 Chapter 61 of Varney, the Vampire. Chapter 61. The Vampire in the Moonlight. The False Friend. Part of the distance being accomplished toward the old ruins, Tom Eccles began to feel that what he had undertaken was not altogether such a child's play as he had at first imagined it to be. Somehow or another, with a singular and uncomfortable sort of distinctness, there came across his mind every story that he had remembered of the wild and the wonderful. All the long since forgotten tales of superstition that in early childhood he had learned came now back upon him, suggesting to his mind a thousand uncomfortable fancies of the strangest description. It was not likely that when once a man under such circumstances got into such a frame of mind, he would readily get out of it again, while he continued surrounded by such scenes as had first called them into existence. No doubt, and he turned about and faced the inn again, instead of the old ruins, he would soon have shaken off these thick-coming fancies. But such a result was not to be expected, so long as he kept on toward the dismal place he had pledged himself to reach. As he traversed meadow after meadow, he began to ask himself some questions, which he found that he could not answer exactly in a consolatory manner under the present state of things. Among these questions was the very pertinent one of, It's no argument against vampires, because I don't see the use of them, is it? This he was compelled to answer as he had put it, and when, in addition, he began to recollect that without the shadow of a doubt, Sir Francis Varney, the supposed vampire, had been chased across the fields to that very ruin whether he was bound, and had then and there disappeared. He certainly found himself in a decidedly uncomfortable and most unpromising situation. No, he said. No, hang it. I won't go back now to be made the laughingstock of the whole town, which I should be. Come what may of it I will go on as I have commenced, so I shall put on as stout a heart as I can. Then, having come to this resolve, he strove might and main to banish from his mind those disagreeable reminiscences that had been oppressing him, to turn his attention to subjects of a different complexion. During the progress of making this endeavor, which was rather futile, he came within sight of the ruins. Then he slackened his pace a little, telling himself, with a pardonable self-deceit, that it was common, ordinary caution only, which induced him to do so, than nothing at all in the shape of fear. Time enough, he remarked, to be afraid when I see anything to be afraid of, which I don't see as yet. So, as all's right, I may as well put a good face upon the matter. He tried to whistle a tune, but it turned out only a melancholy failure, so he gave that up in despair, and walked on until he got within a hundred yards or thereabouts of the old ruins. He thus proceeded, and bending his ear close to the ground, he listened attentively for several minutes. Somehow he fancied that a strange murmuring sound came to his ears, but he was not quite sure that it proceeded from the ruins, because it was just that sort of sound that might come from a long way off, being mellowed by distance, although perhaps loud enough at its source. Well, well, he whispered to himself, it don't matter much after all. Go, I must, and hide the handkerchief somewhere, or else be laughed at, besides losing my wages. The former I don't like, and the latter I cannot afford. Thus, clinching the matter by such knockdown arguments, he walked on until he was almost within the very shadow of the ruins. And probably it was at this juncture that his footsteps may have been heard by Marchdale and Sir Francis Varney. Then he paused again, but all was profoundly still, and he began to think that the strange sort of murmuring noise that he had heard must have come from far off, and not at all from any person or persons within the ruins. Let me see, he said to himself. I have five handkerchiefs to hide among the old ruins somewhere, and the sooner I do so the better, because then I will get away. For as regards staying here to watch, heaven knows how long, for Sir Francis Varney I don't intend to do it. Upon second thoughts and second thoughts, they say, are generally best. With the most careful footsteps now, as if he were treading upon some fragile substance which he feared to injure, he advanced until he was fairly within the precincts of the ancient place which now bore so ill a reputation. He then made to himself much the same remark that Sir Francis Varney had made to Marchdale, with respect to the brightening up of the sky, in consequence of its being near the time for the moon to rise from the horizon, and he saw more clearly around him, although he could not find any good place to hide the