 CHAPTER 27 THE NOBLE CONFIDENCE OF FLORA BANNERWORTH IN HER LOVER, HER OPINION OF THE THREE LETTERS, THE ADMIRAL'S ADMORATION. To describe the feelings of Henry Bannerworth on the occasion of this apparent defecation from the path of rectitude and honor by his friend, as he had fondly imagined Charles Holland to be, would be next to impossible. If, as we have taken occasion to say, it to be a positive fact that a noble and a generous mind feels more acutely any heartlessness of this description from one on whom it has placed implicit confidence, than the most deliberate and wicked of injuries from absolute strangers, we can easily conceive that Henry Bannerworth was precisely the person to feel most acutely the conduct whence all circumstances appeared to fix upon Charles Holland, upon whose faith, truth, and honor he would have staked his very existence but a few short hours before. With such a bewildered sensation that he scarcely knew where he walked or withered to betake himself, did he repair to his own chamber, and there he strove with what energy he was able to bring to the task to find out some excuse, if he could, for Charles's conduct. But he could find none. View it in what light he would it presented by a picture of the most heartless selfishness it had ever been his lot to encounter. The tone of the letters, too, which Charles had written, materially aggravated the moral delinquency of which he had been guilty. Better, far better, did he not attempt an excuse at all than have attempted such excuses as were there put down in those epistles. A more cold-blooded dishonorable proceeding could not possibly be conceived. It would appear that while he entertained a doubt with regard to the reality of the visitation of the vampire to Flora Bannerworth, he had been willing to take to himself abundance of credit for the most honorable of feelings, and to induce a belief in the minds of all that an exalted feeling of honor, as well as a true affection that would know no change, kept him at the feet of her whom he loved. Like some braggart who, when there is no danger, is a very hero, but who the moment he feels convinced he will be actually and truly called upon for an exhibition of this much-vaunted prowess, had Charles Holland deserted the beautiful girl, who, if anything, had now certainly, in her misfortunes, a far higher claim upon his kindly feeling than before. Henry could not sleep, although at the request of George, who offered to keep watch for him the remainder of the night, he attempted to do so. He in vain said to himself, I will banish from my mind this most unworthy subject. I have told Admiral Bell that contempt is the only feeling I can now have for his nephew, and yet I now found myself dwelling upon him and upon his conduct with a perseverance which is a foe to my repose. At length came the welcome and beautiful light of day, and Henry Rose fevered and unrefreshed. His first impulse, now, was to hold a consultation with his brother George as to what was to be done, and George advised that Mr. Marchdale, who has yet knew nothing of the matter, should be immediately informed of it, and consulted as being probably better qualified than either of them to come to adjust a cool and a reasonable opinion upon the painful circumstance, which it could not be expected that either of them would be able to view calmly. Let it be so, then, said Henry, Mr. Marchdale shall decide for us. They at once sought this friend of the family, who was in his own bedroom, and when Henry knocked at the door, Marchdale opened it hurriedly, eagerly inquiring what was the matter. There is no alarm, said Henry. We have only come to tell you of a circumstance which has occurred during the night, and which will somewhat surprise you. Nothing calamitous, I hope? Vexatious, and yet I think it is a matter upon which we ought almost to congratulate ourselves. Read those two letters, and give us your candid opinion upon them. Henry placed in Mr. Marchdale's hands the letter addressed to himself as well as that to the admiral. Marchdale read them both with marked attention, but he did not exhibit in his countenance so much surprise as regret. When he had finished, Henry said to him, Well, Marchdale, what think you of this new and extraordinary episode in our affairs? My dear young friends, said Marchdale, in a voice of great emotion, I know not what to say to you. I have no doubt but that you are both of you much astonished at the receipt of these letters, and equally so at the sudden absence of Charles Holland. And are not you? Not so much as you doubtless are. The fact is I never did entertain a favorable opinion of the young man, and he knew it. I have been accustomed to the study of human nature under a variety of aspects. I have made it a matter of deep, and I may add sorrowful, contemplation, to study and remark those minor shades of character which commonly escaped observation wholly. And I repeat, I always had a bad opinion of Charles Holland, which he guessed, and hence he conceived a hatred to me, which more than once, as you cannot remember, showed itself in little acts of opposition and hostility. You much surprise me. I expected to do so, but you cannot help remembering that at one time I was on the point of leaving here solely on his account. You were so. Indeed, I should have done so. But that I reasoned with myself upon the subject and subdued the impulse of the anger which some years ago, when I had not seen so much of the world, would have guided me. But why did you not impart to us your suspicions? We should at least then have been prepared for such a contingency as has occurred. Place yourself in my position, and then ask yourself what you would have done. Suspicion is one of those hideous things which all men would be most specially careful not only how they entertain at all, but how they give expression to. Besides, whatever may be the amount of one's own internal conviction with regard to the character of any one, there is just a possibility that one may be wrong. True, true, that possibility ought to keep any one silent who has nothing but suspicion to go upon, however cautious it may make him, as regards his dealings with the individual. I only suspected from little minute shades of character that would peep out in spite of him that Charles Holland was not the honourable man he would feign have had everybody believe him to be. And had you from the first such a feeling? I had. It is very strange. Yes, and what is more strange still is that he from the first seemed to know it, and despite a caution which I could see he always kept uppermost in his thought he could not help speaking tartly to me at times. I have noticed that, said George. You may depend, it is a fact, added Marchdale, that nothing so much excites the deadly and desperate hatred of a man who is acting a hypocritical part as the suspicion, well grounded or not, that another sees and understands the secret impulses of his dishonourable heart. I cannot blame you or anyone else, Mr. Marchdale, said Henry, that you did not give utterance to your secret thought, but I do wish that you had done so. Nay, dear Henry, replied Mr. Marchdale, believe me, I have made this matter a subject of deep thought, and have abundance of reasons why I ought not to have spoken to you upon the subject. Indeed, indeed I have, and not among the least important is the one that if I had acquainted you with my suspicions you would have found yourself in the painful position of acting a hypocritical part yourself towards this Charles Holland. For you must either have kept the secret that he was suspected, or you must have shun it to him by your behaviour. Well, well, I daresay, Marchdale, you acted for the best. What shall we do now? Can you doubt? I was thinking of letting Flora at once know the absolute and complete worthlessness of her lover, so that she could have no difficulty in at once tearing herself from him by the assistance of the natural pride which would surely come to her aid upon finding herself so much deceived. The test may be possible. You think so? I do indeed. Here is a letter which, of course, remains unopened, addressed to Flora by Charles Holland. The Admiral rather thought it would hurt her feelings to deliver her such an epistle, but I must confess I am of the contrary opinion upon that point, and think now the more evidence she has of the utter worthlessness of him who professed to love her with so much disinterested affection the better it will be for her. You could not possibly, Henry, have taken a more sensible view of the subject. I am glad you agree with me. No reasonable man could do otherwise, and from what I have seen of Admiral Bell I am sure upon reflection he will be of the same opinion. Then it shall be so. The first shock to poor Flora may be severe, but we shall then have the consolation of knowing that it is the only one, and that in knowing the very worst she has no more on that score to apprehend. Alas! Alas! The hand of misfortune now appears to have pressed heavily upon us indeed. What in the name of all that is unlucky and disastrous will happen next, I wonder. What can happen, said Marchdale, I think you have now got rid of the greatest evil of all, a false friend. We have indeed go then to Flora. Assure her that in the affection of others who know no falsehood she will find a solace from every ill. Assure her that there are hearts that will place themselves between her and every misfortune. Mr. Marchdale was much affected as he spoke. Probably he felt deeper than he chose to express the misfortunes of that family for whom he entertained so much friendship. He turned aside his head to hide the traces of emotion which, despite even his great powers of self- command, would shoo themselves upon his handsome and intelligent countenance. Then it appeared as if his noble indignation had got, for a few brief moments, the better of all prudence, and he exclaimed, The villain! The worse than villain! Who would, with a thousand articles, make himself beloved by a young, unsuspecting and beautiful girl, but then to leave her to the bitterness of regret than she had ever given such a man a place in her esteem? The heartless ruffian! Be calm, Mr. Marchdale, I pray you, be calm, said George. I never saw you so much moved. Excuse me, he said, excuse me, I am much moved, and I am human. I cannot always, let me strive my utmost, place a curb upon my feelings. They are feelings which do you honor. Nay, nay, I am foolish to have suffered myself to be led away into such a hasty expression of them. I am accustomed to feel acutely and to feel deeply, but it is seldom I am so much overcome as this. Will you accompany us to the breakfast room at once, Mr. Marchdale, where we will make this communication to Flora? You will then be able to judge by her manner of receiving it what it will be best to say to her. Come then, and pray, be calm. The lease that is set upon this painful and harassing subject after this morning will be the best. You are right, you are right. Mr. Marchdale hastily put on his coat. He was dressed, with the exception of that one article of apparel when the brothers came to his chamber, and then he came to the breakfast parlor where the painful communication was to be made to Flora of her lover's faithlessness. Flora was already seated in that apartment. Indeed, she had been accustomed to meet Charles Holland there before others of the family made their appearance, but alas, this morning the kind and tender lover was not there. The expression that sat upon the countenances of her brothers, and of Mr. Marchdale, was quite sufficient to convince her that something more serious than usual had occurred, and she at the moment turned very pale. Marchdale observed this change of countenance in her, and he advanced towards