Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

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"Mother," said the fairest of the two maidens, "do not talk thus, let us
hope that we yet may have many years of happiness together."

"Many, Emma?"

"Yes, mamma, many."

"Do you know that I am very old, Emma, very old indeed, considering what
I have suffered, such a life of sorrow and ill health is at least equal
to thirty years added to my life."

"You may have deceived yourself, aunt," said the other maiden; "at all
events, you cannot count upon life as certain, for the strongest often
go first, while those who seem much more likely to fall, by care, as
often live in peace and happiness."

"But I lead no life of peace and happiness, while Henry Bradley is not
here; besides, my life might be passed without me seeing him again."

"It is now two years since he was here last," said the old man,

"This night two years was the night on which he left."

"This night two years?"

"Yes."

"It was this night two years," said one of the servant men, "because old
Dame Poutlet had twins on that night."

"A memorable circumstance."

"And one died at a twelvemonth old," said the man; "and she had a dream
which foretold the event."

"Ay, ay."

"Yes, and moreover she's had the same dream again last Wednesday was a
week," said the man.

"And lost the other twin?"

"Yes sir, this morning."

"Omens multiply," said the aged man; "I would that it would seem to
indicate the return of Henry to his home."

"I wonder where he can have gone to, or what he could have done all this
time; probably he may not be in the land of the living."

"Poor Henry," said Emma.

"Alas, poor boy! We may never see him again--it was a mistaken act of
his, and yet he knew not otherwise how to act or escape his father's
displeasure."

"Say no more--say no more upon that subject; I dare not listen to it.
God knows I know quite enough," said Mr. Bradley; "I knew not he would
have taken my words so to heart as he did."

"Why," said the old woman, "he thought you meant what you said."

There was a long pause, during which all gazed at the blazing fire,
seemingly wrapt in their own meditation.

Henry Bradley, the son of the apparently aged couple, had left that day
two years, and wherefore had he left the home of his childhood?
wherefore had he, the heir to large estates, done this?

He had dared to love without his father's leave, and had refused the
offer his father made him of marrying a young lady whom he had chosen
for him, but whom he could not love.

It was as much a matter of surprise to the father that the son should
refuse, as it was to the son that his father should contemplate such a
match.

"Henry," said the father, "you have been thought of by me, I have made
proposals for marrying you to the daughter of our neighbour, Sir Arthur
Onslow."

"Indeed, father!"

"Yes; I wish you to go there with me to see the young lady."

"In the character of a suitor?"

"Yes," replied the father, "certainly; it's high time you were settled."

"Indeed, I would rather not go, father; I have no intention of marrying
just yet. I do not desire to do so."

This was an opposition that Mr. Bradley had not expected from his son,
and which his imperious temper could ill brook, and with a darkened brow
he said,--

"It is not much, Henry, that I trespass upon your obedience; but when I
do so, I expect that you will obey me."

"But, father, this matter affects me for my whole life."

"That is why I have deliberated so long and carefully over it."

"But it is not unreasonable that I should have a voice in the affair,
father, since it may render me miserable."

"You shall have a voice."

"Then I say no to the whole regulation," said Henry, decisively.

"If you do so you forfeit my protection, much more favour; but you had
better consider over what you have said. Forget it, and come with me."

"I cannot."

"You will not?"

"No, father; I cannot do as you wish me; my mind is fully made up upon
that matter."

[Illustration]

"And so is mine. You either do as I would have you, or you leave the
house, and seek your own living, and you are a beggar."

"I should prefer being such," said Henry, "than to marry any young lady,
and be unable to love her."

"That is not required."

"No! I am astonished! Not necessary to love the woman you marry!"

"Not at all; if you act justly towards her she ought to be grateful; and
it is all that is requisite in the marriage state. Gratitude will beget
love, and love in one begets love in the other."

"I will not argue with you, father, upon the matter. You are a better
judge than I; you have had more experience."

"I have."

"And it would be useless to speak upon the subject; but of this I can
speak--my own resolve--that I will not marry the lady in question."

The son had all the stern resolve of the father, but he had also very
good reasons for what he did. He loved, and was beloved in return; and
hence he would not break his faith with her whom he loved.