handkerchiefs in. I must and will, he said, hide them securely, for it would indeed be remarkably unpleasant, after coming here and winning my wages, to have the proofs that I had done so taken away by some chance visitor to the place. He at length saw a tolerably large stone which stood in a slant position up against one of the walls. Its size attracted him. He thought, if his strength was sufficient to move it, that it would be a good thing to do so, and to place the handkerchiefs beneath it, for, at all events, it was so heavy that it could not be kicked aside, and no one, without some sort of motive to do so, beyond the mere love of labor, would set about moving it from its position. I may go further, and fair worse, he said to himself, so here shall all the handkerchiefs lie, to afford a proof that I have been here. He packed them into a small compass, and then stooped to roll aside the heavy stone, when, at the moment, before he could apply his strength to that purpose, he heard someone in his immediate neighborhood say, hissed. This was so sudden, and so utterly unexpected, that he not only ceased his exertions to move the stone, but he nearly fell down in surprise. Hissed. What? What? gasped Tom Eccles. What are you? The perspiration broke out upon his brow, and he leaned against the wall for support as he managed to say faintly, well, hush, what then? Hissed. Well, I hear you. Where are you? Near at hand. Who are you? Tom Eccles. Who are you? A friend. Have you seen anything? No, I wish I could. I should like to see you if I could. I'm coming. There was a slow and cautious footstep, and Marchdale advanced to where Tom Eccles was standing. Come now, said the latter, when he saw the dusky-looking form stalking towards him. Till I know you better, I'll be obliged to keep you off. I am well armed. Keep your distance, be you friend or foe. Armed, explained Marchdale, and he at once paused. Yes, I am, but I am a friend. I have no sort of objection, frankly, to tell you, my errand. I am a friend of the Bannerworth family, and have kept watch here now for two nights, in the hopes of meeting with Varney, the vampire. The deuce you have, and pray what may your name be. Marchdale. If you be Mr. Marchdale, I know you by sight, for I have seen you with Mr. Henry Bannerworth several times. Come out from among the shadows, and let us have a look at you. But till you do, don't come within arm's length of me. I am not naturally suspicious, but we cannot be too careful. Oh, certainly, certainly. The silver edge of the moon is just now peeping up from the east, and you will be able to see me well if you step from the shadow of the wall by which you now are. This was a reasonable enough proposition, and Tom Eccles at once succeeded to it by stepping out boldly into the partial moonlight, which now began to fall upon the open meadows, tinting the grass with a silvery refulgence, and rendering even my new objects visible. The moment he saw Marchdale, he knew him, and advancing frankly to him, he said, I know you, sir, well. And what brings you here? A wager for one thing, and a wish to see the vampire for another. Indeed. Yes, I must own that I have such a wish, along with a still stronger one, to capture him, if possible. And, as there are now two of us, why may we not do it? As for capturing him, said Marchdale, I should prefer shooting him. You would? I would indeed. I have seen him once shot down, and he is now, I have no doubt, as well as ever. What were you doing with that huge stone I saw you bending over? I have some handkerchiefs to hide here as a proof that I have tonight really been to this place. Oh, I will show you a better spot where there is a crevice in which you can place them with perfect safety. Will you walk with me into the ruins? Willingly. It's odd enough, remarked Marchdale after he had shown Tom Meckles where to hide the handkerchiefs, that you and I should both be here upon so similar an errand. I'm very glad of it. It robs the place of its gloom, and makes it 10 tons more indurable than it otherwise would be. What do you propose to do if you see the vampire? I shall try a pistol bullet on him. You say you are armed? Yes. With pistols? One. Here it is. A huge weapon. Loaded well, of course. Oh, yes, I can depend upon it, but I did not intend to use it unless assailed. Tiswell? What is that? What? What? What? Don't you see anything there? Come farther back. Look. Look. At the corner of that wall, there I am certain is the flutter of a human garment. There is. There is. Hush. Keep close. It must be the vampire. Give me my pistol. What are you doing with it? Only ramming down the charge more firmly for you. Take it. If that be Varney the vampire, I shall challenge him to surrender the moment he appears, and if he does not, I will fire upon him. And