her, saying, calm yourself, Flora, we have something to communicate to you, but it is a something which should excite indignation and no other feeling in your breast. Brother, what is the meaning of this, said Flora, turning aside from Marchdale, and withdrawing the hand which he would have taken? I would rather have Admiral Bell here before I say anything, said Henry, regarding a matter in which he cannot but feel much interested personally. Here he is, said the Admiral, who at that moment had opened the door of the breakfast-room. Here he is, so now fire away and don't spare the enemy. And Charles, said Flora, where is Charles? Damn Charles, cried the Admiral, who had not been much accustomed to control his feelings. Hush, hush, said Henry. My dear sir, hush. Do not indulge now in any invectives. Flora, here are three letters. You will see that the one which is unopened is addressed to yourself. However, we wish you to read the whole three of them, and then to form your own free and unbiased opinion. Flora looked as pale as a marble statue when she took the letters into her hands. She let the two that were open fall on the table before her, while she eagerly broke the seal of that which was addressed to herself. Henry, with an instinctive delicacy, beckoned every one present to the window, so that Flora had not the pain of feeling that any eyes were fixed upon her but those of her mother, who had just come into the room, while she was perusing those documents which told such a tale of heartless dissimulation. My dear child, said Mrs. Bannerworth, you are ill. Hush, mother, hush, said Flora. Let me know all. She read the whole of the letters through, and then, as the last one dropped from her grasp, she exclaimed, Oh God! Oh God! What is all that has occurred compared to this? Charles, Charles, Charles. Flora exclaimed Henry, suddenly turning from the window. Flora, is this worthy of you? Heaven now support me. Is this worthy of the name you bear, Flora? I should have thought, and I did hope, that woman's pride would have supported you. Let me implore you, added Marchdale, to summon indignation to your aid, Miss Bannerworth. Charles, Charles, Charles, she again exclaimed, as she wrung her hands despairingly. Flora, if anything could add a sting to my already irritated feelings, said Henry, this conduct of yours would. Henry, brother, what mean you? Are you mad? Are you, Flora? God, I wish now that I was. You have read those letters, and yet you call upon the name of him who wrote them with frantic tenderness. Yes, yes, she cried, frantic tenderness is the word. It is with frantic tenderness I call upon his name, and ever will. Charles, Charles, dear Charles. This surpasses all belief, said Marchdale. It is the frenzy of grief, added George, but I did not expect it of her. Flora, Flora, think again. Think, think, the rush of thought distracts. Whence came these letters? Where did you find these most disgraceful forgeries? Forgeries, exclaimed Henry, and he staggered back as if someone had struck him a blow. Yes, forgeries, screamed Flora. What has become of Charles Holland? Has he been murdered by some secret enemy, and then these most vile fabrications made up in his name? Oh, Charles, Charles, are you lost to me forever? Good God, said Henry, I did not think of that. Madness, madness, cried Marchdale. Hold, shouted the admiral, let me speak to her. He pushed everyone aside and advanced to Flora. He seized both her hands in his own, and in a tone of voice that was struggling with feeling he cried, Look at me, my dear, I'm an old man, old enough to be your grandfather, so you needn't mind looking at me steadily in the face. Look at me, I want to ask you a question. Flora raised her beautiful eyes, and looked the old weather-beaten admiral full in the face. Oh, what a striking contrast did those two persons present to each other. That young and beautiful girl with her small, delicate, childlike hands clasped, and completely hidden in the huge ones of the old sailor, the white, smooth skin contrasted with his wrinkled, hardened features. My dear, he cried, you have read those, those damned letters, my dear. I have, sir. And what do you think of them? They were not written by Charles Holland, your nephew. A choking sensation seemed to come over the old man, and he tried to speak, but in vain. He shook the hands of the young girl violently until he saw that he was hurting her. And then, before she could be aware of what he was about, he gave her a kiss on the cheek as he cried, God bless you, God bless you, you are the sweetest, dearest little creature that ever was or that ever will be. And I'm a damned old fool, that's what I am. These letters were not written by my nephew, Charles. He is incapable of writing them, and, damn me, I shall take shame to myself as long as I live for ever thinking so. Dear, sir, said Flora, who somehow or another did not seem at all offended at the kiss which the old man had given her. Dear, sir, how could you believe, for one moment, that they came from him? There has been some desperate villainy on foot. Where is he? Oh, find him, if he be yet alive. If they who have thus striven to steal from him that honour, which is the jewel of his heart, have murdered him, seek them out, sir, in the sacred name of justice, I implore you. I will. I will. I don't renounce him. He is my nephew still, Charles Holland. My own dear sister's son. And you are the best girl God bless you that ever breathed. He loved you, he loves you still, and if he's above ground, poor fellow, he shall yet tell you himself he never saw those infamous letters. You, you will seek for him, sobbed Flora, and the tears gushed from her eyes. When you, sir, who, as I do, feel assured of his innocence, I alone rely. If all the world say he is guilty, we will not think so. I'm damned if we do! Henry had sat down by the table, and with his hands clasped together seemed in an agony of thought. He was now roused by a thump in the back by the admiral, who cried, What do you think now, old fellow? Damn it! Things look a little different now. As God is my judge, sent Henry, holding up his hands, I know not what to think, but my heart and feeling all go with you and with Flora in your opinion of the innocence of Charles Holland. I knew you would say that, because you could not possibly help it, my dear boy. Now we are all right again, and all we have got to do is find out which way the enemy is gone and then give chase to him. Mr. Marchdale, what do you think of this new suggestion? said George, to that gentleman. Pray, excuse me, was his reply. I would much rather not be called upon to give an opinion. Why, what do you mean by that? said the admiral. See what I say, sir. Damn me, we had a fellow once in the combined fleets who never had an opinion till after something had happened, and then he always said that was just what he thought. I was never in the combined or any other fleet, sir, said Marchdale coldly. Who the devil said you were, roared the admiral. Marchdale merely hawed. However, added the admiral, I don't care and never did for anybody's opinion when I know I am right. I'd back this dear girl here for opinions and good feelings and courage to express them against all the world I would any day. If I was not the old hulk I am, I would take a cruise in any latitude under the sun, if it was only for the chance of meeting with just such another. Oh, lose no time, said Flora. If Charles is not to be found in the house, lose no time in searching for him. I pray you. Seek him. Wherever there is the remotest probability he may chance to be. Do not let him think he is deserted. Not a bit of it, cried the admiral. You make your mind easy, then, my dear. If he's above ground, we shall find him out. You may depend on it. Come along, Master Henry. You and I will consider what had best be done in this uncommonly ugly matter. Henry and George followed the admiral from the breakfast room, leaving Marchdale there, who looked serious and full of melancholy thought. It was quite clear that he considered Flora had spoken from the generous warmth of her affection as regarded Charles Holland, and not from the conviction which reason would have enforced her to feel. When he was now alone with her and Mrs. Bannerworth, he spoke in a feeling and affectionate tone regarding the painful and inexplicable events which had transpired. CHAPTER XXVIII Mr. Marchdale's exculpation of himself, the search through the gardens, the spot of the deadly struggle, the mysterious paper. It was, perhaps, very natural that, with her feelings towards Charles Holland, Flora should shrink from everyone who seemed to be of a directly contrary impression, and when Mr. Marchdale now spoke she showed but little inclination to hear what he had to say in explanation. The genuine and unaffected manner, however, in which she spoke, could not but have its effect upon her, and she found herself compelled to listen, as well as, to a great extent, approve of the sentiments that fell from his lips. Flora, he said, I beg that you will hear, in the presence of your mother, give me a patient hearing. You fancy that, because I cannot join so glibly as the admiral in believing that these letters are forgeries, I must be your enemy. Those letters, said Flora, were not written by Charles Holland. That is your opinion. It is more than an opinion. He could not write them. Well, then, of course, if I felt inclined, which Heaven alone knows I do not, I could not hope successfully to argue against such a conviction. But I do not wish to do so. All I want to impress upon you is that I am not to be blamed for doubting his innocence, and, at the same time, I wish to assure you that no one in this house would feel more exquisite satisfaction than I in seeing it established. I thank you for so much, said Flora, but as to my mind, his innocence has never been doubted. It needs, to me, no establishing. Very good, you believe these letters forgeries. I do. And that the disappearance of Charles Holland is enforced and not of his own free will? I do. Then you may rely upon my unremitting exertions night and day to find him, and any suggestions you can make, which is likely to aid in the search, shall, I pledge myself, to be fully carried out. I thank you, Mr. Marchdale. My dear, said the mother, rely on Mr. Marchdale. I will rely on anyone who believes Charles Holland innocent of writing those odious letters, mother. I rely upon the admiral. He will aid me heart and hand. And so will Mr. Marchdale. I am glad to hear it. And yet doubt it, Flora, said Marchdale dejectedly. I am very sorry that such should be the case. I will not, however, trouble you any further. Nor, give me leave to assure you, will I relax in my honest endeavors to clear up this mystery. So saying, Mr. Marchdale bowed and left the room, apparently more vex than he cared to express at the misconstruction, which had been put upon his conduct and motives. He at once sought Henry and the admiral, to whom he expressed his most earnest desire to aid in attempting to unravel the mysterious circumstances which had occurred. This strongly expressed opinion of Flora, he remarked, is of course amply sufficient to induce us to pause before we say one word more that shall in any way sound like a condemnation of Mr. Holland heaven forbid that it should. No, said the admiral, don't. I don't intend. I will not advise anybody. Sir, if you use that as a threat, a threat? Yes, I must say it sounded marvelously like one. Oh, dear, no, quite a mistake. I consider that every man has a fair right to the enjoyment of his opinions. All I have to remark is that I shall, after what has occurred, feel myself called upon to fight anybody who says these letters were written by my nephew. Indeed, sir, ah, indeed. You will permit me to say such as a strange mode of