To have explained this to his father would have been to gain nothing
except an accession of anger, and he would have made a new demand upon
his (the son's) obedience, by ordering him to discard from his bosom the
image that was there indelibly engraven.

"You will not marry her whom I have chosen for your bride?"

"I cannot."

"Do not talk to me of can and can't, when I speak of will and wont. It
Is useless to disguise the fact. You have your free will in the matter.
I shall take no answer but yes or no."

"Then, no, father."

"Good, sir; and now we are strangers."

With that Mr. Bradley turned abruptly from his son, and left him to
himself.

It was the first time they had any words or difference together, and it
was sudden and soon terminated.

Henry Bradley was indignant at what had happened; he did not think his
father would have acted as he had done in this instance; but he was too
much interested in the fate of another to hesitate for a moment. Then
came the consideration as to what he should do, now that he had arrived
at such a climax.

His first thoughts turned to his mother and sister. He could not leave
the house without bidding them good-bye. He determined to see his
mother, for his father had left the Hall upon a visit.

Mrs. Bradley and Emma were alone when he entered their apartment, and to
them he related all that had passed between himself and father.

They besought him to stay, to remain there, or at least in the
neighbourhood; but he was resolved to quit the place altogether for a
time, as he could do nothing there, and he might chance to do something
elsewhere.

Upon this, they got together all the money and such jewels as they could
spare, which in all amounted to a considerable sum; then taking an
affectionate leave of his mother and sister, Henry left the Hall--not
before he had taken a long and affectionate farewell of one other who
lived within those walls.

This was no other than the raven-eyed maiden who sat by the fire side,
and listened attentively to the conversation that was going on. She was
his love--she, a poor cousin. For her sake he had braved all his
father's anger, and attempted to seek his fortune abroad.

This done, he quietly left the Hall, without giving any one any
intimation of where he was going.

Old Mr. Bradley, when he had said so much to his son, was highly
incensed at what he deemed his obstinacy; and he thought the threat
hanging over him would have had a good effect; but he was amazed when he
discovered that Henry had indeed left the Hall, and he knew not whither.

For some time he comforted himself with the assurance that he would, he
must return, but, alas! he came not, and this was the second anniversary
of that melancholy day, which no one more repented of and grieved for,
than did poor Mr. Bradley.

"Surely, surely he will return, or let us know where he is," he said;
"he cannot be in need, else he would have written to us for aid."

"No, no," said Mrs. Bradley; "it is, I fear, because he has not written,
that he is in want; he would never write if he was in poverty, lest he
should cause us unhappiness at his fate. Were he doing well, we should
hear of it, for he would be proud of the result of his own unaided
exertions."

"Well, well," said Mr. Bradley, "I can say no more; if I was hasty, so
was he; but it is passed. I would forgive all the past, if I could but
see him once again--once again!"

"How the wind howls," added the aged man; "and it's getting worse and
worse."

"Yes, and the snow is coming down now in style," said one of the
servants, who brought in some fresh logs which were piled up on the
fire, and he shook the white flakes off his clothes.

"It will be a heavy fall before morning," said one of the men.

"Yes, it has been gathering for some days; it will be much warmer than
it has been when it is all down."

"So it will--so it will."

At that moment there was a knocking at the gate, and the dogs burst into
a dreadful uproar from their kennels.

"Go, Robert," said Mr. Bradley, "and see who it is that knocks such a
night as this; it is not fit or safe that a dog should be out in it."

The man went out, and shortly returned, saying,--

"So please you, sir, there is a traveller that has missed his way, and
desires to know if he can obtain shelter here, or if any one can be
found to guide him to the nearest inn."

"Bid him come in; we shall lose no warmth because there is one more
before the fire."

The stranger entered, and said,--"I have missed my way, and the snow
comes down so thick and fast, and is whirled in such eddies, that I
fear, by myself, I should fall into some drift, and perish before
morning."

"Do not speak of it, sir," said Mr. Bradley; "such a night as this is a
sufficient apology for the request you make, and an inducement to me to
grant it most willingly."

"Thanks," replied the stranger; "the welcome is most seasonable."

"Be seated, sir; take your seat by the ingle; it is warm."

The stranger seated himself, and seemed lost in reflection, as he gazed
intently on the blazing logs. He was a robust man, with great whiskers
and beard, and, to judge from his outward habiliments, he was a stout
man.