do you do so likewise? Well, I, I don't know. You have scruples? I certainly have. Well, well, don't you fire then, but leave it to me. There. Look. Look. Now have you any doubt? There he goes in his cloak. It is, it is Varney by heavens, cried Tom Eccles. Surrender, shouted Marchdale. At the instant Sir Francis Varney sprang forward and made off at a rapid pace across the meadows. Fire after him, fire, cried Marchdale, or he will escape. My pistol is missed fire. He will be off. On the impulse of the moment, and thus urged by the voice and the gesture of his companion, Tom Eccles took aim as well as he could and fired after the retreating form of Sir Francis Varney. His conscience smote him as he heard the report and saw the flash of the large pistol amid the half-sorder darkness that was still around. The effect of the shot was then to him painfully apparent. He saw Varney stop instantly, then make a vain attempt to stagger forward a little, and finally fall heavily to the earth, with all the appearance of one killed upon the spot. You have hit him, said Marchdale. You have hit him. Bravo. I have hit him. Yes, a capital shot by Jove. I am very sorry. Sorry, sorry for ridding the world of such a being. What was in your pistol? A couple of slugs. Well, they have made a lodgement in him. That's quite clear. Let's go up and finish him at once. He seems finished. I beg your pardon there. When the moonbeams fall upon him, he'll get up and walk away as if nothing was the matter. Will he? cried Tom with animation. Will he? Certainly he will. Thank God for that. Now hark you, Mr. Marchdale. I should not have fired if you had not at the moment urged me to do so. Now I shall stay and see if the effect which you talk of will ensue. And although it may convince me that he is a vampire, and that there are such things, he may go off scot-free for me. Go off? Yes, I don't want to have even a vampire's blood upon my hands. You are exceedingly delicate. Perhaps I am. It's my way, though. I have shot him, not you, mine, so in a manner of speaking he belongs to me. Now, mark you. I won't have him touched any more tonight, unless you think there's a chance of making a prisoner of him without violence. There he lies. You can go and make a prisoner of him at once, dead as he is. And if you take him out of the moonlight, I understand he won't recover. Certainly not, but as I want him to recover, that don't suit me. Well, I cannot but honor your scruples, although I do not actually share in them. But I promise you that since such is your wish, I will take no steps against the vampire. But let us come up to him and see if he really be dead, or if only badly wounded. Tom Meckles hung back a little from this proposal. But upon being urged again by Marchdale, and told that he need not go closer than he chose, he consented. And the two of them approached the prostrate former Sir Francis Varney, which lay upon its face in the faint moonlight, which each moment was gathering strength and power. He lies upon his face, said Marchdale. Will you go and turn him over? Who? I? God forbid I should touch him. Well, well, I will. Come on. They halted within a couple of yards of the body. Tom Meckles would not go a step further, so Marchdale advanced alone, and pretended to be, with great repugnance, examining for the wound. He is quite dead, he said. But I cannot see the hurt. I think he turned his head as I fired. Did he? Let us see. Marchdale lifted up the head and disclosed such a mass of clotted-looking blood that Tom Meckles at once took to his heels, nor stopped until he was nearly as far off as the ruins. Marchdale followed him more slowly, and when he came up to him, he said, the slugs have taken effect on his face. I know it. I know it. Don't tell me. He looks horrible. And I am a murderer. Shaw, you look upon this matter too seriously. Think of who and what he was, and then you will soon acquit yourself of being open to any such charge. I am bewildered, Mr. Marchdale, and cannot now know whether he be a vampire or not. If he be not, I have murdered, most unjustifiably, a fellow creature. Well, but if he be, why even then I do not know but that I ought to consider myself as guilty. He is one of God's creatures if he were ten times a vampire. Well, you really do take a serious view of the affair. Not more serious than it deserves. And what do you mean to do? I shall remain here to await the result of what you tell me will ensue if he be a real vampire. Even now the moonbeams are full upon him, and each moment increasing in intensity. Think you he will recover? I do indeed. Then here will I wait. Since that is your resolve, I will keep you company. We shall easily find some old stone in the ruins which will serve us for a seat, and there at leisure we can keep our eyes upon the dead