allowing everyone the free enjoyment of his opinion, not at all. Whatever pains and penalties may be the result, Admiral Bell, of differing with so infallible authority as yourself, I shall do so whenever my judgment induces me. You will? Indeed I will. Very good. You know all the consequences. As to fighting you, I should refuse to do so. Refuse? Yes, most certainly. Upon what ground? Upon the ground that you are a madman. Come, now, interposed Henry. Let me hope that, for my sake as well as for Flora's, this dispute will proceed no further. I have not courted it, said Marshdale. I have much temper, but I am not a stick or a stone. Damn me if I don't think, said the Admiral, you are a bit of both. Mr. Henry Bannerworth, said Marshdale, I am your guest, and but for the duty I feel in assisting in the search for Mr. Charles Holland, I should at once leave your house. You need not trouble yourself on my account, said the Admiral. If I find no clue to him in the neighborhood for two or three days, I shall be off myself. I am going, said Henry Rising, to search the garden and adjoining meadows. If you two gentlemen choose to come with me, I shall of course be happy of your company. If however you prefer remaining here to wrangle, you can do so. This had the effect at all events of putting a stop to the dispute for the present, and both the Admiral and Mr. Marshdale accompanied Henry on his search. The search was commenced immediately under the balcony of Charles Holland's window, from which the Admiral had seen him emerge. There was nothing particular found there or in the garden. Admiral Bell appointed accurately to the route he had seen Charles take across the grass plot just before he himself left his chamber to seek Henry. Accordingly, this route was now taken, and it led to a low part of the garden wall which any one of ordinary vigor could easily have surmounted. My impression is, said the Admiral, that he got over here. The ivy appears to be disturbed, remarked Henry. Suppose we mark the spot and then go around to the other side, suggested George. This was agreed to for although the young might have chosen rather to clamber over the wall than go round, it was doubtful if the old Admiral could accomplish such a feat. The distance round, however, was not great, and as they had cast over the wall a handful of flowers from the garden to mark the precise spot, it was easily discoverable. The moment they reached it, they were panic-stricken by the appearances which it presented. The grass was, for some yards round about, completely chauden up and converted into mud. There were deep indentations of feet marks in all directions, and such abundance of evidence that some most desperate struggle had recently taken place there, that the most skeptical person in the world could not have entertained any doubt upon the subject. Henry was the first to break the silence with which they each regarded the broken ground. This is conclusive to my mind, he said, with a deep sigh. Here has poor Charles been attacked. God keep him, exclaimed Marchdale, and part of my doubts I am now convinced. The old Admiral gazed about him like one distracted. Suddenly he cried. They have murdered him. Some fiends in the shape of men have murdered him, and heaven only knows for what. It seems but two probably, said Henry. Let us endeavor to trace the footsteps. Oh, Flora, Flora, what terrible news this will be to you. A horrible supposition comes across my mind, said George. What if he met the vampire? It may have been so, said Marchdale, with a shudder. It is a point which we could endeavor to ascertain, and I think we may do so. How? By some inquiry as to whether Sir Francis Varney was from home at midnight last night. True, that might be done. The question suddenly put to one of his servants would, most probably, be answered as a thing of course. It would. Then it shall be decided upon, and now, my friend, since you have some of you thought me lukewarm in this business, I pledge myself that, should it be ascertained that Varney was from home at midnight last evening, I will defy him personally, and meet him hand to hand. Nay, nay, said Henry, leave that course to younger hands. Why so? It more befits me to be his challenger. No, Henry, you are differently situated to what I am. How so? Remember that I am in the world a lone man, without ties or connections. If I lose my life I compromise no one by my death, but you have a mother and a bereaved sister to look to who will deserve your care. Helloa! cried the admiral. What's this? What! cried each eagerly, and they pressed forward to where the admiral was stooping to the ground to pick up something which was nearly completely trodden into the grass. He with some difficulty raised it. It was a small slip of paper on which was some writing, but it was so much covered with mud as not to be legible. If this be washed, said Henry, I think we shall be able to read it clearly. We can soon try that experiment, said George, and as the footsteps by some mysterious means show themselves nowhere else but in this one particular spot, any further pursuit of inquiry about here appears useless. Then we will return to the house, said Henry, and wash the mud from this paper. There is one important point, remarked Marchdale, which appears to me we have all overlooked. Indeed? Yes. What may that be? It is this. Is anyone here sufficiently acquainted with the handwriting of Mr. Charles Holland to come to an opinion upon the letters? I have some letters from him, said Henry, which we received while on the Continent, and I daresay Flora has likewise. Then they should be compared with the alleged forgeries. I know his handwriting well, said the admiral. The letters bear so strong resemblance to it that they would deceive anybody. Then you may depend, remarked Henry, some most deep laid and desperate plot is going on. I begin, added Mr. Marchdale, to dread that such may be the case. What say you to claiming the assistance of the authorities, as well as offering a large reward for any information regarding Mr. Charles Holland? No plan shall be left untried, you may depend. They had now reached the house, and Henry having procured some clean water, carefully washed the paper which had been found among the trotting grass. When freed from the mixture of clay and mud which had obscured it, they made out the following words. It be so well. At the next full moon seek a convenient spot, and it can be done. The signature is, to my apprehension, perfect. The money which I hold, in my opinion, is much more an amount than you imagine, must be ours, and as for, here the paper was torn across and no further words were visible on it. Mysteries seemed now to be accumulating upon mystery. Each one, as it showed itself darkly, seemed to bear some remote relation to what preceded it, and yet only confusing it more. That this apparent scrap of letter had dropped from someone's pocket during the fearful struggle, of which there were much ample evidences, was extremely probably, but what it related to, by whom it was written, or by whom dropped, were unfathomable mysteries. In fact, no one could give an opinion upon these matters at all. And after a further series of conjectures, it could only be decided that, unimportant as the scrap of paper appeared now to be, it should be preserved in case it should, as there was a dim possibility that it might, become a connecting link in some chain of evidence at another time. And here we are, said Henry, completely at fault in knowing not what to do. Well, it is a hard case, said the Admiral, that, with all the will in the world to be up and doing something, we are lying here like a fleet of ships in a calm, as idle as possible. You perceive we have no evidence to connect Sir Francis Varney with this affair, either nearly or remotely, said Marchdale. Certainly not, replied Henry. But yet I hope you will not lose sight of the suggestion I proposed, to the effect of ascertaining if he were from home last night. But how is that to be carried out? Boldly. How boldly? By going at once, I should advise to his house and asking the first one of his domestics you may happen to see. I will go over, cried George. On such occasions as these one cannot act upon ceremony. He seized his hat, and without waiting for a word from anyone approving or condemning his going, off he went. If, said Henry, we find that Varney has nothing to do with the matter, we are completely at fault. Completely echoed Marchdale. In that case Admiral, I think we ought to defer your feelings upon the subject and do whatever you suggest should be done. I shall offer a hundred pound reward to anyone who can and will bring me any news of Charles. A hundred pounds is too much, said Marchdale. Not at all, and while I'm about it, since the amount is made a subject of discussion, I shall make it two hundred, and that may benefit some rascal who is not so well paid for keeping the secret as I will pay for him disclosing it. Perhaps you are right, said Marchdale. I know I am, as I always am. Marchdale could not forebear a smile at the opinionated old man, who thought no one's opinion upon any subject at all equal to his own. But he made no remark and only waited, as did Henry, with evident anxiety for the return of George. The distance was not great, and George certainly performed his errand quickly, for he was back in less time than they had thought he could return in. The moment he came into the room, he said, without waiting for an inquiry to be made of him. We're at fault again. I am assured that Sir Francis Varney never stirred from home after eight o'clock last evening. Damn it, then, said the Admiral. Let us give the devil his due. He could not have had any hand in this business. Probably not. From whom, George, did you get your information, asked Henry in a desponding tone? From, first of all, one of his servants, whom I met away from the house, and then from one whom I saw at the house. There can be no mistake, then? Certainly none. The servants answered me at once, and so frankly that I cannot doubt it. The door of the room slowly opened, and Flora came in. She looked almost the shadow of what she had been but a few weeks before. She was beautiful, but she was almost realized as a poet's description of one who had suffered butch, and was sinking into an early grave, the victim of a broken heart. She was more beautiful than death, and yet is sad to look upon. Her face was of marble paleness, and as she clasped her hands and glanced from face to face to see if she could gather hope and consolation from the expression of anyone, she might have been taken for some exquisite statue of despair. Have you found him? she said. Have you found Charles? Flora, Flora, said Henry, as he approached her. Nay, answer me, have you found him? You went to seek him. Dead or alive, have you found him? We have not, Flora. Then I must seek him myself. None will search for him as I will search. I must myself seek him. To his true affection that can alone be successful in such a search. Believe me, dear Flora, that all has been done which the shortness of time that has elapsed would permit. Further measures will now immediately be taken. Rest assured, dear sister, that all will be done, that the utmost zeal can suggest. They have killed him. They have killed him, she said mournfully. O God, they have killed him. I am not now mad, but the time will come when I must surely be maddened. The vampire has killed Charles Holland, the dreadful vampire. Nay now, Flora, this is a frenzy. Because he loved me he has been destroyed. I know it, I know it. The vampire has doomed me to destruction. I am lost, and all who loved me will be involved in one common ruin on my account. Leave me all of you to perish. If for enquiries done in our family, someone must suffer to appease