"Have you travelled far?"

"I have, sir."

"You appear to belong to the army, if I mistake not?"

"I do, sir."

There was a pause; the stranger seemed not inclined to speak of himself
much; but Mr. Bradley continued,--

"Have you come from foreign service, sir? I presume you have."

"Yes; I have not been in this country more than six days."

"Indeed; shall we have peace think you?"

"I do so, and I hope it may be so, for the sake of many who desire to
return to their native land, and to those they love best."

Mr. Bradley heaved a deep sigh, which was echoed softly by all present,
and the stranger looked from one to another, with a hasty glance, and
then turned his gaze upon the fire.

"May I ask, sir, if you have any person whom you regard in the army--any
relative?"

"Alas! I have--perhaps, I ought to say I had a son. I know not, however,
where he is gone."

"Oh! a runaway; I see."

"Oh, no; he left because there were some family differences, and now, I
would, that he were once more here."

"Oh!" said the stranger, softly, "differences and mistakes will happen
now and then, when least desired."

At this moment, an old hound who had lain beside Ellen Mowbray, she who
wore the coal-black tresses, lifted his head at the difference in sound
that was noticed in the stranger's voice. He got up and slowly walked up
to him, and began to smell around him, and, in another moment, he rushed
at him with a cry of joy, and began to lick and caress him in the most
extravagant manner. This was followed by a cry of joy in all present.

"It is Henry!" exclaimed Ellen Mowbray, rising and rushing into his
arms.

It was Henry, and he threw off the several coats he had on, as well as
the large beard he wore to disguise himself.

The meeting was a happy one; there was not a more joyful house than that
within many miles around. Henry was restored to the arms of those who
loved him, and, in a month, a wedding was celebrated between him and his
cousin Ellen.

* * * * *

Sir Francis Varney glanced at his watch. It indicated but five minutes
to twelve o'clock, and he sprang to his feet. Even as he did so, a loud
knocking at the principal entrance to his house awakened every echo
within its walls.

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE THOUSAND POUNDS.--THE STRANGER'S PRECAUTIONS.

[Illustration]

Varney moved not now, nor did he speak, but, like a statue, he stood,
with his unearthly looking eyes rivetted upon the door of the apartment.

In a few moments one of his servants came, and said--

"Sir, a person is here, who says he wants to see you. He desired me to
say, that he had ridden far, and that moments were precious when the
tide of life was ebbing fast."

"Yes! yes!" gasped Varney; "admit him, I know him! Bring him here? It
is--an--old friend--of mine."

He sank into a chair, and still he kept his eyes fixed upon that door
through which his visitor must come. Surely some secret of dreadful
moment must be connected with him whom Sir Francisexpected--dreaded--and
yet dared not refuse to see. And now a footstep approaches--a slow and a
solemn footstep--it pauses a moment at the door of the apartment, and
then the servant flings it open, and a tall man enters. He is enveloped
in the folds of a horseman's cloak, and there is the clank of spurs upon
his heels as he walks into the room.

Varney rose again, but he said not a word and for a few moments they
stood opposite each other in silence. The domestic has left the room,
and the door is closed, so that there was nothing to prevent them from
conversing; and, yet, silent they continued for some minutes. It seemed
as if each was most anxious that the other should commence the
conversation, first.

And yet there was nothing so very remarkable in the appearance of that
stranger which should entirely justify Sir Francis Varney, in feeling so
much alarm at his presence. He certainly was a man past the prime of
life; and he looked like one who had battled much with misfortune, and
as if time had not passed so lightly over his brow, but that it had left
deep traces of its progress. The only thing positively bad about his
countenance, was to be found in his eyes. There there was a most
ungracious and sinister expression, a kind of lurking and suspicions
look, as if he were always resolving in his mind some deep laid scheme,
which might be sufficient to circumvent the whole of mankind.

Finding, probably, that Varney would not speak first, he let his cloak
fall more loosely about him, and in a low, deep tone, he said,

"I presume I was expected?"

"You were," said Varney. "It is the day, and it is the hour."

"You are right. I like to see you so mindful. You don't improve in looks
since--"

"Hush--hush! no more of that; can we not meet without a dreadful
allusion to the past! There needs nothing to remind me of it; and your
presence here now shows that you are not forgetful. Speak not of that
fearful episode. Let no words combine to place it in a tangible shape to
human understanding. I cannot, dare not, hear you speak of that."