body, and be able to observe it if it makes the least movement. This plan was adopted, and they sat down just within the ruins, but in such a place that they had a full view of the dead body as it appeared to be of Sir Francis Varney upon which the sweet moonbeams shone full and clear. Tom Eccles related how he was incited to come upon his expedition, but he might have spared himself that trouble, as Marksdale had been in a retired corner of the inn, parlor, before he came to his appointment with Varney, and heard the business for the most part proposed. Half an hour, certainly not more, might have elapsed, when suddenly Tom Eccles uttered an exclamation partly of surprise and partly of terror. He moves, he cried. He moves. Look at the vampire's body! Marksdale affected to look with an all-absorbing interest, and there was Sir Francis Varney, raising slowly one arm with the hand outstretched towards the moon, as if invoking that luminary to shed more of its beams upon him. Then the body moved slowly, like someone writhing in pain, and yet unable to move from the spot in which it lay. From the head to the foot, the whole frame seemed to be convulsed, and now and then, as the ghastly objects seemed to be gathering more strength, the limbs were thrown out with a rapid and a frightful-looking violence. It was truly to one who might look upon it as a reality and no juggle, a frightful sight to see, and although Marksdale, of course, tolerably well preserved his equanimity, only now and then for apparent sake, affecting to be wonderfully shocked, poor Tom Eccles was in such a state of horror and fright that he could not, if he would, have flown from the spot. So fascinated was he by the horrible spectacle. This was a state of things which continued for many minutes, and then the body showed evident symptoms of so much returning animation that it was about to rise from its gory bed and mingle once again with the living. Behold, said Marksdale, behold, heaven have mercy upon us. It is, as I said, the beams of the moon have revived the vampire. You perceive now that there can be no doubt. Yes, yes, I see him, I see him. Sir Francis Varney now, as if with a great struggle, rose to his feet, and looked up at the bright moon for some moments with such an air and manner that it would not have required any very great amount of imagination to conceive that he was returning to it some sort of thanksgiving for the good that it had done to him. He then seemed for some moments in a state of considerable indecision as to which way he should proceed. He turned around several times. Then he advanced a step or two towards the house, but apparently his resolution changed again, and casting his eyes upon the ruins he at once made towards them. This was too much for the philosophy as well as for the courage of Tom Eccles. It was all very well to look on at some distance and observe the wonderful and inexplicable proceedings of the vampire, but when he showed symptoms of making a near acquaintance, it was not to be born. Why, he's coming here, said Tom. He seems so indeed, remarked Marksdale. Do you mean to stay? I think I shall. You do, do you? Yes, I should much like to question him, and as we are two to one, I think we really can have nothing to fear. Do you? I'm altogether of a different opinion. A man who has more lives than a cat don't much mind of what odds he fights. You may stay if you like. Do you not mean to say that you will desert me? I don't see a bit how you call it deserting you. If we had come out together in this adventure, I would have stayed it out with you, but as we came separate and independent, we may as well go back so. Well, but good morning, cried Tom, and he at once took to his heels towards the town without staying to pay any attention to the remonstrances of Marksdale, who called after him in vain. Sir Francis Varney, probably had Tom Eccles not gone off so rapidly, would have yet taken another thought, and gone in another direction than that which had led to the ruins. And Tom, if he had had his senses fully about him, as well as all his powers of perception, would have seen that the progress of the vampire was very slow, while he continued to converse with Marksdale, and that it was only when he went off at a good speed that Sir Francis Varney likewise thought it prudent to do so. Is he much terrified? said Varney as he came up to Marksdale. Yes, most completely. This, then, will make a good story in the town. It will indeed, and not a little, enhance your reputation. Well, well, it don't much matter now, but if by terrifying people I can purchase for myself anything like immunity for the past, I shall be satisfied. I think you may now safely reckon that you have done so. This man who has fled with so much precipitation had courage, unquestionably, or