the divine vengeance. Let that one be me, and only me. Hush, sister, hush, cried Henry. I expect it not this from you. The expressions you use are not your expressions. I know you better. There is abundance of divine mercy, but no divine vengeance. Be calm, I pray you. Calm, calm. Yes, making an exertion of that intellect we all know you possess. It is too common a thing with human nature, when misfortune overtakes it, to imagine that such a state of things is specially arranged. We quarrel with Providence because it does not interfere with some special miracle in our favor, forgetting that, being denizens of the earth, and members of a great social system, we must be subject occasionally to accidents which will disturb its efficient working. Oh, brother, brother, she exclaimed as she dropped into a seat. You have never loved. Indeed, no, you have never felt what it was to hold your being upon the breath of another. You can reason calmly, because you cannot know the extent of feeling you are vainly endeavoring to combat. Flora, you do me less than justice. All I wish to oppress upon your mind is that you are not in any way picked out by Providence to be specially unhappy, that there is no perversion of nature on your account. Call you that hideous vampire form that haunts me no perversion of ordinary nature? What is is natural, said Marchdale. Cold reasoning to one who suffers as I suffer, I cannot argue with you. I can only know that I am most unhappy, most miserable. But that will pass away, sister, and the son of your happiness may smile again. Oh, if I could but hope, and wherefore should you deprive yourself of that poorest privilege of the most unhappy? Because my heart tells me to despair. Tell it you won't then, cried the admiral. If you had been at sea as long as I have, Miss Bannerworth, you would never despair of anything at all. Providence guarded you, said Marchdale. Yes, that's true enough, I daresay. I was in a storm once off Cape Bouchant, and it was only through Providence, and cutting away the main mass myself, that we succeeded in getting into port. You have one hope, said Marchdale to Flora, as he looked in her wand face. One hope? Yes, recollect you have one hope. What is that? You think that, by removing from this place, you may find that peace which is here denied you? No, no, no. Indeed, I thought that such was your firm conviction. It was, but circumstances have altered. How? Charles Holland has disappeared here, and here I must remain to seek for him. Truly he may have disappeared here, remarked Marchdale, and yet that may be no argument for supposing him still here. Where then is he? God knows how rejoiced I should be if I were able to answer your question. I must seek him, dead or alive, I must see him before I bid adieu to this world, which has now lost all its charms for me. Do not despair, said Henry. I will go to the town now at once, to make known our suspicion that he has met with some foul play. I will set every means in operation that I possibly can to discover him. Mr. Shillingworth will aid me, too, and I hope that not many days will elapse Flora, before some intelligence of a most satisfactory nature shall be brought to you on Charles Holland's account. Go, go, brother, go at once. I go now at once. Shall I accompany you? said Marchdale. No, remain here to keep watch over Flora's safety while I am gone. I can alone do all that can be done. And don't forget to offer the two hundred pounds reward, said the admiral, to anyone who can bring us news of Charles on which we can rely. I will not. Surely, surely, something must result from that, said Flora, as she looked in the admiral's face, as if to gather encouragement in her dawning hopes from its expression. Of course it will, my dear, he said. Don't you be downhearted. You and I are of one mind in this affair, and of one mind we will keep. We won't give up our opinions for anybody. Our opinions, she said, of the honor and honesty of Charles Holland, that is what we'll adhere to. Of course we will. Ah, sir, it joys me, even in the midst of this, my affliction, to find one at least who is determined to do him full justice. We cannot find such contradictions in nature as that mind, full of noble impulses, should stoop to such a sudden act of selfishness as those letters would attribute to Charles Holland. It cannot, cannot be. You are right, my dear, and now, Master Henry, you be off, will you, if you please. I am off now. Farewell, Flora, for a brief space. Farewell, brother, and heaven speed you on your errand. Amen to that, cried the admiral. And now, my dear, if you have got half an hour to spare, just tuck your arm under mine and take a walk with me in the garden. For I want to say something to you. Most willingly, said Flora. I would not advise you stray far from the house, Miss Bannerworth, said Marchdale. Nobody asked you for advice, said the admiral. Dammy, do you want to make out that I ain't capable of taking care of her? No, no, but oh nonsense, come along, my dear, and if all the vampires and odd fish that were ever created were to come across our path, we would settle them somehow or another. Come along and don't listen to anybody's croaking. A peep through an iron grating, the lonely prisoner in his dungeon, the mystery. Without forestalling the interest of our story, or recording a fact in its wrong place, we now call our reader's attention to a circumstance which may, at all events, afford some food for conjecture. Some distance from the hall, which, from time immemorial, had been the home and property of the Bannerworth family, was an ancient ruin known by the name of Monks Hall. It was conjectured that this ruin was the remains of some one of those half-monastic, half-military buildings which, during the Middle Ages, were so common in almost every commanding situation in every county of England. At a period of history when the Church irrigated to itself an amount of political power which the intelligence of the spirit of the age now denies to it, and when its members were quite ready to assert, at any time, the truth of their doctrines by the strong arm of power, such buildings as the one the old gray ruins of which were situated near Bannerworth Hall were erected. Ostensibly for religious purposes, but really as a stronghold for defense as well as for aggression, this Monks Hall, as it was called, partook quite as much of the character of a fortress as of an ecclesiastical building. The ruins covered a considerable extent of ground, but the only part which seemed successfully to have resisted the encroaches of time, at least to a considerable extent, was a long hall in which the jolly Monks no doubt feasted and caroused. Adjoining to this hall were the walls of other parts of the building, and at several places there were small, low, mysterious looking doors that led heaven-nose-ware into some intricacies and labyrinths beneath the building, which no one had, within the memory of man, been content to run the risk of losing himself in. It was related that among these subterranean passages and arches there were pitfalls and pools of water, and whether such a statement was true or not it certainly acted as a considerable damper upon the vigor of curiosity. This ruin was so well known in the neighborhood, and had become from earliest childhood so familiar to the inhabitants of Bannerworth Hall, that one would as soon expect an old inhabitant of Ludgate Hill to make some remark about St. Paul's, as any of them to allude to the ruins of Monks Hall. They never now thought of going near to it, for in infancy they had sported among its ruins, and it had become one of those familiar objects which, almost from that very familiarity, ceased to hold a place in the memories of those who know it so well. It is, however, to this ruin we would now conduct our readers, precisely in the form of a connected portion of our narrative. It is evening, the evening of that first day of heart loneliness, to poor Flora Bannerworth. The lingering rays of the setting sun are gilding the old ruins with a wondrous beauty. The edges of the decayed stones seem now to be tipped with gold, and as the rich golden refuges of light gleams upon the painted glass which still adorns a large window of the hall, a flood of many-colored, beautiful light was cast within, making the old flagstones, with which the interior was paved, look more like some rich tapestry, laid down to do honor to a monarch. So picturesque and so beautiful an aspect to the ancient ruin where, that to one with a soul to appreciate the romantic and the beautiful, it would have amply repaid the fatigue of a long journey now to see it. And as the sun sank to rest, the gorgeous colors that it cast upon the moldering wall, deepened from an appearance of burnished gold to a crimson hue, and from that again the color changed to a shifting purple, mingled with the shadows of the evening, and so gradually fading away into absolute darkness. The place is as silent as the tomb, a silence far more solemn than could have existed had there been no remains of a human habitation, because even these time-worn walls were suggestive of what had once been, and the rapt stillness which now pervaded them brought with them a melancholy feeling for the past. There was not even the low hum of insect life to break the stillness of these ancient ruins. And now the last rays of the sun are gradually fading away. In a short time all will be darkness. A low, gentle wind is getting up, and beginning slightly to stir the tall blades of grass that have shot up between some of the old stones. The silence is broken, awfully broken, by a sudden cry of despair. Such a cry as might come from some imprisoned spirit, doomed to waste an age of horror in a tomb. Yet it was scarcely to be called a scream, and not all a groan. It might have come from some one on the moment of some dreadful sacrifice, when the judgment had not sufficient time to call courage to its aid, but involuntarily had induced that sound which might not be repeated. A few startled birds flew from odd holes and corners about the ruins to seek some other place of rest. The owl hooted from a corner of what had once been a belfry, and a dreamy-looking bat flew out from a cranny and stuck itself headlong against a projection. Then all was still again. Silence resumed its reign, and if there had been a mortal ear to drink in that sudden sound, the mind might well have doubted if fancy had not more to do with the matter than reality. From out a portion of the ruins that was enveloped in the deepest gloom there now glides a figure. It is of gigantic height, and it moves along with a slow and measured tread. An ample mantle envelops the form, which might well have been taken for the spirit of one of the monks who, centuries since, had made that place their home. It walked the whole length of the ample hall we have alluded to, and then at the window from which had streamed the long flood of many-colored light it paused. For more than ten minutes this mysterious-looking figure there stood. At length there passed something on the outside of the window that looked like the shadow of a human form. Then the tall, mysterious, apparition-looking man turned and saw the side entrance to the hall. There he paused, and in about a minute he was joined by another who must have been he who had so recently passed the stained glass window on the outer side. There was a friendly salutation between these two beings, and they walked to the center of the hall, where they remained for some time in animated conversation. From the gestures they used it was evident that the subject of their discourse was one of deep and absorbing interest to both. It was one, too, upon which, after a time, they seemed a little to differ, and more than once they each assumed attitudes of