"It is well," said the stranger; "as you please. Let our interview be
brief. You know my errand?"

"I do. So fearful a drag upon limited means, is not likely to be readily
forgotten."

"Oh, you are too ingenious--too full of well laid schemes, and to apt
and ready in their execution, to feel, as any fearful drag, the
conditions of our bargain. Why do you look at me so earnestly?"

"Because," said Varney--and he trembled as he spoke--"because each
lineament of your countenance brings me back to the recollection of the
only scene in life that made me shudder, and which I cannot think of,
even with the indifference of contempt. I see it all before my mind's
eye, coming in frightful panoramic array, those incidents, which even to
dream of, are sufficient to drive the soul to madness; the dread of this
annual visit, hangs upon me like a dark cloud upon my very heart; it
sits like some foul incubus, destroying its vitality and dragging me,
from day to day, nearer to that tomb, from whence not as before, I can
emerge."

"You have been among the dead?" said the stranger.

"I have."

"And yet are mortal."

"Yes," repeated Varney, "yes, and yet am mortal."

"It was I that plucked you back to that world, which, to judge from your
appearance, has had since that eventful period but few charms for you.
By my faith you look like--"

"Like what I am," interrupted Varney.

"This is a subject that once a year gets frightfully renewed between us.
For weeks before your visit I am haunted by frightful recollections, and
it takes me many weeks after you are gone, before I can restore myself
to serenity. Look at me; am I not an altered man?"

"In faith you are," said the stranger "I have no wish to press upon you
painful recollections. And yet 'tis strange to me that upon such a man
as you, the event to which you allude should produce so terrible an
impression."

"I have passed through the agony of death," said Varney, "and have again
endured the torture--for it is such--of the re-union of the body and the
soul; not having endured so much, not the faintest echo of such feelings
can enter into your imagination."

"There may be truth in that, and yet, like a fluttering moth round a
flame, it seems to me, that when I do see you, you take a terrific kind
of satisfaction in talking of the past."

"That is strictly true," said Varney; "the images with which my mind is
filled are frightful. Pent up do they remain for twelve long months. I
can speak to you, and you only, without disguise, and thus does it seem
to me that I get rid of the uneasy load of horrible imaginings. When you
are gone, and have been gone a sufficient lapse of time, my slumbers are
not haunted with frightful images--I regain a comparative peace, until
the time slowly comes around again, when we are doomed to meet."

"I understand you. You seem well lodged here?"

"I have ever kept my word, and sent to you, telling you where I am."

"You have, truly. I have no shadow of complaint to make against you. No
one, could have more faithfully performed his bond than you have. I give
you ample credit for all that, and long may you live still to perform
your conditions."

"I dare not deceive you, although to keep such faith I may be compelled
to deceive a hundred others."

"Of that I cannot judge. Fortune seems to smile upon you; you have not
as yet disappointed me."

"And will not now," said Varney. "The gigantic and frightful penalty of
disappointing you, stares me in the face. I dare not do so."

He took from his pocket, as he spoke, a clasped book, from which he
produced several bank notes, which he placed before the stranger.

"A thousand pounds," he said; "that is the agreement."

"It is to the very letter. I do not return to you a thousand thanks--we
understand each other better than to waste time with idle compliment.
Indeed I will go quite as far as to say, truthfully, that did not my
necessities require this amount from you, you should have the boon, for
which you pay that price at a much cheaper rate."

"Enough! enough!" said Varney. "It is strange, that your face should
have been the last I saw, when the world closed upon me, and the first
that met my eyes when I was again snatched back to life! Do you pursue
still your dreadful trade?"

"Yes," said the stranger, "for another year, and then, with such a
moderate competence as fortune has assigned me, I retire, to make way
for younger and abler spirits."

"And then," said Varney, "shall you still require of me such an amount
as this?"

"No; this is my last visit but one. I shall be just and liberal towards
you. You are not old; and I have no wish to become the clog of your
existence. As I have before told you, it is my necessity, and not my
inclination, that sets the value upon the service I rendered you."

