VARNEY, THE VAMPYRE:

OR,

THE FEAST OF BLOOD.

A Romance.

“Art thou a spirit of health or goblin damned?”

LONDON:

PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY E. LLOYD, 12, SALISBURY-SQUARE,
FLEET-STREET.

CONTENTS

PREFACE

The unprecedented success of the romance of “Varney the
Vampyre,” leaves the Author but little to say further, than
that he accepts that success and its results as gratefully as
it is possible for any one to do popular favours.

A belief in the existence of Vampyres first took its rise in
Norway and Sweden, from whence it rapidly spread to more
southern regions, taking a firm hold of the imaginations of the
more credulous portion of mankind.

The following romance is collected from seemingly the most
authentic sources, and the Author must leave the question of
credibility entirely to his readers, not even thinking that he
is peculiarly called upon to express his own opinion upon the
subject.

Nothing has been omitted in the life of the unhappy Varney,
which could tend to throw a light upon his most extraordinary
career, and the fact of his death just as it is here related,
made a great noise at the time through Europe and is to be
found in the public prints for the year 1713.

With these few observations, the Author and Publisher, are
well content to leave the work in the hands of a public, which
has stamped it with an approbation far exceeding their most
sanguine expectations, and which is calculated to act as the
strongest possible incentive to the production of other works,
which in a like, or perchance a still further degree may be
deserving of public patronage and support.

To the whole of the Metropolitan Press for their laudatory
notices, the Author is peculiarly obliged.

London Sep. 1847

VARNEY, THE VAMPYRE;

OR

THE FEAST OF BLOOD

A Romance

CHAPTER I.

MIDNIGHT.—THE HAIL-STORM.—THE DREADFUL
VISITOR.—THE VAMPYRE.

The solemn tones of an old cathedral clock have announced
midnight—the air is thick and heavy—a strange,
death like stillness pervades all nature. Like the ominous calm
which precedes some more than usually terrific outbreak of the
elements, they seem to have paused even in their ordinary
fluctuations, to gather a terrific strength for the great
effort. A faint peal of thunder now comes from far off. Like a
signal gun for the battle of the winds to begin, it appeared to
awaken them from their lethargy, and one awful, warring
hurricane swept over a whole city, producing more devastation
in the four or five minutes it lasted, than would a half
century of ordinary phenomena.

It was as if some giant had blown upon some toy town, and
scattered many of the buildings before the hot blast of his
terrific breath; for as suddenly as that blast of wind had come
did it cease, and all was as still and calm as before.

Sleepers awakened, and thought that what they had heard must
be the confused chimera of a dream. They trembled and turned to
sleep again.

All is still—still as the very grave. Not a sound
breaks the magic of repose. What is that—a strange,
pattering noise, as of a million of fairy feet? It is
hail—yes, a hail-storm has burst over the city. Leaves
are dashed from the trees, mingled with small boughs; windows
that lie most opposed to the direct fury of the pelting
particles of ice are broken, and the rapt repose that before
was so remarkable in its intensity, is exchanged for a noise
which, in its accumulation, drowns every cry of surprise or
consternation which here and there arose from persons who found
their houses invaded by the storm.

Now and then, too, there would come a sudden gust of wind
that in its strength, as it blew laterally, would, for a
moment, hold millions of the hailstones suspended in mid air,
but it was only to dash them with redoubled force in some new
direction, where more mischief was to be done.

Oh, how the storm raged! Hail—rain—wind. It was,
in very truth, an awful night.

There is an antique chamber in an ancient house. Curious and
quaint carvings adorn the walls, and the large chimney-piece is
a curiosity of itself. The ceiling is low, and a large bay
window, from roof to floor, looks to the west. The window is
latticed, and filled with curiously painted glass and rich
stained pieces, which send in a strange, yet beautiful light,
when sun or moon shines into the apartment. There is but one
portrait in that room, although the walls seem panelled for the
express purpose of containing a series of pictures. That
portrait is of a young man, with a pale face, a stately brow,
and a strange expression about the eyes, which no one cared to
look on twice.

There is a stately bed in that chamber, of carved
walnut-wood is it made, rich in design and elaborate in
execution; one of those works of art which owe their existence
to the Elizabethan era. It is hung with heavy silken and damask
furnishing; nodding feathers are at its corners—covered
with dust are they, and they lend a funereal aspect to the
room. The floor is of polished oak.

God! how the hail dashes on the old bay window! Like an
occasional discharge of mimic musketry, it comes clashing,
beating, and cracking upon the small panes; but they resist
it—their small size saves them; the wind, the hail, the
rain, expend their fury in vain.

The bed in that old chamber is occupied. A creature formed
in all fashions of loveliness lies in a half sleep upon that
ancient couch—a girl young and beautiful as a spring
morning. Her long hair has escaped from its confinement and
streams over the blackened coverings of the bedstead; she has
been restless in her sleep, for the clothing of the bed is in
much confusion. One arm is over her head, the other hangs
nearly off the side of the bed near to which she lies. A neck
and bosom that would have formed a study for the rarest
sculptor that ever Providence gave genius to, were half
disclosed. She moaned slightly in her sleep, and once or twice
the lips moved as if in prayer—at least one might judge
so, for the name of Him who suffered for all came once faintly
from them.

She has endured much fatigue, and the storm does not awaken
her; but it can disturb the slumbers it does not possess the
power to destroy entirely. The turmoil of the elements wakes
the senses, although it cannot entirely break the repose they
have lapsed into.

Oh, what a world of witchery was in that mouth, slightly
parted, and exhibiting within the pearly teeth that glistened
even in the faint light that came from that bay window. How
sweetly the long silken eyelashes lay upon the cheek. Now she
moves, and one shoulder is entirely visible—whiter,
fairer than the spotless clothing of the bed on which she lies,
is the smooth skin of that fair creature, just budding into
womanhood, and in that transition state which presents to us
all the charms of the girl—almost of the child, with the
more matured beauty and gentleness of advancing years.

Was that lightning? Yes—an awful, vivid, terrifying
flash—then a roaring peal of thunder, as if a thousand
mountains were rolling one over the other in the blue vault of
Heaven! Who sleeps now in that ancient city? Not one living
soul. The dread trumpet of eternity could not more effectually
have awakened any one.

The hail continues. The wind continues. The uproar of the
elements seems at its height. Now she awakens—that
beautiful girl on the antique bed; she opens those eyes of
celestial blue, and a faint cry of alarm bursts from her lips.
At least it is a cry which, amid the noise and turmoil without,
sounds but faint and weak. She sits upon the bed and presses
her hands upon her eyes. Heavens! what a wild torrent of wind,
and rain, and hail! The thunder likewise seems intent upon
awakening sufficient echoes to last until the next flash of
forked lightning should again produce the wild concussion of
the air. She murmurs a prayer—a prayer for those she
loves best; the names of those dear to her gentle heart come
from her lips; she weeps and prays; she thinks then of what
devastation the storm must surely produce, and to the great God
of Heaven she prays for all living things. Another
flash—a wild, blue, bewildering flash of lightning
streams across that bay window, for an instant bringing out
every colour in it with terrible distinctness. A shriek bursts
from the lips of the young girl, and then, with eyes fixed upon
that window, which, in another moment, is all darkness, and
with such an expression of terror upon her face as it had never
before known, she trembled, and the perspiration of intense
fear stood upon her brow.

“What—what was it?” she gasped; “real, or a delusion?
Oh, God, what was it? A figure tall and gaunt, endeavouring
from the outside to unclasp the window. I saw it. That flash of
lightning revealed it to me. It stood the whole length of the
window.”

There was a lull of the wind. The hail was not falling so
thickly—moreover, it now fell, what there was of it,
straight, and yet a strange clattering sound came upon the
glass of that long window. It could not be a delusion—she
is awake, and she hears it. What can produce it? Another flash
of lightning—another shriek—there could be now no
delusion.

A tall figure is standing on the ledge immediately outside
the long window. It is its finger-nails upon the glass that
produces the sound so like the hail, now that the hail has
ceased. Intense fear paralysed the limbs of that beautiful
girl. That one shriek is all she can utter—with hands
clasped, a face of marble, a heart beating so wildly in her
bosom, that each moment it seems as if it would break its
confines, eyes distended and fixed upon the window, she waits,
froze with horror. The pattering and clattering of the nails
continue. No word is spoken, and now she fancies she can trace
the darker form of that figure against the window, and she can
see the long arms moving to and fro, feeling for some mode of
entrance. What strange light is that which now gradually creeps
up into the air? red and terrible—brighter and brighter
it grows. The lightning has set fire to a mill, and the
reflection of the rapidly consuming building falls upon that
long window. There can be no mistake. The figure is there,
still feeling for an entrance, and clattering against the glass
with its long nails, that appear as if the growth of many years
had been untouched. She tries to scream again but a choking
sensation comes over her, and she cannot. It is too
dreadful—she tries to move—each limb seems weighed
down by tons of lead—she can but in a hoarse faint
whisper cry,—

“Help—help—help—help!”

And that one word she repeats like a person in a dream. The
red glare of the fire continues. It throws up the tall gaunt
figure in hideous relief against the long window. It shows,
too, upon the one portrait that is in the chamber, and that
portrait appears to fix its eyes upon the attempting intruder,
while the flickering light from the fire makes it look
fearfully lifelike. A small pane of glass is broken, and the
form from without introduces a long gaunt hand, which seems
utterly destitute of flesh. The fastening is removed, and
one-half of the window, which opens like folding doors, is
swung wide open upon its hinges.

And yet now she could not scream—she could not move.
“Help!—help!—help!” was all she could say. But, oh,
that look of terror that sat upon her face, it was
dreadful—a look to haunt the memory for a
lifetime—a look to obtrude itself upon the happiest
moments, and turn them to bitterness.

The figure turns half round, and the light falls upon the
face. It is perfectly white—perfectly bloodless. The eyes
look like polished tin; the lips are drawn back, and the
principal feature next to those dreadful eyes is the
teeth—the fearful looking teeth—projecting like
those of some wild animal, hideously, glaringly white, and
fang-like. It approaches the bed with a strange, gliding
movement. It clashes together the long nails that literally
appear to hang from the finger ends. No sound comes from its
lips. Is she going mad—that young and beautiful girl
exposed to so much terror? she has drawn up all her limbs; she
cannot even now say help. The power of articulation is gone,
but the power of movement has returned to her; she can draw
herself slowly along to the other side of the bed from that
towards which the hideous appearance is coming.

But her eyes are fascinated. The glance of a serpent could
not have produced a greater effect upon her than did the fixed
gaze of those awful, metallic-looking eyes that were bent on
her face. Crouching down so that the gigantic height was lost,
and the horrible, protruding, white face was the most prominent
object, came on the figure. What was it?—what did it want
there?—what made it look so hideous—so unlike an
inhabitant of the earth, and yet to be on it?

Now she has got to the verge of the bed, and the figure
pauses. It seemed as if when it paused she lost the power to
proceed. The clothing of the bed was now clutched in her hands
with unconscious power. She drew her breath short and thick.
Her bosom heaves, and her limbs tremble, yet she cannot
withdraw her eyes from that marble-looking face. He holds her
with his glittering eye.

The storm has ceased—all is still. The winds are
hushed; the church clock proclaims the hour of one: a hissing
sound comes from the throat of the hideous being, and he raises
his long, gaunt arms—the lips move. He advances. The girl
places one small foot from the bed on to the floor. She is
unconsciously dragging the clothing with her. The door of the
room is in that direction—can she reach it? Has she power
to walk?—can she withdraw her eyes from the face of the
intruder, and so break the hideous charm? God of Heaven! is it
real, or some dream so like reality as to nearly overturn the
judgment for ever?

The figure has paused again, and half on the bed and half
out of it that young girl lies trembling. Her long hair streams
across the entire width of the bed. As she has slowly moved
along she has left it streaming across the pillows. The pause
lasted about a minute—oh, what an age of agony. That
minute was, indeed, enough for madness to do its full work
in.

With a sudden rush that could not be foreseen—with a
strange howling cry that was enough to awaken terror in every
breast, the figure seized the long tresses of her hair, and
twining them round his bony hands he held her to the bed. Then
she screamed—Heaven granted her then power to scream.
Shriek followed shriek in rapid succession. The bed-clothes
fell in a heap by the side of the bed—she was dragged by
her long silken hair completely on to it again. Her beautifully
rounded limbs quivered with the agony of her soul. The glassy,
horrible eyes of the figure ran over that angelic form with a
hideous satisfaction—horrible profanation. He drags her
head to the bed’s edge. He forces it back by the long hair
still entwined in his grasp. With a plunge he seizes her neck
in his fang-like teeth—a gush of blood, and a hideous
sucking noise follows. The girl has swooned, and the vampyre
is at his hideous repast!

CHAPTER II.

THE ALARM.—THE PISTOL SHOT.—THE PURSUIT AND ITS
CONSEQUENCES.

Lights flashed about the building, and various room doors
opened; voices called one to the other. There was an universal
stir and commotion among the inhabitants.

“Did you hear a scream, Harry?” asked a young man,
half-dressed, as he walked into the chamber of another about
his own age.

“I did—where was it?”

“God knows. I dressed myself directly.”

“All is still now.”

“Yes; but unless I was dreaming there was a scream.”

“We could not both dream there was. Where did you think it
came from?”

“It burst so suddenly upon my ears that I cannot say.”

There was a tap now at the door of the room where these
young men were, and a female voice said,—

“For God’s sake, get up!”

“We are up,” said both the young men, appearing.

“Did you hear anything?”

“Yes, a scream.”

“Oh, search the house—search the house; where did it
come from—can you tell?”

“Indeed we cannot, mother.”

Another person now joined the party. He was a man of middle
age, and, as he came up to them, he said,—

“Good God! what is the matter?”

Scarcely had the words passed his lips, than such a rapid
succession of shrieks came upon their ears, that they felt
absolutely stunned by them. The elderly lady, whom one of the
young men had called mother, fainted, and would have fallen to
the floor of the corridor in which they all stood, had she not
been promptly supported by the last comer, who himself
staggered, as those piercing cries came upon the night air. He,
however, was the first to recover, for the young men seemed
paralysed.

“Henry,” he cried, “for God’s sake support your mother. Can
you doubt that these cries come from Flora’s room?”

The young man mechanically supported his mother, and then
the man who had just spoken darted back to his own bed-room,
from whence he returned in a moment with a pair of pistols, and
shouting,—

“Follow me, who can!” he bounded across the corridor in the
direction of the antique apartment, from whence the cries
proceeded, but which were now hushed.

That house was built for strength, and the doors were all of
oak, and of considerable thickness. Unhappily, they had
fastenings within, so that when the man reached the chamber of
her who so much required help, he was helpless, for the door
was fast.

“Flora! Flora!” he cried; “Flora, speak!”

All was still.

“Good God!” he added; “we must force the door.”

“I hear a strange noise within,” said the young man, who
trembled violently.

“And so do I. What does it sound like?”

“I scarcely know; but it nearest resembles some animal
eating, or sucking some liquid.”

“What on earth can it be? Have you no weapon that will force
the door? I shall go mad if I am kept here.”

“I have,” said the young man. “Wait here a moment.”

He ran down the staircase, and presently returned with a
small, but powerful, iron crow-bar.

“This will do,” he said.

“It will, it will.—Give it to me.”

“Has she not spoken?”

“Not a word. My mind misgives me that something very
dreadful must have happened to her.”

“And that odd noise!”

“Still goes on. Somehow, it curdles the very blood in my
veins to hear it.”

The man took the crow-bar, and with some difficulty
succeeded in introducing it between the door and the side of
the wall—still it required great strength to move it, but
it did move, with a harsh, crackling sound.

“Push it!” cried he who was using the bar, “push the door at
the same time.”

The younger man did so. For a few moments the massive door
resisted. Then, suddenly, something gave way with a loud
snap—it was a part of the lock,—and the door at
once swung wide open.

How true it is that we measure time by the events which
happen within a given space of it, rather than by its actual
duration.

To those who were engaged in forcing open the door of the
antique chamber, where slept the young girl whom they named
Flora, each moment was swelled into an hour of agony; but, in
reality, from the first moment of the alarm to that when the
loud cracking noise heralded the destruction of the fastenings
of the door, there had elapsed but very few minutes indeed.

“It opens—it opens,” cried the young man.

“Another moment,” said the stranger, as he still plied the
crowbar—”another moment, and we shall have free ingress
to the chamber. Be patient.”

This stranger’s name was Marchdale; and even as he spoke, he
succeeded in throwing the massive door wide open, and clearing
the passage to the chamber.

To rush in with a light in his hand was the work of a moment
to the young man named Henry; but the very rapid progress he
made into the apartment prevented him from observing accurately
what it contained, for the wind that came in from the open
window caught the flame of the candle, and although it did not
actually extinguish it, it blew it so much on one side, that it
was comparatively useless as a light.

“Flora—Flora!” he cried.

Then with a sudden bound something dashed from off the bed.
The concussion against him was so sudden and so utterly
unexpected, as well as so tremendously violent, that he was
thrown down, and, in his fall, the light was fairly
extinguished.

All was darkness, save a dull, reddish kind of light that
now and then, from the nearly consumed mill in the immediate
vicinity, came into the room. But by that light, dim,
uncertain, and flickering as it was, some one was seen to make
for the window.

Henry, although nearly stunned by his fall, saw a figure,
gigantic in height, which nearly reached from the floor to the
ceiling. The other young man, George, saw it, and Mr. Marchdale
likewise saw it, as did the lady who had spoken to the two
young men in the corridor when first the screams of the young
girl awakened alarm in the breasts of all the inhabitants of
that house.

The figure was about to pass out at the window which led to
a kind of balcony, from whence there was an easy descent to a
garden.

Before it passed out they each and all caught a glance of
the side-face, and they saw that the lower part of it and the
lips were dabbled in blood. They saw, too, one of those
fearful-looking, shining, metallic eyes which presented so
terrible an appearance of unearthly ferocity.

No wonder that for a moment a panic seized them all, which
paralysed any exertions they might otherwise have made to
detain that hideous form.

But Mr. Marchdale was a man of mature years; he had seen
much of life, both in this and in foreign lands; and he,
although astonished to the extent of being frightened, was much
more likely to recover sooner than his younger companions,
which, indeed, he did, and acted promptly enough.

“Don’t rise, Henry,” he cried. “Lie still.”

Almost at the moment he uttered these words, he fired at the
figure, which then occupied the window, as if it were a
gigantic figure set in a frame.

The report was tremendous in that chamber, for the pistol
was no toy weapon, but one made for actual service, and of
sufficient length and bore of barrel to carry destruction along
with the bullets that came from it.

“If that has missed its aim,” said Mr. Marchdale, “I’ll
never pull a trigger again.”

As he spoke he dashed forward, and made a clutch at the
figure he felt convinced he had shot.

The tall form turned upon him, and when he got a full view
of the face, which he did at that moment, from the opportune
circumstance of the lady returning at the instant with a light
she had been to her own chamber to procure, even he, Marchdale,
with all his courage, and that was great, and all his nervous
energy, recoiled a step or two, and uttered the exclamation of,
“Great God!”

That face was one never to be forgotten. It was hideously
flushed with colour—the colour of fresh blood; the eyes
had a savage and remarkable lustre; whereas, before, they had
looked like polished tin—they now wore a ten times
brighter aspect, and flashes of light seemed to dart from them.
The mouth was open, as if, from the natural formation of the
countenance, the lips receded much from the large canine
looking teeth.

A strange howling noise came from the throat of this
monstrous figure, and it seemed upon the point of rushing upon
Mr. Marchdale. Suddenly, then, as if some impulse had seized
upon it, it uttered a wild and terrible shrieking kind of
laugh; and then turning, dashed through the window, and in one
instant disappeared from before the eyes of those who felt
nearly annihilated by its fearful presence.

“God help us!” ejaculated Henry.

Mr. Marchdale drew a long breath, and then, giving a stamp
on the floor, as if to recover himself from the state of
agitation into which even he was thrown, he cried,—

“Be it what or who it may, I’ll follow it”

“No—no—do not,” cried the lady.

“I must, I will. Let who will come with me—I follow
that dreadful form.”

As he spoke, he took the road it took, and dashed through
the window into the balcony.

“And we, too, George,” exclaimed Henry; “we will follow Mr.
Marchdale. This dreadful affair concerns us more nearly than it
does him.”

The lady who was the mother of these young men, and of the
beautiful girl who had been so awfully visited, screamed aloud,
and implored of them to stay. But the voice of Mr. Marchdale
was heard exclaiming aloud,—

“I see it—I see it; it makes for the wall.”

They hesitated no longer, but at once rushed into the
balcony, and from thence dropped into the garden.

The mother approached the bed-side of the insensible,
perhaps the murdered girl; she saw her, to all appearance,
weltering in blood, and, overcome by her emotions, she fainted
on the floor of the room.

When the two young men reached the garden, they found it
much lighter than might have been fairly expected; for not only
was the morning rapidly approaching, but the mill was still
burning, and those mingled lights made almost every object
plainly visible, except when deep shadows were thrown from some
gigantic trees that had stood for centuries in that sweetly
wooded spot. They heard the voice of Mr. Marchdale, as he
cried,—

“There—there—towards the wall.
There—there—God! how it bounds along.”

The young men hastily dashed through a thicket in the
direction from whence his voice sounded, and then they found
him looking wild and terrified, and with something in his hand
which looked like a portion of clothing.

“Which way, which way?” they both cried in a breath.

He leant heavily on the arm of George, as he pointed along a
vista of trees, and said in a low voice,—

“God help us all. It is not human. Look there—look
there—do you not see it?”

They looked in the direction he indicated. At the end of
this vista was the wall of the garden. At that point it was
full twelve feet in height, and as they looked, they saw the
hideous, monstrous form they had traced from the chamber of
their sister, making frantic efforts to clear the obstacle.

Then they saw it bound from the ground to the top of the
wall, which it very nearly reached, and then each time it fell
back again into the garden with such a dull, heavy sound, that
the earth seemed to shake again with the concussion. They
trembled—well indeed they might, and for some minutes
they watched the figure making its fruitless efforts to leave
the place.

“What—what is it?” whispered Henry, in hoarse accents.
“God, what can it possibly be?”

“I know not,” replied Mr. Marchdale. “I did seize it. It was
cold and clammy like a corpse. It cannot be human.”

“Not human?”

“Look at it now. It will surely escape now.”

“No, no—we will not be terrified thus—there is
Heaven above us. Come on, and, for dear Flora’s sake, let us
make an effort yet to seize this bold intruder.”

“Take this pistol,” said Marchdale. “It is the fellow of the
one I fired. Try its efficacy.”

“He will be gone,” exclaimed Henry, as at this moment, after
many repeated attempts and fearful falls, the figure reached
the top of the wall, and then hung by its long arms a moment or
two, previous to dragging itself completely up.

The idea of the appearance, be it what it might, entirely
escaping, seemed to nerve again Mr. Marchdale, and he, as well
as the two young men, ran forward towards the wall. They got so
close to the figure before it sprang down on the outer side of
the wall, that to miss killing it with the bullet from the
pistol was a matter of utter impossibility, unless
wilfully.

Henry had the weapon, and he pointed it full at the tall
form with a steady aim. He pulled the trigger—the
explosion followed, and that the bullet did its office there
could be no manner of doubt, for the figure gave a howling
shriek, and fell headlong from the wall on the outside.

“I have shot him,” cried Henry, “I have shot him.”

CHAPTER III.

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE BODY.—FLORA’S RECOVERY AND
MADNESS.—THE OFFER OF ASSISTANCE FROM SIR FRANCIS
VARNEY.

“He is human!” cried Henry; “I have surely killed him.”

“It would seem so,” said Mr. Marchdale. “Let us now hurry
round to the outside of the wall, and see where he lies.”

This was at once agreed to, and the whole three of them made
what expedition they could towards a gate which led into a
paddock, across which they hurried, and soon found themselves
clear of the garden wall, so that they could make way towards
where they fully expected to find the body of him who had worn
so unearthly an aspect, but who it would be an excessive relief
to find was human.

So hurried was the progress they made, that it was scarcely
possible to exchange many words as they went; a kind of
breathless anxiety was upon them, and in the speed they
disregarded every obstacle, which would, at any other time,
have probably prevented them from taking the direct road they
sought.

It was difficult on the outside of the wall to say exactly
which was the precise spot which it might be supposed the body
had fallen on; but, by following the wall in its entire length,
surely they would come upon it.

They did so; but, to their surprise, they got from its
commencement to its further extremity without finding any dead
body, or even any symptoms of one having lain there.

At some parts close to the wall there grew a kind of heath,
and, consequently, the traces of blood would be lost among it,
if it so happened that at the precise spot at which the strange
being had seemed to topple over, such vegetation had existed.
This was to be ascertained; but now, after traversing the whole
length of the wall twice, they came to a halt, and looked
wonderingly in each other’s faces.

“There is nothing here,” said Harry.

“Nothing,” added his brother.

“It could not have been a delusion,” at length said Mr.
Marchdale, with a shudder.

“A delusion?” exclaimed the brother! “That is not possible;
we all saw it.”

“Then what terrible explanation can we give?”

“By heavens! I know not,” exclaimed Henry. “This adventure
surpasses all belief, and but for the great interest we have in
it, I should regard it with a world of curiosity.”

“It is too dreadful,” said George; “for God’s sake, Henry,
let us return to ascertain if poor Flora is killed.”

“My senses,” said Henry, “were all so much absorbed in
gazing at that horrible form, that I never once looked towards
her further than to see that she was, to appearance, dead. God
help her! poor—poor, beautiful Flora. This is, indeed, a
sad, sad fate for you to come to. Flora—Flora—”

“Do not weep, Henry,” said George. “Rather let us now hasten
home, where we may find that tears are premature. She may yet
be living and restored to us.”

“And,” said Mr. Marchdale, “she may be able to give us some
account of this dreadful visitation.”

“True—true,” exclaimed Henry; “we will hasten
home.”

They now turned their steps homeward, and as they went they
much blamed themselves for all leaving home together, and with
terror pictured what might occur in their absence to those who
were now totally unprotected.

“It was a rash impulse of us all to come in pursuit of this
dreadful figure,” remarked Mr. Marchdale; “but do not torment
yourself, Henry. There may be no reason for your fears.”

At the pace they went, they very soon reached the ancient
house, and when they came in sight of it, they saw lights
flashing from the windows, and the shadows of faces moving to
and fro, indicating that the whole household was up, and in a
state of alarm.

Henry, after some trouble, got the hall door opened by a
terrified servant, who was trembling so much that she could
scarcely hold the light she had with her.

“Speak at once, Martha,” said Henry. “Is Flora living?”

“Yes; but—”

“Enough—enough! Thank God she lives; where is she
now?”

“In her own room, Master Henry. Oh, dear—oh, dear,
what will become of us all?”

Henry rushed up the staircase, followed by George and Mr.
Marchdale, nor paused he once until he reached the room of his
sister.

“Mother,” he said, before he crossed the threshold, “are you
here?”

“I am, my dear—I am. Come in, pray come in, and speak
to poor Flora.”

“Come in, Mr. Marchdale,” said Henry—”come in; we make
no stranger of you.”

They all then entered the room.

Several lights had been now brought into that antique
chamber, and, in addition to the mother of the beautiful girl
who had been so fearfully visited, there were two female
domestics, who appeared to be in the greatest possible fright,
for they could render no assistance whatever to anybody.

The tears were streaming down the mother’s face, and the
moment she saw Mr. Marchdale, she clung to his arm, evidently
unconscious of what she was about, and exclaimed,—

“Oh, what is this that has happened—what is this? Tell
me, Marchdale! Robert Marchdale, you whom I have known even
from my childhood, you will not deceive me. Tell me the meaning
of all this?”

“I cannot,” he said, in a tone of much emotion. “As God is
my judge, I am as much puzzled and amazed at the scene that has
taken place here to-night as you can be.”

The mother wrung her hands and wept.

“It was the storm that first awakened me,” added Marchdale;
“and then I heard a scream.”

The brothers tremblingly approached the bed. Flora was
placed in a sitting, half-reclining posture, propped up by
pillows. She was quite insensible, and her face was fearfully
pale; while that she breathed at all could be but very faintly
seen. On some of her clothing, about the neck, were spots of
blood, and she looked more like one who had suffered some long
and grievous illness, than a young girl in the prime of life
and in the most robust health, as she had been on the day
previous to the strange scene we have recorded.

“Does she sleep?” said Henry, as a tear fell from his eyes
upon her pallid cheek.

“No,” replied Mr. Marchdale. “This is a swoon, from which we
must recover her.”

Active measures were now adopted to restore the languid
circulation, and, after persevering in them for some time, they
had the satisfaction of seeing her open her eyes.

Her first act upon consciousness returning, however, was to
utter a loud shriek, and it was not until Henry implored her to
look around her, and see that she was surrounded by none but
friendly faces, that she would venture again to open her eyes,
and look timidly from one to the other. Then she shuddered, and
burst into tears as she said,—

“Oh, Heaven, have mercy upon me—Heaven, have mercy
upon me, and save me from that dreadful form.”

“There is no one here, Flora,” said Mr. Marchdale, “but
those who love you, and who, in defence of you, if needs were
would lay down their lives.”

“Oh, God! Oh, God!”

“You have been terrified. But tell us distinctly what has
happened? You are quite safe now.”

She trembled so violently that Mr. Marchdale recommended
that some stimulant should be given to her, and she was
persuaded, although not without considerable difficulty, to
swallow a small portion of some wine from a cup. There could be
no doubt but that the stimulating effect of the wine was
beneficial, for a slight accession of colour visited her
cheeks, and she spoke in a firmer tone as she said,—

“Do not leave me. Oh, do not leave me, any of you. I shall
die if left alone now. Oh, save me—save me. That horrible
form! That fearful face!”

“Tell us how it happened, dear Flora?” said Henry.

“Or would you rather endeavour to get some sleep first?”
suggested Mr. Marchdale.

“No—no—no,” she said, “I do not think I shall
ever sleep again.”

“Say not so; you will be more composed in a few hours, and
then you can tell us what has occurred.”

“I will tell you now. I will tell you now.”

She placed her hands over her face for a moment, as if to
collect her scattered, thoughts, and then she added,—

“I was awakened by the storm, and I saw that terrible
apparition at the window. I think I screamed, but I could not
fly. Oh, God! I could not fly. It came—it seized me by
the hair. I know no more. I know no more.”

She passed her hand across her neck several times, and Mr.
Marchdale said, in an anxious voice,—

“You seem, Flora, to have hurt your neck—there is a
wound.”

“A wound!” said the mother, and she brought a light close to
the bed, where all saw on the side of Flora’s neck a small
punctured wound; or, rather two, for there was one a little
distance from the other.

It was from these wounds the blood had come which was
observable upon her night clothing.

“How came these wounds?” said Henry.

“I do not know,” she replied. “I feel very faint and weak,
as if I had almost bled to death.”

“You cannot have done so, dear Flora, for there are not
above half-a-dozen spots of blood to be seen at all.”

Mr. Marchdale leaned against the carved head of the bed for
support, and he uttered a deep groan. All eyes were turned upon
him, and Henry said, in a voice of the most anxious
inquiry,—

“You have something to say, Mr. Marchdale, which will throw
some light upon this affair.”

“No, no, no, nothing!” cried Mr. Marchdale, rousing himself
at once from the appearance of depression that had come over
him. “I have nothing to say, but that I think Flora had better
get some sleep if she can.”

“No sleep-no sleep for me,” again screamed Flora. “Dare I be
alone to sleep?”

“But you shall not be alone, dear Flora,” said Henry. “I
will sit by your bedside and watch you.”

She took his hand in both hers, and while the tears chased
each other down her cheeks, she said,—

“Promise me, Henry, by all your hopes of Heaven, you will
not leave me.”

“I promise!”

She gently laid herself down, with a deep sigh, and closed
her eyes.

“She is weak, and will sleep long,” said Mr. Marchdale.

“You sigh,” said Henry. “Some fearful thoughts, I feel
certain, oppress your heart.”

“Hush-hush!” said Mr. Marchdale, as he pointed to Flora.
“Hush! not here—not here.”

“I understand,” said Henry.

“Let her sleep.”

There was a silence of some few minutes duration. Flora had
dropped into a deep slumber. That silence was first broken by
George, who said,—

“Mr. Marchdale, look at that portrait.”

He pointed to the portrait in the frame to which we have
alluded, and the moment Marchdale looked at it he sunk into a
chair as he exclaimed,—

“Gracious Heaven, how like!”

“It is—it is,” said Henry. “Those eyes—”

“And see the contour of the countenance, and the strange
shape of the mouth.”

“Exact—exact.”

“That picture shall be moved from here. The sight of it is
at once sufficient to awaken all her former terrors in poor
Flora’s brain if she should chance to awaken and cast her eyes
suddenly upon it.”

“And is it so like him who came here?” said the mother.

“It is the very man himself,” said Mr. Marchdale. “I have
not been in this house long enough to ask any of you whose
portrait that may be?”

“It is,” said Henry, “the portrait of Sir Runnagate
Bannerworth, an ancestor of ours, who first, by his vices, gave
the great blow to the family prosperity.”

“Indeed. How long ago?”

“About ninety years.”

“Ninety years. ‘Tis a long while—ninety years.”

“You muse upon it.”

“No, no. I do wish, and yet I dread—”

“What?”

“To say something to you all. But not here—not here.
We will hold a consultation on this matter to-morrow. Not
now—not now.”

“The daylight is coming quickly on,” said Henry; “I shall
keep my sacred promise of not moving from this room until Flora
awakens; but there can be no occasion for the detention of any
of you. One is sufficient here. Go all of you, and endeavour to
procure what rest you can.”

“I will fetch you my powder-flask and bullets,” said Mr.
Marchdale; “and you can, if you please, reload the pistols. In
about two hours more it will be broad daylight.”

This arrangement was adopted. Henry did reload the pistols,
and placed them on a table by the side of the bed, ready for
immediate action, and then, as Flora was sleeping soundly, all
left the room but himself.

Mrs. Bannerworth was the last to do so. She would have
remained, but for the earnest solicitation of Henry, that she
would endeavour to get some sleep to make up for her broken
night’s repose, and she was indeed so broken down by her alarm
on Flora’s account, that she had not power to resist, but with
tears flowing from her eyes, she sought her own chamber.

And now the calmness of the night resumed its sway in that
evil-fated mansion; and although no one really slept but Flora,
all were still. Busy thought kept every one else wakeful. It
was a mockery to lie down at all, and Henry, full of strange
and painful feelings as he was, preferred his present position
to the anxiety and apprehension on Flora’s account which he
knew he should feel if she were not within the sphere of his
own observation, and she slept as soundly as some gentle infant
tired of its playmates and its sports.

CHAPTER IV.

THE MORNING.—THE CONSULTATION.—THE FEARFUL
SUGGESTION.

What wonderfully different impressions and feelings, with
regard to the same circumstances, come across the mind in the
broad, clear, and beautiful light of day to what haunt the
imagination, and often render the judgment almost incapable of
action, when the heavy shadow of night is upon all things.

There must be a downright physical reason for this
effect—it is so remarkable and so universal. It seems
that the sun’s rays so completely alter and modify the
constitution of the atmosphere, that it produces, as we inhale
it, a wonderfully different effect upon the nerves of the human
subject.

We can account for this phenomenon in no other way. Perhaps
never in his life had he, Henry Bannerworth, felt so strongly
this transition of feeling as he now felt it, when the
beautiful daylight gradually dawned upon him, as he kept his
lonely watch by the bedside of his slumbering sister.

That watch had been a perfectly undisturbed one. Not the
least sight or sound of any intrusion had reached his senses.
All had been as still as the very grave.

And yet while the night lasted, and he was more indebted to
the rays of the candle, which he had placed upon a shelf, for
the power to distinguish objects than to the light of the
morning, a thousand uneasy and strange sensations had found a
home in his agitated bosom.

He looked so many times at the portrait which was in the
panel that at length he felt an undefined sensation of terror
creep over him whenever he took his eyes off it.

He tried to keep himself from looking at it, but he found it
vain, so he adopted what, perhaps, was certainly the wisest,
best plan, namely, to look at it continually.

He shifted his chair so that he could gaze upon it without
any effort, and he placed the candle so that a faint light was
thrown upon it, and there he sat, a prey to many conflicting
and uncomfortable feelings, until the daylight began to make
the candle flame look dull and sickly.

Solution for the events of the night he could find none. He
racked his imagination in vain to find some means, however
vague, of endeavouring to account for what occurred, and still
he was at fault. All was to him wrapped in the gloom of the
most profound mystery.

And how strangely, too, the eyes of that portrait appeared
to look upon him—as if instinct with life, and as if the
head to which they belonged was busy in endeavouring to find
out the secret communings of his soul. It was wonderfully well
executed that portrait; so life-like, that the very features
seemed to move as you gazed upon them.

“It shall be removed,” said Henry. “I would remove it now,
but that it seems absolutely painted on the panel, and I should
awake Flora in any attempt to do so.”

He arose and ascertained that such was the case, and that it
would require a workman, with proper tools adapted to the job,
to remove the portrait.

“True,” he said, “I might now destroy it, but it is a pity
to obscure a work of such rare art as this is; I should blame
myself if I were. It shall be removed to some other room of the
house, however.”

Then, all of a sudden, it struck Henry how foolish it would
be to remove the portrait from the wall of a room which, in all
likelihood, after that night, would be uninhabited; for it was
not probable that Flora would choose again to inhabit a chamber
in which she had gone through so much terror.

“It can be left where it is,” he said, “and we can fasten
up, if we please, even the very door of this room, so that no
one need trouble themselves any further about it.”

The morning was now coming fast, and just as Henry thought
he would partially draw a blind across the window, in order to
shield from the direct rays of the sun the eyes of Flora, she
awoke.

“Help—help!” she cried, and Henry was by her side in a
moment.

“You are safe, Flora—you are safe,” he said.

“Where is it now?” she said.

“What—what, dear Flora?”

“The dreadful apparition. Oh, what have I done to be made
thus perpetually miserable?”

“Think no more of it, Flora.”

“I must think. My brain is on fire! A million of strange
eyes seem gazing on me.”