mutual defiance. This continued until the sun had so completely sunk that twilight was beginning sensibly to wane, and then gradually the two men appeared to have come to a better understanding, and whatever might be the subject of their discourse there was some positive result evidently arrived at now. They spoke in lower tones. They used less animated gestures than before, and after a time they both walked slowly down the hall towards the dark spot, from once the first tall figure had so mysteriously emerged. There is a dungeon, damp and full of the most unwholesome exhalations, deep under the ground it seems, and in its excavations it would appear as if some small land springs had been liberated, for the earth and floor was one continued extent of moisture. On the roof, too, came perpetually the dripping of water, which fell with sullen startling splashes in the pool below. At one end, near to the roof, so near that to reach it, without the most efficient means from the inside, was a matter of positive impossibility, is a small iron grating, and not much larger than might be entirely obscured by any human face, that might be close to it from the outside of the dungeon. That dreadful abode is tenanted. In one corner, on a heap of straw, which appears freshly to have been cast into the place, lies a hopeless prisoner. It is no great stretch of fancy to suppose that it is from his lips came the sound of terror and of woe that had disturbed the repose of that lonely spot. The prisoner is lying on his back, a rude bandage round his head, on which were numerous spots of blood, would seem to indicate that he had suffered personal injury in some recent struggle. His eyes were open. They were fixed despairingly, perhaps unconsciously, upon that small grating which looked into the upper world. That grating slants upwards and looks to the west, so that anyone can find in that dreary dungeon might be tantalized on a sweet summer's day by seeing the sweet blue sky and occasionally the white clouds flitting by in that freedom which he cannot hope for. The carol of a bird, too, might reach him here, alas sad remembrance of life and joy and liberty. But now, all is deepening gloom. The prisoner sees nothing, hears nothing, the sky is not quite dark. That small grating looks like a strange light patch in the dungeon wall. Hark! Some footstep sounds upon his ear. The creaking of a door follows, a gleam of light shines into the dungeon, and the tall, mysterious-looking figure in the cloak stands before the occupant of that wretched place. One comes in the other man, and he carries in his hand writing materials. He stoops to the stone couch on which the prisoner lies and offers him a pen, as he raises him partially from the miserable damp palette. But there is no speculation in the eyes of that oppressed man. In vain the pen is repeatedly placed in his grip, and a document of some length, written on parchment, is spread out before him to sign. In vain is he held up now by both of the men, who have thus mysteriously sought him in his dungeon. He has not the power to do as they would wish him. The pen falls from his nerveless grasp, and, with a deep sigh, when they cease to hold him up, he falls heavily back upon the stone couch. Then the two men looked at each other for about a minute silently, after which he who was the shorter of the two raised one hand, and in a voice of such concentrated hatred and passion as was horrible to hear, he said, Damn! The reply of the other was a laugh, and then he took the light from the floor, and motioned the one who seemed so little able to control his feelings of bitterness and disappointment to leave the place with him. With a haste and vehemence, then, which showed how much angered he was, the shorter man of the two now rolled up the parchment, and placed it in a breast pocket of his coat. He cast a withering look of intense hatred on the form of the nearly unconscious prisoner, and then prepared to follow the other. But when they reached the door of the dungeon, the taller man of the two paused, and appeared for a moment or two to be in deep thought, after which he handed the lamp he carried to his companion and approached the pallet of the prisoner. He took from his pocket a small bottle, and, raising the head of the feeble and wounded man, he poured some portion of the contents into his mouth, and watched him swallow it. The other looked on in silence, and then they both slowly left the dreary dungeon. The wind rose, and the night had deepened to the utmost darkness. The blackness of a night, unilluminated by the moon, which would not now rise for some hours, was upon the ancient ruins. All was calm and still, and no one would have supposed that ought human was within those ancient, dreary-looking walls. Time will show who it was who lay in that unwholesome dungeon, as well as who were they who visited him so mysteriously, and retired again with feelings of such evident disappointment with the document it seemed of such importance, at least to one of them, to get that unconscious man to sign. The visit of Flora to the Vampire. The Offer. The Solemn Aseveration. Admiral Bell had, of course, nothing in particular to communicate to Flora in the walk he induced her to take with him in the gardens of Bannerworth Hall, but he could talk to her upon a subject which was sure to be a welcome one, namely, Charles Holland. And not only could he talk to her of Charles, but he was willing to talk of him in the style of enthusiastic commendation which assimilated best with her own feelings. No one but the honest old admiral, who was as violent in his likes and dislikes as any one could possibly be, could just then have conversed with Flora Bannerworth to her satisfaction of Charles Holland. He expressed no doubts whatever concerning Charles's faith, and his mind, now that he had got that opinion firmly fixed in his mind, everybody that held contrary one he had once denounced as a fool or a rogue. Never you mind, Miss Flora, he said, you will find, I dare say, that all will come right eventually. Damn me! The only thing that provokes me in this whole business is that I should have been such an old fool as for a moment to doubt Charles. You should have known him better, sir. I should, my dear, but I was taken by surprise, you see, and that was wrong, too, for a man who has held a responsible command. But the circumstances, dear sir, were of a nature to take everyone by surprise. They were, they were. But now, candidly speaking, and I know I can speak candidly to you, do you really think this Varney is the vampire? I do. You do? Well, then, somebody must tackle him, that's quite clear. We can't put up with his fancies always. What can be done? Ah, that I don't know. But something must be done, you know. He wants this place, heaven only knows why, or wherefore he has taken such a fancy to it. But he has done so, that is quite clear. If it had a good sea view, I should not be so much surprised, but there's nothing of the sort, so it's no way at all better than any other shore-going, stupid sort of house, that you can see nothing but land from. Oh, if my brother would make but some compromise with him to restore Charles to us and take the house, we might yet be happy. Damn it! Then you still think he has a hand in spiriting away, Charles? Who else could do so? I'll be hanged if I know. I do feel tolerably sure, and I have a good deal of reliance upon your opinion, my dear. I say I do feel tolerably sure, but if I was damned sure, now I'd soon have it out of him. For my sake, Admiral Bell, I wish now to extract one promise from you. Say your say, my dear, and I'll promise you. You will not then expose yourself to the danger of any personal conflict with that most dreadful man, whose powers of mischief we do not know, and therefore cannot well meet or appreciate. Phew! Is that what you mean? Yes, you will, I am sure, promise me so much. Why, my dear, you see the case is this. In affairs of fighting, the less ladies interfere the better. Nay! Why so? Because—because, you see, a lady has no reputation for courage to keep up. Indeed, it's rather the other way, for we dislike a bold woman as much as we hold in contempt a cowardly man. But if you grant to us females that in consequence of our affections we are not courageous, you must likewise grant how much we are doomed to suffer from the dangers of those whom we esteem. You would be the last person in the world to esteem a coward. Certainly, but there is more true courage, often, in not fighting than in entering into a contest. You are right enough there, my dear. Under ordinary circumstances I should not oppose your carrying out the dictates of your honour, but now let me entreat you not to meet this dreadful man, if man he may be called, when you know not how unfair the contest may be. Unfair? Yes. May he not have some means of preventing you from injuring him and of overcoming you which no mortal possesses? He may. Then the supposition of such a case ought to be sufficient ground for at once inducing you to abandon all idea of meeting with him. My dear, I'll consider of this matter. Do so. There is another thing, however, which now you will permit me to ask of you as a favour. It is granted ere it is spoken. Very good. Now you must not be offended with what I am going to say, because however much it may touch that very proper pride which you, and such as you, are always sure to possess, you are fortunately at all times able to call sufficient judgment to your aid, to enable you to see what is really offensive and what is not. You alarm me by such a preface. Do I? Then here goes at once. Your brother, Henry, poor fellow, has enough to do, has he not, to make all ends meet. A flush of excitement came over Flora's cheek as the old admiral, thus bluntly broached the subject of which she already knew the bitterness to such a spirit as her brothers. You are silent, continued the old man. By that I guess I am not wrong in my supposition. Indeed it is hardly a supposition at all, for Master Charles told me as much, and no doubt he had it from a correct quarter. I cannot deny it, sir. Then don't. It ain't worth denying, my dear. Country is no crime, but, like being born a Frenchman, it's a damned misfortune. Flora could scarcely refuse a smile as the nationality of the old admiral peeped out even in the midst of his most liberal and best feelings. Well, he continued, I don't intend that he shall have so much trouble as he has had. The enemies of his king and his country shall free him from his embarrassments. The enemies? Yes. Who else? You speak in riddles, sir. Do I? Now I'll soon make the riddles plain. When I went to sea I was worth nothing, as poor as a ship's cat after the crew had been paid off for a month. Well, I began fighting away as hard and fast as I could, and the more I fought, the more hard knocks I gave and took, and the more money I got. Indeed. Yes, prize after prize we hauled into port, and at last the French vessels wouldn't come out of their harbors. What did you do then? What did we do then? Why, that was the most natural thing in the whole world for us to do. We did. I cannot guess. Well, I am surprised at that. Try again. Oh, yes, I can guess now. How could I have been so dull? You went and took them out. To be sure we did, to be sure we did, my dear, that's how we manage them. And do you see, at the end of the war I found myself with lots of prize money, all wrung from old England's enemies, and I intend that some of it shall find its way into your brother's pocket. And you see, that will bear out just what I said, that the enemies of his king and his country shall free him from his difficulties. Don't you see? I see your noble generosity, Admiral. Noble fiddle-sticks. Now I have mentioned this matter to you, my dear, and I don't so