Varney The Vampire by James Malcolm Rymer

Varney the vampire by James Malcolm Rymer
Varney el Vampiro
James Malcolm Rymer
Edición de Panteón de Juda

PREFACE.
-- -- -- -- --
The unprecedented success of the romance of "Varney the Vampyre," leave 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 his 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 the public, which has stamped it with an approbation far exceeding their
most sanguine expectations, and which is calculated to act as the strongest possible
ncentive 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.
-- "How graves give up their dead,

And how the night air hideous grows
With shrieks!"
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 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 was an antique chamber in an ancient house. Curious and quaint carvings adorn the
walls, and the large chimneypiece 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 paneled 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 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 had endured much fatigue, and the storm dose 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 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 the beautiful girl. That one shriek is all she can
utter -- with hand 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 weighted 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 the 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 life-time -- a look to obtrude itself upon the happiest moments, and
turn them to bitterness.
The figure turns half round, and the light falls upon its 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
down 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 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 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 judgment forever?
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 do 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 closest 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 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 in 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 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 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 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.
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 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 M. 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 let 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 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 brothers. "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 homewards, 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 Flora."
"Come in, Mr. Marchdale," said Henry -- "come in; we will make no stranger of you."
They all 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 give 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.
"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, --
"Have you 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.
The watch had been a perfectly undisturbed one. Not the least sight or sound or 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 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 to be 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. It is 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 for 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 is it 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 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 to 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 worn 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; and 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 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 tap 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 the 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 somemeasure 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 never 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 you poor mother's portion, by allowing this circumstance to so much affect
you. You will 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 rode to the neighbouring market-town, where he knew an extremely intelligent
practitioner resided. This gentleman Henry resolved upon, under a promise of secrecy,
making a 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."
"Is it untrue? Of course I am not so absurd as really to believe about the vampyre; but is
there no foundation at all to 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 upon 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 on 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 effect 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 particularly 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 hideously. 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 the 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 with 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, and she said, --
"Heaven help me! I know not, Henry. The dreadful being held on to 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 who-ever 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 the 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 must
not 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 that 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."
"I wish you had been here."
"I wish to Heaven I had. If I thought 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 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 befall 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 on 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 some one 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 presents his compliments to Mr. Beaumont, and is much concerned
to hear that some domestic affliction has fallen upon him. Sir Francis hopes that the
genuine and loving sympathy of a neighbour will not be regarded as an intrusion, and begs
to proffer any assistance or counsel that may be within the compass of his means.
"Ratford Abbey."
"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 that 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 a 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, as you know, is 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 lappel 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 that 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.
"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 stuck 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 the other 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 gone longer 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.
Then 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
position 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 rivetted 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 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 own 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 make yourself seriously
unwell."
"No -- no -- no."
"Come home -- come home; 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 for 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 as 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, "in Heaven, and on earth, than are dreamed in
our philosophy."
"There are indeed, it appears," said Mr. Chillingworth.
"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 a vampyre."
"The dress is 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 a 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 undertake 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 extravagancies, 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 changes 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 to 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 dhat 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 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 sister 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, by-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 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, early in 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 had 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,
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 had with difficulty 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 thing, 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 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 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, you should 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 fine 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 to the vault actually vested in
and belonging to yourself you wish to visit, and, therefore, you have a 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, 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 enable 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 mentioned 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 effect 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 both of them 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 at 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
order to erect flimsy, Italianised structures in their stead, yet sufficient of them remain
dotted over England to interest the traveller. At Willesden 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 damp 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 candle, I think,
Marchdale, although you forgot the matches."
"I have. Here they are."
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 our
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 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. 1640."
"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 the 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 once 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 appear otherwise 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,
what 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 been effectively fastened.
The few moments that elapsed were ones of very great suspense to every one there
present; and it would, indeed, be quite safe 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 most 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 has
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 have 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
hey must find some remains of Marmaduke Bannerworth, which would render the
supposition, even in the most superstition 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 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 laying 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 -- 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 had 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 though 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 of 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, not withstanding 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 on
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 visiter
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, dear Flora, will enable you to do so, and all the rest 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 mothers'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 pane of 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 a tall, gaunt form -- there was the faded
ancient apparel -- the lustrous metallic-looking eyes -- its half-opened mouth, exhibiting
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 confusion that was incidental to the spot prevented her from seeing if the figure
walked or ran away. She thought he heard a crashing sound among the plants outside the
window, as if it had fallen, but she didnot 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 Henry,
--
"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 at 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 Mr. 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 acknowledgement. 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 surely 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 to be the only rational person here," said Charles. "Pray what is it that
everybody calls 'it?'"
"Hush -- hush!" said Henry; "you will soon hear, 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 will 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 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 a 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 that 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 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 form 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 anything 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 COMMUNICATION 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 the dearest and most fondly
cherished hopes for ever, would scarcely 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 to 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 to be
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 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
superstition?"
"That's 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 unbiased 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 possible."
"I am, believe me, Charles, most unwilling to oppress any one with the knowledge of
these evils; but 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 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 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 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 some 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 the 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, 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 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 smile 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 lifelike, 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 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 can never
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 at 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 had 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 was 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 desiderata."
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 and 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 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
most 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."
"Did you hear me open my door?"
"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 had 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 what 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 as 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 wooded 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 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, but 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 the 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
had 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 both were 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 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 which 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 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 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 said. 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 lustre; 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 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 neighbor 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 the 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 owning 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 these 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 neighbor, 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 a 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 on 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, advised that 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 the food for
gossip all over the neighboring 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 had 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 probably that the infliction we have experienced from the strange
visiter, 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 someone, 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 likes 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 the 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
endeavoring to induce a belief in his mind that a short period of time might after all replace
in his mind, and 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 in 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 with 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
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 visiter 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 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 some
most trifling cause, we may receive some serious bodily hurt. 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 wind 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 cieatrix 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 the
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. Pray 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 an 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 -- "
"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 ever 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 that you are my sincere friend; but, 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 surely dies."
"He will, perhaps, consider that such a step would be dangerous to him."
"It would be fatal, so help me, Heaven; and then would I take especial care that no power
of resuscitation should ever enable that man again to walk the earth."
"They say the 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 declare, 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 on 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 his observation; but, with that, he seemed
very well satisfied.
"Heave to!" he then shouted to the postillion, 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 the 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
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 accommodations, sir -- good wine -- well-aired beds -- good attendance -- fine air --
"
"Belay there," said Jack; and he gave the landlord what 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 vociferated 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: --
"If you stop at the Nelson's Arms at Uxotter, you will hear of me, and I can be sent for,
when I will tell you more.
"Yours, very obediently and humbly, "JOSIAH CRINKLES."
"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 out of 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. A most respectable attorney, sir, indeed, a
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 all my life."
"Ay, ay, sir," said Jack.
"To come a hundred and seventy miles to 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
howsomedever, 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 of 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 feelins.
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 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's said he was a lawyer, we would have known what to do. But it's a take in, Jack."
"So I think. Howsomedever, 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. Good bye. 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 marline-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 is certainly 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, of 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: --
"To Admiral Bell.

"Admiral, -- Being, from various circumstances, aware that you take a warm and a
praiseworthy interest in your nephew Charles Holland, I venture to write to you concerning
a matter in which your immediate and active co-operation with others may rescue him from
a condition which will prove, if allowed to continue, very much to his detriment, and
ultimate unhappiness.
"You are, then, hereby informed, that he, Charles Holland, has, much earlier than he
ought to have done, returned to England, and that the object of his return is to contract a
marriage into a family in every way objectionable, and with a girl who is highly
objectionable.
"You, admiral, are his nearest and almost his only relative in the world; you are the
guardian of his property, and, therefore, it becomes a duty on your part to interfere to save
him from the ruinous consequences of a marriage, which is sure to bring ruin and distress
upon himself and all who take an interest in his welfare.
"The family he wishes to marry into is named Bannerworth, and the young lady's name is
Flora Bannerworth. When, however, I inform you that a vampyre is in that family, and that
if he married into it, he marries a vampyre, and will have vampyres for children, I trust I
have said enough to warn you upon the subject, and to induce you to lose no time in
repairing to the spot.
"If you stop at the Nelson's Arms in Uxotter, you will hear of me. I can be sent for, when
I will tell you more.
"Yours, very obediently and humbly,
"JOSIAH CRINKLES."
P.S. I enclose you Dr. Johnson's definition of a vampyre, which is as follows:
"VAMPYRE (a German blood-sucker) -- by which you perceive how many vampyres,

from time immemorial, must have been well entertained at the expense of John Bull, at the
court of St. James, where nothing hardly is to be met with but German blood-suckers."
***
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 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 many 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 some 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 to 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 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
Bannerworth, 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, "if 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 your
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 it 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 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 these 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'
wamphigaers. 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 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,
arter 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 visits 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
her's. 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 the 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 remembrances 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 that 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 they would relieve the heart whose sorrows had called them into existence.
He forbore to speak to her until he felt 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 dear 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 reason 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 love 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 it is 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 illuminated 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 -- as 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 head, 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, 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 take 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 visiter!" 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, for
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 clues to this affair, I will not lose sight of it, or of
Sir Francis Varney."
So saying, Charles surrendered Flora to the care of their 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 question 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 the 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 the
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 of health. I like to see the rosy cheeks, 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 anyone 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, be 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 Holland, 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 something."
"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 we can do at present. We have a clue now, and be it our mutual
inclination, as well as a 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 that 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 quarrelled 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 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 Mr. 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 do so. To be sure she sent a boy for her money
afterwards, which may be considered as 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
it 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, by 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, as he exclaimed, --
"By all that's surprising, there is my uncle!"
"Your uncle!" said Henry.
"Yes, as good a hearted 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 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 is 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 see Jack Pringle," said that individual, introducing himself, since no one
appeared inclined to do that office for him, "a tar for all weathers. One who 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 is most
welcome here. You will have much to excuse us for, because we are deficient in servants at
present, in consequence of some 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 as 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 at 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 judgment 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 a
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 of 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 a romance once had charms 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 paper, 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 up on 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 titled, "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 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 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.
"We came, my lady, to see -- see -- if -- if you are 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 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, if 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 you 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; I 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 men to
them in 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 in 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 in 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."
"Psha! 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
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 disfigure, 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 crimes.
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 astonishing 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 crimes 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.
--

CHAPTER XX.
THE DREADFUL MISTAKE. -- THE TERRIFIC INTERVIEW IN THE CHAMBER. -

- THE ATTACK OF THE VAMPYRE.
The footstep which Flora, upon the close of the tale she had been reading, heard
approaching her apartment, came rapidly along the corridor.
"It is Henry, returned to conduct me to an interview with Charles's uncle," she said. "I
wonder, now, what manner of man he is. He should in some respect resemble Charles; and
if he do so, I shall bestow upon him some affection for that alone."
Tap -- tap came upon the chamber door.
Flora was not at all alarmed now, as she had been when Henry brought her the
manuscript. From some strange action of the nervous system, she felt quite confident, and
resolved to brave everything. But then she felt quite sure that it was Henry, and before the
knocking had taken her by surprise.
"Come in," she said, in a cheerful voice. "Come in."
The door opened with wonderful swiftness -- a figure stepped into the room, and then
closed it as rapidly, and stood against it. Flora tried to scream, but her tongue refused its
office; a confused whirl of sensations passed through her brain -- she trembled, and an icy
coldness came over her. It was Sir Francis Varney, the vampyre!
He had drawn up his tall, gaunt frame to its full height, and crossed his arms upon his
breast; there was a hideous smile upon his sallow countenance, and his voice was deep and
sepulchral, as he said, --
"Flora Bannerworth, hear that which I have to say, and hear it calmly. You need have
nothing to fear. Make an alarm -- scream, or shout for help, and, by the hell beneath us, you
are lost!"
There was a death-like, cold, passionless manner about the utterance of these words, as if
they were spoken mechanically, and came from no human lips.
Flora heard them, and yet scarcely comprehended them; she stepped slowly back till she
reached a chair, and there she held for support. The only part of the address of Varney that
thoroughly reached her ears, was that if she gave any alarm some dreadful consequences
were to ensue. But it was not on account of these words that she really gave no alarm; it
was because she was utterly unable to do so.

"Answer me," said Varney. "Promise that you will hear that which I have to say. In so
promising you commit yourself to no evil, and you shall hear that which shall give you
much peace."
It was in vain she tried to speak; her lips moved, but she uttered no sound.
"You are terrified," said Varney, "and yet I know not why. I do not come to do you harm,
although harm have you done me. Girl, I come to rescue you from a thraldom of the soul
under which you now labour."
There was a pause of some moments' duration, and then, faintly, Flora managed to say, --
"Help! help! Oh, help me, Heaven!"
Varney made a gesture of impatience, as he said, --
"Heaven works no special matters now. Flora Bannerworth, if you have as much intellect
as your nobility and beauty would warrant the world in supposing, you will listen to me."
"I -- I hear," said Flora, as she still, dragging the chair with her, increased the distance
between them.
"'Tis well. You are now more composed."
She fixed her eyes upon the face of Varney with a shudder. There could be no mistake. It
was the same which, with the strange, glassy looking eyes, had glared upon her on that
awful night of the storm, when she was visited by the vampyre. And Varney returned that
gaze unflinchingly. There was a hideous and strange contortion of his face now as he said, -
-
"You are beautiful. The most cunning statuary might well model some rare work of art
from those rounded limbs, that were surely made to bewitch the gazer. Your skin rivals the
driven snow -- what a face of loveliness, and what a form of enchantment."
She did not speak, but a thought came across her mind, which at once crimsoned her
cheek -- she knew she had fainted on the first visit of the vampyre, and now he, with a
hideous reverence, praised beauties which he might have cast his demonic eyes over at such
a time.
"You understand me," he said. "Well, let that pass. I am something allied to humanity
yet."
"Speak your errand," gasped Flora, "or come what may, I scream for help to those who
will not be slow to render it."
"I know it."

"You know I will scream?"
"No; you will hear me. I know they would not be slow to render help to you, but you will
not call for it; I will present to you no necessity."
"Say on -- say on."
"You perceive I do not attempt to approach you; my errand is one of peace."
"Peace from you! Horrible being, if you be really what even now my appalled
imagination shrinks from naming you, would not even to you absolute annihilation be a
blessing?"
"Peace, peace. I came not here to talk on such a subject. I must be brief, Flora
Bannerworth, for time presses. I do not hate you. Wherefore should I? You are young, and
you are beautiful, and you bear a name which should command, and does command, some
portion of my best regard."
"There is a portrait," said Flora, "in this house."
"No more -- no more. I know what you would say."
"It is yours."
"The house, and all within, I covet," he said, uneasily. "Let that suffice. I have quarrelled
with your brother -- I have quarrelled with one who just now fancies he loves you."
"Charles Holland loves me truly."
"It does not suit me now to dispute that point with you. I have the means of knowing
more of the secrets of the human heart than common men. I tell you, Flora Bannerworth,
that he who talks to you of love, loves you not but with the fleeting fancy of a boy; and
there is one who hides deep in his heart a world of passion, one who has never spoken to
you of love, and yet who loves you with a love as afar surpassing the evanescent fancy of
this boy Holland, as does the mighty ocean the most placid lake that ever basked in idleness
beneath a summer's sun."
There was a wonderful fascination in the manner now of Varney. His voice sounded like
music itself. His words flowed from his tongue, each gently and properly accented, with all
the charm of eloquence.
Despite her trembling horror of that man -- despite her fearful opinion, which might be
said to amount to a conviction of what he really was, Flora felt an irresistible wish to hear
him speak on. Ay, despite, too, the ungrateful theme to her heart which he had now chosen
as the subject of his discourse, she felt her fear of him gradually dissipating, and now when
he made a pause, she said, --

"You are much mistaken. On the constancy and truth of Charles Holland, I would stake
my life."
"No doubt, no doubt."
"Have you spoken now that which you had to say?"
"No, no. I tell you I covet this place, I would purchase it, but having with your bad-
tempered brothers quarrelled, they will hold no further converse with me."
"And well they may refuse."
"Be that as it may, sweet lady, I come to you to be my mediator. In the shadows of the
future I can see many events which are to come."
"Indeed."
"It is so. Borrowing some wisdom from the past, and some from resources I would not
detail to you, I know that if I have inflicted much misery upon you, I can spare you much
more. Your brother or your lover will challenge me."
"Oh, no, no."
"I say such will happen, and I can kill either. My skill as well as my strength is
superhuman."
"Mercy! mercy!" gasped Flora.
"I will spare either or both on a condition."
"What fearful condition?"
"It is not a fearful one. Your terrors go far beyond the fact. All I wish, maiden, of you is
to induce these imperious brothers of yours to sell or let the Hall to me."
"Is that all?"
"It is. I ask no more, and, in return, I promise you not only that I will not fight with them,
but that you shall never see me again. Rest securely, maiden, you will be undisturbed by
me."
"Oh, God! that were indeed an assurance worth the striving for," said Flora.
"It is one you may have. But -- "
"Oh, I knew -- my heart told me there was yet some fearful condition to come."

"You are wrong again. I only ask of you that you keep this meeting a secret."
"No, no, no -- I cannot."
"Nay, what so easy?"
"I will not; I have no secrets from those I love."
"Indeed, you will find soon the expediency of a few at least; but if you will not, I cannot
urge it longer. Do as your wayward woman's nature prompts you."
There was a slight, but a very slight, tone of aggravation in these words, and the manner
in which they were uttered.
As he spoke, he moved from the door towards the window, which opened into a kitchen
garden. Flora shrunk as far from him as possible, and for a few minutes they regarded each
other in silence.
"Young blood," said Varney, "mantles in your veins."
She shuddered with terror.
"Be mindful of the condition I have proposed to you. I covet Bannerworth Hall."
"I -- I hear."
"And I must have it. I will have it, although my path to it be through a sea of blood. You
understand me, maiden? Repeat what has passed between us or not, as you please. I say,
beware of me, if you keep not the condition I have proposed."
"Heaven knows that this place is becoming daily more hateful to us all," said Flora.
"Indeed!"
"You well might know so much. It is no sacrifice to urge it now. I will urge my brothers."
"Thanks -- a thousand thanks. You many not live to regret having made a friend of
Varney -- "
"The vampyre!" said Flora.
He advanced towards her a step, and she involuntarily uttered a scream of terror.
In an instant his hand clasped her waist with the power of an iron vice; she felt his hot
breath flushing on her cheek. Her senses reeled, and she found herself sinking. She

gathered all her breath and all her energies into one piercing shriek, and then she fell to the
floor. There was a sudden crash of broken glass, and then all was still.
--

Chapter XXI.
THE CONFERENCE BETWEEN THE UNCLE AND NEPHEW, AND THE ALARM.
Meanwhile Charles Holland had taken his uncle by the arm, and led him into a private
room.
"Dear uncle," he said, "be seated, and I will explain everything without reserve."
"Seated! -- nonsense! I'll walk about," said the admiral. "D -- n me! I've no patience to be
seated, and very seldom had or have. Go on now, you young scamp."
"Well -- well; you abuse me, but I am quite sure, had you been in my situation, you
would have acted precisely as I have done."
"No, I shouldn't."
"Well, but, uncle -- "
"Don't think to come over me by calling me uncle. Hark you, Charles -- from this
moment I won't be your uncle any more."
"Very well, sir."
"It ain't very well. And how dare you, you buccaneer, call me sir, eh? I say, how dare
you?"
"I will call you anything I like."
"But I won't be called anything I like. You might as well call me at once Morgan the
Pirate, for he was called anything he liked. Hilloa, sir! how dare you laugh, eh? I'll teach
you to laugh at me. I wish I had you on board ship -- that's all, you young rascal. I'd soon
teach you to laugh at your superior officer, I would."
"Oh, uncle, I did not laugh at you."
"What did you laugh at, then?"
"At the joke."
"Joke. D -- n me, there was no joke at all!"
"Oh, very good."
"And it ain't very good."

Charles knew very well that, this sort of humour, in which was the old admiral, would
soon pass away, and then that he would listen to him comfortably enough; so he would not
allow the least exhibition of petulance or mere impatience to escape himself, but contented
himself by waiting until the ebullition of feeling fairly worked itself out.
"Well, well," at length said the old man, "you have dragged me here, into a very small
and very dull room, under pretence of having something to tell me, and I have heard
nothing yet."
"Then I will now tell you," said Charles. "I fell in love -- "
"Bah!"
"With Flora Bannerworth, abroad; she is not only the most beautiful of created beings -- "
"Bah!"
"But her mind is of the highest order of intelligence, honour, candour, and all amiable
feelings -- "
"Bah!"
"Really, uncle, if you say 'Bah!' to everything, I cannot go on."
"And what the deuce difference, sir, does it make to you, whether I say 'Bah!' or not?"
"Well, I love her. She came to England, and, as I could not exist, but was getting ill, and
should, no doubt, have died if I had not done so, I came to England."
"But d -- -e, I want to know about the mermaid."
"The vampyre, you mean, sir."
"Well, well, the vampyre."
"Then, uncle, all I can tell you is, that it is supposed a vampyre came one night and
inflicted a wound upon Flora's neck with his teeth, and that he is still endeavouring to
renew his horrible existence from the young, pure blood that flows through her veins."
"The devil he is!"
"Yes. I am bewildered, I must confess, by the mass of circumstances that have combined
to give the affair a horrible truthfulness. Poor Flora is much injured in health and spirits;
and when I came home, she, at once, implored me to give her up, and think of her no more,
for she could not think of allowing me to unite my fate with hers, under such
circumstances."

"She did?"
"Such were her words, uncle. She implored me -- she used the word 'implore' -- to fly
from her, to leave her to her fate, to endeavour to find happiness with some one else."
"Well?"
"But I saw her heart was breaking."
"What o' that?"
"Much of that, uncle. I told her that when I deserted her in the hour of misfortune that I
hoped Heaven would desert me. I told her that if her happiness was wrecked, to cling yet to
me, and that with what power and what strength God had given me, I would stand between
her and all ill."
"And what then?"
"She -- she fell upon my breast and wept and blessed me. Could I desert her -- could I say
to her, 'My dear girl, when you were full of health and beauty, I loved you, but now that
sadness is at your heart I leave you?' Could I tell her that, uncle, and yet call myself a
man?"
"No!" reared the old admiral, in a voice that made the room echo again; "and I tell you
what, if you had done so, d -- n you, you puppy, I'd have braced you, and -- and married the
girl myself. I would, d -- -e, but I would."
"Dear uncle!"
"Don't dear me, sir. Talk of deserting a girl when the signal of distress, in the shape of a
tear, is in her eye?"
"But I -- "
"You are a wretch -- a confounded lubberly boy -- a swab -- a d -- -- d bad grampus."
"You mistake, uncle."
"No, I don't. God bless you, Charles, you shall have her -- if a whole ship's crew of
vampyres said no, you shall have her. Let me see her -- just let me see her."
The admiral gave his lips a vigorous wipe with his sleeve, and Charles said hastily, --
"My dear uncle, you will recollect that Miss Bannerworth is quite a young lady."
"I suppose she is."

"Well, then, for God's sake, don't attempt to kiss her."
"Not kiss her! d -- -e, they like it. Not kiss her, because she's a young lady! D -- -e, do
you think I'd kiss a corporal of marines?"
"No, uncle; but you know young ladies are very delicate."
"And ain't I delicate -- shiver my timbers, ain't I delicate? Where is she? that's what I
want to know."
"Then you approve of what I have done?"
"You are a young scamp, but you have got some of the old admiral's family blood in you,
so don't take any credit for acting like an honest man -- you couldn't help it."
"But if I had not so acted, " said Charles, with a smile, "what would have become of the
family blood, then?"
"What's that to you? I would have disowned you, because that very thing would have
convinced me you were an impostor, and did not belong to the family at all."
"Well, that would have been one way of getting over the difficulty."
"No difficulty at all. The man who deserts the good ship that carries him through the
waves, or the girl that trusts her heart to him, ought to be chopped up into meat for wild
monkeys."
"Well, I think so too."
"Of course you do."
"Why, of course?"
"Because it's so d -- -- d reasonable that, being a nephew of mine, you can't possibly help
it."
"Bravo, uncle! I had no idea you were so argumentative."
"Hadn't you a spooney; you'd be an ornament to the gun-room, you would; but where's
the 'young lady' who is so infernal delicate -- where is she, I say?"
"I will fetch her, uncle."
"Ah, do; I'll be bound, now, she's one of the right build -- a good figure-head, and don't
make too much stern-way."

"Well, well, whatever you do, now don't pay her any compliments, for your efforts in that
line are of such a very doubtful order, that I shall dread to hear you."
"You be off, and mind your own business; I haven't been at sea forty years without
picking up some out-and-out delicate compliments to say to a young lady."
"But do you really imagine, now, that the deck of a man-of-war is a nice place to pick up
courtly compliments in?"
"Of course I do. There you hear the best of language, d -- -e! You don't know what you
are talking about, you fellows that have stuck on shore all your lives; it's we seamen who
learn life."
"Well, well -- hark!"
"What's that?"
"A cry -- did you not hear a cry?"
"A signal of distress, by G-d!"
In their efforts to leave the room, the uncle and nephew for about a minute actually
blocked up the door-way, but the superior bulk of the admiral prevailed, and after nearly
squeezing poor Charles flat, he got out first.
But this did not avail him, for he knew not where to go. Now, the second scream which
Flora had uttered when the vampyre had clasped her waist came upon their ears, and, as
they were outside the room, it acted well as a guide in which direction to come.
Charles fancied correctly enough at once that it proceeded from the room which was
called "Flora's own room," and thither-ward accordingly he dashed at tremendous speed.
Henry, however, happened to be nearer at hand, and, moreover, he did not hesitate a
moment, because he knew that Flora was in her own room; so he reached it first, and
Charles saw him rush in a few moments before he could reach the room.
The difference of time, however, was very slight, and Henry had only just raised Flora
from the floor as Charles appeared.
"God of Heaven!" cried the latter, "what has happened?"
"I know not," said Henry; "as God is my judge, I know not. Flora, Flora, speak to us!
Flora! Flora!"
"She has fainted!" cried Charles. "Some water may restore her. Oh, Henry, Henry, is not
this horrible?"

"Courage! courage!" said Henry, although his voice betrayed what a terrible state of
anxiety he was himself in; "you will find water in that decanter, Charles. Here is my
mother, too! Another visit! God help us!"
Mrs. Bannerworth sat down on the edge of the sofa which was in the room, and could
only wring her hands and weep.
"Avast!" cried the admiral, making his appearance. "Where's the enemy, lads?"
"Uncle," said Charles, "uncle, uncle, the vampyre has been here again -- the dreadful
vampyre!"
"D -- n me, and he's gone, too, and carried half the window with him. Look there!"
It was literally true; the window, which was a long latticed one, was smashed through.
"Help! oh, help!" said Flora, as the water that was dashed in her face began to recover
her.
"You are safe!" cried Henry, "you are safe!"
"Flora," said Charles; "you know my voice, dear Flora? Look up, and you will see there
are none here but those who love you."
Flora opened her eyes timidly as she said, --
"Has it gone?"
"Yes, yes, dear," said Charles. "Look around you; here are none but true friends."
"And tried friends, my dear," said Admiral Bell, "excepting me; and whenever you like to
try me, afloat or ashore, d -- n me, shew me Old Nick himself, and I won't shrink -- yard
arm and yard arm -- grapnel to grapnel -- pitch pots and grenades!"
"This is my uncle, Flora," said Charles.
"I thank you, sir," said Flora, faintly.
"All right!" whispered the admiral to Charles; "what a figure-head to be sure! Poll at
Swansea would have made just about four of her, but she wasn't so delicate, d -- n me!"
"I should think not."
"You are right for once in a way, Charley."

"What was it that alarmed you?" said Charles, tenderly, as he now took one of Flora's
hands in his.
"Varney -- Varney, the vampyre."
"Varney!" exclaimed Henry; "Varney here!"
"Yes, he came in at that door; and when I screamed, I suppose -- for I hardly was
conscious -- he darted out through the window."
"This," said Henry, "is beyond all human patience. By Heaven! I cannot and will not
endure it."
"It shall be my quarrel," said Charles; "I shall go at once and defy him. He shall meet
me."
"Oh, no, no, no," said Flora, as she clung convulsively to Charles. "No, no; there is a
better way."
"What way?"
"The place has become full of terrors. Let us leave it. Let him, as he wishes, have it."
"Let him have it?"
"Yes, yes, God knows, if it purchase an immunity from these visits, we may well be
overjoyed. Remember that we have ample reasons to believe him more than human. Why
should you allow yourselves to risk a personal encounter with such a man, who might be
glad to kill you that he might have an opportunity of replenishing his own hideous
existence from your best heart's blood?"
The young men looked aghast.
"Besides," added Flora, "you cannot tell what dreadful powers of mischief he may have,
against which human courage might be of no avail."
"There is truth and reason," said Mr. Marchdale, stepping forward, "in what Flora says."
"Only let me come across him, that's all," said Admiral Bell, "and I'll soon find out what
he is. I suppose he's some long slab of a lubber after all, ain't he, with no strength."
"His strength is immense," said Marchdale. "I tried to seize him, and I fell beneath his
arm as if I had been struck by the hammer of a Cyclops."
"A what?" cried the admiral.

"A Cyclops."
"D -- n me, I served aboard the Cyclops eleven years, and never saw a very big hammer
aboard of her."
"What on earth is to be done?" said Henry.
"Oh," chimed in the admiral, "there's always a bother about what's to be done on earth.
Now, at sea, I could soon tell you what was to be done."
"We must hold a solemn consultation over this matter," said Henry. "You are safe now,
Flora."
"Oh, be ruled by me. Give up the Hall."
"You tremble."
"I do tremble, brother, for what may yet ensue. I implore you to give up the Hall. It is but
a terror to us now -- give it up. Have no more to do with it. Let us make terms with Sir
Francis Varney. Remember, we dare not kill him."
"He ought to be smothered," said the admiral.
"It is true," remarked Henry, "we dare not, even holding all the terrible suspicions we do,
take his life."
"By foul means certainly not," said Charles, "were he ten times a vampyre. I cannot,
however, believe that he is so invulnerable as he is represented."
"No one represents him here," said Marchdale. "I speak, sir, because I saw you glance at
me. I only know that, having made two unsuccessful attempts so to seize him, he eluded
me, once by leaving in my grasp a piece of his coat, and the next time he struck me down,
and I feel yet the effects of the terrific blow."
"You hear?" said Flora.
"Yes, I hear," said Charles.
"For some reason," added Marchdale, in a tone of emotion, "what I say seems to fall
always badly upon Mr. Holland's ear. I know not why; but if it will give him any
satisfaction, I will leave Bannerworth Hall to-night."
"No, no, no," said Henry; "for the love of Heaven, do not let us quarrel."

"Hear, hear," cried the admiral. "We can never fight the enemy well if the ship's crew are
on bad terms. Come now, you Charles, this appears to be an honest, gentlemanly fellow --
give him your hand."
"If Mr. Charles Holland," said Marchdale, "knows aught to my prejudice in any way,
however slight, I here beg of him to declare it at once, and openly."
"I cannot assert that I do," said Charles.
"Then what the deuce do you make yourself so disagreeable for, eh?" cried the admiral.
"One cannot help one's impression and feelings," said Charles; "but I am willing to take
Mr. Marchdale's hand."
"And I yours, young sir," said Marchdale, "in all sincerity of spirit, and with good will
towards you."
They shook hands; but it required no conjuror to perceive that it was not done willingly or
cordially. It was a hand-shaking of that character which seemed to imply on each side, "I
don't like you, but I don't know positively any harm of you."
"There now," said the admiral, "that's better."
"Now, let us hold counsel about this Varney," said Henry. "Come to the parlour all of
you, and we will endeavor to come to some decided arrangement."
"Do not weep, mother," said Flora. "All may yet be well. We will leave this place."
"We will consider that question, Flora," said Henry; "and believe me your wishes will go
a long way with all of us, as you may well suppose they always would."
They left Mrs. Bannerworth with Flora, and proceeded to the small oaken parlour, in
which were the elaborate and beautiful carvings which have been before mentioned.
Henry's countenance, perhaps, wore the most determined expression of all. He appeared
now as if he had thoroughly made up his mind to do something which should have a
decided tendency to put a stop to the terrible scenes which were now day by day taking
place beneath that roof.
Charles Holland looked serious and thoughtful, as if he were revolving some course of
action in his mind concerning which he was not quite clear.
Mr. Marchdale was more sad and depressed, to all appearance, than any of them.
As for the admiral, he was evidently in a state of amazement, and knew not what to think.
He was anxious to do something, and yet what that was to be he had not the most remote

idea, any more than as if he was not at all cognisant of any of those circumstances, every
one of which was so completely out of the line of his former life and experience.
George had gone to call on Mr. Chillingworth, so he was not present at the first part of
this serious council of war.
--

Chapter XXII.
THE CONSULTATION. -- THE DETERMINATION TO LEAVE THE HALL.
This was certainly the most seriously reasonable meeting which had been held at
Bannerworth Hall on the subject of the much dreaded vampyre. The absolute necessity for
doing something of a decisive character was abundantly apparent, and when Henry
promised Flora that her earnest wish to leave the house should not be forgotten as an
element in the discussion which was about to ensue, it was with a rapidly growing feeling
on his own part, to the effect that that house, associated even as it was with many endearing
recollections, was no home for him.
Hence he was the more inclined to propose a departure from the Hall if it could possibly
be arranged satisfactorily in a pecuniary point of view. The pecuniary point of view,
however, in which Henry was compelled to look at the subject, was an important and a
troublesome one.
We have already hinted at the very peculiar state of the finances of the family; and, in
fact, although the income derivable from various sources ought to have been amply
sufficient to provide Henry, and those who were dependent upon him, with a respectable
livelihood, yet it was nearly all swallowed up by the payment of regular instalments upon
family debts incurred by his father. And the creditors took great credit to themselves that
they allowed of such an arrangement, instead of sweeping off all before them, and leaving
the family to starve.
The question, therefore, or, at all events, one of the questions, now was, how far would a
departure from the Hall of him, Henry, and the other branches of the family, act upon that
arrangement?
During a very few minutes' consideration, Henry, with the frank and candid disposition
which was so strong a characteristic of his character, made up his mind to explain all this
fully to Charles Holland and his uncle.
When once he formed such a determination he was not likely to be slow in carrying it into
effect, and no sooner, then, were the whole of them seated in the small oaken parlour than
he made an explicit statement of his circumstances.
"But," said Mr. Marchdale, when he had done, "I cannot see what right your creditors
have to complain of where you live, so long as you perform your contract to them."
"True; but they always expected me, I know, to remain at the Hall, and if they chose,
why, of course, at any time, they could sell off the whole property for what it would fetch,
and pay themselves as far as the proceeds would go. At all events, I am quite certain there
could be nothing at all left for me."

"I cannot imagine," added Mr. Marchdale, "that any men could be so unreasonable."
"It is scarcely to be borne," remarked Charles Holland, with more impatience than he
usually displayed, "that a whole family are to be put to the necessity of leaving their home
for no other reason than the being pestered by such a neighbour as Sir Francis Varney. It
makes one impatient and angry to reflect upon such a state of things."
"And yet they are lamentably true," said Henry. "What can we do?"
"Surely there must be some sort of remedy."
"There is but one that I can imagine, and that is one we all alike revolt from. We might
kill him."
"That is out of the question."
"Of course my impression is that he bears the same name really as myself, and that he is
my ancestor, from whom was painted the portrait on the panel."
"Have circumstances really so far pressed upon you," said Charles Holland, "as at length
to convince you that this man is really the horrible creature we surmise he may be?"
"Dare we longer doubt it?" cried Henry, in a tone of excitement. "He is the vampyre."
"I'll be hanged if I believe it," said Admiral Bell! "Stuff and nonsense! Vampyre, indeed!
Bother the vampyre."
"Sir," said Henry, "you have not had brought before you, painfully, as we have, all the
circumstances upon which we, in a manner, feel compelled to found this horrible belief. At
first incredulity was a natural thing. We had no idea that ever we would be brought to
believe in such a thing."
"That is the case," added Marchdale. "But, step by step, we have been driven from utter
disbelief in this phenomenon to a trembling conviction that it must be true."
"Unless we admit that, simultaneously, the senses of a number of persons have been
deceived."
"That is scarcely possible."
"Then do you mean really to say there are such fish?" said the admiral.
"We think so."
"Well, I'm d -- -- d! I have heard all sorts of yarns about what fellows have seen in one
ocean or another; but this does beat them all to nothing."

"It is monstrous," exclaimed Charles.
There was a pause of some few moments' duration, and then Mr. Marchdale said, in a low
voice, --
"Perhaps I ought not to propose any course of action until you, Henry, have yourself done
so; but even at the risk of being presumptuous, I will say that I am firmly of the opinion
that you ought to leave the Hall."
"I am inclined to think so, too," said Henry.
"But the creditors?" interposed Charles.
"I think they might be consulted on the matter beforehand," added Marchdale, "when no
doubt they would acquiesce in an arrangement which could do them no harm."
"Certainly, no harm," said Henry, "for I cannot take the estate with me, as they well
know."
"Precisely. If you do not like to sell it, you can let it."
"To whom?"
"Why, under the existing circumstances, it is not likely you would get any tenant for it
than the one who has offered himself."
"Sir Francis Varney?"
"Yes. It seems to be a great object with him to live here, and it appears to me, that
notwithstanding all that has occurred, it is most decidedly the best policy to let him."
Nobody could really deny the reasonableness of this advice, although it seemed strange,
and was repugnant to the feelings of them all, as they heard it. There was a pause of some
seconds' duration, and then Henry said, --
"It does, indeed seem singular, to surrender one's house to such a being."
"Especially," said Charles, "after what has occurred."
"True."
"Well," said Mr. Marchdale, "if any better plan of proceeding, taking the whole case into
consideration, can be devised, I shall be most happy."
"Will you consent to put off all proceedings for three days?" said Charles Holland,
suddenly.

"Have you any plan, my dear sir?" said Mr. Marchdale.
"I have, but it is one which I would rather say nothing about for the present."
"I have no objection," said Henry, "I do not know that three days can make any difference
in the state of affairs. Let it be so, if you wish, Charles."
"Then I am satisfied," said Charles. "I cannot but feel that, situated as I am regarding
Flora, this is almost more my affair than even yours, Henry."
"I cannot see that," said Henry. "Why should you take upon yourself more of the
responsibility of these affairs than I, Charles? You induce in my mind a suspicion that you
have some desperate project in your imagination, which by such a proposition you would
seek to reconcile us to."
Charles was silent, and Henry then added, --
"Now, Charles, I am quite convinced that what I have hinted at is the fact. You have
conceived some scheme which you fancy would be much opposed by us?"
"I will not deny that I have," said Charles. "It is one, however, which you must allow me
for the present to keep locked in my own breast."
"Why will you not trust us?"
"For two reasons."
"Indeed!"
"The one is, that I have not yet thoroughly determined upon the course I project; and the
other is, that it is one in which I am not justified in involving anyone else."
"Charles, Charles," said Henry, despondingly; "only consider for a moment into what
new misery you may plunge poor Flora, who is, Heaven knows, already sufficiently
afflicted, by attempting an enterprise which even we, who are your friends, may
unwittingly cross you in the performance of."
"This is one in which I fear no such result. It cannot so happen. Do not urge me."
"Can't you say at once what you think of doing?" said the old admiral. "What do you
mean by turning your sails in all sorts of directions so oddly? You sneak, why don't you be
what do you call it -- explicit?"
"I cannot, uncle."
"What, are you tongue-tied?"

"All here know well," said Charles, "that if I do not unfold my mind fully, it is not that I
fear to trust any one present, but from some other most special reason."
"Charles, I forbear to urge you further," said Henry, "and only implore you to be careful."
At this moment the room door opened, and George Bannerworth, accompanied by Mr.
Chillingworth, came in.
"Do not let me intrude," said the surgeon; "I fear, as I see you seated, gentlemen, that my
presence must be a rudeness and a disturbance to some family consultation among
yourselves?"
"Not at all, Mr. Chillingworth," said Henry. "Pray be seated; we are very glad indeed to
see you. Admiral Bell, this is a friend on whom we can rely -- Mr. Chillingworth."
"And one of the right sort, I can see," said the admiral, as he shook Mr. Chillingworth by
the hand.
"Sir, you do me much honour," said the doctor.
"None at all, none at all; I suppose you know all about this infernal odd vampyre
business?"
"I believe I do, sir."
"And what do you think of it?"
"I think time will develop the circumstances sufficiently to convince us all that such
things cannot be."
"D -- n me, you are the most sensible fellow, then, that I have yet met with since I have
been in this neighbourhood; for everybody else is so convinced about the vampyre, that
they are ready to swear by him."
"It would take much more to convince me. I was coming over here when I met Mr.
George Bannerworth coming to my house."
"Yes," said George, "and Mr. Chillingworth has something to tell us of a nature
confirmatory of our own suspicions."
"It is strange," said Henry; "but any piece of news, come it from what quarter it may,
seems to be confirmatory, in some degree or another, of that dreadful belief in vampyres."
"Why," said the doctor, "when Mr. George says that my news is of such a character, I
think he goes a little too far. What I have to tell you, I do not conceive has anything
whatever to do with the fact, or one fact of there being vampyres."

"Let us hear it," said Henry.
"It is simply this, that I was sent for by Sir Francis Varney myself."
"You sent for?"
"Yes; he sent for me by a special messenger to come to him, and when I went, which,
under the circumstances, you may well guess, I did with all the celerity possible, I found it
was to consult me about a flesh wound in his arm, which was showing some angry
symptoms."
"Indeed."
"Yes, it was so. When I was introduced to him I found him lying on a couch, and looking
pale and unwell. In the most respectful manner, he asked me to be seated, and when I had
taken a chair, he added, --
"'Mr. Chillingworth, I have sent for you in consequence of a slight accident which has
happened to my arm. I was incautiously loading some fire-arms, and discharged a pistol so
close to me that the bullet inflicted a wound on my arm.'
"'If you will allow me,' said I, 'to see the wound, I will give you my opinion.'
"He then showed me a jagged wound, which had evidently been caused by the passage of
a bullet, which, had it gone a little deeper, must have inflicted a serious injury. As it was,
the wound was trifling.
"He had evidently been attempting to dress it himself, but finding some considerable
inflammation, he very likely got a little alarmed."
"You dressed the wound?"
"I did."
"And what do you think of Sir Francis Varney, now that you have had so capital an
opportunity," said Henry, "of a close observation of him?"
"Why, there is certainly something odd about him which I cannot well define, but, take
him altogether, he can be a very gentlemanly man indeed."
"So he can."
"His manners are easy and polished; he has evidently mixed in good society, and I never,
in all my life, heard such a sweet, soft, winning voice."

"That is strictly him. You noticed, I presume, his great likeness to the portrait on the
panel?"
"I did. At some moments, and viewing his face in some particular lights, it showed much
more strongly than at others. My impression was that he could, when he liked, look much
more like the portrait on the panel than when he allowed his face to assume its ordinary
appearance."
"Probably such an impression would be produced upon your mind," said Charles, "by
some accidental expression of the countenance which even he was not aware of, and which
often occurs in families."
"It may be so."
"Of course you did not hint, sir, at what has passed here with regard to him?" said Henry.
"I did not. Being, you see, called in professionally, I had no right to take advantage of that
circumstance to make any remarks to him about his private affairs."
"Certainly not."
"It was all one to me whether he was a vampyre or not, professionally, and however
deeply I might feel, personally, interested in the matter, I said nothing to him about it,
because, you see, if I had, he would have had a fair opportunity of saying at once, 'Pray, sir,
what is that to you?' and I should have been at a loss what to reply."
"Can we doubt," said Henry, "but that this very wound has been inflicted upon Sir Francis
Varney, by the pistol-bullet which was discharged at him by Flora?"
"Everything leads to such an assumption certainly," said Charles Holland.
"And yet you cannot even deduce from that the absolute fact of Sir Francis Varney's
being a vampyre?"
"I do not think, Mr. Chillingworth," said Marchdale, "anything would convince you but a
visit from him, and an actual attempt to fasten upon some of your own veins." "That would
not convince me," said Chillingworth.
"Then you will not be convinced?"
"I certainly will not. I mean to hold out to the last. I said at the first, and I say so still, that
I never will give way to this most outrageous superstition."
"I wish I could think with you," said Marchdale, with a shudder; "but there may be
something in the very atmosphere of this house which has been rendered hideous by the

awful visits that have been made to it, which forbids me to disbelieve in those things which
others more happily situated can hold at arm's length, and utterly repudiate."
"There may be," said Henry; "but as to that, I think, after the very strongly expressed
wish of Flora, I will decide upon leaving the house."
"Will you sell it or let it?"
"The latter I should much prefer," was the reply.
"But who will take it now, except Sir Francis Varney? Why not at once let him have it? I
am well aware that this does sound odd advice, but remember, we are all the creatures of
circumstance, and that, in some cases where we least like it, we must swim with the
stream."
"That you will not decide upon, however, at present," said Charles Holland, as he rose.
"Certainly not; a few days can make no difference."
"None for the worse, certainly, and possibly much for the better."
"Be it so; we will wait."
"Uncle," said Charles, "Will you spare me half an hour of your company?"
"An hour, my boy, if you want it," said the admiral, rising from his chair.
"Then this consultation is over," said Henry, "and we quite understand that to leave the
Hall is a matter determined on, and that in a few days a decision shall come as to whether
Varney the Vampyre shall be its tenant or not."
--

Chapter XXIII.
THE ADMIRAL'S ADVICE TO CHARLES HOLLAND. -- THE CHALLENGE TO

THE VAMPYRE.
When Charles Holland got his uncle into a room by themselves, he said, --
"Uncle, you are a seaman, and accustomed to decide upon matters of honour. I look upon
myself as having been most grievously insulted by this Sir Francis Varney. All accounts
agree in representing him as a gentleman. He goes openly by a title, which, if it were not
his, could easily be contradicted; therefore, on the score of position in life, there is no fault
to find with him. What would you do if you were insulted by this gentleman?"
The old admiral's eyes sparkled, and he looked comically in the face of Charles, as he
said, --
"I know now where you are steering."
"What would you do, uncle?"
"Fight him!"
"I knew you would say so, and that's just what I want to do as regards Sir Francis
Varney."
"Well, my boy, I don't know that you can do better. He must be a thundering rascal,
whether he is a vampyre or not; so if you feel that he has insulted you, fight him by all
means, Charles."
"I am much pleased, uncle, to find that you take my view of the subject," said Charles. "I
knew that if I mentioned such a thing to the Bannerworths, they would endeavour all in
their power to persuade me against it."
"Yes, no doubt; because they are all impressed with a strange fear of this fellow's
vampyre powers. Besides, if a man is going to fight, the fewer people he mentions it to the
most decidedly the better, Charles."
"I believe that is the fact, uncle. Should I overcome Varney, there will most likely be at
once an end to the numerous and uncomfortable perplexities of the Bannerworths as
regards him; and if he overcome me, why, then, at all events, I shall have made an effort to
rescue Flora from the dread of this man."
"And then he shall fight me," added the admiral, "so he shall have two chances, at all
events, Charles."

"Nay, uncle, that would, you know, scarcely be fair. Besides, if I should fall, I solemnly
bequeath Flora Bannerworth to your good offices. I much fear that the pecuniary affairs of
poor Henry, -- from no fault of his, Heaven knows, -- are in a very bad state, and that Flora
may yet live to want some kind and able friend."
"Never fear, Charles. The young creature shall never want while the old admiral has got a
shot in the locker."
"Thank you, uncle, thank you. I have ample cause to know, and to be able to rely upon
your kind and generous nature. And now about the challenge?"
"You write it, boy, and I'll take it."
"Will you second me, uncle?"
"To be sure I will. I wouldn't trust anybody else to do so on any account. You leave all
the arrangements with me, and I'll second you as you ought to be seconded."
"Then I will write it at once, for I have received injuries at the hands of that man, or devil,
be he what he may, that I cannot put up with. His visit to the chamber of her whom I love
would alone constitute ample ground of action."
"I should say it rather would, my boy."
"And after this corroborative story of the wound, I cannot for a moment doubt that Sir
Francis Varney is the vampyre, or the personifier of the vampyre."
"That's clear enough, Charles, Come, just you write your challenge, my boy, at once, and
let me have it."
"I will, uncle."
Charles was a little astonished, although pleased, at his uncle's ready acquiescence in his
fighting a vampyre, but that circumstance he ascribed to the old man's habits of life, which
made him so familiar with strife and personal contentions of all sorts, that he did not
ascribe to it that amount of importance which more peaceable people did. Had he, while he
was writing the note to Sir Francis Varney, seen the old admiral's face, and the exceedingly
cunning look it wore, he might have suspected that the acquiescence in the duel was but a
seeming acquiescence. This, however, escaped him, and in a few moments he read to his
uncle the following note: --
"TO SIR FRANCIS VARNEY.
"Sir, -- The expressions made use of towards me by you, as well as general

circumstances, which I need not further allude to here, induce me to demand of you that
satisfaction due from one gentleman to another. My uncle, Admiral Bell, is the bearer of

this note, and will arrange preliminaries with any friend you may choose to appoint to act in
your behalf. I am, sir, yours, &c. "CHARLES HOLLAND."
"Will that do?" said Charles.
"Capital!" said the admiral.
"I am glad you like it."
"Oh, I could not help liking it. The least said and the most to the purpose, always pleases
me best; and this explains nothing and demands all you want -- which is a fight; so it's all
right, you see, and nothing can possibly be better."
Charles did glance in his uncle's face, for he suspected, from the manner in which these
words were uttered, that the old man was amusing himself a little at his expense. The
admiral, however, looked so supernaturally serious that Charles was foiled.
"I repeat, it's a capital letter," he said.
"Yes, you said so."
"Well, what are you staring at?"
"Oh, nothing."
"Do you doubt my word?"
"Not at all, uncle; only I thought there was a degree of irony in the manner in which you
spoke."
"Not at all, my boy. I never was more serious in all my life."
"Very good. Then you will remember that I leave my honour in this affair completely in
your hands."
"Depend upon me, my boy."
"I will, and do."
"I'll be off and see the fellow at once."
"The admiral bustled out of the room, and in a few moments Charles heard him calling
loudly, --
"Jack -- Jack Pringle, you lubber, where are you? -- Jack Pringle, I say."

"Ay, ay, sir," said Jack, emerging from the kitchen, where he had been making himself
generally useful in assisting Mrs. Bannerworth, there being no servant in the house, to cook
some dinner for the family.
"Come on, you rascal, we are going for a walk."
"The rations will be served out soon," growled Jack.
"We shall be back in time, you cormorant, never fear. You are always thinking of eating
and drinking, you are, Jack; and I'll be hanged if I think you ever think of anything else.
Come on, will you; I'm going on rather a particular cruise just now, so mind what you are
about."
"Aye, aye, sir," said the tar, and these two originals, who so perfectly understood each
other, walked away, conversing as they went, and their different voices coming upon the
ear of Charles, until distance obliterated all impression of the sound.
Charles paced to and fro in the room where he had held this brief and conclusive
conversation with his uncle. He was thoughtful, as any one might well be who knew not but
that the next four-and-twenty hours would be the limit of his sojourn in this world.
"Oh, Flora -- Flora!" he at length said, "how happy we might to have been! but all is past
now, and there seems nothing left us and that is in my killing this fearful man who is
invested with so dreadful an existence. And if I do kill him in fair and in open fight, I will
take care that his mortal frame has no power again to revisit the glimpses of the moon."
It was strange to imagine that such was the force of many concurrent circumstances, that
a young man like Charles Holland, of first-rate abilities and education, should find it
necessary to give in so far to a belief which was repugnant to all his best feelings and habits
of thought, as to be reasoning with himself upon the best means of preventing the
resuscitation of the corpse of a vampyre. But so it was. His imagination had yielded to a
succession of events which very few persons indeed could have held out against.
"I have heard and read," he said, as he continued his agitated and uneasy walk, "of how
these dreadful beings are to be kept in their graves. I have heard of stakes being driven
through the body so as to pin it to the earth until the gradual progress of decay has rendered
its revivification a thing of utter and total impossibility. Then, again," he added, after a
slight pause, "I have heard of their being burned, and the ashes scattered to the winds of
Heaven to prevent them from ever again uniting or assuming human form."
These were disagreeable and strange fancies, and he shuddered while he indulged in
them. He felt a kind of trembling horror come over him even at the thought of engaging in
conflict with a being who, perhaps, had lived more than a hundred years.

"That portrait," he thought, "on the panel, is the portrait of a man in the prime of life. If it
be the portrait of Sir Francis Varney, by the date which the family ascribe to it he must be
nearly one hundred and fifty years of age now."
This was a supposition which carried the imagination to a vast amount of strange
conjectures.
"What changes he must have witnessed about him in that time," thought Charles. "How
he must have seen kingdoms totter and fall, and how many changes of habits, of manners,
and of custom must he have become a spectator of. Renewing too, ever and anon, his
fearful existence by such fearful means."
This was a wide field of conjecture for a fertile imagination, and now that he was on the
eve of engaging with such a being in mortal combat, on behalf of her he loved, the thoughts
it gave rise to came more strongly and thickly upon him than ever they had done before.
"But I will fight him," he suddenly said, "for Flora's sake, were he a hundred times more
hideous a being than so many evidences tend to prove him. I will fight with him, and it may
be my fate to rid the world of such a monster in human form."
Charles worked himself up to a kind of enthusiasm by which he almost succeeded in

convincing himself that, in attempting the destruction of Sir Francis Varney, he was the
champion of human nature.
It would be aside from the object of these pages, which is to record facts as they occurred,
to enter into the metaphysical course of reasoning which came across Charles's mind;
suffice it to say that he felt nothing shaken as regarded his resolve to meet Varney the
Vampyre, and that he made up his mind the conflict should be one of life or death.
"It must be so," he said. "It must be so. Either he or I must fall in the fight which shall
surely be."
He now sought Flora, for how soon might he now be torn from her for ever by the
irresistible hand of death. He felt that, during the few brief hours which now would only
elapse previous to his meeting with Sir Francis Varney, he could not enjoy too much of the
society of her who reigned supreme in his heart, and held in her own keeping his best
affections.
But while Charles is thus employed, let us follow his uncle and Jack Pringle to the
residence of Varney, which, as the reader is aware, was so near at hand that it required not
many minutes' sharp walking to reach it.
The admiral knew well he could trust Jack with any secret, for long habits of discipline
and deference to the orders of superiors takes off the propensity to blabbering which,
among civilians who are not accustomed to discipline, is so very prevalent. The old man
therefore explained to Jack what he meant to do, and it received Jack's full approval; but as

in the enforced detail of other matters it must come out, we will not here prematurely enter
into the admiral's plans.
When they reached the residence of Sir Francis Varney, they were received courteously
enough, and the admiral desired Jack to wait for him the handsome hall of the house, while
he was shewn up stairs to the private room of the vampyre.
"Confound the fellow!" muttered the old admiral, "he is well lodged at all events. I should
say he was not one of those vampyres who have nowhere to go to but their own coffins
when the evening comes."
The room into which the admiral was shewn had green blinds to it, and they were all
drawn down. It is true that the sun was shining brightly outside, although transiently, but
still a strange green tinge was thrown over everything in the room, and more particularly
did it appear to fall upon the face of Varney, converting his usually sallow countenance into
a still more hideous and strange colour. He was sitting upon a couch, and, when the admiral
came in, he rose, and said, in a deep-toned voice, extremely different to that he usually
spoke in, --
"My humble home is much honoured, sir, by your presence in it."
"Good morning," said the admiral. "I have come to speak to you, sir, rather seriously."
"However abrupt this announcement may sound to me," said Varney, "I am quite sure I
shall always hear, with the most profound respect, whatever Admiral Bell may have to
say."
"There is no respect required," said the admiral, "but only a little attention."
Sir Francis bowed in a stately manner, saying, --
"I shall be quite unhappy if you will not be seated, Admiral Bell."
"Oh, never mind that, Sir Francis Varney, if you be Sir Francis Varney; for you may be
the devil himself, for all I know. My nephew, Charles Holland, considers that, one way and
another, he has a very tolerable quarrel with you."
"I much grieve to hear it."
"Do you?"
"Believe me, I do. I am most scrupulous in what I say; and an assertion that I am grieved,
you may thoroughly and entirely depend upon."
"Well, well, never mind that; Charles Holland is a young man just entering into life. He
loves a girl who is, I think, every way worthy of him."

