of a waiting-room, in which were placed chairs and seats; but they did not stop here, for the sister approached a door, at which she knocked, and paused a moment; but a voice from within desired her to enter; and, beckoning the monk to follow her, which he did, they both entered a comfortable room in which the abbess was seated.

“Here is the holy father,” said the sister, “who demands lodging and refreshment; but he will take nothing until he has done all that may be required of him.”

“Holy brother,” said the abbess, “the traveller needs rest, and he that is hungered requires food. Will you partake of our hospitality?”

“I was told you desired to converse with me, and I could not let my ministry wait while I, like a glutton, ate and drank.”

“No, brother, it was not for such a purpose I sent for thee, but to hear what news thou hadst from Rome, whence I heard you have come.”

“I have come thence.”

“But will you not take some refreshment here—it shall be brought thee, if thou wilt have it, or in the buttery, which you please.”

“Whichsoever you please, sister,” said the member of St. Francis.

“Then let some of the best be brought, sister, for the good man; and stay, I ate none at the last meal, which I may amend now; let me have a small moiety of a pasty, and a small trifle of cold venison.”

The sister departed, and the abbess opened a small cupboard, from which she took a bottle and two glasses, of goodly dimensions, considering the fact that the place was inhabited only by females.

“Pronounce a blessing upon us, holy father,” said the abbess. “This has been tasted by no unhallowed lips; it was a present from a holy lady to me, to take myself, and to offer to such as I deemed worthy of it—and you, holy father, I believe are worthy.”

The worthy monk pronounced the required benediction, and drank as fine a glass of real Burgundy as ever went down consecrated lips.

“Thanks, worthy sister, thanks.”

“Brother, I am glad to be able to give it thee; it gives me more pleasure to do so than thee to drink. I’ll warrant me, that never has such wine passed through the merchants’ hands, because he would never have parted with it at a price that would have made it procurable in a place like this, for we are, holy brother, poor, very poor.”

“The people who live in these parts are, I fear, not so godly as they should be, to let a house like this want.”

“There are many nobles.”

“And they ought to pay handsomely.”

“They do, I am thankful; but I should like to be able to offer the poor, diseased, and helpless men, better sort of diet than I do.”

“It ought to be in your power when the rich and great are so close around you here. You ought to have rich penitents.”

“But few of the rich are penitent, brother.”

“Naples I was told was a sink of iniquity. I did not expect to find it in reality such as I have heard it described. But, sister, we must be thankful that we have what the times will afford; but, at the same time, when the enemy is thus about, we must be up and doing, and preach salvation to them.”

“But they only answer by sending invitations for Sabbath balls,” said the unfortunate abbess, in great dolour.

“That must be looked to. They must be chidden.”

“And then they withhold their hands from works of charity—from doing any good deed to us—and we have no gifts and offerings.”

“But that ought not to be any motive. When they see you in earnest, they will not resist any longer; they will, as they must, give in.”

“Ah, holy father! you don’t know the Neapolitans; they are the most sinful set of men that you ever met with.”

“The holy father must know of this; he must be informed of the character of these bad people—of these facts. It is a melancholy state of things, which is a disgrace to a Christian country, and must be amended.”

At that moment the nun returned with the refection for the monk and the abbess, who cast a longing glance towards it.

When this was laid on the table, the abbess gave a signal that there was no need of the further attendance of the servitor, who quitted the room, leaving the abbess and the monk to enjoy each others society at leisure.

Some minutes elapsed before either spoke, which time was spent in mastication of no ordinary morsels, being some of the most delicious meats that could be obtained for a religious house of this character, and they were usually supplied with the best of everything that could be had.

“Holy father,” said the abbess, “the fare is poor; but I hope it will relieve those calls which imperious nature demands you to satisfy.”

“Yes,” said the monk; “I am well satisfied.”

“Permit me to press upon your notice those venison pasties; they are made by Sister Bridget, who never made an indifferent one in all her life.”

“I decidedly approve of Sister Bridget’s skill,” said the monk. “She is no doubt a worthy woman, and a woman fit for her station.”

“I would not have another to do her duties for a trifle, save as a penance,” said the abbess. “I will, at all events, retain her while the convent will give her a place of shelter.”

“Very right, sister—very right.”

“But what news from Rome, brother?”

“Little, save the holy pontiff has been very ill.”

“I heard as much; and by many it is presumed that his holiness will be translated, if he should not be better soon.”

“No; his holiness is safe, as far as it is possible for any human being to be. God preserve him long!”

“Amen!” said the abbess, devoutly.

“But have you no penitents, holy sister?”

“I have several, but they are all in the way of performing their penances, save one, who is somewhat refractory, holy father, and I know not what to do with her. She has no respect for those in authority.”