else he would have shrunk from coming here at all. True, but his courage and presence arose from his strong doubts as to the existence of such beings as vampires. Yes, and now that he is convinced, his bravery has evaporated, along with his doubts, and such a tale as he has now to tell will be found sufficient to convert even the most skeptical in the town. I hope so. And yet it cannot much avail you, not personally, but I must confess that I am not dead to all human passions, and I feel some desire of revenge against those dastards who by hundreds have hunted me, burnt down my house, and sought my destruction. That I do not wonder at. I would feign leave among them a legacy of fear, such fear as shall haunt them and their children for years to come. I would wish that the name of Varney, the Vampire, should be a sound of terror for generations. It will be so. It shall. And now, then, for consideration of what is to be done with our prisoner. What is your resolve upon that point? I have considered it while I was laying upon you on green sword waiting for the friendly moonbeams to fall upon my face, and it seems to me that there is no sort of resource but to kill him? No, no. What then? To set him free. Nay, have you considered the immense hazard of doing so? Think again. I pray you, think again. I am decidedly of opinion that he more than suspects who are his enemies, and in that case you know what consequences would ensue. Besides, have we not enough already to encounter? Why should we add another young, bold, determined spirit to the band which has already arrayed against us? You talk in vain, Marchdale. I know to what it all tends. You have a strong desire for the death of this young man. No, there you wrong me. I have no desire for his death, for its own sake. But where great interests are at stake, there must be sacrifices made. So there must. Therefore I will make a sacrifice and let this young prisoner free from his dungeon. If such be your determination, I know well it is useless to combat with it. When do you purpose giving him his freedom? I will not act so heedlessly as that your principles of caution shall blame me. I will attempt to get from him some promise that he will not make himself an active instrument against me. Perchance, too, as Bannerworth Hall, which he is sure to visit, where such an air of desertion I may be able to persuade him that the Bannerworth family, as well as his uncle, have left this part of the country altogether, so that, without making any inquiry for them about the neighborhood, he may be induced to leave at once. That would be well. Good, your prudence approves of the plan, and therefore it shall be done. I am rather inclined to think, said Marchdale, with a slight tone of sarcasm, that if my prudence did not approve of the plan, it would still be done. Most probably, said Varney calmly, will you release him tonight? It is morning now, and soon the soft gray light of day will tint the east. I do not think I will release him till sunset again now. Has he provisioned to last him until then? He has. Well, then, two hours after sunset, I will come here and release him from his weary bondage, and now I must go to find some place in which to hide my prescribed head. As for Bannerworth Hall, I will yet have it in my power. I have sworn to do so. I will keep my oath. The accomplishment of our purpose, I regret to say, seems as far off as ever. Not so, not so! As I before remarked, we must disappear for a time, so as to lull suspicion. There will then arise a period when Bannerworth Hall will neither be watched as it is now, nor will it be inhabited. A period before the Bannerworth family has made up its mind to go back to it, and when long watching without a result has become too tiresome to be continued at all, then we can at once pursue our object. Be it so, and now, Marchdale, I want more money. More money? Yes, you know that I have had large demands of late. But I certainly had an impression that you were possessed by the death of someone with very ample means. Yes, but there is a means by which all is taken for granted. But there is a means by which all is taken from me. I have no real resources but what are rapidly used up, so I must come upon you again. I have already completely crippled myself as regards to money matters in this enterprise, and I do certainly hope that the fruits will not be far distant. If they be much longer delayed, I shall really not know what to do. However, come to the lodge where you have been staying, and then I will give you to the extent of my ability whatever some you think your present exigencies require. Come on then at once. I would certainly, of course, rather leave this place now before daybreak. Come on, I say. Come on. Sir Francis Varney and Marchdale walked for some time in