"Oh, what a felicitous prospect!"
"Just hear me out, if you please."
"With pleasure, sir -- with pleasure."
"Well, then, when a young, hot-headed fellow thinks he has a good ground of quarrel
with anybody, you will not be surprised at his wanting to fight it out."
"Not at all."
"Well, then, to come to the point, my nephew, Charles Holland, has a fancy for fighting
with you."
"Ah!"
"You take it d -- -- d easy."
"My dear sir, why should I be uneasy? He is not my nephew, you know. I shall have no
particular cause, beyond those feelings of common compassion which I hope inhabit my
breast as well as every one else's."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, he is a young man just, as you say, entering into life, and I cannot help thinking it
would be a pity to cut him off like a flower in the bud, so very soon."
"Oh, you make quite sure, then, of settling him, do you?"
"My dear sir, only consider; he might be very troublesome, indeed; you know young men
are hot-headed and troublesome. Even if I were only to maim him, he might be a continual
and never-ceasing annoyance to me. I think I should be absolutely, in a manner of speaking,
compelled to cut him off."
"The devil you do!"
"As you say, sir."
"D -- n your assurance, Mr. Vampyre, or whatever odd fish you may be."
"Admiral Bell, I never called upon you and received a courteous reception, and then
insulted you."
"Then why do you talk of cutting off a better man than yourself? D -- n it, what would
you say to him cutting you off?"

"Oh, as for me, my good sir, that's quite another thing. Cutting me off is very doubtful."
Sir Francis Varney gave a strange smile as he spoke, and shook his head, as if some most
extraordinary and extravagant proposition had been mooted, which it was scarcely worth
the while of anybody possessed of common sense to set about expecting.
Admiral Bell felt strongly inclined to get into a rage, but he repressed the idea as much as
he could, although, but for the curious faint green light that came through the blinds, his
heightened colour would have sufficiently proclaimed what state of mind he was in.
"Mr. Varney," he said, "all this is quite beside the question; but at all events, if it have any
weight at all, it could to have a considerable influence in deciding you to accept the terms I
propose."
"What are they, sir?"
"Why, that you permit me to espouse my nephew Charles's quarrel, and meet you instead
of him."
"You meet me?"
"Yes; I've met a better man more than once before. It can make no difference to you."
"I don't know that, Admiral Bell. One generally likes, in a duel, to face him with whom
one has had the misunderstanding, be it on what grounds it may."
"There's some reason, I know, in what you say; but, surely, if I am willing, you need not
object."
"And is your nephew willing thus to shift the danger and the job of resenting his own
quarrels on to your shoulders?"
"No; he knows nothing about it. He has written you a challenge, of which I am the bearer,
but I voluntarily, and of my own accord, wish to meet you instead."
"This is a strange mode of proceeding."
"If you will not accede to it, and fight him first, and any harm comes to him, you shall
fight me afterwards."
"Indeed."
"Yes, indeed you shall, however surprised you may look."
"As this appears to be a family affair, then," said Sir Francis Varney, "it certainly does
appear immaterial which of you I fight with first."

"Quite so; now you take a sensible view of the question. Will you meet me?"
"I have no particular objection. Have you settled all your affairs, and made your will?"
"What's that to you?"
"Oh, I only asked, because there is generally so much food for litigation if a man dies
intestate, and is worth any money."
"You make devilish sure," said the admiral, "of being the victor. Have you made your
will?"
"Oh, my will," smiled Sir Francis; "that, my good sir, is quite an indifferent affair."
"Well, make it or not, as you like. I am old, I know, but I can pull a trigger as well as any
one."
"Do what?"
"Pull a trigger."
"Why, you don't suppose I resort to any such barbarous modes of fighting?"
"Barbarous! Why, how do you fight then?"
"As a gentleman, with my sword."
"Swords! Oh, nonsense! nobody fights with swords now-a-days. That's all exploded."
"I cling to the customs and the fashions of my youth," said Varney. "I have been, years
ago, accustomed always to wear a sword, and to be without one now vexes me."
"Pray, how many years ago?"
"I am older than I look, but that is not the question. I am willing to meet you with swords
if you like. You are no doubt aware that, as the challenged party, I am entitled to the choice
of weapons."
"I am."
"Then you cannot object to my availing myself of the one in the use of which I am
perfectly unequalled."
"Indeed."
"Yes, I am, I think, the first swordsman in Europe; I have had immense practice."

"Well, sir, you have certainly made a most unexpected choice of weapons. I can use a
sword still, but am by no means I master of fencing. However, it shall not be said that I
went back from my word, and let the chances be as desperate as they may, I will meet you."
"Very good."
"With swords?"
"Ay, with swords; but I must have everything properly arranged, so that no blame can rest
on me, you know. As you will be killed, you are safe from all consequences, but I shall be
in a very different position; so, if you please, I must have this meeting got up in such a
manner as shall enable me to prove, to whoever may question me on the subject, that you
had fair play."
"Oh, never fear that."
"But I do fear it. The world, my good sir, is censorious, and you cannot stop people from
saying extremely ill-natured things."
"What is it that you require, then?"
"I require that you send me a friend with a formal challenge."
"Well?"
"Then I shall refer him to a friend of mine, and they two must settle everything between
them."
"Is that all?"
"Not quite. I will have a surgeon on the ground, in case, when I pink you, there should be
a chance of saving your life. It always looks humane."
"When you pink me?"
"Precisely."
"Upon my word, you take these affairs easy. I suppose you have had a few of them?"
"Oh, a good number. People like yourself worry me into them. I don't like the trouble, I
assure you; it is no amusement to me. I would rather, by a great deal, make some
concession than fight, because I will fight with swords, and the result is then so certain that
there is no danger in the matter to me."

"Hark you, Sir Francis Varney. You are either a very clever actor, or a man, as you say,
of such skill with your sword, that you can make sure of the result of a duel. You know,
therefore, that it is not fair play on your part to fight a duel with that weapon."
"Oh, I beg your pardon there. I never challenge anybody, and when foolish people call me
out, contrary to my inclination, I think I am bound to take what care of myself I can."
"D -- n me, there's some reason in that, too," said the admiral; "but why do you insult
people?"
"People insult me first."
"Oh, nonsense!"
"How should you like to be called a vampyre, and stared at as if you were some hideous
natural phenomenon?"
"Well, but -- "
"I say, Admiral Bell, how should you like it? I am a harmless country gentleman, and
because, in the heated imagination of some member of a crack-brained family, some
housebreaker has been converted into a vampyre, I am to be pitched upon as the man, and
insulted and persecuted accordingly."
"But you forget the proofs."
"What proofs?"
"The portrait, for one."
"What! Because there is an accidental likeness between me and an old picture, am I to be

set down as a vampyre? Why, when I was in Austria last, I saw an old portrait of a
celebrated court fool, and you so strongly resemble it, that I was quite struck when I first
saw you with the likeness; but I was not so unpolite as to tell you that I considered you
were the court fool turned vampyre."
"D -- n your assurance!"
"And d -- n yours, if you come to that."
The admiral was fairly beaten. Sir Francis Varney was by far too long-headed and witty
for him. After now in vain endeavouring to find something to say, the old man buttoned up
his coat in a great passion, and looking fiercely at Varney, he said, --
"I don't pretend to a gift of the gab. D -- n me, it ain't one of my peculiarities; but though
you may talk me down, you sha'n't keep me down."

"Very good, sir."
"It is not very good. You shall hear from me."
"I am willing."
"I don't care whether you are willing or not. You shall find that when once I begin to
tackle an enemy, I don't so easily leave him. One or both of us, sir, is sure to sink."
"Agreed."
"So say I. You shall find that I'm a tar for all weathers, and if you were hundred and fifty
vampyres all rolled into one, I'd tackle you somehow."
The admiral walked to the door in high dudgeon; when he was near to it, Varney said, in
some of his most winning and gentle accents, --
"Will you not take some refreshment, sir, before you go from my humble house?"
"No!" roared the admiral.
"Something cooling?"
"No!"
"Very good, sir. A hospitable host can do no more that offer to entertain his guests."
Admiral Bell turned at the door, and said, with some degree of intense bitterness, "You
look rather poorly. I suppose, tonight, you will go and suck somebody's blood, you shark --
you confounded vampyre! You ought to be made to swallow a red-hot brick, and then let
dance about till it digests."
Varney smiled as he rang the bell, and said to a servant, --
"Show my very excellent friend Admiral Bell out. He will not take any refreshments."
The servant bowed, and preceded the admiral down the staircase; but, to his great
surprise, instead of a compliment in the shape of a shilling or half-a-crown for his pains, he
received a tremendous kick behind, with a request to go and take it to his master, with his
compliments.
The fume that the old admiral was in beggars all description. He walked to Bannerworth
Hall at such a rapid pace, that Jack Pringle had the greatest difficulty in the world to keep
up with him, so as to be at all within speaking distance.

"Hilloa, Jack," cried the old man, when they were close to the Hall. "Did you see me kick
that fellow?"
"Ay, ay, sir."
"Well, that's some consolation, at any rate, if somebody saw it. It ought to have been his
master, that's all I can say to it, and I wish it had."
"How have you settled it, sir?"
"Settled what?"
"The fight, sir."
"D -- n me, Jack, I haven't settled it at all."
"That's bad, sir."
"I know it is; but it shall be settled for all that, I can tell him, let him vapour as much as
he may about pinking me, and one thing and another."
"Pinking you, sir?"
"Yes. He wants to fight with cutlasses, or toasting-forks, d -- n me, I don't know exactly
which, and then he must have a surgeon on the ground, for fear when he pinks me I
shouldn't slip my cable in a regular way, and he should be blamed."
Jack gave a long whistle, as he replied, --
"Going to do it, sir?"
"I don't know what I'm going to do. Mind, Jack, mum's the word."
"Ay, ay, sir."
"I'll turn the matter over in my mind, and then decide upon what had best be done. If he
pinks me, I'll take d -- -- d good care he don't pink Charles."
"No, sir, don't let him do that. A wamphigher, sir, ain't no good opponent to anybody. I
never seed one afore, but it strikes me as the best way to settle him, would be to shut him
up in some little bit of a cabin, and then smoke him with brimstone, sir."
"Well, well, I'll consider, Jack, I'll consider. Something must be done, and that quickly
too. Zounds, here's Charles -- what the deuce shall I say to him, by way of an excuse, I
wonder, for not arranging his affair with Varney? Hang me, if I ain't taken aback now, and
don't know where to place a hand."

--

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE LETTER TO CHARLES. -- THE QUARREL. -- THE ADMIRAL'S

NARRATIVE. -- THE MIDNIGHT MEETING
It was Charles Holland who now advanced hurriedly to meet the admiral. The young man's
manner was anxious. He was evidently most intent upon knowing what answer could be
sent by Sir Francis Varney to his challenge. "Uncle," he said, "tell me at once, will he meet
me? You can talk of particulars afterwards, but now tell me at once if he will meet me?"
"Why, as to that," said the admiral, with a great deal of fidgetty hesitation, "you see, I
can't exactly say."
"Not say!"
"No. He's a very odd fish. Don't you think he's a very odd fish, Jack Pringle?"
"Ay, ay, sir."
"There, you hear, Charles, that Jack is of my opinion that your opponent is an odd fish."
"But, uncle, why trifle with my impatience thus? Have you seen Sir Francis Varney?"
"Seen him. Oh, yes."
"And what did he say?"
"Why, to tell the truth, my lad, I advise you not to fight with him at all."
"Uncle, is this like you? This advice from you, to compromise my honour, after sending a
man a challenge?"
"D -- n it all, Jack, I don't know how to get out of it," said the admiral. "I tell you what it
is, Charles, he wants to fight with swords; and what on earth is the use of your engaging
with a fellow who has been practising at his weapon for more than a hundred years?"
"Well, uncle, if any one had told me that you would be terrified by this Sir Francis
Varney into advising me not to fight, I should have had no hesitation whatever in saying
such a thing was impossible."
"I terrified?"
"Why, you advise me not to meet this man, even after I have challenged him."

"Jack," said the admiral, "I can't carry it on, you see. I never could go on with anything
that was not as plain as an anchor, and quite straightforward. I must just tell all that has
occurred."
"Ay, ay, sir. The best way."
"You think so, Jack?"
"I know it is, sir, always axing pardon for having a opinion at all, excepting when it
happens to be the same as yourn, sir."
"Hold your tongue, you libellous villain! Now, listen to me, Charles. I got up a scheme of
my own."
Charles gave a groan, for he had a very tolerable appreciation of his uncle's amount of
skill in getting up a scheme of any kind of description.
"Now here am I," continued the admiral, "an old hulk, and not fit for use any more.
What's the use of me, I should like to know? Well, that's settled. But you are young and
hearty, and have a long life before you. Why should you throw away your life upon a
lubberly vampyre?"
"I begin to perceive now, uncle," said Charles, reproachfully, "why you, with such
apparent readiness, agreed to this duel taking place."
"Well I intended to fight the fellow myself, that's the long and short of it, boy."
"How could you treat me so?"
"No nonsense, Charles. I tell you it was all in the family. I intended to fight him myself.
What was the odds whether I slipped my cable with his assistance, or in the regular course a
little after this? That's the way to argufy the subject; so, as I tell you, I made up my mind to
fight him myself."
Charles looked despairingly, but said, --
"What was the result?"
"Oh, the result! D -- n me, I suppose that's to come. The vagabond won't fight like a
Christian. He says he's quite willing to fight anybody that calls him out, provided it's all
regular."
"Well -- well."
"And he, being the party challenged -- for he says he never himself challenges anybody,
as he is quite tired of it -- must have his choice of weapons."

"He is entitled to that; but it is generally understood now-a-days that pistols are the
weapons in use among gentlemen for such purposes."
"Ah, but he won't understand any such thing, I tell you. He will fight with swords."
"I suppose he is, then, an adept at the use of the sword?"
"He says he is."
"No doubt -- no doubt. I cannot blame a man for choosing, when he has the liberty of
choice, that weapon in the use of which he most particularly, from practice, excels."
"Yes; but if he be one half the swordsman he has had time enough, according to all
accounts, to be, what sort of chance have you with him?"
"Do I hear you reasoning thus?"
"Yes, to be sure you do. I have turned wonderfully prudent, you see: so I mean to fight
him myself, and mind, now, you have nothing whatever to do with it."
"An effort of prudence that, certainly."
"Well, didn't I say so?"
"Come -- come, uncle, this won't do. I have challenged Sir Francis Varney, and I must
meet him with any weapon he may, as the challenged party, choose to select. Besides, you
are not, I dare say, aware that I am a very good fencer, and probably stand as fair a chance
as Varney in a contest with swords."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, uncle. I could not be so long on the continent as I have been without picking up a
good knowledge of the sword, which is so popular all over Germany."
"Humph! but only consider, this d -- -- d fellow is no less than a hundred and fifty years
old."
"I care not."
"Yes, but I do."
"Uncle, uncle, I tell you I will fight with him; and if you do not arrange matters for me so
that I can have the meeting with this man, which I have myself sought, and cannot, even if I
wished, now recede from with honour, I must seek some other less scrupulous friend to do
so."

"Give me an hour or two to think of it, Charles," said the admiral. "Don't speak to any one
else, but give me a little time. You shall have no cause of complaint. Your honour cannot
suffer in my hands."
"I will wait your leisure, uncle; but remember that such affairs as these, when once
broached, had always better be concluded with all convenient dispatch."
"I know that, boy -- I know that."
The admiral walked away, and Charles, who really felt much fretted at the delay which
had taken place, returned to the house.
He had not been there long, when a lad, who had been temporarily hired during the
morning by Henry to answer the gate, brought him a note saying, --
"A servant, sir, left this for you just now."
"For me?" said Charles as he glanced at the direction. "This is strange, for I have no
acquaintance about here. Does any one wait?"
"No, sir."
The note was properly directed to him, therefore Charles Holland at once opened it. A
glance at the bottom of the page told him that it came from his enemy, Sir Francis Varney,
and then he read it with much eagerness. It ran thus: --
"SIR, -- Your uncle, as he stated himself to be, Admiral Bell, was the bearer to me, as I
understood him this day, of a challenge from you. Owing to some unaccountable
hallucination of intellect, he seemed to imagine that I intended to set myself up as a sort of
animated target, for any one to shoot at who might have a fancy so to do.
"According to this eccentric view of the case, the admiral had the kindness to offer to
fight me first, when, should he not have the good fortune to put me out of the world, you
were to try your skill, doubtless.
"I need scarcely say that I object to these family arrangements. You have challenged me,
and fancying the offence sufficient, you defy me to mortal combat. If, therefore, I fight with
any one at all, it must be with you.
"You will clearly understand me, sir, that I do not accuse you of being at all privy to this
freak of intellect of your uncle's. He, no doubt, alone conceived it, with a laudable desire on
his part of serving you. If, however, you have any inclination to meet me, do so to-night, in
the middle of the park surrounding your own friends' estate.

"There is a pollard oak growing close to a small pool; you, no doubt, have noticed the
spot often. Meet me there, if you please, and any satisfaction you like I will give you, at
twelve o'clock this night.
"Come alone, or you will not see me. It shall be at your own option entirely, to convert
the meeting to a hostile one or not. You need send me no answer to this. If you are at the
place I mention at the time I have named, well and good. If you are not, I can only, if I
please, imagine that you shrink from a meeting with "FRANCIS VARNEY."
Charles Holland read this letter twice over carefully, and then folding it up, and placing it
in his pocket, he said, --
"Yes, I will meet him; he may be assured that I do not shrink from Francis Varney. In the
name of honour, love, virtue, and Heaven, I will meet this man, and it shall go hard with me
but I will this night wring from him the secret of what he really is. For the sake of her who
is so dear to me -- for her sake, I will meet this man, or monster, be he what he may."
It would have been far more prudent had Charles informed Henry Bannerworth or George
of his determination to meet the vampyre that evening, but he did not do so. Somehow he
fancied it would be some reproach against his courage if he did not go, and go alone, too,
for he could not help suspecting that, from the conduct of his uncle, Sir Francis Varney
might have got up an opinion inimical to his courage.
With all the eager excitement of youth, there was nothing that arrayed itself to his mind in
such melancholy and uncomfortable colours as an imputation upon his courage.
"I will show this vampyre, if he be such," he said, "that I am not afraid to meet him, and
alone, too, at his own hour -- at midnight, even when, if his preternatural powers be of more
avail to him than at any other time, he can attempt, if he dare, to use them."
Charles resolved upon going armed, and with the greatest care he loaded his pistols, and
placed them aside ready for action, when the time should come to set out to meet the
vampyre at the spot in the park which had been particularly alluded to in his letter.
This spot was perfectly well known to Charles; indeed, no one could be a single day at
Bannerworth Hall without noticing it, so prominent an object was that pollard oak,
standing, as it did, alone, with the beautiful green sward all around it. Near it was the pool
which had been mentioned, which was, in reality, a fish-pond, and some little distance off
commenced the thick plantation, among the intricacies of which Sir Francis Varney, or the
vampyre, had been supposed to disappear, after the revivification of his body at the full of
the moon.
This spot was in view of several of the windows of the house, so that if the night should
happen to be a very light one, and any of the inhabitants of the Hall should happen to have
the curiosity to look from those particular windows, no doubt the meeting between Charles
Holland and the vampyre would be seen.

This, however, was a contingency which was nothing to Charles, whatever it might be to
Sir Francis Varney, and he scarcely at all considered it was worth consideration. He felt
more happy and comfortable now that everything seemed to be definitely arranged by
which he could come to some sort of explanation with that mysterious being who had so
effectually, as yet, succeeded in destroying his peace of mind and his prospects of
happiness.
"I will this night force him to declare himself," thought Charles. "He shall tell me who
and what he really is, and by some means I will endeavor to put an end to those frightful
persecutions which Flora has suffered."
This was a thought which considerably raised Charles's spirits, and when he sought Flora
again, which he now did, she was surprised to see him so much more easy and composed in
his mind, which was sufficiently shown by his manner, than he had been but so short a time
before.
"Charles," she said, "what has happened to give such an impetus to your spirits?"
"Nothing, dear Flora, nothing; but I have been endeavoring to throw from my mind all
gloomy thoughts, and to convince myself that in the future you and I, dearest, may yet be
very happy."
"Oh, Charles, if I could but think so."
"Endeavour, Flora, to think so. Remember how much our happiness is always in our own
power, Flora, and that, let fate do her worst, so long as we are true to each other, we have a
recompense for every ill."
"Oh, indeed, Charles, that is a dear recompense."
"And it is well that no force of circumstances short of death itself can divide us."
"True, Charles, true, and I am more than ever now bound to look upon you with a loving
heart; for have you not clung to me generously under circumstances which, if any at all
could have justified you in rending asunder every tie which bound us together, surely
would have done so most fully."
"It is misfortune and distress that tries love," said Charles. "It is thus that the touchstone is
applied to see if it be current gold indeed, or some base metal, which by a superficial glitter
imitates it."
"And your love is indeed true gold."
"I am unworthy of one glance from those dear eyes if it were not."

"Oh, if we could but go from here, I think then we might be happy. A strong impression
is upon my mind, and has been so for some time, that these persecutions to which I have
been subjected are peculiar to this house."
"Think you so?"
"I do, indeed!"
"It may be so, Flora. You are aware that your brother has made up his mind that he will
leave the Hall."
"Yes, yes."
"And that only in deference to an expressed wish of mine he put off the carrying such a
resolve into effect for a few days."
"He said so much."
"Do not, however, imagine, dearest Flora, that those few days will be idly spent."
"Nay, Charles, I could not imagine so."
"Believe me, I have some hopes that in that short space of time I shall be able to
accomplish yet something which shall have a material effect upon the present posture of
affairs."
"Do not run into danger, Charles."
"I will not. Believe me, Flora, I have too much appreciation of the value of an existence
which is blessed by your love, to encounter any needless risks."
"You say needless. Why do you not confide in me, and tell me if the object you have in
view to accomplish in the few days delay is a dangerous one at all."
"Will you forgive me, Flora, if for once I keep a secret from you?"
"Then, Charles, along with the forgiveness I must conjure up a host of apprehensions."
"Nay, why so?"
"You would tell me if there were no circumstances that you feared would fill me with
alarm."
"Now, Flora, your fears and not your judgment condemn me. Surely you cannot think me
so utterly heedless as to court danger for danger's sake."

"No, not so -- -- "
"You pause."
"And yet you have a sense of what you call honour, which, I fear, would lead you into
much risk."
"I have a sense of honour; but not that foolish one which hangs far more upon the
opinions of others than my own. If I thought a course of honour lay before me, and all the
world, in a mistaken judgment, were to condemn it as wrong, I would follow it."
"You are right, Charles, you are right. Let me pray of you to be careful, and, at all events,
to interpose no more delay to our leaving this house than you shall feel convinced is
absolutely necessary for some object of real and permanent importance."
Charles promised Flora Bannerworth that for her sake, as well as his own, he would be
most specially careful of his safety; and then in such endearing conversation as may well be
supposed to be dictated by such hearts as theirs another happy hour was passed away.
They pictured to themselves the scene where first they met, and with a world of interest
hanging on every word they uttered, they told each other of the first delightful dawnings of
that affection which had sprung up between them, and which they fondly believed neither
time nor circumstance would have the power to change or subvert.
In the meantime the old admiral was surprised that Charles was so patient, and had not
been to him to demand the result of his deliberation.
But he knew not on what rapid pinions time flies, when in the presence of those whom we
love. What was an actual hour, was but a fleeting minute to Charles Holland, as he sat with
Flora's hand clasped in his, and looking at her sweet face.
At length a clock striking reminded him of his engagement with his uncle, and he
reluctantly rose.
"Dear Flora," he said, "I am going to sit up to watch to-night, so be under no sort of
apprehension."
"I will feel doubly safe," she said.
"I have now something to talk to my uncle about, and must leave you."
Flora smiled, and held out her hand to him. He pressed it to his heart. He knew not what
impulse came over him, but for the first time he kissed the cheek of the beautiful girl.
With a heightened colour she gently repulsed him. He took a long lingering look at her as
he passed out of the room, and when the door was closed between them, the sensation he

experienced was as if some sudden cloud has swept across the face of the sun, dimming to a
vast extent its precious lustre.
A strange heaviness came across his spirits, which before had been so unaccountably
raised. He felt as if the shadow of some coming evil was resting on his soul -- as if some
momentous calamity was preparing for him, which would almost be enough to drive him to
madness, and irredeemable despair.
"What can this be," he exclaimed, "that thus oppressed me? What feeling is this that
seems to tell me, I shall never again see Flora Bannerworth?"
Unconsciously he uttered these words, which betrayed the nature of his worst
forebodings.
"Oh, this is weakness," he then added. "I must fight out against this; it is mere
nervousness. I must not endure it, I will not suffer myself thus to become the sport of
imagination. Courage, courage, Charles Holland. There are real evils enough, without your
adding to them by those of a disordered fancy. Courage, courage, courage."
--

Chapter XXV.
THE ADMIRAL'S OPINION. -- THE REQUEST OF CHARLES.
Charles then sought the admiral, whom he found with his hands behind him, pacing to and
fro in one of the long walks of the garden, evidently in a very unsettled state of mind. When
Charles appeared, he quickened his pace, and looked in such a state of unusual perplexity
that it was quite ridiculous to observe him.
"I suppose, uncle, you have made up your mind thoroughly by this time?"
"Well, I don't know that."
"Why, you have had long enough surely to think over it. I have not troubled you soon."
"Well, I cannot exactly say you have, but, somehow or another, I don't think very fast,
and I have an unfortunate propensity after a time of coming exactly round to where I
began."
"Then, to tell the truth, uncle, you can come to no sort of conclusion."
"Only one."
"And what may that be?"
"Why, that you are right in one thing, Charles, which is, that having sent a challenge to
this fellow of a vampyre, you must fight him."
"I suspect that that is a conclusion you had from the first, uncle?"
"Why so?"
"Because it is an obvious and a natural one. All your doubts, and trouble, and
perplexities, have been to try and find some excuse for not entertaining that opinion, and
now that you really find it in vain to make it, I trust that you will accede as you first
promised to do, and not seek by any means to thwart me."
"I will not thwart you, my boy, although in my opinion you ought not to fight with a
vampyre."
"Never mind that. We cannot urge that as a valid excuse, so long as he chooses to deny
being one. And after all, if he be really wrongfully suspected, you must admit that he is a
very injured man."

"Injured! -- nonsense. If he is not a vampyre, he's some other out-of-the-way sort of fish,
you may depend. He's the oddest-looking fellow ever I came across in all my born days,
ashore or afloat."
"Is he?"
"Yes, he is: and yet, when I come to look at the thing again, in my mind, some droll
sights that I have seen come across my memory. The sea is a place for wonders and for
mysteries. Why, we see more in a day and a night there, than you landsmen could contrive
to make a whole twelvemonth's wonder of."
"But you never saw a vampyre, uncle?
"Well, I don't know that. I didn't know anything about vampyres till I came here, but that
was my ignorance, you know. There might have been lots of vampyres where I've been, for
all I know."
"Oh, certainly, but as regards this duel, will you wait now until to-morrow morning,
before you take any further steps in the matter?"
"Till to-morrow morning?"
"Yes, uncle."
"Why, only a little while ago, you were all eagerness to have something done off-hand."
"Just so; but now I have a particular reason for waiting until to-morrow morning."
"Have you? Well, as you please, boy -- as you please. Have everything your own way."
"You are very kind, uncle; and now I have another favour to ask of you."
"What is it!"
"Why, you know that Henry Bannerworth receives but a very small sum out of the whole
proceeds of the estate here, which ought, but for his father's extravagance, to be wholly at
his disposal."
"So I have heard."
"I am certain he is at present distressed for money, and I have not much. Will you lend
me fifty pounds, uncle, until my own affairs are sufficiently arranged to enable you to pay
yourself again?"
"Will I! of course I will."

"I wish to offer that sum as an accommodation to Henry. From me, I dare say he will
receive it freely, because he must be convinced how freely it is offered; and, besides, they
look upon me now almost as a member of the family, in consequence of my engagement
with Flora."
"Certainly, and quite correct too; there's a fifty-pound note, my boy; take it, and do what
you like with it, and when you want any more, come to me for it."
"I know I could trespass thus far on your kindness, uncle."
"Trespass! It's no trespass at all."
"Well, we will not fall out about the terms in which I cannot help expressing my gratitude
to you for many favours. To-morrow, you will arrange the duel for me."
"As you please. I don't altogether like going to that fellow's house again."
"Well, then, we can manage, I dare say, by note."
"Very good. Do so. He puts me in mind altogether of a circumstance that happened a

good while ago, when I was at sea, and not so old a man as I am now."
"Puts you in mind of a circumstance, uncle?"
"Yes; he's something like a fellow that figured in an affair that I know a good deal about;
only I do think as my chap was more mysterious by a d -- -- d sight than this one."
"Indeed!"
"Oh, dear, yes. When anything happens in an odd way at sea, it is as odd again as
anything that occurs on land, my boy, you may depend."
"Oh, you only fancy that, uncle, because you have spent so long a time at sea."
"No, I don't imagine it, you rascal. What can you have on shore equal to what we have at
sea? Why, the sights that come before us would make you landsmen's hairs stand up on
end, and never come down again."
"In the ocean, do you mean, that you see those sights, uncle?"
"To be sure. I was once in the southern ocean, in a small frigate, looking out for a
seventy-four we were to join company with, when a man at the mast-head sung out that he
saw her on the larboard bow. Well, we thought it all right enough, and made away that
quarter, when what do you think it turned out to be?"
"I really cannot say."

"The head of a fish."
"A fish!"
"Yes! a d -- -- d deal bigger than the hull of a vessel. He was swimming along with his
head just what I dare say he considered a shaving or so out of the water."
"But where were the sails, uncle?"
"The sails?"
"Yes; your man at the mast-head must have been a poor seaman not to have missed the
sails."
"Ah, that's one of your shore-going ideas, now. You know nothing whatever about it. I'll
tell you where the sails were, master Charley."
"Well, I should like to know."
"The spray, then, that he dashed up with a pair of fins that were close to his head, was in
such a quantity, and so white, that they looked just like sails."
"Oh!"
"Ah! you may say 'oh!' but we all saw him -- the whole ship's crew; and we sailed
alongside of him for some time, till he got tired of us, and suddenly dived down, making
such a vortex in the water, that the ship shook again, and seemed for about a minute as if
she was inclined to follow him to the bottom of the sea."
"And what do you suppose it was, uncle?"
"How should I know?"
"Did you ever see it again?"
"Never; though others have caught a glimpse of him now and then in the same ocean, but
never came so near him as we did, that ever I heard of, at all events. They may have done
so."
"It is singular!"
"Singular or not, it's a fool to what I can tell you. Why I've seen things that if I were to set
about describing them to you, you would say I was making up a romance."
"Oh, now; it's quite impossible, uncle, anyone could ever suspect you of such a thing."

"You'd believe me, would you?"
"Of course I would."
"Then here goes. I'll just tell you now of a circumstance that I haven't liked to mention to
anybody yet."
"Indeed! why so?"
"Because I didn't want to be continually fighting people for not believing it; but here you
have it: --
We were outward bound; a good ship, a good captain, and good messmates, you know,
go far toward making a prosperous voyage a pleasant and happy one, and on this occasion
we had every reasonable prospect of all.
Our hands were all tried men -- they had been sailors from infancy; none of your French
craft, that serve an apprenticeship and then become land lubbers again. Oh, no, they were
stanch and true, and loved the sea as the sluggard loves his bed, or the lover his mistress.
Ay, and for the matter of that, the love was a more enduring and a more healthy love, for
it increased with years, and made men love one another, and they would stand by each
other while they had a limb to life -- while they were able to chew a quid or wink an eye,
leave alone wag a pigtail.
We were outward bound for Ceylon, with cargo, and were to bring spices and other
matters home from the Indian market. The ship was new and good -- a pretty craft; she sat
like a duck upon the water, and a stiff breeze carried her along the surface of the waves
without your rocking, and pitching, and tossing, like an old wash-tub at a mill-tail, as I have
had the misfortune to sail in more than once afore.
No, no, we were well laden, and well pleased, and weighed anchor with light hears and a
hearty cheer.
Away we went down the river, and soon rounded the North Foreland, and stood out in the
Channel. The breeze was a steady and stiff one, and carried us through the water as though
it had been made for us.
"Jack," said I to a messmate of mine, as he stood looking at the skies, then at the sails,
and finally at the water, with a graver air than I thought was at all consistent with the
occasion or circumstances.
"Well," he replied.
"What ails you? You seem as melancholy as if we were about to cast lots who should be
eaten first. Are you well enough?"

"I am hearty enough, thank Heaven," he said, "but I don't like this breeze."
"Don't like the breeze!" said I; "why, mate, it is as good and kind a breeze as ever filled a
sail. What would you have, a gale?"
"No, no; I fear that."
"With such a ship, and such a set of hearty able seamen, I think we could manage to
weather out the stiffest gale that ever whistled through a yard."
"That may be; I hope it is, and I really believe and think so."
"Then what makes you so infernally mopish and melancholy?"
"I don't know, but can't help it. It seems to me as though there was something hanging
over us, and I can't tell what."
"Yes, there are the colours, Jack, at the masthead they are flying over us with a hearty
breeze."
"Ah! ah!" said Jack, looking up at the colours, and then went away without saying
anything more, for he had some piece of duty to perform.
I thought my messmate had something on his mind that caused him to feel sad and
uncomfortable, and I took no more notice of it; indeed, in the course of a day or two he was
as merry as any of the rest, and had no more melancholy that I could perceive, but was as
comfortable as anybody.
We had a gale off the coast of Biscay, and rode it out without the loss of a spar or a yard;
indeed, without the slightest accident or rent of any kind.
"Now, Jack, what do you think of our vessel?" said I.
"She's like a duck upon water, rises and falls with the waves, and doesn't tumble up and
down like a hoop over stones."
"No, no; she goes smoothly and sweetly; she is a gallant craft, and this is her first voyage,
and I predict a prosperous one."
"I hope so," he said.
Well, we went on prosperously enough for about three weeks; the ocean was as calm and
as smooth as a meadow, the breeze light but good, and we stemmed along majestically over
the deep blue waters, and passed coast after coast, though all around was nothing but the
apparently pathless main in sight.

"A better sailer I never stepped into," said the captain one day; "it would be a pleasure to
live and die in such a vessel."
Well, as I said, we had been three weeks or thereabouts, when one morning, after the sun
was up and the decks washed, we saw a strange man sitting on one of the water-casks that
were on deck, for, being full, we were compelled to stow some of them on deck.
You may guess those on deck did a little more than stare at this strange and unexpected
apparition. By jingo, I never saw men open their eyes wider in all my life, nor was I any
exception to the rule. I stared, as well I might; but we said nothing for some minutes, and
the stranger looked calmly on us, and then cocked his eye with a nautical air up at the sky,
as if he expected to receive a twopenny-post letter from St. Michael, or a billet doux from
the Virgin Mary.
"Where has he come from?" said one of the men in a low tone to his companion, who was
standing by him at that moment.
"How can I tell?" replied his companion. "He may have dropped from the clouds; he
seems to be examining the road; perhaps he is going back."
The stranger sat all this time with the most extreme and provoking coolness and
unconcern; he deigned us but a passing notice, but it was very slight.
He was a tall, spare man -- what is termed long and lathy -- but he was evidently a
powerful man. He had a broad chest, and long, sinewy arms, a hooked nose, and a black,
eagle eye. His hair was curly, but frosted by age; it seemed as though it had been tinged
with white at the extremities, but he was hale and active otherwise to judge from
appearances.
Notwithstanding all this, there was a singular repulsiveness about him that I could not
imagine the cause, or describe; at the same time there was an air of determination in his
wild and singular-looking eyes, and over their whole there was decidedly an air and an
appearance so sinister as to be positively disagreeable.
"Well," said I, after we had stood some minutes, "where did you come from, shipmate?"
He looked at me and then up at the sky, in a knowing manner.
"Come, come, that won't do; you have none of Peter Wilkin's wings, and couldn't come
on the aerial dodge; it won't do; how did you get here?"
He gave me an awful wink, and made a sort of involuntary movement, which jumped him
up a few inches, and he bumped down again on the water-cask.
"That's as much as to say," thought I, "that he's sat himself on it."

"I'll go and inform the captain," says I, "of this affair; he'll hardly believe me when I tell
him, I am sure."
So saying, I left the deck and went to the cabin, where the captain was at breakfast, and
related to him what I had seen respecting the stranger. The captain looked at me with an air
of disbelief, and said, --
"What? -- do you mean to say there's a man on board we haven't seen before?"
"Yes, I do, Captain, I never saw him afore, and he's sitting beating his heels on the water-
cask on deck."
"The devil!"
"He is, I assure you, sir; and he won't answer any questions."
"I'll see to that. I'll see if I can't make the lubber say something, providing his tongue's not
cut out. But how came he on board? Confound it, he can't be the devil, and dropped from
the moon."
"Don't know, captain," said I. "He is evil-looking enough, to my mind, to be the father of
evil, but it's ill bespeaking attentions from that quarter at any time."
"Go on, lad: I'll come up after you."
I left the cabin, and I heard the captain coming up after me. When I got on deck, I saw he
had not moved from the place where I left him. There was a general commotion among the
crew when they heard of the occurrence, and all crowded round him, save the man at the
helm who had to remain at his post.
The captain now came forward, and the men fell a little back as he approached.
For a moment the captain stood silent, attentively examining the stranger, who was
excessively cool, and stood the scrutiny with the same unconcern that he would had the
captain been looking at his watch.
"Well, my man," said the captain, "how did you come here?"
"I'm part of the cargo," he said, with an indescribable leer.
"Part of the cargo be d -- -- d!" said the captain, in sudden rage, for he thought the
stranger was coming his jokes too strong, "I know you are not in the bills of lading."
"I'm contraband," replied the stranger; "and my uncle's the great cham of Tartary."

The captain stared, as well he might, and did not speak for some minutes; all the while the
stranger kept kicking his heels against the water-casks and squinting up at the skies; it made
us feel very queer.
"Well, I must confess you are not in the regular way of trading."
"Oh, no," said the stranger; "I am contraband -- entirely contraband."
"And how did you come on board?"
At this question the stranger again looked curiously up at the skies, and continued to do
so for more than a minute; he then turned his gaze upon the captain.
"No, no," said the captain: "Eloquent dumb show won't do with me; you didn't come, like
Mother Shipton, upon a birch broom. How did you come on board my vessel?"
"I walked on board," said the stranger.
"You walked on board; and where did you conceal yourself?"
"Below."
"Very good; and why didn't you stay below altogether?"
"Because I wanted fresh air. I'm in a delicate state of health, you see; it doesn't do to stay
in a confined place too long."
"Confound the binnacle!" said the captain; it was his usual oath when anything bothered
him, and he could not make it out. "Confound the binnacle! -- what a delicate-looking
animal you are. I wish you had stayed where you were; your delicacy would have been all
the same to me. Delicate, indeed!"
"Yes, very," said the stranger, coolly.
There was something so comic in the assertion of his delicateness of health, that we
should have all laughed; but we were somewhat scared, and had not the inclination.
"How have you lived since you came on board?" inquired the captain.
"Very indifferently."
"But how? What have you eaten? and what have you drank?"
"Nothing; I assure you. All I did while I was below was -- "
"What?"

"Why, I sucked my thumbs like a polar bear in its winter quarters."
And as he spoke the stranger put his two thumbs into his mouth, and extraordinary
thumbs they were, too, for each would have filled an ordinary man's mouth.
"These," said the stranger, pulling them out, and gazing at them wistfully, and with a deep
sigh he continued, --
"These were thumbs at one time; but they are nothing now to what they were."
"Confound the binnacle!" muttered the captain to himself, and then he added, aloud, --
"It's cheap living, however, but where are you going to, and why did you come aboard?"
"I wanted a cheap cruise, and I am gong there and back."
"Why, that's where we are going," said the captain.
"Then we are brothers," exclaimed the stranger, hopping off the water-cask like a
kangaroo, and bounding toward the captain, holding out his hand as though he would have
shaken hands with him.
"No, no," said the captain; "I can't do it."
"Can't do it!" exclaimed the stranger, angrily. "What do you mean?"
"That I can't have anything to do with contraband articles; I am a fair trader, and do all
above board. I haven't a chaplain on board, or he should offer up prayers for your
preservation, and the recovery of your health, which seems so delicate."
"That be -- "
"The strange didn't finish the sentence; he merely screwed his mouth up into an
incomprehensible shape, and puffed out a lot of breath, with some force, and which
sounded very much like a whistle; but, oh, what thick breath he had, it was as much like
smoke as anything I ever saw, and so my shipmate said.
"I say, captain," said the stranger, as he saws him pacing the deck.
"Well."
"Just send me up some beef and biscuit, and some coffee royal -- be sure it's royal, do you
hear, because I'm partial to brandy, it's the only good thing there is on earth."
I shall not easily forget the captain's look as he turned towards the stranger, and gave his
huge shoulders a shrug, as much as to say, --

"Well, I can't help it now; he's here, and I can't throw him overboard."
The coffee, beef, and biscuit were sent him, and the stranger seemed to eat them with
great gout, and drank the coffee with much relish, and returned the things saying,
"Your captain is an excellent cook; give him my compliments."
I thought the captain would think that was but a left-handed compliment, and look more
angry than pleased, but no notice was taken of it.
It was strange, but this man had impressed upon all in the vessel some singular notion of
his being more than he should be -- more than a mere mortal, and not one endeavored to
interfere with him; the captain was a stout and dare devil a fellow as you would well meet
with, yet he seemed tacitly to acknowledge more than he would say, for he never after took
any further notice of the stranger nor he of him.
They had barely any conversation, simply a civil word when they first met, and so forth;
but there was little or no conversation of any kind between them.
The stranger slept upon deck, and lived upon deck entirely; he never once went below
after we saw him, and his own account of being below so long.
This was very well, but the night-watch did not enjoy his society, and would have
willingly dispensed with it at that hour so particularly lonely and dejected upon the broad
ocean, and perhaps a thousand miles away from the nearest point of land.
At this dread and lonely hour, when no sound reaches the ear and disturbs the wrapt
stillness of the night, save the whistling of the wind through the cordage, or an occasional
dash of water against the vessel's side, the thoughts of the sailor are fixed on far distant
objects -- his own native land and the friends and loved ones he has left behind him.
He then thinks of the wilderness before, behind, and around him; of the immense body of
water, almost in places bottomless; gazing upon such a scene, and with thoughts as strange
and indefinite as the very boundless expanse before him it is no wonder if he should
become superstitious; the time and place would indeed unbidden, conjure up thoughts and
feelings of a fearful character and intensity.
The stranger at such times would occupy his favourite seat upon the water cask and
looking up at the sky and then on the ocean, and between whiles he would whistle a
strange, wild, unknown melody.
The flesh of the sailors used to creep up in knots and bumps when they heard it; the wind
used to whistle as an accompaniment and pronounce fearful sounds to their ears.

The wind had been highly favourable from the first, and since the stranger had been
discovered it had blown fresh, and we went along at a rapid rate, stemming the water, and
dashing the spray off from the bows, and cutting the water like a shark.
This was very singular to us, we couldn't understand it, neither could the captain, and we
looked very suspiciously at the stranger, and wished him at the bottom, for the freshness of
the wind now became a gale, and yet the ship came through the water steadily, and away
we went before the wind, as if the devil drove us; and mind I don't mean to say he didn't.
The gale increased to a hurricane, and though we had not a stitch of canvass out, yet we
drove before the gale as if we had been shot out of the mouth of a gun.
The stranger still sat on the water casks, and all night long he kept up his infernal whistle.
Now, sailors don't like to hear any one whistle when there's such a gale blowing over their
heads -- it's like asking for more; but he would persist, and the louder and stronger the wind
blew, the louder he whistled.
At length there came a storm of rain, lightning, and wind. We were tossed mountains
high, and the foam rose over the vessel, and often entirely over our heads, and the men
were lashed to their posts to prevent being washed way.
But the stranger still lay on the water casks, kicking his heels and whistling his infernal
tune, always the same. He wasn't washed away nor moved by the action of the water;
indeed, we heartily hoped and expected to see both him and the water cask floated
overboard at every minute; but, as the captain said, --
"Confound the binnacle! the old water tub seems as if it were screwed on to the deck, and
won't move off and he on the top of it."
There was a strong inclination to throw him overboard, and the men conversed in low
whispers, and came round the captain, saying, --
"We have come, captain, to ask you what you think of this strange man who has come so
mysteriously on board?"
"I can't tell you what to think, lads; he's past thinking about -- he's something above my
comprehension altogether, I promise you."
"Well, then, we are thinking much of the same thing, captain."
"What do you mean?"
"That he ain't exactly one of our sort."
"No, he's no sailor, certainly; and yet, for a land lubber, he's about as rum a customer as
ever I met with."

"So he is, sir."
"He stands salt water well; and I must say that I couldn't lay a top of those water casks in
that style very well."
"Nor nobody amongst us, sir."
"Well, then, he's in nobody's way, is he? -- nobody wants to take his berth, I suppose?"
The men looked at each other somewhat blank; they didn't understand the meaning at all -
- far from it; and the idea of any one's wanting to take the stranger's place on the water
casks was so outrageously ludicrous that at any other time they would have considered it a
devilish good joke and have never ceased laughing at it.
He paused some minutes, and then one of them said, --
"It isn't that we envy him his berth, captain, 'cause nobody else could live there for a
moment. Any one amongst us that had been there would have been washed overboard a
thousand times over."
"So they would," said the captain.
"Well, sir, he's more than us."
"Very likely; but how can I help that?"
"We think he's the main cause of all this racket in the heavens -- the storm and hurricane;
and that, in short, if he remains much longer we shall all sink."
"I am sorry for it. I don't think we are in any danger, and had the strange being any power
to prevent it, he would assuredly do so, lest he got drowned."
"But we think if he were thrown over board all would be well."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, captain, you may depend upon it he's the cause of all the mischief. Throw him over
board and that's all we want."
"I shall not throw him overboard, even if I could do such a thing; and I am by no means
sure of anything of the kind."
"We do not ask it, sir."
"What do you desire?"

"Leave to throw him over board -- it is to save our own lives."
"I can't let you do any such thing; he's in nobody's way."
"But he's always a whistling. Only hark now, and in such a hurricane as this, it is dreadful
to think of it. What else can we do, sir? -- he's not human."
At this moment, the stranger's whistling came clear upon their ears; there was the same
wild, unearthly notes as before, but the cadences were stronger, and there was a
supernatural clearness in all the tones.
"There now," said another, "he's kicking the water cask with his heels."
"Confound the binnacle!" said the captain; "it sounds like short peals of thunder. Go and
talk to him, lads."
"And if that won't do, sir, may we -- "
"Don't ask me any questions. I don't think a score of the best men that were ever born
could move him."
"I don't mind trying," said one.
Upon this the whole of the men moved to the spot where the water casks were standing
and the stranger lay.
There he was, whistling like fury, and, at the same time, beating his heels to the tune
against the empty casks. We came up to him, and he took no notice of us at all, but kept on
in the same way.
"Hilloa!" shouted one.
"Hilloa!" shouted another.
No notice, however, was taken of us, and one of our number, a big, herculean fellow, an
Irishman, seized him by the leg, either to make him get up, or, as we thought, to give him a
lift over our heads into the sea. However, he had scarcely got his fingers round the calf of
the leg, when the stranger pinched his leg so tight against the water cask, that he could not
move, and was as effectually pinned as if he had been nailed there. The stranger, after he
had finished a bar of the music, rose gradually to a sitting posture, and without the aid of
his hands, and looking the unlucky fellow in the face, he said, --
"Well, what do you want?"
"My hand," said the fellow.

"Take it then," he said.
He did take it, and we saw that there was blood on it.
The stranger stretched out his left hand, and taking him by the breech, he lifted him,
without any effort, upon the water-cask beside him.
We all stared at this, and couldn't help it; and we were quite convinced we could not
throw him over board but he would probably have no difficulty in throwing us over board.
"Well, what do you want?" he again exclaimed to us all.
We looked at one another, and had scarce courage to speak; at length I said, --
"We wish you to leave off whistling."
"Leave off whistling!" he said. "And why should I do anything of the kind?"
Because it brings the wind."
"Ha! ha! why that's the very reason I am whistling, to bring the wind."
"But we don't want so much."
"Pho! pho! you don't know what's good for you -- it's a beautiful breeze, and not a bit too
stiff."
"It's a hurricane."
"Nonsense."
"But it is."
"Now you see how I'll prove you are wrong in a minute. You see my hair, don't you?" he
said, after he took off his cap. "Very well, look now."
He got up on the water-cask, and stood bolt upright; and running his fingers through his
hair, made it all stand straight on end.
"Confound the binnacle!" said the captain, "if ever I saw the like."
"There," said the stranger, triumphantly, "don't tell me there's any wind to signify; don't
you see, it doesn't even move one of my grey hairs; and if it blew as hard as you say, I am
certain it would move a hair."

"Confound the binnacle!" muttered the captain as he walked away. "D -- n the cabouse, if
he ain't older than I am -- he's too many for me and everybody else."
"Are you satisfied?"
What could we say? -- we turned away and left the place, and stood at our quarters --
there was no help for it -- we were compelled to grin and abide by it.
As soon as we had left the place he put his cap on again and sat down on the watercasks,
and then took leave of his prisoner, whom he set free, and there lay at full length on his
back, with his legs hanging down. Once more he began to whistle most furiously, and beat
time with his feet.
For full three weeks did he continue at this game night and day, without any interruption,
save such as he required to consume enough coffee royal, junk and biscuit, as would have
served three hearty men.
Well, about that time, one night the whistling ceased and he began to sing -- oh! it was
singing -- such a voice! Gog and Magog in Guildhall, London, when they spoke were
nothing to him -- it was awful; but the wind calmed down to a fresh and stiff breeze. He
continued at this game for three whole days and nights, and on the fourth it ceased, and
when we went to take his coffee royal to him he was gone.
We hunted about everywhere, but he was entirely gone, and in three weeks after we
safely cast anchor, having performed our voyage in a good month under the usual time; and
had it been an old vessel she would have leaked and started like a tub from the straining;
however, we were glad enough to get in, and were curiously inquisitive as to what was put
in our vessel to come back with, for as the captain said, --
"Confound the binnacle! I'll have no more contraband articles if I can help it."
--

Chapter XXVI.
THE MEETING AT MOONLIGHT IN THE PARK. -- THE TURRET WINDOW IN

THE HALL. -- THE LETTERS.
The old admiral showed such a strong disposition to take offence at Charles if he should
presume, for a moment, to doubt the truth of the narrative than was thus communicated to
him, that the latter would not anger him by so doing, but confined his observations upon it
to saying that he considered it was very wonderful, and very extraordinary, and so on,
which very well satisfied the old man.
The day was now, however, getting far advanced, and Charles Holland began to think of
his engagement with the vampyre. He read and read the letter over and over again, but he
could not come to a correct conclusion as to whether it intended to imply that he, Sir
Francis Varney, would wish to fight him at the hour and place mentioned, or merely give
him a meeting as a preliminary step.
He was rather, on the whole, inclined to think that some explanation would be offered by
Varney, but at all events he persevered in his determination of going well armed, lest
anything in the shape of treachery should be intended.
As nothing of any importance occurred now in the interval of time till nearly midnight,
we will at once step to that time, and our readers will suppose it to be a quarter to twelve
o'clock at night, and young Charles Holland on the point of leaving the house, to keep his
appointment by the pollard oak, with the mysterious Sir Francis Varney.
He placed his loaded pistols conveniently in his pocket, so that at a moment's notice he
could lay hands on them, and then wrapping himself up in a travelling cloak he had brought
with him to Bannerworth Hall, he prepared to leave his chamber.
The moon still shone, although now somewhat on the wane, and although there were
certainly many clouds in the sky they were but of a light fleecy character, and very little
interrupted the rays of light that came from the nearly full disc of the moon.
From his window he could not perceive the spot in the park where he was to meet
Varney, because the room in which he was occupied not a sufficiently high place in the
house to enable him to look over a belt of trees that stopped the view. From almost any of
the upper windows the pollard oak could be seen.
It so happened now that the admiral had been placed in a room immediately above the
one occupied by his nephew, and, as his mind was full of how he should manage with
regard to arranging the preliminaries of the duel between Charles and Varney on the
morrow, he found it difficult to sleep; and after remaining in bed about twenty minutes, and
finding that each moment he was only getting more and more restless, he adopted a course
which he always did under such circumstances.

He rose and dressed himself again, intending to sit up for an hour and then turn into bed
and try a second time to get to sleep. But he had no means of getting a light, so he drew the
heavy curtain from before the window, and let in as much of the moonlight as he could.
This window commanded a most beautiful and extensive view, for from it the eye could
carry completely over the tops of the tallest trees, so that there was no interruption whatever
to the prospect, which was as extensive as it was delightful.
Even the admiral, who never would confess to seeing much beauty in scenery where
water formed not a large portion of it, could not resist opening his window and looking out,
with a considerable degree of admiration, upon wood and dale, as they were illuminated by
the moon's rays, softened, and rendered, if anything, more beautiful by the light vapours,
though which they had to struggle to make their way.
Charles Holland, in order to avoid the likelihood of meeting with any one who would
question him as to where he was going, determined upon leaving his room by the balcony,
which, as we are aware, presented ample facilities for his so doing.
He cast a glance at the portrait in the panel before he left the apartment, and then saying --
"For you, dear Flora, for you I essay this meeting with the fearful original of that
portrait," he immediately opened his window, and stepped out on to the balcony.
Young and active as was Charles Holland, to descend from that balcony presented to him
no difficulty whatever, and he was, in a very few moments, safe in the garden of
Bannerworth Hall.
He never thought, for a moment, to look up, or he would, in an instant, have seen the
white head of his old uncle, as it was projected over the sill of the window of his chamber.
The drop of Charles from the balcony of his window, just made sufficient noise to attract
the admiral's attention, and, then, before he could think of making any alarm, he saw
Charles walking hastily across a grass plot, which was sufficiently in the light of the moon
to enable the admiral at once to recognise him, and leave no sort of doubt as to his positive
identity.
Of course, upon discovering that it was Charles, the necessity for making an alarm no
longer existed, and, indeed, not knowing what it was that had induced him to leave his
chamber, a moment's reflection suggested to him the propriety of not even calling to
Charles, lest he should defeat some discovery which he might be about to make.
"He has heard something, or seen something," thought the admiral, "and is gone to find
out what it is. I only wish I was with him; but up here I can do nothing at all, that's quite
clear."

Charles, he saw, walked very rapidly, and like a man who has some fixed destination
which he wishes to reach as quickly as possible.
When he dived among the trees which skirted one side of the flower gardens, the admiral
was more puzzled than ever, and he said --
"Now where on earth is he off to? He is fully dressed and has his cloak about him."
After a few moments' reflection he decided that, having seen something suspicious,
Charles must have got up, and dressed himself, to fathom it.
The moment this idea became fairly impressed upon his mind, he left his bedroom, and
descended to where one of the brothers he knew was sitting up, keeping watch during the
night. It was Henry who was so on guard; and when the admiral came into the room, he
uttered an expression of surprise to find him up, for it was now some time past twelve
o'clock.
"I have come to tell you that Charles has left the house," said the admiral.
"Left the house?"
"Yes; I saw him just now go across the garden."
"And you are sure it was he?"
"Quite sure. I saw him by the moonlight cross the green plot."
"Then you may depend he has seen or heard something, and gone alone to find out what it
is rather than give any alarm."
"That is just what I think."
"It must be so. I will follow him, if you can show me exactly which way he went."
"That I can easily. And in case I should have made any mistake, which it is not at all
likely, we can go to his room first and see if it is empty."
"A good thought, certainly, that will at once put an end to all doubt upon the question."
They both immediately proceeded to Charles's room, and then the admiral's accuracy of
identification of his nephew was immediately proved by finding that Charles was not there,
and that the window was wide open.
"You see I am right," said the admiral.
"You are," cried Henry; "but what have we here?"