“Great Heaven! she raves,” said Henry.

“Hark—hark—hark! He comes on the wings of the
storm. Oh, it is most horrible—horrible!”

Henry rang the bell, but not sufficiently loudly to create
any alarm. The sound reached the waking ear of the mother, who
in a few moments was in the room.

“She has awakened,” said Henry, “and has spoken, but she
seems to me to wander in her discourse. For God’s sake, soothe
her, and try to bring her mind round to its usual state.”

“I will, Henry—I will.”

“And I think, mother, if you were to get her out of this
room, and into some other chamber as far removed from this one
as possible, it would tend to withdraw her mind from what has
occurred.”

“Yes; it shall be done. Oh, Henry, what was it—what do
you think it was?”

“I am lost in a sea of wild conjecture. I can form no
conclusion; where is Mr. Marchdale?”

“I believe in his chamber.”

“Then I will go and consult with him.”

Henry proceeded at once to the chamber, which was, as he
knew, occupied by Mr. Marchdale; and as he crossed the
corridor, he could not but pause a moment to glance from a
window at the face of nature.

As is often the case, the terrific storm of the preceding
evening had cleared the air, and rendered it deliciously
invigorating and lifelike. The weather had been dull, and there
had been for some days a certain heaviness in the atmosphere,
which was now entirely removed.

The morning sun was shining with uncommon brilliancy, birds
were singing in every tree and on every bush; so pleasant, so
spirit-stirring, health-giving a morning, seldom had he seen.
And the effect upon his spirits was great, although not
altogether what it might have been, had all gone on as it
usually was in the habit of doing at that house. The ordinary
little casualties of evil fortune had certainly from time to
time, in the shape of illness, and one thing or another,
attacked the family of the Bannerworths in common with every
other family, but here suddenly had arisen a something at once
terrible and inexplicable.

He found Mr. Marchdale up and dressed, and apparently in
deep and anxious thought. The moment he saw Henry, he
said,—

“Flora is awake, I presume.”

“Yes, but her mind appears to be much disturbed.”

“From bodily weakness, I dare say.”

“But why should she be bodily weak? she was strong and well,
ay, as well as she could ever be in all her life. The glow of
youth and health was on her cheeks. Is it possible that, in the
course of one night, she should become bodily weak to such an
extent?”

“Henry,” said Mr. Marchdale, sadly, “sit down. I am not, as
you know, a superstitious man.”

“You certainly are not.”

“And yet, I never in all my life was so absolutely staggered
as I have been by the occurrences of to-night.”

“Say on.”

“There is a frightful, a hideous solution of them; one which
every consideration will tend to add strength to, one which I
tremble to name now, although, yesterday, at this hour, I
should have laughed it to scorn.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, it is so. Tell no one that which I am about to say to
you. Let the dreadful suggestion remain with ourselves alone,
Henry Bannerworth.”

“I—I am lost in wonder.”

“You promise me?”

“What—what?”

“That you will not repeat my opinion to any one.”

“I do.”

“On your honour.”

“On my honour, I promise.”

Mr. Marchdale rose, and proceeding to the door, he looked
out to see that there were no listeners near. Having
ascertained then that they were quite alone, he returned, and
drawing a chair close to that on which Henry sat, he
said,—

“Henry, have you never heard of a strange and dreadful
superstition which, in some countries, is extremely rife, by
which it is supposed that there are beings who never die.”

“Never die!”

“Never. In a word, Henry, have you never heard
of—of—I dread to pronounce the word.”

“Speak it. God of Heaven! let me hear it.”

“A vampyre!”

Henry sprung to his feet. His whole frame quivered with
emotion; the drops of perspiration stood upon his brow, as, in,
a strange, hoarse voice, he repeated the words,—

“A vampyre!”

“Even so; one who has to renew a dreadful existence by human
blood—one who lives on for ever, and must keep up such a
fearful existence upon human gore—one who eats not and
drinks not as other men—a vampyre.”

Henry dropped into his seat, and uttered a deep groan of the
most exquisite anguish.

“I could echo that groan,” said Marchdale, “but that I am so
thoroughly bewildered I know not what to think.”

“Good God—good God!”

“Do not too readily yield belief in so dreadful a
supposition, I pray you.”

“Yield belief!” exclaimed Henry, as he rose, and lifted up
one of his hands above his head. “No; by Heaven, and the great
God of all, who there rules, I will not easily believe aught so
awful and so monstrous.”

“I applaud your sentiment, Henry; not willingly would I
deliver up myself to so frightful a belief—it is too
horrible. I merely have told you of that which you saw was on
my mind. You have surely before heard of such things.”

“I have—I have.”

“I much marvel, then, that the supposition did not occur to
you, Henry.”

“It did not—it did not, Marchdale. It—it was too
dreadful, I suppose, to find a home in my heart. Oh! Flora,
Flora, if this horrible idea should once occur to you, reason
cannot, I am quite sure, uphold you against it.”

“Let no one presume to insinuate it to her, Henry. I would
not have it mentioned to her for worlds.”

“Nor I—nor I. Good God! I shudder at the very
thought—the mere possibility; but there is no
possibility, there can be none. I will not believe it.”

“Nor I.”

“No; by Heaven’s justice, goodness, grace, and mercy, I will
not believe it.”

“Tis well sworn, Henry; and now, discarding the supposition
that Flora has been visited by a vampyre, let us seriously set
about endeavouring, if we can, to account for what has happened
in this house.”

“I—I cannot now.”

“Nay, let us examine the matter; if we can find any natural
explanation, let us cling to it, Henry, as the sheet-anchor of
our very souls.”

“Do you think. You are fertile in expedients. Do you think,
Marchdale; and, for Heaven’s sake, and for the sake of our own
peace, find out some other way of accounting for what has
happened, than the hideous one you have suggested.”

“And yet my pistol bullets hurt him not; he has left the
tokens of his presence on the neck of Flora.”

“Peace, oh! peace. Do not, I pray you, accumulate reasons
why I should receive such a dismal, awful superstition. Oh, do
not, Marchdale, as you love me!”

“You know that my attachment to you,” said Marchdale, “is
sincere; and yet, Heaven help us!”

His voice was broken by grief as he spoke, and he turned
aside his head to hide the bursting tears that would, despite
all his efforts, show themselves in his eyes.

“Marchdale,” added Henry, after a pause of some moments’
duration, “I will sit up to-night with my sister.”

“Do—do!”

“Think you there is a chance it may come again?”

“I cannot—I dare not speculate upon the coming of so
dreadful a visitor, Henry; but I will hold watch with you most
willingly.”

“You will, Marchdale?”

“My hand upon it. Come what dangers may, I will share them
with you, Henry.”

“A thousand thanks. Say nothing, then, to George of what we
have been talking about. He is of a highly susceptible nature,
and the very idea of such a thing would kill him.”

“I will; be mute. Remove your sister to some other chamber,
let me beg of you, Henry; the one she now inhabits will always
be suggestive of horrible thoughts.”

“I will; and that dreadful-looking portrait, with its
perfect likeness to him who came last night.”

“Perfect indeed. Do you intend to remove it?”

“I do not. I thought of doing so; but it is actually on the
panel in the wall, and I would not willingly destroy it, and it
may as well remain where it is in that chamber, which I can
readily now believe will become henceforward a deserted one in
this house.”

“It may well become such.”

“Who comes here? I hear a step.”

There was a tip at the door at this moment, and George made
his appearance in answer to the summons to come in. He looked
pale and ill; his face betrayed how much he had mentally
suffered during that night, and almost directly he got into the
bed-chamber he said,—

“I shall, I am sure, be censured by you both for what I am
going to say; but I cannot help saying it, nevertheless, for to
keep it to myself would destroy me.”

“Good God, George! what is it?” said Mr. Marchdale.

“Speak it out!” said Henry.

“I have been thinking of what has occurred here, and the
result of that thought has been one of the wildest suppositions
that ever I thought I should have to entertain. Have you never
heard of a vampyre?”

Henry sighed deeply, and Marchdale was silent.

“I say a vampyre,” added George, with much excitement in his
manner. “It is a fearful, a horrible supposition; but our poor,
dear Flora has been visited by a vampyre, and I shall go
completely mad!”

He sat down, and covering his face with his hands, he wept
bitterly and abundantly.

“George,” said Henry, when he saw that the frantic grief had
in some measure abated—”be calm, George, and endeavour to
listen to me.”

“I hear, Henry.”

“Well, then, do not suppose that you are the only one in
this house to whom so dreadful a superstition has
occurred.”

“Not the only one?”

“No; it has occurred to Mr. Marchdale also.”

“Gracious Heaven!”

“He mentioned it to me; but we have both agreed to repudiate
it with horror.”

“To—repudiate—it?”

“Yes, George.”

“And yet—and yet—”

“Hush, hush! I know what you would say. You would tell us
that our repudiation of it cannot affect the fact. Of that we
are aware; but yet will we disbelieve that which a belief in
would be enough to drive us mad.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“To keep this supposition to ourselves, in the first place;
to guard it most zealously from the ears of Flora.”

“Do you think she has ever heard of vampyres?”

“I never heard her mention that in all her reading she had
gathered even a hint of such a fearful superstition. If she
has, we must be guided by circumstances, and do the best we
can.”

“Pray Heaven she may not!”

“Amen to that prayer, George,” said Henry. “Mr. Marchdale
and I intend to keep watch over Flora to-night.”

“May not I join you?”

“Your health, dear George, will not permit you to engage in
such matters. Do you seek your natural repose, and leave it to
us to do the best we can in this most fearful and terrible
emergency.”

“As you please, brother, and as you please, Mr. Marchdale. I
know I am a frail reed, and my belief is that this affair will
kill me quite. The truth is, I am horrified—utterly and
frightfully horrified. Like my poor, dear sister, I do not
believe I shall ever sleep again.”

“Do not fancy that, George,” said Marchdale. “You very much
add to the uneasiness which must be your poor mother’s portion,
by allowing this circumstance to so much affect you. You well
know her affection for you all, and let me therefore, as a very
old friend of hers, entreat you to wear as cheerful an aspect
as you can in her presence.”

“For once in my life,” said George, sadly, “I will; to my
dear mother, endeavour to play the hypocrite.”

“Do so,” said Henry. “The motive will sanction any such
deceit as that, George, be assured.”

The day wore on, and Poor Flora remained in a very
precarious situation. It was not until mid-day that Henry made
up his mind he would call in a medical gentleman to her, and
then he rode to the neighbouring market-town, where he knew an
extremely intelligent practitioner resided. This gentleman
Henry resolved upon, under a promise of secrecy, makings
confidant of; but, long before he reached him, he found he
might well dispense with the promise of secrecy.

He had never thought, so engaged had he been with other
matters, that the servants were cognizant of the whole affair,
and that from them he had no expectation of being able to keep
the whole story in all its details. Of course such an
opportunity for tale-bearing and gossiping was not likely to be
lost; and while Henry was thinking over how he had better act
in the matter, the news that Flora Bannerworth had been visited
in the night by a vampyre—for the servants named the
visitation such at once—was spreading all over the
county.

As he rode along, Henry met a gentleman on horseback who
belonged to the county, and who, reining in his steed, said to
him,

“Good morning, Mr. Bannerworth.”

“Good morning,” responded Henry, and he would have ridden
on, but the gentleman added,—

“Excuse me for interrupting you, sir; but what is the
strange story that is in everybody’s mouth about a
vampyre?”

Henry nearly fell off his horse, he was so much astonished,
and, wheeling the animal around, he said,—

“In everybody’s mouth!”

“Yes; I have heard it from at least a dozen persons.”

“You surprise me.”

“It is untrue? Of course I am not so absurd as really to
believe about the vampyre; but is there no foundation at all
for it? We generally find that at the bottom of these common
reports there is a something around which, as a nucleus, the
whole has formed.”

“My sister is unwell.”

“Ah, and that’s all. It really is too bad, now.”

“We had a visitor last night.”

“A thief, I suppose?”

“Yes, yes—I believe a thief. I do believe it was a
thief, and she was terrified.”

“Of course, and upon such a thing is grafted a story of a
vampyre, and the marks of his teeth being in her neck, and all
the circumstantial particulars.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Good morning, Mr. Bannerworth.”

Henry bade the gentleman good morning, and much vexed at the
publicity which the affair had already obtained, he set spurs
to his horse, determined that he would speak to no one else
upon so uncomfortable a theme. Several attempts were made to
stop him, but he only waved his hand and trotted on, nor did he
pause in his speed till he reached the door of Mr.
Chillingworth, the medical man whom he intended to consult.

Henry knew that at such a time he would be at home, which
was the case, and he was soon closeted with the man of drugs.
Henry begged his patient hearing, which being accorded, he
related to him at full length what had happened, not omitting,
to the best of his remembrance, any one particular. When he had
concluded his narration, the doctor shifted his position
several times, and then said,—

“That’s all?”

“Yes—and enough too.”

“More than enough, I should say, my young friend. You
astonish me.”

“Can you form any supposition, sir, on the subject?”

“Not just now. What is your own idea?”

“I cannot be said to have one about it. It is too absurd to
tell you that my brother George is impressed with a belief a
vampyre has visited the house.”

“I never in all my life heard a more circumstantial
narrative in favour of so hideous a superstition.”

“Well, but you cannot believe—”

“Believe what?”

“That the dead can come to life again, and by such a process
keep up vitality.”

“Do you take me for a fool?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then why do you ask me such questions?”

“But the glaring facts of the case.”

“I don’t care if they were ten times more glaring, I won’t
believe it. I would rather believe you were all mad, the whole
family of you—that at the full of the moon you all were a
little cracked.”

“And so would I.”

“You go home now, and I will call and see your sister in the
course of two hours. Something may turn up yet, to throw some
new light upon this strange subject.”

With this understanding Henry went home, and he took care to
ride as fast as before, in order to avoid questions, so that he
got back to his old ancestral home without going through the
disagreeable ordeal of having to explain to any one what had
disturbed the peace of it.

When Henry reached his home, he found that the evening was
rapidly coming on, and before he could permit himself to think
upon any other subject, he inquired how his terrified sister
had passed the hours during his absence.

He found that but little improvement had taken place in her,
and that she had occasionally slept, but to awaken and speak
incoherently, as if the shock she had received had had some
serious affect upon her nerves. He repaired at once to her
room, and, finding that she was awake, he leaned over her, and
spoke tenderly to her.

“Flora,” he said, “dear Flora, you are better now?”

“Harry, is that you?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Oh, tell me what has happened?”

“Have you not a recollection, Flora?”

“Yes, yes, Henry; but what was it? They none of them will
tell me what it was, Henry.”

“Be calm, dear. No doubt some attempt to rob the house.”

“Think you so?”

“Yes; the bay window was peculiarly adapted for such a
purpose; but now that you are removed here to this room, you
will be able to rest in peace.”

“I shall die of terror, Henry. Even now those eyes are
glaring on me so hidiously. Oh, it is fearful—it is very
fearful, Henry. Do you not pity me, and no one will promise to
remain with me at night.”

“Indeed, Flora, you are mistaken, for I intend to sit by
your bedside armed, and so preserve you from all harm.”

She clutched his hand eagerly, as she said,—

“You will, Henry. You will, and not think it too much
trouble, dear Henry.”

“It can be no trouble, Flora.”

“Then I shall rest in peace, for I know that the dreadful
vampyre cannot come to me when you are by-“

“The what, Flora!”

“The vampyre, Henry. It was a vampyre.”

“Good God, who told you so?”

“No one. I have read of them in the book of travels in
Norway, which Mr. Marchdale lent us all.”

“Alas, alas!” groaned Henry. “Discard, I pray you, such a
thought from your mind.”

“Can we discard thoughts. What power have we but from that
mind, which is ourselves?”

“True, true.”

“Hark, what noise is that? I thought I heard a noise. Henry,
when you go, ring for some one first. Was there not a
noise?”

“The accidental shutting of some door, dear.”

“Was it that?”

“It was.”

“Then I am relieved. Henry, I sometimes fancy I am in the
tomb, and that some one is feasting on my flesh. They do say,
too, that those who in life have been bled by a vampyre, become
themselves vampyres, and have the same horrible taste for blood
as those before them. Is it not horrible?”

“You only vex yourself by such thoughts, Flora. Mr.
Chillingworth is coming to see you.”

“Can he minister to a mind diseased?”

“But yours is not, Flora. Your mind is healthful, and so,
although his power extends not so far, we will thank Heaven,
dear Flora, that you need it not.”

She sighed deeply, as she said,—

“Heaven help me! I know not, Henry. The dreadful being held
on by my hair. I must have it all taken off. I tried to get
away, but it dragged me back—a brutal thing it was. Oh,
then at that moment, Henry, I felt as if something strange took
place in my brain, and that I was going mad! I saw those glazed
eyes close to, mine—I felt a hot, pestiferous breath upon
my face—help—help!”

“Hush! my Flora, hush! Look at me.”

“I am calm again. It fixed its teeth in my throat. Did I
faint away?”

“You did, dear; but let me pray you to refer all this to
imagination; or at least the greater part of it.”

“But you saw it.”

“Yes—”

“All saw it.”

“We all saw some man—a housebreaker—It must have
been some housebreaker. What more easy, you know, dear Flora,
than to assume some such disguise?”

“Was anything stolen?”

“Not that I know of; but there was an alarm, you know.”

Flora shook her head, as she said, in a low
voice,—

“That which came here was more than mortal. Oh, Henry, if it
had but killed me, now I had been happy; but I cannot
live—I hear it breathing now.”

“Talk of something else, dear Flora,” said the much
distressed Henry; “you will make yourself much worse, if you
indulge yourself in these strange fancies.”

“Oh, that they were but fancies!”

“They are, believe me.”

“There is a strange confusion in my brain, and sleep comes
over me suddenly, when I least expect it. Henry, Henry, what I
was, I shall never, never be again.”

“Say not so. All this will pass away like a dream, and leave
so faint a trace upon your memory, that the time will come when
you will wonder it ever made so deep an impression on your
mind.”

“You utter these words, Henry,” she said, “but they do not
come from your heart. Ah, no, no, no! Who comes?”

The door was opened by Mrs. Bannerworth, who
said,—

“It is only me, my dear. Henry, here is Dr. Chillingworth in
the dining-room.”

Henry turned to Flora, saying,—

“You will see him, dear Flora? You know Mr. Chillingworth
well.”

“Yes, Henry, yes, I will see him, or whoever you
please.”

“Shew Mr. Chillingworth up,” said Henry to the servant.

In a few moments the medical man was in the room, and he at
once approached the bedside to speak to Flora, upon whose pale
countenance he looked with evident interest, while at the same
time it seemed mingled with a painful feeling—at least so
his own face indicated.

“Well, Miss Bannerworth,” he said, “what is all this I hear
about an ugly dream you have had?”

“A dream?” said Flora, as she fixed her beautiful eyes on
his face.

“Yes, as I understand.”

She shuddered, and was silent.

“Was it not a dream, then?” added Mr. Chillingworth.

She wrung her hands, and in a voice of extreme anguish and
pathos, said,—

“Would it were a dream—would it were a dream! Oh, if
any one could but convince me it was a dream!”

“Well, will you tell me what it was?”

“Yes, sir, it was a vampyre.”

Mr. Chillingworth glanced at Henry, as he said, in reply to
Flora’s words,—

“I suppose that is, after all, another name, Flora, for the
nightmare?”

“No—no—no!”

“Do you really, then, persist in believing anything so
absurd, Miss Bannerworth?”

“What can I say to the evidence of my own senses?” she
replied. “I saw it, Henry saw it, George saw, Mr. Marchdale, my
mother—all saw it. We could not all be at the same time
the victims of the same delusion.”

“How faintly you speak.”

“I am very faint and ill.”

“Indeed. What wound is that on your neck?”

A wild expression came over the face of Flora; a spasmodic
action of the muscles, accompanied with a shuddering, as if a
sudden chill had come over the whole mass of blood took place,
and she said,—

“It is the mark left by the teeth of the vampyre.”

The smile was a forced one upon the face of Mr.
Chillingworth.

“Draw up the blind of the window, Mr. Henry,” he said, “and
let me examine this puncture to which your sister attaches so
extraordinary a meaning.”

The blind was drawn up, and a strong light was thrown into
the room. For full two minutes Mr. Chillingworth attentively
examined the two small wounds in the neck of Flora. He took a
powerful magnifying glass from his pocket, and looked at them
through it, and after his examination was concluded, he
said,—

“They are very trifling wounds, indeed.”

“But how inflicted?” said Henry.

“By some insect, I should say, which probably—it being
the season for many insects—has flown in at the
window.”

“I know the motive,” said Flora “which prompts all these
suggestions it is a kind one, and I ought to be the last to
quarrel with it; but what I have seen, nothing can make me
believe I saw not, unless I am, as once or twice I have thought
myself, really mad.”

“How do you now feel in general health?”

“Far from well; and a strange drowsiness at times creeps
over me. Even now I feel it.”

She sunk back on the pillows as she spoke and closed her
eyes with a deep sigh.

Mr. Chillingworth beckoned Henry to come with him from the
room, but the latter had promised that he would remain with
Flora; and as Mrs. Bannerworth had left the chamber because she
was unable to control her feelings, he rang the bell, and
requested that his mother would come.

She did so, and then Henry went down stairs along with the
medical man, whose opinion he was certainly eager to be now
made acquainted with.

As soon as they were alone in an old-fashioned room which
was called the oak closet, Henry turned to Mr. Chillingworth,
and said,—

“What, now, is your candid opinion, sir? You have seen my
sister, and those strange indubitable evidences of something
wrong.”

“I have; and to tell you candidly the truth, Mr. Henry, I am
sorely perplexed.”

“I thought you would be.”

“It is not often that a medical man likes to say so much,
nor is it, indeed, often prudent that he should do so, but in
this case I own I am much puzzled. It is contrary to all my
notions upon all such subjects.”

“Those wounds, what do you think of them?”

“I know not what to think. I am completely puzzled as
regards them.”

“But, but do they not really bear the appearance of being
bites?”

“They really do.”

“And so far, then, they are actually in favour of the
dreadful supposition which poor Flora entertains.”

“So far they certainly are. I have no doubt in the world of
their being bites; but we not must jump to a conclusion that
the teeth which inflicted them were human. It is a strange
case, and one which I feel assured must give you all much
uneasiness, as, indeed, it gave me; but, as I said before, I
will not let my judgment give in to the fearful and degrading
superstition which all the circumstances connected with this
strange story would seem to justify.”

“It is a degrading superstition.”

“To my mind your sister seems to be labouring under the
effect of some narcotic.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; unless she really has lost a quantity of blood, which
loss has decreased the heart’s action sufficiently to produce
the languor under which she now evidently labours.”

“Oh, that I could believe the former supposition, but I am
confident she has taken no narcotic; she could not even do so
by mistake, for there is no drug of the sort in the house.
Besides, she is not heedless by any means. I am quite convinced
she has not done so.”

“Then I am fairly puzzled, my young friend, and I can only
say that I would freely have given half of what I am worth to
see that figure you saw last night.”

“What would you have done?”

“I would not have lost sight of it for the world’s
wealth.”

“You would have felt your blood freeze with horror. The face
was terrible.”

“And yet let it lead me where it liked I would have followed
it.”

“I wish you had been here.”

“I wish to Heaven I had. If I though there was the least
chance of another visit I would come and wait with patience
every night for a month.”

“I cannot say,” replied Henry. “I am going to sit up
to-night with my sister, and I believe, our friend Mr.
Marchdale will share my watch with me.”

Mr. Chillingworth appeared to be for a few moments lost in
thought, and then suddenly rousing himself, as if he found it
either impossible to come to any rational conclusion upon the
subject, or had arrived at one which he chose to keep to
himself, he said,—

“Well, well, we must leave the matter at present as it
stands. Time may accomplish something towards its development,
but at present so palpable a mystery I never came across, or a
matter in which human calculation was so completely
foiled.”

“Nor I—nor I.”

“I will send you some medicines, such as I think will be of
service to Flora, and depend upon seeing me by ten o’clock
to-morrow morning.”

“You have, of course, heard something,” said Henry to the
doctor, as he was pulling on his gloves, “about vampyres.”

“I certainly have, and I understand that in some countries,
particularly Norway and Sweden, the superstition is a very
common one.”

“And in the Levant.”

“Yes. The ghouls of the Mahometans are of the same
description of beings. All that I have heard of the European
vampyre has made it a being which can be killed, but is
restored to life again by the rays of a full moon falling on
the body.”

“Yes, yes, I have heard as much.”

“And that the hideous repast of blood has to be taken very
frequently, and that if the vampyre gets it not he wastes away,
presenting the appearance of one in the last stage of a
consumption, and visibly, so to speak, dying.”

“That is what I have understood.”

“To-night, do you know, Mr. Bannerworth, is the full of the
moon.”

Henry started.

“If now you had succeeded in killing—. Pshaw, what am
I saying. I believe I am getting foolish, and that the horrible
superstition is beginning to fasten itself upon me as well as
upon all of you. How strangely the fancy will wage war with the
judgment in such a way as this.”

“The full of the moon,” repeated Henry, as he glanced
towards the window, “and the night is near at hand.”

“Banish these thoughts from your mind,” said the doctor, “or
else, my young friend, you will make yourself decidedly ill.
Good evening to you, for it is evening. I shall see you
to-morrow morning.”

Mr. Chillingworth appeared now to be anxious to go, and
Henry no longer opposed his departure; but when he was gone a
sense of great loneliness came over him.

“To-night,” he repeated, “is the full of the moon. How
strange that this dreadful adventure should have taken place
just the night before. ‘Tis very strange. Let me see—let
me see.”

He took from the shelves of a book case the work which Flora
had mentioned, entitled, “Travels in Norway,” in which work he
found some account of the popular belief in vampyres.

He opened the work at random, and then some of the leaves
turned over of themselves to a particular place, as the leaves
of a book will frequently do when it has been kept open a
length of time at that part, and the binding stretched there
more than anywhere else. There was a note at the bottom of one
of the pages at this part of the book, and Henry read as
follows:—

“With regard to these vampyres, it is believed by those who
are inclined to give credence to so dreadful a superstition,
that they always endeavour to make their feast of blood, for
the revival of their bodily powers, on some evening immediately
preceding a full moon, because if any accident befal them, such
as being shot, or otherwise killed or wounded, they can recover
by lying down somewhere where the full moon’s rays will fall
upon them.”

Henry let the book drop from his hands with a groan and a
shudder.

CHAPTER V.

THE NIGHT WATCH.—THE PROPOSAL.—THE
MOONLIGHT.—THE FEARFUL ADVENTURE.

A kind of stupefaction came over Henry Bannerworth, and he
sat for about a quarter of an hour scarcely conscious of where
he was, and almost incapable of anything in the shape of
rational thought. It was his brother, George, who roused him by
saying, as he laid his hand upon his shoulder,—

“Henry, are you asleep?”

Henry had not been aware of his presence, and he started up
as if he had been shot.

“Oh, George, is it you?” he said.

“Yes, Henry, are you unwell?”

“No, no; I was in a deep reverie.”

“Alas! I need not ask upon what subject,” said George,
sadly. “I sought you to bring you this letter.”

“A letter to me?”

“Yes, you see it is addressed to you, and the seal looks as
if it came from someone of consequence.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, Henry. Read it, and see from whence it comes.”

There was just sufficient light by going to the window to
enable Henry to read the letter, which he did aloud.

It ran thus:—

“Sir Francis Varney!” said Henry, “who is he?”

“Do you not remember, Henry,” said George, “we were told a
few days ago, that a gentleman of that name had become the
purchaser of the estate of Ratford Abbey.”

“Oh, yes, yes. Have you seen him?”

“I have not.”

“I do not wish to make any new acquaintance, George. We are
very poor—much poorer indeed than the general appearance
of this place, which, I fear, we shall soon have to part with,
would warrant any one believing. I must, of course, return a
civil answer to this gentleman, but it must be such as one as
shall repress familiarity.”

“That will be difficult to do while we remain here, when we
come to consider the very close proximity of the two
properties, Henry.”

“Oh, no, not at all. He will easily perceive that we do not
want to make acquaintance with him, and then, as a gentleman,
which doubtless he is, he will give up the attempt.”

“Let it be so, Henry. Heaven knows I have no desire to form
any new acquaintance with any one, and more particularly under
our present circumstances of depression. And now, Henry, you
must permit me, as I have had some repose, to share with you
your night watch in Flora’s room.”

“I would advise you not, George; your health, you know, is
very far from good.”

“Nay, allow me. If not, then the anxiety I shall suffer will
do me more harm than the watchfulness I shall keep up in her
chamber.”

This was an argument which Henry felt himself the force of
too strongly not to admit it in the case of George, and he
therefore made no further opposition to his wish to make one in
the night watch.

“There will be an advantage,” said George, “you see, in
three of us being engaged in this matter, because, should
anything occur, two can act together, and yet Flora may not be
left alone.”

“True, true, that is a great advantage.”

Now a soft gentle silvery light began to spread itself over
the heavens. The moon was rising, and as the beneficial effects
of the storm of the preceding evening were still felt in the
clearness of the air, the rays appeared to be more lustrous and
full of beauty than they commonly were.

Each moment the night grew lighter, and by the time the
brothers were ready to take their places in the chamber of
Flora, the moon had risen considerably.

Although neither Henry nor George had any objection to the
company of Mr. Marchdale, yet they gave him the option, and
rather in fact urged him not to destroy his night’s repose by
sitting up with them; but he said,—

“Allow me to do so; I am older, and have calmer judgment
than you can have. Should anything again appear, I am quite
resolved that it shall not escape me.”

“What would you do?”

“With the name of God upon my lips,” said Mr. Marchdale,
solemnly, “I would grapple with it.”

“You laid hands upon it last night.”

“I did, and have forgotten to show you what I tore from it.
Look here,—what should you say this was?”

He produced a piece of cloth, on which was an old-fashioned
piece of lace, and two buttons. Upon a close inspection, this
appeared to be a portion of the lapel of a coat of ancient
times, and suddenly, Henry, with a look of intense anxiety,
said,—

“This reminds me of the fashion of garments very many years
ago, Mr. Marchdale.”

“It came away in my grasp as if rotten and incapable of
standing any rough usage.”

“What a strange unearthly smell it has!”

“Now you mention it yourself,” added Mr. Marchdale, “I must
confess it smells to me as if it had really come from the very
grave.”

“It does—it does. Say nothing of this relic of last
night’s work to any one.”

“Be assured I shall not. I am far from wishing to keep up in
any one’s mind proofs of that which I would fain, very fain
refute.”

Mr. Marchdale replaced the portion of the coat which the
figure had worn in his pocket, and then the whole three
proceeded to the chamber of Flora.

It was within a very few minutes of midnight, the moon had
climbed high in the heavens, and a night of such brightness and
beauty had seldom shown itself for a long period of time.

Flora slept, and in her chamber sat the two brothers and Mr.
Marchdale, silently, for she had shown symptoms of
restlessness, and they much feared to break the light slumber
into which she had fallen.

Occasionally they had conversed in whispers, which could not
have the effect of rousing her, for the room, although smaller
than the one she had before occupied, was still sufficiently
spacious to enable them to get some distance from the bed.

Until the hour of midnight now actually struck, they were
silent, and when the last echo of the sounds had died away, a
feeling of uneasiness came over them, which prompted some
conversation to get rid of it.

“How bright the moon is now,” said Henry, in a low tone.

“I never saw it brighter,” replied Marchdale. “I feel as if
I were assured that we shall not to-night be interrupted.”

“It was later than this,” said Henry.

“It was—it was.”

“Do not then yet congratulate us upon no visit.”

“How still the house is!” remarked George; “it seems to me
as if I had never found it so intensely quiet before.”

“It is very still.”

“Hush! she moves.”

Flora moaned in her sleep, and made a slight movement. The
curtains were all drawn closely round the bed to shield her
eyes from the bright moonlight which streamed into the room so
brilliantly. They might have closed the shutters of the window,
but this they did not like to do, as it would render their
watch there of no avail at all, inasmuch as they would not be
able to see if any attempt was made by any one to obtain
admittance.

A quarter of an hour longer might have thus passed when Mr.
Marchdale said in a whisper,—

“A thought has just struck me that the piece of coat I have,
which I dragged from the figure last night, wonderfully
resembles in colour and appearance the style of dress of the
portrait in the room which Flora lately slept in.”

“I thought of that,” said Henry, “when first I saw it; but,
to tell the honest truth, I dreaded to suggest any new proof
connected with last night’s visitation.”

“Then I ought not to have drawn your attention to it,” said
Mr. Marchdale, “and regret I have done so.”

“Nay, do not blame yourself on such an account,” said Henry.
“You are quite right, and it is I who am too foolishly
sensitive. Now, however, since you have mentioned it, I must
own I have a great desire to test the accuracy of the
observation by a comparison with the portrait.”

“That may easily be done.”

“I will remain here,” said George, “in case Flora awakens,
while you two go if you like. It is but across the
corridor.”

Henry immediately rose, saying—

“Come, Mr. Marchdale, come. Let us satisfy ourselves at all
events upon this point at once. As George says it is only
across the corridor, and we can return directly.”

“I am willing,” said Mr. Marchdale, with a tone of
sadness.

There was no light needed, for the moon stood suspended in a
cloudless sky, so that from the house being a detached one, and
containing numerous windows, it was as light as day.

Although the distance from one chamber to the other was only
across the corridor, it was a greater space than these words
might occupy, for the corridor was wide, neither was it
directly across, but considerably slanting. However, it was
certainly sufficiently close at hand for any sound of alarm
from one chamber to reach another without any difficulty.

A few moments sufficed to place Henry and Mr. Marchdale in
that antique room, where, from the effect of the moonlight
which was streaming over it, the portrait on the panel looked
exceedingly life like.

And this effect was probably the greater because the rest of
the room was not illuminated by the moon’s rays, which came
through a window in the corridor, and then at the open door of
that chamber upon the portrait.

Mr. Marchdale held the piece of cloth he had close to the
dress of the portrait, and one glance was sufficient to show
the wonderful likeness between the two.

“Good God!” said Henry, “it is the same.”

Mr. Marchdale dropped the piece of cloth and trembled.

“This fact shakes even your scepticism,” said Henry.

“I know not what to make of it.”

“I can tell you something which bears upon it. I do not know
if you are sufficiently aware of my family history to know that
this one of my ancestors, I wish I could say worthy ancestors,
committed suicide, and was buried in his clothes.”

“You—you are sure of that?”

“Quite sure.”

“I am more and more bewildered as each moment some strange
corroborative fact of that dreadful supposition we so much
shrink from seems to come to light and to force itself upon our
attention.”

There was a silence of a few moments duration, and Henry had
turned towards Mr. Marchdale to say something, when the
cautious tread of a footstep was heard in the garden,
immediately beneath that balcony.

A sickening sensation came over Henry, and he was compelled
to lean against the wall for support, as in scarcely articulate
accents he said—

“The vampyre—the vampyre! God of heaven, it has come
once again!”

“Now, Heaven inspire us with more than mortal courage,”
cried Mr. Marchdale, and he dashed open the window at once, and
sprang into the balcony.

Henry in a moment recovered himself sufficiently to follow
him, and when he reached his side in the balcony, Marchdale
said, as he pointed below,—

“There is some one concealed there.”

“Where—where?”

“Among the laurels. I will fire a random shot, and we may do
some execution.”

“Hold!” said a voice from below; “don’t do any such thing, I
beg of you.”

“Why, that is Mr. Chillingworth’s voice,” cried Henry.

“Yes, and it’s Mr. Chillingworth’s person, too,” said the
doctor, as he emerged from among some laurel bushes.

“How is this?” said Marchdale.

“Simply that I made up my mind to keep watch and ward
to-night outside here, in the hope of catching the vampyre. I
got into here by climbing the gate.”

“But why did you not let me know?” said Henry.

“Because I did not know myself, my young friend, till an
hour and a half ago.”

“Have you seen anything?”

“Nothing. But I fancied I heard something in the park
outside the wall.”

“Indeed!”

“What say you, Henry,” said Mr. Marchdale, “to descending
and taking a hasty examination of the garden and grounds?”

“I am willing; but first allow me to speak to George, who
otherwise might be surprised at our long absence.”

Henry walked rapidly to the bed chamber of Flora, and he
said to George,—

“Have you any objection to being left alone here for about
half an hour, George, while we make an examination of the
garden?”

“Let me have some weapon and I care not. Remain here while I
fetch a sword from my own room.”

Henry did so, and when George returned with a sword, which
he always kept in his bed-room, he said,—

“Now go, Henry. I prefer a weapon of this description to
pistols much. Do not be longer gone than necessary.”

“I will not, George, be assured.”

George was then left alone, and Henry returned to the
balcony, where Mr. Marchdale was waiting for him. It was a
quicker mode of descending to the garden to do so by clambering
over the balcony than any other, and the height was not
considerable enough to make it very objectionable, so Henry and
Mr. Marchdale chose that way of joining Mr. Chillingworth.

“You are, no doubt, much surprised at finding me here,” said
the doctor; “but the fact is, I half made up my mind to come
while I was here; but I had not thoroughly done so, therefore I
said nothing to you about it.”

“We are much indebted to you,” said Henry, “for making the
attempt.”

“I am prompted to it by a feeling of the strongest
curiosity.”

“Are you armed, sir?” said Marchdale.

“In this stick,” said the doctor, “is a sword, the exquisite
temper of which I know I can depend upon, and I fully intended
to run through any one whom I saw that looked in the least of
the vampyre order.”

“You would have done quite right,” replied Mr. Marchdale. “I
have a brace of pistols here, loaded with ball; will you take
one, Henry, if you please, and then we shall be all armed.”

Thus, then, prepared for any exigency, they made the whole
round of the house; but found all the fastenings secure, and
everything as quiet as possible.

“Suppose, now, we take a survey of the park outside the
garden wall,” said Mr. Marchdale.

This was agreed to; but before they had proceeded far, Mr.
Marchdale said,—

“There is a ladder lying on the wall; would it not be a good
plan to place it against the very spot the supposed vampyre
jumped over last night, and so, from a more elevated position,
take a view of the open meadows. We could easily drop down on
the outer side, if we saw anything suspicious.”

“Not a bad plan,” said the doctor. “Shall we do it?”

