Varney the Vampyre 112Mrs. Williams’s Manœuvre to Get Rid of Anderson
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Literature · Horror
Varney the Vampyre 112
Mrs. Williams’s Manœuvre to Get Rid of Anderson
RymerEnglish
This exclamation from Caleb informed Mrs. Williams of the fact of his presence; and duly indignant was she at that circumstance; for, in her anger, she immediately rose to execute upon him some vengeance; and, had he not adroitly eluded her, by leaving the room, there is no doubt she would have well made him remember indulging in such a piece of impertinent curiosity.
“That wretch,” she exclaimed, “has overheard me; and who knows, now, that he may actually go and tell the other. If he would betray him, he would betray me; and what redress should I get for such a circumstance?”
This was a mental suggestion which made it necessary Mrs. Williams should not only look over the fact of Caleb having stayed to listen to the letter, but likewise see him, and hold out some other inducements to him to be faithful to her, however he might chose to behave himself to other persons.
“Caleb,” she said, when she had summoned him again into her presence; “Caleb, you may depend I will make it well worth your while to attend to me in this affair, and to no one else. I can, and will, pay you well; and, when the baron marries Miss Helen, I dare say, if you would like it, I should be able to get you some great place at Anderbury House.”
“Well, missus,” said Caleb, “I looks upon myself as put up to auction, and the highest bidder always has me. I don’t mean to say but what you have done the right thing, as regards the sixteen shillings; so what would you like me to do next, missus?”
“I want you to take a note back, in answer to that which you have brought me; but, of course, the young man who gave it must suppose that it came from my daughter Helen.”
“How much?”
“What do you mean by how much?”
“How much am I to get, I mean.”
“Oh, I understand you. How much do you expect for such a piece of service?”
“Something handsome, I should say. What do you think of ten shillings and sixpence, missus?”
“I think it rather high, Caleb; but, nevertheless, I shall not stop at a trifle in rewarding you, provided always I may depend upon you.”
“Money down,” said Caleb; “you know, short reckonings make long friends, missus; besides, it’s always better not to let these things accumulate; for, if we goes on doing business in this here sort of way, it would come to a good bit in a short time, and then you would think it was too much, and wouldn’t like to pay it.”
With a bad grace—for Mrs. Williams never liked parting with her money—she produced the sum which Caleb required for this new service, remarking, as she did,—
“Well, Caleb, you will soon grow rich, if you go on this way.”
“Likely enough, ma’am,” said Caleb; “I likes to be paid, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”
Mrs. Williams soon handed him the note, which merely contained the words,
“Come at eight o’clock, and ring the door bell.”
These words she wrote as much as possible in her daughter Helen’s hand, and, having sealed up this extremely laconic epistle, she handed it to Caleb, directing him to go at once and deliver it to the party who was expecting him, and we must say, that this lad appeared to be one of the most thoroughly selfish rascals the world had ever produced, for he was now quite willing for money to betray Mrs. Williams to James Anderson, if there was any likelihood of his accomplishing such a purpose with safety.
But here some difficulties presented themselves, which Caleb’s natural acuteness enabled him very well to see. In the first place, James Anderson, he shrewdly suspected, was not the sort of individual to be trafficked with, as Mrs. Williams was, and, considering that he had already committed an immense breach of trust, in giving the letter to Mrs. Williams, instead of to Helen, he thought, and, we are inclined to think, correctly enough, that it would be rather a hazardous thing to say anything to him about it.
“No, no,” he said; “I’ll just give him missus’s letter, and then back out of the whole affair, for I don’t half begin to like it. That young fellow looks a chap that wouldn’t mind wringing one’s neck for one—for half a pin; so I’ll just leave him alone, and say nothing more about it.”
James Anderson waited round the corner with considerable impatience, for, in consequence of the proceedings that had taken place at Mrs. Williams’s, Caleb had been considerably delayed.
When, however, he saw him coming, hope again sprung up in his bosom, and he felt all the agitation of extreme pleasure, as he saw that Caleb had in his hand what was undoubtedly a letter.
When the boy reached him, he advanced to meet him, eagerly exclaiming, as he did so,—
“You have the letter—you have seen her, and you have her answer?”
Now, as Caleb had made up his mind to commit himself but as little as he possibly could with the young stranger, he went upon the good old adage of the least said being the soonest mended, and, accordingly, instead of making any remark which might, at a future occasion, be thrown at his teeth, he satisfied himself by placing his finger by the side of his nose and nodding his head sagaciously.
He then handed to James Anderson the letter, in the contents of which that individual became too much absorbed, short as they were, to pay any further attention to the messenger.
Caleb thought this a good opportunity of being off at once, before any troublesome questions should be asked him, so he made a retreat, with all the expedition that was in his power.