"Where?"
"Here on the dressing-table. Here are no less than three letters, all laid as if on purpose to
catch the eye of the first one who might enter the room."
"Indeed!"
"You perceive them?"
Henry held them to the light, and after a moment's inspection of them, he said, in a voice
of much surprise, --
"Good God! what is the meaning of this?"
"The meaning of what?"
"The letters are addressed to parties in the house here. Do you not see?"
"To whom?"
"One to Admiral Bell -- "
"The deuce!"
"Another to me, and the third to my sister Flora. There is some new mystery here."
The admiral looked at the superscription of one of the letters which was handed to him in
silent amazement. Then he cried, --
"Set down the light, and let us read them."
Henry did so, and then they simultaneously opened the epistles which were severally
addressed to them. There was a silence, as of the very grave, for some moments, and then
the old admiral staggered to a seat, as he exclaimed, --
"Am I dreaming -- am I dreaming?"
"Is this possible?" said Henry, in a voice of deep emotion, as he allowed the note
addressed to him to drop on to the floor.
"D -- n it, what does yours say?" cried the old admiral in a louder tone.
"Read it -- what says yours?"
"Read it -- I am amazed."

The letters were exchanged, and read by each with the same breathless attention they had
bestowed upon their own; after which, they both looked at each other in silence, pictures of
amazement, and the most absolute state of bewilderment.
Not to keep our readers in suspense, we at once transcribe each of these letters.
The one to the admiral contained these words, --
"MY DEAR UNCLE,
"Of course you will perceive the prudence of keeping this letter to yourself, but the fact
is, I have now made up my mind to leave Bannerworth Hall.
"Flora Bannerworth is not now the person she was when first I knew her and loved her.
Such being the case, and she having altered, not I, she cannot accuse me of fickleness.
"I still love the Flora Bannerworth I first knew, but I cannot make my wife one who is
subject to the visitations of a vampyre.
"I have remained here long enough now to satisfy myself that this vampyre business is no
delusion. I am quite convinced that it is a positive fact, and that, after death, Flora will
herself become one of the horrible existences known by that name.
"I will communicate to you from the first large city on the continent whither I am going,
at which I make any stay, and in the meantime, make what excuses you like at Bannerworth
Hall, which I advise you to leave as quickly as you can, and believe me to be, my dear
uncle, yours truly, "CHARLES HOLLAND
Henry's letter was this: --
"MY DEAR SIR,
"If you calmly and dispassionately consider the painful and distressing circumstances in
which your family are placed, I am sure that, far from blaming me for the step which this
note will announce to you I have taken, you will be the first to give me credit for acting
with an amount of prudence and foresight which was highly necessary under the
circumstances.
"If the supposed visits of the vampyre to your sister Flora had turned out, as at first I
hoped they would, a delusion, and been in any satisfactory manner explained away I should
certainly have felt pride and pleasure in fulfilling my engagement to that young lady.
"You must, however, yourself feel that the amount of evidence in favour of a belief that
an actual vampyre has visited Flora, enforces a conviction of its truth.
"I cannot, therefore, make her my wife under such very singular circumstances.

"Perhaps you may blame me for not taking at once advantage of the permission given me
to forego my engagement when first I came to your house; but the fact is, I did not then in
the least believe in the existence of the vampyre, but since a positive conviction of that
most painful fact has now forced itself upon me, I beg to decline the honour of an alliance
which I had at one time looked forward to with the most considerable satisfaction.
"I shall be on the continent as fast as conveyances can take me, therefore, should you
entertain any romantic notions of calling me to an account for a course of proceeding I
think perfectly and fully justifiable, you will not find me.
"Accept my assurances of my respect of yourself and pity for your sister, and believe me
to be, my dear sir, your sincere friend, "CHARLES HOLLAND."
These two letters might well make the admiral stare at Henry Bannerworth, and Henry
stare at him.
An occurrence so utterly and entirely unexpected by both of them, was enough to make
them doubt the evidence of their own senses. But there were the letters, as a damning
evidence of the outrageous fact, and Charles Holland was gone.
It was the admiral who first recovered from the stunning effect of the epistles, and he,
with a gesture of perfect fury, exclaimed, --
"The scoundrel! -- the cold-blooded villain! I renounce him for ever! he is no nephew of
mine; he is some d -- -- d imposter! Nobody with a dash of my family blood in his veins
would have acted so to save himself from a thousand deaths."
"Who shall we trust now," said Henry, "when those whom we take to our inmost hearts
deceive us thus? This is the greatest shock I have yet received. If there be a pang greater
than another, surely it is to be found in the faithlessness and heartlessness of one we loved
and trusted."
"He is a scoundrel!" roared the admiral. "D -- n him, he'll die on a dunghill, and that's too
good a place for him. I cast him off -- I'll find him out, and old as I am, I'll fight him -- I'll
wring his neck, the rascal, and as for poor dear Miss Flora, God bless her! I'll -- I'll marry
her myself and make her an admiral. -- I'll marry her myself. Oh, that I should be uncle to
such a rascal!"
"Calm yourself," said Henry, "no one can blame you."
"Yes, you can; I had no right to be his uncle, and I was an old fool to love him."
The old man sat down, and his voice became broken with emotion as he said, --
"Sir, I tell you I would have died willingly rather than this should have happened. This
will kill me now, -- I shall die now of shame and grief."

Tears gushed from the admiral's eyes, and the sight of the noble old man's emotion did
much to calm the anger of Henry, which, although he said but little, was boiling at his heart
like a volcano.
"Admiral Bell," he said, you have nothing to do with this business; we cannot blame you
for the heartlessness of another. I have but one favour to ask of you."
"What -- what can I do?"
"Say no more about him at all."
"I can't help saying something about him. You ought to turn me out of the house."
"Heaven forbid! What for?"
"Because I'm his uncle -- his d -- -- d old fool of an uncle, that has always thought so
much of him."
"Nay, my good sir, that was a fault on the right side, and cannot discredit you. I though
him the most perfect of human beings."
"Oh, if I could but have guessed this."
"It was impossible. Such duplicity never was equalled in this world -- it was impossible to
foresee it."
"Hold -- hold! did he give you fifty pounds?
"What?"
"Did he give you fifty pounds?"
"Give me fifty pounds! Most decidedly not; what made you think of such a thing?"
"Because to-day he borrowed fifty pounds of me, he said, to lend to you."
"I never heard of the transaction until this moment."
"The villain!"
"No doubt, sir, he wanted that amount to expedite his progress abroad."
"Well, now, damme, if an angel had come to me and said 'Hiloa! Admiral Bell, your
nephew, Charles Holland, is a thundering rogue,' I should have said 'You're a liar!'"

"This is fighting against facts, my dear sir. He is gone -- mention him no more; forget
him, as I shall endeavour myself to do, and persuade my poor sister to do."
"Poor girl! what can we say to her?"
"Nothing, but give her all the letters, and let her be at once satisfied of the worthlessness
of him she loved."
"The best way. Her woman's pride will then come to her help."
"I hope it will. She is of an honourable race, and I am sure she will not condescend to
shed a tear for such a man as Charles Holland has proved himself to be."
"D -- n him, I'll find him out, and make him fight you. He shall give you satisfaction."
"No, no."
"No? But he shall."
"I cannot fight with him."
"You cannot?"
"Certainly not. He is too far beneath me now. I cannot fight on honourable terms with one
whom I despise as too dishonourable to contend with. I have nothing now but silence and
contempt."
"I have though, for I'll break his neck when I see him, or he shall break mine. The villain!
I'm ashamed to stay here, my young friend."
"How mistaken a view you take of this matter, my dear sir. As Admiral Bell, a gentleman,
a brave officer, and a man of the purest and most unblemished honour, you confer a
distinction upon us by your presence here."
The admiral wrung Henry by the hand, as he said, --
"To-morrow -- wait until to-morrow; we will talk over this matter to-morrow -- I cannot
to-night, I have not patience; but to-morrow, my dear boy, we will have it all out. God bless
you. Good night.
--

Chapter XXVII.
THE NOBLE CONFIDENCE OF FLORA BANNERWORTH IN HER LOVER. -- HER

OPINION OF THE THREE LETTERS. -- THE ADMIRAL'S ADMIRATION.
To describe the feelings of Henry Bannerworth on the occasion of this apparent defalcation
from the path of rectitude and honour by his friend, as he had fondly imagined Charles
Holland to be, would be next to impossible.
If, as we have taken occasion to say, it be a positive fact, that a noble and a generous
mind feels more acutely any heartlessness of this description from one on whom it has
placed implicit confidence, than the most deliberate and wicked of injuries from absolute
strangers, we can easily conceive that Henry Bannerworth was precisely the person to feel
most acutely the conduct whence all circumstances appeared to fix upon Charles Holland,
upon whose faith, truth, and honour, he would have staked his very existence but a few
short hours before.
With such a bewildered sensation that he scarcely knew where he walked or whither to
betake himself, did he repair to his own chamber, and there he strove, with what energy he
was able to bring to the task, to find out some excuse, if he could, for Charles's conduct.
But he could find none. View it in what light he would, it presented by a picture of the most
heartless selfishness it had ever been his lot to encounter.
The tone of the letters, too, which Charles had written, materially aggravated the moral
delinquency of which he had been guilty; better, far better, had he not attempted an excuse
at all than have attempted such excuses as were there put down in those epistles.
A more cold blooded, dishonourable proceeding could not possibly be conceived.
It would appear, that while he entertained a doubt with regard to the reality of the
visitation of the vampyre to Flora Bannerworth, he had been willing to take to himself
abundance of credit for the most honourable feelings, and to induce a belief in the minds of
all that an exalted feeling of honour, as well as a true affection that would know no change,
kept him at the feet of her whom he loved.
Like some braggart, who, when there is no danger, is a very hero, but who, the moment
he feels convinced he will be actually and truly called upon for an exhibition of his much-
vaunted prowess, had Charles Holland deserted the beautiful girl, who, if anything, had
now certainly, in her misfortunes, a far higher claim upon his kindly feeling than before.
Henry could not sleep, although, at the request of George, who offered to keep watch for
him the remainder of the night, he attempted to do so.
He in vain said to himself, "I will banish from my mind this most unworthy subject. I
have told Admiral Bell that contempt is the only feeling I can now have for his nephew, and

yet I now find myself dwelling upon him, and upon his conduct, with a perseverance which
is a foe to my repose."
At length came the welcome and beautiful light of day, and Henry rose fevered and
unrefreshed.
His first impulse now was to hold a consultation with his brother George, as to what was
to be done, and George advised that Mr. Marchdale, who as yet knew nothing of the matter,
should be immediately informed of it, and consulted, as being probably better qualified
than either of them to come to a just, a cool, and a reasonable opinion upon the painful
circumstance, which it could not be expected that either of them would be able to view
calmly.
"Let it be so, then," said Henry; "Mr. Marchdale shall decide for us."
They at once sought this friend of the family, who was in his own bed-room, and when
Henry knocked at the door, Marchdale opened it hurriedly, eagerly inquiring what was the
matter.
"There is no alarm," said Henry. "We have only come to tell you of a circumstance which
has occurred during the night, and which will somewhat surprise you."
"Nothing calamitous, I hope?"
"Vexatious; and yet, I think it is a matter upon which we ought almost to congratulate
ourselves. Read those two letters, and give us your candid opinion upon them."
Henry placed in Mr. Marchdale's hands the letter addressed to himself, as well as that to
the admiral.
Marchdale read them both with marked attention, but he did not exhibit in his
countenance so much surprise as regret.
When he had finished, Henry said to him, --
"Well, Marchdale, what think you of this new and extraordinary episode in our affairs?"
"My dear young friends," said Marchdale, in a voice of great emotion, "I know not what
to say to you. I have no doubt but that you are both of you much astonished at the receipt of
these letters, and equally so at the sudden absence of Charles Holland."
"And are not you?"
"Not so much as you, doubtless, are. The fact is, I never did entertain a favourable
opinion of the young man, and he knew it. I have been accustomed to the study of human
nature under a variety of aspects; I have made it a matter of deep, and I may add, sorrowful,

contemplation, to study and remark those minor shades of character which commonly
escape observation wholly. And, I repeat, I always had a bad opinion of Charles Holland,
which he guessed, and hence he conceived a hatred to me, which more than once, as you
cannot but remember, showed itself in little acts of opposition and hostility."
"You much surprise me."
"I expected to do so. But you cannot help remembering that at one time I was on the point
of leaving here solely on his account."
"You were so."
"Indeed I should have done so, but that I reasoned with myself upon the subject, and
subdued the impulse of the anger which some years ago, when I had not seen so much of
the world, would have guided me."
"But why did you not impart to us your suspicions? We should at least, then, have been
prepared for such a contingency as has occurred."
"Place yourself in my position, and then ask yourself what you would have done.
Suspicion is one of those hideous things which all men would be most specially careful not
only how they entertain at all, but how they give expression to. Besides, whatever may be
the amount of one's own internal conviction with regard to the character of any one, there is
just a possibility that one may be wrong."
"True, true."
"That possibility ought to keep any one silent who has nothing but suspicion to go upon,
however cautious it may make him, as regards his dealings with the individual. I only
suspected from little minute shades of character, that would peep out in spite of him, that
Charles Holland was not the honourable man he would fain have had everybody believe
him to be."
"And had you from the first such a feeling?"
"I had."
"It is very strange."
"Yes; and what is more strange still, is that he from the first seemed to know it; and
despite a caution which I could see he always kept uppermost in his thought, he could not
help speaking tartly to me at times."
"I have noticed that," said George.

"You may depend it is a fact," added Marchdale, "that nothing so much excites the deadly
and desperate hatred of a man who is acting a hypocritical part, as the suspicion, well
grounded or not, that another sees and understands the secret impulses of his dishonourable
heart."
"I cannot blame you, or any one else, Mr. Marchdale," said Henry, "that you did not give
utterance to your secret thought, but I do wish that you had done so."
"Nay, dear Henry," replied Mr. Marchdale, "believe me, I have made this matter a subject
of deep thought, and have abundance of reasons why I ought not to have spoken to you
upon the subject."
"Indeed!"
"Indeed I have, and not among the least important is the one, that if I had acquainted you
with my suspicions, you would have found yourself in the painful position of acting a
hypocritical part yourself towards this Charles Holland, for you must either have kept the
secret that he was suspected, or you must have shewn it to him by your behaviour."
"Well, well, I dare say, Marchdale, you acted for the best. What shall we do now?"
"Can you doubt?"
"I was thinking of letting Flora at once know the absolute and complete worthlessness of
her lover, so that she could have no difficulty in at once tearing herself from him by the
assistance of the natural pride which would surely come to her aid, upon finding herself so
much deceived."
"The test may be possible."
"You think so?"
"I do, indeed."
"Here is a letter, which of course remains unopened, addressed to Flora by Charles

Holland. The admiral rather thought it would hurt her feelings to deliver her such an epistle,
but I must confess I am of the contrary opinion upon that point, and think now the more
evidence she has of the utter worthlessness of him who professed to love her with so much
disinterested affection, the better it will be for her."
"You could not, possibly, Henry, have taken a more sensible view of the subject."
"I am glad you agree with me."
"No reasonable man could do otherwise, and from what I have seen of Admiral Bell, I am
sure, upon reflection, he will be of the same opinion."

"Then it shall be so. The first shock to poor Flora may be severe, but we shall then have
the consolation of knowing that it is the only one, and that in knowing the very worst, she
has no more on that score to apprehend. Alas, alas! the hand of misfortune now appears to
have pressed heavily upon us indeed. What in the name of all that is unlucky and
disastrous, will happen next, I wonder?"
"What can happen?" said Marchdale; "I think you have now got rid of the greatest evil of
all -- a false friend."
"We have, indeed."
"Go, then, to Flora; assure her that in the affection of others who know no falsehood, she
will find a solace from every ill. Assure her that there are hearts that will place themselves
between her and every misfortune."
Mr. Marchdale was much affected as he spoke. Probably he felt deeper than he chose to
express the misfortunes of that family for whom he entertained so much friendship. He
turned aside his head to hide the traces of emotion which, despite even his great powers of
self-command, would shew themselves upon his handsome and intelligent countenance.
Then it appeared as if his noble indignation had got, for a few brief moments, the better of
all prudence, and he exclaimed, --
"The villain! the worse than villain! who would, with a thousand artifices, make himself
beloved by a young, unsuspecting, and beautiful girl, but then to leave her to the bitterness
of regret, than she had ever given such a man a place in her esteem. The heartless ruffian!"
"Be calm, Mr. Marchdale, I pray you be calm," said George; "I never saw you so much
moved."
"Excuse me," he said, "excuse me; I am much moved, and I am human. I cannot always,
let me strive my utmost, place a curb upon my feelings."
"They are feelings which do you honour."
"Nay, nay, I am foolish to have suffered myself to be led away into such a hasty
expression of them. I am accustomed to feel acutely and to feel deeply, but it is seldom I
am so much overcome as this."
"Will you accompany us to the breakfast-room at once, Mr. Marchdale, where we will
make this communication to Flora; you will then be able to judge by her manner of
receiving it, what it will be best to say to her."
"Come, then, and pray be calm. The least that is said upon this painful and harassing
subject, after this morning, will be the best."
"You are right -- you are right."

Mr. Marchdale hastily put on his coat. He was dressed, with the exception of that one
article of apparel, when the brothers came to his chamber, and then he came to the
breakfast-parlour where the painful communication was to be made to Flora of her lover's
faithlessness.
Flora was already seated in that apartment. Indeed, she had been accustomed to meet
Charles Holland there before others of the family made their appearance, but, alas! this
morning the kind and tender lover was not there.
The expression that sat upon the countenances of her brothers, and of Mr. Marchdale, was
quite sufficient to convince her that something more serious than usual had occurred, and
she at the moment turned very pale. Marchdale observed this change of countenance in her,
and he advanced towards her, saying, --
"Calm yourself, Flora, we have something to communicate to you, but it is a something

which should excite indignation, and no other feeling, in your breast."
"Brother, what is the meaning of this?" said Flora, turning aside from Marchdale, and
withdrawing the hand which he would have taken.
"I would rather have Admiral Bell here before I say anything," said Henry, "regarding a
matter in which he cannot but feel much interested personally."
"Here he is," said the admiral, who at that moment had opened the door of the breakfast
room. "Here he is, so now fire away and don't spare the enemy."
"And Charles?" said Flora, "where is Charles?"
"D -- n Charles!" cried the admiral, who had not been much accustomed to control his
feelings.
"Hush! hush!" said Henry; "my dear sir, hush! do not indulge now in any invectives.
Flora, here are three letters; you will see that the one which is unopened is addressed to
yourself. However, we wish you to read the whole three of them, and then to form your
own free and unbiased opinion."
Flora looked as pale as a marble statue, when she took the letters into her hands. She let
the two that were open fall on the table before her, while she eagerly broke the seal of that
which was addressed to herself.
Henry, with an instinctive delicacy, beckoned every one present to the window, so that
Flora had not the pain of feeling that any eyes were fixed upon her but those of her mother,
who had just come into the room, while she was perusing those documents which told such
a tale of heartless dissimulation.
"My dear child," said Mrs. Bannerworth, "you are ill."

"Hush! mother -- hush!" said Flora; "let me know all."
She read the whole of the letters through, and then, as the last one dropped from her
grasp, she exclaimed, --
"Oh, God! oh, God! what is all that has occurred compared to this? Charles -- Charles --
Charles!"
"Flora!" exclaimed Henry, suddenly turning from the window. "Flora, is this worthy of
you?"
"Heaven now support me!"
"Is this worthy of the name you bear, Flora? I should have thought, and I did hope, that
woman's pride would have supported you."
"Let me implore you," added Marchdale, "to summon indignation to your aid, Miss
Bannerworth."
"Charles -- Charles -- Charles!" she again exclaimed, as she wrung her hands
despairingly.
"Flora, if anything could add a sting to my already irritated feelings," said Henry, "this
conduct of yours would."
"Henry -- brother, what mean you? Are you mad?"
"Are you, Flora?"
"God, I wish now that I was."
"You have read those letters, and yet you call upon the name of him who wrote them with
frantic tenderness."
"Yes, yes," she cried; "frantic tenderness is the word. It is with frantic tenderness I call
upon his name, and ever will. -- Charles! Charles! -- dear Charles!"
"This surpasses all belief," said Marchdale.
"It is the frenzy of grief," added George; "but I did not expect it of her. Flora -- Flora,
think again."
"Think -- think -- the rush of thought distracts. Whence came these letters? -- where did
you find these most disgraceful forgeries?"

"Forgeries!" exclaimed Henry; and he staggered back, as if some one had struck him a
blow.
"Yes, forgeries!" screamed Flora. "What has become of Charles Holland? Has he been
murdered by some secret enemy, and then these most vile fabrications made up in his
name? Oh, Charles, Charles, are you lost to me for ever?"
"Good God!" said Henry; "I did not think of that."
"Madness! -- madness!" cried Marchdale.
"Hold!" shouted the admiral. "Let me speak to her."
He pushed every one aside, and advanced to Flora. He seized both her hands in his own,
and in a tone of voice that was struggling with feeling, he cried, --
"Look at me, my dear; I'm an old man -- old enough to be your grandfather, so you
needn't mind looking at me steadily in the face. Look at me, I want to ask you a question."
Flora raised her beautiful eyes, and looked the old weather-beaten admiral full in the face.
Oh! what a striking contrast did those two persons present to each other. That young and
beautiful girl, with her small, delicate, childlike hands clasped, and completely hidden in
the huge ones of the old sailor, the white, smooth skin contrasted with his wrinkled,
hardened features.
"My dear," he cried, "you have read those -- those d -- -- d letters, my dear?"
"I have, sir."
"And what do you think of them?"
"They were not written by Charles Holland, your nephew."
A choking sensation seemed to come over the old man, and he tried to speak, but in vain.
He shook the hands of the young girl violently, until he saw that he was hurting her, and
then, before she could be aware of what he was about, he gave her a kiss on the cheek, as
he cried, --
"God bless you -- God bless you! You are the sweetest, dearest little creature that ever
was, or that ever will be, and I'm a d -- -- d old fool, that's what I am. These letters were not
written by my nephew, Charles. He is incapable of writing them, and, d -- n me, I shall take
shame to myself as long as I live for ever thinking so."
"Dear sir," said Flora, who somehow or another did not seem at all offended at the kiss
which the old man had given her; "dear sir, how could you believe, for one moment, that

they came from him? There has been some desperate villainy on foot. Where is he? -- oh,
find him, if he be yet alive. If they who have thus striven to steal from him that honour,
which is the jewel of his heart, have murdered him, seek them out, sir, in the sacred name
of justice, I implore you."
"I will -- I will. I don't renounce him; he is my nephew still -- Charles Holland -- my own
dear sister's son; and you are the best girl, God bless you, that ever breathed. He loved you -
- he loves you still; and if he's above ground, poor fellow, he shall yet tell you himself he
never saw those infamous letters."
"You -- you will seek for him?" sobbed Flora, and the tears gushed from her eyes. "Upon
you, sir, who, as I do, feel assured of his innocence, I alone rely. If all the world say he is
guilty, we will not think so."
"I'm d -- -- d if we do."
Henry had sat down by the table, and, with his hands clasped together, seemed in an
agony of thought.
He was now roused by a thump on the back by the admiral, who cried, --
"What do you think, now, old fellow? D -- n it, things look a little different now."
"As God is my judge," said Henry, holding up his hands, "I know not what to think, but
my heart and feeling all go with you and with Flora, in your opinion of the innocence of
Charles Holland."
"I knew you would say that, because you could not possibly help it, my dear boy. Now
we are all right again, and all we have got to do is to find out which way the enemy has
gone, and then give chase to him."
"Mr. Marchdale, what do you think of this new suggestion," said George to that
gentleman.
"Pray, excuse me," was his reply; "I would much rather not be called upon to give an
opinion."
"Why, what do you mean by that?" said the admiral.
"Precisely what I say, sir."
"D -- n me, we had a fellow once in the combined fleets, who never had an opinion till
after something had happened, and then he always said that was just what he thought."
"I was never in the combined, or any other fleet, sir," said Marchdale coldly.

"Who the devil said you were?" roared the admiral.
Marchdale merely hawed.
"However," added the admiral, "I don't care, and never did, for anybody's opinion, when I
know I am right. I'd back this dear girl here for opinions, and good feelings, and courage to
express them, against all the world, I would, any day. If I was not the old hulk I am, I
would take a cruise in any latitude under the sun, if it was only for the chance of meeting
with just such another."
"Oh, lose no time!" said Flora. "If Charles is not to be found in the house, lose no time in
searching for him, I pray you; seek him, wherever there is the remotest probability he may
chance to be. Do not let him think he is deserted."
"Not a bit of it," cried the admiral. "You make your mind easy, then, my dear. If he's
above ground, we shall find him out, you may depend upon it. Come along master Henry,
you and I will consider what had best be done in this uncommonly ugly matter."
Henry and George followed the admiral from the breakfast-room, leaving Marchdale
there, who looked serious and full of melancholy thought.
It was quite clear that he considered Flora had spoken from the generous warmth of her
affection as regarded Charles Holland, and not from the conviction which reason would
have enforced her to feel.
When he was now alone with her and Mrs. Bannerworth, he spoke in a feeling and
affectionate tone regarding the painful and inexplicable events which had transpired.
--

Chapter XXVIII.
MR. MARCHDALE'S EXCULPATION OF HIMSELF. -- THE SEARCH THROUGH

THE GARDENS. -- THE SPOT OF THE DEADLY STRUGGLE. -- THE MYSTERIOUS
PAPER.
It was, perhaps, very natural that, with her feelings towards Charles Holland, Flora should
shrink from every one who seemed to be of a directly contrary impression, and when Mr.
Marchdale now spoke, she showed but little inclination to hear what he had to say in
explanation.
The genuine and unaffected manner, however, in which he spoke, could not but have its
effect upon her, and she found herself compelled to listen, as well as, to a great extent,
approve of the sentiments that fell from his lips.
"Flora," he said, "I beg that you will here, in the presence of your mother, give me a
patient hearing. You fancy that, because I cannot join so glibly as the admiral in believing
that these letters are forgeries, I must be your enemy."
"Those letters," said Flora, "were not written by Charles Holland."
"That is your opinion."
"It is more than an opinion. He could not write them."
"Well, then, of course, if I felt inclined, which Heaven alone knows I do not, I could not
hope successfully to argue against such a conviction. But I do not wish to do so. All I want
to impress upon you is, that I am not to be blamed for doubting his innocence; and, at the
same time, I wish to assure you that no one in this house would feel more exquisite
satisfaction than I in seeing it established."
"I thank you for so much," said Flora; "but as, to my mind, his innocence has never been
doubted, it needs to me no establishing."
"Very good. You believe these letters forgeries."
"I do."
"And that the disappearance of Charles Holland is enforced, and not of his own free
will?"
"I do."

"Then you may rely upon my unremitting exertions night and day to find him; and any
suggestions you can make, which is likely to aid in the search shall, I pledge myself, be
fully carried out."
"I thank you, Mr. Marchdale."
"My dear," said the mother, "rely on Mr. Marchdale."
"I will rely on any one who believes Charles Holland innocent of writing those odious
letters, mother -- I rely upon the admiral. He will aid me heart and hand."
"And so will Mr. Marchdale."
"I am glad to hear it."
"And yet doubt it, Flora," said Marchdale, dejectedly. "I am very sorry that such should
be the case; I will not, however, trouble you any further, nor, give me leave to assure you,
will I relax in my honest endeavours to clear up this mystery."
So saying, Mr. Marchdale bowed, and left the room, apparently more vexed than he cared
to express at the misconstruction which had been put upon his conduct and motives. He at
once sought Henry and the admiral, to whom he expressed his most earnest desire to aid in
attempting to unravel the mysterious circumstances which had occurred.
"This strongly-expressed opinion of Flora," he remarked, "is of course amply sufficient to

induce us to pause before we say one word more that shall in any way sound like a
condemnation of Mr. Holland. Heaven forbid that it should."
"No," said the admiral; "don't."
"I do not intend."
"I would not advise anybody."
"Sir, if you use that as a threat -- "
"A threat?"
"Yes; I must say, it sounded marvelously like one."
"Oh, dear, no -- quite a mistake. I consider that every man has a fair right to the
enjoyment of his opinion. All I have to remark is, that I shall, after what has occurred, feel
myself called upon to fight anybody who says those letters were written by my nephew."
"Indeed, sir."

"Ah, indeed."
"You will permit me to say such is a strange mode of allowing every one the free
enjoyment of his opinion."
"Not at all."
"Whatever pains and penalties may be the result, Admiral Bell, of differing with so
infallible authority as yourself, I shall do so whenever my judgment induces me."
"You will?"
"Indeed I will."
"Very good. You know all the consequences."
"As to fighting you, I should refuse to do so."
"Refuse?"
"Yes; most certainly."
"Upon what ground?"
"Upon the ground that you were a madman."
"Come," now interposed Henry, "let me hope that, for my sake as well as for Flora's, this
dispute will proceed no further."
"I have not courted it," said Marchdale. "I have much temper, but I am not a stick or a
stone."
"D -- -e, if I don't think," said the admiral, "you are a bit of both."
"Mr. Henry Bannerworth," said Marchdale, "I am your guest, and but for the duty I feel in
assisting in the search for Mr. Charles Holland, I should at once leave your house."
"You need not trouble yourself on my account," said the admiral; "if I find no clue to him
in the neighbourhood for two or three days, I shall be off myself."
"I am going," said Henry, rising, "to search the garden and adjoining meadows; if you
two gentlemen choose to come with me, I shall of course be happy of your company; if,
however, you prefer remaining here to wrangle, you can do so."
This had the effect, at all events, of putting a stop to the dispute for the present, and both
the admiral and Mr. Marchdale accompanied Henry on his search. The search was

commenced immediately under the balcony of Charles Holland's window, from which the
admiral had seen him emerge.
There was nothing particular found there, or in the garden. Admiral Bell pointed out
accurately the route he had seen Charles take across the grass plot just before he himself
left his chamber to seek Henry.
Accordingly, this route was now taken, and it led to a low part of the garden wall, which
any one of ordinary vigour could easily have surmounted.
"My impression is," said the admiral, "that he got over here."
"The ivy appears to be disturbed," remarked Henry.
"Suppose we mark the spot, and then go round to the other side?" suggested George.
This was agreed to; for, although the young might have chosen rather to clamber over the
wall than go round, it was doubtful if the old admiral could accomplish such a feat.
The distance round, however, was not great, and as they had cast over the wall a handful
of flowers from the garden to mark the precise spot, it was easily discoverable.
The moment they reached it, they were panic-stricken by the appearances which it
presented. The grass was for some yards round about completely trodden up, and converted
into mud. There were deep indentations of feet-marks in all directions, and such abundance
of evidence that some most desperate struggle had recently taken place there, that the most
sceptical person in the world could not have entertained any doubt upon the subject.
Henry was the first to break the silence with which they each regarded the broken ground.
"This is conclusive to my mind," he said, with a deep sigh. "Here has poor Charles been
attacked."
"God keep him!" exclaimed Marchdale, "and pardon me my doubts -- I am now

convinced."
The old admiral gazed about him like one distracted. Suddenly he cried --
"They have murdered him. Some fiends in the shape of men have murdered him, and
Heaven only knows for what."
"It seems but too probably," said Henry. "Let us endeavour to trace the footsteps. Oh!
Flora, Flora, what terrible news this will be to you."
"A horrible supposition comes across my mind," said George. "What if he met the
vampyre?"

"It may have been so," said Marchdale, with a shudder. "It is a point which we could
endeavour to ascertain, and I think we may do so."
"How?"
"By some inquiry as to whether Sir Francis Varney was from home at midnight last
night."
"True; that might be done."
"The question, suddenly put to one of his servants, would, most probably, be answered as
a thing of course."
"It would."
"Then it shall be decided upon. And now, my friend, since you have some of you thought
me luke-warm in this business, I pledge myself that, should it be ascertained that Varney
was from home at midnight last evening, I will defy him personally, and meet him hand to
hand."
"Nay, nay," said Henry, "leave that course to younger hands."
"Why so?"
"It more befits me to be his challenger."
"No, Henry. You are differently situated to what I am."
"How so?"
"Remember, that I am in the world a lone man; without ties or connexions. If I lose my
life, I compromise no one by my death; but you have a mother and a bereaved sister to look
to who will deserve your care."
"Hilloa," cried the admiral, "what's this?"
"What?" cried each, eagerly, and they pressed forward to where the admiral was stooping
to the ground to pick up something which was nearly completely trodden into the grass.
He with some difficulty raised it. It was a small slip of paper, on which was some writing,
but it was so much covered with mud as not to be legible.
"If this be washed," said Henry, "I think we shall be able to read it clearly."

"We can soon try that experiment," said George. "And as the footsteps, by some
mysterious means, show themselves nowhere else but in this one particular spot, any
further pursuit of inquiry about here appears useless."
"Then we will return to the house," said Henry, "and wash the mud from this paper."
"There is one important point," remarked Marchdale, "which appears to me we have all
overlooked."
"Indeed!"
"Yes."
"What may that be?"
"It is this. Is any one here sufficiently acquainted with the handwriting of Mr. Charles
Holland to come to an opinion upon the letters?"
"I have some letters from him," said Henry, "which we received while on the continent,
and I dare say Flora has likewise."
"Then they should be compared with the alleged forgeries."
"I know his handwriting well," said the admiral. "The letters bear so strong a resemblance
to it that they would deceive anybody."
"Then you may depend," remarked Henry, "some most deep-laid and desperate plot is
going on."
"I begin," added Marchdale, "to dread that such must be the case. What say you to
claiming the assistance of the authorities, as well as offering a large reward for any
information regarding Mr. Charles Holland?"
"No plan shall be left untried, you may depend."
They had now reached the house, and Henry having procured some clean water, carefully
washed the paper which had been found among the trodden grass. When freed from the
mixture of clay and mud which had obscured it, they made out the following words, --
" -- it be so well. At the next full moon seek a convenient spot, and it can be done. The
signature is, to my apprehension, perfect. The money which I hold, in my opinion, is much
more in amount than you imagine, must be ours; and as for -- "
Here the paper was torn across, and no further words were visible upon it.

Mystery seemed now to be accumulating upon mystery; each one, as it showed itself
darkly, seeming to bear some remote relation to what preceded it; and yet only confusing it
the more.
That this apparent scrap of a letter had dropped from some one's pocket during the fearful
struggle, of which there were such ample evidences, was extremely probably; but what it
related to, by whom it was written, or by whom dropped, were unfathomable mysteries.
In fact, no one could give an opinion upon these matters at all; and after a further series of
conjectures, it could only be decided, that unimportant as the scrap of paper appeared now
to be, it should be preserved in case it should, as there was a dim possibility that it might,
become a connecting link in some chain of evidence at another time.
"And here we are," said Henry, "completely at fault, and knowing not what to do."
"Well, it is a hard case," said the admiral, "that, with all the will in the world to be up and
doing something, we are lying here like a fleet of ships in a calm, as idle as possible."
"You perceive we have no evidence to connect Sir Francis Varney with this affair, either
nearly or remotely," said Marchdale.
"Certainly not," replied Henry.
"But yet, I hope you will not lose sight of the suggestion I proposed, to the effect of
ascertaining if he were from home last night."
"But how is that to be carried out?"
"Boldly."
"How boldly?"
"By going at once, I should advise, to his house, and asking the first one of his domestics
you may happen to see."
"I will go over," cried George; "on such occasions as these one cannot act upon
ceremony."
He seized his hat, and without waiting for a word from any one approving or condemning
his going, off he went.
"If," said Henry, "we find that Varney has nothing to do with the matter, we are
completely at fault."
"Completely," echoed Marchdale.

"In that case, admiral, I think we ought to defer to your feelings upon the subject and do
whatever you suggest should be done."
"I shall offer a hundred pound reward to any one who can and will bring any news of
Charles."
"A hundred pounds is too much," said Marchdale.
"Not at all; and while I am about it, since the amount is made a subject of discussion, I
shall make it two hundred, and that may benefit some rascal who is not so well paid for
keeping the secret as I will pay him for disclosing it."
"Perhaps you are right," said Marchdale.
"I know I am, as I always am."
Marchdale could not forbear a smile at the opinionated old man, who thought no one's
opinion upon any subject at all equal to his own; but he made no remark and only waited,
as did Henry, with evident anxiety for the return of George.
The distance was not great, and George certainly performed his errand quickly, for he
was back in less time than they had thought he could return in. The moment he came into
the room, he said, without waiting for any inquiry to be made of him, --
"We are at fault again. I am assured that Sir Francis Varney never stirred from home after
eight o'clock last evening."
"D -- n it, then," said the admiral, "let us give the devil his due. He could not have had
any hand in this business."
"Certainly not."
"From whom, George, did you get your information?" asked Henry, in a desponding tone.
"From, first of all, one of his servants, whom I met away from the house, and then from
one whom I saw at the house."
"There can be no mistake, then?"
"Certainly none. The servants answered me at once, and so frankly that I cannot doubt it."
The door of the room was slowly opened, and Flora came in. She looked almost the
shadow of what she had been but a few weeks before. She was beautiful, but she almost
realised the poet's description of one who had suffered much, and was sinking into an early
grave, the victim of a broken heart: -- "She was more beautiful than death, And yet as sad
to look upon." Her face was of a marble paleness, and as she clasped her hands, and

glanced from face to face, to see if she could gather hope and consolation from the
expression of any one, she might have been taken for some exquisite statue of despair.
"Have you found him?" she said. "Have you found Charles?"
"Flora, Flora," said Henry, as he approached her.
"Nay, answer me; have you found him? You went to seek him. Dead of alive, have you
found him?"
"We have not, Flora."
"Then I must seek him myself. None will search for him as I will search; I must myself
seek him. 'Tis true affection that can alone be successful in such a search."
"Believe me, dear Flora, that all has been done which the shortness of the time that has
elapsed would permit. Further measures will now immediately be taken. Rest assured, dear
sister, that all will be done that the utmost zeal can suggest."
"They have killed him! they have killed him!" she said mournfully. "Oh, God, they have
killed him! I am not now mad, but the time will come when I must surely be maddened.
The vampyre has killed Charles Holland -- the dreadful vampyre!"
"Nay, now, Flora, this is frenzy."
"Because he loved me has he been destroyed. I know it, I know it. The vampyre has
doomed me to destruction. I am lost, and all who loved me will be involved in one common
ruin on my account. Leave me all of you to perish. If, for iniquities done in our family,
some one must suffer to appease the divine vengeance, let that one be me, and only me."
"Hush, sister, hush!" cried Henry. "I expected not this from you. The expressions you use
are not your expressions. I know you better. There is abundance of divine mercy, but no
divine vengeance. Be calm, I pray you."
"Calm! calm!"
"Yes. Make an exertion of that intellect we all know you to possess. It is too common a
thing with human nature, when misfortune overtakes it, to imagine that such a state of
things is specially arranged. We quarrel with Providence because it does not interfere with
some special miracle in our favour; forgetting that, being denizens of this earth, and
members of a great social system, we must be subject occasionally to the accidents which
will disturb its efficient working."
"Oh, brother, brother!" she exclaimed, as she dropped into a seat, "you have never loved."
"Indeed!"

"No; you have never felt what it was to hold your being upon the breath of another. You
can reason calmly, because you cannot know the extent of feeling you are vainly
endeavouring to combat."
"Flora, you do me less than justice. All I wish to impress upon your mind is, that you are
not in any way picked out by Providence to be specially unhappy -- that there is no
perversion of nature on your account."
"Call you that hideous vampyre form that haunts me no perversion of ordinary nature?"
"What is is natural," said Marchdale.
"Cold reasoning to one who suffers as I suffer. I cannot argue with you; I can only know
that I am most unhappy -- most miserable."
"But that will pass away, sister, and the sun of your happiness may smile again."
"Oh, if I could but hope!"
"And wherefore should you deprive yourself of that poorest privilege of the most
unhappy?"
"Because my heart tells me to despair."
"Tell it you won't, then," cried Admiral Bell. "If you had been at sea as long as I have,
Miss Bannerworth, you would never despair of anything at all."
"Providence guarded you," said Marchdale.
"Yes, that's true enough, I dare say. I was in a storm once off Cape Ushant, and it was
only through Providence, and cutting away the mainmast myself, that we succeeded in
getting into port."
"You have one hope," said Marchdale to Flora, as he looked in her wan face.
"One hope?"
"Yes. Recollect you have one hope."
"What is that?"
"You think that, by removing from this place, you may find that peace which is here
denied you."
"No, no, no."

"Indeed. I thought that such was your firm conviction."
"It was; but circumstances have altered."
"How?"
"Charles Holland has disappeared here, and here must I remain to seek for him."
"True he may have disappeared here," remarked Marchdale; "and yet that may be no
argument for supposing him still here."
"Where, then, is he?"
"God knows how rejoiced I should be if I were able to answer your question."
"I must seek him, dead or alive! I must see him before I bid adieu to this world, which has
now lost all its charms for me."
"Do not despair," said Henry; "I will go to the town now at once, to make known our
suspicions that he has met with some foul play. I will set every means in operation that I
possibly can to discover him. Mr. Chillingworth will aid me, too; and I hope that not many
days will elapse, Flora, before some intelligence of a most satisfactory nature shall be
brought to you on Charles Holland's account."
"Go, go, brother; go at once."
"I go now at once."
"Shall I accompany you?" said Marchdale.
"No. Remain here to keep watch over Flora's safety while I am gone; I can alone do all
that can be done."
"And don't forget to offer the two hundred pounds reward," said the admiral, "to any one
who can bring us news of Charles, on which we can rely."
"I will not."
"Surely -- surely something must result from that," said Flora, as she looked in the
admiral's face, as if to gather encouragement in her dawning hopes from its expression.
"Of course it will, my dear," he said. "Don't you be downhearted; you and I are of one
mind in this affair, and of one mind we will keep. We won't give up our opinions for
anybody."

"Our opinions," she said, "of the honour and honesty of Charles Holland. That is what we
will adhere to."
"Of course we will."
"Ah, sir, it joys me, even in the midst of this, my affliction, to find one at least who is
determined to do him full justice. We cannot find such contradictions in nature as that
mind, full of noble impulses, should stoop to such a sudden act of selfishness as those
letters would attribute to Charles Holland. It cannot -- cannot be."
"You are right, my dear. And now, Master Henry, you be off, will you, if you please."
"I am off now. Farewell, Flora, for a brief space."
"Farewell, brother; and Heaven speed you on your errand."
"Amen to that," cried the admiral; "and now, my dear, if you have got half an hour to
spare, just tuck your arm under mine, and take a walk with me in the garden, for I want to
say something to you."
"Most willingly," said Flora.
"I would not advise you to stray far from the house, Miss Bannerworth," said Marchdale.
"Nobody asked you for advice," said the admiral. "D -- -e, do you want to make out that I
ain't capable of taking care of her?"
"No, no; but -- "
"Oh, nonsense! Come along, my dear; and if all the vampyres and odd fish that were ever
created were to come across our path, we would settle them somehow or another. Come
along, and don't listen to anybody's croaking."
--

Chapter XXIX.
A PEEP THOROUGH AN IRON GRATING. -- THE LONELY PRISONER IN HIS

DUNGEON. -- THE MYSTERY.
Without forestalling the interest of our story, or recording a fact in its wrong place, we now
call our readers' attention to a circumstance which may, at all events, afford some food for
conjecture.
Some distance from the Hall, which, from time immemorial, had been the home and the
property of the Bannerworth family, was an ancient ruin known by the name of Monks'
Hall.
It was conjectured that this ruin was the remains of some one of those half monastic, half
military buildings which, during the middle ages, were so common in almost every
commanding situation in every county of England.
At a period of history when the church arrogated to itself an amount of political power
which the intelligence of the spirit of the age now denies to it, and when its members were
quite ready to assert at any time the truth of their doctrines by the strong arm of power,
such buildings as the one, the old grey ruins of which were situated near Bannerworth Hall,
were erected.
Ostensibly for religious purposes, but really as a stronghold for defence, as well as for
aggression, this Monks' Hall, as it was called, partook quite as much of the character of a
fortress, as of an ecclesiastical building.
The ruins covered a considerable extent of ground, but the only part which seemed
successfully to have resisted the encroaches of time, at least to a considerable extent, was a
long hall in which the jolly monks no doubt feasted and caroused.
Adjoining to this hall, were the walls of other parts of the building, and at several places
there were small, low, mysterious-looking doors that led, heaven knows where, into some
intricacies and labyrinths beneath the building, which no one had, within the memory of
man, been content to run the risk of losing himself in.
It was related that among these subterranean passages and arches there were pitfalls and
pools of water; and whether such a statement was true or not, it certainly acted as a
considerable damper upon the vigour of curiosity.
This ruin was so well known in the neighbourhood, and had become from earliest
childhood so familiar to the inhabitants of Bannerworth Hall, that one would as soon expect
an old inhabitant of Ludgate-hill to make some remark about St. Paul's, as any of them to
allude to the ruins of Monks' Hall.

They never now thought of going near to it, for in infancy they had sported among its
ruins, and it had become one of those familiar objects which, almost, from that very
familiarity, cease to hold a place in the memories of those who know it so well.
It is, however, to this ruin we would now conduct our readers, premising that what we
have to say concerning it now, is not precisely in the form of a connected portion of our
narrative.
******
It is evening -- the evening of that first day of heart loneliness to poor Flora Bannerworth.
The lingering rays of the setting sun are gilding the old ruins with a wondrous beauty. The
edges of the decayed stones seem now to be tipped with gold, and as the rich golden
refulgence of light gleams upon the painted glass which still adorned a large window of the
hall, a flood of many-coloured beautiful light was cast within, making the old flag-stones,
with which the interior was paved, look more like some rich tapestry, laid down to do
honour to a monarch.
So picturesque and so beautiful an aspect did the ancient ruin wear, that to one with a soul
to appreciate the romantic and the beautiful, it would have amply repaid the fatigue of a
long journey now to see it.
And as the sun sank to rest, the gorgeous colours that it cast upon the mouldering wall,
deepened from an appearance of burnished gold to a crimson hue, and from that again the
colour changed to a shifting purple, mingling with the shadows of the evening, and so
gradually fading away into absolute darkness.
The place is as silent as the tomb -- a silence far more solemn than could have existed,
had there been no remains of a human habitation; because even these time-worn walls were
suggestive of what once had been; and the wrapt stillness which now pervaded them
brought with them a melancholy feeling for the past.
There was not even the low hum of insect life to break the stillness of these ancient ruins.
And now the last rays of the sun are gradually fading away. In a short time all will be
darkness. A low gentle wind is getting up, and beginning slightly to stir the tall blades of
grass that have shot up between some of the old stones. The silence is broken, awfully
broken, by a sudden cry of despair; such a cry as might come from some imprisoned spirit,
doomed to waste an age of horror in a tomb.
And yet it was scarcely to be called a scream, and not all a groan. It might have come
from some one on the moment of some dreadful sacrifice, when the judgment had not
sufficient time to call courage to its aid, but involuntarily had induced that sound which
might not be repeated.

A few startled birds flew from odd holes and corners about the ruins, to seek some other
place of rest. The owl hooted from a corner of what had once been a belfry, and a dreamy-
looking bat flew out from a cranny and struck itself headlong against a projection.
Then all was still again. Silence resumed its reign, and if there had been a mortal ear to
drink in that sudden sound, the mind might well have doubted if fancy had not more to do
with the matter than reality.
From out a portion of the ruins that was enveloped in the deepest gloom, there now glides
a figure. It is of gigantic height, and it moves along with a slow and measured tread. An
ample mantle envelopes the form, which might well have been taken for the spirit of one of
the monks who, centuries since, had made that place their home.
It walked the whole length of the ample hall we have alluded to, and then, at the window
from which had streamed the long flood of many coloured light, it paused.
For more than ten minutes this mysterious looking figure there stood.
At length there passed something on the outside of the window, that looked like the
shadow of a human form.
Then the tall, mysterious, apparition-looking man turned, and sought a side entrance to
the hall.
Then he paused, and, in about a minute, he was joined by another who must have been he
who had so recently passed the stained glass window on the outer side.
There was a friendly salutation between these two beings, and they walked to the centre
of the hall, where they remained for some time in animated conversation.
From the gestures they used, it was evident that the subject of their discourse was one of
deep and absorbing interest to both. It was one, too, upon which, after a time, they seemed a
little to differ, and more than once they each assumed attitudes of mutual defiance.
This continued until the sun had so completely sunk, that twilight was beginning sensibly
to wane, and then gradually the two men appeared to have come to a better understanding,
and whatever might be the subject of their discourse, there was some positive result
evidently arrived at now.
They spoke in lower tones. They used less animated gestures than before; and, after a
time, they both walked slowly down the hall towards the dark spot from whence the first
tall figure had so mysteriously emerged. * * * *
There is a dungeon -- damp and full of the most unwholesome exhalations -- deep under
ground it seems, and, in its excavations, it would appear as if some small land springs had
been liberated, for the earthen floor was one continued extent of moisture.

From the roof, too, came perpetually the dripping of water, which fell with sullen,
startling splashes in the pool below.
At one end, and near to the roof, -- so near that to reach it, without the most efficient
means from the inside, was a matter of positive impossibility -- is a small iron grating, and
not much larger than might be entirely obscured by any human face than might be close to
it from the outside of the dungeon.
That dreadful abode is tenanted. In one corner, on a heap of straw, which appears freshly
to have been cast into the place, lies a hopeless prisoner.
It is no great stretch of fancy to suppose, that it is from his lips came the sound of terror
and of woe that had disturbed the repose of that lonely spot.
The prisoner is lying on his back; a rude bandage round his head, on which were
numerous spots of blood, would seem to indicate that he had suffered personal injury in
some recent struggle. His eyes were open. They were fixed desparingly, perhaps
unconsciously, upon that small grating which looked into the upper world.
That grating slants upwards, and looks to the west, so that any one confined in that dreary
dungeon might be tantalized, on a sweet summer's day, by seeing the sweet blue sky, and
occasionally the white clouds flitting by in that freedom which he cannot hope for.
The carol of a bird, too, might reach him there. Alas! sad remembrance of life, and joy,
and liberty.
But now all is deepening gloom. The prisoner sees nothing -- hears nothing; and the sky
is not quite dark. That small grating looks like a strange light-patch in the dungeon wall.
Hark! some footstep sounds upon his ear. The creaking of a door follows -- a gleam of
light shines into the dungeon, and the tall mysterious-looking figure in the cloak stands
before the occupant of that wretched place.
Then comes in the other man, and he carries in his hand writing materials. He stoops to
the stone couch on which the prisoner lies, and offers him a pen, as he raises him partially
from the miserable damp pallet.
But there is no speculation in the eyes of that oppressed man. In vain the pen is repeatedly
placed in his grip, and a document of some length, written on parchment, is spread out
before him to sign. In vain is he held up now by both of the men, who have thus
mysteriously sought him in his dungeon; he has not power to do as they would wish him.
The pen falls from his nerveless grasp, and, with a deep sigh, when they cease to hold him
up, he falls heavily back upon the stone couch.

Then the two men looked at each other for about a minute silently; after which he who
was the shorter of the two raised one hand, and, in a voice of such concentrated hatred and
passion as was horrible to hear, he said, --
"D -- n!"
The reply of the other was a laugh; and then he took the light from the floor, and
motioned the one who seemed so little able to control his feelings of bitterness and
disappointment to leave the place with him.
With a haste and vehemence, then, which showed how much angered he was, the shorter
man of the two now rolled up the parchment, and placed it in a breast-pocket of his coat.
He cast a withering look of intense hatred on the form of the nearly-unconscious prisoner,
and then prepared to follow the other.
But when they reached the door of the dungeon, the taller man of the two paused, and
appeared for a moment or two to be in deep thought; after which he handed the lamp he
carried to his companion, and approached the pallet of the prisoner.
He took from his pocket a small bottle, and, raising the head of the feeble and wounded
man, he poured some portion of the contents into his mouth, and watched him swallow it.
The other looked on in silence, and then they both slowly left the dreary dungeon. * * * *
The wind rose, and the night had deepened into the utmost darkness. The blackness of a
night, unilluminated by the moon, which would not now rise for some hours, was upon the
ancient ruins. All was calm and still, and no one would have supposed that aught human
was within those ancient, dreary looking walls.
Time will show who it was who lay in that unwholesome dungeon, as well as who were
they who visited him so mysteriously, and retired again with feelings of such evident
disappointment with the document it seemed of such importance, at least to one of them, to
get that unconscious man to sign.
--

Chapter XXX.
THE VISIT OF FLORA TO THE VAMPYRE. -- THE OFFER. -- THE SOLEMN

ASSEVERATION.
Admiral Bell had, of course, nothing particular to communicate to Flora in the walk he
induced her to take with him in the gardens of Bannerworth Hall, but he could talk to her
upon a subject which was sure to be a welcome one, namely, Charles Holland.
And not only could he talk to her of Charles, but he was willing to talk of him in the style
of enthusiastic commendation which assimilated best with her own feelings. No one but the
honest old admiral, who was as violent in his likes and his dislikes as any one could
possibly be, could just then have conversed with Flora Bannerworth to her satisfaction of
Charles Holland.
He expressed no doubts whatever concerning Charles's faith, and to his mind, now that he
had got that opinion firmly fixed in his mind, everybody that held a contrary one he at once
denounced as a fool or a rogue.
"Never you mind, Miss Flora," he said; "you will find, I dare say, that all will come right
eventually. D -- n me! the only thing that provokes me in the whole business is, that I
should have been such an old fool as for a moment to doubt Charles."
"You should have known him better, sir."
"I should, my dear, but I was taken by surprise, you see, and that was wrong, too, for a
man who has held a responsible command."
"But the circumstances, dear sir, were of a nature to take everyone by surprise."
"They were, they were. But now, candidly speaking, and I know I can speak candidly to
you; do you really think this Varney is the vampyre?"
"I do."
"You do? Well, then, somebody must tackle him, that's quite clear; we can't put up with
his fancies always."
"What can be done?"
"Ah, that I don't know, but something must be done, you know. He wants this place;
Heaven only knows why or wherefore he has taken such a fancy to it; but he has done so,
that is quite clear. If it had a good sea view, I should not be so much surprised; but there's
nothing of the sort, so it's no way at all better than any other shore-going stupid sort of
house, that you can see nothing but land from."

"Oh, if my brother would but make some compromise with him to restore Charles to us
and take the house, me might yet be happy."
"D -- n it! then you still think that he has a hand in spiriting away Charles?"
"Who else could do so?"
"I'll be hanged if I know. I do feel tolerably sure, and I have good deal of reliance upon
your opinion, my dear; I say, I do feel tolerably sure: but, if I was d -- -- d sure, now, I'd
soon have it out of him."
"For my sake, Admiral Bell, I wish now to extract one promise from you."
"Say your say, my dear, and I'll promise you."
"You will not then expose yourself to the danger of any personal conflict with that most
dreadful man, whose powers of mischief we do not know, and therefore cannot well meet
or appreciate."
"Whew! is that what you mean?"
"Yes; you will, I am sure, promise me so much."
"Why, my dear, you see the case is this. In affairs of fighting, the less ladies interfere the
better."
"Nay, why so?"
"Because -- because, you see, a lady has no reputation for courage to keep up. Indeed, it's
rather the other way, for we dislike a bold woman as much as we hold in contempt a
cowardly man."
"But if you grant to us females that in consequence of our affections, we are not
courageous, you must likewise grant how much we are doomed to suffer from the dangers
of those whom we esteem."
"You would be the last person in the world to esteem a coward."
"Certainly. But there is more true courage often in not fighting than in entering into a
contest."
"You are right enough there, my dear."
"Under ordinary circumstances, I should not oppose your carrying out the dictates of your
honour, but now, let me entreat you not to meet this dreadful man, if man he can be called,
when you know not how unfair the contest may be."