“Certainly,” said Henry; and they accordingly carried the
ladder, which had been used for pruning the trees, towards the
spot at the end of the long walk, at which the vampyre had made
good, after so many fruitless efforts, his escape from the
premises.

They made haste down the long vista of trees until they
reached the exact spot, and then they placed the ladder as near
as possible, exactly where Henry, in his bewilderment on the
evening before, had seen the apparition from the grave spring
to.

“We can ascend singly,” said Marchdale; “but there is ample
space for us all there to sit on the top of the wall and make
our observations.”

This was seen to be the case, and in about a couple of
minutes they had taken up their positions on the wall, and,
although the height was but trifling, they found that they had
a much more extensive view than they could have obtained by any
other means.

“To contemplate the beauty of such a night as this,” said
Mr. Chillingworth, “is amply sufficient compensation for coming
the distance I have.”

“And who knows,” remarked Marchdale, “we may yet see
something which may throw a light upon our present perplexities
God knows that I would give all I can call mine in the world to
relieve you and your sister, Henry Bannerworth, from the
fearful effect which last night’s proceedings cannot fail to
have upon you.”

“Of that I am well assured, Mr. Marchdale,” said Henry. “If
the happiness of myself and family depended upon you, we should
be happy indeed.”

“You are silent, Mr. Chillingworth,” remarked Marchdale,
after a slight pause.

“Hush!” said Mr. Chillingworth—”hush—hush!”

“Good God, what do you hear?” cried Henry.

The doctor laid his hand upon Henry’s arm as he
said,—

“There is a young lime tree yonder to the right.”

“Yes—yes.”

“Carry your eye from it in a horizontal line, as near as you
can, towards the wood.”

Henry did so, and then he uttered a sudden exclamation of
surprise, and pointed to a rising spot of ground, which was
yet, in consequence of the number of tall trees in its
vicinity, partially enveloped in shadow.

“What is that?” he said.

“I see something,” said Marchdale. “By Heaven! it is a human
form lying stretched there.”

“It is—as if in death.”

“What can it be?” said Chillingworth.

“I dread to say,” replied Marchdale; “but to my eyes, even
at this distance, it seems like the form of him we chased last
night.”

“The vampyre?”

“Yes—yes. Look, the moonbeams touch him. Now the
shadows of the trees gradually recede. God of Heaven! the
figure moves.”

Henry’s eyes were riveted to that fearful object, and now a
scene presented itself which filled them all with wonder and
astonishment, mingled with sensations of the greatest awe and
alarm.

As the moonbeams, in consequence of the luminary rising
higher and higher in the heavens, came to touch this figure
that lay extended on the rising ground, a perceptible movement
took place in it. The limbs appeared to tremble, and although
it did not rise up, the whole body gave signs of vitality.

“The vampyre—the vampyre!” said Mr. Marchdale. “I
cannot doubt it now. We must have hit him last night with the
pistol bullets, and the moonbeams are now restoring him to a
new life.”

Henry shuddered, and even Mr. Chillingworth turned pale. But
he was the first to recover himself sufficiently to propose
some course of action, and he said,—

“Let us descend and go up to this figure. It is a duty we
owe to ourselves as much as to society.”

“Hold a moment,” said Mr. Marchdale, as he produced a
pistol. “I am an unerring shot, as you well know, Henry. Before
we move from this position we now occupy, allow me to try what
virtue may be in a bullet to lay that figure low again.”

“He is rising!” exclaimed Henry.

Mr. Marchdale levelled the pistol—he took a sure and
deliberate aim, and then, just as the figure seemed to be
struggling to its feet, he fired, and, with a sudden bound, it
fell again.

“You have hit it,” said Henry.

“You have indeed,” exclaimed the doctor. “I think we can go
now.”

“Hush!” said Marchdale—”Hush! Does it not seem to you
that, hit it as often as you will, the moonbeams will recover
it?”

“Yes—yes,” said Henry, “they will—they
will.”

“I can endure this no longer,” said Mr. Chillingworth, as he
sprung from the wall. “Follow me or not, as you please, I will
seek the spot where this being lies.”

“Oh, be not rash,” cried Marchdale. “See, it rises again,
and its form looks gigantic.”

“I trust in Heaven and a righteous cause,” said the doctor,
as he drew the sword he had spoken of from the stick, and threw
away the scabbard. “Come with me if you like, or I go
alone.”

Henry at once jumped down from the wall, and then Marchdale
followed him, saying,—

“Come on; I will not shrink.”

They ran towards the piece of rising ground; but before they
got to it, the form rose and made rapidly towards a little wood
which was in the immediate neighbourhood of the hillock.

“It is conscious of being pursued,” cried the doctor. “See
how it glances back, and then increases its speed.”

“Fire upon it, Henry,” said Marchdale.

He did so; but either his shot did not take effect, or it
was quite unheeded if it did, by the vampyre, which gained the
wood before they could have a hope of getting sufficiently near
it to effect, or endeavour to effect, a capture.

“I cannot follow it there,” said Marchdale. “In open country
I would have pursued it closely; but I cannot follow it into
the intricacies of a wood.”

“Pursuit is useless there,” said Henry. “It is enveloped in
the deepest gloom.”

“I am not so unreasonable,” remarked Mr. Chillingworth, “as
to wish you to follow into such a place as that. I am
confounded utterly by this affair.”

“And I,” said Marchdale. “What on earth is to be done?”

“Nothing—nothing!” exclaimed Henry, vehemently; “and
yet I have, beneath the canopy of Heaven, declared that I will,
so help me God! spare neither time nor trouble in the
unravelling of this most fearful piece of business. Did either
of you remark the clothing which this spectral appearance
wore?”

“They were antique clothes,” said Mr. Chillingworth, “such
as might have been fashionable a hundred years ago, but not
now.”

“Such was my impression,” added Marchdale.

“And such my own,” said Henry, excitedly. “Is it at all
within the compass of the wildest belief that what we have seen
is a vampyre, and no other than my ancestor who, a hundred
years ago, committed suicide?”

There was so much intense excitement, and evidence of mental
suffering, that Mr. Chillingworth took him by the arm,
saying,—

“Come home—come home; no more of this at present; you
will but make yourself seriously unwell.”

“No—no—no.”

“Come home now, I pray you; you are by far too much excited
about this matter to pursue it with the calmness which should
be brought to bear upon it.”

“Take advice, Henry,” said Marchdale, “take advice, and come
home at once.”

“I will yield to you; I feel that I cannot control my own
feelings—I will yield to you, who, as you say, are cooler
on this subject than I can be. Oh, Flora, Flora, I have no
comfort to bring to you now.”

Poor Henry Bannerworth appeared to be in a complete state of
mental prostration, on account of the distressing circumstances
that had occurred so rapidly and so suddenly in his family,
which had had quite enough to contend with without having
superadded to every other evil the horror of believing that
some preternatural agency was at work to destroy every hope of
future happiness in this world, under any circumstances.

He suffered himself to be led home by Mr. Chillingworth and
Marchdale; he no longer attempted to dispute the dreadful fact
concerning the supposed vampyre; he could not contend now
against all the corroborating circumstances that seemed to
collect together for the purpose of proving that which, even
when proved, was contrary to all his notions of Heaven, and at
variance with all that was recorded and established is part and
parcel of the system of nature.

“I cannot deny,” he said, when they had reached home, “that
such things are possible; but the probability will not bear a
moment’s investigation.”

“There are more things,” said Marchdale, solemnly, “in
Heaven, and on earth, than are dreamed of in our
philosophy.”

“There are indeed, it appears,” said Mr. Chillingworth.

“And are you a convert?” said Henry, turning to him.

“A convert to what?”

“To a belief in—in—these vampyres?”

“I? No, indeed; if you were to shut me up in a room full of
vampyres, I would tell them all to their teeth that I defied
them.”

“But after what we have seen to-night?”

“What have we seen?”

“You are yourself a witness.”

“True; I saw a man lying down, and then I saw a man get up;
he seemed then to be shot, but whether he was or not he only
knows; and then I saw him walk off in a desperate hurry. Beyond
that, I saw nothing.”

“Yes; but, taking such circumstances into combination with
others, have you not a terrible fear of the truth of the
dreadful appearance?”

“No—no; on my soul, no. I will die in my disbelief of
such an outrage upon Heaven as one of these creatures would
most assuredly be.”

“Oh! that I could think like you; but the circumstance
strikes too nearly to my heart.”

“Be of better cheer, Henry—be of better cheer,” said
Marchdale; “there is one circumstance which we ought to
consider, it is that, from all we have seen, there seems to be
some things which would favour an opinion, Henry, that your
ancestor, whose portrait hangs in the chamber which was
occupied by Flora, is the vampyre.”

“The dress was the same,” said Henry.

“I noted it was.”

“And I.”

“Do you not, then, think it possible that something might be
done to set that part of the question at rest?”

“What—what?”

“Where is your ancestor buried?”

“Ah! I understand you now.”

“And I,” said Mr. Chillingworth; “you would propose a visit
to his mansion?”

“I would,” added Marchdale; “anything that may in any way
tend to assist in making this affair clearer, and divesting it
of its mysterious circumstances, will be most desirable.”

Henry appeared to rouse for some moments and then he
said,—

“He, in common with many other members of the family, no
doubt occupies place in the vault under the old church in the
village.”

“Would it be possible,” asked Marchdale, “to get into that
vault without exciting general attention?”

“It would,” said Henry; “the entrance to the vault is in the
flooring of the pew which belongs to the family in the old
church.”

“Then it could be done?” asked Mr. Chillingworth.

“Most undoubtedly.”

“Will you under take such an adventure?” said Mr.
Chillingworth. “It may ease your mind.”

“He was buried in the vault, and in his clothes,” said
Henry, musingly; “I will think of it. About such a proposition
I would not decide hastily. Give me leave to think of it until
to-morrow.”

“Most certainly.”

They now made their way to the chamber of Flora, and they
heard from George that nothing of an alarming character had
occurred to disturb him on his lonely watch. The morning was
now again dawning, and Henry earnestly entreated Mr. Marchdale
to go to bed, which he did, leaving the two brothers to
continue as sentinels by Flora’s bed side, until the morning
light should banish all uneasy thoughts.

Henry related to George what had taken place outside the
house, and the two brothers held a long and interesting
conversation for some hours upon that subject, as well as upon
others of great importance to their welfare. It was not until
the sun’s early rays came glaring in at the casement that they
both rose, and thought of awakening Flora, who had now slept
soundly for so many hours.

CHAPTER VI.

A GLANCE AT THE BANNERWORTH FAMILY.—THE PROBABLE
CONSEQUENCES OF THE MYSTERIOUS APPARITION’S
APPEARANCE.

Having thus far, we hope, interested our readers in the
fortunes of a family which had become subject to so dreadful a
visitation, we trust that a few words concerning them, and the
peculiar circumstances in which they are now placed, will not
prove altogether out of place, or unacceptable. The Bannerworth
family then were well known in the part of the country where
they resided. Perhaps, if we were to say they were better known
by name than they were liked, on account of that name, we
should be near the truth, for it had unfortunately happened
that for a very considerable time past the head of the family
had been the very worst specimen of it that could be procured.
While the junior branches were frequently amiable and most
intelligent, and such in mind and manner as were calculated to
inspire goodwill in all who knew them, he who held the family
property, and who resided in the house now occupied by Flora
and her brothers, was a very so—so sort of character.

This state of things, by some strange fatality, had gone on
for nearly a hundred years, and the consequence was what might
have been fairly expected, namely—that, what with their
vices and what with their extravagances, the successive heads
of the Bannerworth family had succeeded in so far diminishing
the family property that, when it came into the hands of Henry
Bannerworth, it was of little value, on account of the numerous
encumbrances with which it was saddled.

The father of Henry had not been a very brilliant exception
to the general rule, as regarded the head of the family. If he
were not quite so bad as many of his ancestors, that gratifying
circumstance was to be accounted for by the supposition that he
was not quite so bold, and that the change in habits, manners,
and laws, which had taken place in a hundred years, made it not
so easy for even a landed proprietor to play the petty
tyrant.

He had, to get rid of those animal spirits which had
prompted many of his predecessors to downright crimes, had
recourse to the gaming-table, and, after raising whatever sums
he could upon the property which remained, he naturally, and as
might have been fully expected, lost them all.

He was found lying dead in the garden of the house one day,
and by his side was his pocket-book, on one leaf of which, it
was the impression of the family, he had endeavoured to write
something previous to his decease, for he held a pencil firmly
in his grasp.

The probability was that he had felt himself getting ill,
and, being desirous of making some communication to his family
which pressed heavily upon his mind, he had attempted to do so,
but was stopped by the too rapid approach of the hand of
death.

For some days previous to his decease, his conduct had been
extremely mysterious. He had announced an intention of leaving
England for ever—of selling the house and grounds for
whatever they would fetch over and above the sums for which
they were mortgaged, and so clearing himself of all
encumbrances.

He had, but a few hours before he was found lying dead, made
the following singular speech to Henry,—

“Do not regret, Henry, that the old house which has been in
our family so long is about to be parted with. Be assured that,
if it is but for the first time in my life, I have good and
substantial reasons now for what I am about to do. We shall be
able to go some other country, and there live like princes of
the land.”

Where the means were to come from to live like a prince,
unless Mr. Bannerworth had some of the German princes in his
eye, no one knew but himself, and his sudden death buried with
him that most important secret.

There were some words written on the leaf of his
pocket-book, but they were of by far too indistinct and
ambiguous a nature to lead to anything. They were
these:—

“The money is —————”

And then there was a long scrawl of the pencil, which seemed
to have been occasioned by his sudden decease.

Of course nothing could be made of these words, except in
the way of a contradiction as the family lawyer said, rather
more facetiously than a man of law usually speaks, for if he
had written “The money is not,” he would have been somewhere
remarkably near the truth.

However, with all his vices he was regretted by his
children, who chose rather to remember him in his best aspect
than to dwell upon his faults.

For the first time then, within the memory of man, the head
of the family of the Bannerworths was a gentleman, in every
sense of the word. Brave, generous, highly educated, and full
of many excellent and noble qualities—for such was Henry,
whom we have introduced to our readers under such distressing
circumstances.

And now, people said, that the family property having been
all dissipated and lost, there would take place a change, and
that the Bannerworths would have to take to some course of
honourable industry for a livelihood, and that then they would
be as much respected as they had before been detested and
disliked.

Indeed, the position which Henry held was now a most
precarious one—for one of the amazingly clever acts of
his father had been to encumber the property with overwhelming
claims, so that when Henry administered to the estate, it was
doubted almost by his attorney if it were at all desirable to
do so.

An attachment, however, to the old house of his family, had
induced the young man to hold possession of it as long as he
could, despite any adverse circumstance which might eventually
be connected with it.

Some weeks, however, only after the decease of his father,
and when he fairly held possession, a sudden and a most
unexpected offer came to him from a solicitor in London, of
whom he knew nothing, to purchase the house and grounds, for a
client of his, who had instructed him so to do, but whom he did
not mention.

The offer made was a liberal one, and beyond the value of
the place. The lawyer who had conducted Henry’s affairs for him
since his father’s decease, advised him by all means to take
it; but after a consultation with his mother and sister, and
George, they all resolved to hold by their own house as long as
they could, and, consequently, he refused the offer.

He was then asked to let the place, and to name his own
price for the occupation of it; but that he would not do: so
the negotiation went off altogether, leaving only, in the minds
of the family, much surprise at the exceeding eagerness of some
one, whom they knew not, to get possession of the place on any
terms.

There was another circumstance perhaps which materially
aided in producing a strong feeling on the minds of the
Bannerworths, with regard to remaining where they were.

That circumstance occurred thus: a relation of the family,
who was now dead, and with whom had died all his means, had
been in the habit, for the last half dozen years of his life,
of sending a hundred pounds to Henry, for the express purpose
of enabling him and his brother George and his sifter Flora to
take a little continental or home tour, in the autumn of the
year.

A more acceptable present, or for a more delightful purpose,
to young people, could not be found; and, with the quiet,
prudent habits of all three of them, they contrived to go far
and to see much for the sum which was thus handsomely placed at
their disposal.

In one of those excursions, when among the mountains of
Italy, an adventure occurred which placed the life of Flora in
imminent hazard.

They were riding along a narrow mountain path, and, her
horse slipping, she fell over the ledge of a precipice.

In an instant, a young man, a stranger to the whole party,
who was travelling in the vicinity, rushed to the spot, and by
his knowledge and exertions, they felt convinced her
preservation was effected.

He told her to lie quiet; he encouraged her to hope for
immediate succour; and then, with much personal exertion, and
at immense risk to himself, he reached the ledge of rock on
which she lay, and then he supported her until the brothers had
gone to a neighbouring house, which, bye-the-bye, was two good
English miles off, and got assistance.

There came on, while they were gone, a terrific storm, and
Flora felt that but for him who was with her she must have been
hurled from the rock, and perished in an abyss below, which was
almost too deep for observation.

Suffice it to say that she was rescued; and he who had, by
his intrepidity, done so much towards saving her, was loaded
with the most sincere and heartfelt acknowledgments by the
brothers as well as by herself.

He frankly told them that his name was Holland; that he was
travelling for amusement and instruction, and was by profession
an artist.

He travelled with them for some time; and it was not at all
to be wondered at, under the circumstances, that an attachment
of the tenderest nature should spring up between him and the
beautiful girl, who felt that she owed to him her life.

Mutual glances of affection were exchanged between them, and
it was arranged that when he returned to England, he should
come at once as an honoured guest to the house of the family of
the Bannerworths.

All this was settled satisfactorily with the full knowledge
and acquiescence of the two brothers, who had taken a strange
attachment to the young Charles Holland, who was indeed in
every way likely to propitiate the good opinion of all who knew
him.

Henry explained to him exactly how they were situated, and
told him that when he came he would find a welcome from all,
except possibly his father, whose wayward temper he could not
answer for.

Young Holland stated that he was compelled to be away for a
term of two years, from certain family arrangements he had
entered into, and that then he would return and hope to meet
Flora unchanged as he should be.

It happened that this was the last of the continental
excursions of the Bannerworths, for, before another year rolled
round, the generous relative who had supplied them with the
means of making such delightful trips was no more; and,
likewise, the death of the father had occurred in the manner we
have related, so that there was no chance as had been
anticipated and hoped for by Flora, of meeting Charles Holland
on the continent again, before his two years of absence from
England should be expired.

Such, however, being the state of things, Flora felt
reluctant to give up the house, where he would be sure to come
to look for her, and her happiness was too dear to Henry to
induce him to make any sacrifice of it to expediency.

Therefore was it that Bannerworth Hall, as it was sometimes
called, was retained, and fully intended to be retained at all
events until after Charles Holland had made his appearance, and
his advice (for he was, by the young people, considered as one
of the family) taken, with regard to what was advisable to be
done.

With one exception this was the state of affairs at the
hall, and that exception relates to Mr. Marchdale.

He was a distant relation of Mrs. Bannerworth, and, in early
life, had been sincerely and tenderly attached to her. She,
however, with the want of steady reflection of a young girl, as
she then was, had, as is generally the case among several
admirers, chosen the very worst: that is, the man who treated
her with the most indifference, and who paid her the least
attention, was of course, thought the most of, and she gave her
hand to him.

That man was Mr. Bannerworth. But future experience had made
her thoroughly awake to her former error; and, but for the love
she bore her children, who were certainly all that a mother’s
heart could wish, she would often have deeply regretted the
infatuation which had induced her to bestow her hand in the
quarter she had done so.

About a month after the decease of Mr. Bannerworth, there
came one to the hall, who desired to see the widow. That one
was Mr. Marchdale.

It might have been some slight tenderness towards him which
had never left her, or it might be the pleasure merely of
seeing one whom she had known intimately in early life, but, be
that as it may, she certainly gave him a kindly welcome; and
he, after consenting to remain for some time as a visitor at
the hall, won the esteem of the whole family by his frank
demeanour and cultivated intellect.

He had travelled much and seen much, and he had turned to
good account all he had seen, so that not only was Mr.
Marchdale a man of sterling sound sense, but he was a most
entertaining companion.

His intimate knowledge of many things concerning which they
knew little or nothing; his accurate modes of thought, and a
quiet, gentlemanly demeanour, such as is rarely to be met with,
combined to make him esteemed by the Bannerworths. He had a
small independence of his own, and being completely alone in
the world, for he had neither wife nor child, Marchdale owned
that he felt a pleasure in residing with the Bannerworths.

Of course he could not, in decent terms, so far offend them
as to offer to pay for his subsistence, but he took good care
that they should really be no losers by having him as an
inmate, a matter which he could easily arrange by little
presents of one kind and another, all of which he managed
should be such as were not only ornamental, but actually spared
his kind entertainers some positive expense which otherwise
they must have gone to.

Whether or not this amiable piece of manoeuvring was seen
through by the Bannerworths it is not our purpose to inquire.
If it was seen through, it could not lower him in their esteem,
for it was probably just what they themselves would have felt a
pleasure in doing under similar circumstances, and if they did
not observe it, Mr. Marchdale would, probably, be all the
better pleased.

Such then may be considered by our readers as a brief
outline of the state of affairs among the Bannerworths—a
state which was pregnant with changes, and which changes were
now likely to be rapid and conclusive.

How far the feelings of the family towards the ancient house
of their race would be altered by the appearance at it of so
fearful a visitor as a vampyre, we will not stop to inquire,
inasmuch as such feelings will develop themselves as we
proceed.

That the visitation had produced a serious effect upon all
the household was sufficiently evident, as well among the
educated as among the ignorant. On the second morning, Henry
received notice to quit his service from the three servants he
with difficulty had contrived to keep at the hall. The reason
why he received such notice he knew well enough, and therefore
he did not trouble himself to argue about a superstition to
which he felt now himself almost, compelled to give way; for
how could he say there was no such thing as a vampyre, when he
had, with his own eyes, had the most abundant evidence of the
terrible fact?

He calmly paid the servants, and allowed them to leave him
at once without at all entering into the matter, and, for the
time being, some men were procured, who, however, came
evidently with fear and trembling, and probably only took the
place, on account of not being able, to procure any other. The
comfort of the household was likely to be completely put an end
to, and reasons now for leaving the hall appeared to be most
rapidly accumulating.

CHAPTER VII.

THE VISIT TO THE VAULT OF THE BANNERWORTHS, AND ITS
UNPLEASANT RESULT.—THE MYSTERY.

Henry and his brother roused Flora, and after agreeing
together that it would be highly imprudent to say anything to
her of the proceedings of the night, they commenced a
conversation with her in encouraging and kindly accents.

“Well, Flora,” said Henry, “you see you have been quite
undisturbed to-night.”

“I have slept long, dear Henry.”

“You have, and pleasantly too, I hope.”

“I have not had any dreams, and I feel much refreshed, now,
and quite well again.”

“Thank Heaven!” said George.

“If you will tell dear mother that I am awake, I will get up
with her assistance.”

The brothers left the room, and they spoke to each other of
it as a favourable sign, that Flora did not object to being
left alone now, as she had done on the preceding morning.

“She is fast recovering, now, George,” said Henry. “If we
could now but persuade ourselves that all this alarm would pass
away, and that we should hear no more of it, we might return to
our old and comparatively happy condition.”

“Let us believe, Henry, that we shall.”

“And yet, George, I shall not be satisfied in my mind, until
I have paid a visit.”

“A visit? Where?”

“To the family vault.”

“Indeed, Henry! I thought you had abandoned that idea.”

“I had. I have several times abandoned it; but it comes
across my mind again and again.”

“I much regret it.”

“Look you, George; as yet, everything that has happened has
tended to confirm a belief in this most horrible of all
superstitions concerning vampyres.”

“It has.”

“Now, my great object, George, is to endeavour to disturb
such a state of things, by getting something, however slight,
or of a negative character, for the mind to rest upon on the
other side of the question.”

“I comprehend you, Henry.”

“You know that at present we are not only led to believe,
almost irresistibly that we have been visited here by a vampyre
but that that vampyre is our ancestor, whose portrait is on the
panel of the wall of the chamber into which he contrived to
make his way.”

“True, most true.”

“Then let us, by an examination of the family vault, George,
put an end to one of the evidences. If we find, as most surely
we shall, the coffin of the ancestor of ours, who seems, in
dress and appearance, so horribly mixed up in this affair, we
shall be at rest on that head.”

“But consider how many years have elapsed.”

“Yes, a great number.”

“What then, do you suppose, could remain of any corpse
placed in a vault so long ago?”

“Decomposition must of course have done its work, but still
there must be a something to show that a corpse has so
undergone the process common to all nature. Double the lapse of
time surely could not obliterate all traces of that which had
been.”

“There is reason in that, Henry.”

“Besides, the coffins are all of lead, and some of stone, so
that they cannot have all gone.”

“True, most true.”

“If in the one which, from the inscription and the date, we
discover to be that of our ancestor whom we seek, we find the
evident remains of a corpse, we shall be satisfied that he has
rested in his tomb in peace.”

“Brother, you seem bent on this adventure,” said George; “if
you go, I will accompany you.”

“I will not engage rashly in it, George. Before I finally
decide, I will again consult with Mr. Marchdale. His opinion
will weigh much with me.”

“And in good time, here he comes across the garden,” said
George, as he looked from the window of the room in which they
sat.

It was Mr. Marchdale, and the brothers warmly welcomed him
as he entered the apartment.

“You have been early afoot,” said Henry.

“I have,” he said. “The fact is, that although at your
solicitation I went to bed, I could not sleep, and I went out
once more to search about the spot where we had seen
the—the I don’t know what to call it, for I have a great
dislike to naming it a vampyre.”

“There is not much in a name,” said George.

“In this instance there is,” said Marchdale. “It is a name
suggestive of horror.”

“Made you any discovery?” said Henry.

“None whatever.”

“You saw no trace of any one?”

“Not the least.”

“Well, Mr. Marchdale, George and I were talking over this
projected visit to the family vault.”

“Yes.”

“And we agreed to suspend our judgments until we saw you,
and learned your opinion.”

“Which I will tell you frankly,” said Mr. Marchdale,
“because I know you desire it freely.”

“Do so.”

“It is, that you make the visit.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes, and for this reason. You have now, as you cannot help
having, a disagreeable feeling, that you may find that one
coffin is untenanted. Now, if you do find it so, you scarcely
make matters worse, by an additional confirmation of what
already amounts to a strong supposition, and one which is
likely to grow stronger by time.”

“True, most true.”

“On the contrary, if you find indubitable proofs that your
ancestor has slept soundly in the tomb, and gone the way of all
flesh, you will find yourselves much calmer, and that an attack
is made upon the train of events which at present all run one
way.”

“That is precisely the argument I was using to George,” said
Henry, “a few moments since.”

“Then let us go,” said George, “by all means.”

“It is so decided then,” said Henry.

“Let it be done with caution,” replied Mr. Marchdale.

“If any one can manage it, of course we can.”

“Why should it not be done secretly and at night? Of course
we lose nothing by making a night visit to a vault into which
daylight, I presume, cannot penetrate.”

“Certainly not.”

“Then let it be at night.”

“But we shall surely require the concurrence of some of the
church authorities.”

“Nay, I do not see that,” interposed Mr. Marchdale. “It is
the vault actually vested in and belonging to yourself you wish
to visit, and, therefore, you have right to visit it in any
manner or at any time that may be most suitable to
yourself.”

“But detection in a clandestine visit might produce
unpleasant consequences.”

“The church is old,” said George, “and we could easily find
means of getting into it. There is only one objection that I
see, just now, and that is, that we leave Flora
unprotected.”

“We do, indeed,” said Henry. “I did not think of that.”

“It must be put to herself, as a matter for her own
consideration,” said Mr. Marchdale, “if she will consider
herself sufficiently safe with the company and protection of
your mother only.”

“It would be a pity were we not all three present at the
examination of the coffin,” remarked Henry.

“It would, indeed. There is ample evidence,” said Mr.
Marchdale, “but we must not give Flora a night of sleeplessness
and uneasiness on that account, and the more particularly as we
cannot well explain to her where we are going, or upon what
errand.”

“Certainly not.”

“Let us talk to her, then, about it,” said Henry. “I confess
I am much bent upon the plan, and fain would not forego it;
neither should I like other than that we three should go
together.”

“If you determine, then, upon it,” said Marchdale, “we will
go to-night; and, from your acquaintance with the place,
doubtless you will be able to decide what tools are
necessary.”

“There is a trap-door at the bottom of the pew,” said Henry;
“it is not only secured down, but it is locked likewise, and I
have the key in my possession.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; immediately beneath is a short flight of stone steps,
which conduct at once into the vault.”

“Is it large?”

“No; about the size of a moderate chamber, and with no
intricacies about it.”

“There can be no difficulties, then.”

“None whatever, unless we meet with actual personal
interruption, which I am inclined to think is very far from
likely. All we shall require will be a screwdriver, with which
to remove the screws, and then something with which to wrench
open the coffin.”

“Those we can easily provide, along with lights,” remarked
Mr. Marchdale.

“I hope to Heaven that this visit to the tomb will have the
effect of easing your minds, and enabling you to make a
successful stand against the streaming torrent of evidence that
has poured in upon us regarding this most fearful of
apparitions.”

“I do, indeed, hope so,” added Henry; “and now I will go at
once to Flora, and endeavour to convince her she is safe
without us to-night.”

“By-the-bye, I think,” said Marchdale, “that if we can
induce Mr. Chillingworth to come with us, it will be a great
point gained in the investigation.”

“He would,” said Henry, “be able to come to an accurate
decision with respect to the remains—if any—in the
coffin, which we could not.”

“Then have him, by all means,” said George. “He did not seem
averse last night to go on such an adventure.”

“I will ask him when he makes his visit this morning upon
Flora; and should he not feel disposed to join us, I am quite
sure he will keep the secret of our visit.”

All this being arranged, Henry proceeded to Flora, and told
her that he and George, and Mr. Marchdale wished to go out for
about a couple of hours in the evening after dark, if she felt
sufficiently well to feel a sense of security without them.

Flora changed colour, and slightly trembled, and then, as if
ashamed of her fears, she said,—

“Go, go; I will not detain you. Surely no harm can come to
me in presence of my mother.”

“We shall not be gone longer than the time I mention to
you,” said Henry.

“Oh, I shall be quite content. Besides, am I to be kept thus
in fear all my life? Surely, surely not. I ought, too, to learn
to defend myself.”

Henry caught at the idea, as he said,—

“If fire-arms were left you, do you think you would have
courage to use them?”

“I do, Henry.”

“Then you shall have them; and let me beg of you to shoot
any one without the least hesitation who shall come into your
chamber.”

“I will, Henry. If ever human being was justified in the use
of deadly weapons, I am now. Heaven protect me from a
repetition of the visit to which I have now been once
subjected. Rather, oh, much rather would I die a hundred deaths
than suffer what I have suffered.”

“Do not allow it, dear Flora, to press too heavily upon your
mind in dwelling upon it in conversation. I still entertain a
sanguine expectation that something may arise to afford a far
less dreadful explanation of what has occurred than what you
have put upon it. Be of good cheer, Flora, we shall go one hour
after sunset, and return in about two hours from the time at
which we leave here, you may be assured.”

Notwithstanding this ready and courageous acquiescence of
Flora in the arrangement, Henry was not without his
apprehension that when the night should come again, her fears
would return with it; but he spoke to Mr. Chillingworth upon
the subject, and got that gentleman’s ready consent to
accompany them.

He promised to meet them at the church porch exactly at nine
o’clock, and matters were all arranged, and Henry waited with
much eagerness and anxiety now for the coming night, which he
hoped would dissipate one of the fearful deductions which his
imagination had drawn from recent circumstances.

He gave to Flora a pair of pistols of his own, upon which he
knew he could depend, and he took good care to load them well,
so that there could be no likelihood whatever of their missing
fire at a critical moment.

“Now, Flora,” he said, “I have seen you use fire-arms when
you were much younger than you are now, and therefore I need
give you no instructions. If any intruder does come, and you do
fire, be sure you take a good aim, and shoot low.”

“I will, Henry, I will; and you will be back in two
hours?”

“Most assuredly I will.”

The day wore on, evening came, and then deepened into night.
It turned out to be a cloudy night, and therefore the moon’s
brilliance was nothing near equal to what it had been on the
preceding night Still, however, it had sufficient power over
the vapours that frequently covered it for many minutes
together, to produce a considerable light effect upon the face
of nature, and the night was consequently very far, indeed,
from what might be called a dark one.

George, Henry, and Marchdale, met in one of the lower rooms
of the house, previous to starting upon their expedition; and
after satisfying themselves that they had with them all the
tools that were necessary, inclusive of the same small, but
well-tempered iron crow-bar with which Marchdale had, on the
night of the visit of the vampyre, forced open the door of
Flora’s chamber, they left the hall, and proceeded at a rapid
pace towards the church.

“And Flora does not seem much alarmed,” said Marchdale, “at
being left alone?”

“No,” replied Henry, “she has made up her mind with a strong
natural courage which I knew was in her disposition to resist
as much as possible the depressing effects of the awful
visitation she has endured.”

“It would have driven some really mad.”

“It would, indeed; and her own reason tottered on its
throne, but, thank Heaven, she has recovered.”

“And I fervently hope that, through her life,” added
Marchdale, “she may never have such another trial.”

“We will not for a moment believe that such a thing can
occur twice.”

“She is one among a thousand. Most young girls would never
at all have recovered the fearful shock to the nerves.”

“Not only has she recovered,” said Henry, “but a spirit,
which I am rejoiced to see, because it is one which will uphold
her, of resistance now possesses her.”

“Yes, she actually—I forgot to tell you
before—but she actually asked me for arms to resist any
second visitation.”

“You much surprise me.”

“Yes, I was surprised, as well as pleased, myself.”

“I would have left her one of my pistols had I been aware of
her having made such a request. Do you know if she can use
fire-arms?”

“Oh, yes; well.”

“What a pity. I have them both with me.”

“Oh, she is provided.”

“Provided?”

“Yes; I found some pistols which I used to take with me on
the continent, and she has them both well loaded, so that if
the vampyre makes his appearance, he is likely to meet with
rather a warm reception.”

“Good God! was it not dangerous?”

“Not at all, I think.”

“Well, you know best, certainly, of course. I hope the
vampyre may come, and that we may have the pleasure, when we
return, of finding him dead. By-the-bye, I—I—.
Bless me, I have forgot to get the materials for lights, which
I pledged myself to do.”

“How unfortunate.”

“Walk on slowly, while I run back and get them.”

“Oh, we are too far—”

“Hilloa!” cried a man at this moment, some distance in front
of them.

“It is Mr. Chillingworth,” said Henry.

“Hilloa,” cried the worthy doctor again. “Is that you, my
friend, Henry Bannerworth?”

“It is,” cried Henry.

Mr. Chillingworth now came up to them and said,—

“I was before my time, so rather than wait at the church
porch, which would have exposed me to observation perhaps, I
thought it better to walk on, and chance meeting with you.”

“You guessed we should come this way?’

“Yes, and so it turns out, really. It is unquestionably your
most direct route to the church.”

“I think I will go back,” said Mr Marchdale.

“Back!” exclaimed the doctor; “what for?”

“I forgot the means of getting lights. We have candles, but
no means of lighting them.”

“Make yourselves easy on that score,” said Mr.
Chillingworth. “I am never without some chemical matches of my
own manufacture, so that as you have the candles, that can be
no bar to our going on a once.”

“That is fortunate,” said Henry.

“Very,” added Marchdale; “for it seems a mile’s hard walking
for me, or at least half a mile from the hall. Let us now push
on.”

They did push on, all four walking at a brisk pace. The
church, although it belonged to the village, was not in it. On
the contrary, it was situated at the end of a long lane, which
was a mile nearly from the village, in the direction of the
hall, therefore, in going to it from the hall, that amount of
distance was saved, although it was always called and
considered the village church.

It stood alone, with the exception of a glebe house and two
cottages, that were occupied by persons who held situations
about the sacred edifice, and who were supposed, being on the
spot, to keep watch and ward over it.

It was an ancient building of the early English style of
architecture, or rather Norman, with one of those antique,
square, short towers, built of flint stones firmly embedded in
cement, which, from time, had acquired almost the consistency
of stone itself. There were numerous arched windows, partaking
something of the more florid gothic style, although scarcely
ornamental enough to be called such. The edifice stood in the
centre of a grave-yard, which extended over a space of about
half an acre, and altogether it was one of the prettiest and
most rural old churches within many miles of the spot.

Many a lover of the antique and of the picturesque, for it
was both, went out of his way while travelling in the
neighbourhood to look at it, and it had an extensive and
well-deserved reputation as a fine specimen of its class and
style of building.

In Kent, to the present day, are some fine specimens of the
old Roman style of church, building; and, although they are as
rapidly pulled down as the abuse of modern architects, and the
cupidity of speculators, and the vanity of clergymen can
possibly encourage, in older to erect flimsy, Italianised
structures in their stead, yet sufficient of them remain dotted
over England to interest the traveller. At Walesden there is a
church of this description which will well repay a visit. This,
then, was the kind of building into which it was the intention
of our four friends to penetrate, not on an unholy, or an
unjustifiable errand, but on one which, proceeding from good
and proper motives, it was highly desirable to conduct in as
secret a manner as possible.

The moon was more densely covered by clouds than it had yet
been that evening, when they reached the little wicket-gate
which led into the churchyard, through which was a regularly
used thoroughfare.

“We have a favourable night,” remarked Henry, “for we are
not so likely to be disturbed.”

“And now, the question is, how are we to get in?” said Mr.
Chillingworth, as he paused, and glanced up at the ancient
building.

“The doors,” said George, “would effectually resist us.”

“How can it be done, then?”

“The only way I can think of,” said Henry, “is to get out
one of the small diamond-shaped panes of glass from one of the
low windows, and then we can one of us put in our hands, and
undo the fastening, which is very simple, when the window opens
like a door, and it is but a step into the church.”

“A good way,” said Marchdale. “We will lose no time.”

They walked round the church till they came to a very low
window indeed, near to an angle of the wall, where a huge
abutment struck far out into the burial-ground.

“Will you do it, Henry?” said George.

“Yes. I have often noticed the fastenings. Just give me a
slight hoist up, and all will be right.”