James Anderson, when he looked up from the perusal of the one sentence which the letter contained, was astonished to find his messenger gone, considering how very eager he had before been on the subject of the reward which he was to get for that service.
“What can have become of the boy?” he said; “I had a hundred questions to ask him.”
So well had Mrs. Williams succeeded in imitating the handwriting of her daughter Helen, that James Anderson was fully convinced the letter was written by the chosen object of his heart.
He certainly did think that it was cold and distant, and that there might have been a word or two of affection, at all events, in it, especially considering how long he had been absent, and with what an untiring affection he had ever thought of her.
“She might have told me that her heart was the same,” he murmured to himself, “or else she should have let me known at once that it was so altered I should not know it for the same. But still it is something to look forward to an interview with her. She may not have had the time to write more, or, perhaps, she may have doubted the messenger, and thought it unsafe to utter anything concerning her real feelings in this epistle.”
Thus hoping, and trying to persuade himself of the best, did James Anderson anxiously expect the hour when, by the note that had been sent him, he expected once again to look upon the face of her, the remembrance of whom had cheered him in many a solitary hour, and enabled him to bear up against evils and misfortunes which otherwise had been insurmountable.
It wanted but a very short time to eight o’clock, and, at five minutes before that hour, James Anderson walked, with trembling eagerness, up the steps of Mrs. Williams’s house door. His hand shook, as he placed it upon the bell-handle, and told himself that the time was come when all his doubts would be resolved, and he should really know what he had to hope, or expect, or to fear.
There was certainly a something weighing heavily upon his heart, an undefined dread that all was not well, and, during the interval between his ringing and the opening of the door, he felt all that sickening sensation which is ever the accompaniment of intense anxiety, and which renders it so fearfully painful a feeling.
The door was opened by a female servant, who had received her instructions from Mrs. Williams, so that she knew exactly what to say, and, without waiting for the visitor to announce himself, she said,
“Are you Mr. Anderson, sir?”
“Yes—yes,” he said.
“Then I am ordered to ask you to step into the back parlour.”
“All is right,” thought James Anderson; “she expects me, and has prepared for my reception.”
He followed his guide implicitly, for he fully believed, as who would not, under the circumstances, that she was in Helen’s confidence, and so could be safely trusted.
She led him into the back parlour, where there was no one, and then she said,—
“If you will be seated for a few minutes, sir, my mistress will come to you.”
“Her young mistress, she means,” thought James; and he prepared himself to wait, with what patience he could assume, and that, under the circumstances, was by no means a large amount; for he had been kept in such a constant worry by what had occurred, that suspense became one of the most agonizing feelings that he could possibly endure, now that his fate was about so nearly to be decided.
It was no part of Mrs. Williams’s plan to keep him waiting, for she certainly had no fancy for retaining such a customer in the house as James Anderson; for, playing the double part that she was, she knew not what sudden accident might happen to derange her plans, and, probably, render them completely abortive.
For all she could tell, Helen herself might actually descend the stairs, and enter that very room where she hoped a short conference would suffice to get rid of the troublesome claims of James Anderson for ever.
She was in the front parlour when he was shown into the back, for they communicated by folding doors. She had but to open these doors, and at once show herself to the astonished Anderson, who little expected on that occasion to behold the mother instead of the daughter.
He gave a sudden and violent start of surprise; but, as Mrs. Williams had determined to do the dignified, and to call herself quite an injured person, she took no notice of the evident agitation of his manner, but said, with an assurance that only she could have aspired to,—
“May I ask, sir, under what pretence you write notes to my daughter, at such a time as this?—notes which appear to me to be highly calculated to do her some serious injury, and, consequently, which I cannot but think are intended for that precise purpose.”
“Mrs. Williams,” said James Anderson, “since it appears that I have been betrayed, and that the messenger I perhaps foolishly trusted, has delivered to you, instead of your daughter, the note I addressed to her, I have only to say ——”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Mrs. Williams, interrupting him; “but as it was from my daughter I received your note, you may spare yourself the trouble of blaming the lad whom you had to seduce from his duty by bribes and corruption.”
“From your daughter?”
“Yes, sir; from my daughter; and I flatter myself that there is too good an understanding between my daughter and me, for her to keep as a secret such a circumstance.”
This was a very unexpected blow to James Anderson—a blow, indeed, which he was totally unprepared for; and yet, although he doubted, he had no means of disproving what Mrs. Williams chose to assert in the matter; and she quickly saw the victory she had gained over him, and the difficulty in which he found himself.