"Unfair?"
"Yes. May he not have some means of preventing you from injuring him, and of
overcoming you, which no mortal possesses?"
"He may."
"Then the supposition of such a case ought to be sufficient ground for at once inducing
you to abandon all idea of meeting with him."
"My dear, I'll consider of this matter."
"Do so."
"There is another thing, however, which now you will permit me to ask of you as a
favour."
"It is granted ere it is spoken."
"Very good. Now you must not be offended with what I am going to say, because,
however it may touch that very proper pride which you, and such as you, are always sure to
possess, you are fortunately at all times able to call sufficient judgment to your aid to
enable you to see what is really offensive and what is not."
"You alarm me by such a preface."
"Do I? then here goes at once. Your brother Henry, poor fellow, has enough to do, has he
not, to make all ends meet."
A flush of excitement came over Flora's cheek as the old admiral thus bluntly broached a
subject of which she already knew the bitterness to such a spirit as her brother's.
"You are silent," continued the old man; "by that I guess I am not wrong in my
supposition; indeed it is hardly a supposition at all, for Master Charles told me as much,
and no doubt he had it from a correct quarter."
"I cannot deny it, sir."
"Then don't. It ain't worth denying, my dear. Poverty is no crime, but, like being born a
Frenchman, it's a d -- -- d misfortune."
Flora could scarcely refuse a smile, as the nationality of the old admiral peeped out even
in the midst of his most liberal and best feelings.
"Well," he continued, "I don't intend that he shall have so much trouble as he has had.
The enemies of his king and his country shall free him from his embarrassments."

"The enemies?"
"Yes; who else?"
"You speak in riddles, sir."
"Do I? Then I'll soon make the riddles plain. When I went to sea I was worth nothing -- as
poor as a ship's cat after the crew had been paid off for a month. Well, I began fighting
away as hard and fast as I could, and the more I fought, and the more hard knocks I gave
and took, the more money I got."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; prize after prize we hauled into port, and at last the French vessels wouldn't come
out of their harbours."
"What did you do then?"
"What did we do then? Why what was the most natural thing in the whole world for us to
do, we did."
"I cannot guess."
"Well, I am surprised at that. Try again."
"Oh, yes; I can guess now. How could I have been so dull? You went and took them out."
"To be sure we did -- to be sure we did, my dear; that's how we managed them. And, do
you see, at the end of the war I found myself with lots of prize money, all wrung from old
England's enemies, and I intend that some of it shall find its way to your brother's pocket;
and you see that will bear out just what I said, that the enemies of his king and his country
shall free him from his difficulties -- don't you see?"
"I see your noble generosity, admiral."
"Noble fiddlesticks! Now I have mentioned this matter to you, my dear, and I don't so
much mind talking to you about such matters as I should to your brother, I want you to do
me the favour of managing it all for me."
"How, sir?"
"Why, just this way. You must find out how much money will free your brother just now
from a parcel of botherations that beset him, and then I will give it to you, and you can
hand it to him, you see, so I need not say anything about it; and if he speaks to me on the
subject at all, I can put him down at once by saying, 'avast there, it's no business of mine.'"

"And can you, dear admiral, imagine that I could conceal the generous source from where
so much assistance came?"
"Of course; it will come from you. I take a fancy to make you a present of a sum of
money; you do with it as you please -- it's yours, and I have no right and no inclination to
ask you what use you put it to."
Tears gushed from the eyes of Flora as she tried to utter some word, but could not. The
admiral swore rather fearfully, and pretended to wonder much what on earth she could be
crying for. At length, after the first gush of feeling was over, she said, --
"I cannot accept of so much generosity, sir -- I dare not."
"Dare not!"
"No; I should think meanly of myself were I to take advantage of the boundless
munificence of your nature."
"Take advantage! I should like to see anybody take advantage of me, that's all."
"I ought not to take the money of you. I will speak to my brother, and well I know how
much he will appreciate the noble, generous offer, my dear sir."
"Well, settle it your own way, only remember I have a right to do what I like with my
own money."
"Undoubtedly."
"Very good. Then as that is undoubted, whatever I lend to him, mind I give to you, so it's
as broad as it's long, as the Dutchman said, when he looked at the new ship that was built
for him, and you may as well take it yourself you see, and make no more fuss about it."
"I will consider," said Flora, with much emotion -- "between this time and the same hour
to-morrow I will consider, sir, and if you can find any words more expressive of heartfelt
gratitude than others, pray imagine that I have used them with reference to my own feelings
towards you for such an unexampled offer of friendship."
"Oh, bother -- stuff."
The admiral now at once changed the subject, and began to talk of Charles -- a most
grateful theme to Flora, as may well be supposed. He related to her many little particulars
connected with him which all tended to place his character in a most amiable light, and as
her ear drank in the words of commendation of him she loved, what sweeter music could
there be to her than the voice of that old weather-beaten rough-spoken man.

"The idea," he added, to a warm eulogium he had uttered concerning Charles -- "the idea
that he could write those letters my dear, is quite absurd."
"It is, indeed. Oh, that we could know what had become of him!"
"We shall know. I don't think but what he's alive. Something seems to assure me that we
shall some of these days look upon his face again."
"I am rejoiced to hear you say so."
"We will stir heaven and earth to find him. If he were killed, do you see, there would
have been some traces of him now at hand; besides, he would have been left lying where
the rascals attacked him."
Flora shuddered.
"But don't you fret yourself. You may depend that the sweet little cherub that sits up aloft
has looked after him."
"I will hope so."
"And now, my dear, Master Henry will soon be home, I am thinking, and as he has quite
enough disagreeables on his own mind to be able to spare a few of them, you will take the
earliest opportunity, I am sure, of acquainting him with the little matter we have been
talking about, and let me know what he says."
"I will -- I will."
"That's right. Now, go in doors, for there's a cold air blowing here, and you are a delicate
plant rather just now -- go in and make yourself comfortable and easy. The worst storm
must blow over at last."
--

Chapter XXXI.
SIR FRANCIS VARNEY AND HIS MYSTERIOUS VISITOR. -- THE STRANGE

CONFERENCE.
Sir Francis Varney is in what he calls his own apartment. It is night, and a dim and
uncertain light from a candle which had been long neglected, only serves to render
obscurity more perplexing. The room is a costly one. One replete with all the appliances of
refinement and luxury which the spirit and genius of the age could possibly supply him
with, but there is upon his brow the marks of corroding care, and little does that most
mysterious being seem to care for all the rich furnishings of that apartment in which he sits.
His cadaverous-looking face is even paler and more death-like-looking than usual; and, if
it can be conceived possible that such a one can feel largely interested in human affairs, to
look at him, we could well suppose that some interest of no common magnitude was at
stake.
Occasionally, too, he muttered some unconnected words, no doubt mentally filling up the
gaps which rendered the sentences incomplete, and being unconscious, perhaps, that he was
giving audible utterance to any of his dark and secret meditations.
At length he rose, and with an anxious expression of countenance, he went to the

window, and looked out into the darkness of the night. All was still, and not an object was
visible. It was that pitchy darkness without, which, for some hours, when the moon is late
in lending her reflected beams, comes over the earth's surface.
"It is near the hour," he muttered "it is now very near the hour; surely he will come, and
yet I know not why I should fear him, although I seem to tremble at the thought of his
approach. He will surely come. Once a year -- only once does he visit me, and then 'tis but
to take the price which he has compelled me to pay for that existence, which but for him
had been long since terminated. Sometimes I devoutly wish it were."
With a shudder he returned to the seat he had so recently left, and there for some time he
appeared to meditate in silence.
Suddenly now, a clock, which was in the hall of that mansion he had purchased, sounded
the hour loudly.
"The time has come," said Sir Francis. "The time has come, he will surely soon be here.
Hark! hark!"
Slowly and distinctly he counted the strokes of the clock, and, when they had ceased, he
exclaimed, with sudden surprise --

"Eleven! But eleven! How have I been deceived. I thought the hour of midnight was at
hand."
He hastily consulted the watch he wore, and then he indeed found, that whatever he had
been looking forward to with dread for some time past, as certain to ensue, at or about
twelve o'clock, had yet another hour in which to prey upon his imagination.
"How could I have made so grievous an error?" he exclaimed. "Another hour of suspense
and wonder as to whether that man be among the living or the dead. I have thought of
raising my hand against his life, but some strange mysterious feeling has always staid me;
and I have let him come and go freely, while an opportunity might well have served me to
put such a design into execution. He is old, too -- very old, and yet he keeps death at a
distance. He looked pale, but far from unwell or failing, when last I saw him. Alas! a whole
hour yet to wait. I would that this interview were over."
That extremely well known and popular disease called the fidgets, now began, indeed, to
torment Sir Francis Varney. He could not sit -- he could not walk, and, somehow or
another, he never once seemed to imagine that from the wine cup he should experience any
relief, although, upon a side table, there stood refreshments of that character. And thus
some more time passed away, and he strove to cheat it of its weariness by thinking of a
variety of subjects; but as the fates would have it, there seemed not one agreeable
reminiscence in the mind of that most inexplicable man, and the more he plunged into the
recesses of memory the more uneasy, not to say almost terrified, he looked and became. A
shuddering nervousness came across him, and, for a few moments, he sat as if he were
upon the point of fainting. By a vigorous effort, however, be shook this off, and then
placing before him the watch, which now indicated about the quarter past eleven, he strove
with a calmer aspect to wait the coming of him whose presence, when he did come, would
really be a great terror, since the very thought beforehand produced so much hesitation and
dismay.
In order too, if possible, then to further withdraw himself from a too painful consideration
of those terrors, which in due time the reader will be acquainted with the cause of, he took
up a book, and plunging into its contents, he amused his mind for a time with the following
brief narrative: --
The wind howled round the gable ends of Bridport House in sudden and furious gusts,
while the inmates sat by the fire-side, gazing in silence upon the blazing embers of the huge
fire that shed a red and bright light all over the immense apartment in which they all sat.
It was an ancient looking place, very large, and capable of containing a number of guests.
Several were present.
An aged couple were seated in tall high straight-backed chairs. They were the owners of
that lordly mansion, and near them sat two young maidens of surpassing beauty; they were
dissimilar and yet there was a slight likeness, but of totally different complexions.

The one had tresses of raven black; eyebrows, eyelashes, and eyes were all of the same
hue; she was a beautiful and proud-looking girl, her complexion clear, with the hue of
health upon her cheeks, while a smile played around her lips. The glance of the eye was
sufficient to thrill through the whole soul.
The other maiden was altogether different; her complexion altogether fairer -- her hair of
sunny chestnut, and her beautiful hazel eyes were shaded by long brown eyelashes, while a
playful smile also lit up her countenance. She was the younger of the two.
The attention of the two young maidens had been directed to the words of the aged owner
of the house, for he had been speaking a few moments before. There were several other
persons present, and at some little distance were many of the domestics who were not
denied the privilege of warmth and rest in the presence of their master.
These were not the times, when if servants sat down, they were deemed idle; but the daily
task done, then the evening hour was spent by the fire-side.
"The wind howls and moans," said an aged domestic, "in an awful manner. I have never
heard the like."
"It seems as though some imprisoned spirit was waiting for the repose that had been
denied on earth," said the old lady, as she shifted her seat and gazed steadily on the fire.
"Ay," said her aged companion, "it is a windy night, and there will be a storm before
long, or I'm mistaken."
"It was just such a night as that my son Henry left his home," said Mrs. Bradley, "just
such another -- only it had the addition of sleet and rain."
The old man sighed at the mention of his son's name, a tear stood in the eyes of the
maidens, while one looked silently at the other, and seemed to exchange glances.
"I would that I might again see him before my body seeks its final home in the cold
remorseless grave."
"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 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 aged couple, had apparently 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."
"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 I 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 suddenly and
soon terminated.
Henry Bradley was indignant at what I 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 that neigbourhood; 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 else-where.
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 anyone 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 instead 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; 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 lt"
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 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 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.
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 round 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 Hall.
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.

--

Chapter XXXIII.
THE STRANGE INTERVIEW. -- THE CHASE THROUGH THE HALL.
It was with the most melancholy aspect that anything human could well bear, that Sir
Francis Varney took his lonely walk, although perhaps in saying so much, probably we are
instituting a comparison which circumstances scarcely empower us to do; for who shall say
that singular man, around whom a very atmosphere of mystery seemed to be perpetually
increasing, was human?
Averse as we are to believe in the supernatural, or even to invest humanity with any
preternatural powers, the more singular facts and circumstances surrounding the existence
and the acts of that man bring to the mind a kind of shuddering conviction, that if he be
indeed really mortal he still must possess some powers beyond ordinary mortality, and be
walking the earth for some unhallowed purposes, such as ordinary men with ordinary
attributes of human nature can scarcely guess at.
Silently and alone he took his way through that beautiful tract of country, comprehending
such picturesque charms of hill and dale which lay between his home and Bannerworth
Hall. He was evidently intent upon reaching the latter place by the shortest possible route,
and in the darkness of that night, for the moon had not yet risen, he showed no slight
acquaintance with the intricacies of that locality, that he was at all enabled to pursue so
undeviatingly a track as that which he took.
He muttered frequently to himself low, indistinct words as he went, and chiefly did they
seem to have reference to that strange interview he had so recently had with one who, from
some combination of circumstances scarcely to be guessed at, evidently exercised a
powerful control over him, and was enabled to make a demand upon his pecuniary
resources of rather startling magnitude.
And yet, from a stray word or two, which were pronounced more distinctly, he did not
seem to be thinking in anger over that interview; but it would appear that it rather had
recalled to his remembrance circumstances of a painful and a degrading nature, which time
had not been able entirely to obliterate from his recollection.
"Yes, yes," he said, as he paused upon the margin of the wood, to the confines of which
he, or what seemed to be he, had once been chased by Marchdale and the Bannerworths --
"yes, the very sight of that man recalls all the frightful pageantry of a horrible tragedy,
which I can never -- never forget. Never can it escape my memory, as a horrible, a terrific
fact; but it is the sight of this man alone that can recall all its fearful minutia to my mind,
and paint to my imagination, in the most vivid colours, every, the least particular connected
with that time of agony. These periodical visits much affect me. For months I dread them,
and for months I am but slowly recovering from the shocks they give me. 'But once more,'
he says -- 'but once more,' and then we shall not meet again. Well, well; perchance before

that time arrives, I may be able to possess myself of those resources which will enable me
to forestall his visit, and so at least free myself from the pang of expecting him."
He paused at the margin of the wood, and glanced in the direction of Bannerworth Hall.
By the dim light which yet showed from out the light sky, he could discern the ancient
gable ends, and turret-like windows; he could see the well laid out gardens, and the grove
of stately firs that shaded it from the northern blasts, and, as he gazed, a strong emotion
seemed to come over him, such as no one could have supposed would for one moment have
possessed the frame of one so apparently unconnected with all human sympathies.
"I know this spot well," he said, "and my appearance here on that eventful occasion, when
the dread of my approach induced a crime only second to murder itself, was on such a night
as this, when all was so still and calm around, and when he who, at the merest shadow of
my presence, rather chose to rush on death than be assured it was myself. Curses on the
circumstances that so foiled me! I should have been most wealthy. I should have possessed
the means of commanding the adulation of those who now hold me but cheaply: but still
the time may come. I have a hope yet, and that greatness which I have ever panted for, that
magician-like power over my kind, which the possession of ample means alone can give,
may yet be mine."
Wrapping his cloak more closely around him, he strode forward with that long, noiseless
step which was peculiar to him. Mechanically he appeared to avoid those obstacles of
hedge and ditch which impeded his pathway. Surely he had come that road often, or he
would not so easily have pursued his way. And now he stood by the edge of a plantation
which in some measure protected from trespassers the more private gardens of the Hall, and
there he paused, as if a feeling of irresolution had come over him, or it might be, as indeed
it seemed from his subsequent conduct, that he had come without any fixed intention, or if
with a fixed intention, without any regular plan of carrying it into effect.
Did he again dream of intruding into any of the chambers of that mansion, with the
ghastly aspect of that terrible creation with which, in the minds of its inhabitants, he
seemed to be but too closely identified? He was pale, attenuated, and trembled. Could it be
that so soon it had become necessary to renew the life-blood in his veins in the awful
manner which it is supposed the vampyre brood are compelled to protract their miserable
existence?
It might be so, and that he was even now reflecting upon how once more he could kindle
the fire of madness in the brain of that beautiful girl, who he had already made so
irretrievably wretched.
He leant against an aged tree, and his strange, lustrous-looking eyes seemed to collect
every wandering scintillation of light that was around, and to shine with preternatural
intensity.
"I must, I will," he said, "be master of Bannerworth Hall. It must come to that. I have set
an existence upon its possession, and I will have it; and then, if with my own hands I
displace it brick by brick and stone by stone, I will discover that hidden secret which no one

but myself now dreams of. It shall be done by force or fraud, by love or by despair, I care
not which; the end shall sanctify all means. Ay, even if I wade through blood to my desire,
I say it shall be done."
There was a holy and a still calmness about the night much at variance with the storm of
angry passion that appeared to be momentarily gathering power in the breast of that fearful
man. Not the least sound came from Bannerworth Hall, and it was, only occasionally that
from afar off on the night air there came the bark of some watch-dog, or the low of distant
cattle. All else was mute save when the deep sepulchral tones of that man, if man he was,
gave an impulse to the soft air around him. With a strolling movement as if he were
careless if he proceeded in that direction or not, he still went onward toward the house, and
now he stood by that little summer-house once so sweet and so dear a retreat, in which the
heart-stricken Flora had held her interview with him whom she loved with a devotion
unknown to meaner minds.
This spot scarcely commanded any view of the house, for so enclosed was it among
evergreens and blooming flowers, that it seemed like a very wilderness of nature, upon
which, with liberal hand, she had showered down in wild luxuriance her wildest floral
beauties.
In and around that spot the night air was loaded with sweets. The mingled perfume of
many flowers made that place seem a very paradise. But oh, how sadly at variance with that
beauty and contentedness of nature was he who stood amidst such beauty! All incapable as
he was of appreciating its tenderness, or of gathering the faintest moral from its glory.
"Why am I here?" he said. "Here, without fixed design or stability of purpose, like some
miser who has hidden his own hoards so deeply within the bowels of the earth he cannot
hope that he shall ever again be able to bring them to the light of day. I hover around this
spot which I feel -- which I know -- contains my treasure, though I cannot lay my hands
upon it, or exult in its glistening beauty."
Even as he spoke he cowered down like some guilty thing, for he heard a fair footstep
upon the garden path. So light, so fragile was the step, that, in the light of day, the very
hum of summer insects would have drowned the noise: but he heard it, that man of crime --
of unholy and awful impulses. He heard it, and he shrunk down among the shrubs and
flowers till he was hidden completely from observation amid a world of fragrant essences.
Was it some one stealthily in that place even as he was, unwelcome or unknown? or was
it one who had observed him intrude upon the privacy of those now unhappy precincts, and
who was coming to deal upon him that death which, vampyre though he might be, he was
yet susceptible of from mortal hands?
The footstep advanced, and lower down he shrunk until his coward-heart beat against the
very earth itself. He knew that he was unarmed, a circumstance rare with him, and only to
be accounted for by the disturbance of his mind consequent upon the visit of that strange
man to his house, those presence had awakened so many conflicting emotions.

Nearer and nearer still came that light footstep, and his deep-seated fears would not let
him perceive that it was not the step of caution or of treachery, but owed its lightness to the
natural grace and freedom of movement of its owner.
The moon must have arisen, although obscured by clouds, through which it cast but a dim
radiance, for the night had certainly grown lighter; so that although there were no strong
shadows cast, a more diffused brightness was about all things, and their outlines looked not
so dancing, and confused the one with the other.
He strained his eyes in the direction whence the sounds proceeded, and then his fears for
his personal safety vanished, for he saw it was a female form that was slowly advancing
towards him.
His first impulse was to rise, for with the transient glimpse he got of it, he knew that it
must be Flora Bannerworth; but a second thought, probably one of intense curiosity to
know what could possibly have brought her to such a spot at such a time restrained him,
and he was quiet. But if the surprise of Sir Francis Varney was great to see Flora
Bannerworth at such a time in such a place, we have no doubt, that with the knowledge
which our readers have of her, their astonishment would more than fully equal his; and
when we come to consider, that since that eventful period when the sanctity of her chamber
had been so violated by that fearful midnight visitant, it must appear somewhat strange that
she could gather courage sufficient to wander forth alone at such an hour.
Had she no dread of meeting that unearthly being? Did the possibility that she might fall
into his ruthless grasp, not come across her mind with a shuddering consciousness of its
probability? Had she no reflection that each step she took, was taking her further and
further from those who would aid her in all extremities? It would seem not, for she walked
onward, unheeding and apparently unthinking of the presence possible or probable, of that
bane of her existence.
But let us look at her again. How strange and spectral-like she moves along; there seems
no speculation in her countenance but with a strange and gliding step, she walks like some
dim shadow of the past in that ancient garden. She is very pale, and on her brow there is the
stamp of suffering; her dress is a morning robe, she holds it lightly round her, and thus she
moves forward towards that summer-house which probably to her was sanctified by having
witnessed those vows of pure affection which came from the lips of Charles Holland, about
whose fate there now hung so great a mystery.
Has madness really seized upon the brain of that beautiful girl? Has the strong intellect
really sunk beneath the oppression to which it has been subjected? Does she now walk forth
with a disordered intellect, the queen of some fantastic realm, viewing the material world
with eyes that are not of earth; shunning perhaps that which she should have sought, and,
perchance, in her frenzy, seeking that which in a happier frame of mind she would have
shunned.
Such might have been the impression of any one who had looked upon her for a moment,
and who knew the disastrous scenes through which she had so recently passed; but we can

spare our readers the pangs of such a supposition. We have bespoken their love for Flora
Bannerworth, and we are certain that she has it; therefore would we spare them, even for a
few brief moments, from imagining that cruel destiny had done its worst, and that the fine
and beautiful spirit we have so much commended had lost its power of rational reflection.
No; thank Heaven, such is not the case. Flora Bannerworth is not mad, but under the strong
influence of some eccentric dream, which has pictured to her mind images which have no
home but in the airy realms of imagination. She has wandered forth from her chamber to
that sacred spot where she had met him she loved, and heard the noblest declaration of truth
and constancy that ever flowed from human lips.
Yes, she is sleeping; but, with a precision such as the somnambulist so strangely exerts,
she trod the well-known paths slowly, but surely, towards that summer's bower, where her
dreams had not told her lay crouching that most hideous spectre of her imagination, Sir
Francis Varney. He who stood between her and her heart's best joy; he who had destroyed
all hope of happiness, and who had converted her dearest affections into only so many
causes of greater disquietude than the blessings they should have been to her. Oh! could she
have imagined but for one moment that he was there, with what an eagerness of terror
would she have flown back again to the shelter of those walls, where at least was to be
found some protection from the fearful vampyre's embrace, and where she would be within
hail of friendly hearts, who would stand boldly between her and every thought of harm.
But she knew it not, and onwards she went until the very hem of her garment touched the
face of Sir Francis Varney.
And he was terrified -- he dared not move -- he dared not speak! The idea that she had
died, and that this was her spirit, come to wreak some terrible vengeance upon him, for a
time possessed him, and so paralysed with fear was he, that he could neither move nor
speak.
It had been well if, during that trance of indecision in which his coward heart placed him,
Flora had left the place, and again sought her home; but unhappily such an impulse came
not over her; she sat upon that rustic seat, where she had reposed when Charles had clasped
her to his heart, and through her very dream the remembrance of that pure affection came
across her, and in the tenderest and most melodious accents, she said, --
"Charles! Charles! and do you love me still? No -- no; you have not forsaken me. Save
me, save me from the vampyre!"
She shuddered, and Sir Francis Varney heard her weeping.
"Fool that I am," he muttered, "to be so terrified. She sleeps. This is one of the phases
which a disordered imagination oft puts on. She sleeps, and perchance this may be an
opportunity of further increasing the dread of my visitation, which shall make Bannerworth
Hall far too terrible a dwelling-place for her; and well I know, if she goes, they will all go.
It will become a deserted house, and that is what I want. A house, too, with such an evil
reputation that none but myself, who have created that reputation, will venture within its
walls: -- a house, which superstition will point out as the abode of spirits -- a house, as it

were, by general opinion, ceded to the vampyre. Yes, it shall be my own; fit dwelling-place
for a while for me. I have sworn it shall be mine, and I will keep my oath, little such as I
have to do with vows."
He rose, and moved slowly to the row entrance of the summer-house; a movement he
could make, without at all disturbing Flora, for the rustic seat, on which she sat, was at its
further extremity. And there he stood, the upper part of his gaunt and hideous form clearly
defined upon the now much lighter sky, so that if Flora Bannerworth had not been in that
trance of sleep in which she really was one glance upward would let her see the hideous
companion she had, in that once much-loved spot -- a spot hitherto sacred to the best and
noblest feelings, but now doomed for ever to be associated with that terrific spectre of
despair.
But she was in no state to see so terrible a sight. Her hands were over her face, and she
was weeping still.
"Surely, he loves me," she whispered; "he has said he loved me, and he does not speak in
vain. He loves me still, and I shall again look upon his face, a Heaven to me! Charles!
Charles! you will come again? Surely, they sin against the divinity of love, who would tell
me that you love me not!"
"Ha!" muttered Varney, "this passion is her first, and takes a strong hold on her young
heart -- she loves him -- but what are human affections to me? I have no right to count
myself in the great muster-roll of humanity. I look not like an inhabitant of the earth, and
yet am on it. I love no one, expect no love from any one, but I will make humanity a slave
to me; and the lip-service of them who hate me in their hearts, shall be as pleasant jingling
music to my ear, as if it were quite sincere! I will speak to this girl; she is not mad --
perchance she may be."
There was a diabolical look of concentrated hatred upon Varney's face, as he now
advanced two paces towards the beautiful Flora.
--

Chapter XXXIV.
THE THREAT. -- ITS CONSEQUENCES. -- THE RESCUE, AND SIR FRANCIS

VARNEY'S DANGER.
Sir Francis Varney now paused again, and he seemed for a few moments to gloat over the
helpless condition of her whom he had so determined to make his victim; there was no look
of pity in his face, no one touch of human kindness could be found in the whole expression
of those diabolical features; and if he delayed making the attempt to strike terror into the
heart of that unhappy, but beautiful being, it could not be from any relenting feeling, but
simply, that he wished for a few moments to indulge his imagination with the idea of
perfecting his villany more effectually.
And they who would have flown to her rescue, -- they, who for her would have chanced
all accidents, ay, even life itself, were sleeping, and knew not of the loved one's danger. She
was alone, and far enough from the house, to be driven to that tottering verge where sanity
ends, and the dream of madness, with all its terrors, commences.
But still she slept -- if that half-waking sleep could indeed be considered as any thing akin
to ordinary slumber -- still she slept, and called mournfully upon her lover's name; and in
tender, beseeching accents, that should have melted even the stubbornest hearts did she
express her soul's conviction that he loved her still.
The very repetition of the name of Charles Holland seemed to be galling to Sir Francis
Varney. He made a gesture of impatience, as she again uttered it, and then stepping
forward, he stood within a pace of where she sat, and in a fearfully distinct voice he said, --
"Flora Bannerworth, awake! awake! and look upon me, although the sight blast you, and
drive you to despair. Awake! awake!"
It was not the sound of the voice which aroused her from that strange slumber. It is said
that those who sleep in that eccentric manner, are insensible to sounds, but that the lightest
touch will arouse them in an instant; and so it was in this case, for Sir Francis Varney, as he
spoke, laid upon the hand of Flora two of his cold, corpse-like looking fingers. A shriek
burst from her lips, and although the confusion of her memory and conceptions was
immense, yet she was awake, and the somnambulistic trance had left her.
"Help, help!" she cried. "Gracious Heavens! Where am I?"
Varney spoke not, but he spread out his long, thin arms in such a manner that he seemed
almost to encircle her, while he touched her not, so that escape became a matter of
impossibility, and to attempt to do so, must have been to have thrown herself into his
hideous embrace.

She could obtain but a single view of the face and figure of him who opposed her
progress, but, slight as that view was, it more than sufficed. The very extremity of fear
came across her, and she sat like one paralysed; the only evidence of existence she gave
consisting in the words, --
"The vampyre -- the vampyre!"
"Yes," said Varney, "the vampyre. You know me, Flora Bannerworth -- Varney, the
vampyre; your midnight guest at that feast of blood. I am the vampyre. Look upon me well;
shrink not from my gaze. You will do well not to shun me, but to speak to me in such a
shape that I may learn to love you."
Flora shook as in a convulsion, and she looked as white as any marble statue.
"This is horrible!" she said. "Why does not Heaven grant me the death I pray for?"
"Hold!" said Varney. "Dress not in the false colours of the imagination that which in itself
is sufficiently terrific to need none of the allurements of romance. Flora Bannerworth, you
are persecuted -- persecuted by me, the vampyre. It is my fate to persecute you; for there
are laws to the invisible as well as the visible creation that force even such a being as I am
to play my part in the great drama of existence. I am a vampyre; the sustenance that
supports this frame must be drawn from the life-blood of others."
"Oh, horror -- horror!"
"But most I do affect the young and beautiful. It is from the veins of such as thou art,
Flora Bannerworth, that I would seek the sustenance I'm compelled to obtain for my own
exhausted energies. But never yet, in all my long career -- a career extending over centuries
of time -- never yet have I felt the soft sensation of human pity till I looked on thee,
exquisite piece of excellence. Even at the moment when the reviving fluid from the gushing
fountain of your veins was warming my heart, I pitied and I loved you. Oh, Flora! even I
can now feel the pang of being what I am!"
There was a something in the tone, a touch of sadness in the manner, and a deep sincerity
in those words, that in some measure disabused Flora of her fears. She sobbed hysterically,
and a gush of tears came to her relief, as, in almost inaudible accents, she said, --
"May the great God forgive even you!"
"I have need of such a prayer," exclaimed Varney -- "Heaven knows I have need of such
a prayer. May it ascend on the wings of the night air to the throne of Heaven. May it be
softly whispered by ministering angels to the ear of Divinity. God knows I have need of
such a prayer!"
"To hear you speak in such a strain," said Flora, "calms the excited fancy, and strips even
your horrible presence of some of its maddening influence."

"Hush," said the vampire, "you must hear more -- you must know more ere you speak of
the matters that have of late exercised an influence of terror over you."
"But how came I here?" said Flora, "tell me that. By what more than earthly power have
you brought me to this spot? If I am to listen to you, why should it not be at some more
likely time and place?"
"I have powers," said Varney, assuming from Flora's words, that she would believe such
arrogance -- "I have powers which suffice to bend many purposes to my will -- powers
incidental to my position, and therefore is it I have brought you here to listen to that which
should make you happier than you are."
"I will attend," said Flora. "I do not shudder now; there's an icy coldness through my
veins, but it is the night air -- speak, I will attend you."
"I will. Flora Bannerworth, I am one who has witnessed time's mutations on man and on
his works, and I have pitied neither; I have seen the fall of empires, and sighed not that
high-reaching ambition was toppled in the dust. I have seen the grave close over the young
and the beautiful -- those whom I have doomed by my insatiable thirst for human blood to
death, long ere the usual span of life was past, but I never loved till now."
"Can such a being as you," said Flora, "be susceptible of such an earthly passion? "
"And wherefore not?"
"Love is either too much of heaven, or too much of earth to find a home with thee."
"No, Flora, no! it may be that the feeling is born of pity. I will save you -- I will save you
from a continuance of the horrors that are assailing you."
"Oh! then may heaven have mercy in your hour of need."
"Amen!"
"And may you even yet know peace and joy above."
"It is a faint and straggling hope -- but if achieved, it will be through the interposition of
such a spirit as thine, Flora, which has already exercised so benign an influence upon my
tortured soul, as to produce the wish within my heart, to do at least one unselfish action."
"That wish," said Flora, "shall be father to the deed. Heaven has boundless mercy yet."
"For thy sweet sake, I will believe so much, Flora Bannerworth; it is a condition with my
hateful race, that if we can find one human heart to love us, we are free. If, in the face of
Heaven, you will consent to be mine, you will snatch me from a continuance of my

frightful doom; and for your pure sake, and on your merits, shall I yet know heavenly
happiness. Will you be mine?"
A cloud swept from off the face of the moon, and a slant ray fell upon the hideous
features of the vampire. He looked as if just rescued from some charnel-house, and
endowed for a space with vitality to destroy all beauty and harmony in nature, and drive
some benighted soul to madness.
"No, no, no!" shrieked Flora, "never!"
"Enough," said Varney, "I am answered. It was a bad proposal. I am a vampyre still."
"Spare me! spare me!"
"Blood!"
Flora sank upon her knees, and uplifted her hands to heaven. "Mercy, mercy!" she said.
"Blood!" said Varney, and she saw his hideous, fang-like teeth. "Blood! Flora
Bannerworth, the vampyre's motto. I have asked you to love me, and you will not -- the
penalty be yours."
"No, no!" said Flora. "Can it be possible that even you, who have already spoken with
judgment and precision, can be so unjust? you must feel that, in all respects, I have been a
victim, most gratuitously -- a sufferer, while there existed no just cause that I should suffer;
one who has been tortured, not from personal fault, selfishness, lapse of integrity, or
honourable feelings, but because you have found it necessary, for the prolongation of your
terrific existence, to attack me as you have done. By what plea of honour, honesty, or
justice, can I be blamed for not embracing an alternative which is beyond all human
control? -- I cannot love you."
"Then be content to suffer. Flora Bannerworth, will you not, even for a time, to save
yourself and to save me, become mine?"
"Horrible proposition!"
"Then am I doomed yet, perhaps, for many a cycle of years, to spread misery and
desolation around me; and yet I love you with a feeling which has in it more of gratefulness
and unselfishness than ever yet found a home within my breast. I would fain serve you,
although you cannot save me; there may yet be a chance, which shall enable you to escape
from the persecution of my presence."
"Oh! glorious chance!" said Flora. "Which way can it come? tell me how I may embrace
it and such grateful feelings as a heart-stricken mourner can offer to him, who has rescued
her from her deep affliction, shall yet be yours."

"Hear me, then, Flora Bannerworth, while I state to you some particulars of mysterious
existence, of such beings as myself, which never yet have been breathed to mortal ears."
Flora looked intently at him, and listened, while, with a serious earnestness Of manner, he
detailed to her something of the physiology of the singular class of beings which the
concurrence of all circumstances tended to make him appear.
"Flora," he said, "it is not that I am so enamoured of an existence to be prolonged only by

such frightful means, which induces me to become a terror to you or to others. Believe me,
that if my victims, those whom my insatiable thirst for blood make wretched, suffer much,
I, the vampyre, am not without my moments of unutterable agony. But it is a mysterious
law of our nature, that as the period approaches when the exhausted energies of life require
a new support from the warm, gushing fountain of another's veins, the strong desire to live
grows upon us, until, in a paroxysm of wild insanity, which will recognise no obstacles,
human or divine, we seek a victim."
"A fearful state!" said Flora.
"It is so; and, when the dreadful repast is over, then again the pulse beats healthfully, and
the wasted energies of a strange kind of vitality are restored to us, we become calm again,
but with that calmness comes all the horror, all the agony of reflection, and we suffer far
more than tongue can tell."
"You have my pity," said Flora; "even you have my pity."
"I might well demand it, if such a feeling held a place within your breast. I might well
demand your pity, Flora Bannerworth, for never crawled an abject wretch upon the earth's
rotundity, so pitiable as I."
"Go on, go on."
"I will, and with such brief conclusions as I may. Having once attacked any human being,
we feel a strange, but terribly impulsive desire again to seek that person for more blood.
But I love you, Flora; the small amount of sensibility that still lingers about my
preternatural existence, acknowledges in you a pure and better spirit. I would fain save
you."
"Oh! tell me how I may escape the terrible infliction."
"That can only be done by flight. Leave this place, I implore you! leave it as quickly as
the movement may be made. Linger not -- cast not one regretful look behind you on your
ancient home. I shall remain in this locality for years. Let me lose sight of you, I will not
pursue you; but, by force of circumstances, I am myself compelled to linger here. Flight is
the only means by which you may avoid a doom as terrific as that which I endure."

"But tell me," said Flora, after a moment's pause, during which she appeared to be
endeavouring to gather courage to ask some fearful question; "tell me if it be true that those
who have once endured the terrific attack of a vampyre, become themselves, after death,
one of that dread race?"
"It is by such means," said Varney, "that the frightful brood increases; but, time and
circumstances must aid the development of the new and horrible existence. You, however,
are safe."
"Safe! Oh! say that word again."
"Yes, safe; not once or twice will the vampyre's attack have sufficient influence on your
mortal frame, as to induce a susceptibility on your part to become coexistent with such as
he. The attack must be often repeated, and the termination of mortal existence must be a
consequence essential, and direct from those attacks, before such a result may be
anticipated."
"Yes, yes; I understand."
"If you were to continue my victim from year to year, the energies of life would slowly
waste away, and, till like some faint taper's gleam, consuming more sustenance than it
received, the veriest accident would extinguish your existence, and then, Flora
Bannerworth, you might become a vampyre."
"Oh! horrible! most horrible!"
"If by chance, or by design, the least glimpse of the cold moonbeams rested on your
apparently lifeless remains, you would rise again and be one of us -- a terror to yourself and
a desolation to all around."
"Oh! I will fly from here," said Flora. "The hope of escape from so terrific and dreadful a
doom shall urge me onward; if flight can save me -- flight from Bannerworth Hall, I will
pause not until continents and oceans divide us."
"It is well. I'm able now thus calmly to reason with you. A few short months more and I
shall feel the languor of death creeping over me, and then will come that mad excitement of
the brain, which, were you hidden behind triple doors of steel, would tempt me again to
seek your chamber -- again to seize you in my full embrace -- again to draw from your
veins the means of prolonged life -- again to convulse your very soul with terror."
"I need no incentives," said Flora, with a shudder, "in the shape of descriptions of the
past, to urge me on."
"You will fly from Bannerworth Hall?"

"Yes, yes!" said Flora, "it shall be so; its very chambers now are hideous with the
recollection of scenes enacted in them. I will urge my brothers, my mother, all to leave.
And in some distant clime we will find security and shelter. There even we will learn to
think of you with more of sorrow than of anger -- more pity than reproach -- more curiosity
than loathing."
"Be it so," said the vampyre; and he clasped his hands, as if with a thankfulness that he
had done so much towards restoring peace at least to one, who, in consequence of his acts,
had felt such exquisite despair. "Be it so; and even I will hope that the feelings which have
induced so desolated and so isolated a being as myself to endeavour to bring peace to one
human heart, will plead for me, trumpet-tongued, to Heaven!"
"It will -- it will," said Flora.
"Do you think so?"
"I do; and I will pray that the thought may turn to certainty in such a cause."
The vampyre appeared to be much affected; and then he added, --
"Flora, you know this spot has been the scene of a catastrophe fearful to look back upon,
in the annals of your family?"
"It has," said Flora. "I know to what you allude; 'tis a matter of common knowledge to all
-- a sad theme to me, and one I would not court."
"Nor would I oppress you with it. Your father, here, on this very spot, committed that
desperate act which brought him uncalled for to the judgment seat of God. I have a strange,
wild curiosity upon such subjects. Will you, in return for the good that I have tried to do
you, gratify it?"
"I know not what you mean," said Flora.
"To be more explicit, then, do you remember the day on which your father breathed his
last?"
"Too well -- too well."
"Did you see him or converse with him shortly before that desperate act was committed?"
"No; he shut himself up for some time in a solitary chamber."
"Ha! what chamber?"
"The one in which I slept myself on the night -- "

"Yes, yes; the one with the portrait -- that speaking portrait -- the eyes of which seem to
challenge an intruder as he enters the apartment."
"The same."
"For hours shut up there!" added Varney, musingly; "and from thence he wandered to the
garden, where, in this summer house, he breathed his last?"
"It was so."
"Then, Flora, ere I bid you adieu -- "
These words were scarcely uttered, when there was a quick, hasty footstep, and Henry
Bannerworth appeared behind Varney, in the very entrance of the summer-house.
"Now," he cried, "for revenge! Now, foul being, blot upon the earth's surface, horrible
imitation of humanity, if mortal arm can do aught against you, you shall die!"
A shriek came from the lips of Flora, and flinging herself past Varney, who stepped aside,
she clung to her brother, who made an unavailing pass with his sword at the vampyre. It
was a critical moment; and had the presence of mind of Varney deserted him in the least,
unarmed as he was, he must have fallen beneath the weapon of Henry. To spring, however,
up the seat which Flora had vacated, and to dash out some of the flimsy and rotten wood-
work at the back of the summer-house by the propulsive power of his whole frame, was the
work of a moment; and before Henry could free himself from the clinging embrace of
Flora, Varney, the vampyre was gone, and there was no greater chance of his capture than
on the former occasion, when he was pursued in vain from the Hall to the wood, in the
intricacies of which he was so entirely lost.
--

Chapter XXXV.
THE EXPLANATION. -- MARCHDALE'S ADVICE. -- THE PROJECTED

REMOVAL, AND THE ADMIRAL'S ANGER.
This extremely sudden movement on the part of Varney was certainly as unexpected as it
was decisive. Henry had imagined, that by taking possession of the only entrance to the
summer-house, he must come into personal conflict with the being who had worked so
much evil for him and his; and that he should so suddenly have created for himself another
mode of exit, certainly never occurred to him.
"For Heaven's sake, Flora," he said, "unhand me; this is a time for action."
"But, Henry, Henry, hear me."
"Presently, presently, dear Flora; I will yet make another effort to arrest the headlong
flight of Varney."
He shook her off, perhaps with not more roughness than was necessary to induce her to
forego her grasp of him, but in a manner that fully showed he intended to be free; and then
he sprang through the same aperture whence Varney had disappeared, just as George and
Mr. Marchdale arrived at the door of the summer-house.
It was nearly morning, so that the fields were brightening up with the faint radiance of the
coming day; and when Henry reached a point which he knew commanded an extensive
view, he paused, and ran his eye eagerly along the landscape, with a hope of discovering
some trace of the fugitive. Such, however, was not the case; he saw nothing, heard nothing
of Sir Francis Varney; and then he turned, and called loudly to George to join him, and was
immediately replied to by his brother's presence, accompanied by Marchdale.
Before, however, they could exchange a word, a rattling discharge of fire-arms took place
from one of the windows and they heard the admiral, in a loud voice, shouting, --
"Broadside to broadside! Give it them again, Jack! Hit them between wind and water!"
Then there was another rattling discharge, and Henry exclaimed, --
"What is the meaning of that firing?"
"It comes from the admiral's room," said Marchdale. "On my life, I think the old man
must be mad. He has some six or eight pistols ranged in a row along the window-sill, and
all loaded, so that by the aid of a match they can be pretty well discharged as a volley,
which he considers the only proper means of firing upon the vampyre."
"It is so," replied George; "and, no doubt, hearing an alarm, he has commenced
operations by firing into the enemy."

"Well, well," said Henry; "he must have his way. I have pursued Varney thus far, and that
he has again retreated to the wood, I cannot doubt. Between this and the full light of day, let
us at least make an effort to discover his place of retreat. We know the locality as well as he
can possibly, and I propose now that we commence an active search."
"Come on, then," said Marchdale. "We are all armed; and I, for one, shall feel no
hesitation in taking the life, if it be possible to do so, of that strange being."
"Of that possibility you doubt?" said George, as they hurried on across the meadows.
"Indeed I do, and with reason too. I'm certain that when I fired at him before I hit him;
and besides, Flora must have shot him upon the occasion when we were absent, and she
used your pistols Henry, to defend herself and her mother."
"It would seem so," said Henry; "and disregarding all present circumstances, if I do meet
him, I will put to the proof whether he be mortal or not."
The distance was not great, and they soon reached the margin of the wood; they then
separated agreeing to meet within it, at a well-spring, familiar to them all: previous to
which each was to make his best endeavour to discover if any one was hidden among the
bush-wood or in the hollows of the ancient trees they should encounter on their line of
march.
The fact was, that Henry finding that he was likely to pass an exceedingly disturbed,
restless night, through agitation of spirits, had, after tossing to and fro on his couch for
many hours, wisely at length risen, and determined to walk abroad in the gardens belonging
to the mansion, in preference to continuing in such a state of fever and anxiety, as he was
in, in his own chamber.
Since the vampyre's dreadful visit, it had been the custom of both the brothers,
occasionally, to tap at the chamber door of Flora, who, at her own request, now that she had
changed her room, and dispensed with any one sitting up with her, wished occasionally to
be communicated with by some member of the family.
Henry, then, after rapidly dressing, as he passed the door of her bedroom, was about to
tap at it, when to his surprise he found it open, and upon hastily entering it he observed that
the bed was empty, and a hasty glance round the apartment convinced him that Flora was
not there.
Alarm took possession of him, and hastily arming himself, he roused Marchdale and
George, but without waiting for them to be ready to accompany him, he sought the garden,
to search it thoroughly in case she should be anywhere there concealed.
Thus it was he had come upon the conference so strangely and so unexpectedly held
between Varney and Flora in the summer-house. With what occurred upon that discovery
the readers are acquainted.

Flora had promised George that she would return immediately to the house, but when, in
compliance with the call of Henry, George and Marchdale had left her alone, she felt so
agitated and faint that she began to cling to the trellis work of the little building for a few
moments before she could gather strength to reach the mansion.
Two or three minutes might thus have elapsed, and Flora was in such a state of mental
bewilderment with all that had occurred, that she could scarce believe it real, when
suddenly a slight sound attracted her attention, and through the gap which had been made in
the wall of the summer-house, with an appearance of perfect composure, again appeared Sir
Francis Varney.
"Flora," he said, quietly returning the discourse which had been broken off, "I am quite
convinced now that you will be much the happier for the interview."
"Gracious Heaven!" said Flora, "whence have you come from?"
"I have never left," said Varney.
"But I saw you fly from this spot."
"You did; but it was only to another immediately outside the summer house. I had no idea
of breaking off our conference so abruptly."
"Have you anything to add to what you have already stated?"
"Absolutely nothing, unless you have a question to propose to me -- I should have

thought you had, Flora. Is there no other circumstance weighing heavily upon your mind, as
well as the dreadful visitation I have subjected you to?"
"Yes," said Flora. "What has become of Charles Holland?"
"Listen. Do not discard all hope; when you are far from here you will meet with him
again."
"But he has left me."
"And yet he will be able, when you again encounter him, so far to extenuate his seeming
perfidy, that you shall hold him as untouched in honour as when first he whispered to you
that he loved you."
"Oh, joy! joy!" said Flora; "by that assurance you have robbed misfortune of its sting, and
richly compensated me for all that I have suffered."
"Adieu!" said the vampyre. "I shall now proceed to my own home by a different route to
that taken by those who would kill me."

"But after this," said Flora, "there shall be no danger; you shall be held harmless, and our
departure from Bannerworth Hall shall be so quick, that you will soon be released from all
apprehension of vengeance from my brother, and I shall taste again of that happiness which
I thought had fled from me for ever."
"Farewell," said the vampire; and folding his cloak closely around him, he strode from
the summer-house, soon disappearing from her sight behind the shrubs and ample
vegetation with which that garden abounded.
Flora sunk upon her knees, and uttered a brief, but heartfelt, thanksgiving to Heaven for
this happy change in her destiny. The hue of health faintly again visited her cheeks and as
she now, with a feeling of more energy and strength than she had been capable of exerting
for many days, walked towards the house, she felt all that delightful sensation which the
mind experiences when it is shaking off the trammels of some serious evil which it delights
now to find that the imagination has attired in far worse colours than the facts deserved.
It is scarcely necessary, after this, to say that the search in the wood for Sir Francis
Varney was an unproductive one, and that the morning dawned upon the labours of the
brothers and of Mr. Marchdale, without their having discovered the least indication of the
presence of Varney. Again puzzled and confounded, they stood on the margin of the wood,
and looked sadly towards the brightening windows of Bannerworth Hall, which were now
reflecting with a golden radiance the slant rays of the morning sun.
"Foiled again," remarked Henry, with a gesture of impatience; "foiled again, and as
completely as before. I declare that I will fight this man, let our friend the admiral say what
he will against such a measure I will meet him in mortal combat; he shall consummate his
triumph over our whole family by my death, or I will rid the world and ourselves of so
frightful a character."
"Let us hope," said Marchdale, "that some other course may be adopted, which shall put
an end to these proceedings."
"That," exclaimed Henry, "is to hope against all probability; what other course can be
pursued? Be this Varney man or devil, he has evidently marked us for his prey."
"Indeed, it would seem so," remarked George; "but yet he shall find that we will not fall
so easily; he shall discover that if poor Flora's gentle spirit has been crushed by these
frightful circumstances, we are of a sterner mould."
"He shall," said Henry; "I for one will dedicate my life to this matter. I will know no more
rest than is necessary to recruit my frame, until I have succeeded in overcoming this
monster; I will seek no pleasure here, and will banish from my mind all else that may
interfere with that one fixed pursuit. He or I must fall."

"Well spoken," said Marchdale; "and yet I hope that circumstances may occur to prevent
such a necessity of action, and that probably you will yet see that it will be wise and
prudent to adopt a milder and a safer course."
"No, Marchdale, you cannot feel as we feel. You look on more as a spectator,
sympathising with the afflictions of either, than feeling the full sting of those afflictions
yourself."
"Do I not feel acutely for you? I'm a lonely man in the world, and I have taught myself
now to centre my affections in your family; my recollections of early years assist me in so
doing. Believe me, both of you, that I am no idle spectator of your griefs, but that I share
them fully. If I advise you to be peaceful, and to endeavour by the gentlest means possible
to accomplish your aims, it is not that I would counsel you cowardice; but having seen so
much more of the world than either of you have had time or opportunity of seeing, I do not
look so enthusiastically upon matters, but, with a cooler, calmer judgment, I do not say a
better, I proffer to you my counsel."
"We thank you," said Henry; "but this is a matter in which action seems specially called
for. It is not to be borne that a whole family is to be oppressed by such a fiend in human
shape as that Varney."
"Let me," said Marchdale, "counsel you to submit to Flora's decision in this business; let
her wishes constitute the rules of action. She is the greatest sufferer, and the one most
deeply interested in the termination of this fearful business. Moreover, she has judgment
and decision of character; she will advise you rightly, be assured."
"That she would advise us honourably," said Henry, "and that we should feel every
disposition in the world to defer to her wishes our proposition, is not to be doubted; but
little shall be done without her counsel and sanction. Let us now proceed homeward, for I
am most anxious to ascertain how it came about that she and Sir Francis Varney were
together in that summer-house at so strange an hour."
They all three walked together towards the house, conversing in a similar strain as they
went.
--

Chapter XXXVI.
THE CONSULTATION. -- THE DUEL AND ITS RESULTS.
Independent of this interview which Flora had had with the much dreaded Sir Francis
Varney, the circumstances in which she and all who were dear to her, happened at that
moment to be placed, certainly required an amount of consideration, which could not be too
soon bestowed.
By a combination of disagreeables, everything that could possibly occur to disturb the

peace of the family seemed to have taken place at once; like Macbeth's, their troubles had
truly come in battalions, and now that the serenity of their domestic position was destroyed,
minor evils and annoyances which that very serenity had enabled them to hold at arm's
length became gigantic, and added much to their distress.
The small income, which, when all was happiness, health and peace, was made to
constitute a comfortable household, was now totally inadequate to do so -- the power to
economize and to make the most of a little, had flown along with that contentedness of
spirit which the harmony of circumstances alone could produce.
It was not to be supposed that poor Mrs. Bannerworth could now, as she had formerly
done, when her mind was free from anxiety, attend to those domestic matters which make
up the comforts of a family -- distracted at the situation of her daughter, and bewildered by
the rapid succession of troublesome events which so short a period of time had given birth
to, she fell into an inert state of mind as different as anything could be, from her former
active existence.
It has likewise been seen how the very domestics fled from Bannerworth Hall in dismay,
rather than remain beneath the same roof with a family believed to be subject to the
visitations of so awful a being as a vampyre.
Among the class who occupy positions of servitude, certainly there might have been
found some, who, with feelings and understanding above such considerations, would have
clung sympathetically to that family in distress, which they had known under a happier
aspect; but it had not been the good fortune of the Bannerworths to have such as these
about them; hence selfishness had its way, and they were deserted. It was not likely, then,
that strangers would willingly accept service in a family so situated, without some powerful
impulse in the shape of a higher pecuniary consideration, as was completely out of the
power of the Bannerworths to offer.
Thus was it, then, that most cruelly, at the very time that they had most need of assistance
and of sympathy, this unfortunate family almost became isolated from their kind; and, apart
from every other consideration, it would have been almost impossible for them to continue
inhabitants of the Hall, with anything like comfort, or advantage.

And then, although the disappearance of Charles Holland no longer awakened those
feelings of inclination at his supposed perfidy which were first produced by that event; still,
view it in which way they night, it was a severe blow of fate, and after it, they one and all
found themselves still less able to contend against the sea of troubles that surrounded them.
The reader, too, will not have failed to remark that there was about the whole of the family
that pride of independence which induced them to shrink from living upon extraneous aid;
and hence, although they felt and felt truly, that when Admiral Bell, in his frank manner,
offered them pecuniary assistance, that it was no idle compliment, yet with a sensitiveness
such as they might well be expected to feel, they held back, and asked each other what
prospect there was of emerging from such a state of things, and if it were justifiable to
commence a life of dependence, the end of which was not evident or tangible.
Not withstanding, too, the noble confidence of Flora in her lover, and not withstanding
that confidence had been echoed by her brothers, there would at times obtrude into the
minds of the latter, a feeling of the possibility, that after all they might be mistaken; and
Charles Holland might, from some sudden impulse, fancying his future happiness was all at
stake, have withdrawn himself from the Hall, and really written the letters attributed to him.
We say this only obtruded itself occasionally, for all their real feelings and aspirations
were the other way, although Mr. Marchdale, they could perceive, had his doubts, and they
could not but confess that he was more likely to view the matter calmly and dispassionately
than they.
In fact, the very hesitation with which he spoke upon the subject, convinced them of his
doubts, for they attributed that hesitation to fear of giving them pain, or of wounding the
prejudices of Admiral Bell, with whom he had already had words so nearly approaching to
a quarrel.
Henry's visit to Mr. Chillingworth was not likely to be productive of any results beyond
those of a conjectural character. All that that gentleman could do was to express a
willingness to be directed by them in any way, rather than suggest any course of conduct
himself upon circumstances which he could not be expected to judge of as they who were
on the spot, and had witnessed their actual occurrence.
And now we will suppose that the reader is enabled with us to look into one of the
principal rooms of Bannerworth Hall. It is evening, and some candles are shedding a sickly
light on the ample proportions of the once handsome apartment. At solemn consultation the
whole of the family are assembled. As well as the admiral, Mr. Chillingworth, and
Marchdale, Jack Pringle, too, walked in, by the sufferance of his master, as if he considered
he had a perfect right to do so.
The occasion of the meeting had been a communication which Flora had made
concerning her most singular and deeply interesting interview with the vampyre. The
details of this interview had produced a deep effect upon the whole of the family.
Flora was there, and she looked better, calmer, and more collected than she had done for
some days past.