George did so, and Henry with his knife easily bent back
some of the leadwork which held in one of the panes of glass,
and then got it out whole. He handed it down to George,
saying,—

“Take this, George. We can easily replace it when we leave,
so that there can be no signs left of any one having been here
at all.”

George took the piece of thick, dim-coloured glass, and in
another moment Henry had succeeded in opening the window, and
the mode of ingress to the old church was fair and easy before
them all, had there been ever so many.

“I wonder,” said Marchdale, “that a place so inefficiently
protected has never been robbed.”

“No wonder at all,” remarked Mr. Chillingworth. “There is
nothing to take that I am aware of that would repay anybody the
trouble of taking.”

“Indeed!”

“Not an article. The pulpit, to be sure, is covered with
faded velvet; but beyond that, and an old box, in which I
believe nothing is left but some books, I think there is no
temptation.”

“And that, Heaven knows, is little enough, then.”

“Come on,” said Henry. “Be careful; there is nothing beneath
the window, and the depth is about two feet.”

Thus guided, they all got fairly into the sacred edifice,
and then Henry closed the window, and fastened it on the inside
as he said,—

“We have nothing to do now but to set to work opening a way
into the vault, and I trust that Heaven will pardon me for thus
desecrating the tomb of my ancestors, from a consideration of
the object I have in view by so doing.”

“It does seem wrong thus to tamper with the secrets of the
tomb,” remarked Mr. Marchdale.

“The secrets of a fiddlestick!” said the doctor. “What
secrets has the tomb I wonder?”

“Well, but, my dear sir—”

“Nay, my dear sir, it is high time that death, which is,
then, the inevitable fate of us all, should be regarded with
more philosophic eyes than it is. There are no secrets in the
tomb but such as may well be endeavoured to be kept
secret.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is one which very probably we shall find unpleasantly
revealed.”

“Which is that?”

“The not over pleasant odour of decomposed animal
remains—beyond that I know of nothing of a secret nature
that the tomb can show us.”

“Ah, your profession hardens you to such matters.”

“And a very good thing that it does, or else, if all men
were to look upon a dead body as something almost too dreadful
to look upon, and by far too horrible to touch, surgery would
lose its value, and crime, in many instances of the most
obnoxious character, would go unpunished.”

“If we have a light here,” said Henry, “we shall run the
greatest chance in the world of being seen, for the church has
many windows.”

“Do not have one, then, by any means,” said Mr.
Chillingworth. “A match held low down in the pew may enable us
to open the vault.”

“That will be the only plan.”

Henry led them to the pew which belonged to his family, and
in the floor of which was the trap door.

“When was it last opened?” inquired Marchdale.

“When my father died,” said Henry; “some ten months ago now,
I should think.”

“The screws, then, have had ample time to fix themselves
with fresh rust.”

“Here is one of my chemical matches,” said Mr.
Chillingworth, as he suddenly irradiated the pew with a clear
and beautiful flame, that lasted about a minute.

The heads of the screws were easily discernible, and the
short time that the light lasted had enabled Henry to turn the
key he had brought with him in the lock.

“I think that without a light now,” he said, “I can turn the
screws well.”

“Can you?”

“Yes; there are but four.”

“Try it, then.”

Henry did so, and from the screws having very large heads,
and being made purposely, for the convenience of removal when
required, with deep indentations to receive the screw-driver,
he found no difficulty in feeling for the proper places, and
extracting the screws without any more light than was afforded
to him from the general whitish aspect of the heavens.

“Now, Mr. Chillingworth,” he said “another of your matches,
if you please. I have all the screws so loose that I can pick
them up with my fingers.”

“Here,” said the doctor.

In another moment the pew was as light as day, and Henry
succeeded in taking out the few screws, which he placed in his
pocket for their greater security, since, of course, the
intention was to replace everything exactly as it was found, in
order that not the least surmise should arise in the mind of
any person that the vault had been opened, and visited for any
purpose whatever, secretly or otherwise.

“Let us descend,” said Henry. “There is no further obstacle,
my friends. Let us descend.”

“If any one,” remarked George, in a whisper, as they slowly
descended the stairs which conducted into the vault—”if
any one had told me that I should be descending into a vault
for the purpose of ascertaining if a dead body, which had been
nearly a century there, was removed or not, and had become a
vampyre, I should have denounced the idea as one of the most
absurd that ever entered the brain of a human being.”

“We are the very slaves of circumstances,” said Marchdale,
“and we never know what we may do, or what we may not. What
appears to us so improbable as to border even upon the
impossible at one time, is at another the only course of action
which appears feasibly open to us to attempt to pursue.”

They had now reached the vault, the floor of which was
composed of flat red tiles, laid in tolerable order the one
beside the other. As Henry had stated, the vault was by no
means of large extent. Indeed, several of the apartments for
the living, at the hall, were much larger than was that one
destined for the dead.

The atmosphere was dump and noisome, but not by any means so
bad as might have been expected, considering the number of
months which had elapsed since last the vault was opened to
receive one of its ghastly and still visitants.

“Now for one of your lights. Mr. Chillingworth. You say you
have the candles, I think, Marchdale, although you forgot the
matches.”

“I have. They are here.”

Marchdale took from his pocket a parcel which contained
several wax candles, and when it was opened, a smaller packet
fell to the ground.

“Why, these are instantaneous matches,” said Mr.
Chillingworth, as he lifted the small packet up.

“They are; and what a fruitless journey I should have had
back to the hall,” said Mr. Marchdale, “if you had not been so
well provided as you are with the means of getting a light.
These matches, which I thought I had not with me, have been, in
the hurry of departure, enclosed, you see, with the candles.
Truly, I should have hunted for them at home in vain.”

Mr. Chillingworth lit the wax candle which was now handed to
him by Marchdale, and in another moment the vault from one end
of it to the other was quite clearly discernible.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE COFFIN.—THE ABSENCE OF THE DEAD.—THE
MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCE, AND THE CONSTERNATION OF
GEORGE.

They were all silent for a few moments as they looked around
them with natural feelings of curiosity. Two of that party had
of course never been in that vault at all, and the brothers,
although they had descended into it upon the occasion, nearly a
year before, of their father being placed in it, still looked
upon it with almost as curious eyes as they who now had their
first sight of it.

If a man be at all of a thoughtful or imaginative cast of
mind, some curious sensations are sure to come over him, upon
standing in such a place, where he knows around him lie, in the
calmness of death, those in whose veins have flowed kindred
blood to him—who bore the same name, and who preceded him
in the brief drama of his existence, influencing his destiny
and his position in life probably largely by their actions
compounded of their virtues and their vices.

Henry Bannerworth and his brother George were just the kind
of persons to feel strongly such sensations. Both were
reflective, imaginative, educated young men, and, as the light
from the wax candle flashed upon their faces, it was evident
how deeply they felt the situation in which they were
placed.

Mr. Chillingworth and Marchdale were silent. They both knew
what was passing in the minds of the brothers, and they had too
much delicacy to interrupt a train of thought which, although
from having no affinity with the dead who lay around, they
could not share in, yet they respected. Henry at length, with a
sudden start, seemed to recover himself from his reverie.

“This is a time for action, George,” he said, “and not for
romantic thought. Let us proceed.”

“Yes, yes,” said George, and he advanced a step towards the
centre of the vault.

“Can you find out among all these coffins, for there seem to
be nearly twenty,” said Mr. Chillingworth, “which is the one we
seek?”

“I think we may,” replied Henry. “Some of the earlier
coffins of our race, I know, were made of marble, and others of
metal, both of which materials, I expect, would withstand the
encroaches of time for a hundred years, at least.”

“Let us examine,” said George.

There were shelves or niches built into the walls all round,
on which the coffins were placed, so that there could not be
much difficulty in a minute examination of them all, the one
after the other.

When, however, they came to look, they found that “decay’s
offensive fingers” had been more busy than they could have
imagined, and that whatever they touched of the earlier coffins
crumbled into dust before their very fingers.

In some cases the inscriptions were quite illegible, and, in
others, the plates that had borne them had fallen on to the
floor of the vault, so that it was impossible to say to which
coffin they belonged.

Of course, the more recent and fresh-looking coffins they
did not examine, because they could not have anything to do
with the object of that melancholy visit.

“We shall arrive at no conclusion,” said George. “All seems
to have rotted away among those coffins where we might expect
to find the one belonging to Marmaduke Bannerworth, our
ancestor.”

“Here is a coffin plate,” said Marchdale, taking one from
the floor.

He handed it to Mr. Chillingworth, who, upon an inspection
of it, close to the light, exclaimed,—

“It must have belonged to the coffin you seek.”

“What says it?”

“Ye mortale remains of Marmaduke Bannerworth, Yeoman. God
reste his soule. A.D. 1540.”

“It is the plate belonging to his coffin,” said Henry, “and
now our search is fruitless.”

“It is so, indeed,” exclaimed George, “for how can we tell
to which of the coffins that have lost the plates this one
really belongs?”

“I should not be so hopeless,” said Marchdale. “I have, from
time to time, in the pursuit of antiquarian lore, which I was
once fond of, entered many vaults, and I have always observed
that an inner coffin of metal was sound and good, while the
outer one of wood had rotted away, and yielded at once to the
touch of the first hand that was laid upon it.”

“But, admitting that to be the case,” said Henry, “how does
that assist us in the identification of a coffin?”

“I have always, in my experience, found the name and rank of
the deceased engraved upon the lid of the inner coffin, as well
as being set forth in a much more perishable manner on the
plate which was secured to the outer one.”

“He is right,” said Mr. Chillingworth. “I wonder we never
thought of that. If your ancestor was buried in a leaden
coffin, there will be no difficulty in finding which it
is.”

Henry seized the light, and proceeding to one of the
coffins, which seemed to be a mass of decay, he pulled away
some of the rotted wood work, and then suddenly
exclaimed,—

“You are quite right. Here is a firm strong leaden coffin
within, which, although quite black, does not otherwise appear
to have suffered.”

“What is the inscription on that?” said George.

With difficulty the name on the lid was deciphered, but it
was found not to be the coffin of him whom they sought.

“We can make short work of this,” said Marchdale, “by only
examining those leaden coffins which have lost the plates from
off their outer cases. There do not appear to be many in such a
state.”

He then, with another light, which he lighted from the one
that Henry now carried, commenced actively assisting in the
search, which was carried on silently for more than ten
minutes.

Suddenly Mr. Marchdale cried, in a tone of
excitement,—

“I have found it. It is here.”

They all immediately surrounded the spot where he was, and
then he pointed to the lid of a coffin, which he had been
rubbing with his handkerchief, in order to make the inscription
more legible, and said,—

“See. It is here.”

By the combined light of the candles they saw the
words,—

“Marmaduke Bannerworth, Yeoman, 1640.”

“Yes, there can be no mistake here,” said Henry. “This is
the coffin, and it shall be opened.”

“I have the iron crowbar here,” said Marchdale. “It is an
old friend of mine, and I am accustomed to the use of it. Shall
I open the coffin?”

“Do so—do so,” said Henry.

They stood around in silence, while Mr. Marchdale, with much
care, proceeded to open the coffin, which seemed of great
thickness, and was of solid lead.

It was probably the partial rotting of the metal, in
consequence of the damps of that place, that made it easier to
open the coffin than it otherwise would have been, but certain
it was that the top came away remarkably easily. Indeed, so
easily did it come off, that another supposition might have
been hazarded, namely, that it had never at all been
effectually fastened.

The few moments that elapsed were ones of very great
suspense to every one there present; and it would, indeed, be
quite sure to assert, that all the world was for the time
forgotten in the absorbing interest which appertained to the
affair which was in progress.

The candles were now both held by Mr. Chillingworth, and
they were so held as to cast a full and clear light upon the
coffin. Now the lid slid off, and Henry eagerly gazed into the
interior.

There lay something certainly there, and an audible “Thank
God!” escaped his lips.

“The body is there!” exclaimed George.

“All right,” said Marchdale, “here it is. There is
something, and what else can it be?”

“Hold the lights,” said Mr. Chillingworth; “hold the lights,
some of you; let us be quite certain.”

George took the lights, and Mr. Chillingworth, without any
hesitation, dipped his hands at once into the coffin, and took
up some fragments of rags which were there. They were so
rotten, that they fell to pieces in his grasp, like so many
pieces of tinder.

There was a death-like pause for some few moments, and then
Mr. Chillingworth said, in a low voice,—

“There is not the least vestige of a dead body here.”

Henry gave a deep groan, as he said,—

“Mr. Chillingworth, can you take upon yourself to say that
no corpse has undergone the process of decomposition in this
coffin?”

“To answer your question exactly, as probably in your hurry
you have worded it,” said Mr. Chillingworth, “I cannot take
upon myself to say any such thing; but this I can say, namely,
that in this coffin there are no animal remains, and that it is
quite impossible that any corpse enclosed here could, in any
lapse of time, have so utterly and entirely disappeared.”

“I am answered,” said Henry.

“Good God!” exclaimed George, “and has this but added
another damning proof, to those we have already on our minds,
of one of the must dreadful superstitions that ever the mind of
man conceived?”

“It would seem so,” said Marchdale, sadly.

“Oh, that I were dead! This is terrible. God of heaven, why
are these things? Oh, if I were but dead, and so spared the
torture of supposing such things possible.”

“Think again, Mr. Chillingworth; I pray you think again,”
cried Marchdale.

“If I were to think for the remainder of my existence,” he
replied, “I could come to no other conclusion. It is not a
matter of opinion; it is a matter of fact.”

“You are positive, then,” said Henry, “that the dead body of
Marmaduke Bannerworth is not rested here?”

“I am positive. Look for yourselves. The lead is but
slightly discoloured; it looks tolerably clean and fresh; there
is not a vestige of putrefaction—no bones, no dust
even.”

They did all look for themselves, and the most casual glance
was sufficient to satisfy the most sceptical.

“All is over,” said Henry; “let us now leave this place; and
all I can now ask of you, my friends, is to lock this dreadful
secret deep in your own hearts.”

“It shall never pass my lips,” said Marchdale.

“Nor mine, you may depend,” said the doctor. “I was much in
hopes that this night’s work would have had the effect of
dissipating, instead of adding to, the gloomy fancies that now
possess you.”

“Good heavens!” cried George, “can you call them fancies,
Mr. Chillingworth?”

“I do, indeed.”

“Have you yet a doubt?”

“My young friend, I told you from the first, that I would
not believe in your vampyre; and I tell you now, that if one
was to come and lay hold of me by the throat, as long as I
could at all gasp for breath I would tell him he was a
d——d impostor.”

“This is carrying incredulity to the verge of
obstinacy.”

“Far beyond it, if you please.”

“You will not be convinced?” said Marchdale.

“I most decidedly, on this point, will not.”

“Then you are one who would doubt a miracle, if you saw it
with your own eyes.”

“I would, because I do not believe in miracles. I should
endeavour to find some rational and some scientific means of
accounting for the phenomenon, and that’s the very reason why
we have no miracles now-a-days, between you and I, and no
prophets and saints, and all that sort of thing.”

“I would rather avoid such observations in such a place as
this,” said Marchdale.

“Nay, do not be the moral coward,” cried Mr. Chillingworth,
“to make your opinions, or the expression of them, dependent
upon any certain locality.”

“I know not what to think,” said Henry; “I am bewildered
quite. Let us now come away.”

Mr. Marchdale replaced the lid of the coffin, and then the
little party moved towards the staircase. Henry turned before
he ascended, and glanced back into the vault.

“Oh,” he said, “if I could but think there had been some
mistake, some error of judgment, on which the mind could rest
for hope.”

“I deeply regret,” said Marchdale, “that I so strenuously
advised this expedition. I did hope that from it would have
resulted much good.”

“And you had every reason so to hope,” said Chillingworth.
“I advised it likewise, and I tell you that its result
perfectly astonishes me, although I will not allow myself to
embrace at once all the conclusions to which it would seem to
lead me.”

“I am satisfied,” said Henry; “I know you both advised me
for the best. The curse of Heaven seems now to have fallen upon
me and my house.”

“Oh, nonsense!” said Chillingworth. “What for?”

“Alas! I know not.”

“Then you may depend that Heaven would never act so oddly.
In the first place, Heaven don’t curse anybody; and, in the
second, it is too just to inflict pain where pain is not amply
deserved.”

They ascended the gloomy staircase of the vault. The
countenances of both George and Henry were very much saddened,
and it was quite evident that their thoughts were by far too
busy to enable them to enter into any conversation. They did
not, and particularly George, seem to hear all that was said to
them. Their intellects seemed almost stunned by the unexpected
circumstance of the disappearance of the body of their
ancestor.

All along they had, although almost unknown to themselves,
felt a sort of conviction that they must find some remains of
Marmaduke Bannerworth, which would render the supposition, even
in the most superstitious minds, that he was the vampyre, a
thing totally and physically impossible.

But now the whole question assumed a far more bewildering
shape. The body was not in its coffin—it had not there
quietly slept the long sleep of death common to humanity. Where
was it then? What had become of it? Where, how, and under what
circumstances had it been removed? Had it itself burst the
bands that held it, and hideously stalked forth into the world
again to make one of its seeming inhabitants, and kept up for a
hundred years a dreadful existence by such adventures as it had
consummated at the hall, where, in the course of ordinary human
life, it had once lived?

All these were questions which irresistibly pressed
themselves upon the consideration of Henry and his brother.
They were awful questions.

And yet, take any sober, sane, thinking, educated man, and
show him all that they had seen, subject him to all to which
they had been subjected, and say if human reason, and all the
arguments that the subtlest brain could back it with, would be
able to hold out against such a vast accumulation of horrible
evidences, and say—”I don’t believe it.”

Mr. Chillingworth’s was the only plan. He would not argue
the question. He said at once,—

“I will not believe this thing—upon this point I will
yield to no evidence whatever.”

That was the only way of disposing of such a question; but
there are not many who could so dispose of it, and not one so
much interested in it as were the brothers Bannerworth, who
could at all hope to get into such a state of mind.

The boards were laid carefully down again, and the screws
replaced. Henry found himself unequal to the task, so it was
done by Marchdale, who took pains to replace everything in the
same state in which they had found it, even to the laying even
the matting at the bottom of the pew.

Then they extinguished the light, and, with heavy hearts,
they all walked towards the window, to leave the sacred edifice
by the same means they had entered it.

“Shall we replace the pane of glass?” said Marchdale.

“Oh, it matters not—it matters not,” said Henry,
listlessly; “nothing matters now. I care not what becomes of
me—I am getting weary of a life which now must be one of
misery and dread.”

“You must not allow yourself to fall into such a state of
mind as this,” said the doctor, “or you will become a patient
of mine very quickly.”

“I cannot help it.”

“Well, but be a man. If there are serious evils affecting
you, fight out against them the best way you can.”

“I cannot.”

“Come, now, listen to me. We need not, I think, trouble
ourselves about the pane of glass, so come along.”

He took the arm of Henry and walked on with him a little in
advance of the others.

“Henry,” he said, “the best way, you may depend, of meeting
evils, be they great or small, is to get up an obstinate
feeling of defiance against them. Now, when anything occurs
which is uncomfortable to me, I endeavour to convince myself,
and I have no great difficulty in doing so, that I am a
decidedly injured man.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; I get very angry, and that gets up a kind of
obstinacy, which makes me not feel half so much mental misery
as would be my portion, if I were to succumb to the evil, and
commence whining over it, as many people do, under the pretence
of being resigned.”

“But this family affliction of mine transcends anything that
anybody else ever endured.”

“I don’t know that; but it is a view of the subject which,
if I were you, would only make me more obstinate.”

“What can I do?”

“In the first place, I would say to myself, ‘There may or
there may not be supernatural beings, who, from some physical
derangement of the ordinary nature of things, make themselves
obnoxious to living people; if there are, d—n them! There
may be vampyres; and if there are, I defy them.’ Let the
imagination paint its very worst terrors; let fear do what it
will and what it can in peopling the mind with horrors. Shrink
from nothing, and even then I would defy them all.”

“Is not that like defying Heaven?”

“Most certainly not; for in all we say and in all we do we
act from the impulses of that mind which is given to us by
Heaven itself. If Heaven creates an intellect and a mind of a
certain order, Heaven will not quarrel that it does the work
which it was adapted to do.”

“I know these are your opinions. I have heard you mention
them before.”

“They are the opinions of every rational person. Henry
Bannerworth, because they will stand the test of reason; and
what I urge upon you is, not to allow yourself to be mentally
prostrated, even if a vampyre has paid a visit to your house.
Defy him, say I—fight him. Self-preservation is a great
law of nature, implanted in all our hearts; do you summon it to
your aid.”

“I will endeavour to think as you would have me. I thought
more than once of summoning religion to my aid.”

“Well, that is religion.”

“Indeed!”

“I consider so, and the most rational religion of all. All
that we read about religion that does not seem expressly to
agree with it, you may consider as an allegory.”

“But, Mr. Chillingworth, I cannot and will not renounce the
sublime truths of Scripture. They may be incomprehensible; they
may be inconsistent; and some of them may look ridiculous; but
still they are sacred and sublime, and I will not renounce them
although my reason may not accord with them, because they are
the laws of Heaven.”

No wonder this powerful argument silenced Mr. Chillingworth,
who was one of those characters in society who hold most
dreadful opinions, and who would destroy religious beliefs, and
all the different sects in the world, if they could, and
endeavour to introduce instead some horrible system of human
reason and profound philosophy.

But how soon the religious man silences his opponent; and
let it not be supposed that, because his opponent says no more
upon the subject, he does so because he is disgusted with the
stupidity of the other; no, it is because he is completely
beaten, and has nothing more to say.

The distance now between the church and the hall was nearly
traversed, and Mr. Chillingworth, who was a very good man,
notwithstanding his disbelief in certain things of course paved
the way for him to hell, took a kind leave of Mr. Marchdale and
the brothers, promising to call on the following morning and
see Flora.

Henry and George then, in earnest conversation with
Marchdale, proceeded homewards. It was evident that the scene
in the vault had made a deep and saddening impression upon
them, and one which was not likely easily to be eradicated.

CHAPTER IX.

THE OCCURRENCES OF THE NIGHT AT THE HALL.—THE SECOND
APPEARANCE OF THE VAMPYRE, AND THE PISTOL-SHOT.

Despite the full and free consent which Flora had given to
her brothers to entrust her solely to the care of her mother
and her own courage at the hall, she felt greater fear creep
over her after they were gone than she chose to
acknowledge.

A sort of presentiment appeared to come over her that some
evil was about to occur, and more than once she caught herself
almost in the act of saying,—

“I wish they had not gone.”

Mrs. Bannerworth, too, could not be supposed to be entirely
destitute of uncomfortable feelings, when she came to consider
how poor a guard she was over her beautiful child, and how much
terror might even deprive of the little power she had, should
the dreadful visitor again make his appearance.

“But it is but for two hours,” thought Flora, “and two hours
will soon pass away.”

There was, too, another feeling which gave her some degree
of confidence, although it arose from a bad source, inasmuch as
it was one which showed powerfully how much her mind was
dwelling on the particulars of the horrible belief in the class
of supernatural beings, one of whom she believed had visited
her.

That consideration was this. The two hours of absence from
the hall of its male inhabitants, would be from nine o’clock
until eleven, and those were not the two hours during which she
felt that she would be most timid on account of the
vampyre.

“It was after midnight before,” she thought, “when it came,
and perhaps it may not be able to come earlier. It may not have
the power, until that time, to make its hideous visits, and,
therefore, I will believe myself safe.”

She had made up her mind not to go to bed until the return
of her brothers, and she and her mother sat in a small room
that was used as a breakfast-room, and which had a latticed
window that opened on to the lawn.

This window had in the inside strong oaken shutters, which
had been fastened as securely as their construction would admit
of some time before the departure of the brothers and Mr.
Marchdale on that melancholy expedition, the object of which,
if it had been known to her, would have added so much to the
terrors of poor Flora.

It was not even guessed at, however remotely, so that she
had not the additional affliction of thinking, that while she
was sitting there, a prey to all sorts of imaginative terrors,
they were perhaps gathering fresh evidence, as, indeed, they
were, of the dreadful reality of the appearance which, but for
the collateral circumstances attendant upon its coming and its
going, she would fain have persuaded herself was but the vision
of a dream.

It was before nine that the brothers started, but in her own
mind Flora gave them to eleven, and when she heard ten o’clock
sound from a clock which stood in the hall, she felt pleased to
think that in another hour they would surely be at home.

“My dear,” said her mother, “you look more like yourself,
now.”

“Do, I, mother?”

“Yes, you are well again.”

“Ah, if I could forget—”

“Time, my dear Flora, will enable you to do so, and all the
fear of what made you so unwell will pass away. You will soon
forget it all.”

“I will hope to do so.”

“Be assured that, some day or another, something will occur,
as Henry says, to explain all that has happened, in some way
consistent with reason and the ordinary nature of things, my
dear Flora.”

“Oh, I will cling to such a belief; I will get Henry, upon
whose judgment I know I can rely, to tell me so, and each time
that I hear such words from his lips, I will contrive to
dismiss some portion of the terror which now, I cannot but
confess, clings to my heart.”

Flora laid her hand upon her mother’s arm, and in a low,
anxious tone of voice, said,—”Listen, mother.”

Mrs. Bannerworth turned pale, as she said,—”Listen to
what, dear?”

“Within these last ten minutes,” said Flora, “I have thought
three or four times that I heard a slight noise without. Nay,
mother, do not tremble—it may be only fancy.”

Flora herself trembled, and was of a death-like paleness;
once or twice she passed her hand across her brow, and
altogether she presented a picture of much mental
suffering.

They now conversed in anxious whispers, and almost all they
said consisted in anxious wishes for the return of the brothers
and Mr. Marchdale.

“You will be happier and more assured, my dear, with some
company,” said Mrs. Bannerworth. “Shall I ring for the
servants, and let them remain in the room with us, until they
who are our best safeguards next to Heaven return?”

“Hush—hush—hush, mother!”

“What do you hear?”

“I thought—I heard a faint sound.”

“I heard nothing, dear.”

“Listen again, mother. Surely I could not be deceived so
often. I have now, at least, six times heard a sound as if some
one was outside by the windows.”

“No, no, my darling, do not think; your imagination is
active and in a state of excitement.”

“It is, and yet—”

“Believe me, it deceives you.”

“I hope to Heaven it does!”

There was a pause of some minutes’ duration, and then Mrs.
Bannerworth again urged slightly the calling of some of the
servants, for she thought that their presence might have the
effect of giving a different direction to her child’s thoughts;
but Flora saw her place her hand upon the bell, and she
said,—

“No, mother, no—not yet, not yet. Perhaps I am
deceived.”

Mrs. Bannerworth upon this sat down, but no sooner had she
done so than she heartily regretted she had not rung the bell,
for, before, another word could be spoken, there came too
perceptibly upon their ears for there to be any mistake at all
about it, a strange scratching noise upon the window
outside.

A faint cry came from Flora’s lips, as she exclaimed, in a
voice of great agony,—

“Oh, God!—oh, God! It has come again!”

Mrs. Bannerworth became faint, and unable to move or speak
at all; she could only sit like one paralysed, and unable to do
more than listen to and see what was going on.

The scratching noise continued for a few seconds, and then
altogether ceased. Perhaps, under ordinary circumstances, such
a sound outside the window would have scarcely afforded food
for comment at all, or, if it had, it would have been
attributed to some natural effect, or to the exertions of some
bird or animal to obtain admittance to the house.

But there had occurred now enough in that family to make any
little sound of wonderful importance, and these things which
before would have passed completely unheeded, at all events
without creating much alarm, were now invested with a fearful
interest.

When the scratching noise ceased, Flora spoke in a low,
anxious whisper, as she said,—

“Mother, you heard it then?”

Mrs. Bannerworth tried to speak, but she could not; and then
suddenly, with a loud clash, the bar, which on the inside
appeared to fasten the shutters strongly, fell as if by some
invisible agency, and the shutters now, but for the
intervention of the window, could be easily pushed open from
without.

Mrs. Bannerworth covered her face with her hands, and, after
rocking to and fro for a moment, she fell off her chair, having
fainted with the excess of terror that came over her.

For about the space of time in which a fast speaker could
count twelve, Flora thought her reason was leaving her, but it
did not. She found herself recovering; and there she sat, with
her eyes fixed upon the window, looking more like some
exquisitely-chiselled statue of despair than a being of flesh
and blood, expecting each moment to have its eyes blasted by
some horrible appearance, such as might be supposed to drive
her to madness.

And now again came the strange knocking or scratching
against the glass of the window.

This continued for some minutes, during which it appeared
likewise to Flora that some confusion was going on at another
part of the house, for she fancied she heard voices and the
banging of doors.

It seemed to her as if she must have sat looking at the
shutters of that window a long time before she saw them shake,
and then one wide hinged portion of them slowly opened.

Once again horror appeared to be on the point of producing
madness in her brain, and then, as before, a feeling of
calmness rapidly ensued.

She was able to see plainly that something was by the
window, but what it was she could not plainly discern, in
consequence of the lights she had in the room. A few moments,
however, sufficed to settle that mystery, for the window was
opened and a figure stood before her.

One glance, one terrified glance, in which her whole soul
was concentrated, sufficed to shew her who and what the figure
was. There was the tall, gaunt form—there was the faded
ancient apparel—the lustrous metallic-looking
eyes—its half-opened month, exhibiting the tusk-like
teeth! It was—yes, it was—the vampyre!

It stood for a moment gazing at her, and then in the hideous
way it had attempted before to speak, it apparently endeavoured
to utter some words which it could not make articulate to human
ears. The pistols lay before Flora. Mechanically she raised
one, and pointed it at the figure. It advanced a step, and then
she pulled the trigger.

A stunning report followed. There was a loud cry of pain,
and the vampyre fled. The smoke and the confusion that was
incidental to the spot prevented her from seeing if the figure
walked or ran away. She thought she heard a crashing sound
among the plants outside the window, as if it had fallen, but
she did not feel quite sure.

It was no effort of any reflection, but a purely mechanical
movement, that made her raise the other pistol, and discharge
that likewise in the direction the vampyre had taken. Then
casting the weapon away, she rose, and made a frantic rush from
the room. She opened the door, and was dashing out, when she
found herself caught in the circling arms of some one who
either had been there waiting, or who had just at that moment
got there.

The thought that it was the vampyre, who by some mysterious
means, had got there, and was about to make her his prey, now
overcame her completely, and she sunk into a state of utter
insensibility on the moment.

CHAPTER X.

THE RETURN FROM THE VAULT.—THE ALARM, AND THE SEARCH
AROUND THE HALL.

It so happened that George and Henry Bannerworth, along with
Mr. Marchdale, had just reached the gate which conducted into
the garden of the mansion when they all were alarmed by the
report of a pistol. Amid the stillness of the night, it came
upon them with so sudden a shock, that they involuntarily
paused, and there came from the lips of each an expression of
alarm.

“Good heavens!” cried George, “can that be Flora firing at
any intruder?”

“It must be,” cried Henry; “she has in her possession the
only weapons in the house.”

Mr. Marchdale turned very pale, and trembled slightly, but
he did not speak.

“On, on,” cried Henry; “for God’s sake, let us hasten
on.”

As he spoke, he cleared the gate at a bound, and at a
terrific pace he made towards the house, passing over beds, and
plantations, and flowers heedlessly, so that he went the most
direct way to it.

Before, however, it was possible for any human speed to
accomplish even half of the distance, the report of the other
shot came upon his ears, and he even fancied he heard the
bullet whistle past his head in tolerably close proximity. This
supposition gave him a clue to the direction at all events from
whence the shots proceeded, otherwise he knew not from which
window they were fired, because it had not occurred to him,
previous to leaving home, to inquire in which room Flora and
his mother were likely to be seated waiting his return.

He was right as regarded the bullet. It was that winged
messenger of death which had passed his head in such very
dangerous proximity, and consequently he made with tolerable
accuracy towards the open window from whence the shots had been
fired.

The night was not near so dark as it had been, although even
yet it was very far from being a light one, and he was soon
enabled to see that there was a room, the window of which was
wide open, and lights burning on the table within. He made
towards it in a moment, and entered it. To his astonishment,
the first objects he beheld were Flora and a stranger, who was
now supporting her in his arms. To grapple him by the throat
was the work of a moment, but the stranger cried aloud in a
voice which sounded familiar to Harry,—

“Good God, are you all mad?”

Henry relaxed his hold, and looked in his face.

“Gracious heavens, it is Mr. Holland!” he said.

“Yes; did you not know me?”

Henry was bewildered. He staggered to a seat, and, in doing
so, he saw his mother, stretched apparently lifeless upon the
floor. To raise her was the work of a moment, and then
Marchdale and George, who had followed him as fast as they
could, appeared at the open window.

Such a strange scene as that small room now exhibited had
never been equalled in Bannerworth Hall. There was young Mr.
Holland, of whom mention has already been made, as the
affianced lover of Flora, supporting her fainting form. There
was Henry doing equal service to his mother; and on the floor
lay the two pistols, and one of the candles which had been
upset in the confusion; while the terrified attitudes of George
and Mr. Marchdale at the window completed the strange-looking
picture.

“What is this—oh! what has happened?” cried
George.

“I know not—I know not,” said Henry. “Some one summon
the servants; I am nearly mad.”

Mr. Marchdale at once rung the bell, for George looked so
faint and ill as to be incapable of doing so; and he rung it so
loudly and so effectually, that the two servants who had been
employed suddenly upon the others leaving came with much speed
to know what was the matter.

“See to your mistress,” said Henry. “She is dead, or has
fainted. For God’s sake, let who can give me some account of
what has caused all this confusion here.”

“Are you aware, Henry,” said Marchdale, “that a stranger is
present in the room?”

He pointed to Mr. Holland as he spoke, who, before Henry
could reply, said,—

“Sir, I may be a stranger to you, as you are to me, and yet
no stranger to those whose home this is.”

“No, no,” said Henry, “you are no stranger to us, Mr.
Holland, but are thrice welcome—none can be more welcome.
Mr. Marchdale, this is Mr Holland, of whom you have heard me
speak.”

“I am proud to know you, sir,” said Marchdale.

“Sir, I thank you,” replied Holland, coldly.

It will so happen; but, at first sight, it appeared as if
those two persons had some sort of antagonistic feeling towards
each other, which threatened to prevent effectually their ever
becoming intimate friends.

The appeal of Henry to the servants to know if they could
tell him what had occurred was answered in the negative. All
they knew was that they had heard two shots fired, and that,
since then, they had remained where they were, in a great
fright, until the bell was rung violently. This was no news at
all and, therefore, the only chance was, to wait patiently for
the recovery of the mother, or of Flora, from one or the other
of whom surely some information could be at once then
procured.

Mrs. Bannerworth was removed to her own room, and so would
Flora have been; but Mr. Holland, who was supporting her in his
arms, said,—

“I think the air from the open window is recovering her, and
it is likely to do so. Oh, do not now take her from me, after
so long an absence. Flora, Flora, look up; do you not know me?
You have not yet given me one look of acknowledgment. Flora,
dear Flora!”

The sound of his voice seemed to act as the most potent of
charms in restoring her to consciousness; it broke through the
death-like trance in which she lay, and, opening her beautiful
eyes, she fixed them upon his face, saying,—

“Yes, yes; it is Charles—it is Charles.”

She burst into a hysterical flood of tears, and clung to him
like some terrified child to its only friend in the whole wide
world.

“Oh, my dear friends,” cried Charles Holland, “do not
deceive me; has Flora been ill?”

“We have all been ill,” said George.

“All ill?”

“Ay, and nearly mad,” exclaimed Harry.

Holland looked from one to the other in surprise, as well he
might, nor was that surprise at all lessened when Flora made an
effort to extricate herself from his embrace, as she
exclaimed,—

“You must leave me—you must leave me, Charles, for
ever! Oh! never, never look upon my face again!”

“I—I am bewildered,” said Charles.

“Leave me, now,” continued Flora; “think me unworthy; think
what you will, Charles, but I cannot, I dare not, now be
yours.”

“Is this a dream?”

“Oh, would it were. Charles, if we had never met, you would
be happier—I could not be more wretched.”

“Flora, Flora, do you say these words of so great cruelty to
try my love?”

“No, as Heaven is my judge, I do not.”

“Gracious Heaven, then, what do they mean?”

Flora shuddered, and Henry, coming up to her, took her hand
in his tenderly, as he said,—

“Has it been again?”

“It has.”

“You shot it?”

“I fired full upon it, Henry, but it fled.”

“It did—fly?”

“It did, Henry, but it will come again—it will be sure
to come again.”

“You—you hit it with the bullet?” interposed Mr.
Marchdale. “Perhaps you killed it?”

“I think I must have hit it, unless I am mad.”

Charles Holland looked from one to the other with such a
look of intense surprise, that George remarked it, and said at
once to him,—

“Mr. Holland, a full explanation is due to you, and you
shall have it.”

“You seem the only rational person here,” said Charles.
“Pray what is it that everybody calls ‘it?'”

“Hush—hush!” said Henry; “you shall hear soon, but not
at present.”

“Hear me, Charles,” said Flora. “From this moment mind, I do
release you from every vow, from every promise made to me of
constancy and love; and if you are wise, Charles, and will be
advised, you will now this moment leave this house never to
return to it.”

“No,” said Charles—”no; by Heaven I love you, Flora! I
have come to say again all that in another clime I said with
joy to you. When I forget you, let what trouble may oppress
you, may God forget me, and my own right hand forget to do me
honest service.”

“Oh! no more—no more!” sobbed Flora.

“Yes, much more, if you will tell me of words which shall be
stronger than others in which to paint my love, my faith, and
my constancy.”

“Be prudent,” said Henry. “Say no more.”

“Nay, upon such a theme I could speak for ever. You may cast
me off, Flora; but until you tell me you love another, I am
yours till the death, and then with a sanguine hope at my heart
that we shall meet again, never, dearest, to part.”

Flora sobbed bitterly.

“Oh!” she said, “this is the unkindest blow of
all—this is worse than all.”

“Unkind!” echoed Holland.

“Heed her not,” said Henry; “she means not you.”

“Oh, no—no!” she cried. “Farewell, Charles—dear
Charles.”