“Is she one of the order?”

“No, a neophyte.”

“How is it, then—what brings her here?”

“She is sent by relatives who are afraid of a disgrace, and will not give her any chance of committing their family to such a disgraceful marriage. She at one time pledged herself to take the vows, but now has some objection to do so.”

“On what grounds does she refuse?”

“Because she thinks she shall not be happy.”

“Absurd! Where is she?”

“We must have been compelled to secure her, for she has made more than one attempt to escape, and I have reasons to believe that these efforts have been aided from without.”

“’Tis a serious offence—a very serious offence to those concerned, and would inevitably lead to a terrible example, if they were detected.”

“No doubt; and we should feel it our duty to make every exertion to punish any one who makes an attempt to violate the sanctity of our house.”

“It must be so, sister.”

“Yes, certainly; and I have secured the maiden, who, if she be brought to their mind, will largely endow the convent.”

“That ought to be seen to.”

“I am, as you may imagine, holy father, anxious that the young maiden should become a member of our house. Who can tell,” muttered the abbess, half aloud, “but she may become a chosen vessel by which much good may be effected?”

“She may,” said the monk. “I am from Rome; you may examine these credentials which I have with me. I will take the charge of this refractory sister of yours, and will pursue such a course as will bring her round to your way of thinking.”

“And the endowment?”

“Will still belong to your house, to which it will be given. I have no object, sister, save the welfare of the church; reward I seek not, save what may be given in the good words of the wise and good.”

“You are deserving of all praise, holy father. I was not thinking about the endowment, holy father, because, you see, it will not belong to me, but to the church, and this house in particular, for the use of the poor lambs here, over whom I am appointed shepherdess; so I have no feeling in the matter beyond what I ought to have in the spiritual welfare of our fellow sinners.”

“I have no authority to interfere in aught else.”

“I see, holy father,” said the abbess, “you are a wonderful man, and such a one as will do much good.”

“I will make an attempt to do good, sister.”

“And I will make bold, holy brother, to say you will be successful; though, I venture to say, with humility, that I have tried everything with the unfortunate young woman, which appears to aggravate the evil, rather than give any promise of the future.”

“So I might expect.”

“You will pursue a different course?”

“I may; but it must depend upon circumstances. If I find it necessary, I must have some place of security, where no one can have any communication with her, save when I shall order it, or deem it proper she should be so confined.”

“Certainly; very right.”

“Moreover, if I find she needs such severe measures, I shall not let any food be given, save what is given by me, or in my presence, which, of course, amounts to the same thing.”

“Exactly, holy father.”

“And,” continued the monk, “I will not permit this holy house to be insulted by a recusant, for I am quite resolved that no heretic shall baffle the ministers of religion.”

“Oh, very improper; it would be indeed, not only an aggravation, but a decided loss to the church, which would damnify it to that extent.”

“Undoubtedly,” replied the holy man, “undoubtedly; and with your aid I hope to be able to make one good effort, and I pray heaven it may be attended with grace.”

“I trust so; and now, holy brother, what may I call you?”

“You will see by these presents I am called Father Francis, of the order of St. Francis; and unworthy brother, who has, perhaps, beyond his gifts, obtained the praise and good wishes of his holiness the Pope, who has been pleased specially to send me forth on a travelling commission, to report to him and to stay where I thought my services might be required.”

“Holy father, we may have you stay here some time, I hope, and your favourable report of our poor endeavours; they are in the right direction, and carried on with the right spirit; but we are all weak and erring mortals, we cannot always be as successful as we would wish, and in this matter we have been unsuccessful.”

“You have done all that could be expected; there are some matters that will not yield to the weaker vessel, but which would yield to the stronger; therefore you have nothing to blame yourself with; but you are to be commended for what you have done.”

“Thanks, holy father; I would not be willingly found wanting.”

“Nor are you, sister, according to my poor judgment.”

“And when will you see this neophyte?”

“I will see her on the morrow; and in the meantime I must be chargeable to you for board and lodging, if you will so far grace me.”

“Name it not, holy father; I have nothing here but what is yours; and when you choose to retire, there will be the best traveller’s bed ready for you.”

“Straw and sackcloth are good enough for me,” said the monk, ostentatiously.

“But it concerns our housekeeping, holy father, and our hospitality too. We must not let you lodge thus. I pray you, for our sakes, permit us to do what the credit of the place will permit us to do in the way of entertainment.”

“Be it even as you will, sister; it does not beseem me that I should contend for matters like these—be it so; I will retire.”

“It grows late. I will summon Sister Agatha to show you your dormitory.”

Accordingly, Sister Agatha was summoned, and the monk was, after another delicate libation of rich Burgundy, led to his room.

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