silence across the meadows. It was evident that there was not between these associates the very best of feelings. Marchdale was always smarting under an assumption of authority over him on the part of Sir Francis Varney, while the latter scarcely cared to conceal any portion of the contempt with which he regarded his hypocritical companion. Some very strong band of union, indeed, must surely bind these two strange persons together. It must be something of a more than common nature which induces Marchdale not only to obey the behests of his mysterious companion, but to supply him so readily with money as we perceive he promises to do. And as regards Varney, the vampire, he too must have some great object in view to induce him to run such a world of risk, and to take so much trouble as he was doing with the Bannerworth family. What his object is, and what is the object of Marchdale, will, now that we have progressed so far in our story, soon appear, and then much that is perfectly inexplicable will become clear and distinct, and we shall find that some strong human motives are at the bottom of it all. Varney, The Vampire, Volume I, by Thomas Prescott Prest Chapter 62 Varney's Visit to the Dungeon of the Lonely Prisoner in the Ruins Evident it was that Marchdale was not near so scrupulous as Sir Francis Varney in what he chose to do. He would, without hesitation, have sacrificed the life of that prisoner in the Lonely Dungeon, whom it would be an insult to the understanding of our readers not to presume that they had long aired this established in their minds to be Charles Holland. His own safety seemed to be the paramount consideration with Marchdale, and it was evident that he cared for nothing in comparison with that object. It says much, however, for Sir Francis Varney, that he did not give in to such a bloodthirsty feeling, but rather chose to set the prisoner free, and run all the chances of the danger to which he might expose himself by such a course of conduct than to ensure safely, comparatively, by his destruction. Sir Francis Varney is evidently a character of strangely mixed feelings. It is quite evident that he has some great object in view, which he wishes to accomplish almost at any risk, but it is equally evident, at the same time, that he wishes to do so with the least possible injury to others, or else he would never have behaved as he had done in his interview with the beautiful and persecuted Flora Bannerworth, or now suggested the idea of setting Charles Holland free from the dreary dungeon in which he had so long been confined. We are always anxious and willing to give everyone credit for the good that is in them, and hence we are pleased to find that Sir Francis Varney, despite his singular and apparently preternatural capabilities, has something sufficiently human about his mind and feelings to induce him to do as little injury as possible to others in the pursuit of his own objects. Of the two, vampire as he is, we prefer him much to the despicable and hypocritical Marchdale, who, under the pretense of being the friend of the Bannerworth family, would freely have inflicted upon them the most deadly injuries. It was quite clear that he was most dreadfully disappointed that Sir Francis Varney would not permit him to take the life of Charles Holland, and it was with a gloomy and dissatisfied air that he left the ruins to proceed towards the town after what we may almost term the altercation he had had with Varney the vampire upon that subject. It must not be supposed that Sir Francis Varney, however, was blind to the danger which must inevitably accrue from permitting Charles Holland once more to obtain his liberty. What the latter would be able to state would be more than sufficient to convince the Bannerworths, and all interested in their fortunes, that something was going on of a character which, however supernatural as it might seem to be, still seemed to have some human and ordinary objects for its ends. Sir Francis Varney thought over all this before he proceeded, according to his promise, to the dungeon of the prisoner, but it would seem as if there was considerable difficulty, even to an individual of his long practice in all kinds of chicanery and deceit, in arriving at any satisfactory conclusion as to a means of making Charles Holland's release a matter of less danger to himself than it would be likely to be if, unfettered by obligation, he was at once set free. At the solemn hour of midnight, while all was still, that is to say, on the night succeeding the one on which he had held the interview with Marchdale, we have recorded, Sir Francis Varney alone sought the silent ruins. He was attired, as usual, in his huge cloak, and indeed the chilly air of the evening warranted such protection against its numerous discomforts. Had