"I understand you, and ought to thank you. And in reply to so much
courtesy, be assured, that when I shudder at your presence, it is not
that I regard you with horror, as an individual, but it is because the
sight of you awakens mournfully the remembrance of the past."

"It is clear to me," said the stranger; "and now I think we part with
each other in a better spirit than we ever did before; and when we meet
again, the remembrance that it is the last time, will clear away the
gloom that I now find hanging over you."

"It may! it may! With what an earnest gaze you still regard me!"

"I do. It does appear to me most strange, that time should not have
obliterated the effects which I thought would have ceased with their
cause. You are no more the man that in my recollection you once were,
than I am like a sporting child."

"And I never shall be," said Varney; "never--never again! This self-same
look which the hand of death had placed upon me, I shall ever wear. I
shudder at myself, and as I oft perceive the eye of idle curiosity fixed
steadfastly upon me, I wonder in my inmost heart, if even the wildest
guesser hits upon the cause why I am not like unto other men?"

"No. Of that you may depend there is no suspicion; but I will leave you
now; we part such friends, as men situated as we are can be. Once again
shall we meet, and then farewell for ever."

"Do you leave England, then?"

"I do. You know my situation in life. It is not one which offers me
inducements to remain. In some other land, I shall win the respect and
attention I may not hope for here. There my wealth will win many golden
opinions; and casting, as best I may, the veil of forgetfulness over my
former life, my declining years may yet be happy. This money, that I
have had of you from time to time, has been more pleasantly earned than
all beside. Wrung, as it has been, from your fears, still have I taken
it with less reproach. And now, farewell!"

Varney rang for a servant to show the stranger from the house, and
without another word they parted.

Then, when he was alone, that mysterious owner of that costly home drew
a long breath of apparently exquisite relief.

"That is over!--that is over!" he said. "He shall have the other
thousand pounds, perchance, sooner than he thinks. With all expedition I
will send it to him. And then on that subject I shall be at peace. I
shall have paid a large sum; but that which I purchased was to me
priceless. It was my life!--it was my life itself! That possession which
the world's wealth cannot restore! And shall I grudge these thousands,
which have found their way into this man's hands? No! 'Tis true, that
existence, for me, has lost some of its most resplendent charms. 'Tis
true, that I have no earthly affections, and that shunning companionship
with all, I am alike shunned by all; and yet, while the life-blood still
will circulate within my shrunken veins, I cling to vitality."

He passed into an inner room, and taking from a hook, on which it hung,
a long, dark-coloured cloak, he enveloped his tall, unearthly figure
within its folds.

Then, with his hat in his hand, he passed out of his house, and appeared
to be taking his way towards Bannerworth House.

Surely it must be guilt of no common die that could oppress a man so
destitute of human sympathies as Sir Francis Varney. The dreadful
suspicions that hovered round him with respect to what he was, appeared
to gather confirmation from every act of his existence.

Whether or not this man, to whom he felt bound to pay annually so large
a sum, was in the secret, and knew him to be something more than
earthly, we cannot at present declare; but it would seem from the tenor
of their conversation as if such were the fact.

Perchance he had saved him from the corruption of the tomb, by placing
out, on some sylvan spot, where the cold moonbeams fell, the apparently
lifeless form, and now claimed so large a reward for such a service, and
the necessary secrecy contingent upon it.

We say this may be so, and yet again some more natural and rational
explanation may unexpectedly present itself; and there may be yet a dark
page in Sir Francis Varney's life's volume, which will place him in a
light of superadded terrors to our readers.

Time, and the now rapidly accumulating incidents of our tale, will soon
tear aside the veil of mystery that now envelopes some of our _dramatis
personae_.

And let us hope that in the development of those incidents we shall be
enabled to rescue the beautiful Flora Bannerworth from the despairing
gloom that is around her. Let us hope and even anticipate that we shall
see her smile again; that the roseate hue of health will again revisit
her cheeks, the light buoyancy of her step return, and that as before
she may be the joy of all around her, dispensing and receiving
happiness.

And, he too, that gallant fearless lover, he whom no chance of time or
tide could sever from the object of his fond affections, he who listened
to nothing but the dictates of his heart's best feelings, let us indulge
a hope that he will have a bright reward, and that the sunshine of a
permanent felicity will only seem the brighter for the shadows that for
a time have obscured its glory.