“Oh, say that word again!” he exclaimed, with animation. “It
is the first time such music has met my ears.”

“It must be the last.”

“No, no—oh, no.”

“For your own sake I shall be able now, Charles, to show you
that I really loved you.”

“Not by casting me from you?”

“Yes, even so. That will be the way to show you that I love
you.”

She held up her hands wildly, as she added, in an excited
voice,—

“The curse of destiny is upon me! I am singled out as one
lost and accursed. Oh, horror—horror! would that I were
dead!”

Charles staggered back a pace or two until he came to the
table, at which he clutched for support. He turned very pale as
he said, in a faint voice,—

“Is—is she mad, or am I?”

“Tell him I am mad, Henry,” cried Flora. “Do not, oh, do not
make his lonely thoughts terrible with more than that. Tell him
I am mad.”

“Come with me,” whispered Henry to Holland. “I pray you come
with me at once, and you shall know all.”

“I—will.”

“George, stay with Flora for a time. Come, come, Mr.
Holland, you ought, and you shall know all; then you can come
to a judgment for yourself. This way, sir. You cannot, in the
wildest freak of your imagination, guess that which I have now
to tell you.”

Never was mortal man so utterly bewildered by the events of
the last hour of his existence as was now Charles Holland, and
truly he might well be so. He had arrived in England, and made
what speed he could to the house of a family whom he admired
for their intelligence, their high culture, and in one member
of which his whole thoughts of domestic happiness in this world
were centered, and he found nothing but confusion, incoherence,
mystery, and the wildest dismay.

Well might he doubt if he were sleeping or waking—well
might he ask if he or they were mad.

And now, as, after a long, lingering look of affection upon
the pale, suffering face of Flora, he followed Henry from the
room, his thoughts were busy in fancying a thousand vague and
wild imaginations with respect to the communication which was
promised to be made to him.

But, as Henry had truly said to him, not in the wildest
freak of his imagination could he conceive of any thing near
the terrible strangeness and horror of that which he had to
tell him, and consequently he found himself closeted with Henry
in a small private room, removed from the domestic part of the
hall, to the full in as bewildered a state as he had been from
the first.

CHAPTER XI.

THE COMMUNICATIONS TO THE LOVER.—THE HEART’S
DESPAIR.

Consternation is sympathetic, and any one who had looked
upon the features of Charles Holland, now that he was seated
with Henry Bannerworth, in expectation of a communication which
his fears told him was to blast all his dearest and most fondly
cherished hopes for ever, would scarce have recognised in him
the same young man who, one short hour before, had knocked so
loudly, and so full of joyful hope and expectation, at the door
of the hall.

But so it was. He knew Henry Bannerworth too well to suppose
that any unreal cause could blanch his cheek. He knew Flora too
well to imagine for one moment that caprice had dictated the,
to him, fearful words of dismissal she had uttered to him.

Happier would it at that time have been for Charles Holland
had she acted capriciously towards him, and convinced him that
his true heart’s devotion had been cast at the feet of one
unworthy of so really noble a gift. Pride would then have
enabled him, no doubt, successfully to resist the blow. A
feeling of honest and proper indignation at having his feelings
trifled with, would, no doubt, have sustained him, but, alas!
the case seemed widely different.

True, she implored him to think of her no more—no
longer to cherish in his breast the fond dream of affection
which had been its guest so long; but the manner in which she
did so brought along with it an irresistible conviction, that
she was making a noble sacrifice of her own feelings for him,
from some cause which was involved in the profoundest
mystery.

But now he was to hear all. Henry had promised to tell him,
and as he looked into his pale, but handsomely intellectual
face, he half dreaded the disclosure he yet panted to hear.

“Tell me all, Henry—tell me all,” he said. “Upon the
words that come from your lips I know I can rely.”

“I will have no reservations with you,” said Henry, sadly.
“You ought to know all, and you shall. Prepare yourself for the
strangest revelation you ever heard.”

“Indeed!”

“Ay. One which in hearing you may well doubt; and one which,
I hope, you will never find an opportunity of verifying.”

“You speak in riddles.”

“And yet speak truly, Charles. You heard with what a frantic
vehemence Flora desired you to think no more of her?”

“I did—I did.”

“She was right. She is a noble-hearted girl for uttering
those words. A dreadful incident in our family has occurred,
which might well induce you to pause before uniting your fate
with that of any member of it.”

“Impossible. Nothing can possibly subdue the feelings of
affection I entertain for Flora. She is worthy of any one, and,
as such, amid all changes—all mutations of fortune, she
shall be mine.”

“Do not suppose that any change of fortune has produced the
scene you were witness to.”

“Then, what else?”

“I will tell you, Holland. In all your travels, and in all
your reading, did you ever come across anything about
vampyres?”

“About what?” cried Charles, drawing his chair forward a
little. “About what?”

“You may well doubt the evidence of your own ears, Charles
Holland, and wish me to repeat what I said. I say, do you know
anything about vampyres?”

Charles Holland looked curiously in Henry’s face, and the
latter immediately added,—

“I can guess what is passing in your mind at present, and I
do not wonder at it. You think I must be mad.”

“Well, really, Henry, your extraordinary
question—”

“I knew it. Were I you, I should hesitate to believe the
tale; but the fact is, we have every reason to believe that one
member of our own family is one of those horrible preternatural
beings called vampyres.”

“Good God, Henry, can you allow your judgment for a moment
to stoop to such a supposition?”

“That is what I have asked myself a hundred times; but,
Charles Holland, the judgment, the feelings, and all the
prejudices, natural and acquired, must succumb to actual ocular
demonstration. Listen to me, and do not interrupt me. You shall
know all, and you shall know it circumstantially.”

Henry then related to the astonished Charles Holland all
that had occurred, from the first alarm of Flora, up to that
period when he, Holland, caught her in his arms as she was
about to leave the room.

“And now,” he said, in conclusion, “I cannot tell what
opinion you may come to as regards these most singular events.
You will recollect that here is the unbiassed evidence of four
or five people to the facts, and, beyond that, the servants,
who have seen something of the horrible visitor.”

“You bewilder me, utterly,” said Charles Holland.

“As we are all bewildered.”

“But—but, gracious Heaven! it cannot be.”

“It is.”

“No—no. There is—there must be yet some dreadful
mistake.”

“Can you start any supposition by which we can otherwise
explain any of the phenomena I have described to you? If you
can, for Heaven’s sake do so, and you will find no one who will
cling to it with more tenacity than I.”

“Any other species or kind of supernatural appearance might
admit of argument; but this, to my perception, is too wildly
improbable—too much at variance with all we see and know
of the operations of nature.”

“It is so. All that we have told ourselves repeatedly, and
yet is all human reason at once struck down by the few brief
words of—’We have seen it.'”

“I would doubt my eyesight.”

“One might; but many cannot be labouring under the same
delusion.”

“My friend, I pray you, do not make me shudder at the
supposition that such a dreadful thing as this is at all
possible.”

“I am, believe me, Charles, most unwilling to oppress
anyone with the knowledge of these evils; but you are so
situated with us, that you ought to know, and you will clearly
understand that you may, with perfect honour, now consider
yourself free from all engagements you have entered into with
Flora.”

“No, no! By Heaven, no!”

“Yes, Charles. Reflect upon the consequences now of a union
with such a family.”

“Oh, Henry Bannerworth, can you suppose me so dead to all
good feeling, so utterly lost to honourable impulses, as to
eject from my heart her who has possession of it entirely, on
such a ground as this?”

“You would be justified.”

“Coldly justified in prudence I might be. There are a
thousand circumstances in which a man may be justified in a
particular course of action, and that course yet may be neither
honourable nor just. I love Flora; and were she tormented by
the whole of the supernatural world, I should still love her.
Nay, it becomes, then, a higher and a nobler duty on my part to
stand between her and those evils, if possible.”

“Charles—Charles,” said Henry, “I cannot of course
refuse to you my meed of praise and admiration for your
generosity of feeling; but, remember, if we are compelled,
despite all our feelings and all our predilections to the
contrary, to give in to a belief in the existence of vampyres,
why may we not at once receive as the truth all that is
recorded of them?”

“To what do you allude?”

“To this. That one who has been visited by a vampyre, and
whose blood has formed a horrible repast for such a being,
becomes, after death, one of the dreadful race, and visits
others in the same way.”

“Now this must be insanity,” cried Charles.

“It bears the aspect of it, indeed,” said Henry; “oh, that
you could by some means satisfy yourself that I am mad.”

“There may be insanity in this family,” thought Charles,
with such an exquisite pang of misery, that he groaned
aloud.

“Already,” added Henry, mournfully, “already the blighting
influence of the dreadful tale is upon you, Charles. Oh, let me
add my advice to Flora’s entreaties. She loves you, and we all
esteem you; fly, then, from us, and leave us to encounter our
miseries alone. Fly from us, Charles Holland, and take with you
our best wishes for happiness which you cannot know here.”

“Never,” cried Charles; “I devote my existence to Flora. I
will not play the coward, and fly from one whom I love, on such
grounds. I devote my life to her.”

Henry could not speak for emotion for several minutes, and
when at length, in a faltering voice, he could utter some
words, he said,—

“God of heaven, what happiness is marred by these horrible
events? What have we all done to be the victims of such a
dreadful act of vengeance?”

“Henry, do not talk in that way,” cried Charles. “Rather let
us bend all our energies to overcoming the evil, than spend any
time in useless lamentations. I cannot even yet give in to a
belief in the existence of such a being as you say visited
Flora.”

“But the evidences.”

“Look you here, Henry: until I am convinced that some things
have happened which it is totally impossible could happen by
any human means whatever, I will not ascribe them to
supernatural influence.”

“But what human means, Charles, could produce what I have
now narrated to you?”

“I do not know, just at present, but I will give the subject
the most attentive consideration. Will you accommodate me here
for a time?”

“You know you are as welcome here as if the house were your
own, and all that it contains.”

“I believe so, most truly. You have no objection, I presume,
to my conversing with Flora upon this strange subject?”

“Certainly not. Of course you will be careful to say nothing
which can add to her fears.”

“I shall be most guarded, believe me. You say that your
brother George, Mr. Chillingworth, yourself, and this Mr.
Marchdale, have all been cognisant of the circumstances.”

“Yes—yes.”

“Then with the whole of them you permit me to hold free
communication upon the subject?”

“Most certainly.”

“I will do so then. Keep up good heart, Henry, and this
affair, which looks so full of terror at first sight, may yet
be divested of some of its hideous aspect.”

“I am rejoiced, if anything can rejoice me now,” said Henry,
“to see you view the subject with so much philosophy.”

“Why,” said Charles, “you made a remark of your own, which
enabled me, viewing the matter in its very worst and most
hideous aspect, to gather hope.”

“What was that?”

“You said, properly and naturally enough, that if ever we
felt that there was such a weight of evidence in favour of a
belief in the existence of vampyres that we are compelled to
succumb to it, we might as well receive all the popular
feelings and superstitions concerning them likewise.”

“I did. Where is the mind to pause, when once we open it to
the reception of such things?”

“Well, then, if that be the case, we will watch this vampyre
and catch it.”

“Catch it?”

“Yes; surely it can be caught; as I understand, this species
of being is not like an apparition, that may be composed of
thin air, and utterly impalpable to the human touch, but it
consists of a revivified corpse.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Then it is tangible and destructible. By Heaven! if ever I
catch a glimpse of any such thing, it shall drag me to its
home, be that where it may, or I will make it prisoner.”

“Oh, Charles! you know not the feeling of horror that will
come across you when you do. You have no idea of how the warm
blood will seem to curdle in your veins, and how you will be
paralysed in every limb.”

“Did you feel so?”

“I did.”

“I will endeavour to make head against such feelings. The
love of Flora shall enable me to vanquish them. Think you it
will come again to-morrow?”

“I can have no thought the one way or the other.”

“It may. We must arrange among us all, Henry, some plan of
watching which, without completely prostrating our health and
strength, will always provide that one shall be up all night
and on the alert.”

“It must be done.”

“Flora ought to sleep with the consciousness now that she
has ever at hand some intrepid and well-armed protector, who is
not only himself prepared to defend her, but who can in a
moment give an alarm to us all, in case of necessity requiring
it.”

“It would be a dreadful capture to make to seize a vampyre,”
said Henry.

“Not at all; it would be a very desirable one. Being a
corpse revivified, it is capable of complete destruction, so as
to render it no longer a scourge to any one.”

“Charles, Charles, are you jesting with me, or do you really
give any credence to the story?”

“My dear friend, I always make it a rule to take things at
their worst, and then I cannot be disappointed. I am content to
reason upon this matter as if the fact of the existence of a
vampyre were thoroughly established, and then to think upon
what is best to be done about it.”

“You are right.”

“If it should turn out then that there is an error in the
fact, well and good—we are all the better off; but if
otherwise, we are prepared, and armed at all points.”

“Let it be so, then. It strikes me, Charles, that you will
be the coolest and the calmest among us all on this emergency;
but the hour now waxes late, I will get them to prepare a
chamber for you, and at least to-night, after what has occurred
already, I should think we can be under no apprehension.”

“Probably not. But, Henry, if you would allow me to sleep in
that room where the portrait hangs of him whom you suppose to
be the vampyre, I should prefer it.”

“Prefer it!”

“Yes; I am not one who courts danger for danger’s sake, but
I would rather occupy that room, to see if the vampyre, who
perhaps has a partiality for it, will pay me a visit.”

“As you please, Charles. You can have the apartment. It is
in the same state as when occupied by Flora. Nothing has been,
I believe, removed from it.”

“You will let me, then, while I remain here, call it my
room?”

“Assuredly.”

This arrangement was accordingly made to the surprise of all
the household, not one of whom would, indeed, have slept, or
attempted to sleep there for any amount of reward. But Charles
Holland had his own reasons for preferring that chamber, and he
was conducted to it in the course of half an hour by Henry, who
looked around it with a shudder, as he bade his young friend
good night.

CHAPTER XII.

CHARLES HOLLAND’S SAD FEELINGS.—THE
PORTRAIT.—THE OCCURRENCE OF THE NIGHT AT THE
HALL.

Charles Holland wished to be alone, if ever any human being
had wished fervently to be so. His thoughts were most fearfully
oppressive.

The communication that had been made to him by Henry
Bannerworth, had about it too many strange, confirmatory
circumstances to enable him to treat it, in his own mind, with
the disrespect that some mere freak of a distracted and weak
imagination would, most probably, have received from him.

He had found Flora in a state of excitement which could
arise only from some such terrible cause as had been mentioned
by her brother, and then he was, from an occurrence which
certainly never could have entered into his calculations, asked
to forego the bright dream of happiness which he had held so
long and so rapturously to his heart.

How truly he found that the course of true love ran not
smooth; and yet how little would any one have suspected that
from such a cause as that which now oppressed his mind, any
obstruction would arise.

Flora might have been fickle and false; he might have seen
some other fairer face, which might have enchained his fancy,
and woven for him a new heart’s chain; death might have stepped
between him and the realization of his fondest hopes; loss of
fortune might have made the love cruel which would have yoked
to its distresses a young and beautiful girl, reared in the lap
of luxury, and who was not, even by those who loved her,
suffered to feel, even in later years, any of the pinching
necessities of the family.

All these things were possible—some of them were
probable; and yet none of them had occurred. She loved him
still; and he, although he had looked on many a fair face, and
basked in the sunny smiles of beauty, had never for a moment
forgotten her faith, or lost his devotion to his own dear
English girl.

Fortune he had enough for both; death had not even
threatened to rob him of the prize of such a noble and faithful
heart which he had won. But a horrible superstition had arisen,
which seemed to place at once an impassable abyss between them,
and to say to him, in a voice of thundering
denunciation,—

“Charles Holland, will you have a vampyre for your
bride?”

The thought was terrific. He paced the gloomy chamber to and
fro with rapid strides, until the idea came across his mind
that by so doing he might not only be proclaiming to his kind
entertainers how much he was mentally distracted, but he
likewise might be seriously distracting them.

The moment this occurred to him he sat down, and was
profoundly still for some time. He then glanced at the light
which had been given to him, and he found himself almost
unconsciously engaged in a mental calculation as to how long it
would last him in the night.

Half ashamed, then, of such terrors, as such a consideration
would seem to indicate, he was on the point of hastily
extinguishing it, when he happened to cast his eyes on the now
mysterious and highly interesting portrait in the panel.

The picture, as a picture, was well done, whether it was a
correct likeness or not of the party whom it represented. It
was one of those kind of portraits that seem so life-like,
that, as you look at them, they seem to return your gaze fully,
and even to follow you with their eyes from place to place.

By candle-light such an effect is more likely to become
striking and remarkable than by daylight; and now, as Charles
Holland shaded his own eyes from the light, so as to cast its
full radiance upon the portrait, he felt wonderfully interested
in its life-like appearance.

“Here is true skill,” he said; “such as I have not before
seen. How strangely this likeness of a man whom I never saw
seems to gaze upon me.”

Unconsciously, too, he aided the effect, which he justly
enough called life-like, by a slight movement of the candle,
such as any one not blessed with nerves of iron would be sure
to make, and such a movement made the face look as if it was
inspired with vitality.

Charles remained looking at the portrait for a considerable
period of time. He found a kind of fascination in it which
prevented him from drawing his eyes away from it. It was not
fear which induced him to continue gazing on it, but the
circumstance that it was a likeness of the man who, after
death, was supposed to have borrowed so new and so hideous an
existence, combined with its artistic merits, chained him to
the spot.

“I shall now,” he said, “know that face again, let me see it
where I may, or under what circumstances I may. Each feature is
now indelibly fixed upon my memory—I never can mistake
it.”

He turned aside as he uttered these words, and as he did so
his eyes fell upon a part of the ornamental frame which
composed the edge of the panel, and which seemed to him to be
of a different colour from the surrounding portion.

Curiosity and increased interest prompted him at once to
make a closer inquiry into the matter; and, by a careful and
diligent scrutiny, he was almost induced to come to the
positive opinion, that it no very distant period in time past,
the portrait had been removed from the place it occupied.

When once this idea, even vague and indistinct as it was, in
consequence of the slight grounds he formed it on, had got
possession of his mind, he felt most anxious to prove its
verification or its fallacy.

He held the candle in a variety of situations, so that its
light fell in different ways on the picture; and the more he
examined it, the more he felt convinced that it must have been
moved lately.

It would appear as if, in its removal, a piece of the old
oaken carved framework of the panel had been accidentally
broken off, which caused the new look of the fracture, and that
this accident, from the nature of the broken bit of framing,
could have occurred in any other way than from an actual or
attempted removal of the picture, he felt was extremely
unlikely.

He set down the candle on a chair near at hand, and tried if
the panel was fast in its place. Upon the very first touch, he
felt convinced it was not so, and that it easily moved. How to
get it out, though, presented a difficulty, and to get it out
was tempting.

“Who knows,” he said to himself, “what may be behind it?
This is an old baronial sort of hall, and the greater portion
of it was, no doubt, built at a time when the construction of
such places as hidden chambers and intricate staircases were,
in all buildings of importance, considered a disiderata.”

That he should make some discovery behind the portrait, now
became an idea that possessed him strongly, although he
certainly had no definite grounds for really supposing that he
should do so.

Perhaps the wish was more father to the thought than he, in
the partial state of excitement he was in, really imagined; but
so it was. He felt convinced that he should not be satisfied
until he had removed that panel from the wall, and seen what
was immediately behind it.

After the panel containing the picture had been placed where
it was, it appeared that pieces of moulding had been inserted
all around, which had had the effect of keeping it in its
place, and it was a fracture of one of these pieces which had
first called Charles Holland’s attention to the probability of
the picture having been removed. That he should have to get
two, at least, of the pieces of moulding away, before he could
hope to remove the picture, was to him quite apparent, and he
was considering how he should accomplish such a result, when he
was suddenly startled by a knock at his chamber door.

Until that sudden demand for admission at his door came, he
scarcely knew to what a nervous state he had worked himself up.
It was an odd sort of tap—one only—a single tap, as
if some one demanded admittance, and wished to awaken his
attention with the least possible chance of disturbing any one
else.

“Come in,” said Charles, for he knew he had not fastened his
door; “come in.”

There was no reply, but after a moment’s pause, the same
sort of low tap came again.

Again he cried “come in,” but, whoever it was, seemed
determined that the door should be opened for him, and no
movement was made from the outside. A third time the tap came,
and Charles was very close to the door when he heard it, for
with a noiseless step he had approached it intending to open
it. The instant this third mysterious demand for admission
came, he did open it wide. There was no one there! In an
instant he crossed the threshold into the corridor, which ran
right and left. A window at one end of it now sent in the
moon’s rays, so that it was tolerably light, but he could see
no one. Indeed, to look for any one, he felt sure was needless,
for he had opened his chamber-door almost simultaneously with
the last knock for admission.

“It is strange,” he said, as he lingered on the threshold of
his room door for some moments; “my imagination could not so
completely deceive me. There was most certainly a demand for
admission.”

Slowly, then, he returned to his room again, and closed the
door behind him.

“One thing is evident,” he said, “that if I am in this
apartment to be subjected to these annoyances, I shall get no
rest, which will soon exhaust me.”

This thought was a very provoking one, and the more he
thought that he should ultimately find a necessity for giving
up that chamber he had himself asked as a special favour to be
allowed to occupy, the more vexed he became to think what
construction might be put upon his conduct for so doing.

“They will all fancy me a coward,” he thought, “and that I
dare not sleep here. They may not, of course, say so, but they
will think that my appearing so bold was one of those acts of
bravado which I have not courage to carry fairly out.”

Taking this view of the matter was just the way to enlist a
young man’s pride in staying, under all circumstances, where he
was, and, with a slight accession of colour, which, even
although he was alone, would visit his cheeks, Charles Holland
said aloud,—

“I will remain the occupant of this room come what may,
happen what may. No terrors, real or unsubstantial, shall drive
me from it: I will brave them all, and remain here to brave
them.”

Tap came the knock at the door again, and now, with more an
air of vexation than fear, Charles turned again towards it, and
listened. Tap in another minute again succeeded, and much
annoyed, he walked close to the door, and laid his hand upon
the lock, ready to open it at the precise moment of another
demand for admission being made.

He had not to wait long. In about half a minute it came
again, and, simultaneously with the sound, the door flew open.
There was no one to be seen; but, as he opened the door, he
heard a strange sound in the corridor—a sound which
scarcely could be called a groan, and scarcely a sigh, but
seemed a compound of both, having the agony of the one combined
with the sadness of the other. From what direction it came he
could not at the moment decide, but he called out,—

“Who’s there? who’s there?”

The echo of his own voice alone answered him for a few
moments, and then he heard a door open, and a voice, which he
knew to be Henry’s, cried,—

“What is it? who speaks?”

“Henry,” said Charles.

“Yes—yes—yes.”

“I fear I have disturbed you.”

“You have been disturbed yourself, or you would not have
done so. I shall be with you in a moment.”

Henry closed his door before Charles Holland could tell him
not to come to him, as he intended to do, for he felt ashamed
to have, in a manner of speaking, summoned assistance for so
trifling a cause of alarm as that to which he had been
subjected. However, he could not go to Henry’s chamber to
forbid him from coming to his, and, more vexed than before, he
retired to his room again to await his coming.

He left the door open now, so that Henry Bannerworth, when
he had got on some articles of dress, walked in at once,
saying,—

“What has happened, Charles?”

“A mere trifle, Henry, concerning which I am ashamed you
should have been at all disturbed.”

“Never mind that, I was wakeful.”

“I heard a door open, which kept me listening, but I could
not decide which door it was till I heard your voice in the
corridor.”

“Well, it was this door; and I opened it twice in
consequence of the repeated taps for admission that came to it;
some one has been knocking at it, and, when I go to it, lo! I
can see nobody.”

“Indeed!”

“Such is the case.”

“You surprise me.”

“I am very sorry to have disturbed you, because, upon such a
ground, I do not feel that I ought to have done so; and, when I
called out in the corridor, I assure you it was with no such
intention.”

“Do not regret it for a moment,” said Henry; “you were quite
justified in making an alarm on such an occasion.”

“It’s strange enough, but still it may arise from some
accidental cause; admitting, if we did but know it, of some
ready enough explanation.”

“It may, certainly, but, after what has happened already, we
may well suppose a mysterious connexion between any unusual
sight or sound, and the fearful ones we have already seen.”

“Certainly we may.”

“How earnestly that strange portrait seems to look upon us,
Charles.”

“It does, and I have been examining it carefully. It seems
to have been removed lately.”

“Removed!”

“Yes, I think, as far as I can judge, that it has been taken
from its frame; I mean, that the panel on which it is painted
has been taken out.”

“Indeed!”

“If you touch it you will find it loose, and, upon a close
examination, you will perceive that a piece of the moulding
which holds it in its place has been chipped off, which is done
in such a place that I think it could only have arisen during
the removal of the picture.”

“You must be mistaken.”

“I cannot, of course, take upon myself, Henry, to say
precisely such is the case,” said Charles.

“But there is no one here to do so.”

“That I cannot say. Will you permit me and assist me to
remove it? I have a great curiosity to know what is behind
it.”

“If you have, I certainly will do so. We thought of taking
it away altogether, but when Flora left this room the idea was
given up as useless. Remain here a few moments, and I will
endeavour to find something which shall assist us in its
removal.”

Henry left the mysterious chamber in order to search in his
own for some means of removing the frame-work of the picture,
so that the panel would slip easily out, and while he was gone,
Charles Holland continued gazing upon it with greater interest,
if possible, than before.

In a few minutes Henry returned, and although what he had
succeeded in finding were very inefficient implements for the
purpose, yet with this aid the two young men set about the
task.

It is said, and said truly enough, that “where there is a
will there is a way,” and although the young men had no tools
at all adapted for the purpose, they did succeed in removing
the moulding from the sides of the panel, and then by a little
tapping at one end of it, and using a knife at a lever at the
other end of the panel, they got it fairly out.

Disappointment was all they got for their pains. On the
other side there was nothing but a rough wooden wall, against
which the finer and more nicely finished oak panelling of the
chamber rested.

“There is no mystery here,” said Henry.

“None whatever,” said Charles, as he tapped the wall with
his knuckles, and found it all hard and sound. “We are
foiled.”

“We are indeed.”

“I had a strange presentiment, now,” added Charles, “that we
should make some discovery that would repay us for our trouble.
It appears, however, that such is not to be the case; for you
see nothing presents itself to us but the most ordinary
appearances.”

“I perceive as much; and the panel itself, although of more
than ordinary thickness, is, after all, but a bit of planed
oak, and apparently fashioned for no other object than to paint
the portrait on.”

“True. Shall we replace it?”

Charles reluctantly assented, and the picture was replaced
in its original position. We say Charles reluctantly assented,
because, although he had now had ocular demonstration that
there was really nothing behind the panel but the ordinary
woodwork which might have been expected from the construction
of the old house, yet he could not, even with such a fact
staring him in the face, get rid entirely of the feeling that
had come across him, to the effect that the picture had some
mystery or another.

“You are not yet satisfied,” said Henry, as he observed the
doubtful look of Charles Holland’s face.

“My dear friend,” said Charles, “I will not deceive you. I
am much disappointed that we have made no discovery behind that
picture.”

“Heaven knows we have mysteries enough in our family,” said
Henry.

Even as he spoke they were both startled by a strange
clattering noise at the window, which was accompanied by a
shrill, odd kind of shriek, which sounded fearful and
preternatural on the night air.

“What is that?” said Charles.

“God only knows,” said Henry.

The two young men naturally turned their earnest gaze in the
direction of the window, which we have before remarked was one
unprovided with shutters, and there, to their intense surprise,
they saw, slowly rising up from the lower part of it, what
appeared to be a human form. Henry would have dashed forward,
but Charles restrained him, and drawing quickly from its case a
large holster pistol, he levelled it carefully at the figure,
saying in a whisper,—

“Henry, if I don’t hit it, I will consent to forfeit my
head.”

He pulled the trigger—a loud report followed—the
room was filled with smoke, and then all was still. A
circumstance, however, had occurred, as a consequence of the
concussion of air produced by the discharge of the pistol,
which neither of the young men had for the moment calculated
upon, and that was the putting out of the only light they there
had.

In spite of this circumstance, Charles, the moment he had
discharged the pistol, dropped it and sprung forward to the
window. But here he was perplexed, for he could not find the
old fashioned, intricate fastening which held it shut, and he
had to call to Henry,—

“Henry! For God’s sake open the window for me, Henry! The
fastening of the window is known to you, but not to me. Open it
for me.”

Thus called upon, Henry sprung forward, and by this time the
report of the pistol had effectually alarmed the whole
household. The flashing of lights from the corridor came into
the room, and in another minute, just as Henry succeeded in
getting the window wide open, and Charles Holland had made his
way on to the balcony, both George Bannerworth and Mr.
Marchdale entered the chamber, eager to know what had occurred.
To their eager questions Henry replied,—

“Ask me not now;” and then calling to Charles, he
said,—”Remain where you are, Charles, while I run down to
the garden immediately beneath the balcony.”

“Yes—yes,” said Charles.

Henry made prodigious haste, and was in the garden
immediately below the bay window in a wonderfully short space
of time. He spoke to Charles, saying,—

“Will you now descend? I can see nothing here; but we will
both make a search.”

George and Mr. Marchdale were both now in the balcony, and
they would have descended likewise, but Henry said,—

“Do not all leave the house. God only knows, now, situated
as we are, what might happen.”

“I will remain, then,” said George. “I have been sitting up
to-night as the guard, and, therefore, may as well continue to
do so.”

Marchdale and Charles Holland clambered over the balcony,
and easily, from its insignificant height, dropped into the
garden. The night was beautiful, and profoundly still. There
was not a breath of air sufficient to stir a leaf on a tree,
and the very flame of the candle which Charles had left burning
in the balcony burnt clearly and steadily, being perfectly
unruffled by any wind.

It cast a sufficient light close to the window to make
everything very plainly visible, and it was evident at a glance
that no object was there, although had that figure, which
Charles shot at, and no doubt hit, been flesh and blood, it
must have dropped immediately below.

As they looked up for a moment after a cursory examination
of the ground, Charles exclaimed,—

“Look at the window! As the light is now situated, you can
see the hole made in one of the panes of glass by the passage
of the bullet from my pistol.”

They did look, and there the clear, round hole, without any
starring, which a bullet discharged close to a pane of glass
will make in it, was clearly and plainly discernible.

“You must have hit him,” said Henry.

“One would think so,” said Charles; “for that was the exact
place where the figure was.”

“And there is nothing here,” added Marchdale. “What can we
think of these events—what resource has the mind against
the most dreadful suppositions concerning them?”

Charles and Henry were both silent; in truth, they knew not
what to think, and the words uttered by Marchdale were too
strikingly true to dispute for a moment. They were lost in
wonder.

“Human means against such an appearance as we saw to-night,”
said Charles, “are evidently useless.”

“My dear young friend,” said Marchdale, with much emotion,
as he grasped Henry Bannerworth’s hand, and the tears stood in
his eyes as he did so,—”my dear young friend, these
constant alarms will kill you. They will drive you, and all
whose happiness you hold dear, distracted. You must control
these dreadful feelings, and there is but one chance that I can
see of getting now the better of these.”

“What is that?”

“By leaving this place for ever.”

“Alas! am I to be driven from the home of my ancestors from
such a cause as this? And whither am I to fly? Where are we to
find a refuge? To leave here will be at once to break up the
establishment which is now held together, certainly upon the
sufferance of creditors, but still to their advantage, inasmuch
as I am doing what no one else would do, namely, paying away to
within the scantiest pittance the whole proceeds of the estate
that spreads around me.”

“Heed nothing but an escape from such horrors as seem to be
accumulating now around you.”

“If I were sure that such a removal would bring with it such
a corresponding advantage, I might, indeed, be induced to risk
all to accomplish it.”

“As regards poor dear Flora,” said Mr. Marchdale, “I know
not what to say, or what to think; she has been attacked by a
vampyre, and after this mortal life shall have ended, it is
dreadful to think there may be a possibility that she, with all
her beauty, all her excellence and purity of mind, and all
those virtues and qualities which should make her the beloved
of all, and which do, indeed, attach all hearts towards her,
should become one of that dreadful tribe of beings who cling to
existence by feeding, in the most dreadful manner, upon the
life blood of others—oh, it is too dreadful to
contemplate! Too horrible—too horrible!”

“Then wherefore speak of it?” said Charles, with some
asperity. “Now, by the great God of Heaven, who sees all our
hearts, I will not give in to such a horrible doctrine! I will
not believe it; and were death itself my portion for my want of
faith, I would this moment die in my disbelief of anything so
truly fearful!”

“Oh, my young friend,” added Marchdale, “if anything could
add to the pangs which all who love, and admire, and respect
Flora Bannerworth must feel at the unhappy condition in which
she is placed, it would be the noble nature of you, who, under
happier auspices, would have been her guide through life, and
the happy partner of her destiny.”

“As I will be still.”

“May Heaven forbid it! We are now among ourselves, and can
talk freely upon such a subject. Mr. Charles Holland, if you
wed, you would look forward to being blessed with
children—those sweet ties which bind the sternest hearts
to life with so exquisite a bondage. Oh, fancy, then, for a
moment, the mother of your babes coming at the still hour of
midnight to drain from their veins the very life blood she gave
to them. To drive you and them mad with the expected horror of
such visitations—to make your nights hideous—your
days but so many hours of melancholy retrospection. Oh, you
know not the world of terror, on the awful brink of which you
stand, when you talk of making Flora Bannerworth a wife.”

“Peace! oh, peace!” said Henry.

“Nay, I know my words are unwelcome,” continued Mr.
Marchdale. “It happens, unfortunately for human nature, that
truth and some of our best and holiest feelings are too often
at variance, and hold a sad contest—”

“I will hear no more of this,” cried Charles
Holland.—”I will hear no more.”

“I have done,” said Mr. Marchdale.

“And ’twere well you had not begun.”

“Nay, say not so. I have but done what I considered was a
solemn duty.”

“Under that assumption of doing duty—a solemn
duty—heedless of the feelings and the opinions of
others,” said Charles, sarcastically, “more mischief is
produced—more heart-burnings and anxieties caused, than
by any other two causes of such mischievous results combined. I
wish to hear no more of this.”

“Do not be angered with Mr. Marchdale, Charles,” said Henry.
“He can have no motive but our welfare in what he says. We
should not condemn a speaker because his words may not sound
pleasant to our ears.”

“By Heaven!” said Charles, with animation, “I meant not to
be illiberal; but I will not because I cannot see a man’s
motives for active interference in the affairs of others,
always be ready, merely on account of such ignorance, to jump
to a conclusion that they must be estimable.”

“To-morrow, I leave this house,” said Marchdale.

“Leave us?” exclaimed Henry.

“Ay, for ever.”

“Nay, now, Mr. Marchdale, is this generous?”

“Am I treated generously by one who is your own guest, and
towards whom I was willing to hold out the honest right hand of
friendship?”

Henry turned to Charles Holland, saying,—

“Charles, I know your generous nature. Say you meant no
offence to my mother’s old friend.”

“If to say I meant no offence,” said Charles, “is to say I
meant no insult, I say it freely.”

“Enough,” cried Marchdale; “I am satisfied.”

“But do not,” added Charles, “draw me any more such pictures
as the one you have already presented to my imagination, I beg
of you. From the storehouse of my own fancy I can find quite
enough to make me wretched, if I choose to be so; but again and
again do I say I will not allow this monstrous superstition to
tread me down, like the tread of a giant on a broken reed. I
will contend against it while I have life to do so.”

“Bravely spoken.”

“And when I desert Flora Bannerworth, may Heaven, from that
moment, desert me!”

“Charles!” cried Henry, with emotion, “dear Charles, my more
than friend—brother of my heart—noble Charles!”

“Nay, Henry, I am not entitled to your praises. I were base
indeed to be other than that which I purpose to be. Come weal
or woe—come what may, I am the affianced husband of your
sister, and she, and she only, can break asunder the tie that
binds me to her.”

CHAPTER XIII.

THE OFFER FOR THE HALL.—THE VISIT TO SIR FRANCIS
VARNEY.—THE STRANGE RESEMBLANCE.—A DREADFUL
SUGGESTION.

The party made a strict search through every nook and corner
of the garden, but it proved to be a fruitless one: not the
least trace of any one could be found. There was only one
circumstance, which was pondered over deeply by them all, and
that was that, beneath the window of the room in which Flora
and her mother sat while the brothers were on their visit to
the vault of their ancestors, were visible marks of blood to a
considerable extent.

It will be remembered that Flora had fired a pistol at the
spectral appearance, and that immediately upon that it had
disappeared, after uttering a sound which might well be
construed into a cry of pain from a wound.

That a wound then had been inflicted upon some one, the
blood beneath the window now abundantly testified; and when it
was discovered, Henry and Charles made a very close examination
indeed of the garden, to discover what direction the wounded
figure, be it man or vampyre, had taken.

But the closest scrutiny did not reveal to them a single
spot of blood, beyond the space immediately beneath the
window;—there the apparition seemed to have received its
wound, and then, by some mysterious means, to have
disappeared.

At length, wearied with the continued excitement, combined
with want of sleep, to which they had been subjected, they
returned to the hall.

Flora, with the exception of the alarm she experienced from
the firing of the pistol, had met with no disturbance, and
that, in order to spare her painful reflections, they told her
was merely done as a precautionary measure, to proclaim to any
one who might be lurking in the garden that the inmates of the
house were ready to defend themselves against any
aggression.

Whether or not she believed this kind deceit they knew not.
She only sighed deeply, and wept. The probability is, that she
more than suspected the vampyre had made another visit, but
they forbore to press the point; and, leaving her with her
mother, Henry and George went from her chamber again—the
former to endeavour to seek some repose, as it would be his
turn to watch on the succeeding night, and the latter to resume
his station in a small room close to Flora’s chamber, where it
had been agreed watch and ward should be kept by turns while
the alarm lasted.

At length, the morning again dawned upon that unhappy
family, and to none were its beams more welcome.

The birds sang their pleasant carols beneath the window. The
sweet, deep-coloured autumnal sun shone upon all objects with a
golden luster; and to look abroad, upon the beaming face of
nature, no one could for a moment suppose, except from sad
experience, that there were such things as gloom, misery, and
crime, upon the earth.