anyone seen him, however, upon that evening, they would have observed an air of great doubt and irresolution upon his brow, as if he were struggling with some impulses which he found extremely difficult to restrain. I know well, he muttered as he walked among the shadow of the ruins, that Marchdale's reasoning is coldly and horribly correct when he says that there is danger in setting this youth free. But I am about to leave this place, and not to show myself for some time, and I cannot reconcile myself to inflicting upon him the horror of a death by starvation which must ensue. It was a night of more than usual dullness, and as Sir Francis Varney removed the massy stone which hid the narrow and tortuous entrance to the dungeons, a chilly feeling crept over him, and he could not help supposing that even then Marchdale might have played him false and neglected to supply the prisoner food according to his promise. Hastily he descended to the dungeons, and with a step which had in it far less of caution than had usually characterized his proceedings, he proceeded onward until he reached that particular dungeon in which our young friend, to whom we wish so well, had been so long confined from the beautiful and cheering light of day, and from all that his heart's best affections most cling to. Speak, said Sir Francis Varney, as he entered the dungeon. If the occupant of this dread place live, let him answer one who is as much his friend as he has been his enemy. I have no friend, said Charles Holland faintly, unless it would be one who would come and restore me to liberty. And how know you that I am not he? Your voice sounds like that of one of my persecutors. Why do you not place the climax of your injuries by at once taking away my life? I should be better pleased that you would do so, than that I should wear out the useless struggle of existence and so dreary and wretched and abode as this. Young man, said Sir Francis Varney, I have come to you on a greater errand of mercy than probably you will ever give me credit for. There is one who would too readily have granted your present request, and who would at once have taken that life of which you profess to be so weird, but which may yet present to you some of its sunniest and most beautiful aspects. Your tones are friendly, said Charles, but yet I dread some new deception, that you are one of those who consigned me by strategic and by brute force to this place of endurance I am well assured, and therefore any good that may be promised by you presents a self to me in a very doubtful character. I cannot be surprised, said Sir Francis Varney, at such sentiments arising from your lips, but nevertheless I am inclined to save you. You have been detained here because it was supposed, by being so, a particular object would be best obtained by your absence. That object, however, has failed, notwithstanding, and I do not feel further inclined to protract your sufferings. Have you any guess as to the parties who have thus confined you? I am unaccustomed to disemple, and therefore I will say at once that I have a guess. In what way does it tend? Against Sir Francis Varney, called the Vampire. Does it strike you that this may be a dangerous candor? It may, or it may not be. I cannot help it. I know I am at the mercy of my foes, and I do not believe that anything I can say or do will make my situation worse or better. You are much mistaken there. In other hands than mine it might make it much worse, but it happens to be one of my weaknesses that I am charged with candor, and that I admire boldness of disposition. Indeed, and yet can behave in the manner you have done towards me? Yes. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy. I am the more encouraged to set you free, because if I procure from you a promise which I intend to attempt, I am inclined to believe that you will keep it. I shall assuredly keep whatever promise I may make. Propound your conditions, and if they be such as honor and honesty will permit me to exceed to, I will do so willingly and at once. Heaven knows I am weary enough of this miserable imprisonment. Will you promise me then, if I set you free, not to mention your suspicions, that it is to Sir Francis Varney you owe this ill turn, and not to attempt any act of revenge against him as a retaliation for it? I cannot promise so much as that. Freedom, indeed, would be a poor boon if I were not permitted freely to converse of some of the circumstances connected with my captivity. You object? I do, to the former of your propositions, but not to the latter. I will promise not to go at all out of my way to execute any vengeance upon you, but I will not promise that I will not communicate the circumstances of my forced absence from them, to those friends whose opinion I so much value, and to return to