No doubt the interview she had had with Varney in the summer-house in the garden had
dispelled a host of imaginary terrors with which she had surrounded him, although it had
confirmed her fully that he and he only was the dreadful being who had caused her so much
misery. That interview had tended to show her that about him there was yet something
human, and that there was not a danger of her being hunted down from place to place by so
horrible an existence.
Such a feeling as this was, of course, a source of deep consolation; and with a firmer
voice, and more of her old spirit of cheerfulness about her than she had lately exhibited, she
again detailed the particulars of the interview to all who had assembled concluding by
saying, --
"And this has given me hope of happier days. If it be a delusion, it is a happy one; and
now that but a frightful veil of mystery still hangs over the fate of Charles Holland, how
gladly would I bid adieu to this place, and all that has made it terrible. I could almost pity
Sir Francis Varney, rather than condemn him."
"That may be true," said Henry, "to a certain extent, sister; but we never can forget the
amount of misery he has brought upon us. It is no slight thing to be forced from our old and
much-loved home, even if such proceeding does succeed in freeing us from his
persecutions."
"But, my young friend," said Marchdale, "you must recollect, that through life it is
continually the lot of humanity to be endeavouring to fly from great evils to those which do
not present themselves to the mind in so bad an aspect. It is something, surely, to alleviate
affliction, if we cannot entirely remove it."
"That is true," said Mr. Chillingworth, "to a considerable extent, but then it takes too
much for granted to please me."
"How so, sir?"
"Why, certainly, to remove from Bannerworth Hall is a much less evil than to remain at
Bannerworth Hail, and be haunted by a vampyre; but then that proposition takes for granted
that vampyre business, which I will never grant, I repeat, again and again, it is contrary to
all experience, to philosophy, and to all the laws of ordinary nature."
"Facts are stubborn things," said Marchdale.
"Apparently," remarked Mr. Chillingworth.
"Well, sir; and here we have the fact of the vampyre."
"The presumed fact. One swallow don't make a summer, Mr. Marchdale."

"This is waste of time," said Henry -- "of course, the amount of evidence that will suffice
to bring conviction to one man's mind will fail in doing so to another. The question is, what
are we to do?"
All eyes were turned upon Flora, as if this question was more particularly addressed to
her, and it behoved her, above all others, to answer it. She did so; and in a firm, clear voice,
she said, --
"I will discover the fate of Charles Holland and then leave the Hall."
"The fate of Charles Holland!" said Marchdale. "Why, really, unless that gentleman
chooses to be communicative himself upon so interesting a subject, we may be a long while
discovering his fate. I know that it is not a romantic view to take of the question, to suppose
simply that he wrote the three letters found upon his dressing-table, and then decamped; but
to my mind, it savours most wonderfully of matter-of-fact. I now speak more freely than I
have otherwise done, for I am now upon the eve of my departure. I have no wish to remain
here, and breed dissension in any family, or to run a tilt against anybody's prejudices." Here
he looked at Admiral Bell. "I leave this house to-night."
"You're a d -- -- d lubberly thief," said the admiral; "the sooner you leave it the better.
Why, you bad-looking son of a gun, what do you mean? I thought we'd had enough of
that."
"I fully expected this abuse," said Marchdale.
"Did you expect that?" said the admiral, as he snatched up an inkstand, and threw at
Marchdale, hitting him a hard knock on the chin, and bespattering its contents on his breast.
"Now I'll give you satisfaction, you lubber. D -- me, if you ain't a second Jones, and enough
to sink the ship. Shiver my timbers if I sha'n't say something strong presently."
"I really," said Henry, "must protest, Admiral Bell, against this conduct."
"Protest and be d -- -- d."
"Mr. Marchdale may be right, sir, or he may be wrong, it's a matter of opinion."
"Oh, never mind," said Marchdale; "I look upon this old nautical ruffian as something
between a fool and a madman. If he were a younger man I should chastise him upon the
spot; but as it is I live in hopes yet of getting him into some comfortable lunatic asylum."
"Me into an asylum!" shouted the admiral. "Jack, did you hear that?"
"Ay, ay, sir."
"Farewell all of you," said Marchdale; "my best wishes be with this family. I cannot
remain under this roof to be so insulted."

"A good riddance," cried the admiral. "I'd rather sail round the world with a shipload of
vampyres than with such a humbugging son of a gun as you are. D -- -e, you're worse than
a lawyer."
"Nay, nay," cried they, "Mr. Marchdale, stay."
"Stay, stay," cried George, and Mrs. Bannerworth, likewise, said stay; but at the moment
Flora stepped forward, and in a clear voice she said, --
"No, let him go, he doubts Charles Holland; let all go who doubt Charles Holland. Mr.
Marchdale, Heaven forgive you this injustice you are doing. We may never meet again.
Farewell, sir!" These words were spoken in so decided a tone, that no one contradicted
them. Marchdale cast a strange kind of look round upon the family circle, and in another
instant he was gone.
"Huzza!" shouted Jack Pringle; "that's one good job."
Henry looked rather resentful, which the admiral could not but observe, and so, less with
the devil-may-care manner in which he usually spoke, the old man addressed him.
"Hark ye, Mr. Henry Bannerworth, you ain't best pleased with me, and in that case I don't
know that I shall stay to trouble you any longer; as for your friend who has just left you,
sooner or later you'll find him out -- I tell you there's no good in that fellow. Do you think
I've been cruizing about for a matter of sixty years, and don't know an honest man when I
see him. But never mind, I'm going on a voyage of discovery for my nephew, and you can
do as you like."
"Heaven only knows, Admiral Bell," said Henry, "who is right and who is wrong. I do
much regret that you have quarrelled with Mr. Marchdale; but what is done can't be
undone."
"Do not leave us," said Flora; "let me beg of you, Admiral Bell, not to leave us; for my
sake remain here, for to you I can speak freely and with confidence, of Charles, when
probably I can do so to no one else. You know him well and have a confidence in him,
which no one else can aspire to. I pray you, therefore, to stay with us."
"Only on one condition," said the admiral.
"Name it -- name it!"
"You think of letting the Hall go."
"Yes, yes."
"Let me have it, then, and let me pay a few years in advance. If you don't, I'm d -- -d if I
stay another night in the place. You must give me immediate possession, too, and stay here

as my guests until you suit yourselves elsewhere. Those are my terms and conditions. Say
yes, and all's right; say no, and I'm off like a round shot from a carronade. D -- me, that's
the thing Jack, isn't it?"
"Ay, ay, sir."
There was a silence of some few moments after this extraordinary offer had been made,
and then they spoke, saying, --
"Admiral Bell, your generous offer, and the feelings which dictated it, are by far too
transparent for us to affect not to understand them. Your actions, Admiral -- "
"Oh, bother my actions! what are they to you? Come, now, I consider myself master of
the house, d -- n you! I invite you all to dinner, or supper, or to whatever meal comes next.
Mrs. Bannerworth, will you oblige me, as I'm an old fool in family affairs, by buying what's
wanted for me and my guests? There's the money, ma'am. Come along, Jack, we'll take a
look over our new house. What do you think of it?"
"Wants some sheathing, sir, here and there."
"Very like; but, however, it will do well enough for us; we're in port, you know. Come
along."
"Ay, ay, sir."
And off went the admiral and Jack, after leaving a twenty pound note in Mrs.
Bannerworth's lap.
--

Chapter XXXVII.
SIR FRANCIS VARNEY'S SEPARATE OPPONENTS. -- THE INTERPOSITION OF

FLORA.
The old admiral so completely overcame the family of the Bannerworths by his generosity
and evident singlemindedness of his behaviour, that, although not one, except Flora,
approved of his conduct towards Mr. Marchdale, yet they could not help liking him; and
had they been placed in a position to choose which of the two they would have had remain
with them, the admiral or Marchdale, there can be no question they would have made
choice of the former.
Still, however, it was not pleasant to find a man like Marchdale virtually driven from the
house, because he presumed to differ in opinion upon a very doubtful matter with another
of its inmates. But as it was the nature of the Bannerworth family always to incline to the
most generous view of subjects, the frank, hearty confidence of the old admiral in Charles
Holland pleased them better than the calm and serious doubting of Marchdale.
His ruse of hiring the house of them, and paying the rent in advance, for the purpose of
placing ample funds in their hands for any contingency, was not the less amiable because it
was so easily seen through; and they could not make up their minds to hurt the feelings of
the old man by the rejection of his generous offer.
When he had left, this subject was canvassed among them, and it was agreed that he
should have his own way in the matter for the present, although they hoped to hear
something from Marchdale, which would make his departure appear less abrupt and
uncomfortable to the whole of the family.
During the course of this conversation, it was made known to Flora with more
distinctness than under any other circumstances it would have been, that Charles Holland
had been on the eve of a duel with Sir Francis Varney, previous to his mysterious
disappearance.
When she became fully aware of this fact, to her mind it seemed materially to add to the
suspicions previously to then entertained, that foul means had been used in order to put
Charles out of the way.
"Who knows," she said, "that this Varney may not shrink with the greatest terror from a
conflict with any human being, and feeling one was inevitable with Charles Holland, unless
interrupted by some vigorous act of his own, he or some myrmidons of his may have taken
Charles's life!"
"I do not think, Flora," said Henry, "that he would have ventured upon so desperate an
act; I cannot well believe such a thing possible. But fear not; he will find, if he have really
committed any such atrocity, that it will not save him."

These words of Henry, though it made no impression at the time upon Flora, beyond what
they carried upon their surface, they really, however, as concerned Henry himself, implied
a settled resolution, which he immediately set about reducing to practice.
When the conference broke up, night, as it still was, he, without saying anything to any
one, took his hat and cloak, and left the Hall, proceeding by the nearest practicable route to
the residence of Sir Francis Varney, where he arrived without any interruption of any
character.
Varney was at first denied to him, but before he could leave the house, a servant came
down the great staircase to say it was a mistake; and that Sir Francis was at home, and
would be happy to see him.
He was ushered into the same apartment where Sir Francis Varney had before received
his visitors; and there sat the now declared vampyre, looking pale and ghastly by the dim
light which burned in the apartment, and, indeed, more like some spectre of the tomb than
one of the great family of man.
"Be seated, sir," said Varney; "although my eyes have seldom the pleasure of beholding
you within these walls, be assured you are a honoured guest."
"Sir Francis Varney," said Henry, "I came not here to bandy compliments with you; I
have none to pay to you, nor do I wish to hear any of them from your lips."
"An excellent sentiment, young man," said Varney, "and well delivered. May I presume,
then, without infringing too far upon your extreme courtesy, to inquire, to what
circumstances I am indebted for your visit?"
"To one, Sir Francis, that I believe you are better acquainted with than you have the
candour to admit."
"Indeed, sir," said Varney, coldly "you measure my candour, probably, by a standard of
your own; in which case, I fear I may be no gainer; and yet that may be of itself a
circumstance that should afford little food for surprise, but proceed, sir -- since we have so
few compliments to stand between us and our purpose, we shall in all due time arrive at it."
"Yes, in due time, Sir Francis Varney, and that due time has arrived. Know you any thing
of my friend, Charles Holland?" said Henry, in marked accents; and he gazed on Sir Francis
Varney with earnestness, that seemed to say not even a look should escape his observation.
Varney, however, returned the gaze as steadily, but coldly, as he replied in his measured
accents, --
"I have heard of the young gentleman."
"And seen him?"

"And seen him too, as you, Mr. Bannerworth, must be well aware. Surely you have not
come all this way, merely to make such an inquiry; but, sir, you are welcome to the
answer."
Henry had something of a struggle to keep down the rising anger, at these cool taunts of
Varney; but he succeeded -- and then he said, --
"I suspect Charles Holland, Sir Francis Varney, has met with unfair treatment, and that he
has been unfairly dealt with, for an unworthy purpose."
"Undoubtedly," said Varney, "if the gentleman you allude to, has been unfairly dealt
with, it was for a foul purpose; for no good or generous object, my young sir, could be so
obtained -- you acknowledge so much, I doubt not?"
"I do, Sir Francis Varney; and hence the purpose of my visit here -- for this reason I apply
to you -- "
"A singular object, supported by a singular reason. I cannot see the connection, young sir;
pray proceed to enlighten me upon this matter, and when you have done that, may I
presume upon your consideration, to inquire in what way I can be of any service to you?"
"Sir Francis," said Henry, his anger raising his tones -- "this will not serve you -- I have
come to exact an account of how you have disposed of my friend; and I will have it."
"Gently, my good sir; you are aware I know nothing of your friend; his motions are his
own; and as to what I have done with him; my only answer is, that he would permit me to
do nothing with him, had I been so inclined to have taken the liberty."
"You are suspected, Sir Francis Varney, of having made an attempt upon the life or
liberty of Charles Holland; you, in fact, are suspected of being his murderer -- and, so help
me Heaven! if I have not justice, I will have vengeance!"
"Young sir, your words are of grave import and ought to be coolly considered before they
are uttered. With regard to justice and vengeance, Mr. Bannerworth, you may have both;
but I tell you, of Charles Holland, or what has become of him, I know nothing. But
wherefore do you come to so unlikely a quarter to learn something of an individual of
whom I know nothing?"
"Because Charles Holland was to have fought a duel with you: but before that had time to
take place, he has suddenly become missing. I suspect that you are the author of his
disappearance, because you fear an encounter with a mortal man."
"Mr. Bannerworth, permit me to say, in my own defence, that I do not fear any man,
however foolish he may be; and wisdom is not an attribute I find, from experience in all
men, of your friend. However, you must be dreaming, sir -- a kind of vivid insanity has
taken possession of your mind, which distorts --

"Sir Francis Varney!" exclaimed Henry, now perfectly uncontrollable.
"Sir," said Varney, as he filled up the pause, "proceed; I am all attention. You do me
honour."
"If," resumed Henry, "such was your object in putting Mr. Holland aside, by becoming
personally or by proxy an assassin, you are mistaken in supposing you have accomplished
your object."
"Go on, sir," said Sir Francis Varney, in a bland and sweet tone; "I am all attention; pray
proceed."
"You have failed; for I now here, on this spot, defy you to mortal combat. Coward,
assassin as you are, I challenge you to fight."
"You don't mean on the carpet here?" said Varney, deliberately.
"No, sir; but beneath the canopy of heaven, in the light of the day. And then, Sir Francis,
we shall see who will shrink from the conflict."
"It is remarkably good, Mr. Bannerworth, and, begging your pardon, for I do not wish to
give any offence, my honoured sir, it would rehearse before an audience; in short, sir, it is
highly dramatic."
"You shrink from the combat, do you? Now, indeed, I know you."
"Young man, young man," said Sir Francis, calmly, and shaking his head very
deliberately, and the shadows passed across his pale face, "you know me not, if you think
Sir Francis Varney shrinks from any man, much less one like yourself."
"You are a coward, and worse, if you refuse my challenge."
"I do not refuse it; I accept it," said Varney, calmly, and in a dignified manner; and then,
with a sneer, he added, -- "You are well acquainted with the mode in which gentlemen
generally manage these matters, Mr. Bannerworth, and perhaps I am somewhat confined in
my knowledge in the ways of the world, because you are your own principal and second. In
all my experience, I never met with a similar case."
"The circumstances under which it is given are as unexampled, and will excuse the mode
of the challenge," said Henry, with much warmth.
"Singular coincidence -- the challenge and mode of it is most singular! They are well
matched in that respect. Singular, did I say? The more I think of it, Mr. Bannerworth, the
more I am inclined to think this positively odd."
"Early to-morrow, Sir Francis, you shall hear from me."

"In that case, you will not arrange preliminaries now? Well, well; it is very unusual for
the principals themselves to do so; and yet, excuse my freedom, I presumed, as you had so
far deserted the beaten track, that I had no idea how far you might be disposed to lead the
same route."
"I have said all I intended to say, Sir Francis Varney; we shall see each other again."
"I may not detain you, I presume, to taste aught in the way of refreshment?"
Henry made no reply, but turned towards the door, without even making an attempt to
return the grave and formal bow that Sir Francis Varney made as he saw him about to quit
the apartment; for Henry saw that his pale features were lighted up with a sarcastic smile,
most disagreeable to look upon as well as irritating to Henry Bannerworth.
He now quitted Sir Francis Varney's abode, being let out by a servant who had been rung
for for that purpose by his master.
Henry walked homeward, satisfied that he had now done all that he could under the
circumstances.
"I will send Chillingworth to him in the morning, and then I shall see what all this will
end in. He must meet me, and then Charles Holland, if not discovered, shall be, at least,
revenged."
There was another person in Bannerworth Hall who had formed a similar resolution. That
person was a very different sort of person to Henry Bannerworth, though quite as estimable
in his way.
This was no other than the old admiral. It was singular that two such very different
persons should deem the same steps necessary, and both keep the secret from each other;
but so it was, and, after some internal swearing, he determined upon challenging Varney in
person.
"I'd send Jack Pringle, but the swab would settle the matter as shortly as if a youngster
was making an entry in a log, and heard the boatswain's whistle summoning the hands to a
mess, and feared he would lose his grog.
"D -- n my quarters! but Sir Francis Varney, as he styles himself, sha'n't make any way
against old Admiral Bell. He's as tough as a hawser, and just the sort of blade for a vampyre
to come athwart. I'll pitch him end-long, and make a plank of him afore long. Cus my
windpipe! what a long, lanky swab he is, with teeth fit to unpick a splice; but let me alone,
I'll see if I can't make a hull of his carcass, vampyre or no vampyre.
"My nevy, Charles Holland, can't be allowed to cut away without nobody's leave or
licence. No, no; I'll not stand that anyhow. 'Never desert a messmate in the time of need,' is
the first maxim of a seaman, and I ain't the one as'll do so."

Thus self-communing, the old admiral marched along; until he came to Sir Francis
Varney's house, at the gate of which he gave the bell what he called a long pull, a strong
pull, and a pull altogether, that set it ringing with a fury, the like of which had never
certainly been heard by the household.
A minute or two scarcely elapsed before the domestics hurried to answer so urgent a
summons; and when the gate was opened, the servant who answered it inquired his
business.
"What's that to you, snob? Is your master, Sir Francis Varney, in? because, if he be, let
him know old Admiral Bell wants to speak to him. D'ye hear?"
"Yes, sir," replied the servant, who had paused a few moments to examine the individual
who gave this odd kind of address. In another minute word was brought to him that Sir
Francis Varney would he very happy to see Admiral Bell.
"Ay, ay," he muttered; "just as the devil likes to meet with holy water, or as I like any
water save salt water."
He was speedily introduced to Sir Francis Varney, who was seated in the same posture as
he had been left by Henry Bannerworth not many minutes before.
"Admiral Bell," said Sir Francis, rising, and bowing to that individual in the most polite,
calm, and dignified manner imaginable, "permit me to express the honour I feel at this
unexpected visit."
"None of your gammon."
"Will you be seated. Allow me to offer you such refreshments as this poor house affords."
"D -- n all this! You know, Sir Francis, I don't want none o' this palaver. It's for all the
world like a Frenchman, when you are going to give him a broadside; he makes grimaces,
throws dust in your eyes, and tries to stab you in the back. Oh, no! none of that for me."
"I should say not, Admiral Bell. I should not like it myself, and I dare say you are a man
of too much experience not to perceive when you are or are not imposed upon."
"Well, what is that to you? D -- n me, I didn't come here to talk to you about myself."
"Then may I presume upon your courtesy so far as to beg that you will enlighten me upon
the object of your visit?"
"Yes; in pretty quick time. Just tell me where you have stowed away my nephew, Charles
Holland?"
"Really, I -- "

"Hold your slack, will you, and hear me out; if he's living, let him out, and I'll say no
more about it; that's liberal, you know; it ain't terms everybody would offer you."
"I must, in truth, admit they are not; and, moreover, they quite surprise even me, and I
have learned not to be surprised at almost anything."
"Well, will you give him up alive? but, hark ye, you mustn't have made very queer fish of
him, do ye see?"
"I hear you," said Sir Francis, with a bland smile, passing one hand gently over the other,
and showing his front teeth in a peculiar manner; "but I really cannot comprehend all this;
but I may say, generally, that Mr. Holland is no acquaintance of mine, and I have no sort of
knowledge where he may be."
"That won't do for me," said the admiral, positively, shaking his head.
"I am particularly sorry, Admiral Bell, that it will not, seeing that I have nothing else to
say."
"I see how it is; you've put him out of the way, and I'm d -- -- d if you shan't' bring him to
life, whole and sound, or I'll know the reason why."
"With that I have already furnished you, Admiral Bell," quietly rejoined Varney;
"anything more on that head is out of my power, although my willingness to oblige a
person of such consideration as yourself, is very great; but, permit me to add, this is a very
strange and odd communication from one gentleman to another. You have lost a relative,
who has, very probably, taken some offence, or some notion into his head, of which nobody
but himself knows anything, and you come to one yet more unlikely to know anything of
him, than even yourself."
"Gammon again, now, Sir Francis Varney, or Blarney."
"Varney, if you please, Admiral Bell; I was christened Varney."
"Christened, eh?"
"Yes, christened -- were you not christened? If not, I dare say you understand the
ceremony well enough."
"I should think I did; but, as for christening, a -- "
"Go on, sir."
"A vampyre! why I should as soon think of reading the burial service of a pig."
"Very possible; but what has all this to do with your visit to me?"

"This much, you lubber. Now, d -- n my carcass from head to stern, if I don't call you
out."
"Well, Admiral Bell," said Varney, mildly, "in that case, I suppose I must come out; but
why do you insist that I have any knowledge of your nephew, Mr. Charles Holland?"
"You were to have fought a duel with him, and now he's gone."
"I am here," said Varney.
"Ay," said the admiral, "that's as plain as a purser's shirt upon a handspike; but that's the
very reason why my nevey ain't here, and that's all about it."
"And that's marvellous little, so far as the sense is concerned," said Varney, without the
movement of a muscle.
"It is said that people of your class don't like fighting mortal men; now you have disposed
of him, lest he should dispose of you."
"That is explicit, but it is to no purpose, since the gentleman in question hasn't placed
himself at my disposal."
"Then, d -- -e, I will; fish, flesh, or fowl, I don't care; all's one to Admiral Bell. Come fair
or foul, I'm a tar for all men; a seaman ever ready to face a foe, so here goes, you lubberly
moon manufactured calf."
"I hear, admiral, but it is scarcely civil, to say the least of it; however, as you are
somewhat eccentric, and do not, I dare say, mean all your words imply, I am quite willing
to make every allowance."
"I don't want any allowance; d -- n you and your allowance, too; nothing but allowance of
grog, and a pretty good allowance, too, will do for me, and I tell you, Sir Francis Varney,"
said the admiral, with much wrath, "that you are a d -- -- d lubberly hound, and I'll fight
you; yes, I'm ready to hammer away, or with anything from a pop-gun to a ship's gun; you
don't come over me with your gammon, I tell you. You've murdered Charles Holland
because you couldn't face him -- that's the truth of it."
"With the other part of your speech, Admiral Bell, allow me to say, you have mixed up a
serious accusation -- one I cannot permit to pass lightly."
"Will you or not fight?"
"Oh, yes; I shall be happy to serve you any way that I can. I hope this will be an answer
to your accusation, also."
"That's settled, then."

"Why, I am not captious, Admiral Bell, but it is not generally usual for the principals to
settle the preliminaries themselves; doubtless you, in your career of fame and glory know
something of the manner in which gentlemen demean themselves on these occasions."
"Oh, d -- n you! Yes, I'll send some one to do all this. Yes, yes, Jack Pringle will be the
man, though Jack ain't a holiday, shore-going, smooth-spoken swab, but as good a seaman
as ever trod deck or handled a boarding-pike."
"Any friend of yours," said Varney, blandly, "will be received and treated as such upon
an errand of such consequence; and now our conference has, I presume, concluded."
"Yes, yes, we've done -- d -- -e, no -- yes -- no. I will keel-haul you but I'll know
something of my neavy, Charles Holland."
"Good day, Admiral Bell." As Varney spoke, he placed his hand upon the bell which he
had near him, to summon an attendant to conduct the admiral out. The latter, who had said
a vast deal more than he ever intended, left the room in a great rage, protesting to himself
that he would amply avenge his nephew, Charles Holland.
He proceeded homeward, considerably vexed and annoyed that he had been treated with
so much calmness, and all knowledge of his nephew denied.
When he got back, he quarrelled heartily with Jack Pringle -- made it up -- drank grog --
quarrelled -- made it up, and finished with grog again -- until he went to bed swearing he
should like to fire a broadside at the whole of the French army, and annihilate it at once.
With this wish, he fell asleep.
Early next morning, Henry Bannerworth sought Mr. Chillingworth, and having found
him, he said in a serious tone, --
"Mr. Chillingworth, I have rather a serious favour to ask you, and one which you may
hesitate in granting."
"It must be very serious indeed," said Mr. Chillingworth, "that I should hesitate to grant it
to you; but pray inform me what it is what you deem so serious?"
"Sir Francis Varney and I must have a meeting," said Henry.
"Have you really determined upon such a course?" said Mr. Chillingworth; "You know
the character of your adversary?"
"That is all settled, -- I have given a challenge, and he has accepted it; so all other
considerations verge themselves into one -- and that is the when, where, and how."

"I see," said Mr. Chillingworth. "Well, since it cannot be helped on your part, I will do
what is requisite for you -- do you wish anything to be done or insisted on in particular in
this affair."
"Nothing with regard to Sir Francis Varney that I may not leave to your discretion. I feel
convinced that he is the assassin of Charles Holland, whom he feared to fight in duel."
"Then there remains but little else to do, but to arrange preliminaries, I believe. Are you
prepared on every other point?"
"I am -- you will see that I am the challenger, and that he must now fight. What accident
may turn up to save him, I fear not, but sure I am, that he will endeavour to take every
advantage that may arise, and so escape the encounter."
"And what do you imagine he will do now he has accepted your challenge?" said Mr.
Chillingworth; "one would imagine he could not very well escape."
"No -- but he accepted the challenge which Charles Holland sent him -- a duel was
inevitable, and it seems to me to be a necessary consequence that he disappeared from
amongst us, for Mr. Holland would never have shrunk from the encounter."
"There can be no sort of suspicion about that," remarked Chillingworth; "but allow me to
advise you that you take care of yourself, and keep a watchful eye upon everyone -- do not
be seen out alone."
"I fear not."
"Nay, the gentleman who has disappeared was, I am sure, fearless enough; but yet that
has not saved him. I would not advise you to be fearful, only watchful; you have now an
event awaiting upon you which it is well you should go through with, unless circumstances
should so turn out, that it is needless; wherefore I say, when you have the suspicions you do
entertain of this man's conduct, beware, be cautious, and vigilant."
"I will do so -- in the mean time, I trust myself confidently in your hands -- you know all
that is necessary."
"This affair is quite a secret from all of the family?"
"Most certainly so, and will remain so -- I shall be at the Hall."
"And there I will see you -- but be careful not to be drawn into any adventure of any kind
-- it is best to be on the safe side under all circumstances."
"I will be especially careful, be assured, but farewell; see Sir Francis Varney as early as
you can, and let the meeting be as early as you can, and thus diminish the chance of
accident."

"That I will attend to. Farewell for the present."
Mr. Chillingworth immediately set about the conducting of the affair thus confided to
him; and that no time might be lost, he determined to set out at once for Sir Francis
Varney's residence.
"Things with regard to this family seem to have gone on wild of late," thought Mr.
Chillingworth; "this may bring affairs to a conclusion, though I had much rather they had
come to some other. My life for it, there is a juggle or a mystery, somewhere; I will do this,
and then we shall see what will come of it; if this Sir Francis Varney meets him -- and at
this moment I can see no reason why he should not do so -- it will tend much to deprive
him of the mystery about him; but if, on the other hand, he refuse -- but then that's all
improbable, because he has agreed to do so. I fear however, that such a man as Varney is a
dreadful enemy to encounter -- he is cool and unruffled -- and that gives him all the
advantage in such affairs; but Henry's nerves are not bad, though shaken by these untoward
events; but time will show -- I would it were all over."
With these thoughts and feelings strangely intermixed, Mr. Chillingworth set forward for
Sir Francis Varney's house. * * * *
Admiral Bell slept soundly enough, though, towards morning, he fell into a strange
dream, and thought he was yard arm and yard arm with a strange fish -- something of the
mermaid species.
"Well," exclaimed the admiral, after a customary benediction of his eyes and limbs,
"what's to come next? may I be spliced to a shark if I understand what this is all about. I
had some grog last night, but then grog, d'y'see, is a seaman's native element, as the
newspapers say, though I never read 'em now, it's such a plague."
He lay quiet for a short time, considering in his own mind what was best to be done and
what was the proper course to pursue and why he should dream.
"Hilloa, hilloa, hil -- loa Jack a-hoy! a-hoy!" shouted the admiral, as a sudden recollection
of his challenge came across his memory; "Jack Pringle a-hoy? d -- n you, where are you? -
- you're never at hand when you are wanted. Oh, you lubber, -- a-hoy !"
"A-hoy!" shouted a voice, as the door opened, and Jack thrust his head in; "what cheer,
messmate? what ship is this?"
"Oh, you lubberly -- "
The door was shut in a minute, and Jack Pringle disappeared.
"Hilloa, Jack Pringle, you don't mean to say you'll desert your colours, do you, you dumb
dog?"

"Who, says I'll desert the ship as she's sea-worthy? "
"Then why do you go away?"
"Because I won't be called lubberly, I'm as good a man as ever swabbed a deck, and don't
care who says to the contrary. I'll stick to the ship as long as she's sea-worthy," said Jack.
"Well, come here, and just listen to the log, and be d -- -- d to you."
"What's the orders now, admiral?" said Jack, "though, as we are paid off -- "
"There, take that, will you?" said Admiral Bell, as he flung a pillow at Jack, being the
only thing in the shape of a missile within reach.
Jack ducked, and the pillow produced a clatter in the washhand-stand among the
crockery, as Jack said, --
"There's a mutiny in the ship, and hark how the cargo clatters; will you have it back
again?"
"Come, will you? I've been dreaming, Jack."
"Dreaming! what's that?"
"Thinking of something when you are asleep, you swab."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Jack; "never did such a thing in my life -- ha, ha, ha! what's the
matter now?"
"I'll tell you what's the matter, Jack Pringle, you are becoming mutinous, and I won't have
it; if you don't hold your jaw and draw in your slacks, I'll have another second."
"Another second! what's in the wind, now?" said Jack. "Is this the dream?"
"If ever I dream when I'm alongside a strange craft, then it is a dream; but old Admiral
Bell ain't the man to sleep when there's any work to be done."
"That's uncommon true," said Jack, turning a quid.
"Well, then, I'm to fight."
"Fight!" exclaimed Jack. "Avast, there, I don't see where's the enemy -- none o' that
gammon; Jack Pringle can fight, too, and will lay alongside his admiral, but he don't see the
enemy anywhere."

"You don't understand these things, so I'll tell you. I have had a bit of talk with Sir
Francis Varney, and I am going to fight him."
"What the wamphigher?" remarked Jack, parenthetically.
"Yes."
"Well, then," resumed Jack, "then we shall see another blaze, at least afore we die; but
he's an odd fish -- one of Davy Jones's sort."
"I don't care about that; he may be anything he likes; but Admiral Bell ain't a-going to
have his nephew burned and eaten, and sucked like don't know what, by a vampyre, or by
any other confounded land-shark."
"In course," said Jack, "we ain't a-going to put up with nothing of that sort, and if so be as
how he has put him out of the way, why it's our duty to send him arter him, and square the
board."
"That's the thing, Jack; now you know you must go to Sir Francis Varney and tell him
you come from me."
"I don't care if I goes on my own account," said Jack.
"That won't do; I've challenged him, and I must fight him."
"In course you will," returned Jack; "and, if he blows you away, why I'll take your place,
and have a blaze myself."
The admiral gave a look at Jack of great admiration, and then said, --
"You are a d -- -- d good seaman, Jack, but he's a knight, and might say no to that; but do
you go to him, and tell him that you come from me to settle the when and the where this
duel is to be fought."
"Single fight?" said Jack.
"Yes; consent to any thing that is fair," said the admiral, "but let it be as soon as you can.
Now do you understand what I have said?"
"Yes, to be sure; I ain't lived all these years without knowing your lingo."
"Then go at once; and don't let the honour of Admiral Bell and old England suffer, Jack.
I'm his man, you know, at any price."
"Never fear," said Jack; "you shall fight him, at any rate. I'll go and see he don't back out,
the warmint."

"Then go along, Jack; and mind don't you go blazing away like a fire ship, and letting
everybody know what's going on, or it'll be stopped."
"I'll not spoil sport," said Jack, as he left the room, to go at once to Sir Francis Varney,
charged with the conducting of the important cartel of the admiral. Jack made the best of
his way with becoming gravity and expedition until he reached the gate of the admiral's
enemy.
Jack rang loudly at the gate; there seemed, if one might judge by his countenance, a
something on his mind, that Jack was, almost another man. The gate was opened by the
servant, who inquired what he wanted there.
"The wamphigher."
"Who?"
"The wamphigher."
The servant frowned, and was about to say something uncivil to Jack, who looked at him
very hard, and then said, --
"Oh, may be you don't know him, or won't know him by that name: I wants to see Sir
Francis Varney."
"He's at home," said the servant; "who are you?"
"Show me up, then. I'm Jack Pringle, and I'm come from Admiral Bell; I'm the admiral's
friend, you see, so none of your black looks."
The servant seemed amazed, as well as rather daunted, at Jack's address; he showed him,
however, into the hall, where Mr. Chillingworth had just that moment arrived, and was
waiting for an interview with Varney.
--

Chapter XXXVIII.
MARCHDALE'S OFFER. -- THE CONSULTATION AT BANNERWORTH HALL. --

THE MORNING OF THE DUEL.
Mr. Chillingworth was much annoyed to see Jack Pringle in the hall and Jack was
somewhat surprised at seeing Mr. Chillingworth there at that time in the morning; they had
but little time to indulge in their mutual astonishment, for a servant came to announce that
Sir Francis Varney would see them both.
Without saying anything to the servant or each other, they ascended the staircase, and
were shown into the apartment where Sir Francis Varney received them.
"Gentlemen," said Sir Francis, in his usual bland tone, "you are welcome."
"Sir Francis," said Mr. Chillingworth, "I have come upon matters of some importance;
may I crave a separate audience?"
"And I too," said Jack Pringle; "I come as the friend of Admiral Bell, I want a private
audience; but, stay, I don't care a rope's end who knows who I am, or what I come about;
say you are ready to name time and place, and I'm as dumb as a figurehead; that is saying
something, at all events; and now I'm done."
"Why, gentlemen," said Sir Francis, with a quiet smile, "as you have both come upon the
same errand, and as there may arise a controversy upon the point of precedence, you had
better be both present, as I must arrange this matter myself upon due inquiry."
"I do not exactly understand this," said Mr. Chillingworth; "do you, Mr. Pringle? perhaps
you can enlighten me?"
"If," said Jack, "as how you came here upon the same errand as I, and I as you, why we
both come about fighting Sir Francis Varney."
"Yes," said Sir Francis; "what Mr. Pringle says, is, I believe correct to a letter. I have a
challenge from both your principals, and am ready to give you both the satisfaction you
desire, provided the first encounter will permit me the honour of joining in the second. You,
Mr. Pringle, are aware of the chances of war?"
"I should say so," said Jack, with a wink and a nod of a familiar character. "I've seen a
few of them."
"Will you proceed to make the necessary agreement between you both gentlemen? My
affection for the one equals fully the good will I bear the other, and I cannot give a
preference in so delicate a matter; proceed gentlemen."

Mr. Chillingworth looked at Jack, and Jack Pringle looked at Mr. Chillingworth, and then
the former said, --
"Well, the admiral means fighting, and I am come to settle the necessaries; pray let me
know what are your terms, Mr. What-d'ye-call'em."
"I am agreeable to anything that is at all reasonable -- pistols, I presume?"
"Sir Francis Varney," said Mr. Chillingworth, "I cannot consent to carry on this office,
unless you can appoint a friend who will settle these matters with us -- myself, at least."
"And I too," said Jack. Pringle; "we don't want to bear down an enemy. Admiral Bell ain't
the man to do that, and if he were, I'm not the man to back him in doing what isn't fair or
right; but he won't do it."
"But, gentlemen, this must not be; Mr. Henry Bannerworth must not be disappointed, and
Admiral Bell must not be disappointed. Moreover, I have accepted the two cartels, and I am
ready and willing to fight; -- one at a time, I presume!"
"Sir Francis, after what you have said, I must take upon myself, on the part of Mr. Henry
Bannerworth, to decline meeting you, if you cannot name a friend with whom I can arrange
this affair."
"Ah!" said Jack Pringle, "that's right enough. I recollect very well when Jack Mizen
fought Tom Foremast, they had their seconds. Admiral Bell can't do anything in the dark.
No, no, d -- -e! all must be above board."
"Gentlemen," said Sir Francis Varney, "you see the dilemma I am in. Your principals
have both challenged me. I am ready to fight any one, or both of them, as the case may be.
Distinctly understand that; because it is a notion of theirs that I will not do so, or that I
shrink from them; but I am a stranger in this neighbourhood, and have no one whom I
could call upon to relinquish so much, as they run the risk of doing by attending me to the
field."
"Then your acquaintances are no friends, d -- -e!" said Jack Pringle, spitting through his
teeth into the bars of a beautifully polished grate. "I'd stick to anybody -- the devil himself,
leave alone a vampyre -- if so be as how I had been his friend and drunk from the same can.
They are a set of lubbers."
"I have not been here long enough to form any such friendships, Mr. Chillingworth; but
can confidently rely upon your honour and that of your principal, and will freely and fairly
meet him."
"But, Sir Francis, you forget the fact, in thus acting, myself for Mr. Bannerworth, and this
person for Admiral Bell, we do much, and have our own characters at stake; lives and
fortunes. These may be small, but they are everything to us. Allow me to say, on my own

behalf, that I will not permit my principal to meet you unless you can name a second as is
usual with gentlemen on such occasions."
"I regret, while I declare to you my entire willingness to meet you, that I cannot comply
through utter inability to do so, with your request. Let this to forth to the world as I have
stated it, and let it be an answer to any aspersions that may be uttered as to my
unwillingness to fight."
There was a pause of some moments. Mr. Chillingworth was resolved that, come what
would, he would not permit Henry to fight, unless Sir Francis Varney himself should
appoint a friend and then they I could meet upon equal terms.
Jack Pringle whistled, and spit, and chewed and turned his quid -- hitched up his trousers,
and looked whistfully from one to the other, as he said, --
"So then it's likely to be no fight at all, Sir Francis What's-o'-name?"
"It seems like it, Mr. Pringle," replied Varney, with a with meaning smile; "unless I you
can be more complaisant towards myself, and kindly towards the admiral."
"Why, not exactly that," said Jack; "it's a pity to stop a good play in the beginning, just
because some little thing is wrong in the tackling."
"Perhaps your skill and genius may enable us to find some medium course that we may
pursue with pleasure and profit. What say you, Mr. Pringle?"
"All I know about genius, as you call it, is the Flying Dutchman, or some such odd, out o'
the way fish. But, as I said, I am not one to spoil sport, nor more is the admiral. Oh, no, we
is all true men and good."
"I believe it," said Varney, bowing politely.
"You needn't keep your figure-head on the move; I can see you just as well. Howsoever,
as I was saying, I don't like to spoil sport, and sooner than both parties should be
disappointed, my principal shall become your second, Sir Francis."
"What, Admiral Bell!" exclaimed Varney, lifting his eyebrows with surprise.
"What, Charles Holland's uncle!" exclaimed Mr. Chillingworth, in accents of amazement.
"And why not?" said Jack, with great gravity. "I will pledge my word -- Jack Pringle's
word -- that Admiral Bell shall be second to Sir Francis Varney, during his scrimmage with
Mr. Henry Bannerworth. That will let the matter go on; there can be no back-out then, eh?"
continued Jack Pringle, with a knowing nod at Chillingworth as he spoke.

"That will, I hope, remove your scruples, Mr. Chillingworth," said Varney, with a
courteous smile.
"But will Admiral Bell do this?"
"His second says so, and has, I daresay, influence enough with him to induce that person
to act in conformity with his promise."
"In course he will. Do you think he would be the man to hang back? Oh, no; he would be
the last to leave Jack Pringle in the lurch -- no. Depend upon it, Sir Francis, he'll be as sure
to do what I say, as I have said it."
"After that assurance, I cannot doubt it," said Sir Francis Varney; "this act of kindness
will, indeed, lay me under a deep and lasting obligation to Admiral Bell, which I fear I shall
never be able to pay."
"You need not trouble yourself about that," said Jack Pringle; "the admiral will credit all,
and you can pay off old scores when his turn comes in the field."
"I will not forget," said Varney; "he deserves every consideration; but now, Mr.
Chillingworth, I presume that we may come to some understanding respecting this meeting,
which you were so kind as to do me the honour of seeking."
"I cannot object to its taking place. I shall be most happy to meet your second in the field,
and arrange with him."
"I imagine that, under the circumstances, that it will be barely necessary to go to that
length of ceremony. Future interviews can be arranged later; name the time and place, and
after that we can settle all the rest on the ground."
"Yes," said Jack; "it will be time enough, surely, to see the admiral when we are upon the
ground. I'll warrant the old buffer is a true brick as ever was; there's no flinching about
him."
"I am satisfied," said Varney.
"And I also," said Chillingworth; "but, understand, Sir Francis, any fault for seconds
makes the meeting a blank."
"I will not doubt Mr. Pringle's honour so much as to believe it possible."
"I'm d -- -- d," said Jack, "if you ain't a trump-card, and no mistake; it's a great pity as you
is a wamphigher."
"The time, Mr. Chillingworth?"

"To-morrow, at seven o'clock?" replied that gentleman.
"The place, sir?"
"The best place that I can think of is a level meadow half-way between here and
Bannerworth Hall; but that is your privilege, Sir Francis Varney."
"I waive it, and am much obliged to you for the choice of the spot; it seems of the best
character imaginable. I will be punctual."
"I think we have nothing further to arrange now," said Mr.Chillingworth. "You will meet
with Admiral Bell."
"Certainly. I believe there is nothing more to be done; this affair is very satisfactorily
arranged, and much better than I anticipated."
"Good morning, Sir Francis," said Mr. Chillingworth. "Good morning."
"Adieu," said Sir Francis, with a courteous salutation. "Good day, Mr. Pringle, and
commend me to the admiral, whose services will be of infinite value to me."
"Don't mention it," said Jack; "the admiral's the man as'd lend any body a helping hand in
case of distress like the present; and I'll pledge my word -- Jack Pringle's too, as that he'll
do what's right, and give up his turn to Mr. Henry Bannerworth; cause you see he can have
his I turn arterwards, you know -- it's only waiting awhile."
"That's all," said Sir Francis.
Jack Pringle made a sea bow and took his leave, as he followed Mr. Chillingworth, and
they both left the house together, to return to Bannerworth Hall.
"Well," said Mr. Chillingworth, "I am glad that Sir Francis Varney has got over the
difficulty of having no seconds; for it would not be proper or safe to meet a man without a
friend with him."
"lt ain't the right thing," said Jack, hitching up his trousers; "but I was afeard as how he
would back out, and that would be just the wrong thing for the admiral; he'd go raving
mad."
They had got but very few paces from Sir Francis Varney's house, when they were joined
by Marchdale.
"Ah," he said, as he came up, "I see you have been to Sir Francis Varney's, if I may judge
from the direction whence you're coming, and your proximity."
"Yes, we have," said Mr. Chillingworth. "I thought you had left these parts?"

"I had intended to do so," replied Marchdale; "but second thoughts are some times best,
you know."
"Certainly."
"I have so much friendship for the family at the hall, that not withstanding I am
compelled to be absent from the mansion itself, yet I cannot quit the neighbourhood while
there are circumstances of such a character hanging about them. I will remain, and see if
there be not something arising, in which I may be useful to them in some matter."
"It is very disinterested of you; you will remain here for some time, I suppose?"
"Yes, undoubtedly; unless, as I do not anticipate, I should see any occasion to quit my
present quarters."
"I tell you what it is," said Jack Pringle; "if you had been here half-an-hour earlier, you
could have seconded the wamphigher."
"Seconded!"
"Yes, we're here to challenge."
"A double challenge?"
"Yes; but in confiding this matter to you, Mr. Marchdale, you will make no use of it to
the exploding of this affair. By so doing you will seriously damage the honour of Mr.
Henry Bannerworth."
"I will not, you may rely upon it; but Mr. Chillingworth, do I not see you in the character
of a second?"
"You do, sir."
"To Mr. Henry?"
"The same, sir."
"Have you reflected upon the probable consequences of such an act, should any serious
mischief occur?"
"What I have undertaken, Mr. Marchdale, I will go through with; the consequences I have
duly considered, and yet you see me in the character of Mr. Henry Bannerworth's friend."
"I am happy to see you as such, and I do not think Henry could find a worthier. But this is
beside the question. What induced me to make the remark was this, -- had I been at the hall,

you will admit that Henry Bannerworth would have chosen myself, without any
disparagement to you, Mr. Chillingworth."
"Well sir, what then?"
"Why I am a single man, I can live, reside and go any where; one country will suit me as
well as another. I shall suffer no loss, but as for you, you will be ruined in every particular;
for if you go in the character of a second, you will not be excused; for all the penalties
incurred your profession of surgeon will not excuse you."
"I see all that, sir."
"What I propose is, that you should accompany the parties to the field, but in your own
proper character of surgeon, and permit me to take that of second to Mr. Bannerworth."
"This cannot be done, unless by Mr. Henry Bannerworth's consent," said Mr.
Chillingworth.
"Then I will accompany you to Bannerworth Hall, and see Mr. Henry, whom I will
request to permit me to do what I have mentioned to you."
Mr. Chillingworth could not but admit the reasonableness of this proposal, and it was
agreed they should return to Bannerworth Hall in company.
Here they arrived in a very short time after, and entered together.
"And now," said Mr. Chillingworth, "I will go and bring our two principals, who will be
as much astonished to find themselves engaged in the same quarrel, as I was to find myself
sent on a similar errand to Sir Francis with our friend Mr. John Pringle."
"Oh, not John -- Jack Pringle, you mean," said that individual.
Chillingworth now went in search of Henry, and sent him to the apartment where Mr.
Marchdale was with Jack Pringle, and then he found the admiral waiting the return of Jack
with impatience.
"Admiral" he said, "I perceive you are unwell this morning."
"Unwell be d -- -- d," said the admiral, starting up with surprise. "Who ever heard that old
Admiral Bell looked ill just afore he was going into action? I say it's a scandalous lie."
"Admiral, admiral, I didn't say you were ill; only you looked ill -- a -- a little nervous, or
so. Rather pale, eh? Is it not so?"
"Confound you, do you think I want to be physicked? I tell you, I have not a little but a
great inclination to give you a good keelhauling. I don't want a doctor just yet."

"But it may not be so long, you know, admiral; but there is Jack Pringle a-waiting you
below. Will you go to him? There is a particular reason; he has something to communicate
from Sir Francis Varney, I believe."
The admiral gave a look of some amazement at Mr. Chillingworth, and then he said,
muttering to himself, --
"If Jack Pringle should have betrayed me -- but, no; he could not do that, he is too true.
I'm sure of Jack; and how did that son of a gallipot hint about the odd fish I sent Jack to?"
Filled with a dubious kind of belief which he had about something he had heard of Jack
Pringle, he entered the room, where he met Marchdale, Jack Pringle, and Henry
Bannerworth. Immediately afterwards, Mr. Chillingworth entered the apartment.
"I have," said he, "been to Sir Francis Varney, and there had an interview with him, and
with Mr. Pringle; when I found we were both intent upon the same object, namely, an
encounter with the knight by our principals."
"Eh?" said the admiral.
"What!" exclaimed Henry; "had he challenged you, admiral?"
"Challenged me!" exclaimed Admiral Bell, with a round oath. "I -- however -- since it
comes to this, I must admit I challenged him."
"That's what I did," said Henry Bannerworth, after a moment's thought; "and I perceive
we have both fallen into the same line of conduct."
"That is the fact," said Mr. Chillingworth. "Both Mr. Pringle and I went there to settle the
preliminaries, and we found an insurmountable bar to any meeting taking place at all."
"He wouldn't fight, then?" exclaimed Henry. "I see it all now."
"Not fight!" said Admiral Bell with a sort of melancholy disappointment. "D -- n the
cowardly rascal! Tell me, Jack Pringle, what did the long horse-marine-looking slab say to
it? He told me he would fight. Why he ought to be made to stand sentry over the wind."
"You challenged him in person, too, I suppose?" said Henry.
"Yes, confound him! I went there last night."
"And I too."
"It seems to me," said Marchdale, "that this affair has been not indiscretely conducted;
but somewhat unusually and strangely, to say the least of it."

"You see," said Chillingworth, "Sir Francis was willing to fight both Henry and the
admiral, as he told us."
"Yes," said Jack; "he told us he would fight us both, if so be as his light was not doused in
the first brush."
"That was all that was wanted," said the admiral. "We could expect no more."
"But then he desired to meet you without any second; but, of course, I would not accede
to this proposal. The responsibility was too great and too unequally borne by the parties
engaged in the rencontre."
"Decidedly," said Henry; "but it is unfortunate -- very unfortunate."
"Very," said the admiral -- "very. What a rascally thing it is there ain't another rogue in
the country to keep him in countenance."
"I thought it was a pity to spoil sport" said Jack Pringle. "It was a pity a good intention
should be spoiled, and I promised the wamphigher that if as how he would fight, you
should second him and you'd meet him to do so."
"Eh! who? I?" exclaimed the admiral, in some perplexity.
"Yes; that is the truth," said Mr. Chillingworth. "Mr. Pringle said you would do so, and he
then and there pledged his word that you should meet him on the ground and second him on
it."
"Yes," said Jack. "You must do it. I knew you would not spoil sport, and that there had
better be a fight than no fight. I believe you'd sooner see a scrimmage than none, and so it's
all arranged."
"Very well," said the admiral; "I only I wish Mr. Henry Bannerworth had been his
second; I think I was entitled to the first meeting."
"No," said Jack, "you warn't, for Mr. Chillingworth was there first; first come first served,
you know."
"Well, well, I mustn't grumble at another other man's luck; mine'll come in turn; but it had
better be so than a disappointment altogether; I'll be second to this Sir Francis Varney; he
shall have fair play, as I'm an admiral; but, d -- -e he shall fight -- yes, yes, he shall fight."
"And to this conclusion I would come," said Henry, "I wish him to fight; now I will take
care that he shall not have any opportunity of putting me on one side quietly."

"There is one thing," observed Marchdale, "that I wished to propose. After what has
passed, I should not have returned, had I not some presentiment that something was going
forward in which I could be useful to my friend."
"Oh!" said the admiral, with a huge twist of his countenance.
"What I was about to say was this, -- Mr. Chillingworth has much to lose as he is situated,
and I nothing as I am placed; I am chained down to no spot of earth. I am above following a
profession -- my means, I mean, place me above the necessity. Now, Henry, allow me to be
your second in this affair; allow Mr. Chillingworth to attend in his professional capacity; he
may be of service -- of great service to one of the principals; whereas, if he go in any other
capacity, he will inevitably have his own safety to consult."
"That is most unquestionably true," said Henry, "and, to my mind, the best plan that can
be proposed. What say you, Admiral Bell, will you act with Mr. Marchdale in this affair?"
"Oh, I! -- Yes -- certainly -- I don't care. Mr. Marchdale is Mr. Marchdale, I believe, and
that's all I care about. If we quarrel to-day, and have anything to do to-morrow, in course,
to-morrow I can put off my quarrel for next day; it will keep, -- that's all I have to say at
present."
"Then this is a final arrangement?" said Mr. Chillingworth.
"It is."
"But, Mr. Bannerworth, in resigning my character of second to Mr. Marchdale, I only do

so because it appears and seems to be the opinion of all present that I can be much better
employed in another capacity."
"Certainly, Mr. Chillingworth; and I cannot but feel that I am under the same obligations
to you for the readiness and zeal with which you have acted."
"I have done what I have done," said Chillingworth, -- "because I believed it was my duty
to do so."
"Mr. Chillingworth has undoubtedly acted most friendly and efficiently this affair," said
Marchdale; "and he does not relinquish the part for the purpose of escaping a friendly deed,
but to perform one in which he may act in a capacity that no one else can."
"That is true," said the admiral.
"And now," said Chillingworth, "you are to meet to-morrow morning in the meadow at
the bottom of the valley, half way between here and Sir Francis Varney's house, at seven
o'clock in the morning."

More conversation passed among them, and it was agreed that they should meet early the
next morning, and that, of course, the affair should be kept a secret. Marchdale for that
night should remain in the house, and the admiral should appear as if little or nothing was
the matter; and he and Jack Pringle retired, to talk over in private all the arrangements.
Henry Bannerworth and Marchdale also retired, and Mr. Chillingworth, after a time,
retired, promising to be with them in time for the meeting next morning.
Much of that day was spent by Henry Bannerworth in his own apartment, in writing
documents and letters of one kind and another; but at night he had not finished, for he had
been compelled to be about, and in Flora's presence, to prevent anything from being
suspected.
Marchdale was much with him, and in secret examined the arms, ammunition, and
bullets, and saw all was right for the next morning; and when he had done, he said, --
"Now, Henry, you must permit me to insist that you take some hours' repose, else you
will scarcely be as you ought to be."
"Very good," said Henry. "I have just finished, and can take your advice."
After many thoughts and reflections, Henry Bannerworth fell into a deep sleep, and slept
several hours in calmness and quietude, and at an early hour he awoke, and saw Marchdale
sitting by him.
"Is it time, Marchdale? I have not overslept myself, have I?"
"No; time enough -- time enough," said Marchdale. "I should have let you sleep longer,
but I should have awakened you in good time."
It was now the grey light of morning, and Henry arose and began to prepare for the
encounter. Marchdale stole to Admiral Bell's chamber, but he and Jack Pringle were ready.
Few words were spoken, and those few were in a whisper, and the whole party left the
Hall in as noiseless a manner was possible. It was a mild morning, and yet it was cold at
that time of the morning, just as day is beginning to dawn in the east. There was, however,
ample time to reach the rendezvous.
It was a curious party that which was now proceeding towards the spot appointed for the
duel, the result of which might have so important an effect on the interests of those who
were to be engaged in it.
It would be difficult for us to analyse the different and conflicting emotions that filled the
breasts of the various individuals composing that party -- the hopes and fears -- the doubts
and surmises that were given utterance to; though we are compelled to acknowledge that
though to Henry, the character of the man he was going to meet in mortal fight was of a

most ambiguous and undefined nature, and though no one could imagine the means he
might be endowed with for protection against the arms of man -- Henry, as we said, strode
firmly forward with unflinching resolution. His heart was set on recovering the happiness
of his sister, and he would not falter.
So far, then, we may consider that at length proceedings of a hostile character were so far
clearly and fairly arranged between Henry Bannerworth and that most mysterious being
who certainly, from some cause or another, had betrayed no inclination to meet an
opponent in that manner which is sanctioned, bad as it is, by the usages of society.
But whether his motive was one of cowardice or mercy, remained yet to be seen. It might
be that he feared himself receiving some mortal injury, which would at once put a stop to
that preternatural career of existence which he affected to shudder at, and yet evidently took
considerable pains to prolong.
Upon the other hand, it is just possible that some consciousness of invulnerability on his
own part, or of great power to injure his antagonist, might be the cause why he had held
back so long from fighting the duel, and placed so many obstacles in the way of the usual
necessary arrangements incidental to such occasions.
Now, however, there would seem to be no possible means of escape. Sir Francis Varney
must fight or fly, for he was surrounded by too many opponents.
To be sure he might have appealed to the civil authorities to protect him, and to sanction
him in his refusal to commit what undoubtedly is a legal offence; but then there cannot be a
question that the whole of the circumstances would come out, and meet the public eye --
the result of which would be, his acquisition of a reputation, as unenviable as it would be
universal.
It had so happened, that the peculiar position of the Bannerworth family kept their
acquaintance within extremely narrow limits, and greatly indisposed them to set themselves
up as marks for peculiar observation. Once holding, as they had, a proud position in the
county, and being looked upon as quite magnates of the land, they did not now court the
prying eye of curiosity to look upon their poverty; but rather with a gloomy melancholy
they lived apart, and repelled the advances of society by a cold reserve which few could
break through.
Had this family suffered in any noble cause, or had the misfortunes which had come over
them, and robbed their ancestral house of its lustre, been an unavoidable dispensation of
providence, they would have borne the hard position with a different aspect; but it must be
remembered, that to the faults, the vices, and the criminality of some of their race, was to
be attributed their present depressed state.
It has been seen during the progress of our tale, that its action has been tolerably confined
to Bannerworth Hall, its adjacent meadows, and the seat of Sir Francis Varney; the only
person at any distance, knowing anything of the circumstances, or feeling any interest in

them, being Mr. Chillingworth, the surgeon, who, from personal feeling, as well as from
professional habit, was not likely to make a family's affairs a subject of gossip.
A change, however, was at hand -- a change of a most startling and alarming character to
Varney -- one which he might expect, yet not be well prepared for.
This period of serenity was to pass away, and he was to become most alarmingly popular.
We will not, however, anticipate, but proceed at once to detail as briefly as may be the
hostile meeting.
It would appear that Varney, now that he had once consented to the definitive
arrangements of a duel, shrunk not in any way from carrying them out, nor in the slightest
attempted to retard arrangements which might be fatal to himself.
The early morning was one of those cloudy ones so frequently occurring in our fickle
climate, when the cleverest weather prophet would find it difficult to predict what the next
hour might produce.
There was a kind of dim gloominess over all objects; and as there were no bright lights
there were no deep shadows -- the consequence of which was a sameness of effect over the
landscape, that robbed it of many of its usual beauties.
Such was the state of things when Marchdale accompanied Henry and Admiral Bell from
Bannerworth Hall across the garden in the direction of the hilly wood, close to which was
the spot intended for the scene of encounter.
Jack Pringle came on at a lazy pace behind with his hands in his pockets, and looking as
unconcerned as if he had just come out for a morning's stroll, and scarcely knew whether he
saw what was going on or not.
The curious contortion into which he twisted his countenance, and the different odd-
looking lumps that appeared in it from time to time, may be accounted for by a quid of
unusual size, which he seemed to be masticating with a relish quite horrifying to one
unused to so barbarous a luxury.
The admiral had strictly enjoined him not to interfere on pain of being considered a
lubber and no seaman for the remainder of his existence -- threatened penalties which, of
course, had their own weight with Jack, and accordingly he came just to see the row in as
quiet a way as possible, perhaps not without a hope, that something might turn up in the
shape of a causus belli, that might justify him in adopting a threatening attitude towards
somebody.
"Now, Master Henry," said the admiral, "none of your palaver to me as we go along;
recollect I don't belong to your party, you know. I've stood friend to two or three fellows in
my time; but if anybody had said to me, 'Admiral Bell, the next time you go out on a quiet
little shooting party, it will be as second to a vampyre,' I'd have said 'you're a liar.'

