Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
"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 of 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.
THE THOUSAND POUNDS.—THE STRANGER'S PRECAUTIONS.
Varney
moved not now, nor did he speak, but, like a statue, he stood, with his
unearthly looking eyes 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 Francis expected—dreaded—and yet dared not refuse
to see. And now a footstep approaches—a slow and a solemn footstep—it pauses a
moment at the door of the apartment, and then the servant flings it open, and a
tall man enters. He is enveloped in the folds of a horseman's cloak, and there
is the clank of spurs upon his heels as he walks into the room.
Varney
rose again, but he said not a word and for a few moments they stood opposite
each other in silence. The domestic has left the room, and the door is closed,
so that there was nothing to prevent them from conversing; and, yet, silent
they continued for some minutes. It seemed as if each was most anxious that the
other should commence the conversation, first.
And
yet there was nothing so very remarkable in the appearance of that stranger
which should entirely justify Sir Francis Varney, in feeling so much alarm at
his presence. He certainly was a man past the prime of life; and he looked like
one who had battled much with misfortune, and as if time had not passed so
lightly over his brow, but that it had left deep traces of its progress. The
only thing positively bad about his countenance, was to be found in his eyes.
There 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.