much mind talking to you about such matters as I should to your brother. I want you to do me the favor of managing it all for me. How, sir? Why, just this way. You must find out how much money will free your brother just now from a parcel of botherations that beset him. And then I will give it to you, and you can hand it to him, you see, so I need not say anything about it. And if he speaks to me on the subject at all, I can put him down at once by saying, Avast there, it's no business of mine. And can you, dear Admiral, imagine that I could conceal the generous source from where so much assistance came? Of course. It will come from you. I take a fancy to make you a present of a sum of money. You do with it, as you please. It's yours, and I have no right and no inclination to ask you what use you put it to. Very scushed from the eyes of Flora as she tried to utter some word but could not. The Admiral swore rather fearfully and pretended to wonder what on earth she could be crying for. At length, after the first scush of feeling was over, she said, I cannot accept of so much generosity, sir. I dare not. Dare not? No. I should think meanly of myself were I to take advantage of the boundless magnificence of your nature. Take advantage? I should like to see anybody take advantage of me. That's all. I ought not to take the money of you. I will speak to my brother, and, well, I know how much he will appreciate the noble, generous offer, my dear sir. Well, settle it in your own way. Only remember I have a right to do what I like with my own money. Undoubtedly. Very good. Then, as that is undoubted, whatever I lend to him, mind I give to you, so it's as broad as its long, as the Dutchman said, when he looked at the new ship that was built for him, and you may well take it yourself, you see, and make no more fuss about it. I will consider, said Flora, with much emotion, between this time and the same hour tomorrow I will consider, sir, and if you can find any words more expressive of heartfelt gratitude than others, pray imagine that I have used them with reference to my own feelings towards you for such an unexampled offer of friendship. Oh, bother, stuff! The animal, now at once, changed the subject, and began to talk of Charles, a most grateful theme to Flora as may well be supposed. He related to her many little particulars connected with him, which all tended to place his character in a most amiable light, and as her ear drank in the words of commendation of him she loved, what sweeter music could there be to her than the voice of that old weather-beaten, rough-spoken man? The idea, he added to a warm eulogum he had uttered concerning Charles, the idea that he could write those letters, my dear, was quite absurd. It is, indeed, oh, that we could know what had become of him. We shall know. I don't think but what he's alive. Something seems to assure me that we shall some of these days look upon his face again. I am rejoiced to hear you say so. We will stir heaven and earth to find him. If he were killed, do you see, there would have been some traces of him now at hand. Besides he would have been left lying where the rascals attacked him. Flora shuddered. But don't you fret yourself. You may depend that the sweet little cherub that sits up aloft has looked after him. I will hope so. And now, my dear, Master Henry will soon be home, I am thinking, and as he has quite enough disagreeables on his own mind to be able to spare a few of them, you will take the earliest opportunity, I am sure, of acquainting him with the little matter we have been talking about, and will let me know what he says. I will. I will. That's right. Now go indoors, for there's a cold air blowing here, and you are a delicate plant, rather, just now. Go in and make yourself comfortable and easy. The worst storm must blow over at last. CHAPTER XXXI of Varney the Vampire. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Roger Maline. Varney the Vampire, Volume 1, by Thomas Prescott-Prest. CHAPTER XXXI Sir Francis Varney and his mysterious visitor. The Strange Conference. Sir Francis Varney is in what he calls his own apartment. It is night, and a dim and uncertain light from a candle which had been long neglected only serves to render obscurity more perplexing. The room is a costly one. One replete with all the appliances of refinement and luxury which the spirit and genius of the age could possibly supply him with. But there is upon his brow the marks of corroding care, and little does that most mysterious being seem to care for all the rich furnishings of that apartment in which he sits. His cadaverous-looking face is even paler and more deathlike-looking than usual, and, if it can be conceived possible, that such a one can feel largely interested in human affairs, to look at him, we could well suppose that some interest of no common magnitude was at stake. Occasionally, too, he muttered some unconnected words, no doubt mentally filling up the gaps which rendered the sentences incomplete, and being unconscious, perhaps, that he was giving audible utterance to any of his dark and secret meditations. At length he rose, and with an anxious expression of countenance he went to the window and looked out into the darkness of the night. All was still, and not an object was visible. It was that pitchy darkness, without which, for some hours, when the moon is laid and lending a reflected beams, comes over the earth's surface. It is near the hour, he muttered. It is now very near the hour. Surely he will come, and yet I know not why I should fear him, although I seem to tremble at the thought of his approach. He will surely come, once a year, only once does he visit me, and then tis but to take the price which he has compelled me to pay for that existence, which but for him had been long since terminated. Sometimes I devoutly wish it were. With a shutter he returned to the seat he had so recently left, and there for some time he appeared to meditate in silence. Suddenly now, a clock, which was in the hall of that mansion he had purchased, sounded the hour loudly. The time has come, said Sir Francis. The time has come. He will surely soon be here. Hark, hark! Slowly and distinctly he counted the strokes of the clock, and when they had ceased he exclaimed, with sudden surprise, eleven, but eleven, how have I been deceived? I thought the hour of midnight was at hand. He hastily consulted the watch he wore, and then he indeed found that whatever he had been looking forward to with dread for some time past, as certain to ensue, at or about twelve o'clock, had yet another hour in which to pray upon his imagination. How could I have made so grievous an error, he exclaimed? Another hour of suspense and wonder as to whether that man be among the living or the dead. I have thought of raising my hand against his life, but some strange mysterious feeling has always stayed me, and I have let him come and go freely. While an opportunity might well have served me to put such a design in the execution, he is old too, very old, and yet he keeps death at a distance. He looked pale, but far from unwell or failing when last I saw him. Alas, a whole hour yet to wait, I would that this interview were over. That extremely well-known and popular disease called the fidgets now began indeed to torment Sir Francis Varney. He could not sit, he could not walk, and somehow or another, he never once seemed to imagine that from the wine cup he should experience any relief, although upon a side table there stood refreshments of that character. And thus some more time passed away, and he strove to cheat it of its weariness by thinking of a variety of subjects. But as the fates would have it, there seemed not one agreeable reminiscence in the mind of that most inexplicable man, and the more he plunged into the recesses of memory, the more uneasy, not to say almost terrified, he looked and became. A shuddering nervousness came across him, and for a few moments, he sat as if he were upon the point of fainting. By a vigorous effort, however, he shook this off, and then, placing before him the watch, which now indicated about the quarter past eleven, he strove with a calmer aspect to wait the coming of him whose presence, when he did come, would really be a great terror, since the very thought before him produced so much hesitation and dismay. In order to, if possible, then to further withdraw himself from a too painful consideration of those terrors, which in due time the reader will be acquainted with the cause of. He took up a book, and plunging into its contents, he amused his mind for a time with the following brief narrative. The wind howled round the gable ends of Bridgeport House in sudden and furious gusts, while the inmates sat by the fireside, gazing in silence upon the blazing embers of the huge fire that shed a red and bright light all over the immense apartment in which they all sat. It was an ancient-looking place, very large, and capable of containing a number of guests. Several were present. An aged couple were seated in tall, high, straight-back chairs. They were the owners of that lordly mansion, and near them sat two young maidens of surpassing beauty. They were dissimilar, and yet there was a slight lightness, but of totally different complexions. The one had tresses of raven black, eyebrows, eyelashes, and eyes were all of the same hue. She was a beautiful and proud-looking girl, her complexion clear, with the hue of health upon her cheeks. While a smile played around her lips, the glance of the eye was sufficient to thrill through the whole soul. The other maiden was altogether different, her complexion altogether fairer, her hair of sunny chestnut, and her beautiful hazel eyes were shaded by long, brown eyelashes. While a playful smile also lit up her countenance, she was the younger of the two. The attention of the two young maidens had been directed to the words of the aged owner of the house, for he had been speaking a few moments before. There were several other persons present, and at some little distance were many of the domestics who were not denied the privilege of warmth and rest in the presence of their master. These were not the times when, if servants sat down, they were deemed idle. But the daily task done, then the evening hour was spent by the fireside. The wind howls and moans, said an aged domestic, in an awful manner I have never heard the like. It seems as though some imprisoned spirit was waiting for the repose that had been denied on earth, said the old lady, as she shifted her seat and gazed steadily on the fire. I, said her aged companion, it is a windy night, and there will be a storm before along, or a mistaken. It was just such a night as that my son Henry left his home, said Mrs. Bradley, just such another, only it had the addition of sleet and rain. The old man sighed at the mention of his son's name. A tear stood in the eyes of the maidens, while one looked silently at the other and seemed to exchange glances. I would that I might again see him before my body seeks its final home in the cold remorseless grave. Mother, said the fairest of the two maidens, do not talk thus, let us hope that we may yet have many years of happiness together. Many, Emma, yes, Mama, many. Do you know that I am very old, Emma, very old indeed, considering what I have suffered, such a life of sorrow and ill health is at least equal to 30 years added to my life? You may have deceived yourself on, said the other maiden. At all events, you cannot count upon life as certain, but the strongest often go first, while those who seem much more likely to fall by care as often live in peace and happiness. But I lead no life of peace and happiness while Henry Bradley is not here. Besides, my life might be passed without me seeing him again. It is now two years since he