Howsomever, d -- me, here you goes, and what I mean to say is this, Mr. Henry, that I'd
second even a Frenchman rather than he shouldn't fight when he's asked."
"That's liberal of you," said Henry, "at all events."
"I believe you it is," said the admiral; "so mind if you don't hit him, I'm not a-going to tell
you how -- all you've got to do is, to fire low; but that's no business of mine. Shiver my
timbers, I oughtn't to tell you, but d -- n you, hit him if you can."
"Admiral," said Henry, "I can hardly think you are even preserving a neutrality in the
matter, putting aside my own partisanship as regards your own man."
"Oh! hang him. I'm not going to let him creep out of the thing on such a shabby pretence,
I can tell you. I think I ought to have gone to his house this morning; only, as I said I never
would cross his threshold again, I won't."
"I wonder if he'll come," said Mr. Marchdale to Henry. "After all, you know he may take
to flight, and shun an encounter which, it is evident, he has entered into but tardily."
"I hope not," said Henry; "and yet I must own that your supposition has several times
crossed my mind. If, however, he do not meet me, he never can appear the country, and we
should, at least, be rid of him, and all his troublesome importunities concerning the Hall. I
would not allow that man, on any account, to cross the threshold of my house, as its tenant
or its owner."
"Why, it ain't usual," said the admiral, "to let one's house to two people at once, unless
you seem quite to forget that I've taken yours. I may as well remind you of it."
"Hurra!" said Jack Pringle, at that moment.
"What's the matter with you? Who told you to hurra?"
"Enemy in the offing," said Jack, "three or four points to the sou-west."
"So he is, by Jove! dodging about among the trees. Come, now, this vampyre's a decenter
fellow than I thought him. He means, after all, to let us have a pop at him."
They had now reached so close to the spot, that Sir Francis Varney, who, to all
appearance, had been waiting, emerged from among the trees, rolled up in his dismal
looking cloak, and, if possible, looking longer and thinner than ever he had looked before.
His face wore a singular cadaverous-looking aspect. His very lips were white, and there
was a curious, pinkish-looking circle round each of his eyes, that imparted to his whole
countenance a most uninviting appearance. He turned his eyes from one to the other of
those who were advancing towards him, until he saw the admiral, upon which he gave such
a grim and horrible smile, that the old man exclaimed, --

"I say, Jack, you lubber, there's a face for a figure-head."
"Ay, ay, sir."
"Did you ever see such a d -- -- d grin as that in your life, in any latitude?"
"Ay, ay, sir."
"You did, you swab."
"I should think so."
"It's a lie, and you know it."
"Very good," said Jack; "don't you recollect when that ere iron bullet walked over your
head, leaving a nice little nick, all the way off Bergen-ap-Zoom, that was the time --
blessed if you didn't give just such a grin as that."
"I didn't, you rascal."
"And I say you did."
"Mutiny, by God!"
"Go to blazes!"
How far this contention might have gone, having now reached its culminating point, had
the admiral and Jack been alone, it is hard to say; but as it was, Henry and Marchdale
interfered, and so the quarrel was patched up for the moment, in order to give place to more
important affairs.
Varney seemed to think, that after the smiling welcome he had given to his second, he
had done quite enough; for there he stood, tall, and gaunt, and motionless, if we may except
an occasional singular movement of the mouth, and a clap together of his teeth, at times,
which was enough to make anybody jump to hear.
"For Heaven's sake," said Marchdale, "do not let us trifle at such a moment as this. Mr.
Pringle, you really had no business here."
"Mr. who?" said Jack.
"Pringle, I believe, is your name?" returned Marchdale.
"It were; but blowed if ever I was called mister before."

The admiral walked up to Sir Francis Varney, and gave him a nod that looked much more
like one of defiance than of salutation, to which the vampyre replied by a low, courtly bow.
"Oh, bother!" muttered the old admiral. "If I was to double up my back bone like that, I
should never get it down straight again. Well, all's right; you've come; that's all you could
do, I suppose."
"I am here," said Varney, "and therefore it becomes a work of supererogation to remark
that I've come."
"Oh! does it? I never bolted a dictionary, and, therefore, I don't know exactly what you
mean."
"Step aside with me a moment, Admiral Bell, and I will tell you what you are to do with
me after I am shot, if such should be my fate."
"Do with you! D -- -- d if I'll do anything with you."
"I don't expect you will regret me; you will eat."
"Eat!"
"Yes, and drink as usual, no doubt, not-withstanding being witness to the decease of a
fellow-creature."
"Belay there; don't call yourself a fellow-creature of mine; I ain't a vampyre."
"But there's no knowing what you may be; and now listen to my instructions; for as
you're my second, you cannot very well refuse to me a few friendly offices. Rain is falling.
Step beneath this ancient tree, and I will talk to you."
--

Chapter XXXIX.
THE STORM AND THE FIGHT. -- THE ADMIRAL'S REPUDIATION OF HIS

PRINCIPAL.
"Well," said the admiral, when they were fairly under the tree, upon the leaves of which the
pattering rain might be heard falling: "well -- what is it?"
"If your young friend Mr. Bannerworth, should chance to send a pistol-bullet through any
portion of my anatomy, prejudicial to the prolongation of my existence, you will be so good
as not to interfere with anything I may have about me, or to make any disturbance
whatever."
"You may depend I sha'n't."
"Just take the matter perfectly easy -- as a thing of course."
"Oh! I mean d -- -- d easy."
"Ha! what a delightful thing is friendship! There is a little knoll or mound of earth
midway between here and the Hall. Do you happen to know it? There is one solitary tree
growing near its summit -- an oriental looking tree, of the fir tribe, which, fan-like, spreads
its deep green leaves across the azure sky."
"Oh! bother it; it's a d -- -- d old tree, growing upon a little bit of a hill, I suppose you
mean?"
"Precisely; only much more poetically expressed. The moon rises at a quarter past four
to-night, or rather to-morrow morning."
"Does it?"
"Yes; and if I should happen to be killed, you will have me removed gently to this mound
of earth, and there laid beneath this tree, with my face upwards; and take care that it is done
before the moon rises. You can watch that no one interferes."
"A likely job. What the deuce do you take me for? I tell you what it is, Mr. Vampyre, or
Varney, or whatever's your name, if you should chance to be hit, wherever you chance to
fall, there you'll lie."
"How very unkind."
"Uncommon, ain't it?"

"Well, well, since that is your determination, I must take care of myself in another way. I
can do so, and I will."
"Take care of yourself how you like, for all I care; I've come here to second you, to see
that, on the honour of a seaman, if you are put out of the world, it's done in proper manner,
that's all I have to do with you -- now you know."
Sir Francis Varney looked after him with a strange kind of smile, as he walked away to
make the necessary preparations with Marchdale for the immediate commencement of the
contest.
These were simple and brief. It was agreed that twelve paces should be measured out, six
each way, from a fixed point; one six to be paced by the admiral, and the other by
Marchdale; then they were to draw lots, to see at which end of this imaginary line Varney
was to be placed; after this the signal for firing was to be one, two, three -- fire!
A few minutes sufficed to complete these arrangements; the ground was measured in the
manner we have stated, and the combatants placed in their respective positions, Sir Francis
Varney occupying the same spot where he had at first stood, namely, that nearest to the
little wood, and to his own residence.
It is impossible that under such circumstances the bravest and the calmest of mankind
could fail to feel some slight degree of tremour, or uneasiness; and, although we can fairly
claim for Henry Bannerworth that he was as truly courageous as any right feeling Christian
man could wish to be, yet when it was possible that he stood within, as it were, a hair's
breadth of eternity, a strange world of sensation and emotions found a home in his heart,
and he could not look altogether undaunted all on that future which might, for all he knew
to the contrary, be so close at hand, as far as he was concerned.
It was not that he feared death, but that he looked with a decent gravity upon so grave a
change as that from this world to the next, and hence it was that his face was pale, and that
he looked all the emotion which he really felt.
This was the aspect and the bearing of a brave but not a reckless man; while Sir Francis
Varney, on the other hand, seemed, now that he had fairly engaged in the duel, to look upon
it and all its attendant circumstances with a kind of smirking satisfaction, as if he were far
more amused than personally interested.
This was certainly the more extraordinary after the manner in which he had tried to evade
the fight, and, at all events, was quite a sufficient proof that cowardice had not been his
actuating motive in so doing.
The admiral, who stood on a level with him, could not see the sort of expression he wore,
or, probably, he would have been far from well pleased; but the others did, and they found
something inexpressibly disagreeable in the smirking kind of satisfaction with which the
vampyre seemed to regard now the proceedings.

"Confound him," whispered Marchdale to Henry, "one would think he was quite
delighted, instead as we had imagined him, not well pleased, at these proceedings; look
how he grins."
"It is no matter," said Henry; "let him wear what aspect he may, it is the same to me; and,
as Heaven is my judge, I here declare, if I did not think myself justified in so doing, I
would not raise my hand against this man."
"There can be no shadow of a doubt regarding your justification. Have at him, and
Heaven protect you."
"Amen!"
The admiral was to give the word to fire, and now he and Marchdale having stepped
sufficiently on one side to be out of all possible danger from any stray shot, he commenced
repeating the signal, --
"Are you ready, gentlemen? -- once."
They looked sternly at each other and each grasped his pistol.
"Twice!"
Sir Francis Varney smiled and looked around him, as if the affair were one of the most
common-place description.
"Thrice!"
Varney seemed to be studying the sky rather than attending to the duel.
"Fire!" cried the admiral, and one report only struck upon the ear. It was that from
Henry's pistol.
All eyes were turned upon Sir Francis Varney, who had evidently reserved his fire, for
what purpose could not be devised, except a murderous one, the taking of a more steady
aim at Henry. Sir Francis, however, seemed in no hurry, but smiled, significantly, and
gradually raised the point of his weapon.
"Did you hear the word, Sir Francis? I gave it loud enough, I am sure. I never spoke
plainer in my life; did I ever, Jack?"
"Yes, often," said Jack Pringle; "what's the use of your asking such yarns as them? you
know you have done so often enough when you wanted grog."
"You d -- -- d rascal, I'll -- I'll have your back scored, I will."

"So you will, when you are afloat again, which you never will be -- you are paid off,
that's certain."
"You lubberly lout, you ain't a seaman; a seaman would never mutiny against his admiral;
howsomever, do you hear, Sir Francis, I'll give the matter up, if you don't pay some
attention to me."
Henry looked steadily at Varney, expecting every moment to feel his bullet. Mr.
Marchdale hastily exclaimed that this was not according to usage.
Sir Francis Varney took no notice, but went on elevating his weapon; when it was
perpendicular to the earth he fired in the air.
"I had not anticipated this," said Marchdale, as he walked to Henry. "I thought he was
taking a more deadly aim."
"And I," said Henry.
"Ay, you have escaped, Henry; let me congratulate you."
"Not so fast; we may fire again."
"I can afford to do that," he said, with a smile.
"You should have fired, sir, according to custom," said the admiral; "this is not the proper
thing."
"What, fire at your friend?"
"Oh, that's all very well! You are my friend for a time, vampyre as you are and I intend
you shall fire."
"If Mr. Henry Bannerworth demands another fire, I have no objection to it and will fire at
him: but as it is I shall not do so, indeed, it would be quite useless for him to do so -- to
point mortal weapons at me is mere child's play, they will not hurt me."
"The devil they won't," said the admiral.
"Why, look you here," said Sir Francis Varney, stepping forward and placing his hand to
his neckerchief; "look you here; if Mr. Henry Bannerworth should demand another fire, he
may do so with the same bullet."
"The same bullet!" said Marchdale, stepping forward -- "the same bullet! How is this?"
"My eyes," said Jack; "who'd a thought it; here's a go! wouldn't he do for a dummy -- to
lead a forlorn hope, or to put in among the boarders?"

"Here," said Sir Francis, handing a bullet to Henry Bannerworth -- "here is the bullet you
shot at me."
Henry looked at it -- it was blackened by powder; and then Marchdale seized it and tried
it in the pistol, but found the bullet fitted Henry's weapon.
"By heaven, it is so!" he exclaimed, stepping back and looking at Varney from top to toe
in horror and amazement.
"D -- -e," said the admiral, "if I understand this. Why Jack Pringle, you dog, here's a
strange fish."
"Oh, no! there's plenty on 'um in some countries."
"Will you insist upon another fire, or may I consider you satisfied?"
"I shall object," said Marchdale. "Henry, this affair must go no further; it would be
madness -- worse than madness, to fight upon such terms."
"So say I," said the admiral. "I will not have anything to do with you, Sir Francis. I'll not
be your second any longer. I didn't bargain for such a game as this. You might as well fight
with the man in brass armour, at the Lord Mayor's show, or the champion at a coronation."
"Oh!" said Jack Pringle; "a man may as well fire at the back of a halligator as a
wamphigher."
"This must be considered as having been concluded," said Mr. Marchdale.
"No!" said Henry.
"And wherefore not?"
"Because I have not received his fire."
"Heaven forbid you should."
"I may not with honour quit the ground without another fire."
"Under ordinary circumstances there might be some shadow of an excuse for your
demand; but as it is there is none. You have neither honour nor credit to gain by such an
encounter, and certainly, you can gain no object."
"How are we to decide this affair? Am I considered absolved from the accusation under
which I lay, of cowardice?" inquired Sir Francis Varney, with a cold smile.

"Why, as for that," said the admiral, "I should as soon expect credit for fighting behind a
wall, as with a man that I couldn't hit any more than the moon."
"Henry; let me implore you to quit this scene; if can do no good."
At this moment, a noise, as of human voices, was heard at a distance; this caused a
momentary pause, and the whole party stood still and listened.
The murmurs and shouts that now arose in the distance were indistinct and confused.
"What can all this mean?" said Marchdale; "there is something very strange about it. I
cannot imagine a cause for so usual an occurrence."
"Nor I," said Sir Francis Varney, looking suspiciously at Henry Bannerworth.
"Upon my honour I know neither what is the cause nor the nature of the sounds
themselves."
"Then we can easily see what is the matter from yonder hillock," said the admiral; "and
there's Jack Pringle, he's up there already. What's he telegraphing about in that manner, I
wonder?"
The fact was, Jack Pringle, hearing the riot, had thought that if he got to the neighbouring
eminence he might possibly ascertain what it was that was the cause of what he termed the
"row," and had succeeded in some degree.
There were a number of people of all kinds coming out from the village, apparently
armed, and shouting. Jack Pringle hitched up his trousers and swore, then took off his hat
and began to shout to the admiral, as he said, --
"D -- -e, they are too late to spoil the in sport. Hilloa! hurrah!"
"What's all that about, Jack?" inquired the admiral, as he came puffing along. "What's the
squall about?"
"Only a few horse-marines and bumboat-women, that have been startled like a company
of penguins."
"Oh! my eyes! wouldn't a whole broadside set em flying, Jack?"
"Ay; just as them Frenchmen that you murdered on board the Big Thunderer, as you
called it."
"I murder them, you rascal?"
"Yes; there was about five hundred of them killed."

"They were only shot."
"They were killed, only your conscience tells you it's uncomfortable."
"You rascal -- you villain! You ought to be keel-hauled and well payed."
"Ay; you're payed, and paid off as an old hulk."
"D -- -e -- you -- you -- oh! I wish I had you on board ship, I'd make your lubberly
carcass like a union jack, full of red and blue stripes."
"Oh! it's all very well; but if you don't take to your heels, you'll have all the old women in
the village a whacking on you, that's all I have to say about it. You'd better port your helm
and about ship, or you'll be keel-hauled."
"D -- n your -- "
"What's the matter?" inquired Marchdale, as he arrived.
"What's the cause of all the noise we have heard?" said Sir Francis; "has some village
festival spontaneously burst forth among the rustics of this place?"
"I cannot tell the cause of it," said Henry Bannerworth; "but they seem to me to be
coming toward this place."
"Indeed!"
"I think so too," said Marchdale.
"With what object?" inquired Sir Francis Varney.
"No peaceable one," observed Henry; "for, as far I can observe, they struck across the
country, as though they would enclose something, or intercept somebody."
"Indeed! but why come here?"
"If I knew that I would have at once told the cause."
"And they appear armed with a variety of odd weapons," observed Sir Francis; "they
mean an attack upon some one. Who is that man with them? he seems to be deprecating
their coming."
"That appears to be Mr. Chillingworth," said Henry; "I think that is he."
"Yes," observed the admiral; "I think I know the build of that craft; he's been in our
society before. I always know a ship as soon as I see it."

"Does you, though?" said Jack.
"Yes; what do you mean, eh? let me hear what you've got to say against your captain and
your admiral, you mutinous dog; you tell me, I say."
"So I will; you thought you were fighting a big ship in a fog, and fired a dozen broadsides
or so, and it was only the Flying Dutchman, or the devil."
"You infernal dog -- "
"Well, you know it was; it might a been our own shadow, for all I can tell. Indeed, I think
it was."
"You think!"
"Yes."
"That's mutiny: I'll have no more to do with you, Jack Pringle; you're no seaman and have
no respect for your officer. Now sheer off, or I'll cut your yards."
"Why, as for my yards, I'll square 'em presently if I like, you old swab; but as for leaving
you, very well; you have said so, and you shall be accommodated, d -- -- e; however, it was
not so when your nob was nearly rove through with a boarding pike it wasn't 'I'll have no
more to do with Jack Pringle' then, it was more t'other."
"Well, then, why be so mutinous?"
"Because you aggrawates me."
The cries of the mob became more distinct as they drew nearer to the party, who began to
evince some uneasiness as to their object.
"Surely," said Marchdale, "Mr. Chillingworth has not named anything respecting the duel
that has taken place."
"No, no."
"But he was to have been here this morning," said the admiral. "I understood he was to be
here in his own character of a surgeon, and yet I have not seen him; have any of you?"
"No," said Henry.
"Then here he comes in the character of a conservator of the public peace," said Varney,
coldly; "however, I believe that his errand will be useless since the affair is, I presume,
concluded."

"Down with the vampyre!"
"Eh!" said the admiral, "eh, what's that, eh? What did they say?"
"If you'll listen they'll tell you soon enough, I'll warrant."
"May be they will, and yet I'd like to know now."
Sir Francis Varney looked significantly at Marchdale, and then waited with downcast
eyes for the repetition of the words.
"Down with the vampyre!" resounded on all sides from the people who came rapidly
towards them, and converging towards a centre. "Burn, destroy, and kill the vampyre! No
vampyre; burn him out; down with him; kill him!"
Then came Mr. Chillingworth's voice, who, with much earnestness, endeavoured to
exhort them to moderation, and to refrain from violence.
Sir Francis Varney became very pale and agitated; he immediately turned, and without
taking the least notice, he made for the wood, which lay between him and his own house,
leaving the people in the greatest agitation.
Mr. Marchdale was not unmoved at this occurrence, but stood his ground with Henry
Bannerworth, the admiral, and Jack Pringle, until the mob came very near to them,
shouting, and uttering cries of vengeance, and death of all imaginable kinds that it was
possible to conceive, against the unpopular vampyre.
Pending the arrival of these infuriated town persons, we will, in a few words, state how it
was that so suddenly a set of circumstances arose productive of an amount of personal
danger to Varney, such as, up to that time, had seemed not at all likely to occur.
We have before stated there was but one person out of the family of the Bannerworths
who was able to say anything of a positive character concerning the singular and
inexplicable proceedings at the Hall; and that that person was Mr. Chillingworth, an
individual not at all likely to become garrulous upon the subject.
But, alas! the best of men have their weaknesses, and we much regret to say that to Mr.
Chillingworth so far in this instance forgot that admirable discretion which commonly
belonged to him, as to be the cause of the popular tumult which had now reached such a
height.
In a moment of thoughtlessness and confidence he told his wife. Yes, this really clever
man, from whom one would not have expected such a piece of horrible indiscretion,
actually told his wife all about the vampyre. But such is human nature; combined at with an
amount of firmness and reasoning power, that one would have thought to be invulnerable
safeguards, we find some weakness which astonishes all calculation.

Such was this of Mr. Chillingworth's. It is true, he cautioned the lady so be secret, and
pointed to her the danger of making Varney the vampyre a theme for gossip; but he might
as well have whispered to a hurricane to be so good is not to go on blowing so, as request
Mrs. Chillingworth to keep a secret.
Of course she burst into the usual declarations of "Who was she to tell? Was she a person
who went about telling things? When did she see anybody? Not she, once in a blue moon;"
and then, when Mr. Chillingworth went out like the King of Otaheite, she invited the
neighbours round about to come to take some tea.
Under solemn promises of secresy, sixteen ladies that evening were made acquainted with
the full and interesting particulars of the attack of the vampyre on Flora Bannerworth, and
all the evidence inculpating Sir Francis Varney as the bloodthirsty individual.
When the mind comes to consider the sixteen ladies multiplied their information by about
four-and-twenty each, we become quite lost in a sea of arithmetic, and feel compelled to
sum up the whole by a candid assumption that in four-and-twenty hours not an individual in
the whole town was ignorant of the circumstances.
On the morning before the projected duel, there was an unusual commotion in the streets.
People were conversing together in little knots, and using rather violent gesticulations. Poor
Mr. Chillingworth! he alone was ignorant of the causes of the popular commotion, and so
he went to bed wondering that an unusual bustle pervaded the little market town, but not at
all guessing its origin.
Somehow or another, however, the populace, who had determined to make a

demonstration on the following morning against the vampyre, thought it highly necessary
first to pay some sort of compliment to Mr. Chillingworth, and, accordingly, at an early
hour, a great mob assembled outside his house, and gave three terrific applauding shouts,
which roused him most unpleasantly from his sleep; and induced the greatest astonishment
at the cause such a tumult.
Oh, that artful Mrs. Chillingworth! too well she knew what was the matter; yet she
pretended to be so oblivious upon the subject.
"Good God!" cried Mr. Chillingworth as he started up in bed, "what's all that?"
"All what?" said his wife.
"All what! Do you mean to say heard nothing?"
"Well, I think I did hear a little sort of something."
"A little sort of something? It shook the house."
"Well, well; never mind; it's no business of ours."

"Yes; but it may be, though. It's all very well to say 'go to sleep.' That happens to be a
thing I can't do. There's something amiss."
"Well, what's that to you?"
"Perhaps nothing; but, perhaps, everything."
Mr. Chillingworth sprang from his bed and began and began dressing, a process which he
executed with considerable rapidity, which was much accelerated by two or three
supplementary shouts from the people below.
Then, in a temporary lull, a loud voice shouted, --
"Down with the vampyre -- down with the vampyre!"
The truth in an instant burst over the mind of Mr. Chillingworth, and, turning to his wife,
he exclaimed, --
"I understand it now. You've been gossiping about Sir Francis Varney, and have caused
all this tumult."
"I gossip! Well, I never! Lay it on me; it is sure to be my fault. I might have known that
beforehand. I always am."
"But you must have spoken of it."
"Who have I got to speak to about it?"
"Did you, or did you not?"
"Who should I tell?"
Mr. Chillingworth was dressed, and he hastened down and entered the street with great
desperation. He had a hope that he might be enabled to disperse the crowd and yet be in
time keep his appointment at the duel.
His appearance was hailed with another shout, for it was considered, of course, that he
had come to join in the attack on Sir Francis Varney. He found assembled a much more
considerable mob than he had imagined, and to his alarm he found many armed with all
sorts of weapons.
"Hurrah!" cried a great lumpy-looking fellow, who seemed half mad with the prospect of
a disturbance. "Hurrah, here's the doctor, he'll tell us all about it while we go along."
"For heaven's sake," said Mr. Chillingworth, "stop! What are you about to do all of you?"

"Burn the vampyre -- burn the vampyre!"
"Hold -- hold! this is folly. Let me implore you all to return to your homes, or you will
get into serious trouble on this subject."
This was a piece of advice not at all likely to be adopted; and when the mob found that
Mr. Chillingworth was not disposed to encourage and countenance it in its violence, it gave
another loud shout of defiance, and moved off through the long straggling streets of the
town in a direction towards Sir Francis Varney's house.
It is true that what were called authorities of the town had become alarmed, and were
stirring, but they found themselves in such a frightful minority, that it became out of the
question for them to interfere with any effect to stop the lawless proceedings of the rioters,
so that the infuriated populace had it all their own way, and in a straggling, disorderly
looking kind of procession they moved off, vowing vengeance as they went against Varney
the vampyre.
Hopeless as Mr. Chillingworth thought it was to interfere with any degree of effect to
stop the lawless proceedings of the mob, he still could not reconcile it to himself to be
absent from a scene which he now felt certain had been produced by his own imprudence,
so he went with the crowd, endeavouring, as he did, by every argument that could be
suggested to him to induce them to abstain from the acts of violence they contemplated. He
had a hope, too, that when they reached Sir Francis Varney's, finding him not within, as
probably would be the case, as by the time he would have started to meet Henry
Bannerworth on the ground, to fight the duel, he might induce the mob to return and forgo
their meditated violence.
And thus was it that, urged on by the multitude of persons, the unhappy surgeon was
expiating, in both mind and person, the serious mistakes he had committed in trusting a
secret to his wife.
Let it not be supposed that we for one moment wish to lay down a general principle as
regards the confiding secrets to ladies, because from the beginning of the world it has
become notorious how well they keep them, and with what admirable discretion, tact, and
forethought this fairest portion of humanity conduct themselves.
We know how few Mrs. Chillingworths there are in the world, and have but to regret that
our friend the doctor should, in his matrimonial adventure, have met with such a specimen.
--

Chapter XL.
THE POPULAR RIOT. -- SIR FRANCIS VARNEY'S DANGER. -- THE

SUGGESTION AND ITS RESULTS.
Such, then, were the circumstances which at once altered the whole aspect of the affairs,
and, from private and domestic causes of very deep annoyance, led to public results of a
character which seemed likely to involve the whole country-side in the greatest possible
confusion.
But while we blame Mr. Chillingworth for being so indiscreet as to communicate the
secret of such a person as Varney the vampyre to his wife, we trust in a short time to be
enabled to show that he made as much reparation as it was possible to make for the
mischief he had unintentionally committed. And now as he struggled onward -- apparently
onward -- first and foremost among the rioters, he was really doing all in his power to quell
that tumult which superstition and dread had raised.
Human nature truly delights in the marvellous, and in proportion as a knowledge of the
natural phenomena of nature is restricted, and unbridled imagination allowed to give the
rein to fathomless conjecture, we shall find an eagerness likewise to believe the marvellous
to be the truth. That dim and uncertain condition concerning vampyres, originating
probably as it had done in Germany, had spread itself slowly, but insidiously, throughout
the whole of the civilized world.
In no country and in no clime is there not something which bears a kind of family
relationship to the veritable vampyre of which Sir Francis Varney appeared to be so choice
a specimen.
The ghoul of eastern nations is but the same being, altered to suit habits and localities;
and the sema of the Scandinavians is but the vampyre of a more primitive race, and a
personification of that morbid imagination which has once fancied the probability of the
dead walking again among the living, with all the frightful insignia of corruption and the
grave about them.
Although not popular in England, still there had been tales told of such midnight visitants,
so that Mrs. Chillingworth, when she had imparted the information which she had obtained,
had already some rough material to work upon in the minds of her auditors, and therefore
there was no great difficulty in very soon establishing the fact.
Under such circumstances, ignorant people always do what they have heard was done by
some one else before them and in an incredibly short space of time the propriety of catching
Sir Francis Varney, depriving him of his vampyre-like existence, and driving a stake
through his body, became not at all a questionable proposition.

Alas, poor Mr. Chillingworth! as well might he have attempted King Canute's task of
stemming the waves of the ocean as that of attempting to stop the crowd from proceeding to
Sir Francis Varney's house.
His very presence was a sort of confirmation of the whole affair. In vain he gesticulated,
in vain he begged and prayed that they would go back, and in vain he declared that full and
ample justice should be done upon the vampyre, provided popular clamour spared him, and
he was left to more deliberate judgment.
Those who were foremost in the throng paid no attention to these remonstrances, while
those who were more distant heard them not, and, for all they knew, he might be urging the
crowd on to violence, instead of deprecating it.
Thus, then, this disorderly rabble now reached the house of Sir Francis Varney and loudly
demanded of his terrified servants where he was to be found.
The knocking at the Hall door was prodigious, and, with a laudable desire, doubtless, of
saving time, the moment one was done amusing himself with the ponderous knocker,
another seized it; so that until the door was flung open by some of the bewildered and
terrified men, there was no cessation whatever of the furious demand for admittance.
"Varney the vampyre -- Varney the vampyre!" cried a hundred voices. "Death to the
vampyre! Where is he? Bring him out. Varney the vampyre!"
The servants were too terrified to speak for some moments, as they saw such a
tumultuous assemblage seeking their master, while so singular a name was applied to him.
At length, one more bold than the rest contrived to stammer out, --
"My good people, Sir Francis Varney is not at home. He took an early breakfast, and has
been out nearly an hour."
The mob paused a moment in indecision, and then one of the foremost cried, --
"Who'd suppose they'd own he was at home! He's hiding somewhere of course; let's pull
him out."
"Ah, pull him out! -- pull him out!" cried many voices. A rush was made into the house,
and in a very few minutes its chambers were ransacked, and all its hidden places carefully
searched, with the hope of discovering the hidden form of Sir Francis Varney.
The servants felt that, with their inefficient strength, to oppose the proceedings of an
assemblage which seemed to be unchecked by all sort of law or reason would be madness;
they therefore only looked on, with wonder and dismay, satisfied certainly in their own
minds that Sir Francis would not be found, and indulging in much conjecture as to what
would be the result of such violent and unexpected proceedings.

Mr. Chillingworth hoped that time was gained, and that some sort of indication of what
was going on would reach the unhappy object of popular detestation sufficiently early to
enable him to provide for his own safety.
He knew he was breaking his own engagement to be present at the duel between Henry
Bannerworth and Sir Francis Varney, and, as that thought recurred to him, he dreaded that
his professional services might be required on one side or the other; for he knew, or fancied
he knew, that mutual hatred dictated the contest; and he thought that if ever a duel had
taken place which was likely to be attended with some disastrous result, that was surely the
one.
But how could he leave, watched and surrounded as he was by an infuriated multitude --
how could he hope but that his footsteps would be dogged, or that the slightest attempt of
his to convey a warning to Sir Francis Varney, would not be the means of bringing down
upon his head the very danger he sought to shield him from.
In this state of uncertainty, then, did our medical man remain, a prey to the bitterest
reflections, and full of the direst apprehensions, without having the slightest power of
himself to alter so disastrous a train of circumstances.
Dissatisfied with their non-success, the crowd twice searched the house of Sir Francis
Varney, from the attics to the basement; and then, and not till then, did they begin
reluctantly to believe that the servants must have spoken the truth.
"He's in the town somewhere," cried one. "Let's go back to the town."
It is strange how suddenly any mob will obey any impulse, and this perfectly groundless
supposition was sufficient to turn their steps back again in the direction whence they came,
and they had actually, in a straggling sort of column, reached half way towards the town,
when they encountered a boy, whose professional pursuit consisted in tending sheep very
early of a morning, and who at once informed them that he had seen Sir Francis Varney in
the wood, half way between Bannerworth Hall and his own home.
This event at once turned the whole tide again, and with renewed clamours, carrying Mr.
Chillingworth along with them, they now rapidly neared the real spot, where, probably, had
they turned a little earlier, they would have viewed the object of their suspicion and hatred.
But, as we have already recorded, the advancing throng was seen by the parties on the
ground where the duel could scarcely have been said to have been fought; and then had Sir
Francis Varney dashed into the wood, which was so opportunely at hand to afford him a
shelter from his enemies, and from the intricacies of which -- well acquainted with them as
he doubtless was, -- he had every chance of eluding their pursuit.
The whole affair was a great surprise to Henry end his friends, when they saw such a
string of people advancing, with such shouts and imprecations; they could not, for the life
of them, imagine what could have excited such a turn out among the ordinarily industrious

and quiet inhabitants of a town, remarkable rather for the quietude and steadiness of its
population than for any violent outbreaks of popular feeling.
"What can Mr. Chillingworth be about," said Henry, "to bring such a mob here? has he
taken leave of his senses?"
"Nay," said Marchdale; "look again; he seems to be trying to keep them back, although
ineffectually, for they will not be stayed."
"D -- -e," said the admiral, "here's a gang of pirates; we shall be boarded and carried
before we know where we are, Jack."
"Ay ay, sir," said Jack.
"And is that all you've got to say, you lubber, when you see your admiral in danger?
You'd better go and make terms with the enemy at once."
"Really, this is serious," said Henry; "they shout for Varney. Can Mr. Chillingworth have
been so mad as to adopt this means of stopping the duel?"
"Impossible," said Marchdale; "if that had been his intention, he could have done so
quietly, through the medium of the civil authorities."
"Hang me!" exclaimed the admiral, "if there are any civil authorities; they talk of
smashing somebody. What do they say, Jack? I don't hear quite so well as I used."
"You always was a little deaf," said Jack.
"What?"
"A little deaf, I say."
"Why, you lubberly lying swab, how dare you say so?"
"Because you was."
"You slave-going scoundrel!"
"For Heaven's sake, do not quarrel at such a time as this!" said Henry; "we shall be
surrounded in a moment. Come, Mr. Marchdale, let you and I visit these people and
ascertain what it is that has so much excited their indignation."
"Agreed," said Marchdale; and they both stepped forward at a rapid pace, to meet the
advancing throng.

The crowd which had now approached to within a short distance of the expectant little
party, was of a most motley description, and its appearance, under many circumstances,
would cause considerable risibility. Men and women were mixed indiscriminately together,
and in the shouting, the latter, if such a thing were possible, exceeded the former, both in
discordance and energy.
Every individual composing that mob carried some weapon calculated for defence, such
as flails, scythes, sickles, bludgeons, &., and this mode of arming caused them to wear a
most formidable appearance; while the passion that superstition had called up was strongly
depicted in their inflamed features. Their fury, too, had been excited by their
disappointment, and it was with concentrated rage that they now pressed onward.
The calm and steady advance of Henry and Mr. Marchdale to meet the advancing throng,
seemed to have the effect of retarding their progress a little, and they came to a parley at a
hedge, which separated them from the meadow in which the duel had been fought.
"You seem to be advancing towards us," said Henry. "Do you seek me or any of my
friends; and if so, upon what errand? Mr. Chillingworth, for Heaven's sake, explain what is
the cause of all this tumult. You seem to be at the head of it."
"Seem to be," said Mr. Chillingworth, "without being so. You are not sought, nor any of
your friends?"
"Who, then?"
"Sir Francis Varney," was the immediate reply.
"Indeed! and what has he done to incite popular indignation? of private wrong I can
accuse him; but I desire no crowd to take up my cause or to avenge my quarrels."
"Mr. Bannerworth, it has become known, through my indiscretion, that Sir Francis
Varney is suspected of being a vampyre."
"Is this so?"
"Hurrah!" shouted the mob. "Down with the vampyre! hurrah! where is he? Down with
him!"
"Drive a stake through him," said a woman; "it's the only way, and the humanestest.
You've only to take a hedge stake, and sharpen it a bit at one end, and char it a little in the
fire so as there mayt'n't be no splinters to hurt, and then poke it through his stomach."
The mob gave a great shout at this humane piece of advice, and it was some time before
Henry could make himself heard at all, even to those who were nearest to him. When he did
succeed in so doing, he cried, with a loud voice, --

"Hear me, all of you. It is quite needless for me to inquire how you became possessed of
the information that a dreadful suspicion hangs over the person of Sir Francis Varney; but
if, in consequence of hearing such news, you fancy this public demonstration will be
agreeable to me, or likely to relieve those who are nearest or dearest to me from the state of
misery and apprehension into which they have fallen you are much mistaken."
"Hear him, hear him!" cried Mr. Marchdale; "he speaks both wisdom and truth."
"If anything," pursued Henry, "could add to the annoyance of vexation and misery we
have suffered, it would assuredly be the being made subjects of every-day clamour."
"You hear him?" said Mr. Marchdale.
"Yes, we does," said a man; "but we comes out to catch a vampyre, for all that."
"Oh, to be sure," said the humane woman; "nobody's feelings is nothing to us. Are we to
be woke up in the night with vampyres sucking bloods while we've got a stake in the
country?"
"Hurrah!" shouted everybody. "Down with the vampyre! Where is he?"
"You are wrong. I assure you you are all wrong," said Mr. Chillingworth, imploringly;
"there is no vampyre here, you see. Sir Francis Varney has, not only escaped, but he will
take the law of all of you."
This was an argument which appeared to stagger a few, but the bolder spirits pushed them
on, and a suggestion to search the wood having been made by some one who was more
cunning than his neighbours, that measure was at once proceeded with, and executed in a
systematic manner, which made those who knew it to be the hiding place of Sir Francis
Varney tremble for his safety.
It was with a strange mixture of feeling that Henry Bannerworth waited the result of the
search for the man who, but a few minutes before had been opposed to him in a contest of
life or death.
The destruction of Sir Francis Varney would certainly have been an effectual means of
preventing him from continuing to be the incubus he then was upon the Bannerworth
family; and yet the generous nature of Henry shrank with horror from seeing even such a
creature as Varney sacrificed at the shrine of popular resentment, and murdered by an
infuriated populace.
He felt as great an interest in the escape of the vampyre as if some great advantage to
himself had been contingent upon such an event; and, although he spoke not a word, while
the echoes of the little wood were all awakened by the clamorous manner in which the mob
searched for their victim, his feelings could be well read upon his countenance.

The admiral, too, without possessing probably the fine feelings of Henry Bannerworth,
took an unusually sympathetic interest in the fate of the vampyre; and, after placing himself
in various attitudes of intense excitement, he exclaimed, --
"D -- n it, Jack, I do hope, after all, the vampyre will get the better of them. It's like a
whole flotilla attacking one vessel -- a lubberly proceeding at the best, and I'll be hanged if
I like it. I should like to pour in a broadside into those fellows, just to let them see it wasn't
a proper English mode of fighting. Shouldn't you, Jack?"
"Ay, ay, sir, I should."
"Shiver me, if I see an opportunity, if I don't let some of those rascals know what's what."
Scarcely had these words escaped the lips of the old admiral than there arose a loud shout
from the interior of the wood. It was a shout of success, and seemed at the very least to
herald the capture of the unfortunate Varney.
"By heaven!" exclaimed Henry, "they have him."
"God forbid!" said Mr. Marchdale; "this grows too serious."
"Bear a hand, Jack," said the admiral; "we'll have a fight for it yet; they sha'n't murder
even a vampyre in cold blood. Load the pistols; and send a flying shot or two among the
rascals, the moment they appear."
"No, no," said Henry; "no more violence, there has been enough -- there has been
enough."
Even as he spoke there came rushing from among the trees, at the corner of the wood, the
figure of a man. They needed but one glance to assure them who it was. Sir Francis Varney
had been seen and was flying before those implacable foes who had sought his life.
He had divested himself of his huge cloak, as well as of his low slouched hat, and, with a
speed which nothing but the most absolute desperation could have enabled him to exert, he
rushed onward, beating down before him every obstacle, and bounding over the meadows
at a rate that, if he could have continued it for any length of time, would have set pursuit at
defiance.
"Bravo!" shouted the admiral, "a stern chase is a long chase, and I wish them joy of it -- d
-- -e, Jack, did you ever see anybody get along like that?"
"Ay, ay, sir."
"You never did, you scoundrel."
"Yes, I did."

"When and where?"
"When you ran away off the sound."
The admiral turned nearly blue with anger, but Jack looked perfectly imperturbable, as he
added, --
"You know you ran away after the French frigates who wouldn't stay to fight you."
"Ah! that indeed. There he goes, putting on every stitch of canvas, I'll be bound."
"And there they come," said Jack, as he pointed to the corner of the wood, and some of
the more active of the vampyre's pursuers showed themselves. It would appear as if the
vampyre had been started from some hiding-place in the interior of the wood, and had then
thought it expedient altogether to leave that retreat and make his way to some more secure
one across the open country, where there would be more obstacles to his discovery than
perseverance could overcome. Probably, then, among the brushwood and trees, for a few
moments he had been again lost sight of, until those who were closest upon his track had
emerged from among the dense foliage, and saw him scouring across the country at such
headlong speed. These were but few, and in their extreme anxiety themselves to capture
Varney, whose precipate and terrified flight brought a firm conviction to their minds of his
being a vampyre, they did not stop to get much of a reinforcement, but plunged on like
greyhounds in his track.
"Jack," said the admiral, "this won't do. Look at that great lubberly fellow with the queer
smock-frock."
"Never saw such a figure-head in my life," said Jack.
"Stop him."
"Ay, ay, sir."
The man was coming on at a prodigious rate, and Jack, with all the deliberation in the
world, advanced to meet him; and when they got sufficiently close together, that in a few
moments they must encounter each other, Jack made himself into as small a bundle as
possible, and presented his shoulder to the advancing countryman in such a way, that he
flew off it at a tangent, as if he had ran against a brick wall, and after rolling head over
heels for some distance, safely deposited himself in a ditch, where he disappeared
completely for a few moments from all human observation.
"Don't say I hit you," said Jack. "Curse yer, what did yer run against me for? Sarves you
right. Lubbers as don't know how to steer, in course runs agin things."
"Bravo," said the admiral; "there's another of them."

The pursuers of Varney the vampyre, however, now came too thick and fast to be so
easily disposed of, and as soon as his figure could be seen coursing over the meadows, and
springing over road and ditch with an agility almost frightful to look upon, the whole rabble
rout was in pursuit of him.
By this time, the man who had fallen into the ditch had succeeded in making his
appearance in the visible world again, and as he crawled up the bank, looking a thing of
mire and mud, Jack walked up to him with all the carelessness in the world, and said to
him, --
"Any luck, old chap?"
"Oh, murder!" said the man, "what do you mean? who are you? where am I? what's the
matter? Old Muster Fowler, the fat crowner, will set upon me now."
"Have you caught anything?" said Jack.
"Caught anything? "
"Yes; you've been in for eels, haven't you?"
"D -- n!"
"Well, it is odd to me, as some people can't go a fishing without getting out of temper.
Have it your own way; I won't interfere with you;" and away Jack walked.
The man cleared the mud out of his eyes, as well as he could, and looked after him with a
powerful suspicion that in Jack he saw the very cause of his mortal mishap; but, somehow
or other, his immersion in the not over limpid stream had wonderfully cooled his courage,
and casting one despairing look upon his begrimed apparel, and another at the last of the
stragglers who were pursuing Sir Francis Varney across the fields, he thought it prudent to
get home as fast he could, and get rid of the disagreeable results of an adventure which had
turned out for him anything but auspicious, or pleasant.
Mr. Chillingworth, as though by a sort of impulse to be present in case Sir Francis Varney
should really be run down, and with a hope of saving him from personal violence, had
followed the foremost of the rioters in the wood, found it now quite impossible for him to
carry on such a chase as that which was being undertaken across the fields after Sir Francis
Varney.
His person was unfortunately but ill qualified for the continuance of such a pursuit, and,
although with the greatest reluctance, he at last felt himself compelled to give it up.
In making his way through the intricacies of the wood, he had been seriously
incommoded by the thick undergrowth, and he had accidentally encountered several miry
pools, with which he had involuntarily made a closer acquaintance than was at all

conducive either to his personal appearance or comfort. The doctor's temper, though,
generally speaking, one of the most even, was at last affected by his mishaps, and he could
not refrain from an execration upon his want of prudence in letting his wife have a
knowledge of a secret that was not his own and the producing an unlooked-for
circumstance, the termination of which might be of a most disastrous nature.
Tired, therefore, and nearly exhausted by the exertions he had already taken, he emerged
now along from the wood, and near the spot where stood Henry Bannerworth and his
friends in consultation.
The jaded look of the surgeon was quite sufficient indication of the trouble and turmoil he
had gone through, and some expressions of sympathy for his condition were dropped by
Henry, to whom he replied, --
"My young friend, I deserve it all. I have nothing but my own indiscretion to thank for all
the turmoil and tumult that has arisen this morning."
"But to what possible cause can we attribute such an outrage?"
"Reproach me as much as you will. I deserve it. A man may prate of his own secrets if he
like, but he should be careful of those of other people. I trusted yours to another, and am
properly punished."
"Enough," said Henry; "we'll say no more of that, Mr. Chillingworth. What is done
cannot be undone, and we had better spend our time in reflection of how to make the best
of what is, than in useless lamentation over its causes. What is to be done?"
"Nay, I know not. Have you fought the duel?"
"Yes; and, as you perceive, harmlessly."
"Thank Heaven for that."
"Nay, I had my fire, which Sir Francis Varney refused to return; so the affair had just
ended, when the sound of approaching tumult came upon our ears."
"What a strange mixture," exclaimed Marchdale, "of feelings and passions this Varney
appears to be. At one moment acting with the apparent greatest malignity; and another,
seeming to have awakened in his mind a romantic generosity which knows no bounds. I
cannot understand him."
"Nor I, indeed," said Henry; "but somehow tremble for his fate, and I seem to feel that
something ought to be done to save him from the fearful consequences of popular feeling.
Let us hasten to the town, and procure what assistance we may: but a few persons, well
organised and properly armed, will achieve wonders against a desultory and ill-appointed

multitude. There may be a chance of saving him yet, from the imminent danger which
surrounds him."
"That's proper," cried the admiral. "I don't like to see anybody run down. A fair fight's
another thing. Yard arm and yard arm -- stink pots and pipkins -- broadside to broadside --
and throw in your bodies, if you like, on the lee quarter; but don't do anything shabby.
What do you think of it, Jack?"
"Why, I means to say as how if Varney only keeps on sail as he's been doing, that the
devil himself wouldn't catch him in a gale."
"And yet," said Henry, "it is our duty to do the best we can. Let us at once to the town,
and summons all the assistance in our power. Come on -- come on!"
His friends needed no further urging, but, at a brisk pace, they all proceeded by the
nearest footpaths towards the town.
It puzzled his pursuers to think in what possible direction Sir Francis Varney expected to
find sustenance or succour, when they saw how curiously he took his flight across the
meadows. Instead of endeavouring, by any circuitous path, to seek the shelter of his own
house, or to throw himself upon the care of the authorities of the town, who must, to the
extent of their power, have protected him, he struck across the welds, apparently without
aim or purpose, seemingly intent upon nothing but to distance his pursuers in a long chase,
which might possibly tire them, or it might not, according to their or his powers of
endurance.
We say this seemed to be the case, but it was not so in reality. Sir Francis Varney had a
deeper purpose, and it was scarcely to be supposed that a man of his subtle genius, and,
apparently, far-seeing and reflecting intellect, could have so far overlooked the many
dangers of his position not to be fully prepared for some such contingency as that which
had just now occurred.
Holding, as he did, so strange a place in society -- living among men, and yet possessing
so few attributes in common with humanity -- he must all along have felt the possibility of
drawing upon himself popular violence.
He could not wholly rely upon the secrecy of the Bannerworth family, much as they
might well be supposed to shrink from giving publicity to circumstance of so fearfully
strange and perilous a nature as those which had occurred amongst them. The merest
accident might, at any moment, make him the town's talk. The overhearing of a few chance
words by some gossiping domestic -- some ebullition of anger or annoyance by some
member of the family -- or a communication from some friend who had been treated with
confidence -- might, at any time, awaken around him such a storm as that which now raged
at his heels.

Varney the vampyre must have calculated this. He must have felt the possibility of such a
state of things; and, as a matter of course, politicly provided himself with some place of
refuge.
After about twenty minutes of hard chasing across the fields, there could be no doubt of
his intentions. He had such a place of refuge; and, strange a one as it might appear, he sped
towards it in as direct a line as ever a well-sped arrow flew towards its mark.
That place of refuge, to the surprise of every one, appeared to be the ancient ruin, of
which we have before spoken, and which was so well known to every inhabitant of the
county.
Truly, it seemed like some act of mere desperation for Sir Francis Varney to hope there to
hide himself. There remained within, of what had once been a stately pile, but a few grey
crumbling walls, which the hunted hare would have passed unheeded, knowing that not for
one instant could he have baffled his pursuers by seeking so inefficient a refuge.
And those who followed hard and fast upon the track of Sir Francis Varney felt so sure of
their game when they saw whither he was speeding that they relaxed in their haste
considerably, calling loudly to each other that the vampyre was caught at last, for he could
be easily surrounded among the old ruins, and dragged from amongst its moss grown walls.
In another moment, with a wild dash and cry of exultation, he sprang out of sight, behind
an angle, formed by what had been, at one time, one of the principal supports of the ancient
structure.
Then, as if there was still something so dangerous about him, that only by a great number
of hands could he be hoped to be secured, the infuriated peasantry gathered in a dense
circle around what they considered his temporary place of refuge, and as the sun, which had
now climbed above the tree tops, and dispersed, in a great measure, many of the heavy
clouds of morning, shone down upon the excited group, they might have been supposed
there assembled to perform some superstitious rite, which time had hallowed as an
association of the crumbling ruin around which they stood.
By the time the whole of the stragglers, who had persisted in the chase, had come up,
there might have been about fifty or sixty resolute men, each intent upon securing the
person of one whom they felt, while in existence, would continue to be a terror to all the
weaker and dearer portions of their domestic circles.
There was a pause of several minutes. Those who had come the fleetest were gathering
breath, and those who had come up last were looking to their more forward companions for
some information as to what had occurred before their arrival.
All was profoundly still within the ruin, and then suddenly, as if by common consent,
there arose from every throat a loud shout of "Down with the vampyre! down with the
vampyre! "

The echoes of that shout died away, and then all was still as before, while a superstitious
feeling crept over even the boldest. It would almost seem as if they had expected some kind
of response from Sir Francis Varney to the shout of defiance with which they had just
greeted him; but the very calmness, repose, and absolute quiet of the ruin, and all about it,
alarmed them, and they looked the one at the other as if the adventure after all were not one
of the pleasantest description, and might not fall out so happily as they had expected.
Yet what danger could there be? there were they, more than half the hundred stout, strong
men, to cope with one; they felt convinced that he was completely in their power; they
knew the ruins could not hide him, and that five minutes time given to the task, would
suffice to explore every nook and corner of them.
And yet they hesitated, while an unknown terror shook their nerves, and seemingly from
the very fact that they had run down their game successfully, they dreaded to secure the
trophy of the chase.
One bold spirit was wanting; and, if it was not a bold one that spoke at length, he might
be complimented as being comparatively such. It was one who had not been foremost in the
chase, perchance from want of physical power, who now stood forward, and exclaimed, --
"What are you waiting for, now? You can have him when you like. If you want your
wives and children to sleep quietly in their beds, you will secure the vampyre. Come on --
we all know he's here -- why do you hesitate! Do you expect me to go alone and draw him
out by the ears?"
Any voice would have sufficed to break the spell which bound them. This did so; and,
with one accord, and yells of imprecations, they rushed forward and plunged among the old
walls of the ruin.
Less time than we have before remarked would have enabled any one to explore the
tottering fabric sufficient to bring a conviction to their minds that, after all, there might
have been some mistake about the matter, and Sir Francis Varney was not quite caught yet.
It was astonishing how the fact of not finding him in a moment, again roused all their
angry feelings against him, and dispelled every feeling of superstitious awe with which he
had been surrounded; rage gave place to the sort of shuddering horror with which they had
before contemplated his immediate destruction, when they had believed him to be virtually
within their very grasp.
Over and over again the ruins were searched -- hastily and impatiently by some, carefully
and deliberately by others, until there could be no doubt upon the mind of every one
individual, that somehow or somewhere within the shadow of those walls, Sir Francis
Varney had disappeared most mysteriously.
Then it would have been a strange sight for any indifferent spectator to have seen how
they shrunk, one by one, out of the shadow of those ruins; each seeming to be afraid that

the vampyre, in some mysterious manner, would catch him if he happened to be the last
within their sombre influence; and, when they had all collected in the bright, open space,
some little distance beyond, they looked at each other and at the ruin, with dubious
expressions of countenance, each, no doubt, wishing that each would suggest something of
a consolatory or practicable character.
"What's to be done, now?" said one.
"Ah! that's it," said another, sententiously. "I'll be hanged if I know."
"He's given as the slip," remarked a third.
"But he can't have given us the slip," said one man, who was particularly famous for a
dogmatical spirit of argumentation; "how is it possible? he must be here, and I say he is
here."
"Find him, then," cried several at once.
"Oh! that's nothing to do with the argument; he's here, whether we find him or not."
One very cunning fellow laid his finger on his nose, and beckoned to a comrade to retire
some paces, where he delivered himself of the following very oracular sentiment: --
"My good friend, you must know Sir Francis Varney is here or he isn't."
"Agreed, agreed."
"Well, if he isn't here it's no use troubling our heads any more about him; but, otherwise,
it's quite another thing, and, upon the whole, I must say, that I rather think he is."
All looked at him, for it was evident he was big with some suggestion. After a pause, he
resumed, --
"Now, my good friends, I propose that we all appear to give it up, and to go away; but
that some one of us shall remain and hide among the ruins for some time, to watch, in case
the vampyre makes his appearance from some hole or corner that we haven't found out."
"Oh, capital!" said everybody.
"Then you all agree to that?"
"Yes, yes."
"Very good; that's the only way to nick him. Now, we'll pretend to give it up; let's all of
us talk loud about going home."

