Varney the Vampyre 145The Entrance Into Bath.—a New Scene.—the Hotel and the Lodgings.—the Attentions of Sir Francis Varney
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Literature · Horror
Varney the Vampyre 145
The Entrance Into Bath.—a New Scene.—the Hotel and the Lodgings.—the Attentions of Sir Francis Varney
RymerEnglish
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.”
