Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
"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."
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:—
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."