They did all talk loud about going home; they swore that it was not worth the trouble of
catching him, that they gave it up as a bad job; that he might go to the deuce in any way he
liked, for all they cared; and then they all walked off in a body, when, the man who had
made the suggestion, suddenly cried, --
"Hilloa! hilloa! -- stop! stop! you know one of us is to wait?"
"Oh, ay; yes, yes, yes!" said everybody, and still they moved on.
"But really you know, what's the use of this? who's to wait?"
That was, indeed, a knotty question which induced a serious consultation, and ending in
their all, with one accord, pitching upon the author of the suggestion, as by far the best
person to hide in the ruins and catch the vampyre.
They then all set off at full speed; but the cunning fellow, who certainly had not the
slightest idea of so practically carrying out his own suggestion, scampered off after them
with a speed that soon brought him in the midst of the throng again, and so with fear in
their looks, and all the evidences of fatigue about them, they reached the town to spread
fresh and more exaggerated accounts of the mysterious conduct of Varney the vampyre.
--
[There is no chapter 41 to Varney, the Vampyre; or, The Feast of Blood, thought to have
been written by James Malcolm Rymer and published by E. Lloyd, Salisbury Square. The
last actual chapter was Chapter 40: The Popular Riot. -- Sir Francis Varney's Danger. -- The
Suggestion and Its Results. The next will be Chapter 44: Varney's Danger, and His Rescue.
-- The Prisoner Again, and the Subterranean Vault.]
--
--

Chapter XLIV.
VARNEY'S DANGER, AND HIS RESCUE. -- THE PRISONER AGAIN, AND THE
SUBTERRANEAN VAULT.
We have before slightly mentioned to the reader, and not unadvisedly, the existence of a
certain prisoner, confined in a gloomy dungeon, into whose sad and blackened recesses but
few and faint glimmering rays of light ever penetrated; for, by a diabolical ingenuity, the
narrow loophole which served for a window to that subterraneous abode was so
constructed, that, let the sun be at what point it might, during its diurnal course, but a few
reflected beams of light could ever find their way into that abode of sorrow.
The prisoner -- the same prisoner of whom we before spoke -- is there. Despair is in his
looks, and his temples are still bound with those cloths, which seemed now for many days
to have been sopped in blood, which has become encrusted in their folds.
He still lives, apparently incapable of movement. How he has lived so long seems to be a
mystery, for one would think him scarcely in a state, even were nourishment placed to his
lips, to enable him to swallow it.
It may be, however, that the mind has as much to do with that apparent absolute
prostration of all sort of physical energy as those bodily wounds which he has received at
the hands of the enemies who have reduced him to his present painful and hopeless
situation.
Occasionally a low groan burst from his lips; it seems to come from the very bottom of
his heart, and it sounds as if it would carry with it every remnant of vitality that was yet
remaining to him.
Then he moves restlessly, and repeats in hurried accents the names of some who are dear
to him, and far away -- some who may, perchance, be mourning him, but who know not,
guess not, aught of his present sufferings.
As he thus moves, the rustle of a chain among the straw on which he lies gives an
indication, that even in that dungeon it has not been considered prudent to leave him master
of his own actions, lest, by too vigorous an effort, he might escape from the thraldom in
which he is held.
The sound reaches his own ears, and for a few moments, in the deep impatience of his
wounded spirit, he heaps malediction on the heads of those who have reduced him to his
present state.

But soon a better nature seems to come over him, and gentler words fall from his lips. He
preaches patience to himself -- he talks not of revenge, but of justice, and in accents of
more hopefulness than he had before spoken, he calls upon Heaven to succour him in his
deep distress.
Then all is still, and the prisoner appears to have resigned himself once more to the
calmness of expectation or of despair; but hark! his sense of hearing, rendered doubly acute
by lying so long alone in nearly darkness, and in positive silence, detects sounds which, to
ordinary mortal powers of perception, would have been by far too indistinct to produce any
tangible effect upon the senses.
It is the sound of feet -- on, on they come; far overhead he hears them; they beat the green
earth -- that sweet, verdant sod, which he may never see again -- with an impatient tread.
Nearer and nearer still; and now they pause; he listens with all the intensity of one who
listens for existence; some one comes; there is a lumbering noise -- a hasty footstep; he
hears some one labouring for breath -- panting like a hunted hare; his door is opened, and
there totters in a man, tall and gaunt; he reels like one intoxicated; fatigue has done more
than the work of inebriation; he cannot save himself and he sinks exhausted by the side of
that lonely prisoner.
The captive raises himself as far as his chains will allow him; he clutches the throat of his
enervated visitor.
"Villain, monster, vampyre!" he shrieks, "I have thee now;" and locked in a deadly
embrace, they roll upon the damp earth, struggling for life together. *****
It is mid-day at Bannerworth Hall, and Flora is looking from the casement anxiously
expecting the arrival of her brothers. She had seen, from some of the topmost windows of
the Hall, that the whole neighbourhood had been in a state of commotion, but little did she
guess the cause of so much tumult or that it in any way concerned her.
She had seen the peasantry forsaking their work in the fields and the gardens, and
apparently intent upon some object of absorbing interest; but she feared to leave the house,
for she had promised Henry that she would not do so, lest the former pacific conduct of the
vampyre should have been but a new snare, for the purpose of drawing her so far from her
home as to lead her into some danger when she should be far from assistance. And yet more
than once was she tempted to forget her promise, and to seek the open country, for fear that
those she loved should be encountering some danger for her sake, which she would
willingly either share with them or spare them.
The solicitation, however, of her brother kept her comparatively quiet; and, moreover,
since her last interview with Varney, in which, at all events, he had shown some feeling for
the melancholy situation to which he had reduced her, she had been more able to reason
calmly, and to meet the suggestions of passion and of impulse with a sober judgment.
About midday, then, she saw the domestic party returning -- that party, which now
consisted of her two brothers, the admiral, Jack Pringle, and Mr. Chillingworth. As for Mr.

Marchdale, he had given them a polite adieu on the confines of the grounds of Bannerworth
Hall, stating, that although he had felt it to be his duty to come forward and second Henry
Bannerworth in the duel with the vampyre, yet that circumstance by no means obliterated
from his memory the insults he had received from Admiral Bell, and, therefore, he declined
going to Bannerworth Hall, and bade them a very good morning.
To all this, Admiral Bell replied that he might go and be d -- -- d, if he liked, and that he
considered him a swab and a humbug, and appealed to Jack Pringle whether he, Jack, ever
saw such a sanctified looking prig in his life.
"Ay, ay," says Jack.
This answer, of course, produced the usual contention, which lasted them until they got
fairly in the house, where they swore at each other to an extent that was enough to make
any one's hair stand on end, until Henry and Mr. Chillingworth interfered, and really
begged that they would postpone the discussion until some more fitting opportunity.
The whole of the circumstances were then related to Flora; who, while she blamed her
brother much for fighting the duel with the vampyre, found in the conduct of that
mysterious individual, as regarded the encounter, yet another reason for believing him to be
strictly sincere in his desire to save her from the consequences of his future visits.
Her desire to leave Bannerworth Hall consequently became more and more intense, and
as the admiral really now considered himself the master of the house, they offered no
amount of opposition to the subject, but merely said, --
"My dear Flora, Admiral Bell shall decide all these matters, now. We know that he is our
sincere friend; and that whatever he says we ought to do, will be dictated by the best
possible feelings towards us."
"Then I appeal to you, sir," said Flora, turning to the admiral.
"Very good," replied the old man; "then I say -- "
"Nay, admiral," interrupted Mr. Chillingworth; "you promised me, but a short time since,
that you would come to no decision whatever upon this question, until you had heard some
particulars which I have to relate to you, which, in my humble opinion, will sway your
judgment."
"And so I did," cried the admiral; "but I had forgotten all about it. Flora, my dear, I'll be
with you in an hour or two. My friend, the doctor, here, has got some sow by the ear, and
fancies it's the right one; however, I'll hear what he has got to say, first, before we come to
a conclusion. So, come along, Mr. Chillingworth and let's have it out at once."
"Flora," said Henry, when the admiral had left the room, "I can see that you wish to leave
the Hall."

"I do, brother; but not to go far -- I wish rather to hide from Varney than to make myself
inaccessible by distance."
"You still cling to this neighbourhood?"
"I do, I do; and you know with what hope I cling to it."
"Perfectly; you still think it possible that Charles Holland may be united to you."
"I do, I do."
"You believe his faith."
"Oh, yes; as I believe in Heaven's mercy."
"And I, Flora; I would not doubt him now for worlds; something even now seems to
whisper to me that a brighter sun of happiness will yet dawn upon us, and that, when the
mists which at present enshroud ourselves and our fortunes pass away, they will disclose a
landscape full of beauty, the future of which shall know no pangs."
"Yes, brother," exclaimed Flora, enthusiastically; "this, after all may be but some trial,
grievous while it lasts, but yet tending eventually only to make the future look more bright
and beautiful. Heaven may yet have in store for us all some great happiness, which shall
spring clearly and decidedly from out these misfortunes."
"Be it so, and may we ever thus banish despair by such hopeful propositions. Lean on my
arm, Flora; you are safe with me. Come, dearest, and taste the sweetness of the morning
air."
There was, indeed now, a hopefulness about the manner in which Henry Bannerworth
spoke, such as Flora had not for some weary months had the pleasure of listening to, and
she eagerly rose to accompany him into the garden, which was glowing with all the beauty
of sunshine, for the day had turned out to be much finer than the early morning had at all
promised it would be.
"Flora," he said, when they had taken some turns to and fro in the garden, "not
withstanding all that has happened, there is no convincing Mr. Chillingworth that Sir
Francis Varney is really what to us he appears."
"Indeed!"
"It is so. In the face of all evidence, he neither will believe in vampyres at all, nor that
Varney is anything but some mortal man, like ourselves, in his thoughts, talents, feelings,
and modes of life; and with no more power to do any one an injury than we have."
"Oh, would that I could think so!"

"And I; but, unhappily, we have by far too many and too conclusive evidences to the
contrary."
"We have, indeed, brother."
"And though, while we respect the strength of mind in our friend which not allow him,
even almost at the last extremity, to yield to what appear to be stern facts, we may not
ourselves be so obdurate but may feel that we know enough to be convinced."
"You have no doubt, brother?"
"Most reluctantly, I must confess, that I feel compelled to consider Varney as something
more than mortal."
"He must be so."
"And now, sister, before we leave the place which has been a home to us from earliest
life, let us for a few moments consider if there be any possible excuse for the notion of Mr.
Chillingworth, to the effect that Sir Francis Varney wants possession of the house for some
purpose more inimical to our peace and prosperity than any he has yet attempted."
"Has he such an opinion?"
"He has."
"'Tis very strange."
"Yes, Flora; he seems to gather from all the circumstances, nothing but an overwhelming
desire on the part of Sir Francis Varney to become the tenant of Bannerworth Hall."
"He certainly wishes to possess it."
"Yes; but can you, sister, in the exercise of any possible, amount of fancy, imagine any
motive for such an anxiety beyond what he alleges ?"
"Which in merely that he is fond of old houses."
"Precisely so. That is the reason, and the only one that can be got from him. Heaven only
knows if it is the true one."
"It may be brother."
"As you say, it may; but there is a doubt, nevertheless, Flora. I much rejoice that you have
had an interview with this mysterious being, for you have certainly, since that time, been
happier and more composed than I ever hoped to see you again."

"I have indeed."
"It is sufficiently perceivable."
"Somehow, brother, since that interview, I have not had the same sort of dread of Sir
Francis Varney which before made the very sound of his name a note of terror to me. His
words, and all he said to me during that interview which took place so strangely between
us, indeed I know not, tended altogether rather to make him, to a certain extent, an object of
my sympathies rather than my abhorrence."
"That is very strange."
"I own that it is strange, Henry; but when we come for but a brief moment to reflect upon
the circumstances which have occurred, we shall, I think, be able to find cause even to pity
Varney the vampyre."
"How?"
"Thus, brother. It is said -- and well may I who have been subject to an attack of such a
nature tremble to repeat the saying -- that those who have been once subject to the
visitations of a vampyre, are themselves in a way to become one of the dreadful and
maddening fraternity."
"I have heard so much, sister," replied Henry.
"Yes; and therefore who knows but that Sir Francis Varney may, at one time, have been
as innocent as we are ourselves of the terrible and fiendish propensity which now makes
him a terror and a reproach to all who know him, or are in any way obnoxious to his
attacks."
"That is true."
"There may have been a time -- who shall say there was not -- when he, like me, would
have shrunk with a dread as great as any one could have experienced, from the
contamination of the touch even of a vampyre."
"I cannot, sister, deny the soundness of your reasoning," said Henry, with a sigh; "but still
I do not see anything, even from a full conviction that Varney is unfortunate, which should
induce us to tolerate him."
"Nay, brother, I said not tolerate. What I mean is, that even with the horror and dread we
must naturally feel at such a being we may afford to mingle some amount of pity, which
shall make us rather seek to shun him, than to cross his path with a resolution of doing him
an injury."

"I perceive well, sister, what you mean. Rather than remain here, and make an attempt to
defy Sir Francis Varney, you would fly from him, and leave him undisputed master of the
field."
"I would -- I would."
"Heaven forbid that I or any one would thwart you. You know well Flora, how dear you
are to me; you know well that your happiness has ever been to us all a matter which has
assumed the most important of shapes, as regarded our general domestic policy. It is not,
therefore, likely now, dear sister, that we should thwart you in your wish to remove from
here."
"I know, Henry, all you would say," remarked Flora, as a tear started to her eyes. "I know
well all you think and, in your love for me, I likewise know well I rely for ever. You are
attached to this place, as, indeed, we all are, by a thousand pleasant associations; but listen
to me further, Henry, I do not wish to wander far."
"Not far, Flora?"
"No. Do I not still cling to a hope that Charles may yet appear? and if he do so, it will
assuredly be in this neighbourhood, which he knows is native and most dear to us all."
"True."
"Then do I wish to make some sort of parade, in the way of publicity, of our leaving the
Hall."
"Yes, yes."
"And yet not go far. In the neighbouring town, for example, surely we might find some
means of living entirely free from remark or observation as to who or what we were."
"That, sister, I doubt. If you seek for that species of solitude which you contemplate, it is
only to be found in a desert."
"A desert?"
"Yes; or in a large city."
"Indeed!"
"Ay, Flora; you may well believe me, that it in so. In a small community you can have no
possible chance of evading an amount of scrutiny which would very soon pierce through
any disguise you could by any possibility assume."
"Then there is no resource. We must go far."

"Nay, I will consider for you, Flora; and although, as a general principle, what I have said
I know to be true, yet some more special circumstance may arise that may point a course
that, while it enables us, for Charles Holland's sake, to remain in this immediate
neighbourhood, yet will procure to us all the secrecy we may desire."
"Dear -- dear brother," said Flora, as she flung herself upon Henry's neck, "you speak
cheeringly to me, and, what is more, you believe in Charles's faithfulness and truth."
"As Heaven is my judge, I do."
"A thousand, thousand thanks for such an assurance. I know him too well to doubt, for
one moment, his faith. Oh, brother! could he -- could Charles Holland, the soul of honour,
the abode of every noble impulse that can adorn humanity -- could he have written those
letters? No, no! perish the thought!"
"It has perished."
"Thank God!"
"I only, upon reflection, wonder how, misled for the moment by the concurrence of a
number of circumstances, I could ever have suspected him."
"It is like your generous nature, brother, to say so; but you know as well as I, that there
has been one here who has, far from feeling any sort of anxiety to think as well as possible
of poor Charles Holland, has done all that in him lay to take the worst view of his
mysterious disappearance, and induce us to do the like."
"You allude to Mr. Marchdale?"
"I do."
"Well, Flora, at the same time that I must admit you have cause for speaking of Mr.
Marchdale as you do, yet when we come to consider all things, there may be found for him
excuses."
"May there?"
"Yes, Flora; he is a man, as he himself says, past the meridian of life, and the world is a
sad as well as a bad teacher, for it soon -- too soon, alas! deprives us of our trusting
confidence in human nature."
"It may be so; but yet, he, knowing as he did very little of Charles Holland, judged him
hastily and harshly."
"You rather ought to say, Flora, that he did not judge him generously."

"Well, be it so."
"And you must recollect, when you say so, that Marchdale did not love Charles Holland."
"Why, now," said Flora, while there flashed across her cheek, for a moment, a heightened
colour, "you are commencing to jest with me, and, therefore, we will say no more. You
know, dear Henry, all my hopes, my wishes, and my feelings, and I shall therefore leave
my future destiny in your hands, to dispose of as you please. Look yonder!"
"Where?"
"There. Do you see the admiral and Mr. Chillingworth walking among the trees?"
"Yes, yes; I do now."
"How very serious and intent they are upon the subject of their discourse. They seem
quite lost to all surrounding objects. I could not have imagined any subject than would so
completely have absorbed the attention of Admiral Bell."
"Mr. Chillingworth had something to relate to him or to propose, of a nature which,

perchance, has had the effect of enchaining all his attention -- he called him from the
room."
"Yes; I saw that he did. But see, they come towards us, and now we shall, probably, hear
what is the subject-matter of their discourse and consultation."
"We shall."
Admiral Bell had evidently seen Henry and his sister, for now, suddenly, as if not from
having for the first moment observed them, and, in consequence, broken off their private
discourse, but as if they arrived at some point in it which enabled them to come to a
conclusion to be communicative, the admiral came towards the brother and sister.
"Well," said the bluff old admiral, when they were sufficiently near to exchange words,
"well, Miss Flora, you are looking a thousand times better than you were."
"I thank you, admiral, I am much better."
"Oh, to be sure you are; and you will be much better still, and no sort of mistake. Now,
here's the doctor and I have both been agreeing upon what is best for you."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, to be sure. Have we not, doctor?"
"We have, admiral."

"Good; and what, now, Miss Flora, do you suppose it is?"
"I really cannot say."
"Why, it's a change of air, to be sure. You must get away from here as quickly as you can,
or there will be no peace for you."
"Yes," added Mr. Chillingworth, advancing; "I am quite convinced that change of scene
and change of place, and habits, and people, will tend more to your recovery than any other
circumstances. In the most ordinary cases of indisposition we always find that the invalid
recovers much sooner away from the scene of his indisposition, than by remaining in it,
even though its general salubrity be much greater than the place to which he may be
removed."
"Good," said the admiral.
"Then we are to understand," said Henry with a smile, "that we are no longer to be your
guests, Admiral Bell?"
"Belay there!" cried the admiral; "who told you to understand any such thing, I should
like to know?"
"Well, but we shall look upon this house as yours, now; and, that being the case, if we
remove from it, of course we cease to be your guests any longer."
"That's all you know about it. Now, hark ye. You don't command the fleet, so don't
pretend to know what the admiral is going to do. I have made money by knocking about
some of the enemies of old England, and that's the most gratifying manner in the world of
making money so far as I am concerned."
"It is an honourable mode."
"Of course it is. Well, I am going to -- what the deuce do you call it?"
"What?"
"That's just what I want to know. Oh, I have it now. I am going to what the lawyers call
invest it."
"A prudent step, admiral, and one which it is to be hoped, before now, has occurred to
you."
"Perhaps it has and perhaps it hasn't; however, that's my business, and no one's else's. I
am going to invest my spare cash in taking houses; so, as I don't care a straw where the
houses may be situated, you can look out for one somewhere that will suit you, and I'll take
it; so, after all, you will be my guests there just the same as you are here."

"Admiral," said Henry, "it would be imposing upon a generosity as rare as it is noble,
were we to allow you to do so much for us as you contemplate."
"Very good."
"We cannot -- we dare not."
"But I say you shall. So you have had your say, and I have had mine, after which, if you
please, Master Henry Bannerworth, I shall take upon myself to consider the affair as
altogether settled. You can commence operations as soon as you like. I know that Miss
Flora, here -- bless her sweet eyes -- don't want to stay at Bannerworth Hall any longer than
she can help it."
"Indeed I was urging upon Henry to remove," said Flora; "but yet I cannot help feeling
with him, admiral, that we are imposing upon your goodness."
"Go on imposing, then."
"But -- "
"Psha! Can't a man be imposed upon if he likes? D -- n it, that's a poor privilege for an
Englishman to be forced to make a row about. I tell you I like it. I will be imposed upon, so
there's an end of that; and now let's come in and see what Mrs. Bannerworth has got ready
for luncheon."
*******
It can hardly be supposed that such a popular ferment as had been created in the country
town, by the singular reports concerning Varney the vampyre, should readily, and without
abundant satisfaction, subside.
An idea like that which had lent so powerful an impulse to the popular mind, was one far
easier to set going than to deprecate or extinguish. The very circumstances which had
occurred to toil the excited mob, in their pursuit of Sir Francis Varney, were of a nature to
increase the popular superstition concerning him, and to make him and his acts appear in
still more dreadful colours.
Mobs do not reason very closely and clearly; but the very fact of the frantic flight of Sir
Francis Varney from the projected attack of the infuriated multitude, was seized hold of as
proof positive of the reality of his vampyre-like existence.
Then, again, had he not disappeared in the most mysterious manner? Had he not sought
refuge where no human being would think of seeking refuge, namely, in that old,
dilapidated ruin, where when his pursuers were so close upon his track, he had succeed in
eluding their grasp with a facility which looked as if he had vanished into thin air, or as if
the very earth had opened to receive him bodily within its cold embraces?

It is now to be wondered at, that the few who fled so precipitately from the ruin, lost
nothing of the wonderful story they had to tell, in the carrying it from that place to the
town. When they reached their neighbours, they not only told what had really occurred, but
they added to it all their own surmises, and the fanciful creation of all their own fears, so
that before mid-day, and about the time when Henry Bannerworth was conversing so
quietly in the gardens of the Hall with his beautiful sister, there was an amount of popular
ferment in the town, of which they had no conception. All business was suspended, and
many persons, now that once the idea had been started concerning the possibility that a
vampyre might have been visiting some of the houses in the place, told how, in the dead of
the night, they had heard strange noises. How children had shrieked from no apparent cause
-- doors opened and shut without human agency; and windows rattled that never had been
known to rattle before.
Some, too, went so far as to declare that they had been awakened out of their sleep by
noises incidental to an effort made to enter their chambers; and others had seen dusky
forms of gigantic proportions outside their windows, tampering with their fastenings, and
only disappearing when the light of day mocked all attempts at concealment.
These tales flew from mouth to mouth, and all listened to them with such an eager
interest, that none thought it worth while to challenge their inconsistencies, or to express a
doubt of their truth, because they had not been mentioned before.
The only individual, and he was a remarkably clever man, who made the slightest remark
upon the subject of a practical character, hazarded a suggestion that made confusion worse
confounded.
He knew something of vampyres. He had travelled abroad, and had heard of them in
Germany, as well as in the east, and, to a crowd of wondering and aghast listeners, he said,
--
"You may depend upon it, my friends, this has been going on for some time; there have
been several mysterious and sudden deaths in the town lately; people have wasted away and
died nobody knew how or wherefore."
"Yes -- yes," said everybody.
"There was Miles, the butcher; you know of how fat was -- and then how fat he wasn't."
A general assent was given to the proposition; and then, elevating one arm in an oratical
manner, the clever fellow continued, --
"I have not a doubt that Miles, the butcher, and every one else who has died suddenly
lately, have been victims of the vampyre; and what's more, they'll all be vampyres, and
come and suck other people's blood, till at last the whole town will be a town of vampyres."

"But what's to be done?" cried one, who trembled so excessively that he could scarcely
stand under his apprehension.
"There is but one plan -- Sir Francis Varney must be found, and put out of the world in
such a manner that he can't come back to it again; and all those who are dead that we have
any suspicion of, should be taken up out of their graves and looked at, to see if they're
rotting or not; if they are it's all right; but, if they look fresh and much as usual, you may
depend they're vampyres, and no mistake."
This was a terrific suggestion thrown amongst a mob. To have caught Sir Francis Varney
and immolated him at the shrine of popular fury, they would not have shrunk from; but a
desecration of the graves of those whom they had known in life was a matter which,
however much it had to recommend it, even the boldest stood aghast at, and felt some
qualms of irresolution. There are many ideas, however, which, like the first plunge into a
cold bath, are rather uncomfortable for the moment; but which, in a little time, we become
so familiarized with, that they become stripped of their disagreeable concomitants, and
appear quite pleasing and natural.
So in was with this notion of exhuming the dead bodies of those townspeople who had
recently died from what was called a decay of nature, and such other failures of vitality as
bore not the tangible name of any understood disease.
From mouth to mouth the awful suggestion spread like wildfire, until at last it grew into
such a shape that it almost seemed to become a duty, at all events, to have up Miles the
butcher, and see how he looked. There is, too, about human nature a natural craving
curiosity concerning everything connected with the dead. There is not a man of education
or of intellectual endowment who would not travel many miles to look upon the
exhumation of the remains of some one famous in his time, whether for his vices, his
virtues, his knowledge, his talents, or his heroism; and, if this feeling exist in the minds of
the educated and refined in a sublimated shape, which lends to it grace and dignity, we may
look for it among the vulgar and the ignorant, taking only a grosser and meaner form, in
accordance with their habits of thought. The rude materials of which the highest and
noblest feelings of educated minds are formed, will be found amongst the most grovelling
and base; and so this vulgar curiosity, which, combined with other feelings, prompted an
ignorant and illiterate mob to exhume Miles, the once fat butcher, in a different form
tempted the philosophic Hamlet to moralise upon the skull of Yorick.
And it was wonderful to see how, when these people had made up their minds to carry
out the singularly interesting, but, at the same, fearful, suggestion, they assumed to
themselves a great virtue in so doing -- told each other what an absolute necessity, there
was, for the public good; that it should be done; and then, with loud shouts and cries
concerning the vampyre, they proceeded in a body to the village church-yard, where had
been lain, with a hope of reposing is peace, the bones of their ancestors.
A species of savage ferocity now appeared to have seized upon the crowd, and the people,
in making up their minds to do something which was strikingly at variance with all their
preconceived notions of right and wrong, appeared to feel that it was necessary, in order

that they might be consistent, to cast off many of the decencies of life, and to become
riotous and reckless. As they proceeded toward the graveyard, they amused themselves by
breaking the windows of the tax-gatherers, and doing what passing mischief they could to
the habitations of all who held any official situation or authority.
This was something like a proclamation of war against those who might think it their duty
to interfere with the lawless proceedings of an ignorant multitude. A public house or two,
likewise, en route, was sacked of some of its inebriating contents, so that, what with the
madness of intoxication, and the general excitement consequent upon the very nature of the
business which took them to the churchyard, a more wild and infuriated multitude than that
which paused at two iron gates which led into the sanctuary of that church could not be
imagined.
Those who have never seen a mob placed in such a situation as to have cast off all moral
restraint whatever, at the same time that it finds there is no physical power to cope with it,
can form no notion of the mass of terrible passions which lie slumbering under what, in
ordinary cases, have appeared harmless bosoms but which now run riot, and overcame
every principle of restraint. It is a melancholy fact, but, nevertheless, a fact, despite its
melancholy, that, even in a civilised country like this, with a generally well-educated
population, nothing but a well-organized physical force keeps down, from the commission
of the most outrageous offenses, hundreds and thousands of persons.
We have said that the mob paused at the iron gates of the churchyard, but it was more a
pause of surprise than one of vacillation, because they saw that those iron gates were
closed, which had not been the case within the memory of the oldest among them.
At the first building of the church, and the enclosure of its graveyard, two pairs of these
massive gates had been presented by some munificent patron; but, after a time, they hung
idly upon their hinges, ornamental certainly, but useless, while a couple of turnstiles, to
keep cattle from straying within the sacred precincts, did duty instead, and established,
without trouble, the regular thoroughfare, which long habit had dictated as necessary,
through the place of sepulture.
But now those gates were closed, and for once were doing duty. Heaven only knows how
they had been moved upon their rusty and time-worn hinges. The mob, however, was
checked for the moment, and it was clear that the ecclesiastical authorities were resolved to
attempt something to prevent the desecration of the tombs.
Those gates were sufficiently strong to resist the first vigorous shake which was given to
them by some of the foremost among the crowd, and then one fellow started the idea that
they might be opened from the inside, and volunteered to clamber over the wall to do so.
Hoisted up upon the shoulders of several, he grasped the top of the wall, and raised his
head above its level, and then something of a mysterious nature rose up from the inside, and
dealt him such a whack between the eyes, that down he went sprawling among his
coadjutors. Now, nobody had seen how this injury had been inflicted, and the policy of
those in the garrison should have been certainly to keep up the mystery, and leave the

invaders in ignorance of what sort of person it was that had so foiled them. Man, however,
is prone to indulge in vain glorification, and the secret was exploded by the triumphant
waving of the long staff of the beadle, with the gilt knob at the end of it, just over the
parapet of the wall, in token of victory.
"It's Waggles! it's Waggles!" cried everybody; "it's Waggles, the beadle!"
"Yes," said a voice from within, "it's Waggles, the beadle; and he thinks as he had yer
there rather; try it again. The church isn't in danger; oh, no. What do you think of this?"
The staff was flourished more vigorously than ever, and in the secure position that
Waggles occupied it seemed not only impossible to attack him, but that he possessed
wonderful powers of resistance, for the staff was long and the knob was heavy.
It was a boy who hit upon the ingenious expedient of throwing up a great stone, so that it
just fell inside the wall, and hit Waggles a great blow on the head.
The staff was flourished more vigorously than ever, and the mob, in the ecstasy at the fun
which was going on, almost forgot the errand which had brought them. Perhaps after all the
affair might have passed off jestingly, had not there been some really mischievous persons
among the throng who were determined that such should not be the case, and they incited
the multitude to commence an attack upon the gates, which in a few moments must have
produced their entire demolition.
Suddenly, however, the boldest drew back, and there was a pause, as the well-known
form of the clergyman appeared advancing from the church door, attired in full canonicals.
"There's Mr. Leigh," said several; "how unlucky he should be here."
"What is this?" said the clergyman, approaching the gates. "Can I believe my eyes when I
see before me those who compose the worshippers at this church armed, and attempting to
enter for the purpose of violence to this sacred place! Oh! let me beseech you, lose not a
moment, but return to your homes, and repent of that which you have already done. It is not
yet too late; listen, I pray you, to the voice of one with whom you have so often joined in
prayer to the throne of the Almighty, who is now looking upon your actions."
This appeal was heard respectfully, but it was evidently very far from suiting the feelings
and the wishes of those to whom it was addressed; the presence of the clergyman was
evidently an unexpected circumstance, and the more especially too as he appeared in that
costume which they had been accustomed to regard with a reverence almost amounting to
veneration. He saw the favourable effect he had produced, and anxious to follow it up, he
added, --
"Let this little ebullition of feeling pass away, my friends; and, believe me, when I assure
you upon my sacred word, that whatever ground there may be for complaint or subject for

inquiry, shall be fully and fairly met; and that the greatest exertions shall be made to restore
peace and tranquillity to all of you."
"It's all about the vampyre!" cried one fellow. "Mr. Leigh, how should you like a vampyre
in the pulpit?"
"Hush, hush! can it be possible that you know so little of the works of that great Being
whom you all pretend to adore, as to believe that he would create any class of beings of a
nature such as those you ascribe to that terrific word? Oh, let me pray of you to get rid of
these superstitions -- alike disgraceful to yourselves and afflicting to me."
The clergyman had the satisfaction of seeing the crowd rapidly thinning from before the
gates, and he believed his exhortations were having all the effect he wished. It was not until
he heard a loud shout behind him and, upon hastily turning, saw that the churchyard had
been scaled at another place by some fifty or sixty persons, that his heart sunk within him,
and he began to feel that what he had dreaded would surely come to pass.
Even then he might have done something in the way of pacific exertion, but for the
interference of Waggles, the beadle, who spoilt everything.
--

Chapter XLV.
THE OPEN GRAVES. -- THE DEAD BODIES. -- A SCENE OF TERROR.
We have said Waggles spoilt everything, and so he did, for before Mr. Leigh could utter a
word more, or advance a few steps towards the rioters, Waggles charged them staff in hand,
and there soon ensued a riot of a most formidable description.
A kind of desperation seemed to have seized the beadle, and certainly, by his sudden and
unexpected attack, he achieved wonders. When, however, a dozen hands got hold of the
staff, and it was wrenched from him, and he was knocked down, and half-a-dozen people
rolled over him, Waggles was not near the man he had been, and he would have been very
well content to have lain quiet where he was; this however, he was not permitted to do for
two or three, who had felt what a weighty instrument of warfare a parochial staff was, lifted
him bodily from the ground, and canted him over the wall, without much regard to whether
he fell on a hard or a soft place on the other side.
This feat accomplished, no further attention was paid to Mr. Leigh, who, finding that his
exhortations were quite unheeded, retired into the church with an appearance of deep
affliction about him, and locked himself in the vestry.
The crowd now had entire possession -- without even the sort of control that an
exhortation assumed over them -- of the burying-ground, and soon in a dense mass were
these desperate and excited people collected round the well-known spot where lay the
mortal remains of Miles, the butcher.
"Silence!" cried a loud voice, and every one obeyed the mandate, looking towards the
speaker, who was a tall, gaunt-looking man, attired in a suit of faded black, and who now
pressed forward to the front of the throng.
"Oh!" cried one, "it's Fletcher, the ranter. What does he do here?"
"Hear him! hear him!" cried others; "he won't stop us."
"Yes, hear him," cried the tall man, waving his arms about like the sails of a windmill.
"Yes, hear him. Sons of darkness; you're all vampyres, and are continually sucking the life-
blood from each other. No wonder that the evil one has power over you all. You're as men
who walk in the darkness when the sunlight invites you, and you listen often to the words
of humanity when those of a diviner origin are offered to your acceptance. But there shall
be miracles in the land, and even in this place, set apart with a pretended piety that is in
itself most damnable, you shall find an evidence of the true light; and the proof that those
who will follow me the true path to glory shall be found here within this grave. Dig up
Miles, the butcher!"

"Hear, hear, hear, hurra!" said everybody. "Mr. Fletcher's not such a fool, after all. He
means well."
"Yes, you sinners," said the ranter, "and if you find Miles, the butcher, decaying -- even
as men are expected to decay whose mortal tabernacles are placed within the bowels of the
earth -- you shall gather from that a great omen, and a sign that if you follow me you seek
the Lord; but if you find him looking fresh and healthy, as if the warm blood was still
within his veins, you shall take that likewise as a signification that what I say to you shall
be as the Gospel, and that by coming to the chapel of the Little Boozlehum, ye shall
achieve great salvation."
"Very good," said a brawny fellow, advancing with a spade in his hand; "you get out of
the way, and I'll soon have him up. Here goes like blue blazes!"
The first shovelful of earth he took up, he cast over his head into the air, so that it fell in a
shower among the mob, which of course raised a shout of indignation; and, as he continued
so to dispose of the superfluous earth, a general row seemed likely to ensue. Mr. Fletcher
opened his mouth to make a remark, and, as that feature of his face was rather a capacious
one, a descending lump of mould, of a clayey consistency, fell into it, and got so wedged
among his teeth, that in the process of extracting it he nearly brought some of those
essential portions of his anatomy with it.
This was a state of things that could not last long, and he who had been so liberal with his
spadesful of mould was speedily disarmed, and yet he was a popular favourite, and had
done the thing so good-humouredly, that nobody touched him. Six or eight others, who had
brought spades and pickaxes, now pushed forward to the work, and in an incredibly short
space of time the grave of Miles, the butcher, seemed to be very nearly excavated.
Work of any kind or nature whatever, is speedily executed when done with a wish to get
through it; and never, perhaps, within the memory of man, was a grave opened in that
churchyard with such a wonderful celerity. The excitement of the crowd grew intense --
every available spot from which a view of the grave could he got, was occupied; for the last
few minutes scarcely a remark had been uttered, and when, at last, the spade of one of
whose who were digging, struck upon something that sounded like wood, you might have
heard a pin drop, and each one there present drew his breath more shortly than before.
"There he is," said the man, whose spade struck upon the coffin.
Those few words broke the spell, and there was a general murmur, while every individual
present seemed to shift his position in his anxiety to obtain a better view of what was about
to ensue.
The coffin now having been once found, there seemed to be an increased impetus given
to the work; the earth was thrown out with a rapidity that seemed almost the quick result of
the working of some machine; and those closest to the grave's brink crouched down, and,
intent as they were upon the progress of events, heeded not the damp earth that fell upon
them, nor the frail brittle and humid remains of humanity that occasionally rolled to their

feet It was, indeed, a scene of intense excitement -- a scene which only wanted a few
prominent features in its foreground of a more intellectual and higher cast than composed
the mob, to make it a fit theme for a painter of the highest talent.
And now the last few shovelfuls of earth that hid the top of the coffin were cast from the
grave, and that narrow house which contained the mortal remains of him who was so well
known, while in life, to almost every one then present, was brought to the gaze of eyes
which never had seemed likely to have looked upon him again.
The cry was now for ropes, with which to raise the cumbrous mass; but these were not to
be had, no one thought of providing himself with such appliances, so that by main strength,
only, could the coffin be raised to the brink.
The difficulty of doing this was immense, for there was nothing tangible to stand upon;
and even when the mould from the sides was sufficiently cleared away, that the handles of
the coffin could be laid hold of, they came away immediately in the grasp of those who did
so.
But the more trouble that presented itself to the accomplishment of the designs of the
mob, the more intent that body seemed upon carrying out to the full extent their original
designs.
Finding it quite impossible by bodily strength to raise the coffin of the butcher from the
position in which it had got embedded by excessive rains, a boy was hastily despatched to
the village for ropes, and never did boy run with such speed before, for all his own curiosity
was excited in the issue of an adventure, that to his young imagination was appallingly
interesting.
As impatient as mobs usually are, they had not time, in this case, for the exercise of that
quality of mind before the boy came back with the necessary means of exerting quite a
different species of power against the butcher's coffin.
Strong ropes were slid under the inert mass, and twenty hands at once plied the task of
raising that receptacle of the dead from what had been presumed to be its last resting-place.
The ropes strained and creaked, and many thought that they would burst asunder sooner
than raise the coffin of the defunct butcher.
It is singular what reasons people find for backing their opinion.
"You may depend he's a vampyre," said one, "or it wouldn't be so difficult to get him out
of the grave."
"Oh, there can be no mistake about that," said one; "when did a natural Christian's coffin
stick in the mud in that way?"

"Ah, to be sure," said another; "I knew no good would come of his goings on; he never
was a decent sort of man like his neighbours, and many queer things have been said of him
that I have no doubt are true enough, if we did but know the rights of them."
"Ah, but," said a young lad, thrusting his head between the two who were talking, "if he
is a vampyre, how does he get out of his coffin of a night with all that weight of mould a
top of him?"
One of the men considered for a moment, and then finding no rational answer occur to
him, he gave the boy a box on the ear, saying, --
"I should like to know what business that is of yours? Boys, now-a-days, ain't like the
boys in my time; they think nothing now of putting their spoke in grown-up people's
wheels, just as if their opinions were of any consequence."
Now by a vigorous effort, those who were tugging at the ropes succeeded in moving the
coffin a little, and that first step was all the difficulty, for it was loosened from that
adhesive soil in which it lay, and now came up with considerable facility.
There was a half shout of satisfaction at this result, while some of the congregation turned
pale, and trembled at the prospect of the sight which was about to present itself; the coffin
was dragged from the grave's brink fairly among the long rank grass that flourished in the
churchyard, and then they all looked at it for a time, and the men who had been most
earnest in raising it wiped the perspiration from their brows, and seemed to shrink from the
task of opening that receptacle of the dead now that it was fairly in their power so to do.
Each man looked anxiously in his neighbours' face, and several audibly wondered why
somebody else didn't open the coffin.
"There's no harm in it," said one; "if he's a vampyre, we ought to know it; and, if he ain't,
we can't do any hurt to a dead man."
"Oughten't we to have the service for the dead?" said one.
"Yes," said the impertinent boy who had before received the knock on the head, "I think
we ought to have that read, back-wards."
This ingenious idea was recompensed by a great many kicks and cuffs, which ought to
have been sufficient to have warned him of the great danger of being a little before his age
in wit.
"Where's the use of shirking the job?" cried he who had been so active in shoveling the
mud upon the multitude; "why, you cowardly sneaking set of humbugs, you're half afraid,
now."
"Afraid -- afraid!" cried everybody; "who's afraid?"

"Ah, who's afraid?" said a little man, advancing, and assuming an heroic attitude; "I
always notice, if anybody's afraid, it's some big fellow, with more bones than brains."
At this moment, the man to whom this reproach was more particularly leveled, raised a
horrible shout of terror, and cried out, in frantic accents, --
"He's a-coming -- he's a-coming!"
The little man fell at once into the grave, while the mob, with one accord, turned tail, and
fled in all directions, leaving him alone with the coffin. Such a fighting, and kicking, and
scrambling ensued to get over the wall of the grave-yard, that this great fellow, who had
caused all the mischief, burst into such peals of laughter that the majority of the people
became aware that it was a joke, and came creeping back, looking as sheepish as possible.
Some got up very faint sorts of laugh, and said "very good," and swore they saw what big
Dick meant from the first, and only ran to make the others run.
"Very good," said Dick. "I'm glad you enjoyed it, that's all. My eye, what a scampering
there was among you. Where's my little friend, who was so infernally cunning about bones
and brains?"
With some difficulty the little man was extricated from the grave, and then, oh, for the
consistency of a mob! they all laughed at him; those very people who, heedless of all the
amenities of existence, had been trampling upon each other and roaring with terror, actually
had the impudence to laugh at him, and call him a cowardly little rascal, and say it served
him right.
But such is popularity!
"Well, if nobody won't open the coffin," said big Dick, "I will, so here goes. I knowed the
old fellow when he was alive and many a time he's d -- -- d me and I d -- -- d him, so I ain't
a-going to be afraid of him now he's dead. We was very intimate you see, 'cos we was the
two heaviest men in the parish; there's a reason for every thing."
"Ah, Dick's the fellow to do it," cried a number of persons; "there's nobody like Dick for
opening a coffin; he's the man as don't care for nothing."
"Ah, you snivelling curs," said Dick, "I hate you. If it warn't for my own satisfaction, and
all for to prove why my old friend, the butcher, as weighed seventeen stone, and stood six
feet two and-a-half on his own sole, l'd see you all jolly well -- "
"D -- -- d first," said the boy; "open the lid, Dick, let's have a look."
"Ah, you're a rum un," said Dick, "arter my own heart. I sometimes thinks as you must be
a nevy, or some sort of relation of mine. Howsomdever, here goes. Who'd thought that I
should ever had a look at old fat and thunder again? -- that's what I used to call him; and

then he used to request me to go down below, where I needn't turn round to light my
blessed pipe."
"Hell -- we know," said the boy; "why don't you open the lid, Dick?"
"I'm a going," said Dick; "kim up."
He introduced the corner of a shovel between the lid and the coffin, and giving it a
sudden wrench, he loosened it all down one side.
A shudder pervaded the multitude, and, popularly speaking, you might have heard a pin
drop in that crowded churchyard at that eventful moment.
Dick then proceeded to the other side, and executed the same manoeuvre.
"Now for it," he said; "we shall see him in a moment, and we'll think; we seed him still."
"What a lark!" said the boy.
"You hold yer jaw, will yer? Who axed you for a remark, blow yer? What do you mean
by squatting down there, like a cock-sparrow, with a pain in his tail, hanging yer head, too,
right over the coffin? Did you never hear of what they call a fluvifium, coming from the
dead, yer ignorant beast, as is enough to send nobody to blazes in a minute? Get out of the
way of the cold meat, will yer!"
"A what, do you say, Dick?"
"Request information from the extreme point of my elbow."
Dick threw down the spade, and laying hold of the coffin-lid with both hands, he lifted it
off, and flung it on one side.
There was a visible movement and an exclamation among the multitude. Some were
pushed down, in the eager desire of those behind to obtain a sight of the ghastly remains of
the butcher; those at a distance were frantic, and the excitement was momentarily
increasing.
They might all have spared themselves the trouble, for the coffin was empty -- there was
no dead butcher, nor any evidence of one ever having been there, not even the grave-
clothes; the only thing in all in the receptacle of the dead was a brick. Dick's astonishment
was so intense that his eyes and mouth kept opening together to such an extent, that it
seemed doubtful when they would reach their extreme point of elongation. He then took up
the brick and looked at it curiously, and turned it over and over, examined the ends and the
sides with a critical eye, and at length he said, --

"Well, I'm blowed, here's a transmogrification; he's consolidified himself into a blessed
brick -- my eye, here's a curiosity."
"But you don't mean to say that's the butcher, Dick ?" said the boy.
Dick reached over, and gave him a tap on the head with the brick.
"There!" he said, "that's what I calls occular demonstration. Do you believe it now, you
blessed infidel? What's more natural? He was an out-and-out brick while he was alive; and
he's turned to a brick now he's dead."
"Give it to me, Dick," said the boy; "I should like to have that brick, just for the fun of the
thing."
"I'll see you turned into a pantile first. I sha'n't part with this here, it looks too blessed
sensible; it's gaining on me every minute as a most remarkable likeness, d -- -- d if it ain't."
By this time the bewilderment of the mob had subsided; now that there was no dead
butcher to look upon, they fancied themselves most grievously injured; and; somehow or
other, Dick, notwithstanding all his exertions in their service, was looked upon in the light
of a showman, who had promised some startling exhibition and then had disappointed his
auditors.
The first intimations he had of popular vengeance was a stone thrown at him, but Dick's
eye happened to be upon the fellow who threw it, and collaring him in a moment, he dealt
him a cuff on the side of the head, which confused his faculties for a week.
"Hark ye," he then cried, with a loud voice, "don't interfere with me; it won't go down.
There's something wrong here; and, as one of yourselves, I'm as much interested in finding
out what it is as any of you can possibly be. There seems to be some truth in this business;
our old friend, the butcher, you see, is not in his grave; where is he then?"
The mob, looked at each other and none attempted to answer the question.
"Why, of course, he's the vampyre," said Dick, "and you may all of you expect to see
him, in turn, come into your bed-room windows with a burst, and lay hold of you like a
million and a half of leeches rolled into one."
There was a general expression of horror, and then Dick continued, --
"You'd better all of you go home; I shall have no hand in pulling up any more of the
coffins -- this is a dose for me. Of course you can do what you like."
"Pull them all up!" cried a voice; "pull them all up! Let's see how many vampyres there
are in the churchyard."

"Well, it's no business of mine," said Dick; "but I wouldn't, if I was you."
"You may depend," said one, "that Dick knows something about it, or he wouldn't take it
so easy."
"Ah! down with him," said the man who had received the box on the ears; "he's perhaps a
vampyre himself."
The mob made a demonstration towards him, but Dick stood his ground, and they paused
again.
"Now, you're a cowardly set," he said; "because you're disappointed, you want to come
upon me. Now, I'll just show what a little thing will frighten you all again and I warn
beforehand it will, so you sha'n't say you didn't know it, and were taken by surprise."
The mob looked at him, wondering what he was going to do. "Once! twice! thrice!" he
said, and then he flung the brick up into the air an immense height, and shouted "heads," in
a loud tone.
A general dispersion of the crowd ensued, and the brick fell in the centre of a very large
circle indeed.
"There you are again," said Dick; "why, what a nice set you are!"
"What fun!" said the boy. "It's a famous coffin, this, Dick," and he laid himself down in
the butcher's last resting place. "I never was in a coffin before -- it's snug enough."
"Ah, you are a rum 'un," said Dick; "you're such a inquiring genius, you is; you'll get your
head in a some hole one day, and not be able to get it out again and then I shall see you a
kicking. Hush! lay still -- don't say anything."
"Good again," said the boy; "what shall I do?"
"Give a sort of a howl and a squeak, when they all come back again."
"Won't I!" said the boy; "a pop on the lid."
"There you we," said Dick; "d -- -- d if I don't adopt you, and bring you up to the science
of nothing."
"Now, listen to me, good people all," added Dick; "I have really got something to say to
you."
At this intimation the people slowly gathered again round the grave. "Listen," said Dick,
solemnly; "it strikes me there's some tremendous do going on."

"Yes, there is," said several who were foremost.
"It won't be long before you'll all of you be most d -- nably astonished; but let me beg of
all you not to accuse me of having anything to do with it, provided I tell you all I know."
"No, Dick; we won't -- we won't -- we won't."
"Good; then, listen. I don't know anything, but I'll tell you what I think, and that's as
good. I don't think that this brick is the butcher; but I think, that when you least expect it --
hush! come it little closer."
"Yes, yes; we are closer."
"Well, then, I say, when you least expect it, and when you ain't dreaming of such a thing,
you'll hear something of my old friend as is dead and gone, that will astonish you all."
Dick paused, and he gave the coffin a slight kick, as intimation to the boy that he might as
well be doing his part in the drama, upon which that ingenious young gentleman set up
such a howl, that even Dick jumped, so unearthly did if sound within the confines of that
receptacle of the dead.
But if the effect upon him was great, what must it have been upon those whom it took
completely unaware? For a moment or two they seemed completely paralysed, and then
they frightened the boy, for the shout of terror that rose from so many throats at once was
positively alarming.
This jest of Dick's was final, for, before three minutes had elapsed, the churchyard was
clear of all human occupants save himself and the boy, who had played his part so well in
the coffin.
"Get out," said Dick; "it's all right -- we've done 'em at last; and now you may depend
upon it they won't be in a hurry to come here again. You keep you own counsel, or else
somebody will serve you out for this. I don't think you're altogether averse to a bit of fun,
and if you keep yourself quiet you'll have the satisfaction of hearing what's said about this
affair in every pothouse in the village, and no mistake."
--

Chapter XLVI.
THE PREPARATIONS FOR LEAVING BANNERWORTH HALL, AND THE

MYSTERIOUS CONDUCT OF THE ADMIRAL AND MR. CHILLINGWORTH.
It seemed now, that, by the concurrence of all parties, Bannerworth Hall was to be
abandoned; and, notwithstanding Henry was loth -- as he had, indeed, from the first shown
himself -- to leave the ancient abode of his race, yet, as not only Flora, but the admiral and
his friend Mr. Chillingworth seemed to be of opinion that it would be a prudent course to
adopt, he felt that it would not become him to oppose the measure.
He, however, now made his consent to depend wholly upon the full and free acquiescence
of every member of the family.
"If," he said, "there be any among us who will say to me 'Continue to keep open the house
in which we have passed so many happy hours, and let the ancient home of our race still
afford a shelter to us' I shall feel myself bound to do so; but if both my mother and my
brother agree to a departure from it, and that its hearth shall be left cold and desolate, be it
so. I will not stand in the way of any unanimous wish or arrangement."
"We may consider that, then, as settled," said the admiral, "for I have spoken to your
brother, and he is of our opinion. Therefore, my boy, we may all be off as soon as we can
conveniently get under weigh."
"But my mother?"
"Oh, there, I don't know. You must speak to her yourself. I never, if I can help it, interfere
with the women folks."
"If she consent, then I am willing."
"Will you ask her?"
"I will not ask her to leave, because I know, then, what answer she would at once give;
but she shall hear the proposition, and I will leave her to decide upon it, unbiassed in her
judgment by any stated opinion of mine upon the matter."
"Good. That'll do; and the proper way to put it, too. There's no mistake about that, I can
tell you."
Henry, although he went through the ceremony of consulting his mother, had no sort of
doubt before he did so that she was sufficiently aware of the feelings and wishes of Flora to
be prepared to yield a ready assent to the proposition of leaving the Hall.

Moreover, Mr. Marchdale had, from the first, been an advocate of such a course of
proceeding, and Henry well knew how strong an influence he had over Mrs. Bannerworth's
mind, in consequence of the respect in which she held him as an old and valued friend.
He was, therefore, prepared for what his mother said, which was, --
"My dear Henry, you know that the wishes of my children, since they have been grown
up and capable of coming to a judgment for themselves, have ever been laws to me. If you,
among you all, agree to leave this place, do so."
"But will you leave it freely, mother?"
"Most freely I go with you all; what is it that has made this house and all its
appurtenances pleasant in my eyes, but the presence in it of those who are so dear to me? If
you all leave it, you take with you the only charms it ever possessed; so it becomes in itself
as nothing. I am quite ready to accompany you all anywhere, so that we do but keep
together."
"Then, mother, we may consider that as settled."
"As you please."
"It is scarcely as I please. I must confess that I would fain have clung with a kind of
superstitious reverence to this ancient abiding-place of my race, but it may not be so.
Those, perchance, who are more practically able to come to correct conclusions, in
consequence of their feelings not being sufficiently interested to lead them astray, have
decided otherwise; and, therefore, I am content to leave."
"Do not grieve at it, Henry. There has hung a cloud of misfortune over us all since the
garden of this house became the scene of an event which we can none of us remember but
with terror and shuddering."
"Two generations of our family must live and die before the remembrance of that
circumstance can be obliterated. But we will think of it no more."
There can no doubt but that the dreadful circumstance to which both Mrs. Bannerworth
and Henry alluded, was the suicide of the father of the family in the gardens which before
has been hinted at in the course of this narration, as being a circumstance which had created
a great sensation at the time, and cast a great gloom for many months over the family.
The reader will, doubtless, too, recollect that, at his last moments, this unhappy individual
was said to have uttered some incoherent words about some hidden money, and that the
rapid hand of death alone seemed to prevent him from being explicit upon that subject, and
left it merely a matter of conjecture.

As years had rolled on, this affair, even as a subject of speculation, had ceased to occupy
the minds of any of the Bannerworth family, and several of their friends, among whom was
Mr. Marchdale, were decidedly of the opinion that the apparently pointed and mysterious
words uttered, were but the disordered wanderings of an intellect already hovering on the
confines of eternity.
Indeed, far from any money, of any amount, being a disturbance to the last moments of
the dissolute man, whose vices and extravagances had brought his family to such ruin, it
was pretty generally believed that he had committed suicide simply from a conviction of
the impossibility of raising any more supplies of cash, to enable him to carry on the career
which he had pursued for so long.
But to resume.
Henry at once communicated to the admiral what his mother had said, and then the whole
question regarding the removal being settled in the affirmative, nothing remained to be
done but to set about it as quickly as possible.
The Bannerworths lived sufficiently distant from the town to be out of earshot of the
disturbances which were then taking place; and so completely isolated were they from all
sort of society, that they had no notion of the popular disturbance which Varney the
vampyre had given rise to.
It was not until the following morning that Mr. Chillingworth, who had been home in the
meantime, brought word of what had taken place, and that great commotion was still in the
town, and that the civil authorities, finding themselves by far too weak to contend against
the popular will, had sent for assistance to a garrison town, some twenty miles distant.
It was a great grief to the Bannerworth family to hear these tidings, not that they were in
any way, except as victims, accessory to creating the disturbance about the vampyre, but it
seemed to promise a kind of notoriety which they might well shrink from, and which they
were just the people to view with dislike.
View the matter how we like, however, it is not to be considered as at all probably that
the Bannerworth family would remain long in ignorance of what a great sensation they had
created unwittingly in the neighbourhood.
The very reasons which had induced their servants to leave their establishment, and prefer
throwing themselves completely out of place, rather than remain in so ill-omened a house,
were sure to be bruited abroad far and wide.
And that, perhaps, when they came to consider of it, would suffice to form another good
and substantial reason for leaving the Hall, and seeking a refuge in obscurity from the
extremely troublesome sort of popularity incidental to their peculiar situation.