“Sir,” she said, “if you have anything more to add to what you have already said, my daughter desires that you should inform me of it, and if it consists of such matter as she can properly take notice of, she will reply to it by letter; but she most unhesitatingly declines an interview, which she considers cannot be productive of anything but unpleasantness to all parties, and most of all to her, considering her peculiar situation, and that she is so soon about to alter her condition, and become the wife of the Baron Stolmuyer, of Saltzburgh.”
“I’ll not believe it,” said James Anderson, “unless I hear it from her own lips.”
“I suppose, sir, when you see it announced in the ‘County Chronicle,’ you will believe it?”
“That,” said James Anderson, “it never will be; for I cannot, will not, dare not think that one whom I have loved so well could be so false.”
“False, sir! What do you mean by that? I shall really have to speak to the baron, if you use such expressions towards his intended wife.”
“I’ll speak to the baron,” said James, “and that in a language he shall understand, too, if I come across him.”
“If you threaten, it will be my duty to inform the baron, so that he may take such legal steps as he may be advised.”
“I repeat to you, Mrs. Williams, that I will not believe it; and since you force me to such a declaration, I have no hesitation in saying that I think you are quite capable of selling your daughter to the highest bidder, and that the baron you mention probably occupies that unenviable position—a position which no gentleman would, for a moment, wish to occupy, and which he perhaps is not fully aware of. I will see him, and explain to him that there are prior claims to the hand as well as to the affections of your daughter.”
This threat rather alarmed Mrs. Williams; for she thought it possible that, if the baron really found there had been a former lover in the case, probably much encouraged by the lady, he might think his chances of happiness rather slender, and decline keeping the engagement which she considered was so auspiciously commenced.
This might or might not be the result; but at all events it was worth consideration, and placed the matter in rather a serious light.
Therefore was it, then, that Mrs. Williams determined to have recourse to her last expedient, and that was the production of the written promise to marry the baron, which it will be recollected, in the excitement and impulse of the moment, she had succeeded in procuring from Helen.
“Well, sir,” she said, “since you will not be convinced by any ordinary arguments, and since you doubt my word in this matter, I shall be under the necessity of adopting some means of explaining to you the matter fully, and of showing you that there is abundance of proof of what I have asserted.”
“Proof, madam! Nothing but an assurance from Helen herself can come to me in the character of proof in such an affair as this. Let me see her; for the mere fact that you sedulously keep her from me, involves the affair in a general aspect of suspicion.”
“Read that, sir, and if you know anything of the handwriting of her whom you affect so much to admire, it ought to resolve your doubts.”
James Anderson took the paper in his hand, and glanced upon it, and by the sudden change that came across his countenance as he did so, Mrs. Williams saw that it was having all its effect.
He could not doubt it. He knew that signature too well. He had it to some affectionate documents, which he felt would remain by him to the latest day of his existence.
It was indeed a horrible confirmation of all that had been told him—such a confirmation as he had never expected to see, and which, at one blow, dashed all doubt to the ground.
“Now, sir,” said Mrs. Williams, with a triumphant air, “I trust that you are satisfied—at all events, of one fact, and that is, that my daughter had consented to become the Baroness Stolmuyer, of Saltzburgh; and without at all entering into the question of anything which may have passed between you and her upon other occasions, I think you ought, as a gentleman, to perceive that the sooner you go away the better.”
“It is enough,” said James Anderson. “Falsehood, thy name is woman.”
“I really can’t see, sir, what you have got to complain of, for people have a right to alter their minds upon the little affairs of life, and I don’t see, then, wherefore they should not have a similar privilege as regards things of more importance.”
“Enough, madam—enough. What steps I may hereafter take, upon a due consideration of these affairs, I know not; but now I bid you farewell.”
Mrs. Williams was very glad to hear these words, or rather the last of them, because she was in perpetual dread, during the whole of the interview, that something would occur by which a meeting would take place between James Anderson and Helen herself, at which some very disagreeable explanation might take place.
It was a wonderful relief to her when he had left the house, and she heard the street-door close behind him, and she drew a long breath when such was the case, as she said to herself,—
“Well, thank the fates, that job is over, and a good thing it is. There is no knowing what mischief might have been the end of it, if it hadn’t been stopped as it has. He is not a bad-looking young man, and if he had had a few thousands a year, I certainly should not have made any objections to his being my son-in-law; but I possibly cannot, and will not, have poor people in the family. There is no end of trouble and bother with them; and instead of getting your daughters off hand, it’s just taking on hand, in addition, some man for their amusement.”
James Anderson went sorrowfully enough back to the fisherman’s cottage, where he related to the sympathising old seaman what had occurred; for Jack Pringle was not there, and if he had been, James Anderson knew very well he would have got no sympathy from him on account of the circumstance; for the frailties of the softer sex did not seem to have any material effect upon Jack Pringle or his sympathies, since, by his own account, he had been jilted so often, that he now thought nothing at all of it.