whom is almost as dear to me as liberty itself. Sir Francis Varney was silent for a few moments, and then he said in a tone of deep solemnity, There are ninety-nine persons out of a hundred who would take your life for the independence of your tongue, but I am as the hundredth one who looks with a benevolent eye at your proceedings. Will you promise me, if I remove the fetters which now bind your limbs, that you will make no personal attack upon me, for I am weary of personal contention, and I will have no disposition to endure it? Will you make me this promise? I will, without another word, but trusting implicitly to the promise which had been given to him, Sir Francis Varney produced a small key from his pocket, and unlocked with it a padlock which confined the chains about the prisoner. With ease, Charles Holland was then unable to shake them off, and then, for the first time for some weeks, he rose to his feet, and felt all the exquisite relief of being comparatively free from bondage. This is delightful indeed, he said. It is, said Sir Francis Varney. It is but a foretaste of the happiness you will enjoy when you are entirely free. You see that I have trusted you. You have trusted me as you might trust me, and you perceive that I have kept my word. You have, and since you declined to make me the promise which I would fain have from you, to the effect that you would not mention me as one of the authors of your calamity, I must trust to your honor not to attempt revenge for what you have suffered. That I will promise. There can be but little difficulty to any generous mind in giving up such a feeling. In consequence of your sparing me what you might still further have inflicted, I will let the past rest, and as if it had never happened really to me, and speak of it to others, but as a circumstance which I wish not to revert to, but prefer should be buried in oblivion. It is well, and now I have a request to make of you, which perhaps you will consider the hardest of all. Name it. I feel myself bound to a considerable extent to comply with whatever you may demand of me that is not contrary to honorable principle. Then it is this, that comparatively free as you are, and in a condition as you are, to assert your own freedom, you will not do so hastily, or for a considerable period. In fact, I wish and expect that you should wait yet a while until it shall suit me to say that it is my pleasure that you shall be free. That is indeed a hard condition to a man who feels, as you yourself remark, that he can assert his freedom. It is one which I have still a hope you will not persevere in. Nay, young man, I think that I have treated you with generosity to make you feel that I am not the worst of foes you could have had. All I require of you is that you should wait here for about an hour. It is now nearly one o'clock. Will you wait until you hear it strike two before you actually make movement to leave this place? Charles Holland hesitated for some moments, and then he said, Do not fancy that I am not one who appreciates the singular trust you have reposed in me. And however repugnant to me it may be to remain here a voluntary prisoner, I am inclined to do so, if it be but to convince you that the trust you have reposed in me is not in vain, and that I can behave with equal generosity to you as you can to me. Be it so, said Sir Francis Farny, I shall leave you with a full reliance that you will keep your word. And now, farewell. When you think of me, fancy me rather one unfortunate than criminal, and tell yourself that even Farny the Vampire had some traits in his character, which, although they might not raise your esteem, at all events did not loudly call for your reprobation. I shall do so. Oh, Flora, Flora, I shall look upon you once again, after believing and thinking that I had bitten you along and last adieu. My own beautiful Flora, it is joy indeed to think that I shall look upon that face again, which to my perception is full of all the majesty of loveliness. Sir Francis Farny looked coldly on while Charles uttered this enthusiastic speech. Remember, he said, till two o'clock, and he walked towards the door of the dungeon. You will have no difficulty in finding your way out of this place. Doubtless you already perceived the entrance by which I gained admission. Had I been free, said Charles, and had the use of my limbs, I should long air this have worked my way to life and liberty. Tis well, good night. Farny walked from the place and just closed the door behind him. With a slow and stately step, he left the ruins, and Charles Holland found himself once more alone, but in a much more enviable condition than for many weeks he could have called his. End of Chapter 62, Recording by Roger Maline End of Volume 1 of Varney the Vampire by Thomas Prescott Prest