Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

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"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.

[Illustration]

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.

[Illustration]

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:--

Dear Sir,--"As a neighbour, by purchase of an estate contiguous
to your own, I am quite sure you have excused, and taken in good
part, the cordial offer I made to you of friendship and service
some short time since; but now, in addressing to you a distinct
proposition, I trust I shall meet with an indulgent
consideration, whether such proposition be accordant with your
views or not.

"What I have heard from common report induces me to believe that
Bannerworth Hall cannot be a desirable residence for yourself, or
your amiable sister. If I am right in that conjecture, and you
have any serious thought of leaving the place, I would earnestly
recommend you, as one having some experience in such descriptions
of property, to sell it at once.

"Now, the proposition with which I conclude this letter is, I
know, of a character to make you doubt the disinterestedness of
such advice; but that it is disinterested, nevertheless, is a
fact of which I can assure my own heart, and of which I beg to
assure you. I propose, then, should you, upon consideration,
decide upon such a course of proceeding, to purchase of you the
Hall. I do not ask for a bargain on account of any extraneous
circumstances which may at the present time depreciate the value
of the property, but I am willing to give a fair price for it.
Under these circumstances, I trust, sir, that you will give a
kindly consideration to my offer, and even if you reject it, I
hope that, as neighbours, we may live long in peace and amity,
and in the interchange of those good offices which should subsist
between us. Awaiting your reply,

"Believe me to be, dear sir,

"Your very obedient servant,

"FRANCIS VARNEY.

"To Henry Bannerworth, Esq."

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?"