“And must I,” said Henry, as he gazed from a window of the
hall upon the undulating park, the majestic trees, the flowers,
the shrubs, and the many natural beauties with which the place
was full,—”must I be chased from this spot, the home of
my self and of my kindred, by a phantom—must I indeed
seek refuge elsewhere, because my own home has become
hideous?”

It was indeed a cruel and a painful thought! It was one he
yet would not, could not be convinced was absolutely necessary.
But now the sun was shining: it was morning; and the feelings,
which found a home in his breast amid the darkness, the
stillness, and the uncertainty of night, were chased away by
those glorious beams of sunlight, that fell upon hill, valley,
and stream, and the thousand sweet sounds of life and animation
that filled that sunny air!

Such a revulsion of feeling was natural enough. Many of the
distresses and mental anxieties of night vanish with the night,
and those which oppressed the heart of Henry Bannerworth were
considerably modified.

He was engaged in these reflections when he heard the sound
of the lodge bell, and as a visitor was now somewhat rare at
this establishment, he waited with some anxiety to see to whom
he was indebted for so early a call.

In the course of a few minutes, one of the servants came to
him with a letter in her hand.

It bore a large handsome seal, and, from its appearance,
would seem to have come from some personage of consequence. A
second glance at it shewed him the name of “Varney” in the
corner, and, with some degree of vexation, he muttered to
himself,

“Another condoling epistle from the troublesome neighbour
whom I have not yet seen.”

“If you please, sir,” said the servant who had brought him
the letter, “as I’m here, and you are here, perhaps you’ll have
no objection to give me what I’m to have for the day and two
nights as I’ve been here, cos I can’t stay in a family as is so
familiar with all sorts o’ ghostesses: I ain’t used to such
company.”

“What do you mean?” said Henry.

The question was a superfluous one—: too well he knew
what the woman meant, and the conviction came across his mind
strongly that no domestic would consent to live long in a house
which was subject to such dreadful visitations.

“What does I mean!” said the woman,—”why, sir, if it’s
all the same to you, I don’t myself come of a wampyre family,
and I don’t choose to remain in a house where there is sich
things encouraged. That’s what I means, sir.”

“What wages are owing to you?” said Henry.

“Why, as to wages, I only comed here by the day.”

“Go, then, and settle with my mother. The sooner you leave
this house, the better.”

“Oh, indeed. I’m sure I don’t want to stay.”

This woman was one of those who were always armed at all
points for a row, and she had no notion of concluding any
engagement, of any character whatever, without some
disturbance; therefore, to see Henry take what she said with
such provoking calmness was aggravating in the extreme; but
there was no help for such a source of vexation. She could find
no other ground of quarrel than what was connected with the
vampyre, and, as Henry would not quarrel with her on such a
score, she was compelled to give it up in despair.

When Henry found himself alone, and free from the annoyance
of this woman, he turned his attention to the letter he held in
his hand, and which, from the autograph in the corner, he knew
came from his new neighbour, Sir Francis Varney, whom, by some
chance or another, he had never yet seen.

To his great surprise, he found that the letter contained
the following words:—

Henry, after having read this most unobjectionable letter
through, folded it up again, and placed it in his pocket.
Clasping his hands, then, behind his back, a favourite attitude
of his when he was in deep contemplation, he paced to and fro
in the garden for some time in deep thought.

“How strange,” he muttered. “It seems that every
circumstance combines to induce me to leave my old ancestral
home. It appears as if everything now that happened had that
direct tendency. What can be the meaning of all this? ‘Tis very
strange—amazingly strange. Here arise circumstances which
are enough to induce any man to leave a particular place. Then
a friend, in whose single-mindedness and judgment I know I can
rely, advises the step, and immediately upon the back of that
comes a fair and candid offer.”

There was an apparent connexion between all these
circumstances which much puzzled Henry. He walked to and fro
for nearly an hour, until he heard a hasty footstep approaching
him, and upon looking in the direction from whence it came, he
saw Mr. Marchdale.

“I will seek Marchdale’s advice,” he said, “upon this
matter. I will hear what he says concerning it.”

“Henry,” said Marchdale, when he came sufficiently near to
him for conversation, “why do you remain here alone?”

“I have received a communication from our neighbour, Sir
Francis Varney,” said Henry.

“Indeed!”

“It is here. Peruse it for yourself, and then tell me,
Marchdale, candidly what you think of it.”

“I suppose,” said Marchdale, as he opened the letter, “it is
another friendly note of condolence on the state of your
domestic affairs, which, I grieve to say, from the prattling of
domestics, whose tongues it is quite impossible to silence,
have become food for gossip all over the neighbouring villages
and estates.”

“If anything could add another pang to those I have already
been made to suffer,” said Henry, “it would certainly arise
from being made the food of vulgar gossip. But read the letter,
Marchdale. You will find its contents of a more important
character than you anticipate.”

“Indeed!” said Marchdale, as he ran his eyes eagerly over
the note.

When he had finished it he glanced at Henry, who then
said,—

“Well, what is your opinion?”

“I know not what to say, Henry. You know that my own advice
to you has been to get rid of this place.”

“It has.”

“With the hope that the disagreeable affair connected with
it now may remain connected with it as a house, and not with
you and yours as a family.”

“It may be so.”

“There appears to me every likelihood of it.”

“I do not know,” said Henry, with a shudder. “I must
confess, Marchdale, that to my own perceptions it seems more
probable that the infliction we have experienced from the
strange visitor, who seems now resolved to pester us with
visits, will rather attach to a family than to a house. The
vampyre may follow us.”

“If so, of course the parting with the Hall would be a great
pity, and no gain.”

“None in the least.”

“Henry, a thought has struck me.”

“Let’s hear it, Marchdale.”

“It is this:—Suppose you were to try the experiment of
leaving the Hall without selling it. Suppose for one year you
were to let it to some one, Henry.”

“It might be done.”

“Ay, and it might, with very great promise and candour, be
proposed to this very gentleman, Sir Francis Varney, to take it
for one year, to see how he liked it before becoming the
possessor of it. Then if he found himself tormented by the
vampyre, he need not complete the purchase, or if you found
that the apparition followed you from hence, you might yourself
return, feeling that perhaps here, in the spots familiar to
your youth, you might be most happy, even under such
circumstances as at present oppress you.”

“Most happy!” ejaculated Henry.

“Perhaps I should not have used that word.”

“I am sure you should not,” said Henry, “when you speak of
me.”

“Well—well; let us hope that the time may not be very
far distant when I may use the term happy, as applied to you,
in the most conclusive and the strongest manner it can be
used.”

“Oh,” said Henry, “I will hope; but do not mock me with it
now, Marchdale, I pray you.”

“Heaven forbid that I should mock you!”

“Well—well; I do not believe you are the man to do so
to any one. But about this affair of the house.”

“Distinctly, then, if I were you, I would call upon Sir
Francis Varney, and make him an offer to become a tenant of the
Hall for twelve months, during which time you could go where
you please, and test the fact of absence ridding you or not
ridding you of the dreadful visitant who makes the night here
truly hideous.”

“I will speak to my mother, to George, and to my sister of
the matter. They shall decide.”

Mr. Marchdale now strove in every possible manner to raise
the spirits of Henry Bannerworth, by painting to him the future
in far more radiant colours than the present, and endeavouring
to induce a belief in his mind that a short period of time
might after all replace in his mind, and in the minds of those
who were naturally so dear to him, all their wonted
serenity.

Henry, although he felt not much comfort from these kindly
efforts, yet could feel gratitude to him who made them; and
after expressing such a feeling to Marchdale, in strong terms,
he repaired to the house, in order to hold a solemn
consultation with those whom he felt ought to be consulted as
well as himself as to what steps should be taken with regard to
the Hall.

The proposition, or rather the suggestion, which had been
made by Marchdale upon the proposition of Sir Francis Varney,
was in every respect so reasonable and just, that it met, as
was to be expected, with the concurrence of every member of the
family.

Flora’s cheeks almost resumed some of their wonted colour at
the mere thought now of leaving that home to which she had been
at one time so much attached.

“Yes, dear Henry,” she said, “let us leave here if you are
agreeable so to do, and in leaving this house, we will believe
that we leave behind us a world of terror.”

“Flora,” remarked Henry, in a tone of slight reproach, “if
you were so anxious to leave Bannerworth Hall, why did you not
say so before this proposition came from other mouths? You know
your feelings upon such a subject would have been laws to
me.”

“I knew you were attached to the old house,” said Flora;
“and, besides, events have come upon us all with such fearful
rapidity, there has scarcely been time to think.”

“True—true.”

“And you will leave, Henry?”

“I will call upon Sir Francis Varney myself, and speak to
him upon the subject.”

A new impetus to existence appeared now to come over the
whole family, at the idea of leaving a place which always would
be now associated in their minds with so much terror. Each
member of the family felt happier, and breathed more freely
than before, so that the change which had come over them seemed
almost magical. And Charles Holland, too, was much better
pleased, and he whispered to Flora,—

“Dear Flora, you will now surely no longer talk of driving
from you the honest heart that loves you?”

“Hush, Charles, hush!” she said; “meet me an hour hence in
the garden, and we will talk of this.”

“That hour will seem an age,” he said.

Henry, now, having made a determination to see Sir Francis
Varney, lost no time in putting it into execution. At Mr.
Marchdale’s own request, he took him with him, as it was
desirable to have a third person present in the sort of
business negotiation which was going on. The estate which had
been so recently entered upon by the person calling himself Sir
Francis Varney, and which common report said he had purchased,
was a small, but complete property, and situated so close to
the grounds connected with Bannerworth Hall, that a short walk
soon placed Henry and Mr. Marchdale before the residence of
this gentleman, who had shown so kindly a feeling towards the
Bannerworth family.

“Have you seen Sir Francis Varney?” asked Henry of Mr.
Marchdale, as he rung the gate-bell.

“I have not. Have you?”

“No; I never saw him. It is rather awkward our both being
absolute strangers to his person.”

“We can but send in our names, however; and, from the great
vein of courtesy that runs through his letter, I have no doubt
but we shall receive the most gentlemanly reception from
him.”

A servant in handsome livery appeared at the iron-gates,
which opened upon a lawn in the front of Sir Francis Varney’s
house, and to this domestic Henry Bannerworth handed his card,
on which he had written, in pencil, likewise the name of Mr.
Marchdale.

“If your master,” he said, “is within, we shall be glad to
see him.”

“Sir Francis is at home, sir,” was the reply, “although not
very well. If you will be pleased to walk in, I will announce
you to him.”

Henry and Marchdale followed the man into a handsome enough
reception-room, where they were desired to wait while their
names were announced.

“Do you know if this gentleman be a baronet,” said Henry,
“or a knight merely?”

“I really do not; I never saw him in my life, or heard of
him before he came into this neighbourhood.”

“And I have been too much occupied with the painful
occurrences of this hall to know anything of our neighbours. I
dare say Mr. Chillingworth, if we had thought to ask him, would
have known something concerning him.”

“No doubt.”

This brief colloquy was put an end to by the servant, who
said,—

“My master, gentlemen, is not very well; but he begs me to
present his best compliments, and to say he is much gratified
with your visit, and will be happy to see you in his
study.”

Henry and Marchdale followed the man up a flight of stone
stairs, and then they were conducted through a large apartment
into a smaller one. There was very little light in this small
room; but at the moment of their entrance a tall man, who was
seated, rose, and, touching the spring of a blind that was to
the window, it was up in a moment, admitting a broad glare of
light. A cry of surprise, mingled with terror, came from Henry
Bannerworth’s lip. The original of the portrait on the panel
stood before him! There was the lofty stature, the long,
sallow face, the slightly projecting teeth, the dark, lustrous,
although somewhat sombre eyes; the expression of the
features—all were alike.

“Are you unwell, sir?” said Sir Francis Varney, in soft,
mellow accents, as he handed a chair to the bewildered
Henry.

“God of Heaven!” said Henry; “how like!”

“You seem surprised, sir. Have you ever seen me before?”

Sir Francis drew himself up to his full height, and cast a
strange glance upon Henry, whose eyes were rivetted upon his
face, as if with a species of fascination which he could not
resist.

“Marchdale,” Henry gasped; “Marchdale, my friend, Marchdale.
I—I am surely mad.”

“Hush! be calm,” whispered Marchdale.

“Calm—calm—can you not see? Marchdale, is this a
dream? Look—look—oh! look.”

“For God’s sake, Henry, compose yourself.”

“Is your friend often thus?” said Sir Francis Varney, with
the same mellifluous tone which seemed habitual to him.

“No, sir, he is not; but recent circumstances have shattered
his nerves; and, to tell the truth, you bear so strong a
resemblance to an old portrait, in his house, that I do not
wonder so much as I otherwise should at his agitation.”

“Indeed.”

“A resemblance!” said Henry; “a resemblance! God of Heaven!
it is the face itself.”

“You much surprise me,” said Sir Francis.

Henry sunk into the chair which was near him, and he
trembled violently. The rush of painful thoughts and
conjectures that came through his mind was enough to make any
one tremble. “Is this the vampyre?” was the horrible question
that seemed impressed upon his very brain, in letters of flame.
“Is this the vampyre?”

“Are you better, sir?” said Sir Francis Varney, in his
bland, musical voice. “Shall I order any refreshment for
you?”

“No—no,” gasped Henry; “for the love of truth tell me!
Is—is your name really Varney!”

“Sir?”

“Have you no other name to which, perhaps, a better title
you could urge?”

“Mr. Bannerworth, I can assure you that I am too proud of
the name of the family to which I belong to exchange it for any
other, be it what it may.”

“How wonderfully like!”

“I grieve to see you so much distressed. Mr. Bannerworth. I
presume ill health has thus shattered your nerves?”

“No; ill health has not done the work. I know not what to
say, Sir Francis Varney, to you; but recent events in my family
have made the sight of you full of horrible conjectures.”

“What mean you, sir?”

“You know, from common report, that we have had a fearful
visitor at our house.”

“A vampyre, I have heard,” said Sir Francis Varney, with a
bland, and almost beautiful smile, which displayed his white
glistening teeth to perfection.

“Yes; a vampyre, and—and—”

“I pray you go on, sir; you surely are far above the vulgar
superstition of believing in such matters?”

“My judgment is assailed in too many ways and shapes for it
to hold out probably as it ought to do against so hideous a
belief, but never was it so much bewildered as now.”

“Why so?”

“Because—”

“Nay, Henry,” whispered Mr. Marchdale, “it is scarcely civil
to tell Sir Francis to his face, that he resembles a
vampyre.”

“I must, I must.”

“Pray, sir,” interrupted Varney to Marchdale, “permit Mr.
Bannerworth to speak here freely. There is nothing in the whole
world I so much admire as candour.”

“Then you so much resemble the vampyre,” added Henry,
“that—that I know not what to think.”

“Is it possible?” said Varney.

“It is a damning fact.”

“Well, it’s unfortunate for me, I presume? Ah!”

Varney gave a twinge of pain, as if some sudden bodily
ailment had attacked him severely.

“You are unwell, sir?” said Marchdale.

“No, no—no,” he said; “I—hurt my arm, and
happened accidentally to touch the arm of this chair with
it.”

“A hurt?” said Henry.

“Yes, Mr. Bannerworth.”

“A—a wound?”

“Yes, a wound, but not much more than skin deep. In fact,
little beyond an abrasion of the skin.”

“May I inquire how you came by it?”

“Oh, yes. A slight fall.”

“Indeed.”

“Remarkable, is it not? Very remarkable. We never know a
moment when, from same most trifling cause, we may receive
really some serious bodily harm. How true it is, Mr.
Bannerworth, that in the midst of life we are in death.”

“And equally true, perhaps,” said Henry, “that in the midst
of death there may be found a horrible life.”

“Well, I should not wonder. There are really so many strange
things in this world, that I have left off wondering at
anything now.”

“There are strange things,” said Henry. “You wish to
purchase of me the Hall, sir?”

“If you wish to sell.”

“You—you are perhaps attached to the place? Perhaps
you recollected it, sir, long ago?”

“Not very long,” smiled Sir Francis Varney. “It seems a nice
comfortable old house; and the grounds, too, appear to be
amazingly well wooded, which, to one of rather a romantic
temperament like myself, is always an additional charm to a
place. I was extremely pleased with it the first time I beheld
it, and a desire to call myself the owner of it took possession
of my mind. The scenery is remarkable for its beauty, and, from
what I have seen of it, it is rarely to be excelled. No doubt
you are greatly attached to it.”

“It has been my home from infancy,” returned Henry, “and
being also the residence of my ancestors for centuries, it is
natural that I should be so.”

“True—true.”

“The house, no doubt, has suffered much,” said Henry,
“within the last hundred years.”

“No doubt it has. A hundred years is a tolerable long space
of time, you know.”

“It is, indeed. Oh, how any human life which is spun out to
such an extent, must lose its charms, by losing all its fondest
and dearest associations.”

“Ah, how true,” said Sir Francis Varney. He had some minutes
previously touched a bell, and at this moment a servant brought
in on a tray some wine and refreshments.

CHAPTER XIV.

HENRY’S AGREEMENT WITH SIR FRANCIS VARNEY.—THE SUDDEN
ARRIVAL AT THE HALL.—FLORA’S ALARM.

On the tray which the servant brought into the room, were
refreshments of different kinds, including wine, and after
waving his hand for the domestic to retire, Sir Francis Varney
said,—

“You will be better, Mr. Bannerworth, for a glass of wine
after your walk, and you too, sir. I am ashamed to say, I have
quite forgotten your name.”

“Marchdale.”

“Mr. Marchdale. Ay, Marchdale. Pray, sir, help
yourself.”

“You take nothing yourself?” said Henry.

“I am under a strict regimen,” replied Varney. “The simplest
diet alone does for me, and I have accustomed myself to long
abstinence.”

“He will not eat or drink,” muttered Henry,
abstractedly.

“Will you sell me the Hall?” said Sir Francis Varney.

Henry looked in his face again, from which he had only
momentarily withdrawn his eyes, and he was then more struck
than ever with the resemblance between him and the portrait on
the panel of what had been Flora’s chamber. What made that
resemblance, too, one about which there could scarcely be two
opinions, was the mark or cicatrix of a wound in the forehead,
which the painter had slightly indented in the portrait, but
which was much more plainly visible on the forehead of Sir
Francis Varney. Now that Henry observed this distinctive mark,
which he had not done before, he could feel no doubt, and a
sickening sensation came over him at the thought that he was
actually now in the presence of one of those terrible
creatures, vampyres.

“You do not drink,” said Varney. “Most young men are not so
modest with a decanter of unimpeachable wine before them. I
pray you help yourself.”

“I cannot.”

Henry rose as he spoke, and turning to Marchdale, he said,
in addition,—

“Will you come away?”

“If you please,” said Marchdale, rising.

“But you have not, my dear sir,” said Varney, “given me yet
any answer about the Hall?”

“I cannot yet,” answered Henry, “I will think. My present
impression is, to let you have it on whatever terms you may
yourself propose, always provided you consent to one of
mine.”

“Name it.”

“That you never show yourself in my family.”

“How very unkind. I understand you have a charming sister,
young, beautiful, and accomplished. Shall I confess, now, that
I had hopes of making myself agreeable to her?”

“You make yourself agreeable to her? The sight of you would
blast her for ever, and drive her to madness.”

“Am I so hideous?”

“No, but—you are—”

“What am I?”

“Hush, Henry, hush,” cried Marchdale. “Remember you are in
this gentleman’s house.”

“True, true. Why does he tempt me to say these dreadful
things? I do not want to say them.”

“Come away, then—come away at once. Sir Francis
Varney, my friend, Mr. Bannerworth, will think over your offer,
and let you know. I think you may consider that your wish to
become the purchaser of the Hall will be complied with.”

“I wish to have it,” said Varney, “and I can only say, that
if I am master of it, I shall be very happy to see any of the
family on a visit at any time.”

“A visit!” said Henry, with a shudder. “A visit to the tomb
were far more desirable. Farewell, sir.”

“Adieu,” said Sir Francis Varney, and he made one of the
most elegant bows in the world, while there came over his face
a peculiarity of expression that was strange, if not painful,
to contemplate. In another minute Henry and Marchdale were
clear of the house, and with feelings of bewilderment and
horror, which beggar all description, poor Henry allowed
himself to be led by the arm by Marchdale to some distance,
without uttering a word. When he did speak, he said,—

“Marchdale, it would be charity of some one to kill me.”

“To kill you!”

“Yes, for I am certain otherwise that I must go mad.”

“Nay, nay; rouse yourself.”

“This man, Varney, is a vampyre.”

“Hush! hush!”

“I tell you, Marchdale,” cried Henry, in a wild, excited
manner, “he is a vampyre. He is the dreadful being who visited
Flora at the still hour of midnight, and drained the life-blood
from her veins. He is a vampyre. There are such things. I
cannot doubt now. Oh, God, I wish now that your lightnings
would blast me, as here I stand, for over into annihilation,
for I am going mad to be compelled to feel that such horrors
can really have existence.”

“Henry—Henry.”

“Nay, talk not to me. What can I do? Shall I kill him? Is it
not a sacred duty to destroy such a thing? Oh,
horror—horror. He must be
killed—destroyed—burnt, and the very dust to which
he is consumed must be scattered to the winds of Heaven. It
would be a deed well done, Marchdale.”

“Hush! hush! These words are dangerous.”

“I care not.”

“What if they were overheard now by unfriendly ears? What
might not be the uncomfortable results? I pray you be more
cautious what you say of this strange man.”

“I must destroy him.”

“And wherefore?”

“Can you ask? Is he not a vampyre?”

“Yes; but reflect, Henry, for a moment upon the length to
which you might carry out so dangerous an argument. It is said
that vampyres are made by vampyres sucking the blood of those
who, but for that circumstance, would have died and gone to
decay in the tomb along with ordinary mortals; but that being
so attacked during life by a vampyre, they themselves, after
death, become such.”

“Well—well, what is that to me?”

“Have you forgotten Flora?”

A cry of despair came from poor Henry’s lips, and in a
moment he seemed completely, mentally and physically,
prostrated.

“God of Heaven!” he moaned, “I had forgotten her!”

“I thought you had.”

“Oh, if the sacrifice of my own life would suffice to put an
end to all this accumulating horror, how gladly would I lay it
down. Ay, in any way—in any way. No mode of death should
appal me. No amount of pain make me shrink. I could smile then
upon the destroyer, and say, ‘welcome—welcome—most
welcome.'”

“Rather, Henry, seek to live for those whom you love than
die for them. Your death would leave them desolate. In life you
may ward off many a blow of fate from them.”

“I may endeavour so to do.”

“Consider that Flora may be wholly dependent upon such
kindness as you may be able to bestow upon her.”

“Charles clings to her.”

“Humph!”

“You do not doubt him?”

“My dear friend, Henry Bannerworth, although I am not an old
man, yet I am so much older than you that I have seen a great
deal of the world, and am, perhaps, far better able to come to
accurate judgments with regard to individuals.”

“No doubt—no doubt; but yet—”

“Nay, hear me out. Such judgments, founded upon experience,
when uttered have all the character of prophecy about them. I,
therefore, now prophecy to you that Charles Holland will yet be
so stung with horror at the circumstance of a vampyre visiting
Flora, that he will never make her his wife.”

“Marchdale, I differ from you most completely,” said Henry.
“I know that Charles Holland is the very soul of honour.”

“I cannot argue the matter with you. It has not become a
thing of fact. I have only sincerely to hope that I am
wrong.”

“You are, you may depend, entirely wrong. I cannot be
deceived in Charles. From you such words produce no effect but
one of regret that you should so much err in your estimate of
any one. From any one but yourself they would have produced in
me a feeling of anger I might have found it difficult to
smother.”

“It has often been my misfortune through life,” said Mr.
Marchdale, sadly, “to give the greatest offence where I feel
the truest friendship, because it is in such quarters that I am
always tempted to speak too freely.”

“Nay, no offence,” said Henry. “I am distracted, and
scarcely know what I say. Marchdale, I know you are my sincere
friend—but, as I tell you, I am nearly mad.”

“My dear Henry, be calmer. Consider upon what is to be said
concerning this interview at home.”

“Ay; that is a consideration.”

“I should not think it advisable to mention the disagreeable
fact, that in your neighbour you think you have found out the
nocturnal disturber of your family.”

“No—no.”

“I would say nothing of it. It is not at all probable that,
after what you have said to him this Sir Francis Varney, or
whatever his real name may be will obtrude himself upon
you.”

“If he should he die.”

“He will, perhaps, consider that such a step would be
dangerous to him.”

“It would be fatal, so help me. However, and then would I
take especial care that no power of resuscitation should ever
enable that man again to walk the earth.”

“They say that only way of destroying a vampyre is to fix
him to the earth with a stake, so that he cannot move, and
then, of course, decomposition will take its course, as in
ordinary cases.”

“Fire would consume him, and be a quicker process,” said
Henry. “But these are fearful reflections, and, for the
present, we will not pursue them. Now to play the hypocrite,
and endeavour to look composed and serene to my mother, and to
Flora while my heart is breaking.”

The two friends had by this time reached the hall, and
leaving his friend Marchdale, Henry Bannerworth, with feelings
of the most unenviable description, slowly made his way to the
apartment occupied by his mother and sister.

CHAPTER XV.

THE OLD ADMIRAL AND HIS SERVANT.—THE COMMUNICATION
FROM THE LANDLORD OF THE NELSON’S ARMS.

While those matters of most grave and serious import were
going on at the Hall, while each day, and almost each hour in
each day, was producing more and more conclusive evidence upon
a matter which at first had seemed too monstrous to be at all
credited, it may well be supposed what a wonderful sensation
was produced among the gossip-mongers of the neighbourhood by
the exaggerated reports that had reached them.

The servants, who had left the Hall on no other account, as
they declared, but sheer fright at the awful visits of the
vampyre, spread the news far and wide, so that in the adjoining
villages and market-towns the vampyre of Bannerworth Hall
became quite a staple article of conversation.

Such a positive godsend for the lovers of the marvellous had
not appeared in the country side within the memory of that
sapient individual—the oldest inhabitant.

And, moreover, there was one thing which staggered some
people of better education and maturer judgments, and that was,
that the more they took pains to inquire into the matter, in
order, if possible, to put an end to what they considered a
gross lie from the commencement, the more evidence they found
to stagger their own senses upon the subject.

Everywhere then, in every house, public as well as private,
something was being continually said of the vampyre. Nursery
maids began to think a vampyre vastly superior to “old scratch
and old bogie” as a means of terrifying their infant charges
into quietness, if not to sleep, until they themselves became
too much afraid upon the subject to mention it.

But nowhere was gossiping carried on upon the subject with
more systematic fervour than at an inn called the Nelson’s
Arms, which was in the high street of the nearest market town
to the Hall.

There, it seemed as if the lovers of the horrible made a
point of holding their head quarters, and so thirsty did the
numerous discussions make the guests, that the landlord was
heard to declare that he, from his heart, really considered a
vampyre as very nearly equal to a contested election.

It was towards evening of the same day that Marchdale and
Henry made their visit to Sir Francis Varney, that a postchaise
drew up to the inn we have mentioned. In the vehicle were two
persons of exceedingly dissimilar appearance and general
aspect.

One of these people was a man who seemed fast verging upon
seventy years of age, although, from his still ruddy and
embrowned complexion and stentorian voice, it was quite evident
he intended yet to keep time at arm’s-length for many years to
come.

He was attired in ample and expensive clothing, but every
article had a naval animus about it, if we may be allowed such
an expression with regard to clothing. On his buttons was an
anchor, and the general assortment and colour of the clothing
as nearly assimilated as possible to the undress naval uniform
of an officer of high rank some fifty or sixty years ago.

His companion was a younger man, and about his appearance
there was no secret at all. He was a genuine sailor, and he
wore the shore costume of one. He was hearty-looking, and well
dressed, and evidently well fed.

As the chaise drove up to the door of the inn, this man made
an observation to the other to the following effect,—

“A-hoy!”

“Well, you lubber, what now?” cried the other.

“They call this the Nelson’s Arms; and you know, shiver me,
that for the best half of his life he had but one.”

“D—n you!” was the only rejoinder he got for this
observation; but, with that, he seemed very well satisfied.

“Heave to!” he then shouted to the postilion, who was about
to drive the chaise into the yard. “Heave to, you lubberly son
of a gun! we don’t want to go into dock.”

“Ah!” said the old man, “let’s get out, Jack. This is the
port; and, do you hear, and be cursed to you, let’s have no
swearing, d—n you, nor bad language, you lazy swab.”

“Aye, aye,” cried Jack; “I’ve not been ashore now a matter
o’ ten years, and not larnt a little shore-going politeness,
admiral, I ain’t been your walley de sham without
larning a little about land reckonings. Nobody would take me
for a sailor now, I’m thinking, admiral.”

“Hold your noise!”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Jack, as he was called, bundled out of the chaise when the
door was opened, with a movement so closely resembling what
would have ensued had he been dragged out by the collar, that
one was tempted almost to believe that such a feat must have
been accomplished all at once by some invisible agency.

He then assisted the old gentleman to alight, and the
landlord of the inn commenced the usual profusion of bows with
which a passenger by a postchaise is usually welcomed in
preference to one by a stage coach.

“Be quiet, will you!” shouted the admiral, for such indeed
he was. “Be quiet.”

“Best accommodation, sir—good wine—well-aired
beds—good attendance—fine air—”

“Belay there,” said Jack; and he gave the landlord what no
doubt he considered a gentle admonition, but which consisted of
such a dig in the ribs, that he made as many evolutions as the
clown in a pantomime when he vociferates hot codlings.

“Now, Jack, where’s the sailing instructions?” said his
master.

“Here, sir, in the locker,” said Jack, as he took from his
pocket a letter, which he handed to the admiral.

“Won’t you step in, sir?” said the landlord, who had begun
now to recover a little from the dig in the ribs.

“What’s the use of coming into port and paying harbour dues,
and all that sort of thing, till we know if it’s the right, you
lubber, eh?”

“No; oh, dear me, sir, of course—God bless me, what
can the old gentleman mean?”

The admiral opened the letter, and read:—

“Who the deuce is he?”

“This is Uxotter, sir,” said the landlord; “and here you
are, sir, at the Nelson’s Arms. Good beds—good
wine—good—”

“Silence!”

“Yes, sir—oh, of course”

“Who the devil is Josiah Crinkles?”

“Ha! ha! ha! ha! Makes me laugh, sir. Who the devil indeed!
They do say the devil and lawyers, sir, know something of each
other—makes me smile.”

“I’ll make you smile on the other side of that
d——d great hatchway of a mouth of yours in a
minute. Who is Crinkles?”

“Oh, Mr. Crinkles, sir, everybody knows, most respectable
attorney, sir, indeed, highly respectable man, sir.”

“A lawyer?”

“Yes, sir, a lawyer.”

“Well, I’m d——d!”

Jack gave a long whistle, and both master and man looked at
each other aghast.

“Now, hang me!” cried the admiral, “if ever I was so taken
in in all my life.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” said Jack.

“To come a hundred and seventy miles see a d——d
swab of a rascally lawyer.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“I’ll smash him—Jack!”

“Yer honour?”

“Get into the chaise again.”

“Well, but where’s Master Charles? Lawyers, in course, sir,
is all blessed rogues; but, howsomdever, he may have for once
in his life this here one of ’em have told us of the right
channel, and if so be as he has, don’t be the Yankee to leave
him among the pirates. I’m ashamed on you.”

“You infernal scoundrel; how dare you preach to me in such a
way, you lubberly rascal?”

“Cos you desarves it.”

“Mutiny—mutiny—by Jove! Jack, I’ll have you put
in irons—you’re a scoundrel, and no seaman.”

“No seaman!—no seaman!”

“Not a bit of one.”

“Very good. It’s time, then, as I was off the purser’s
books. Good bye to you; I only hopes as you may get a better
seaman to stick to you and be your walley de sham nor
Jack Pringle, that’s all the harm I wish you. You didn’t call
me no seaman in the Bay of Corfu, when the bullets were
scuttling our nobs.”

“Jack, you rascal, give us your fin. Come here, you
d——d villain. You’ll leave me, will you?”

“Not if I know it.”

“Come in, then”

“Don’t tell me I’m no seaman. Call me a wagabone if you
like, but don’t hurt my feelings. There I’m as tender as a
baby, I am.—Don’t do it.”

“Confound you, who is doing it?”

“The devil.”

“Who is?”

“Don’t, then.”

Thus wrangling, they entered the inn, to the great amusement
of several bystanders, who had collected to hear the
altercation between them.

“Would you like a private room, sir?” said the landlord.

“What’s that to you?” said Jack.

“Hold your noise, will you?” cried his master. “Yes, I
should like a private room, and some grog.”

“Strong as the devil!” put in Jack.

“Yes, sir-yes, sir. Good wines—good
beds—good—”

“You said all that before, you know,” remarked Jack, as he
bestowed upon the landlord another terrific dig in the
ribs.

“Hilloa!” cried the admiral, “you can send for that infernal
lawyer, Mister Landlord.”

“Mr. Crinkles, sir?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Who may I have the honour to say, sir, wants to see
him?”

“Admiral Bell.”

“Certainly, admiral, certainly. You’ll find him a very
conversible, nice, gentlemanly little man, sir.”

“And tell him as Jack Pringle is here, too,” cried the
seaman.

“Oh, yes, yes—of course,” said the landlord, who was
in such a state of confusion from the digs in the ribs he had
received and the noise his guests had already made in his
house, that, had he been suddenly put upon his oath, he would
scarcely have liked to say which was the master and which was
the man.

“The idea now, Jack,” said the admiral, “of coming all this
way to see a lawyer.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“If he’d said he was a lawyer, we would have known what to
do. But it’s a take in, Jack.”

“So I think. Howsomdever, we’ll serve him out when we catch
him, you know.”

“Good—so we will.”

“And, then, again, he may know something about Master
Charles, sir, you know. Lord love him, don’t you remember when
he came aboard to see you once at Portsmouth?”

“Ah! I do, indeed.”

“And how he said he hated the French, and quite a baby, too.
What perseverance and sense. ‘Uncle,’ says he to you, ‘when I’m
a big man, I’ll go in a ship, and fight all the French in a
heap,’ says he. ‘And beat ’em, my boy, too,’ says you; cos you
thought he’d forgot that; and then he says, ‘what’s the use of
saying that, stupid?—don’t we always beat ’em?'”

The admiral laughed and rubbed his hands, as he cried
aloud,—

“I remember, Jack—I remember him. I was stupid to make
such a remark.”

“I know you was—a d——d old fool I thought
you.”

“Come, come. Hilloa, there!”

“Well, then, what do you call me no seaman for?”

“Why, Jack, you bear malice like a marine.”

“There you go again. Goodbye. Do you remember when we were
yard arm to yard arm with those two Yankee frigates, and took
’em both! You didn’t call me a marine then, when the scuppers
were running with blood. Was I a seaman then?”

“You were, Jack—you were; and you saved my life.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I say I didn’t—it was a marlin-spike.”

“But I say you did, you rascally scoundrel.—I say you
did, and I won’t be contradicted in my own ship.”

“Call this your ship?”

“No, d—n it—I—”

“Mr. Crinkles,” said the landlord, flinging the door wide
open, and so at once putting an end to the discussion which
always apparently had a tendency to wax exceedingly warm.

“The shark, by G—d!” said Jack.

A little, neatly dressed man made his appearance, and
advanced rather timidly into the room. Perhaps he had heard
from the landlord that the parties who had sent for him were of
rather a violent sort.

“So you are Crinkles, are you?” cried the admiral. “Sit
down, though you are a lawyer.”

“Thank you, sir. I am an attorney, certainly, and my name as
certainly is Crinkles.”

“Look at that.”

The admiral placed the letter in the little lawyer’s hands,
who said,—

“Am I to read it?”

“Yes, to be sure.”

“Aloud?”

“Read it to the devil, if you like, in a pig’s whisper, or a
West India hurricane.”

“Oh, very good, sir. I—I am willing to be agreeable,
so I’ll read it aloud, if it’s all the same to you.”

He then opened the letter, and read as follows:—

The lawyer ceased to read, and the amazed look with which he
glanced at the face of Admiral Bell would, under any other
circumstances, have much amused him. His mind, however, was by
far too much engrossed with a consideration of the danger of
Charles Holland, his nephew, to be amused at anything; so, when
he found that the little lawyer said nothing, he bellowed
out,—

“Well, sir?”

“We—we—well,” said the attorney.

“I’ve sent for you, and here you are, and here I am, and
here’s Jack Pringle. What have you got to say?”

“Just this much,” said Mr. Crinkles, recovering himself a
little, “just this much, sir, that I never saw that letter
before in all my life.”

“You—never—saw—it?”

“Never.”

“Didn’t you write it?”

“On my solemn word of honour, sir, I did not.”

Jack Pringle whistled, and the admiral looked puzzled. Like
the admiral in the song, too, he “grew paler,” and then Mr.
Crinkles added,—

“Who has forged my name to a letter such as this, I cannot
imagine. As for writing to you, sir, I never heard of your
existence, except publicly, as one of those gallant officers
who have spent a long life in nobly fighting their country’s
battles, and who are entitled to the admiration and the
applause of every Englishman.”

Jack and the admiral looked at each other in amazement, and
then the latter exclaimed,—

“What! This from a lawyer?”

“A lawyer, sir,” said Crinkles, “may know how to appreciate
the deeds of gallant men, although he may not be able to
imitate them. That letter, sir, is a forgery, and I now leave
you, only much gratified at the incident which has procured me
the honour of an interview with a gentleman, whose name will
live in the history of his country. Good day, sir! Good
day!”

“No! I’m d——d if you go like that,” said Jack,
as he sprang to the door, and put his back against it. “You
shall take a glass with me in honour of the wooden walls of Old
England, d——e, if you was twenty lawyers.”

“That’s right, Jack,” said the admiral. “Come, Mr. Crinkles,
I’ll think, for your sake, there may be two decent lawyers in
the world, and you one of them. We must have a bottle of the
best wine the ship—I mean the house—can afford
together.”