was here last, said the old man. This night, two years, was the night on which he left. This night, two years, yes. It was this night, two years, said one of the servant men, because Old Dame Poulet had twins on that night, a memorable circumstance. And one died, a 12 month old, said the man, and she had a dream which foretold the event. I, I, yes, and moreover, she said the same dream again last Wednesday was a week, said the man. And lost the other twin? Yes, sir, this morning. Omen's multiply, said the aged man. I would that it would seem to indicate the return of Henry to his home. I wonder where he can have gone to or what he could have done all this time. Probably he may not be in the land of the living. Poor Henry, said Emma. Alas, poor boy, we may never see him again. It was a mistaken act of his, and yet he knew not otherwise how to act or escape his father's displeasure. Say no more, say no more upon that subject. I dare not listen to it. God knows I know quite enough, said Mr. Bradley. I knew not he would have taken my word so to heart as he did. Why? said the old woman. He thought you meant what you said. There was a long pause during which all gazed at the blazing fire, seemingly wrapped in their own meditation. Henry Bradley, the son of the aged couple, had apparently left that day two years, and wherefore had he left the home of his childhood? Wherefore had he, the heir to large estates, done this? He had dared to love without his father's leave, and had refused the offer his father made him of marrying a young lady whom he had chosen for him, but whom he could not love. It was as much a matter of surprise to the father that his son should refuse as it was to the son that his father should contemplate such a match. Henry, said the father, you have been thought of by me. I have made proposals for marrying you to the daughter of our neighbor, Sir Arthur Anslow. Indeed, father, yes, I wish you to go there with me to see the young lady. In the character of a suitor? Yes, replied the father. Certainly, it's high time you were settled. Indeed, I would rather not go, father. I have no intention of marrying just yet. I do not desire to do so. This was an opposition that Mr. Bradley had not expected from his son, in which his imperious temper could ill brook. And with a darkened brow, he said, it is not much, Henry, that I trespass upon your obedience, but when I do so, I expect that you will obey me. But, father, this matter affects me for my whole life. That is why I have deliberated so long and carefully over it. But it is not unreasonable that I should have a voice in the affair, father, since it may render me miserable. You shall have a voice. Then I say no to the whole regulation, said Henry decisively. If you do so, you forfeit my protection, much more favor. But you had better consider over what you have said. Forget it and come with me. I cannot. You will not? No, father, I cannot do as you wish me. My mind is fully made up upon that matter. And so is mine. You either do as I would have you, or you leave the house and seek your own living, and you are a beggar. I should prefer being such, said Henry, than to marrying any young lady and be unable to love her. That is not required. No, I am astonished. Not necessary to love the woman you marry? Not at all. If you act justly toward her, she ought to be grateful. And it is all that is requisite in the marriage state. Gratitude will beget love, and love in one begets love in the other. I will not argue with you, father, upon the matter. You are a better judge than I. You have had more experience. I have. And it would be useless to speak upon the subject, but of this I can speak, my own resolve, that I will not marry the lady in question. The son had all the stern resolve of the father, but he had also a very good reasons for what he did. He loved and was beloved in return, and hence he would not break his faith with her whom he loved. To have explained this to his father would have been to gain nothing except an accession of anger, and he would have made a new demand upon his, the son's, obedience, by ordering him to discard from his bosom the image that was there indelibly engraved. You will not marry her whom I have chosen for your bride? I cannot. Do not talk to me of can and can't when I speak of will and want. It is useless to disguise the fact. You have your free will in the matter. I shall take no answer but yes or no. Then no, father. Good, sir, and now we are strangers. With that, Mr. Bradley turned abruptly from his son and left him to himself. It was the first time they had any words or difference together, and it was suddenly and soon terminated. Henry Bradley was indignant at what had happened. He did not think his father would have acted as he had done in this instance, but he was too much interested in the fate of another to hesitate for a moment. Then came the consideration as to what he should do now that he had arrived at such a climax. His first thoughts turned to his mother and sister. He could not leave the house without bidding them goodbye. He determined to see his mother for his father had left the hall upon a visit. Mrs. Bradley and Emma were alone when he entered their apartment, and to them he related all that had passed between himself and father. They besought him to stay, to remain there, or at least in that neighborhood, but he was resolved to quit the place all together for a time, as he could do nothing there, and he might chance to do something elsewhere. Upon this they got together all the money in such jewels as they could spare which in all amounted to a considerable sum. Then, taking an affectionate leave of his mother and sister, Henry left the hall, not before he had taken along an affectionate farewell of one other who lived within those walls. This was no other than the ravenide maiden who sat by the fireside and listened attentively to the conversation that was going on. She was his love, she, a poor cousin. For her sake he had braved all his father's anger and attempted to seek his fortune abroad. This done he quietly left the hall without giving anyone any intimation of where he was going. Old Mr. Bradley, when he had said so much to his son, was highly incensed at what he deemed his obstinacy, and he thought that the threat hanging over him would have a good effect. But he was amazed when he discovered that Henry had instead left the hall and he knew not wither. For some time he comforted himself with the assurance that he would, he must return. But alas, he came not. And this was the second anniversary of that melancholy day which no one more repented of and grieved for than did poor Mr. Bradley. Surely, surely he will return or let us know where he is, he said. He cannot be in need, else he would have written us for aid. No, no, said Mrs. Bradley. It is, I fear, because he is not written that he is in want. He would never write if he was in poverty, lest he should cause us unhappiness at his fate. Were he doing well, we should hear of it, for he would be proud of the result of his own unaided exertions. Well, well, said Mr. Bradley. I can say no more. If I was hasty, so was he. It is past. I would forgive all the past if I could but see him once again. How the wind howls, added the aged man, and is getting worse and worse. Yes, and the snow is coming down now in style, said one of the servants, who brought in some fresh logs which were piled up on the fire, and he shook the white flakes off his clothes. It will be a heavy fall before morning, said one of the men. Yes, it has been gathering for some days. It will be much warmer than it has been when it is all down. So it will, so it will. At that moment there was a knocking at the gate, and the dogs burst into a dreadful uproar from their kennels. Go, Robert, said Mr. Bradley, and see who it is that knocks such a night as this. It is not fit or safe that a dog should be out in it. The man went out and shortly returned saying, so please you, sir, there is a traveler that has missed his way and desires to know if he can obtain shelter here, or if anyone could be found to guide him to the nearest inn. Bid him come in. We shall lose no warmth because there is one more before the fire. The stranger entered and said, I have missed my way, and the snow comes down so thick and fast, and world in such eddies that I fear by myself I should fall into some drift and perish before morning. Do not speak of it, sir, said Mr. Bradley. Such a night as this is a sufficient apology for the request you make and an inducement to me to grant it most willingly. Thanks, replied the stranger, the welcome is most seasonable. Be seated, sir, take your seat by the angle. It is warm. The stranger seated himself and seemed lost in reflection as he gazed intently on the blazing logs. He was a robust man with great whiskers and beard and to judge from his outward habiliments, he was a stout man. Have you traveled far? I have, sir. You appear to belong to the army, if I mistake not. I do, sir. There was a pause. The stranger seemed not inclined to speak of himself much, but Mr. Bradley continued. Have you come from foreign service, sir? I presume you have. Yes, I have not been in this country more than six days. Indeed, shall we have peace, thank you. I do so and I hope it may be so for the sake of many who desire to return to their native land and to those they love best. Mr. Bradley heaved a deep sigh, which was echoed softly by all present, and the stranger looked from one to another with a hasty glance and then turned his gaze upon the fire. May I ask, sir, if you have any person whom you regard in the army, any relative? Alas, I have. Perhaps I ought to say I had a son. I know not, however, where he is gone. Oh, a runaway I see. Oh, no, he left because there were some family differences, and now I would that he were once more here. Oh, said the stranger softly, differences and mistakes will happen now and then when least desired. At this moment, an old hound who had leaned beside Ellen Mulbray, she who wore the coal-black tresses, lifted his head at the difference in sound that was noticed in the stranger's voice. He got up and walked up to him and began to smell around him, and, in another moment, he rushed at him with a cry of joy and began to lick and caress him in the most extravagant manner. This was followed by a cry of joy in all present. It is Henry, exclaimed Ellen Mulbray, rising and rushing into his arms. It was Henry, and he threw off the several coats he had on, as well as the large beard he wore to disguise himself. The meeting was a happy one. There was not a more joyful house than that within many miles around. Henry was restored to the arms of those who loved him, and, in a month, a wedding was celebrated between him and his cousin Ellen. Sir Francis Varney glanced at his watch. It indicated but five minutes to 12 o'clock, and he sprang to his feet. Even as he did so, a loud knocking at the principal entrance to his house awakened every echo within its walls. End of chapter 31, recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 32 of Varney the Vampire. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Roger Maline. Varney the Vampire, volume one, by Thomas Prescott Prest. Chapter 32, The Thousand Pounds, The Stranger's Precautions. Varney moved not now, nor did he speak, but, like a statue, he stood with his unearthly-looking eyes riveted upon the door of the apartment. In a few moments, one of his servants came and said, Sir, a person is here who says he wants to see you. He desired me to say that he had ridden far and that moments were precious when the tide of life was ebbing fast. Yes, yes, gasped Varney, admit him, I know him, bring him here, it is an old friend of mine. He sank into a chair, and still he kept his eyes fixed upon that door through which his visitor must come. Surely some secret of dreadful moment must be connected with him who, Sir Francis expected, dreaded, and yet dared not refuse to see. And now a footstep approaches, a slow and a solemn footstep. It pauses a moment at the door of the apartment, and then the servant flings it open and a tall man enters. He is enveloped in the folds of a horseman's cloak, and there is the clank of spurs upon his heels as he walks into the room. Varney rose again, but he said not a word, and for a few moments they stood opposite each other in silence. The domestic has left the room and the door is closed so that there was nothing to prevent them from conversing, and yet silent they continued for some minutes. It seemed as if each was most anxious that the other should commence the conversation first, and yet there was nothing so very remarkable in the appearance of that stranger, which should entirely justify Sir Francis Varney in feeling so much alarm at his presence. He certainly was a man past the prime of life, and he looked like one who had battled much with misfortune and as if time had not passed so lightly over his brow but that it had left deep traces of its progress. The only thing positively bad about his countenance was to be found in his eyes. There was a most ungracious and sinister expression, a kind of lurking and suspicious look as if he were always resolving in his mind some deep-laid scheme, which might be sufficient to circumvent the whole of mankind. Finding probably that Varney would not speak first, he let his cloak fall more loosely about him, and in a low, deep tone, he said, I presume I was expected. You were, said Varney, it is the day and it is the hour. You are right, I like to see you so mindful, you don't improve in looks since hush, hush no more of that. Can we not meet without a dreadful illusion to the past? There needs nothing to remind me of it and your presence here now shows that you are not forgetful. Speak not of that fearful episode. Let no words combine to place it in a tangible shape to human understanding. I cannot, dare not, hear you speak of that. It is well, said the stranger, as you please. Let our interview be brief. You know my errand? I do, so fearful a drag upon limited means is not likely to be readily forgotten. Oh, you are too ingenious, too full of well-laid schemes and too apt and ready in their execution to feel as any fearful drag the conditions of our bargain. Why do you look at me so earnestly? Because, said Varney, and he trembled as he spoke, because each liniment of your countenance brings me back to the recollection of the only scene in life that made me shudder, in which I cannot think of, even with the indifference of contempt. I see it all before my mind's eye, coming in frightful, panoramic array. Those incidents, which even to dream of, are sufficient to drive the soul to madness. The dread of this annual visit hangs upon me like a dark cloud upon my very heart. It sits like some foul incubus, destroying its vitality and dragging me from day to day, nearer to that tomb from whence, not as before, I can emerge. You have been among the dead, said the stranger. I have. And yet are mortal? Yes, repeated Varney. Yes, and yet am mortal. It was I that plucked you back to that world, which, to judge from your appearance, has had since that eventful period, but few charms for you. By my faith, you look like, like what I am, interrupted Varney. This is a subject that, once a year, gets frightfully renewed between us. For weeks before your visit, I am haunted by frightful recollections, and it takes me many weeks after you are gone before I can restore myself to serenity. Look at me. Am I not an altered man? In faith you are, said the stranger. I have no wish to press upon you painful recollections. And yet, to strange to me that upon such a man as you, the event to which you elude should produce so terrible an impression. I have passed through the agony of death, said Varney, and have again endured the torture, for it is such, of the reunion of the body and the soul, not having endured so much, not the faintest echo of such feelings can enter into your imagination. There may be truth in that, and yet, like a fluttering moth around a flame, it seems to me that when I do see you, you take a terrific kind of satisfaction in talking of the past. That is strictly true, said Varney. The images with which my mind is filled are frightful. Pent up do they remain for twelve long months. I can speak to you, and you only, without disguise, and thus does it seem to me that I get rid of the uneasy load of horrible imaginings. When you are gone, and have been gone a sufficient lapse of time, my slumbers are not haunted with frightful images. I regain a comparative peace, until the time slowly comes round again when we are doomed to meet. I understand you, you seem well-launched here. I have never kept my word and sent to you telling you where I am. You have, truly. I have no shadow of complaint to make against you. No one could have more faithfully performed his bond than you have. I give you ample credit for all that, and long may you live still to perform your conditions. I dare not deceive you, although to keep such faith I may be compelled to deceive a hundred others. Of that I cannot judge. Fortune seems to smile upon you. You have not as yet disappointed me. And will not now, said Varney, the gigantic and frightful penalty of disappointing you stares me in the face. I dare not do so. He took from his pocket, as he spoke, a clasped book, from which he produced several banknotes, which he placed before the stranger. A thousand pounds, he said. That is the agreement. It is, to the very letter, I do not return to you a thousand thanks. We understand each other better than to waste time with idle compliment. Indeed, I will go quite as far as to say, truthfully, that did not my necessities require this amount from you. You should have the boon, for which you pay that price at a much cheaper rate. Enough, enough, said Varney. It is strange that your face should have been the last I saw when the world closed upon me, and the first that met my eyes when I was again snatched back to life. Do you pursue still your dreadful trade? Yes, said the stranger, for another year, and then, with such a moderate competence as fortune has assigned me, I retire to make way for younger and abler spirits. And then, said Varney, shall you still require of me such an amount as this? No, this is my last visit but one. I shall be just and liberal towards you. You are not old, and I have no wish to become the clog of your existence. As I have before told you, it is my necessity and not my inclination that sets the value upon the service I rendered you. I understand you and ought to thank you. And in reply to so much courtesy, be assured that when I shudder at your presence, it is not that I regard you with horror as an individual, but it is because the sight of you awakens mournfully the remembrance of the past. It is clear to me, said the stranger. And now, I think we part with each other in a better spirit than we ever did before. And when we meet again, the remembrance that it is the last time will clear away the gloom that I now find hanging over you. It may, it may, with what an earnest gaze you still regard me. I do. It does appear to me most strange that times should not have obliterated the effects which I thought would have ceased with their cause. You are no more the man than in my recollection you once were than I am like a sporting child. And I never shall be, said Varney. Never, never again. The self-same look which the hand of death has placed upon me I shall ever wear. I shudder at myself. And as I oft perceive the eye of idle curiosity fixed steadfastly upon me, I wonder in my inmost heart if even the wildest guesser hits upon the cause why I am not like unto other men. No, of that you may depend there is no suspicion. But I will leave you now. We part such friends as men situated as we are can be. Once again shall we meet and then farewell forever. Do you leave England then? I do. You know my situation in life. It is not one which offers me inducements to remain. In some other land I shall win the respect and attention I may not hope for here. There my wealth will win many golden opinions and casting as best I may the veil of forgetfulness over my formal life. My declining years may yet be happy. This money that I have had of you from time to time has been more pleasantly earned than all beside, rung as it has been from your fears, still have I taken it with less reproach. And now farewell. Varney rang for a servant to show the stranger from the house. And without another word they parted. Then when he was alone, that mysterious owner of that costly home drew a long breath of apparently exquisite relief. That is over. That is over, he said. He shall have the other thousand pounds per chance sooner than he thinks. With all expedition I will send it to him. And then on that subject I shall be at peace. I shall have paid a large sum but that which I purchased was to me priceless. It was my life. It was my life itself. That possession which the world's wealth cannot restore. And shall I grudge these thousands which have found their way into this man's hands? No. Tis true that existence for me has lost some of its most resplendent charms. Tis true that I have no earthly affections and that shunning companionship with all I am alike shunned by all. And yet while the lifeblood still will circulate within my shrunken veins, I cling to vitality. He passed into an inner room and taking from a hook unwitched at hung a long dark colored cloak, he enveloped his tall unearthly figure within its folds. Then with his hat in his hand, he passed out of his house and appeared to be taking his way towards Bannerworth Hall. Surely it must be guilt of no common die that could oppress a man so destitute of human sympathies as Sir Francis Varney. The dreadful suspicions that hovered around him with respect to what he was appeared to gather confirmation from every act of his existence. Whether or not this man to whom he felt bound to pay annually so large a sum was in the secret and knew him to be something more than earthly, we cannot at present declare. But it would seem from the tenor of their conversation as if such were the fact. Per chance he had saved him from the corruption of the tomb by placing out on some sylvan's plot where the cold moonbeams fell, the apparent lifeless form and now claim so large a reward of such a service and the necessary secrecy contingent upon it. We say this may be so and yet again some more natural and rational explanation may unexpectedly present itself. And there may be yet a dark page in Sir Francis Varney's life's volume which will place him in a light of super-added terrors to our readers. Time and the now rapidly accumulating incidents of our tale will soon tear aside the veil of mystery that now envelops some of our dramatic person eye. And let us hope that in the development of these incidents we shall be enabled to rescue the beautiful Flora Bannerworth from the despairing gloom that is around her. Let us hope and even anticipate that we shall see her smile again that the rosy at hue of health will again revisit her cheeks, the light buoyancy of her step return and that as before, she may be the joy of all around her, dispensing and receiving happiness. And he too, that gallant fearless lover, he whom no chance of time or tide could sever from the object of his fond affections, he who listened to nothing but the dictates of his heart's best feelings. Let us indulge a hope that he will have a bright reward and that the sunshine of a permanent felicity will only seem the brighter for the shadows that for a time have obscured its glory. And