“If it is your command, admiral, I obey with pleasure,” said
the attorney; “and although I assure you, on my honour, I did
not write that letter, yet some of the matters mentioned in it
are so generally notorious here, that I can afford you
information concerning them.”

“Can you?”

“I regret to say I can, for I respect the parties.”

“Sit down, then—sit down. Jack, run to the steward’s
room and get the wine. We will go into it now starboard and
larboard. Who the deuce could have written that letter?”

“I have not the least idea, sir.”

“Well—well, never mind; it has brought me here, that’s
something, so I won’t grumble much at it. I didn’t know my
nephew was in England, and I dare say he didn’t know I was; but
here we both are, and I won’t rest till I’ve seen him, and
ascertained how the what’s-its-name—”

“The vampyre.”

“Ah! the vampyre.”

“Shiver my timbers!” said Jack Pringle, who now brought in
some wine much against the remonstrances of the waiters of the
establishment, who considered that he was treading upon their
vested interests by so doing.—”Shiver my timbers, if I
knows what a wamphigher is, unless he’s some distant
relation to Davy Jones!”

“Hold your ignorant tongue,” said the admiral; “nobody wants
you to make a remark, you great lubber!”

“Very good,” said Jack, and he sat down the wine on the
table, and then retired to the other end of the room, remarking
to himself that he was not called a great lubber on a certain
occasion, when bullets were scuttling their nobs, and they were
yard arm and yard arm with God knows who.

“Now, mister lawyer,” said Admiral Bell, who had about him a
large share of the habits of a rough sailor. “Now, mister
lawyer, here is a glass first to our better acquaintance, for
d——e, if I don’t like you!”

“You are very good, sir.”

“Not at all. There was a time, when I’d just as soon have
thought of asking a young shark to supper with me in my own
cabin as a lawyer, but I begin to see that there may be such a
thing as a decent, good sort of a fellow seen in the law; so
here’s good luck to you, and you shall never want a friend or a
bottle while Admiral Bell has a shot in the locker.”

“Gammon,” said Jack.

“D—n you, what do you mean by that?” roared the
admiral, in a furious tone.

“I wasn’t speaking to you,” shouted Jack, about two octaves
higher. “It’s two boys in the street as is pretending they’re a
going to fight, and I know d——d well they
won’t.”

“Hold your noise.”

“I’m going. I wasn’t told to hold my noise, when our nobs
were being scuttled off Beyrout.”

“Never mind him, mister lawyer,” added the admiral. “He
don’t know what he’s talking about. Never mind him. You go on
and tell me all you know about the—the—”

“The vampyre!”

“Ah! I always forget the names of strange fish. I suppose,
after all, it’s something of the mermaid order?”

“That I cannot say, sir; but certainly the story, in all its
painful particulars, has made a great sensation all over the
country.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, sir. You shall hear how it occurred. It appears that
one night Miss Flora Bannersworth, a young lady of great
beauty, and respected and admired by all who knew her was
visited by a strange being who came in at the window.”

“My eye,” said Jack, “it waren’t me, I wish it had a
been.”

“So petrified by fear was she, that she had only time to
creep half out of the bed, and to utter one cry of alarm, when
the strange visitor seized her in his grasp.”

“D—n my pig tail,” said Jack, “what a squall there
must have been, to be sure.”

“Do you see this bottle?” roared the admiral.

“To be sure, I does; I think as it’s time I seed
another.”

“You scoundrel, I’ll make you feel it against that
d——d stupid head of yours, if you interrupt this
gentleman again.”

“Don’t be violent.”

“Well, as I was saying,” continued the attorney, “she did,
by great good fortune, manage to scream, which had the effect
of alarming the whole house. The door of her chamber, which was
fast, was broken open.”

“Yes, yes—”

“Ah,” cried Jack.

“You may imagine the horror and the consternation of those
who entered the room to find her in the grasp of a fiend-like
figure, whose teeth were fastened on her neck, and who was
actually draining her veins of blood.”

“The devil!”

“Before any one could lay hands sufficiently upon the figure
to detain it, it had fled precipitately from its dreadful
repast. Shots were fired after it in vain.”

“And they let it go?”

“They followed it, I understand, as well as they were able,
and saw it scale the garden wall of the premises; there it
escaped, leaving, as you may well imagine, on all their minds,
a sensation of horror difficult to describe.”

“Well, I never did hear anything the equal of that. Jack,
what do you think of it?”

“I haven’t begun to think, yet,” said Jack.

“But what about my nephew, Charles?” added the admiral.

“Of him I know nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Not a word, admiral. I was not aware you had a nephew, or
that any gentleman bearing that, or any other relationship to
you, had any sort of connexion with these mysterious and most
unaccountable circumstances. I tell you all I have gathered
from common report about this vampyre business. Further I know
not, I assure you.”

“Well, a man can’t tell what he don’t know. It puzzles me to
think who could possibly have written me this letter.”

“That I am completely at a loss to imagine,” said Crinkles.
“I assure you, my gallant sir, that I am much hurt at the
circumstance of any one using my name in such a way. But,
nevertheless, as you are here, permit me to say, that it will
be my pride, my pleasure, and the boast of the remainder of my
existence, to be of some service to so gallant a defender of my
country, and one whose name, along with the memory of his
deeds, is engraved upon the heart of every Briton.”

“Quite ekal to a book, he talks,” said Jack. “I never could
read one myself, on account o’ not knowing how, but I’ve heard
’em read, and that’s just the sort o’ incomprehensible
gammon.”

“We don’t want any of your ignorant remarks,” said the
admiral, “so you be quiet.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“Now, Mister Lawyer, you are an honest fellow, and an honest
fellow is generally a sensible fellow.”

“Sir, I thank you.”

“If so be as what this letter says is true, my nephew
Charles has got a liking for this girl, who has had her neck
bitten by a vampyre, you see.”

“I perceive, sir.”

“Now what would you do?”

“One of the most difficult, as well, perhaps, as one of the
most ungracious of tasks,” said the attorney, “is to interfere
with family affairs. The cold and steady eye of reason
generally sees things in such very different lights to what
they appear to those whose feelings and whose affections are
much compromised in their results.”

“Very true. Go on.”

“Taking, my dear sir, what in my humble judgment appears to
be a reasonable view of this subject, I should say it would be
a dreadful thing for your nephew to marry into a family any
member of which was liable to the visitations of a
vampyre.”

“It wouldn’t be pleasant.”

“The young lady might have children.”

“Oh, lots,” cried Jack.

“Hold your noise, Jack.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“And she might herself actually, when after death she became
a vampyre, come and feed on her own children.”

“Become a vampyre! What, is she going to be a vampyre
too?”

“My dear sir, don’t you know that it is a remarkable fact,
as regards the physiology of vampyres, that whoever is bitten
by one of those dreadful beings, becomes a vampyre?”

“The devil!”

“It is a fact, sir.”

“Whew!” whistled Jack; “she might bite us all, and we should
be a whole ship’s crew o’ wamphighers. There would be a
confounded go!”

“It’s not pleasant,” said the admiral, as he rose from his
chair, and paced to and fro in the room, “it’s not pleasant.
Hang me up at my own yard-arm if it is.”

“Who said it was?” cried Jack.

“Who asked you, you brute?”

“Well, sir,” added Mr. Crinkles, “I have given you all the
information I can; and I can only repeat what I before had the
honour of saying more at large, namely, that I am your humble
servant to command, and that I shall be happy to attend upon
you at any time.”

“Thank ye—thank ye, Mr.—a—a—”

“Crinkles.”

“Ah, Crinkles. You shall hear from me again, sir, shortly.
Now that I am down here, I will see to the very bottom of this
affair, were it deeper than fathom ever sounded. Charles
Holland was my poor sister’s son; he’s the only relative I have
in the wide world, and his happiness is dearer to my heart than
my own.”

Crinkles turned aside, and, by the twinkle of his eyes, one
might premise that the honest little lawyer was much
affected.

“God bless you, sir,” he said; “farewell.”

“Good day to you.”

“Good-bye, lawyer,” cried Jack. “Mind how you go. D—n
me, if you don’t seem a decent sort of fellow, and, after all,
you may give the devil a clear berth, and get into heaven’s
straits with a flowing sheet, provided as you don’t, towards
the end of the voyage, make any lubberly blunders.”

The old admiral threw himself into a chair with a deep
sigh.

“Jack,” said he.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“What’s to be done now?”

Jack opened the window to discharge the superfluous moisture
from an enormous quid he had indulged himself with while the
lawyer was telling about the vampyre, and then again turning
his face towards his master, he said,—

“Do! What shall we do? Why, go at once and find out Charles,
our nevy, and ask him all about it, and see the young
lady, too, and lay hold o’ the wamphigher if we can, as
well, and go at the whole affair broadside to broadside, till
we make a prize of all the particulars, after which we can turn
it over in our minds agin, and see what’s to be done.”

“Jack, you are right. Come along.”

“I knows I am. Do you know now which way to steer?”

“Of course not. I never was in this latitude before, and the
channel looks intricate. We will hail a pilot, Jack, and then
we shall be all right, and if we strike it will be his
fault.”

“Which is a mighty great consolation,” said Jack. “Come
along.”

CHAPTER XVI.

THE MEETING OF THE LOVERS IN THE GARDEN.—AN AFFECTING
SCENE.—THE SUDDEN APPEARANCE OF SIR FRANCIS
VARNEY.

Our readers will recollect that Flora Bannerworth had made
an appointment with Charles Holland in the garden of the hall.
This meeting was looked forward to by the young man with a
variety of conflicting feelings, and he passed the intermediate
time in a most painful state of doubt as to what would be its
result.

The thought that he should be much urged by Flora to give up
all thoughts of making her his, was a most bitter one to him,
who loved her with so much truth and constancy, and that she
would say all she could to induce such a resolution in his mind
he felt certain. But to him the idea of now abandoning her
presented itself in the worst of aspects.

“Shall I,” he said, “sink so low in my own estimation, as
well as in hers, and in that of all honourable-minded persons,
as to desert her now in the hour of affliction? Dare I be so
base as actually or virtually to say to her, ‘Flora, when your
beauty was undimmed by sorrow—when all around you seemed
life and joy, I loved you selfishly for the increased happiness
which you might bestow upon me; but now the hand of misfortune
presses heavily upon you—you are not what you were, and I
desert you? Never—never—never!”

Charles Holland, it will be seen by some of our more
philosophic neighbours, felt more acutely than he reasoned; but
let his errors of argumentation be what they may, can we do
other than admire the nobility of soul which dictated such a
self denying generous course as that he was pursuing?

As for Flora, Heaven only knows if at that precise time her
intellect had completely stood the test of the trying events
which had nearly overwhelmed it.

The two grand feelings that seemed to possess her mind were
fear of the renewed visit of the vampyre, and an earnest desire
to release Charles Holland from his repeated vows of constancy
towards her.

Feeling, generosity, and judgment, all revolted holding a
young man to such a destiny as hers. To link him to her fate,
would be to make him to a real extent a sharer in it, and the
more she heard fall from his lips in the way of generous
feelings of continued attachment to her, the more severely did
she feel that he would suffer most acutely if united to
her.

And she was right. The very generosity of feeling which
would have now prompted Charles Holland to lead Flora
Bannerworth to the altar, even with the marks of the vampyre’s
teeth upon her throat, gave an assurance of a depth of feeling
which would have made him an ample haven in all her miseries,
in all her distresses and afflictions.

What was familiarly in the family at the Hall called the
garden, was a semicircular piece of ground shaded in several
directions by trees, and which was exclusively devoted to the
growth of flowers. The piece of ground was nearly hidden from
the view of the house, and in its centre was a summer-house,
which at the usual season of the year was covered with all
kinds of creeping plants of exquisite perfumes, and rare
beauty. All around, too, bloomed the fairest and sweetest of
flowers, which a rich soil and a sheltered situation could
produce.

Alas! though, of late many weeds had straggled up among
their more estimable floral culture, for the decayed fortunes
of the family had prevented them from keeping the necessary
servants, to place the Hall and its grounds in a state of
neatness, such as it had once been the pride of the inhabitants
of the place to see them. It was then in this flower-garden
that Charles and Flora used to meet.

As may be supposed, he was on the spot before the appointed
hour, anxiously expecting the appearance of her who was so
really and truly dear to him. What to him were the sweet
flowers that there grew in such happy luxuriance and heedless
beauty? Alas, the flower that to his mind was fairer than them
all, was blighted, and in the wan cheek of her whom he loved,
he sighed to see the lily usurping the place of the radiant
rose.

“Dear, dear Flora,” he ejaculated, “you must indeed be taken
from this place, which is so full of the most painful
remembrance; now, I cannot think that Mr. Marchdale somehow is
a friend to me, but that conviction, or rather impression, does
not paralyze my judgment sufficiently to induce me not to
acknowledge that his advice is good. He might have couched it
in pleasanter words—words that would not, like daggers,
each have brought a deadly pang home to my heart, but still I
do think that in his conclusion he was right.”

A light sound, as of some fairy footstep among the flowers,
came upon his ears, and turning instantly to the direction from
whence the sound proceeded, he saw what his heart had
previously assured him of, namely, that it was his Flora who
was coming.

Yes, it was she; but, ah, how pale, how wan—how
languid and full of the evidences of much mental suffering was
she. Where now was the elasticity of that youthful step? Where
now was that lustrous beaming beauty of mirthfulness, which was
wont to dawn in those eyes?

Alas, all was changed. The exquisite beauty of form was
there, but the light of joy which had lent its most
transcendent charms to that heavenly face, was gone. Charles
was by her side in a moment. He had her hand clasped in his,
while his disengaged one was wound tenderly around her taper
waist.

“Flora, dear, dear Flora,” he said, “you are better. Tell me
that you feel the gentle air revives you?”

She could not speak. Her heart was too full of woe.

“Oh; Flora, my own, my beautiful,” he added, in those tones
which come so direct from the heart, and which are so different
from any assumption of tenderness. “Speak to me, dear, dear
Flora—speak to me if it be but a word.”

“Charles,” was all she could say, and then she burst into a
flood of tears, and leant so heavily upon his arm, that it was
evident but for that support she must have fallen.

Charles Holland welcomed those, although, they grieved him
so much that he could have accompanied them with his own, but
then he knew that she would be soon now more composed, and that
they would relieve the heart whose sorrows called them into
existence.

He forbore to speak to her until he found this sudden gush
of feeling was subsiding into sobs, and then in low, soft
accents, he again endeavoured to breathe comfort to her
afflicted and terrified spirit.

“My Flora,” he said, “remember that there are warm hearts
that love you. Remember that neither time nor circumstance can
change such endearing affection as mine. Ah, Flora, what evil
is there in the whole world that love may not conquer, and in
the height of its noble feelings laugh to scorn.”

“Oh, hush, hush, Charles, hush.”

“Wherefore, Flora, would you still the voice of pure
affection? I love you surely, as few have ever loved. Ah, why
would you forbid me to give such utterance as I may to those
feelings which fill up my whole heart?”

“No—no—no.”

“Flora, Flora, wherefore do you say no?”

“Do not, Charles, now speak to me of affection or love. Do
not tell me you love me now.”

“Not tell you I love you! Ah, Flora, if my tongue, with its
poor eloquence to give utterance to such a sentiment, were to
do its office, each feature of my face would tell the tale.
Each action would show to all the world how much I loved
you.”

“I must not now hear this. Great God of Heaven give me
strength to carry out the purpose of my soul.”

“What purpose is it, Flora, that you have to pray thus
fervently for strength to execute? Oh, if it savour aught of
treason against love’s majesty, forget it. Love is a gift from
Heaven. The greatest and the most glorious gift it ever
bestowed upon its creatures. Heaven will not aid you in
repudiating that which is the one grand redeeming feature that
rescues human nature from a world of reproach.”

Flora wrung her hands despairingly as she said,—

“Charles, I know I cannot reason with you. I know I have not
power of language, aptitude of illustration, nor depth of
thought to hold a mental contention with you.”

“Flora, for what do I contend?”

“You, you speak of love.”

“And I have, ere this, spoken to you of love unchecked.”

“Yes, yes. Before this.”

“And now, wherefore not now? Do not tell me you are
changed.”

“I am changed, Charles. Fearfully changed. The curse of God
has fallen upon me, I know not why. I know not that in word or
in thought I have done evil, except perchance unwittingly, and
yet—the vampyre.”

“Let not that affright you.”

“Affright me! It has killed me.”

“Nay, Flora,—you think too much of what I still hope
to be susceptible of far more rational explanation.”

“By your own words, then, Charles, I must convict you. I
cannot, I dare not be yours, while such a dreadful circumstance
is hanging over me, Charles; if a more rational explanation
than the hideous one which my own fancy gives to the form that
visits me can be found, find it, and rescue me from despair and
from madness.”

They had now reached the summer-house, and as Flora uttered
these words she threw herself on to a seat, and covering her
beautiful face with her hands, she sobbed convulsively.

“You have spoken,” said Charles, dejectedly. “I have heard
that which you wished to say to me.”

“No, no. Not all, Charles.”

“I will be patient, then, although what more you may have to
add should tear my very heart-strings.”

“I—I have to add, Charles,” she said, in a tremulous
voice, “that justice, religion, mercy—every human
attribute which bears the name of virtue, calls loudly upon me
no longer to hold you to vows made under different
auspices.”

“Go on, Flora.”

“I then implore you, Charles, finding me what I am, to leave
me to the fate which it has pleased Heaven to cast upon me. I
do not ask you, Charles, not to love me.”

“‘Tis well. Go on, Flora.”

“Because I should like to think that, although I might never
see you more, you loved me still. But you must think seldom of
me, and you must endeavour to be happy with some
other—”

“You cannot, Flora, pursue the picture you yourself would
draw. These words come not from your heart.”

“Yes—yes—yes.”

“Did you ever love me?”

“Charles, Charles, why will you add another pang to those
you know must already rend my heart?”

“No, Flora, I would tear my own heart from my bosom ere I
would add one pang to yours. Well I know that gentle maiden
modesty would seal your lips to the soft confession that you
loved me. I could not hope the joy of hearing you utter these
words. The tender devoted lover is content to see the truthful
passion in the speaking eyes of beauty. Content is he to
translate it from a thousand acts, which, to eyes that look not
so acutely as a lover’s, bear no signification; but when you
tell me to seek happiness with another, well may the anxious
question burst from my throbbing heart of, ‘Did you ever love
me, Flora?'”

Her senses hung entranced upon his words. Oh, what a
witchery is in the tongue of love. Some even of the former
colour of her cheek returned as forgetting all for the moment
but that she was listening to the voice of him, the thoughts of
whom had made up the day dream of her happiness, she gazed upon
his face.

His voice ceased. To her it seemed as if some music had
suddenly left off in its most exquisite passage. She clung to
his arm—she looked imploringly up to him. Her head sunk
upon his breast as she cried,

“Charles, Charles, I did love you. I do love you now.”

“Then let sorrow and misfortune shake their grisly locks in
vain,” he cried. “Heart to heart—hand to hand with me,
defy them.”

He lifted up his arms towards Heaven as he spoke, and at the
moment came such a rattling peal of thunder, that the very
earth seemed to shake upon its axis.

A half scream of terror burst from the lips of Flora, as she
cried,—

“What was that?”

“Only thunder,” said Charles, calmly.

“‘Twas an awful sound.”

“A natural one.”

“But at such a moment, when you were defying Fate to injure
us. Oh! Charles, is it ominous?”

“Flora, can you really give way to such idle fancies?”

“The sun is obscured.”

“Ay, but it will shine all the brighter for its temporary
eclipse. The thunder-storm will clear the air of many noxious
vapours; the forked lightning has its uses as well as its
powers of mischief. Hark! there again!”

Another peal, of almost equal intensity to the other, shook
the firmament. Flora trembled.

“Charles,” she said, “this is the voice of Heaven. We must
part—we must part for ever. I cannot be yours.”

“Flora, this is madness. Think again, dear Flora.
Misfortunes for a time will hover over the best and most
fortunate of us; but, like the clouds that now obscure the
sweet sunshine, will pass away, and leave no trace behind them.
The sunshine of joy will shine on you again.”

There was a small break in the clouds, like a window looking
into Heaven. From it streamed one beam of sunlight, so bright,
so dazzling, and so beautiful, that it was a sight of wonder to
look upon. It fell upon the face of Flora; it warmed her cheek;
it lent lustre to her pale lips and tearful eyes; it illumined
that little summer-house as if it had been the shrine of some
saint.

“Behold!” cried Charles, “where is your omen now?”

“God of Heaven!'” cried Flora; and she stretched out her
arms.

“The clouds that hover over your spirit now,” said Charles,
“shall pass away. Accept this beam of sunlight as a promise
from God.”

“I will—I will. It is going.”

“It has done its office.”

The clouds closed over the small orifice, and all was gloom
again as before.

“Flora,” said Charles, “you will not ask me now to leave
you?”

She allowed him to clasp her to his heart. It was beating
for her, and for her only.

“You will let me, Flora, love you still?”

Her voice, as she answered him, was like the murmur of some
distant melody the ears can scarcely translate to the
heart.

“Charles we will live, love, and die together.”

And now there was a wrapt stillness in that summer-house for
many minutes—a trance of joy. They did not speak, but now
and then she would look into his face with an old familiar
smile, and the joy of his heart was near to bursting in tears
from his eyes.

A shriek burst from Flora’s lips—a shriek so wild and
shrill that it awakened echoes far and near. Charles staggered
back a step, as if shot, and then in such agonised accents as
he was long indeed in banishing the remembrance of, she
cried,—

“The vampyre! the vampyre!”

CHAPTER XVII.

THE EXPLANATION.—THE ARRIVAL OF THE ADMIRAL AT THE
HOUSE.—A SCENE OF CONFUSION, AND SOME OF ITS
RESULTS.

So sudden and so utterly unexpected a cry of alarm from
Flora, at such a time might well have the effect of astounding
the nerves of any one, and no wonder that Charles was for a few
seconds absolutely petrified and almost unable to think.

Mechanically, then, he turned his eyes towards the door of
the summer-house, and there he saw a tall, thin man, rather
elegantly dressed, whose countenance certainly, in its
wonderful resemblance to the portrait on the panel, might well
appal any one.

The stranger stood in the irresolute attitude on the
threshold of the summer-house of one who did not wish to
intrude, but who found it as awkward, if not more so now, to
retreat than to advance.

Before Charles Holland could summon any words to his aid, or
think of freeing himself from the clinging grasp of Flora,
which was wound around him, the stranger made a very low and
courtly bow, after which he said, in winning
accents,—

“I very much fear that I am an intruder here. Allow me to
offer my warmest apologies, and to assure you, sir, and you,
madam, that I had no idea any one was in the arbour. You
perceive the rain is falling smartly, and I made towards here,
seeing it was likely to shelter me from the shower.”

These words were spoken in such a plausible and courtly tone
of voice, that they might well have become any drawing-room in
the kingdom.

Flora kept her eyes fixed upon him during the utterance of
these words; and as she convulsively clutched the arm of
Charles, she kept on whispering,—

“The vampyre! the vampyre!”

“I much fear,” added the stranger, in the same bland tones,
“that I have been the cause of some alarm to the young
lady!”

“Release me,” whispered Charles to Flora. “Release me; I
will follow him at once.”

“No, no—do not leave me—do not leave me. The
vampyre—the dreadful vampyre!”

“But, Flora—”

“Hush—hush—hush! It speaks again.”

“Perhaps I ought to account for my appearance in the garden
at all,” added the insinuating stranger. “The fact is, I came
on a visit—”

Flora shuddered.

“To Mr. Henry Bannerworth,” continued the stranger; “and
finding the garden-gate open, I came in without troubling the
servants, which I much regret, as I can perceive I have alarmed
and annoyed the lady. Madam, pray accept of my apologies.”

“In the name of God, who are you?” said Charles.

“My name is Varney.”

“Oh, yes. You are the Sir Francis Varney, residing close by,
who bears so fearful a resemblance to—”

“Pray go on, sir. I am all attention.”

“To a portrait here.”

“Indeed! Now I reflect a moment, Mr. Henry Bannerworth did
incidentally mention something of the sort. It’s a most
singular coincidence.”

The sound of approaching footsteps was now plainly heard,
and in a few moments Henry and George, along with Mr.
Marchdale, reached the spot. Their appearance showed that they
had made haste, and Henry at once exclaimed,—

“We heard, or fancied we heard, a cry of alarm.”

“You did hear it,” said Charles Holland. “Do you know this
gentleman?”

“It is Sir Francis Varney.”

“Indeed!”

Varney bowed to the new comers, and was altogether as much
at his ease as everybody else seemed quite the contrary. Even
Charles Holland found the difficulty of going up to such a
well-bred, gentlemanly man, and saying, “Sir, we believe you to
be a vampyre”—to be almost, if not insurmountable.

“I cannot do it,” he thought, “but I will watch him.”

“Take me away,” whispered Flora. “‘Tis he—’tis he. Oh,
take me away, Charles.”

“Hush, Flora, hush. You are in some error; the accidental
resemblance should not make us be rude to this gentleman.”

“The vampyre!—it is the vampyre!”

“Are you sure, Flora?”

“Do I know your features—my own—my brother’s? Do
not ask me to doubt—I cannot. I am quite sure. Take me
from his hideous presence, Charles.”

“The young lady, I fear, is very much indisposed,” remarked
Sir Francis Varney, in a sympathetic tone of voice. “If she
will accept of my arm, I shall esteem it a great honour.”

“No—no—no!—God! no,” cried Flora.

“Madam, I will not press you.”

He bowed, and Charles led Flora from the summer-house
towards the hall.

“Flora,” he said, “I am bewildered—I know not what to
think. That man most certainly has been fashioned after the
portrait which is on the panel in the room you formerly
occupied; or it has been painted from him.”

“He is my midnight visitor!” exclaimed Flora. “He is the
vampyre;—this Sir Francis Varney is the vampyre.”

“Good God! What can be done?”

“I know not. I am nearly distracted.”

“Be calm, Flora. If this man be really what you name him, we
now know from what quarter the mischief comes, which is, at all
events, a point gained. Be assured we shall place a watch upon
him.”

“Oh, it is terrible to meet him here.”

“And he is so wonderfully anxious, too, to possess the
Hall.”

“He is—he is.”

“It looks strange, the whole affair. But, Flora, be assured
of one thing, and that is, of your own safety.”

“Can I be assured of that?”

“Most certainly. Go to your mother now. Here we are, you
see, fairly within doors. Go to your mother, dear Flora, and
keep yourself quiet. I will return to this mysterious man now
with a cooler judgment than I left him.”

“You will watch him, Charles?”

“I will, indeed.”

“And you will not let him approach the house here
alone?”

“I will not.”

“Oh, that the Almighty should allow such beings to haunt the
earth!”

“Hush, Flora, hush! we cannot judge of his allwise
purpose.”

‘”Tis hard that the innocent should be inflicted with its
presence.”

Charles bowed his head in mournful assent.

“Is it not very, very dreadful?”

“Hush—hush! Calm yourself, dearest, calm yourself.
Recollect that all we have to go upon in this matter is a
resemblance, which, after all, may be accidental. But leave it
all to me, and be assured that now I have some clue to this
affair, I will not lose sight of it, or of Sir Francis
Varney.”

So saying, Charles surrendered Flora to the care of her
mother, and then was hastening back to the summer-house, when
he met the whole party coming towards the Hall, for the rain
was each moment increasing in intensity.

“We are returning,” remarked Sir Francis Varney, with a half
bow and a smile, to Charles.

“Allow me,” said Henry, “to introduce you, Mr. Holland, to
our neighbour, Sir Francis Varney.”

Charles felt himself compelled to behave with courtesy,
although his mind was so full of conflicting feelings as
regarded Varney; but there was no avoiding, without such brutal
rudeness as was inconsistent with all his pursuits and habits,
replying in something like the same strain to the extreme
courtly politeness of the supposed vampyre.

“I will watch him closely,” thought Charles. “I can do no
more than watch him closely.”

Sir Francis Varney seemed to be a man of the most general
and discursive information. He talked fluently and pleasantly
upon all sorts of topics, and notwithstanding he could not but
have heard what Flora had said of him, he asked no questions
whatever upon that subject.

This silence as regarded a matter which would at once have
induced some sort of inquiry from any other man, Charles felt
told much against him, and he trembled to believe for a moment
that, after all, it really might be true.

“Is he a vampyre?” he asked himself. “Are there vampyres,
and is this man of fashion—this courtly, talented,
educated gentleman one?” It was a perfectly hideous
question.

“You are charmingly situated here,” remarked Varney, as,
after ascending the few steps that led to the hall door, he
turned and looked at the view from that slight altitude.

“The place has been much esteemed,” said Henry, “for its
picturesque beauties of scenery.”

“And well it may be. I trust, Mr. Holland, the young lady is
much better?”

“She is, sir,” said Charles.

“I was not honoured by an introduction.”

“It was my fault,” said Henry, who spoke to his
extraordinary guest with an air of forced hilarity. “It was my
fault for not introducing you to my sister.”

“And that was your sister?”

“It was, sir.”

“Report has not belied her—she is beautiful. But she
looks rather pale, I thought. Has she bad health?”

“The best of health.”

“Indeed! Perhaps the little disagreeable circumstance, which
is made so much food for gossip in the neighbourhood, has
affected her spirits?”

“It has.”

“You allude to the supposed visit here of a vampyre?” said
Charles, as he fixed his eyes upon Varney’s face.

“Yes, I allude to the supposed appearance of a supposed
vampyre in this family,” said Sir Francis Varney, as he
returned the earnest gaze of Charles, with such unshrinking
assurance, that the young man was compelled, after about a
minute, nearly to withdraw his own eyes.

“He will not be cowed,” thought Charles. “Use has made him
familiar to such cross-questioning.”

It appeared now suddenly to occur to Henry that he had said
something at Varney’s own house which should have prevented him
from coming to the Hall, and he now remarked,—

“We scarcely expected the pleasure of your company here, Sir
Francis Varney.”

“Oh, my dear sir, I am aware of that; but you roused my
curiosity. You mentioned to me that there was a portrait here
amazingly like me.”

“Did I?”

“Indeed you did, or how could I know it? I wanted to see if
the resemblance was so perfect.”

“Did you hear, sir,” added Henry, “that my sister was
alarmed at your likeness to that portrait?”

“No, really.”

“I pray you walk in, and we will talk more at large upon
that matter.”

“With great pleasure. One leads a monotonous life in the
country, when compared with the brilliancy of a court
existence. Just now I have no particular engagement. As we are
near neighbours I see no reason why we should not be good
friends, and often interchange such civilities as make up the
amenities of existence, and which, in the country, more
particularly, are valuable.”

Henry could not be hypocrite enough to assent to this; but
still, under the present aspect of affairs, it was impossible
to return any but a civil reply; so he said,—

“Oh, yes, of course—certainly. My time is very much
occupied, and my sister and mother see no company.”

“Oh, now, how wrong.”

“Wrong, sir?”

“Yes, surely. If anything more than another tends to
harmonize individuals, it is the society of that fairer half of
the creation which we love for their very foibles. I am much
attached to the softer sex—to young persons full of
health. I like to see the rosy checks, where the warm blood
mantles in the superficial veins, and all is loveliness and
life.”

Charles shrank back, and the word “Demon” unconsciously
escaped his lips.

Sir Francis took no manner of notice of the expression, but
went on talking, as if he had been on the very happiest terms
with every one present.

“Will you follow me, at once, to the chamber where the
portrait hangs,” said Henry, “or will you partake of some
refreshment first?”

“No refreshment for me,” said Varney. “My dear friend, if
you will permit me to call you such, this is a time of the day
at which I never do take any refreshment.”

“Nor at any other,” thought Henry.

They all went to the chamber where Charles had passed one
very disagreeable night, and when they arrived, Henry pointed
to the portrait on the panel, saying—

“There, Sir Francis Varney, is your likeness.”

He looked, and, having walked up to it, in an under tone,
rather as if he were conversing with himself than making a
remark for any one else to hear, he said—

“It is wonderfully like.”

“It is, indeed,” said Charles.

“If I stand beside it, thus,” said Varney, placing himself
in a favourable attitude for comparing the two faces, “I dare
say you will be more struck with the likeness than before.”

So accurate was it now, that the same light fell upon his
face as that under which the painter had executed the portrait,
that all started back a step or two.

“Some artists,” remarked Varney, “have the sense to ask
where a portrait is to be hung before they paint it, and then
they adapt their lights and shadows to those which would fall
upon the original, were it similarly situated.”

“I cannot stand this,” said Charles to Henry; “I must
question him farther.”

“As you please, but do not insult him.”

“I will not.”

“He is beneath my roof now, and, after all, it is but a
hideous suspicion we have of him.”

“Rely upon me.”

Charles stepped forward, and once again confronting Varney,
with an earnest gaze, he said—

“Do you know, sir, that Miss Bannerworth declares the
vampyre she fancies to have visited this chamber to be, in
features, the exact counterpart of this portrait?”

“Does she indeed?”

“She does, indeed.”

“And perhaps, then, that accounts for her thinking that I am
the vampyre, because I bear a strong resemblance to the
portrait.”

“I should not be surprised,” said Charles.

“How very odd.”

“Very.”

“And yet entertaining. I am rather amused than otherwise.
The idea of being a vampyre. Ha! ha! If ever I go to a
masquerade again, I shall certainly assume the character of a
vampyre.”

“You would do it well.”

“I dare say, now, I should make quite a sensation.”

“I am certain you would. Do you not think, gentlemen, that
Sir Francis Varney would enact the character to the very life?
By Heavens, he would do it so well that one might, without much
difficulty, really imagine him a vampyre.”

“Bravo—bravo,” said Varney, as he gently folded his
hands together, with that genteel applause that may even be
indulged in in a box at the opera itself. “Bravo. I like to see
young persons enthusiastic; it looks as if they had some of the
real fire of genius in their composition.
Bravo—bravo.”

This was, Charles thought, the very height and acme of
impudence, and yet what could he do? What could he say? He was
foiled by the downright coolness of Varney.

As for Henry, George, and Mr. Marchdale, they had listened
to what was passing between Sir Francis and Charles in silence.
They feared to diminish the effect of anything Charles might
say, by adding a word of their own; and, likewise, they did not
wish to lose one observation that might come from the lips of
Varney.

But now Charles appeared to have said all he had to say, he
turned to the window and looked out. He seemed like a man who
had made up his mind, for a time, to give up some contest in
which he had been engaged.

And, perhaps, not so much did he give it up from any feeling
or consciousness of being beaten, as from a conviction that it
could be the more effectually, at some other and far more
eligible opportunity, renewed.

Varney now addressed Henry, saying,—

“I presume the subject of our conference, when you did me
the honour of a call, is no secret to any one here?”

“None whatever,” said Henry.

“Then, perhaps, I am too early in asking you if you have
made up your mind?”

“I have scarcely, certainly, had time to think.”

“My dear sir, do not let me hurry you; I much regret,
indeed, the intrusion.”

“You seem anxious to possess the Hall,” remarked Mr.
Marchdale, to Varney.

“I am.”

“Is it new to you?”

“Not quite. I have some boyish recollections connected with
this neighbourhood, among which Bannerworth Hall stands
sufficiently prominent.”

“May I ask how long ago that was?” said Charles Howard,
rather abruptly.

“I do not recollect, my enthusiastic young friend,” said
Varney. “How old are you?”

“Just about twenty-one.”

“You are, then, for your age, quite a model of
discretion.”

It would have been difficult for the most accurate observer
of human nature to have decided whether this was said
truthfully or ironically, so Charles made no reply to it
whatever.

“I trust,” said Henry, “we shall induce you, as this is your
first visit, Sir Francis Varney, to the Hall, to partake of
some thing.”

“Well, well, a cup of wine—”

“Is at your service.”

Henry now led the way to a small parlour, which, although by
no means one of the showiest rooms of the house, was, from the
care and exquisite carving with which it abounded, much more to
the taste of any who possessed an accurate judgment in such
works of art.

Then wine was ordered, and Charles took an opportunity of
whispering to Henry,—

“Notice well if he drinks.”

“I will.”

“Do you see that beneath his coat there is a raised place,
as if his arm was bound up?”

“I do.”

“There, then, was where the bullet from the pistol fired by
Flora, when we were at the church, hit him.”

“Hush! for God’s sake, hush! you are getting into a dreadful
state of excitement, Charles; hush! hush!”

“And can you blame—”

“No, no; but what can we do?”

“You are right. Nothing can we do at present. We have a clue
now, and be it our mutual inclination, as well as duty, to
follow it. Oh, you shall see how calm I will be!”

“For Heaven’s sake, be so. I have noted that his eyes flash
upon yours with no friendly feeling.”

“His friendship were a curse.”

“Hush! he drinks!”

“Watch him.”

“I will.”

“Gentlemen all,” said Sir Francis Varney, in such soft,
dulcet tones, that it was quite a fascination to hear him
speak; “gentlemen all, being as I am, much delighted with your
company, do not accuse me of presumption, if I drink now, poor
drinker as I am, to our future merry meetings.”

He raised the wine to his lips, and seemed to drink, after
which he replaced the glass upon the table.

Charles glanced at it, it was still full.

“You have not drank, Sir Francis Varney,” he said.

“Pardon me, enthusiastic young sir,” said Varney, “perhaps
you will have the liberality to allow me to take my wine how I
please and when I please.”

“Your glass is full.”

“Well, sir?”

“Will you drink it?”

“Not at any man’s bidding, most certainly. If the fair Flora
Bannerworth would grace the board with her sweet presence,
methinks I could then drink on, on, on.”

“Hark you, sir,” cried Charles, “I can bear no more of this.
We have had in this house most horrible and damning evidence
that there are such things as vampyres.”

“Have you really? I suppose you eat raw pork at supper, and
so had the nightmare?”

“A jest is welcome in its place, but pray hear me out, sir,
if it suit your lofty courtesy to do so.”

“Oh, certainly.”

“Then I say we believe, as far as human judgment has a right
to go, that a vampyre has been here.”

“Go on, it’s interesting. I always was a lover of the wild
and the wonderful.”

“We have, too,” continued Charles, “some reason to believe
that you are the man.”

Varney tapped his forehead as he glanced at Henry, and
said,—

“Oh, dear, I did not know. You should have told me he was a
little wrong about the brain; I might have quarreled with the
lad. Dear me, how lamentable for his poor mother.”

“This will not do, Sir Francis Varney alias
Bannerworth.”

“Oh—oh! Be calm—be calm.”

“I defy you to your teeth, sir! No, God, no! Your
teeth!”

“Poor lad! Poor lad!”

“You are a cowardly demon, and here I swear to devote myself
to your destruction.”

Sir Francis Varney drew himself up to his full height, and
that was immense, as he said to Henry,—

“I pray you, Mr. Bannerworth, since I am thus grievously
insulted beneath your roof, to tell me if your friend here be
mad or sane?”

“He’s not mad.”

“Then—”

“Hold, sir! The quarrel shall be mine. In the name of my
persecuted sister—in the name of Heaven. Sir Francis
Varney, I defy you.”

Sir Francis, in spite of his impenetrable calmness, appeared
somewhat moved, as he said,—

“I have already endured insult sufficient—I will
endure no more. If there are weapons at hand—”

“My young friend,” interrupted Mr. Marchdale, stepping
between the excited men, “is carried away by his feelings, and
knows not what he says. You will look upon it in that light,
Sir Francis.”

“We need no interference,” exclaimed Varney, his hitherto
bland voice changing to one of fury. “The hot blooded fool
wishes to fight, and he shall—to the death—to the
death.”

“And I say he shall not,” exclaimed Mr. Marchdale, taking
Henry by the arm. “George,” he added, turning to the young man,
“assist me in persuading your brother to leave the room.
Conceive the agony of your sister and mother if anything should
happen to him.”

Varney smiled with a devilish sneer, as he listened to these
words, and then he said,—

“As you will—as you will. There will be plenty of
time, and perhaps better opportunity, gentlemen. I bid you good
day.”

And with provoking coolness, he then moved towards the door,
and quitted the room.

“Remain here,” said Marchdale; “I will follow him, and see
that he quits the premises.”

He did so, and the young men, from the window, beheld Sir
Francis walking slowly across the garden, and then saw Mr.
Marchdale follow on his track.

While they were thus occupied, a tremendous ringing came at
the gate, but their attention was so rivetted to what was
passing in the garden, that they paid not the least attention
to it.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE ADMIRAL’S ADVICE.—THE CHALLENGE TO THE
VAMPYRE.—THE NEW SERVANT AT THE HALL.

The violent ringing of the bell continued uninterruptedly
until at length George volunteered to answer it. The fact was,
that now there was no servant at all in the place for, after
the one who had recently demanded of Henry her dismissal had
left, the other was terrified to remain alone, and had
precipitately gone from the house, without even going through
the ceremony of announcing her intention to. To be sure, she
sent a boy for her money afterwards, which may be considered a
great act of condescension.

Suspecting, then, this state of things, George himself
hastened to the gate, and, being not over well pleased at the
continuous and unnecessary ringing which was kept up at it, he
opened it quickly, and cried, with more impatience, by a vast
amount, than was usual with him.

“Who is so impatient that he cannot wait a seasonable time
for the door to be opened?”

“And who the d——l are you?” cried one who was
immediately outside.

“Who do you want?” cried George.

“Shiver my timbers!” cried Admiral Bell, for it was no other
than that personage. “What’s that to you?”

“Ay, ay,” added Jack, “answer that if you can, you
shore-going-looking swab.”

“Two madmen, I suppose,” ejaculated George, and he would
have closed the gate upon them; but Jack introduced between it
and the post the end of a thick stick, saying,—

“Avast there! None of that; we have had trouble enough to
get in. If you are the family lawyer, or the chaplain, perhaps
you’ll tell us where Mister Charley is.”

“Once more I demand of you who you want?” said George, who
was now perhaps a little amused at the conduct of the impatient
visitors.

“We want the admiral’s nevey” said Jack.

“But how do I know who is the admiral’s nevey as you
call him.”

“Why, Charles Holland, to be sure. Have you got him aboard
or not?”

“Mr. Charles Holland is certainly here; and, if you had said
at once, and explicitly, that you wished to see him, I could
have given you a direct answer.”

“He is here?” cried the admiral.

“Most certainly.”

“Come along, then; yet, stop a bit. I say, young fellow,
just before we go any further, tell us if he has maimed the
vampyre?”

“The what?

“The wamphigher,” said Jack, by way of being, as he
considered, a little more explanatory than the admiral.

“I do not know what you mean,” said George; “if you wish to
see Mr. Charles Holland walk in and see him. He is in this
house; but, for myself, as you are strangers to me, I decline
answering any questions, let their import be what they
may.”

“Hilloa! who are they?” suddenly cried Jack, as he pointed
to two figures some distance off in the meadows, who appeared
to be angrily conversing.

George glanced in the direction towards which Jack pointed,
and there he saw Sir Francis Varney and Mr. Marchdale standing
within a few paces of each other, and apparently engaged in
some angry discussion.

His first impulse was to go immediately towards them; but,
before he could execute even that suggestion of his mind, he
saw Varney strike Marchdale, and the latter fell to the
ground.

“Allow me to pass,” cried George, as he endeavoured to get
by the rather unwieldy form of the admiral. But, before he
could accomplish this, for the gate was narrow, he saw Varney,
with great swiftness, make off, and Marchdale, rising to his
feet, came towards the Hall.

When Marchdale got near enough to the garden-gate to see
George, he motioned to him to remain where he was, and then,
quickening his pace, he soon came up to the spot.

“Marchdale,” cried George, “you have had an encounter with
Sir Francis Varney.”

“I have,” said Marchdale, in an excited manner. “I
threatened to follow him, but he struck me to the earth as
easily as I could a child. His strength is superhuman.”

“I saw you fall.”

“I believe, but that he was observed, he would have murdered
me.”

“Indeed!”

“What, do you mean to say that lankey, horse-marine looking
fellow is as bad as that!” said the admiral.

Marchdale now turned his attention to the two new comers,
upon whom he looked with some surprise, and then, turning to
George, he said,—

“Is this gentleman a visitor?”

“To Mr. Holland, I believe he is,” said George; “but I have
not the pleasure of knowing his name.”

“Oh, you may know my name as soon as you like,” cried the
admiral. “The enemies of old England know it, and I don’t care
if all the world knows it. I’m old Admiral Bell, something of a
hulk now, but still able to head a quarter-deck if there was
any need to do so.”

“Ay, ay,” cried Jack, and taking from his pocket a
boatswain’s whistle, he blew a blast so long, and loud, and
shrill, that George was fain to cover his ears with his hands
to shut out the brain-piercing, and, to him unusual sound.

“And are you, then, a relative,” said Marchdale, “of Mr.
Holland’s, sir, may I ask?”

“I’m his uncle, and be d——d to him, if you must
know, and some one has told me that the young scamp thinks of
marrying a mermaid, or a ghost, or a vampyre, or some such
thing, so, for the sake of the memory of his poor mother, I’ve
come to say no to the bargain, and d—n me, who
cares.”

“Come in, sir,” said George, “I will conduct you to Mr.
Holland. I presume this is your servant?”

“Why, not exactly. That’s Jack Pringle, he was my boatswain,
you see, and now he’s a kind o’ something betwixt and between.
Not exactly a servant.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” said Jack. “Have it all your own way, though
we is paid off.”

“Hold your tongue, you audacious scoundrel, will you.”

“Oh, I forgot, you don’t like anything said about paying
off, cos it puts you in mind of—”

“Now, d—n you, I’ll have you strung up to the
yard-arm, you dog, if you don’t belay there.”

“I’m done. All’s right.”

By this time the party, including the admiral, Jack, George
Bannerworth, and Marchdale, had got more than half-way across
the garden, and were observed by Charles Holland and Henry, who
had come to the steps of the hall to see what was going on. The
moment Charles saw the admiral a change of colour came over his
face, and he exclaimed,—

“By all that’s surprising, there is my uncle!”

“Your uncle!” said Henry.

“Yes, as good a hearted a man as ever drew breath, and yet,
withal, as full of prejudices, and as ignorant of life, as a
child.”

Without waiting for any reply from Henry, Charles Holland
rushed forward, and seizing his uncle by the hand, he cried, in
tones of genuine affection,—

“Uncle, dear uncle, how came you to find me out?”

“Charley, my boy,” cried the old man, “bless you; I mean,
confound your d——d impudence; you rascal, I’m glad
to see you; no, I ain’t, you young mutineer. What do you mean
by it, you ugly, ill-looking, d——d fine
fellow—my dear boy. Oh, you infernal scoundrel.”

All this was accompanied by a shaking of the hand, which was
enough to dislocate anybody’s shoulder, and which Charles was
compelled to bear as well as he could.

It quite prevented him from speaking, however, for a few
moments, for it nearly shook the breath out of him. When, then,
he could get in a word, he said,—

“Uncle, I dare say you are surprised.”

“Surprised! D—n me, I am surprised.”

“Well, I shall be able to explain all to your satisfaction,
I am sure. Allow me now to introduce you to my friends.”

Turning then to Henry, Charles said,—

“This is Mr. Henry Bannerworth, uncle; and this Mr. George
Bannerworth, both good friends of mine; and this is Mr.
Marchdale, a friend of theirs, uncle.”

“Oh, indeed!”

“And here you see Admiral Bell, my most worthy, but rather
eccentric uncle.”

“Confound your impudence.”

“What brought him here I cannot tell; but he is a brave
officer, and a gentleman.”

“None of your nonsense,” said the admiral.

“And here you sees Jack Pringle,” said that individual,
introducing himself, since no one appeared inclined to do that
office for him, “a tar for all weathers. One as hates the
French, and is never so happy as when he’s alongside o’ some o’
those lubberly craft blazing away.”

“That’s uncommonly true,” remarked the admiral.

“Will you walk in, sir?” said Henry, courteously. “Any
friend of Charles Holland’s is most welcome here. You will have
much to excuse us for, because we are deficient in servants at
present, in consequence of come occurrences in our family,
which your nephew has our full permission to explain to you in
full.”

“Oh, very good, I tell you what it is, all of you, what I’ve
seen of you, d——e, I like, so here goes. Come
along, Jack.”

The admiral walked into the house, and as he went, Charles
Holland said to him,—

“How came you to know I was here, uncle?”

“Some fellow wrote me a despatch.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, saying at you was a going to marry some odd sort of
fish as it wasn’t at all the thing to introduce into the
family.”

“Was—was a vampyre mentioned?”

“That’s the very thing.”

“Hush, uncle—hush.”

“What for?”

“Do not, I implore, hint at such a thing before these kind
friends of mine. I will take an opportunity within the next
hour of explaining all to you, and you shall form your own kind
and generous judgement upon circumstances in which my honour
and my happiness are so nearly concerned.”

“Gammon,” said the admiral.

“What, uncle?”

“Oh, I know you want to palaver me into saying it’s all
right. I suppose if my judgment and generosity don’t like it, I
shall be an old fool, and a cursed goose?”

“Now, uncle.”

“Now, nevey.”

“Well, well—no more at present. We will talk over this
at leisure. You promise me to say nothing about it until you
have heard my explanation, uncle?”

“Very good. Make it as soon as you can, and as short as you
can, that’s all I ask of you.”

“I will, I will.”

Charles was to the full as anxious as his uncle could be to
enter upon the subject, some remote information of which, he
felt convinced, had brought the old man down to the Hall. Who
it could have been that so far intermeddled with his affairs as
to write to him, he could not possibly conceive.

A very few words will suffice to explain the precise
position in which Charles Holland was. A considerable sum of
money had been left to him, but it was saddled with the
condition that he should not come into possession of it until
he was one year beyond the age which is usually denominated
that of discretion, namely, twenty-one. His uncle, the admiral,
was the trustee of his fortune, and he, with rare discretion,
had got the active and zealous assistance of a professional
gentleman of great honour and eminence to conduct the business
for him.

This gentleman had advised that for the two years between
the ages of twenty and twenty-two, Charles Holland should
travel, inasmuch as in English society he would find himself in
an awkward position, being for one whole year of age, and yet
waiting for his property.

Under such circumstances, reasoned the lawyer, a young man,
unless he is possessed of very rare discretion indeed, is
almost sure to get fearfully involved with money-lenders. Being
of age, his notes, and bills, and bonds would all be good, and
he would be in a ten times worse situation than a wealthy
minor.

All this was duly explained to Charles, who, rather eagerly
than otherwise, caught at the idea of a two years wander on the
continent, where he could visit so many places, which to a well
read young man like himself, and one of a lively imagination,
were full of the most delightful associations.

But the acquaintance with Flora Bannerworth effected a great
revolution in his feelings. The dearest, sweetest spot on earth
became that which she inhabited. When the Bannerworths left him
abroad, he knew not what to do with himself. Everything, and
every pursuit in which he had before taken a delight, became
most distasteful to him. He was, in fact, in a short time,
completely “used up,” and then he determined upon returning to
England, and finding out the dear object of his attachment at
once. This resolution was no sooner taken, than his health and
spirits returned to him, and with what rapidity he could, he
now made his way to his native shores.

The two years were so nearly expired, that he made up his
mind he would not communicate either with his uncle, the
admiral, or the professional gentleman upon whose judgment he
set so high and so just a value. And at the Hall he considered
he was in perfect security from any interruption, and so he
would have been, but for that letter which was written to
Admiral Bell, and signed Josiah Crinkles, but which Josiah
Crinkles so emphatically denied all knowledge of. Who wrote it,
remains at present one of those mysteries which time, in the
progress of our narrative, will clear up.

The opportune, or rather the painful juncture at which
Charles Holland had arrived at Bannerworth Hall, we are well
cognisant of. Where he expected to find smiles he found tears,
and the family with whom he had fondly hoped he should pass a
time of uninterrupted happiness, he found plunged in the gloom
incidental to an occurrence of the most painful character.

Our readers will perceive, too, that coming as he did with
an utter disbelief in the vampyre, Charles had been compelled,
in some measure, to yield to the overwhelming weight of
evidence which had been brought to bear upon the subject, and
although he could not exactly be said to believe in the
existence and the appearance of the vampyre at Bannerworth
Hall, he was upon the subject in a most painful state of doubt
and indecision.

Charles now took an opportunity to speak to Henry privately,
and inform him exactly how he stood with his uncle,
adding—

“Now, my dear friend, if you forbid me, I will not tell my
uncle of this sad affair, but I must own I would rather do so
fully and freely, and trust to his own judgment upon it.”

“I implore you to do so,” said Henry. “Conceal nothing. Let
him know the precise situation and circumstances of the family
by all means. There is nothing so mischievous as secrecy: I
have the greatest dislike to it. I beg you tell him all.”

“I will; and with it, Henry, I will tell him that my heart
is irrevocably Flora’s.”

“Your generous clinging to one whom your heart saw and
loved, under very different auspices,” said Henry, “believe me,
Charles, sinks deep into my heart. She has related to me
something of a meeting she had with you.”

“Oh, Henry, she may tell you what I said; but there are no
words which can express the depth of my tenderness. ‘Tis only
time which can prove how much I love her.”

“Go to your uncle,” said Henry, in a voice of emotion. “God
bless you, Charles. It is true you would have been fully
justified in leaving my sister; but the nobler and the more
generous path you have chosen has endeared you to us all.”

“Where is Flora now?” said Charles.

“She is in her own room. I have persuaded her, by some
occupation, to withdraw her mind from a too close and
consequently painful contemplation of the distressing
circumstances in which she feels herself placed.”

“You are right. What occupation best pleases her?”

“The pages of romance once had a charm for her gentle
spirit.”

“Then come with me, and, from among the few articles I
brought with me here, I can find some papers which may help her
to pass some merry hours.”

Charles took Henry to his room, and, unstrapping a small
valise, he took from it some manuscript papers, one of which he
handed to Henry, saying—

“Give that to her: it contains an account of a wild
adventure, and shows that human nature may suffer much
more—and that wrongfully too—than came ever under
our present mysterious affliction.”

“I will,” said Henry; “and, coming from you, I am sure it
will have a more than ordinary value in her eyes.”

“I will now,” said Charles, “seek my uncle. I will tell him
how I love her; and at the end of my narration, if he should
not object, I would fain introduce her to him, that he might
himself see that, let what beauty may have met his gaze, her
peer he never yet met with, and may in vain hope to do so.”

“You are partial, Charles.”

“Not so. ‘Tis true I look upon her with a lover’s eyes, but
I look still with those of truthful observation.”

“Well, I will speak to her about seeing your uncle, and let
you know. No doubt, he will not be at all averse to an
interview with any one who stands high in your esteem.”

The young men now separated—Henry, to seek his
beautiful sister; and Charles, to communicate to his uncle the
strange particulars connected with Varney, the Vampyre.

CHAPTER XIX.

FLORA IN HER CHAMBER.—HER FEARS.—THE
MANUSCRIPT.—AN ADVENTURE.

Henry found Flora in her chamber. She was in deep thought
when he tapped at the door of the room, and such was the state
of nervous excitement in which she was that even the demand for
admission made by him to the room was sufficient to produce
from her a sudden cry of alarm.

“Who—who is there?” she then said, in accents full of
terror.

“‘Tis I, dear Flora,” said Henry.

She opened the door in an instant, and, with a feeling of
grateful relief, exclaimed—

“Oh, Henry, is it only you?”

“Who did you suppose it was, Flora?”

She shuddered.

“I—I—do not know; but I am so foolish now, and
so weak-spirited, that the slightest noise is enough to alarm
me.”

“You must, dear Flora, fight up, as I had hoped you were
doing, against this nervousness.”

“I will endeavour. Did not some strangers come a short time
since, brother?”

“Strangers to us, Flora, but not to Charles Holland. A
relative of his—an uncle whom he much respects, has found
him out here, and has now come to see him.”

“And to advise him,” said Flora, as she sunk into a chair,
and wept bitterly; “to advise him, of course, to desert, as he
would a pestilence, a vampyre bride.”

“Hush, hush! for the sake of Heaven, never make use of such
a phrase, Flora. You know not what a pang it brings to my heart
to hear you.”

“Oh, forgive me, brother.”

“Say no more of it, Flora. Heed it not. It may be
possible—in fact, it may well be supposed as more than
probable—that the relative of Charles Holland may shrink
from sanctioning the alliance, but do you rest securely in the
possession of the heart which I feel convinced is wholly yours,
and which, I am sure, would break ere it surrendered you.”

A smile of joy came across Flora’s pale but beautiful face,
as she cried,—

“And you, dear brother—you think so much of Charles’s
faith?”

“As Heaven is my judge, I do.”

“Then I will bear up with what strength God may give me
against all things that seek to depress me; I will not be
conquered.”

“You are right, Flora; I rejoice to find in you such a
disposition. Here is some manuscript which Charles thinks will
amuse you, and he bade me ask you if you would be introduced to
his uncle.”

“Yes, yes—willingly.”

“I will tell him so; I know he wishes it, and I will tell
him so. Be patient, dear Flora, and all may yet be well.”

“But, brother, on your sacred word, tell me do you not think
this Sir Francis Varney is the vampyre?”

“I know not what to think, and do not press me for a
judgment now. He shall be watched.”

Henry left his sister, and she sat for some moments in
silence with the papers before her that Charles had sent
her.

“Yes,” she then said, gently, “he loves me—Charles
loves me; I ought to be very, very happy. He loves me. In those
words are concentrated a whole world of joy—Charles loves
me—he will not forsake me. Oh, was there ever such dear
love—such fond devotion?—never, never. Dear
Charles. He loves me—he loves me!”

The very repetition of these words had a charm for
Flora—a charm which was sufficient to banish much sorrow;
even the much-dreaded vampyre was forgotten while the light of
love was beaming upon her, and she told herself,—

“He is mine!—he is mine! He loves me truly.”

After a time, she turned to the manuscript which her brother
had brought her, and, with a far greater concentration of mind
than she had thought it possible she could bring to it,
considering the many painful subjects of contemplation that she
might have occupied herself with, she read the pages with very
great pleasure and interest.

The tale was one which chained her attention both by its
incidents and the manner of its recital. It commenced as
follows, and was entitled, “Hugo de Verole; or, the Double
Plot.”

In a very mountainous part of Hungary lived a nobleman whose
paternal estates covered many a mile of rock and mountain land,
as well as some fertile valleys, in which reposed a hardy and
contented peasantry. The old Count de Hugo de Verole had
quitted life early, and had left his only son, the then Count
Hugo de Verole, a boy of scarcely ten years, under the
guardianship of his mother, an arbitrary and unscrupulous
woman.

The count, her husband, had been one of those quiet,
even-tempered men, who have no desire to step beyond the sphere
in which they are placed; he had no cares, save those included
in the management of his estate, the prosperity of his serfs,
and the happiness of those, around him.

His death caused much lamentation throughout his domains, it
was so sudden and unexpected, being in the enjoyment of his
health and strength until a few hours previous, and then his
energies became prostrated by pain and disease. There was a
splendid funeral ceremony, which, according to the usages of
his house, took place by torch-light.

So great and rapid were the ravages of disease, that the
count’s body quickly became a mass of corruption. All were
amazed at the phenomena, and were heartily glad when the body
was disposed of in the place prepared for its reception in the
vaults of his own castle. The guests who came to witness the
funeral, and attend the count’s obsequies, and to condole with
the widow on the loss she had sustained, were entertained
sumptuously for many days.

The widow sustained her part well. She was inconsolable for
the loss of her husband, and mourned his death bitterly. Her
grief appeared profound, but she, with difficulty, subdued it
to within decent bounds, that she might not offend any of her
numerous guests.

However, they left her with the assurances of their profound
regard, and then when they were gone, when the last guest had
departed, and were no longer visible to the eye of the
countess, as she gazed from the battlements, then her behaviour
changed totally.

She descended from the battlements, and then with an
imperious gesture she gave her orders that all the gates of the
castle should be closed, and a watch set. All signs of mourning
she ordered to be laid on one side save her own, which she
wore, and then she retired to her own apartment, where she
remained unseen.

Here the countess remained in profound meditation for nearly
two days, during which time the attendants believed she was
praying for the welfare of the soul of their deceased master,
and they feared she would starve herself to death if she
remained any longer.

Just as they had assembled together for the purpose of
either recalling her from her vigils or breaking open the door,
they were amazed to see the countess open the room-door, and
stand in the midst of them.

“What do you here?” she demanded, in a stern voice.

The servants were amazed and terrified at her contracted
brow, and forgot to answer the question she put to them.

“What do you do here?”

“We came, my lady, to see—see—if—if you
were well.”

“And why?”

“Because we hadn’t seen your ladyship these two days, and we
thought that your grief was so excessive that we feared some
harm might befall you.”

The countess’s brows contracted for a few seconds, and she
was about to make a hasty reply, but she conquered the desire
to do so, and merely said,—

“I am not well, I am faint; but, had I been dying, I should
not have thanked you for interfering to prevent me; however,
you acted for the best, but do so no more. Now prepare me some
food.”

The servants, thus dismissed, repaired to their stations,
but with such a degree of alacrity, that they sufficiently
showed how much they feared their mistress.

The young count, who was only in his sixth year, knew little
about the loss he had sustained; but after a day or two’s
grief, there was an end of his sorrow for the time.

That night there came to the castle-gate a man dressed in a
black cloak, attended by a servant. They were both mounted on
good horses, and they demanded to be admitted to the presence
of the Countess de Hugo de Verole.

The message was carried to the countess, who started, but
said,—

“Admit the stranger.”

Accordingly the stranger was admitted, and shown into the
apartment where the countess was sitting.

At a signal the servants retired, leaving the countess and
the stranger alone. It was some moments ere they spoke, and
then the countess said in a low tone,—

“You are come?”

“I am come.”

“You cannot now, you see, perform your threat. My husband,
the count, caught a putrid disease, and he is no more.”

“I cannot indeed do what I intended, inform your husband of
your amours; but I can do something as good, and which will
give you as much annoyance.”

“Indeed.”

“Aye, more, it will cause you to be hated. I can spread
reports.”

“You can.”

“And these may ruin you.”

“They may.”

“What do you intend to do? Do you intend that I shall be an
enemy or a friend? I can be either, according to my will.”

“What, do you desire to be either?” inquired the countess,
with a careless tone.

“If you refuse my terms, you can make me an implacable
enemy, and if you grant them, you can make me a useful friend
and auxiliary,” said the stranger.

“What would you do if you were my enemy?” inquired the
countess.

“It is hardly my place,” said the stranger, “to furnish you
with a knowledge of my intentions, but I will say this much,
that the bankrupt Count of Morven is your lover.”

“Well?”

“And in the second place, that you were the cause of the
death of your husband.”

“How dare you, sir—”

“I dare say so much, and I dare say, also, that the Count of
Morven bought the drug of me, and that he gave it to you, and
that you gave it to the count your husband.”

“And what could you do if you were my friend?” inquired the
countess, in the same tone, and without emotion.

“I should abstain from doing all this; should be able to put
any one else out of your way for you, when you get rid of this
Count of Morven, as you assuredly will; for I know him too well
not to be sure of that.”

“Get rid of him!”

“Exactly, in the same manner you got rid of the old
count.”

“Then I accept your terms.”

“It is agreed, then?”

“Yes, quite.”

“Well, then, you must order me some rooms in a tower, where
I can pursue my studies in quiet.”

“You will be seen—and noticed—all will be
discovered.”

“No, indeed, I will take care of that, I can so far disguise
myself that he will not recognise me, and you can give out I am
a philosopher or necromancer, or what you will; no one will
come to me—they will be terrified.”

“Very well.”

“And the gold?”

“Shall be forthcoming as soon as I can get it. The count has
placed all his gold in safe keeping, and all I can seize are
the rents as they become due.”

“Very well; but let me have them. In the meantime you must
provide for me, as I have come here with the full intention of
staying here, or in some neighbouring town.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; and my servant must be discharged, as I want none
here.”

The countess called to an attendant and gave the necessary
orders, and afterwards remained some time with the stranger,
who had thus so unceremoniously thrust himself upon her, and
insisted upon staying under such strange and awful
circumstances.

The Count of Morven came a few weeks after, and remained
some days with the countess. They were ceremonious and polite
until they had a moment to retire from before people, when the
countess changed her cold disdain to a cordial and familiar
address.

“And now, my dear Morven,” she exclaimed, as soon as they
were unobserved—”and now, my dear Morven, that we are not
seen, tell me, what have you been doing with yourself?”

“Why, I have been in some trouble. I never had gold that
would stay by me. You know my hand was always open.”

“The old complaint again.”

“No; but having come to the end of my store, I began to grow
serious.”

“Ah, Morven!’ said the countess, reproachfully.

“Well, never mind; when my purse is low my spirits sink, as
the mercury does with the cold. You used to say my spirits were
mercurial—I think they were.”

“Well, what did you do?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Was that what you were about to tell me?” inquired the
countess.

“Oh, dear, no. You recollect the Italian quack of whom I
bought the drug you gave to the count, and which put an end to
his days—he wanted more money. Well, as I had no more to
spare, I could spare no more to him, and he turned vicious, and
threatened. I threatened, too, and he knew I was fully able and
willing to perform any promise I might make to him on that
score. I endeavoured to catch him, as he had already began to
set people off on the suspicious and marvellous concerning me,
and if I could have come across him, I would have laid him very
low indeed.”

“And you could not find him?”

“No, I could not.”

“Well, then, I will tell you where he is at this present
moment.”

“You?”

“Yes, I.”

“I can scarcely credit my senses at what you say,” said
Count Morven. “My worthy doctor, you are little better than a
candidate for divine honours. But where is he?”

“Will you promise to be guided by me?” said the
countess.

“If you make it a condition upon which you grant the
information, I must.”

“Well, then, I take that as a promise.”

“You may. Where—oh, where is he?”

“Remember your promise. Your doctor is at this moment in
this castle.”

“This castle?”

“Yes, this castle.”

“Surely there must be some mistake; it is too much fortune
at once.”

“He came here for the same purpose he went to you.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, to get more money by extortion, and a promise to
poison anybody I liked.”

“D—n! it is the offer he made to me, and he named
you.”

“He named you to me, and said I should be soon tired of
you.”

“You have caged him?”

“Oh, dear, no; he has a suite of apartments in the eastern
tower, where he passes for a philosopher, or a wizard, as
people like best.”

“How?”

“I have given him leave there.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; and what is more amazing is, that he is to aid me in
poisoning you when I have become tired of you.”

“This is a riddle I cannot unravel; tell me the
solution.”

“Well, dear, listen,—he came to me and told me of
something I already knew, and demanded money and a residence
for his convenience, and I have granted him the asylum.”

“You have?”

“I have.”

“I see; I will give him an inch or two of my Andrea
Ferrara.”

“No—no.”

“Do you countenance him?”

“For a time. Listen—we want men in the mines; my late
husband sent very few to them of late years, and therefore they
are getting short of men there.”

“Aye, aye.”

“The thing will be for you to feign ignorance of the man,
and then you will be able to get him seized, and placed in the
mines, for such men as he are dangerous, and carry poisoned
weapons.”

“Would he not be better out of the world at once; there
would be no escape, and no future contingencies?”

“No—no. I will have no more lives taken; and he will
be made useful; and, moreover, he will have time to reflect
upon the mistake he had made in threatening me.”

“He was paid for the job, and he had no future claim. But
what about the child?”

“Oh, he may remain for some time longer here with us.”

“It will be dangerous to do so,” said the count; “he is now
ten years old, and there is no knowing what may be done for him
by his relatives.”

“They dare not enter the gates of this castle Morven.”

“Well, well; but you know he might have travelled the same
road as his father, and all would be settled.”

“No more lives, as I told you; but we can easily secure him
some other way, and we shall be equally as free from him and
them.”

“That is enough—there are dungeons, I know, in this
castle, and he can be kept there safe enough.”

“He can; but that is not what I propose. We can put him into
the mines and confine him as a lunatic.”

“Excellent!”

“You see, we must make those mines more productive somehow
or other; they would be so, but the count would not hear of it;
he said it was so inhuman, they were so destructive of
life.”

“Paha! what were the mines intended for if not for use?”

“Exactly—I often said so, but he always put a negative
to it.”

“We’ll make use of an affirmative, my dear countess, and see
what will be the result in a change of policy. By the way, when
will our marriage be celebrated?”

“Not for some months.”

“How, so long? I am impatient.”

“You must restrain your impatience—but we must have
the boy settled first, and the count will have been dead a
longer time then, and we shall not give so much scandal to the
weak-minded fools that were his friends, for it will be
dangerous to have so many events happen about the same
period.”

“You shall act as you think proper—but the first thing
to be done will be, to get this cunning doctor quietly out of
the way.”

“Yes.”

“I must contrive to have him seized, and carried to the
mines.”

“Beneath the tower in which he lives is a trap-door and a
vault, from which, by means of another trap and vault, is a
long subterranean passage that leads to a door that opens into
one end of the mines; near this end live several men whom you
must give some reward to, and they will, by concert, seize him,
and set him to work.”

“And if he will not work?”

“Why, they will scourge him in such a manner, that he would
be afraid even of a threat of a repetition of the same
treatment.”

“That will do. But I think the worthy doctor will split
himself with rage and malice, he will be like a caged
tiger.”

“But he will be denuded of his teeth and claws,” replied the
countess, smiling “therefore he will have leisure to repent of
having threatened his employers.”

Some weeks passed over, and the Count of Morven contrived to
become acquainted with the doctor. They appeared to be utter
strangers to each other, though each knew the other; the doctor
having disguised himself, he believed the disguise impenetrable
and therefore sat at ease.

“Worthy doctor,” said the count to him, one day; “you have,
no doubt, in your studies, become acquainted with many of the
secrets of science.”

“I have, my lord count; I may say there are few that are not
known to Father Aldrovani. I have spent many years in
research.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; the midnight lamp has burned till the glorious sun has
reached the horizon, and brings back the day, and yet have I
been found beside my books.”

“‘Tis well; men like you should well know the value of the
purest and most valuable metals the earth produces?”

“I know of but one—that is gold!”

“‘Tis what I mean.”

“But ’tis hard to procure from the bowels of the
earth—from the heart of these mountains by which we are
surrounded.”

“Yes, that is true. But know you not the owners of this
castle and territory possess these mines and work them?”

“I believe they do; but I thought they had discontinued
working them some years.”

“Oh, no! that was given out to deceive the government, who
claimed so much out of its products.”

“Oh! ah! aye, I see now.”

“And ever since they have been working it privately, and
storing bars of gold up in the vaults of this—”

“Here, in this castle?”

“Yes; beneath this very tower—it being the least
frequented—the strongest, and perfectly inaccessible from
all sides, save the castle—it was placed there for the
safest deposit.”

“I see; and there is much gold deposited in the vaults?”

“I believe there is an immense quantity in the vaults.”

“And what is your motive for telling me of this hoard of the
precious metal?”

“Why, doctor, I thought that you or I could use a few bars;
and that, if we acted in concert, we might be able to take
away, at various times, and secrete, in some place or other,
enough to make us rich men for all our lives.”

“I should like to see this gold before I said anything about
it,” replied the doctor, thoughtfully.

“As you please; do you find a lamp that will not go out by
the sudden draughts of air, or have the means of relighting it,
and I will accompany you.”

“When?”

“This very night, good doctor, when you shall see such a
golden harvest you never yet hoped for, or even believed
in.”

“To-night be it, then,” replied the doctor. “I will have a
lamp that will answer our purpose, and some other matters.”

“Do, good doctor,” and the count left the philosopher’s
cell.

“The plan takes,” said the count to the countess, “give me
the keys, and the worthy man will be in safety before
daylight.”

“Is he not suspicious?”

“Not at all.”

That night, about an hour before midnight,—the Count
Morven stole towards the philosopher’s room. He tapped at the
door.

“Enter,” said the philosopher.

The count entered, and saw the philosopher seated, and by
him a lamp of peculiar construction, and incased in gauze wire,
and a cloak.

“Are you ready?” inquired the count.

“Quite,” he replied.

“Is that your lamp?”

“It is.”

“Follow me, then, and hold the lamp tolerably high, as the
way is strange, and the steps steep.”

“Lead on.”

“You have made up your mind, I dare say, as to what share of
the undertaking you will accept of with me.”

“And what if I will not?” said the philosopher, coolly.

“It falls to the ground, and I return the keys to their
place.”

“I dare say I shall not refuse, if you have not deceived me
as to the quantity and purity of the metal they have stored
up.”

“I am no judge of these metals, doctor. I am no assayest;
but I believe you will find what I have to show you will far
exceed your expectations on that head.”

“‘Tis well: proceed.”

They had now got to the first vault, in which stood the
first door, and, with some difficulty, they opened the vault
door.

“It has not been opened for some time,” said the
philosopher.

“I dare say not, they seldom used to go here, from what I
can learn, though it is kept a great secret.”

“And we can keep it so, likewise.”

“True.”

They now entered the vault, and came to the second door,
which opened into a kind of flight of steps, cut out of the
solid rock, and then along a passage cut out of the mountain,
of some kind of stone, but not so hard as the rock itself.

“You see,” said the count, “what care has been taken to
isolate the place, and detach it from the castle, so that it
should not be dependent upon the possessor of the castle. This
is the last door but one, and now prepare yourself for a
surprise, doctor, this will be an extraordinary one.”

So saying, the count opened the door, and stepped on one
side, when the doctor approached the place, and was immediately
thrust forward by the count and he rolled down some steps into
the mine, and was immediately seized by some of the miners, who
had been stationed there for that purpose, and carried to a
distant part of the mine, there to work for the remainder of
his life.

The count, seeing all secure, refastened the doors, and
returned to the castle. A few weeks after this the body of a
youth, mangled and disfigured, was brought to the castle, which
the countess said was her son’s body.

The count had immediately secured the real heir, and thrust
him into the mines, there to pass a life of labour and hopeless
misery.

There was a high feast held. The castle gates were thrown
open, and everybody who came were entertained without
question.

This was on the occasion of the count’s and countess’s
marriage. It seemed many months after the death of her son,
whom she affected to mourn for a long time.

However, the marriage took place, and in all magnificence
and splendour. The countess again appeared arrayed in splendour
and beauty: she was proud and haughty, and the count was
imperious.

In the mean time, the young Count de Hugo de Verole was
confined in the mines, and the doctor with him.

By a strange coincidence, the doctor and the young count
became companions, and the former, meditating projects of
revenge, educated the young count as well as he was able for
several years in the mines, and cherished in the young man a
spirit of revenge. They finally escaped together, and proceeded
to Leyden, where the doctor had friends, and where he placed
his pupil at the university, and thus made him a most efficient
means of revenge, because the education of the count gave him a
means of appreciating the splendour and rank he had been
deprived of. He, therefore, determined to remain at Leyden
until he was of age, and then apply to his father’s friends,
and then to his sovereign, to dispossess and punish them both
for their double crime.

The count and countess lived on in a state of regal
splendour. The immense revenue of his territory, and the
treasure the late count had amassed, as well as the revenue
that the mines brought in, would have supported a much larger
expenditure than even their tastes disposed them to enjoy.

They had heard nothing of the escape of the doctor and the
young count. Indeed, those who knew of it held their peace and
said nothing about it, for they feared the consequences of
their negligence. The first intimation they received was at the
hands of a state messenger, summoning them to deliver up the
castle revenues and treasure of the late count.

This was astounding to them, and they refused to do so, but
were soon after seized upon by a regiment of cuirassiers sent
to take them, and they were accused of the crime of murder at
the instance of the doctor.

They were arraigned and found guilty, and, as they were of
the patrician order, their execution was delayed, and they were
committed to exile. This was done out of favour to the young
count, who did not wish to have his family name tainted by a
public execution, or their being confined like convicts.

The count and countess quitted Hungary, and settled in
Italy, where they lived upon the remains of the Count of
Morven’s property, shorn of all their splendour but enough to
keep them from being compelled to do any menial office.

The young count took possession of his patrimony and his
treasure at last, such as was left by his mother and her
paramour.

The doctor continued to hide his crime from the young count,
and the perpetrators denying all knowledge of it, he escaped;
but he returned to his native place, Leyden, with a reward for
his services from the young count.

Flora rose from her perusal of the manuscript, which here
ended, and even as she did so, she heard a footstep approaching
her chamber door.