Mr. Chillingworth felt uncommonly chary of telling them all that had taken place;
although he was well aware that the proceedings of the riotous mob had not terminated with
the little disappointment at the old ruin, to which they had so effectually chased Varney the
vampyre, but to lose him so singularly when he got there.
No doubt he possessed the admiral with the uproar that was going on in the town, for the
latter did hint a little of it to Henry Bannerworth.
"Hilloa!" he said to Henry, as he saw him walking in the garden; "it strikes me if you or
your ship's crew continue in these latitudes, you'll get as notorious as the Flying Dutchman
in the southern ocean."
"How do you mean?" said Henry.
"Why, it's a sure going proverb to say, that a nod's as good as a wink; but, the fact is, it's
getting rather too well known to be pleasant, that a vampyre has struck up a rather close
acquaintance with your family. I understand there's a precious row in the town."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; bother the particulars, for I don't know them; but, hark ye, by to-morrow I'll have
found a place for you to go to, so pack up the sticks, get all your stores ready to clear out,
and make yourself scarce from this place."
"I understand you," said Henry; "we have become the subject of popular rumour; I've
only to beg of you, admiral, that you'll say nothing of this to Flora; she has already suffered
enough, Heaven knows; do not let her have the additional affliction of thinking that her
name is made familiar in every pothouse in the town."
"Leave me alone for that," said the admiral. "Do you think I'm an ass?"
"Ay, ay," said Jack Pringle, who came in at that moment, and thought the question was
addressed to him.
"Who spoke to you, you bad-looking horse-marine?"
"Me a horse-marine! didn't you ask a plain question of a fellow, and get a plain answer?"
"Why, you son of a bad looking gun, what do you mean by that? I tell you what it is,
Jack; I've let you come sneaking too often on the quarter-deck, and now you come poking
your fun at your officers, you rascal!"
"I poking fun!" said Jack; "couldn't think of such a thing. I should just as soon think of
your making a joke as me."

"Now, I tell you what it is, I shall just strike you off the ship's books, and you shall just go
and cruise by yourself; I've done with you."
"Go and tell that to the marines, if you like," said Jack. "I ain't done with you yet, for a
jolly long watch. Why, what do you suppose would become of you, you great babby,
without me? Ain't I always a conveying you from place to place, and steering you through
all sorts of difficulties?"
"D -- n your impudence!"
"Well, then, d -- n yours."
"Shiver my timbers!"
"Ay, you may do what you like with your own timbers."
"And you won't leave me?"
"Sartingly not."
"Come here, then?"
Jack might have expected a gratuity, for he advanced with alacrity.
"There," said the admiral, as he laid his stick across his shoulders; "that's your last
month's wages; don't spend it all at once."
"Well, I'm d -- -- d!" said Jack; "who'd have thought of that? -- he's turning
rumgumptious, and no mistake. Howsomedever, I must turn it over in my mind, and be
even with him, somehow -- I owes him one for that. I say, admiral."
"What now, you lubber?"
"Nothing; turn that over in your mind;" and away Jack walked, not quite satisfied, but
feeling, at least, that he had made a demonstration of attack.
As for the admiral, he considered that the thump he had given Jack with the stick, and it
was no gentle one, as a decided balancing of accounts up to that period, and as he remained
likewise master of the field, he was upon the whole very well satisfied.
These last few words which had been spoken to Henry by Admiral Bell, more than any
others, induced him to hasten his departure from Bannerworth Hall; he had walked away
when the altercation between Jack Pringle and the admiral began, for he had seen sufficient
of those wordy conflicts between those originals to be quite satisfied that neither of them
meant what he said of a discouraging character towards the other, and that far from there

being any unfriendly feeling contingent upon those little affairs, they were only a species of
friendly sparring, which both parties enjoyed extremely.
Henry went direct to Flora, and he said to her, --
"Since we are all agreed upon the necessity, or, at all events, upon the expediency of a
departure from the Hall, I think, sister, the sooner we carry out that determination the better
and the pleasanter for us all it will be. Do you think you could remove so hastily as to-
morrow?"
"To-morrow! That is soon indeed."
"I grant you that it is so; but Admiral Bell assures me that he will have everything in
readiness, and a place provided for us to go to by then."
"Would it be possible to remove from a house like this so very quickly?"
"Yes, sister. If you look around you, you will see that a great portion of the comforts you
enjoy in this mansion belong to it as a part of its very structure, and are not removable at
pleasure; what we really have to take away is very little. The urgent want of money during
our father's lifetime induced him, as you may recollect even, at various times to part with
much that was ornamental, as well as useful, which was in the Hall. You will recollect that
we seldom returned from those little continental tours which to us were so delightful,
without finding some old familiar objects gone, which, upon inquiry, we found had been
turned into money, to meet some more than usually pressing demand."
"That is true, brother; I recollect well."
"So that, upon the whole, sister, there is little to remove."
"Well, well, be it so. I will prepare our mother for this sudden step. Believe me, my heart
goes with it; and as a force of vengeful circumstances have induced us to remove from this
home, which was once so full of pleasant recollections, it is certainly better, as you say, that
the act should be at once consummated, than left hanging in terror over our minds."
"Then I'll consider that as settled," said Henry.
--

Chapter XLVII.
THE REMOVAL FROM THE HALL. -- THE NIGHT WATCH, AND THE ALARM.
Mrs. Bannerworth's consent having been already given to the removal, she said at once,
when appealed to, that she was quite ready to go at any time her children thought expedient.
Upon this, Henry sought the admiral, and told him as much, at the same time adding, --
"My sister feared that we should have considerable trouble in the removal, but I have
convinced her that such will not be the case, as we are by no means overburdened with
cumbrous property."
"Cumbrous property," said the admiral, "why, what do you mean? I beg leave to say, that
when I took the house, I took the table and chairs with it. D -- n it, what good do you
suppose an empty house is to me?"
"The tables and chairs?"
"Yes. I took the house just as it stands. Don't try and bamboozle me out of it. I tell you,
you've nothing to move but yourselves and immediate personal effects."
"I was not aware, admiral, that that was your plan."
"Well, then, now you are, listen to me. I've circumvented the enemy too often not to
know how to get up a plot. Jack and I have managed it all. To-morrow evening, after dark,
and before the moon's got high enough to throw any light, you and your brother, and Miss
Flora and your mother, will come out of the house, and Jack and I will lead you where
you're to go to. There's plenty of furniture where you're a-going, and so you will get off
free, without anybody knowing anything about it."
"Well, admiral, I've said it before, and it is the unanimous opinion of us all, that
everything should be left to you. You have proved yourself too good a friend to us for us to
hesitate at all in obeying your commands. Arrange everything, I pray you, according to
your wishes and feelings, and you will find there shall be no cavilling on our parts."
"That's right; there's nothing like giving a command to some one person. There's no good
done without. Now I'll manage it all. Mind you, seven o'clock to-morrow evening
everything is to be ready, and you will all be prepared to leave the Hall."
"It shall be so."
"Who's that giving such a thundering ring at the gate?"

"Nay, I know not. We have few visitors and no servants, so I must e'en be my own gate
porter."
Henry walked to the gate, and having opened it, a servant in a handsome livery stepped a
pace or two into the garden.
"Well," said Henry.
"Is Mr. Henry Bannerworth within, or Admiral Bell?"
"Both," cried the admiral. "I'm Admiral Bell, and this is Mr. Henry Bannerworth. What
do you want with us, you d -- -- d gingerbread-looking flunkey?"
"Sir, my master desires his compliments -- his very best compliments -- and he wants to
know how you are after your flurry."
"What?"
"After your -- a -- a -- flurry and excitement."
"Who is your master?" said Henry.
"Sir Francis Varney."
"The devil!" said the admiral; "if that don't beat all the impudence I ever came near. Our
flurry! Ah! I like that fellow. Just go and tell him -- "
"No, no," said Henry, interposing, "send back no message. Say to your master, fellow,
that Mr. Henry Bannerworth feels that not only has he no claim to Sir Francis Varney's
courtesy, but that he should rather be without it."
"Oh, ha!" said the footman, adjusting his collar; "very good. This seems a d -- -- d, old-
fashioned, outlandish place of yours. Any ale?"
"Now, shiver my hulks!" said the admiral.
"Hush! hush!" said Henry; "who knows but there may be a design in this? We have no
ale."
"Oh, ah! dem! -- dry as dust, by God! What does the old commodore say? Any message,
my ancient Greek?"
"No, thank you," said the admiral; "bless you, nothing. What did you give for that
waistcoat, d -- n you? Ha! ha! you're a clever fellow."

"Ah! the old gentleman's ill. However, I'll take back his compliments, and that he's much
obliged at Sir Francis's condescension. At the same time, I suppose I may place in my eye
what I may get out of either of you, without hindering me seeing my way back. Ha! ha!
Adieu -- adieu."
"Bravo!" said the admiral; "that's it; go it -- now for it. D -- n it, it is a do!"
The admiral's calmness during the latter part of the dialogue arose from the fact that, over
the flunkey's shoulder, and at some little distance off, he saw Jack Pringle taking off his
jacket, and rolling up his sleeves in that deliberate sort of way that seemed to imply a
determination of setting about some species of work that combined the pleasant with the
useful.
Jack executed many nods to and winks at the livery-servant, and jerked his thumb
likewise in the direction of a pump near at hand, in a manner that spoke as plainly as
possible, that John was to be pumped upon.
And now the conference was ended, and Sir Francis's messenger turned to go; but Jack
Pringle bothered him completely, for he danced round him in such a singular manner, that,
turn which way he would, there stood Jack Pringle, in some grotesque attitude, intercepting
him; and so he edged him on, till he got him to the pump.
"Jack," said the admiral.
"Ay, ay, sir."
"Don't pump on that fellow now."
"Ay, ay, sir; give us a hand."
Jack laid hold of him by the two ears, and holding him under the pump, kicked his shins
until he completely gathered himself beneath the spout. It was in vain that he shouted,
"Murder! help! fire! thieves!" Jack was inexorable and the admiral pumped.
Jack turned the fellow's head about in a very scientific manner, so as to give him a fair
dose of hydropathic treatment, and in a few minutes, never was human being more
thoroughly saturated with moisture than was Sir Francis Varney's servant. He had left off
hallooing for aid, for he found that whenever he did so, Jack held his mouth under the
spout, which was decidedly unpleasant; so, with a patience that looked like heroic fortitude,
he was compelled to wait until the admiral was tired of pumping.
"Very good," at length he said. "Now, Jack, for fear this fellow catches cold, be so good
as to get a horsewhip, and see him off the premises with it."

"Ay, ay, sir," said Jack. "And I say, old fellow, you can take back all our blessed
compliments now, and say you've been flurried a little yourself; and if so be as you came
here as dry as dust, d -- -e, you go back as wet as a mop. Won't it do to kick him out, sir?"
"Very well -- as you please, Jack."
"Then here goes;" and Jack proceeded to kick the shivering animal from the garden with a
vehemence that soon convinced him of the necessity of getting out of it as quickly as
possible.
How it was that Sir Francis Varney, after that fearful race he had had, got home again
across the fields, free from all danger, and back to his own house, from whence he sent so
cool and insolent a message, they could not conceive.
But such must certainly be the fact; somehow or another, he had escaped all danger, and,
with a calm insolence peculiar to the man, he had no doubt adopted the present mode of
signifying as much to the Bannerworths.
The insolence of his servant was, no doubt, a matter of pre-arrangement with that
individual, however he might have set about it con amore. As for the termination of the
adventure, that, of course, had not been at all calculated upon; but, like most tools of other
people's insolence or ambition, the insolence of the underling had received both his own
punishment and his master's.
We know quite enough of Sir Francis Varney to feel assured that he would rather
consider it as a good jest than otherwise of his footman, so that with the suffering he
endured at the Bannerworths', and the want of sympathy he was likely to find a home, that
individual had certainly nothing to congratulate himself upon but the melancholy
reminiscence of his own cleverness.
But were the mob satisfied with what had occurred in the churchyard? They were not, and
that night was to witness the perpetration of a melancholy outrage, such as the history of
the time presents no parallel to.
The finding of a brick in the coffin of the butcher, instead of the body of that individual,
soon spread as a piece of startling intelligence all over the place; and the obvious deduction
that was drawn from the circumstance, seemed to be that the deceased butcher was
unquestionably a vampyre, and out upon some expedition at the very time when his coffin
was searched.
How he had originally got out of that receptacle for the dead was certainly a mystery; but
the story was none the worse for that. Indeed, an ingenious individual found a solution for
that part of the business, for, as he said, nothing was more natural, when anybody died who
was capable of becoming a vampyre, than for other vampyres who knew it to dig him up,
and lay him out in the cold beams of the moonlight, until he acquired the same sort of
vitality they themselves possessed, and joined their horrible fraternity.

In lieu of a better explanation -- and, after all, it was no bad one -- this theory was
generally received, and, with a shuddering horror, people asked themselves, if the whole of
the churchyard were excavated, how many coffins would be found tenantless by the dead
which had been supposed, by simpleminded people, to inhabit them.
The presence, however, of a body of dragoons, towards evening, effectually prevented

any renewed attack upon the sacred precincts of the churchyard, and it was a strange and
startling thing to see that country town under military surveillance, and sentinels posted at
its principal buildings.
This measure smothered the vengeance of the crowd, and insured, for a time, the safety of
Sir Francis Varney; for no considerable body of persons could assemble for the purpose of
attacking his house again, without being followed; so such a step was not attempted.
It had so happened, however, than on that very day, the funeral of a young man was to
have taken place, who had put up for a time at that same inn where Admiral Bell was first
introduced to the reader. He had become seriously ill, and, after a few days of indisposition,
which had puzzled the country practitioners, breathed his last.
He was to have been buried in the village churchyard on the very day of the riot and
confusion incidental to the exhumation of the coffin of the butcher, probably from that
circumstance we may deduce the presence of the clergyman in canonicals at the period of
the riot.
When it was found that so disorderly a mob possessed the churchyard, the idea of burying
the stranger that day was abandoned; but still all would have gone on quietly as regarded
him, had it not been for the folly of one of the chamber-maids at the tavern.
This woman, with all the love of gossip incidental to her class, had, from the first, entered
so fully into all the particulars concerning vampyres, that she fairly might be considered to
be a little deranged on that head. Her imagination had been so worked upon, that she was in
an unfit state to think of anything else, and if ever upon anybody a stern and revolting
superstition was calculated to produce dreadful effects, it was upon this woman.
The town was tolerably quiet; the presence of the soldiery had frightened some and
amused others, and no doubt the night would have passed off serenely, had she not
suddenly rushed into the streets, and, with bewildered accents and frantic gestures, shouted,
--
"A vampyre -- a vampyre -- a vampyre!"
These words soon collected a crowd around her, and then, with screaming accents, which
would have been quite enough to convince any reflecting person that she had actually gone
distracted upon that point, she cried, --

"Come into the house -- come into the house -- come into the house! Look upon the dead
body, that should have been in its grave; it's fresher now than on the day on which it died,
and there's a colour in its cheeks. A vampyre -- a vampyre -- a vampyre! Heaven save us
from a vampyre!"
The strange, infuriated, maniacal manner in which these words were uttered, produced an
astonishingly exciting effect among the mob. Several women screamed, and some few
fainted. The torch was laid again to the altar of popular feeling, and the fierce flame of
superstition burnt brightly and fiercely.
Some twenty or thirty persons, with shouts and exclamations, rushed into the inn, while
the woman who had created the disturbance still continued to rave, tearing her hair, and
shrieking at intervals, until she fell exhausted upon the pavement.
Soon, from a hundred throats, rose that dreadful cry of "A vampyre -- a vampyre!" The
alarm was given throughout the whole town; the bugles of the military sounded; there was a
clash of arms -- the shrieks of women; although, the premonitory symptoms of such a riot
as was not likely to be quelled without bloodshed and considerable disaster.
It is truly astonishing the effect which one weak or vicious-minded person can produce
upon a multitude.
Here was a woman whose opinion would have been accounted valueless upon the most
common-place subject, and whose word would not have passed for twopence, setting a
whole town by the ears by force of nothing but her sheer brutal ignorance.
It is a notorious physiological fact that, after four or five days, or even a week, the bodies
of many persons assume an appearance of freshness, such as might have been looked for in
vain immediately after death.
It is one of the most insidious processes of that decay which appears to regret its " -- -- --
-- offensive fingers To mar the lines where beauty lingers." But what did the chamber-maid
know of physiology? Probably, she would have asked if it was anything good to eat; and
so, of course, having her head full of vampyres, she must needs produce so lamentable a
scene of confusion, the results of which we almost sicken at detailing.
--

Chapter LVIII.
[sic] [This chapter is misnumbered; it is really Chapter XLVIII] THE STAKE AND THE
DEAD BODY.
The mob seemed from the first to have an impression that, as regarded the military force,
no very serious results would arise from that quarter, for it was not to be supposed that, on
an occasion which could not possibly arouse any ill blood on the part of the soldiery, or on
which they could have the least personal feeling, they would like to get a bad name, which
would stick to them for years to come.
It was no political riot, on which men might be supposed, in consequence of differing in

opinion, to have their passions inflamed; so that, although the call of the civil authorities for
military aid had been acceded to, yet it was hoped, and, indeed, almost understood by the
officers, that their operations would be confined more to a demonstration of power, than
anything else.
Besides, some of the men had got talking to the townspeople, and had heard all about the
vampyre story, and not being of the most refined or educated class themselves, they felt
rather interested than otherwise in the affair.
Under these circumstances, then, we are inclined to think, that the disorderly mob of that
inn had not so wholesome a fear as it was most certainly intended they should have of the
red coats. Then, again, they were not attacking the churchyard, which in the first case, was
the main point in dispute, and about which the authorities had felt so very sore, inasmuch as
they felt that, if once the common people found out that the sanctity of such places could be
outraged which impunity, they would lose their reverence for the church; that is to say, for
the host of persons who live well and get fat in this country by the trade of religion.
Consequently, this churchyard was the main point of defence, and it was zealously looked
to when it need not have been done so, while the public-house where there really reigned
mischeief was half unguarded.
There are always in all communities, whether large or small, a number of persons who
really have, or fancy they have, something ot gain by disturbance. These people, of course,
care not for what pretext the public peace is violated; so long as there is a row, and
something like an excuse for running into other peoples's houses, they are satisfied.
To get into a public-house under such circumstances is an unexpected treat; and thus,
when the mob rushed into the inn with such symptoms of fury and excitement, there went
with the leaders of the disturbance a number of persons who never thought of getting
further than the bar, where they attacked the spirit-taps with an alacrity which showed how
great was their love for ardent compounds.

Leaving these persons behind, however, we will follow those who, with a real
superstition, and a furious interest in the affair of the vampyre, made their way towards the
upper chamber, determining to satisfy themselves if there were truth in the statement so
alarmingly made by the woman who had created such an emotion.
It is astonishing what people will do in crowds, in comparison with the acts that they
would be able to commit individually. There is usually a calmness, a sanctity, a sublimity
about death, which irresistibly induces a respect for its presence, alike from the educated or
from the illiterate; and let the object of the fell-destroyer's presence be whom it may, the
very consciousness that death has claimed it for its own, invests it with a halo of respect,
that, in life, the individual could never aspire to probably.
Let us precede these furious rioters for a few moments, and look upon the chamber of the
dead -- that chamber, which for a whole week, had been looked upon with a kind of
shuddering terror -- that chamber which had been darkened by having its sources of light
closed, as if it were a kind of disrespect to the dead to allow the pleasant sunshine to fall
upon the faded form.
And every inhabitant of that house, upon ascending and descending its intricate and
ancient staircases, had walked with a quiet and subdued step past that one particular door.
Even the tones of voice in which they spoke to each other, while they knew that that sad
remnant of mortality was in the house, was quiet and subdued, as if the repose of death was
but a mortal sleep, and could be broken by rude sounds.
Ay, even some of these very persons, who now with loud and boisterous clamour, had
rushed into the place, had visited the house and talked in whispers; but then they were alone
and men will do in throngs acts which, individually, they would shrink from with
compunction or cowardice, call it which we will.
The chamber of death is upon the second story of the house. It is a back room, the
windows of which command a view of that half garden, half farm-yard, which we find
generally belonging to country inns.
But now the shutters were closed, with the exception of one small opening, that in
daylight, would have admitted a straggling ray of light to fall upon the corpse. Now,
however, that the sombre shades of evening had wrapped everything in gloom, the room
appeared in total darkness, so that the most of those adventurers who had ventured into the
place shrunk back until lights were procured from the lower part of the house, with which
to enter the room.
A dim oil lamp in a niche sufficiently lighted the staircase, and, by friendly aid of its
glimmering beams, they had found their way up to the landing tolerably well, and had not
thought of the necessity of having lights with which to enter the apartments, until they
found them in utter darkness.

These requisites, however, were speedily procured from the kitchen of the inn. Indeed,
anything that was wanted was laid hold of without the least word of remark to the people of
the place, as if might, from that evening forthwith, was understood to constitute right, in
that town.
Up to this point no one had taken a very prominent part in the attack upon the inn, if
attack it could be called; but now, the man whom chance, or his own nimbleness, made the
first of the throng, assumed to himself a sort of control over his companions, and, turning to
them, he said, --
"Hark ye, my friends; we'll do everything quietly and properly; so I think we'd better
three or four of us go in at once, arm-in-arm."
"Psha!" cried one who had just arrived with a light; "it's your cowardice that speaks. I'll
go in first; let those follow me who like, and those who are afraid may remain where they
are."
He at once dashed into the room, and this immediately broke the spell of fear which was
beginning to creep over the others in consequence of the timid suggestion of the man who,
up to that moment, had been first and foremost in the enterprise.
In an instant the chamber was half filled with persons, four or five of whom carried lights;
so that, as it was not of very large dimensions, it was sufficiently illuminated for every
object in it to be clearly visible.
There was the bed, smooth and unruffled, as if waiting for some expected guest; while
close by its side a coffin, supported upon tressels, over which a sheet was partially thrown,
contained the sad remains of him who littled expected in life that, after death, he should be
stigmatised as a example of one of the ghastliest superstitions that ever found a home in the
human imagination.
It was evident that some one had been in the room; and that this was the woman whose
exiced fancy had led her to look upon the face of the corpse there could be no doubt, for the
sheet was drawn aside just sufficiently to discover the countenance.
The fact was that the stranger was unknown at the inn, or probably ere this the coffin lid
would have been screwed on; but it was hoped, up to the last moment, as advertisements
had been put into the county papers, that some one would come forward to identify and
claim him.
Such, however, had not been the case, and so his funeral had been determined upon.
The presence of so many persons at once effectually prevented any individual from
exhibiting, even if he felt, any superstitious fears about approaching the coffin; and so, with
one accord, they surrounded it, and looked upon the face of the dead.

There was nothing repulsive in that countenance. The fact was that decomposition had
sufficiently advanced to induce a relaxation of the muscles, and a softening of the fibres, so
that an appearance of calmness and repose had crept over the face which it did not wear
immediately after death.
It happened, too, that the face was full of flesh; for the death had been sudden, and there
had not been that wasting away of the muscles and integuments which makes the skin cling,
as it were, to the bone, when the ravages of long disease have exhausted the physical frame.
There was, unquestionably, a plumpness, a freshness, and a sort of vitality about the
countenance that was remarkable.
For a few moments there was a deathlike stillness in the apartment, and then one voice
broke the silence by exclaiming, --
"He's a vampyre, and has come here to die. Well he knows he'd be taken up by Sir
Francis Varney, and become one of the crew."
"Yes, yes," cried several voices at once; "a vampyre! a vampyre!"
"Hold a moment," cried one; "let us find somebody in the house who has seen him some
days ago, and then we can ascertain if there's any difference in his looks."
This suggestion was agreed to, and a couple of stout men ran down stairs, and returned in
a few moments with a trembling waiter, whom they had caught in the passage, and forced
to accompany them.
This man seemed to think that he was to be made a dreadful example of some sort of
way; and, as he was dragged into the room, he trembled, and looked as pale as death.
"What have I done, gentlemen?" he said; "I ain't a vampyre. Don't be driving a stake
through me. I assure you, gentlemen, I'm only a waiter, and have been for a matter of five-
and-twenty years."
"You'll be done no harm to," said one of his captors; "you've only got to answer a
question that will be put to you."
"Oh, well, certainly, gentlemen; anything you please. Coming -- coming, as I always say;
give your orders, the waiter's in the room."
"Look upon the face of that corpse."
"Certainly, certainly -- directly."
"Have you ever seen it before?"

"Seen it before! Lord bless you! yes, a dozen of times. I seed him afore he died, and I
seed him after; and when the undertaker's men came, I came up with them and I seed 'em
up put him in his coffin. You see I kept an eye on 'em gentlemen, 'cos I knows well enough
what they is. A cousin of mine was in the trade, and he assures me as one of 'em always
brings a tooth-drawing concern in his pocket, and looks in the mouth of the blessed corpse
to see if there's a blessed tooth worth pulling out."
"Hold your tongue," said one; "we want none of your nonsense. Do you see any
difference now in the face of the corpse to what it was some days since?"
"Well, I don't know; somehow, it don't look so rum"
"Does it look fresher?"
"Well, somehow or another, now you mention it, it's very odd, but it does.
"Enough," cried the man who had questioned him, with considerable excitement of
manner. Neighbours, are we to have our wives and our children scared to death by
vampyres?"
"No -- no!" cried everybody.
"Is not this, then, one of that dreadful order of beings?"
"Yes -- yes; what's to be done?"
"Drive a stake through the body, and so prevent the possibility of anything in the shape of
a restoration."
This was a terrific proposition; and even those who felt most strongly upon the subject,
and had their fears most awakened, shrank form carrying it into effect. Others, again,
applauded it, although they determined, in their own minds, to keep far enough off from the
execution of the job, which they hoped would devolve upon others, so that they might have
all the security of feeling that such a process had been gone through with the supposed
vampyre, without being in any way committed by the dreadful act.
Nothing was easier than to procure a stake from the garden in the rear of the premises; but
it was one thing to have the means at hand of carrying into effect so dreadful a proposition,
and another actually to do it.
For the credit of human nature, we regret that even then, when civilisation and popular
education had by no means made such rapid strides as in our times they have, such a
proposition should be entertained for a moment; but so it was; and just as an alarm was
given that a party of the soldiery had reached the inn, and had taken possession of the
doorway with a determination to arrest the rioters, a strong hedgestake had been procured,
and everything was in readiness for the perpetration of the horrible deed.

Even then those in the room, for they were tolerably sober, would have revolted,
probably, from the execution of so fearful an act; but the entrance of a party of military into
the lower portion of the tavern, induced those who had been making free with the strong
liquors below, to make a rush up-stairs to their companions with the hope of escaping
detection of the petty larceny, if they got into trouble on account of the riot.
These persons, infuriated by drink, were capable of anything, and to them, accordingly,
the more sober parties gladly surrendered the disagreeable job of rendering the supposed
vampyre perfectly innoxious, by driving a hedge-stake through his body -- a proceeding
which, it was currently believed, inflicted so much physical injury to the frame, as to render
his resuscitation out of the question.
The cries of alarm from below, joined now to the shouts of those mad rioters, produced a
scene of dreadful confusion.
We cannot, for we revolt at the office, describe particularly the dreadful outrage which
was committed upon the corpse; suffice it that two or three, maddened by drink, and incited
by others, plunged the hedge-stake through the body, and there left it, a sickening and a
horrible spectacle to any one who might cast his eyes upon it.
With such violence had the frightful and inhuman deed been committed, that the bottom
of the coffin was perforated by the stake, so that the corpse was actually nailed to its last
earthly tenement.
Some asserted, that at that moment an audible groan came from the dead man, and that
this arose from the extinguishment of that remnant of life which remained in him, on
account of his being a vampyre, and which would have been brought into full existence, if
the body had been placed in the rays of the moon, when at its full, according to the popular
superstition upon that subject.
Others, again, were quite ready to swear, that at the moment the stake was used, there was
a visible convulsion of all the limbs, and that the countenance, before so placid and so
clam, became immediately distorted, as if with agony.
But we have done with these horrible surmises; the dreadful deed has been committed,
and wild, ungovernable superstition has had, for a time, its sway over the ignorant and
debased.
--

Chapter XLIX.
THE MOB'S ARRIVAL AT SIR FRANCIS VARNEY'S. -- THE ATTEMPT TO GAIN

ADMISSION.
The soldiery had been sent for from their principal station near the churchyard, and had
advanced with some degree of reluctance to quell what they considered as nothing better
nor worse than a drunken brawl at a public-house, which they really considered they ought
not to be called to interfere with.
When, however, the party reached the spot, and heard what a confusion there was, and
saw in what numbers the rioters were assembling, it became evident to them that the case
was of a more serious complexion than they had at first imagined, and consequently they
felt that their professional dignity was not so much compromised with their interference
with the lawless proceedings.
Some of the constabulary of the town were there, and to them the soldiers promised they
would hand what prisoners they took, at the same time that they made a distinct condition
that they were not be be troubled with their custody, nor in any way further annoyed in the
business beyond taking care that they did not absolutely escape, after being once secured.
This was all that the civil authorities of the town required, and, in fact, they hoped that,
after making prisoners of a few of the ringleaders of the riotous proceedings, the rest would
disperse, and prevent the necessity of capturing them.
Be it known, however, that both military and civil authorities were completely ignorant of
the dreadful outrage against all common decency, which had been committed within the
public-house.
The door was well guarded, and the question now was how the rioters were to be made to
come down stairs, and be captured; and this was likely to remain a question, so long as no
means were adopted to make them descend. So that, after a time, it was agreed that a couple
of troopers would march up stairs with a constable, to enable him to secure any one who
seemed a principal in the riot.
But this only had the effect of driving those who were in the second-floor, and saw the
approach of the two soldiers, whom they thought were backed by the whole of their
comrades, up a narrow staircase, to a third-floor, rather consisting of lofts than of actual
rooms; but still, for the time, it was a refuge; and owning to the extreme narrowness of the
approach to it, which consisted of nearly a perpendicular staircase, with any degree of tact
or method, it might have been admirably defended.
In the hurry and scramble, all the lights were left behind; and when the two soldiers and
constables entered the room where the corpse had lain, they became, for the first time,
aware of what a horrible purpose had been carried out by the infuriated mob.

The sight was one of perfect horror, and hardened to scenes which might strike other
people as being somewhat of the terrific as these soldiers might be supposed to be by their
very profession, they actually sickened at the sight which the mutilated corpse presented,
and turned aside with horror.
These feelings soon gave way to anger and animosity against the crowd who could be
guilty of such an atrocious outrage; and, for the first time, a strong and interested
vengeance against the mob pervaded the breasts of those who were brought to act against it.
One of the soldiers ran down stairs to the door, and reported the scene which was to be
seen above. A determination was instantly come to, to capture as many as possible of those
who had been concerned in so diabolical an outrage, and leaving a guard of five men at the
door, and remainder of the party ascended the staircase, determined upon storming the last
refuge of the rioters, and dragging them to justice.
The report, however, of these proceedings that were taking place at the inn, spread
quickly over the whole town; and soon as large a mob of the disorderly and the idle as the
place could at all afford was assembled outside the inn.
This mob appeared appeared, for a time, inertly to watch the proceedings. It seemed
rather a hazardous thing to interfere with the soldiers, whose carbines look formidable and
troublesome weapons.
With true mob courage, therefore, they left the minority of their comrades, who were
within the house, to their fate; and after a whispered conference from one to the other, they
suddenly turned in a body, and began to make for the outskirts of the town.
They then separated, as if by common consent, and straggled out into the open country by
twos and threes, consolidating again into a mass when they had got some distance off, and
clear of any exertions that could be made by the soldiery to stay them.
The cry then rose of "Down with Sir Francis Varney -- slay him -- burn his house -- death
to all vampyres!" and, at a rapid pace, they proceeded in the direction of his mansion.
We will leave this mob, however, for the present, and turn our attention to those who are
at the inn, and are certainly in a position of some jeopardy. Their numbers were not great,
and they were unarmed; certainly, their best chance would have been to have surrendered at
discretion; but that was a measure which, if the sober ones had felt inclined to, those who
were infuriated and half maddened with drink would not have acceded to on any account.
A furious resistance was, therefore, fairly to be expected; and what means the soldiery
were likely to use for the purpose of storming this last retreat was a matter of rather anxious
conjecture.
In the case of a regular enemy, there would not, perhaps, have been much difficulty; but
here the capture of certain persons, and not their destruction, was the object; and how that

was to be accomplished by fair means, certainly was a question which nobody felt very
competent to solve.
Determination, however, will do wonders; and although the rioters numbered over forty,
notwithstanding all their desertions, and not above seventeen or eighteen soldiers marched
into the inn, we shall perceive that they succeeded in accomplishing their object without
any manoeuvering at all.
The space in which the rioters were confined was low, narrow, and inconvenient, as well
as dark, for the lights on the staircase cast up that height but very insufficient rays.
Weapons of defence they found but very few, and yet there were some which, to do them
but common credit, they used as effectually as possible.
These attics, or lofts, were used as lumber-rooms, and had been so for years, so that there
was a collection of old boxes, broken pieces of furniture, and other matters, which will, in
defiance of everything and everybody, collect in a house.
These were formidable means of defence, if not of offence, down a very narrow staircase,
had they been used with judgment.
Some of the rioters, who were only just drunk enough to be fool-hardy, collected a few of
these articles at the top of the staircase, and swore they would smash anybody who should
attempt to come up to them, a threat easier uttered than executed.
And besides, after all, if their position had ever been so impregnable, they must come
down eventually, or be starved out.
But the soldiers were not at liberty to adopt so slow a process of overcoming their enemy,
and up the second-floor staircase they went, with a determination of making short work of
the business.
They paused a moment, by word of command, on the landing, and then, after this slight
pause, the word was given to advance.
Now when men will advance, in spite of anything and everything, it is no easy matter to
stop them, and he who was foremost among the military would as soon thought of
hesitation to ascend the narrow staircase before him, when ordered so to do, as paying the
national debt. On he went, and down came a great chest, which, falling against his feet,
knocked him down as he attempted to scramble over it.
"Fire," said the officer; and it appeared that he had made some arrangements as to how
the order was to be obeyed, for the second man fired his carbine, and then scrambled over
his prostrate comrade; after which he stooped, and the third fired his carbine likewise, and
then hurried forward in the same manner.

At the first sound of the fire arms the rioters were taken completely by surprise; they had
not had the least notion of affairs getting to such a length. The smell of the powder, the loud
report, and the sensation of positive danger that accompanied these phenomena, alarmed
them most terrifically; so that, in point of fact, with the exception of the empty chest that
was thrown down in the way of the first soldier, no further idea of defence seemed in any
way to find a place in the hearts of the besieged.
They scrambled one over the other in their eagerness to get as far as possible from
immediate danger, which, of course, they conceived existed in the most imminent degree
the nearest to the door.
Such was the state of terror into which they were thrown, that each one at the moment
believed himself shot, and the soldiers had overcome all the real difficulties in getting
possession of what might thus be called the citadel of the inn, before those men who had
been so valorous a short time since recovered from the tremendous fright into which they
had been thrown.
We need hardly say that the carbines were loaded, but with blank cartridges, for there was
neither a disposition nor a necessity for taking the lives of these misguided people.
It was the suddenness and the steadiness of the attack that had done all the mischief to
their cause; but now, ere they recovered from the surprise of having their position so
completely taken by storm, they were handed down stairs, one by one, from soldier to
soldier, and into the custody of the civil authorities.
In order to secure the safe keeping of so large a body of prisoners, the constables, who
were in a great minority, placed handcuffs upon some of the most capable of the resistance;
so what with those who were thus secured, and those who were terrified into submission,
there was not a man of all the lot who had taken refuge in the attics of the public-house but
was a prisoner.
At the sound of fire-arms, the women who were outside the inn had, of course, raised a
prodigious clamour.
They believed directly that every bullet must have done some serious mischief to the
townspeople, and it was only upon one of the soldiers, a non-commissioned officer, who
was below, assuring them of the innoxious nature of the proceeding which restored
anything like equanimity.
"Silence!" he cried; "what are you howling about? Do you fancy that we've nothing better
to do than to shoot a parcel of fellows that are not worth the bullets that would be lodged in
their confounded carcases?"
"But we heard the gun," said a woman.

"Of course you did; it's the powder that makes the noise, not the bullet. You'll see them
all brought out safe wind and limb."
This assurance satisfied the women to a certain extent, and such had been their fear that
they should have had to look upon the spectacle of death, or of grevious wounds, that they
were comparatively quite satisfied when they saw husbands, fathers, and brothers, only in
the custody of the town officers.
And very sheepish some of the fellows looked, when they were handed down and
handcuffed, and the more especially when they had been routed only by a few blank
cartridges -- that sixpennyworth of powder had defeated them.
They were marched off to the town gaol, guarded by the military, who now probably
fancied that their night's work was over, and that the most turbulent and troublesome spirits
in the town had been secured.
Such, however, was not the case, for no sooner had comparative order been restored, than
common observation pointed to a dull red glare in the southern sky.
In a few more minutes there came in stragglers from the open country, shouting "Fire!
fire!" with all their might.
--

Chapter L.
THE MOB'S ARRIVAL AT SIR FRANCIS VARNEY'S. -- THE ATTEMPT TO GAIN

ADMISSION.
All eyes were directed towards that southern sky which each moment was becoming more
and more illuminated by the lurid appearance bespeaking a conflagration, which, if it was
not extensive, at all events was raging fiercely.
There came, too upon the wind, which set from that direction, strange sounds, resembling
shouts of triumph, combined occasionally with sharper cries, indicative of alarm.
With so much system and so quietly had this attack been made upon the house of Sir
Francis Varney -- for the consequences of it now exhibited themselves more unequivocally
-- that no one who had not actually accompanied the expedition was in the least aware that
it had been at all undertaken, or that anything of the kind was on the tapis.
Now, however, it could be no longer kept a secret, and as the infuriated mob, who had
sought this flagrant means of giving vent to their anger, saw the flames from the blazing
house rising high in the heavens, they felt convinced that further secresy was out of the
question.
Accordingly, in such cries and shouts as -- but for caution's sake -- they would have
indulged in from the very first, they now gave utterance to their feelings as regarded the
man whose destruction was aimed at.
"Death to the vampyre! -- death to the vampyre!" was the principal shout, and it was
uttered in tones which sounded like those of rage and disappointment.
But it is necessary, now that we have disposed of the smaller number of rioters who
committed so serious an outrage at the inn, that we should, with some degree of method,
follow the proceedings of the larger number, who went from the town towards Sir Francis
Varney's.
These persons either had information of a very positive nature, or a very strong suspicion
that, notwithstanding the mysterious and most unaccountable disappearance of the vampyre
in the old ruin, he would now be found, as usual, at his own residence.
Perhaps one of his own servants may have thus played the traitor to him; but, however it
was, there certainly was an air of confidence about some of the leaders of the tumultous
assemblage that induced a general belief that this time, at least, the vampyre would not
escape popular vengeance for being what he was.

We have before noticed that these people went out of the town at different points, and did
not assemble into one mass until they were at a sufficient distance off to be free from all
fear of observation.
Then some of the less observant and cautious of them began to indulge in shouts of rage
and defiance; but those who placed themselves foremost succeeded in procuring a halt, and
one said, --
"Good friends all, if we make any noise, it can only have one effect, and that is, to warn
Sir Francis Varney, and enable him to escape. If, therefore, we cannot go on quietly, I
propose that we return to our homes, for we shall accomplish nothing."
This advice was sufficiently and evidently reasonable to meet with no dissension; a death-
like stillness ensued, only broken by some two or three voices saying, in subdued tones, --
"That's right -- that's right. Nobody speak."
"Come on, then," said he who had given such judicious counsel; and the dark mass of
men moved towards Sir Francis Varney's house, as quietly as it was possible for such an
assemblage to proceed.
Indeed, saving the sound of the footsteps, nothing could be heard of them at all; and that
regular tramp, tramp, tramp, would have puzzled any one listening to it from any distance
to know in which direction it was proceeding.
In this way they went on until Sir Francis Varney's house was reached, and even then a
whispered word to halt was given, and all eyes were bent upon the building.
From but one window out of the numerous ones with which the front of the mansion was
studded did there shine the least light, and from that there came rather an uncommonly
bright reflection, probably arising from a reading lamp placed close to the window.
A general impression, they knew not why exactly, seemed to pervade everybody, that in
the room from whence streamed that bright light was Sir Francis Varney.
"The vampyre's room!" said several. "The vampyre's room! That is it!"
"Yes," said he who had a kind of moral control over his comrades; "I have no doubt but
he is there."
"What's to be done?" asked several.
"Make no noise whatever, but stand aside, so as not to be seen from the door when it is
opened."
"Yes, yes."

"I will knock for admittance, and, the moment it is answered, I will place this stick in
such a manner within, that the door cannot be closed again. Upon my saying 'Advance,' you
will make a rush forward, and we shall have possession immediately of the house."
All this was agreed to. The mob shrunk close to the walls of the house, and out of
immediate observation from the hall door, or from any of the windows, and then the leader
advanced, and knocked loudly for admission.
The silence was now of the most complete character that could be imagined. Those who
came there so bent upon vengeance were thoroughly convinced of the necessity of extreme
caution, to save themselves even yet from being completely foiled.
They had abundant faith, from experience, of the resources in the way of escape of Sir
Francis Varney, and not one among them was there who considered that there was any
chance of capturing him, except by surprise; and when once they got hold of him, they
determined he should not easily slip through their fingers.
The knock for admission produced no effect; and, after waiting three or four minutes, it
was very provoking to find such a wonderful amount of caution and cunning completely
thrown away.
"Try again," whispered one.
"Well, have patience; I am going to try again."
The man had the ponderous old-fashioned knocker in his hand, and was about to make
another appeal to Sir Francis Varney's door, when a strange voice said, --
"Perhaps you may as well say at once what you want, instead of knocking there to no
purpose."
He gave a start, for the voice seemed to come from the very door itself.
Yet it sounded decidedly human; and, upon a closer inspection, it was seen that a little
wicket-gate, not larger than a man's face, had been opened from within.
This was terribly provoking. Here was an extent of caution on the part of the garrison
quite unexpected. What was to be done?
"Well?" said the man who appeared at the little opening.
"Oh," said he who had knocked; "I -- "
"Well?"
"I -- that is to say -- ahem! Is Sir Francis Varney within?"

"Well?"
"I say, is Sir Francis Varney within?"
"Well; you have said it!"
"Ah, but you have not answered it."
"No."
"Well, is he at home?"
"I decline saying; so you had better, all of you, go back to the town again, for we are well
provided with all material to resist any attack you may be fools enough to make."
As he spoke, the servant shut the little square door with a bang that made his questioner
jump again. Here was a dilemma!
--

Chapter LI.
THE ATTACK UPON THE VAMPYRE'S HOUSE. -- THE FURY OF THE ATTACK.
-- THE FORCING OF THE DOORS, AND THE STRUGGLE.
A council of war was now called among the belligerents, who were somewhat taken aback
by the steady refusal of the servant to admit them and their apparent determination to resist
all endeavours on the part of the mob to get into and obtain possession of the house. It
argued that they were prepared to resist all attempts, and it would cost some few lives to get
into the vampyre's house. This passed through the minds of many as they retired behind the
angle of the wall where the council was to be held.
Here they looked in each others' faces as if to gather from that the general tone of the
feelings of their companions; but here they saw nothing that intimated the least idea of
going back as they came.
"It's all very well, mates, to take care of ourselves, you know," began one tall, brawny
fellow; "but, if we bean't to be sucked to death by a vampyre, why we must have the life
out of him."
"Ay, so we must."
"Jack Hodge is right; we must kill him, and there's no sin in it, for he has no right to it;
he's robbed some poor fellow of his life to prolong his own."
"Ay, ay, that's the way he does; bring him out, I say, then see what we will do with him."
"Yes, catch him first," said one, "and then we can dispose of him afterwards. I say,
neighbours, don't you think it would be as well to catch him first?"
"Haven't we come on purpose?"
"Yes, but do it."
"Ain't we trying it?"
"You will presently, when we come to get into the house."
"Well, what's to be done?" said one; "here we are in a fix, I think, and I can't see our way
out very clearly."
"I wish we could get in."
"But how is a question I don't very well see," said a large specimen of humanity.

"The best thing that can be done will be to go round and look over the whole house, and
then we may come upon some part where it is far easier to get in at than by the front door."
"But it won't do for us all to go round that way," said one; "a small party only should go,
else they will have all their people stationed at one point, and if we can divide them, we
shall beat them because they have not enough to defend more than one point at a time; now
we are numerous enough to make several attacks."
"Oh! that's the way to bother them all round; they'll give in, and then the place is our
own."
"No, no," said the big countryman, "I like to make a good rush and drive all afore us; you
know what ye have to do then, and you do it, ye know."
"If you can."
"Ay, to be sure, if we can, as you say; but can't we? that's what I want to know."
"To be sure we can."
"Then we'll do it, mate -- that's my mind; we'll do it. Come one, and let's have another
look at the street-door."
The big countryman left the main body, and resolutely walked up to the main avenue, and
approached the door, accompanied by about a dozen or less of the mob. When they came to
the door, they commenced knocking and kicking most violently, and assailing it with all
kinds of things they could lay their hands upon.
They continued at this violent exercise for some time -- perhaps for five minutes, when
the little square hole in the door was again opened, and a voice was heard to say, --
"You had better cease that kind of annoyance."
"We want to get in."
"It will cost you more lives to do so than you can afford to spare. We are well armed, and
are prepared to resist any effort you can make."
"Oh! it's all very well; but, an you won't open, why we'll make you; that's all about it."
This was said as the big countryman and his companions were leaving the avenue
towards the rest of the body.
"Then, takes this, as an earnest of what is to follow," said the man, and he discharged the
contents of a blunderbuss through the small opening, and its report sounded to the rest of
the mob like the report of a field-piece.

Fortunately for the party retiring the man couldn't take any aim, else it is questionable
how many of the party would have got off unwounded. As it was, several of them found
stray slugs were lodged in various parts of their persons, and accelerated their retreat from
the house of the vampyre.
"What luck?" inquired one of the mob to the others, as they came back; "I'm afraid you
had all the honour."
"Ay, ay, we have, and all the lead too," replied a man, as he placed his hand upon a sore
part of his person, which bled in consequence of a wound.
"Well, what's to be done?"
"Danged if I know," said one.
"Give it up," said another.
"No, no; have him out. I'll never give in while I can use a stick. They are in earnest and so
are we. Don't let us be frightened because they have a gun or two -- they can't have many;
and besides, if they have, we are too many for them. Besides, we shall all die in our beds."
"Hurrah! down with the vampyre!"
"So say I, lads. I don't want to be sucked to death when I'm a-bed. Better die like a man
than such a dog's death as that, and you have no revenge then."
"No, no; he has the better of us then. We'll have him out -- we'll burn him -- that's the way
we'll do it."
"Ay, so we will; only let us get in."
At that moment a chosen party returned who had been round the house to make a
reconnoissance.
"Well, well," inquired the mob, "what can be done now -- where can we get in?"
"In several places."
"All right; come along then; the place is our own."
"Stop a minute; they are armed at all points, and we must make an attack on all points,
else we may fail. A party must go round to the front-door, and attempt to beat it in; there
are plenty of poles and things that could be used for such a purpose."

"There is, besides, a garden-door, that opens into the house -- a kind of parlour; a kitchen-
door; a window in the flower-garden, and an entrance into a store-room; this place appears
strong, and is therefore unguarded."
"The very point to make an attack."
"Not quite."
"Why not?"
"Because it can easily be defended, and rendered useless to us. We must make an attack
upon all places but that, and, while they are being at those points, we can then enter at that
place, and then you will find them desert the other places when they see us inside."
"Hurrah! down with the vampyre!" said the mob, as they listened to this advice, and
appreciated the plan.
"Down with the vampyre!"
"Now, then, lads, divide, and make the attack; never mind their guns, they have but very
few, and if you rush in upon them, you will soon have the guns yourselves."
"Hurrah! hurrah!" shouted the mob.
The mob now moved away in different bodies, each strong enough to carry the house.
They seized upon a variety of poles and stones, and then made for the various doors and
windows that were pointed out by those who had made the discovery. Each one of those
who had formed the party of observation, formed a leader to the others, and at once
proceeded to the post assigned him.
The attack was so sudden and so simultaneous that the servants were unprepared; and
though they ran to the doors, and fired away, still they did but little good, for the doors
were soon forced open by the enraged rioters, who proceeded in a much more systematic
operation, using long heavy pieces of timber which were carried on the shoulder of several
men, and driving with the force of battering-rams -- which, in fact, they were -- against the
door.
Bang went the battering-ram, crash went the door, and the whole party rushed headlong
in, carried forward by their own momentum and fell prostrate, engine and all, into the
passage.
"Now, then, we have them," exclaimed the servants, who began to belabour the whole
party with blows, with every weapon they could secure.
Loudly did the fallen men shout for assistance, and but for their fellows who came
rushing in behind, they would have had but a sorry time of it.

"Hurrah!" shouted the mob; "the house is our own."
"Not yet," shouted the servants.
"We'll try," said the mob; and they rushed forward to drive the servants back, and they
met with a stout resistance, and as some of them had choppers and swords, there were a few
wounds given, and presently bang went the blunderbuss.
Two or three of the mob reeled and fell.
This produced a momentary panic, and the servants then had the whole of the victory to
themselves, and were about to charge, and clear the passage of their enemies, when a shout
behind attracted their attention.
That shout was caused by an entrance being gained in another quarter, whence the
servants were flying, and all was disorder.
"Hurrah! hurrah!" shouted the mob.
The servants retreated to the stairs, and here united, they made a stand, and resolved to
resist the whole force of the rioters, and they succeeded in doing so, too, for some minutes.
Blows were given and taken of a desperate character.
Somehow, there were no deadly blows received by the servants; there were being forced
and beaten, but they lost no life; this may be accounted for by the fact that the mob used no
more deadly weapons than sticks.
The servants of Sir Francis Varney, on the contrary, were mostly armed with deadly
weapons, which, however, they did not used unnecessarily.
They stood upon the hall steps -- the grand staircase, with long poles or sticks, about the
size of quarter-staves, and with these they belaboured those below most unmercifully.
Certainly, the mob were by no means cowards, for the struggle to close with their
enemies was as great as ever, and as firm as could well be. Indeed, they rushed on with a
desperation truly characteristic of John Bull, and defied the heaviest blows; for as fast as
one was stricken down another occupied his place, and they insensibly pressed their close
and compact front upon the servants, who were becoming fatigued and harassed.
"Fire, again," exclaimed a voice from among the servants.
The mob made no retrograde movement, but still continued to press onwards, and in
another moment a loud report rang through the house, and a smoke hung over the heads of
the mob.

A long groan or two escaped some of the men who had been wounded, and a still louder
from those who had not been wounded, and a cry arose of, --
"Down with the vampyre -- pull down -- destroy and burn the whole place -- down with
them all."
A rush succeeded, and a few more discharges took place, when a shout above attracted
the attention of both parties engaged in this fierce struggle. They paused by mutual consent,
to look and see what was the cause of that shout.
--

Chapter LII.
THE INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE MOB AND SIR FRNCIS VARNEY. -- THE
MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE. -- THE WINE CELLARS.
The shout that had so discomposed the parties who were thus engaged in a terrific struggle
came from a party above.
"Hurrah! hurrah!" they shouted a number of times, in a wild strain of delight. "Hurrah!
hurrah! hurrah!"
The fact was, a party of the mob had clambered up a verandah, and entered some of the
rooms upstairs, whence they emerged just above the landing near the spot where the
servants were resisting in a mass the efforts of the mob.
"Hurrah!" shouted the mob below.
"Hurrah!" shouted the mob above.
There was a momentary pause, and the servants divided themselves into two bodies, and
one turned to face those above, and the other those who were below.
A simultaneous shout was given by both parties of the mob, and a sudden rush was made
by both bodies, and the servants of Sir Francis Varney were broken in an instant. They were
instantly separated, and knocked about a good bit, but they were left to shift for themselves,
the mob had a more important object in view.
"Down with the vampyre!" they shouted.
"Down with the vampyre!" shouted they, and they rushed helter skelter through the
rooms, until they came to one where the door was partially open, and they could see some
person very leisurely seated.
"Here he is," they cried.
"Who? who?"
"The vampire."
"Down with him! kill him! burn him!"
"Hurrah! down with the vampire!"
These sounds were shouted out by a score of voices, and they rushed headlong into the
room.

But here their violence and headlong precipitancy were suddenly restrained by the
imposing and quiet appearance of the individual who was there seated.
The mob entered the room, and there was a sight, that if it did not astonish them, at least,
it caused them to pause before the individual who was seated there.
The room was filled with furniture, and there was a curtain drawn across the room, and
about the middle of it there was a table, behind which sat Sir Francis Varney himself,
looking all smiles and courtesy.
"Well, dang my smock-frock!" said one, "who'd ha' thought of this? He don't seem to care
much about it."
"Well, I'm d -- -- d!" said another; "he seems pretty easy, at all events. What is he going
to do?"
"Gentlemen," said Sir Francis Varney, rising, with the blandest of smiles, "pray,
gentlemen, permit me to inquire the cause of this condescension on your part. The visit is
kind."
The mob looked at Sir Francis, and then at each other, and then at Sir Francis again; but
nobody spoke. They were awed by this gentlemanly and collected behaviour.
"If you honour me with this visit from pure affection and neighbourly good-will, I thank
you."
"Down with the vampyre!" said one, who was concealed behind the rest, and not so much
overawed, as he had not seen Sir Francis.
Sir Francis Varney rose to his full height; a light gleamed across his features; they were
strongly defined then. His long front teeth, too, showed most strongly when he smiled, as
he did now, and said, in a bland voice, --
"Gentlemen, I am at your service. Permit me to say you are all welcome to all I can do for
you. I fear the interview will be somewhat inconvenient and unpleasant to you. As for
myself, I am entirely at your service."
As Sir Francis spoke, he bowed, and folded his hands together, and stepped forwards; but,
instead of coming onwards to them, he walked behind the curtain, and was immediately hid
from their view.
"Down with the vampyre!" shouted one.
"Down with the vampyre!" rang through the apartment; and the mob now, not awed by
the coolness and courtesy of Sir Francis, rushed forward, and, overturning the table, tore

down the curtain to the floor; but, to their amazement, there was no Sir Francis Varney
present.
"Where is he?"
"Where is the vampyre?"
"Where has he gone?"
These were cries that escaped every one's lips; and yet no one could give an answer to
them.
There Sir Francis Varney was not. They were completely thunderstricken. They could not
find out where he had gone to. There was no possible means of escape, that they could
perceive. There was not an odd corner, or even anything that could, by any possibility, give
even a suspicion that even a temporary concealment could take place.
They looked over every inch of flooring and of wainscoting; not the remotest trace could
be discovered.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know," said one -- "I can't see where he could have gone. There ain't a hole as big
as a keyhole."
"My eye!" said one; "I shouldn't be at all surprised, if he were to blow up the whole
house."
"You don't say so!"
"I never heard as how vampyres could do so much as that. They ain't the sort of people,"
said another.
"But if they can do one thing, they can do another."
"That's very true."
"And what's more, I never heard as how a vampyre could make himself into nothing
before; yet he has done so."
"He may be in this room now."
"He may."
"My eyes! what precious long teeth he had!"

"Yes; and had he fixed one on 'em in to your arm, he would have drawn every drop of
blood out of your body; you may depend upon that," said an old man.
"He was very tall."
"Yes; too tall to be any good."
"I shouldn't like him to have laid hold of me, though, tall as he is; and then he would have
lifted me up high enough to break my neck, when he let me fall."
The mob routed about the room, tore everything out of its place, and as the object of their
search seemed to be far enough beyond their reach, their courage rose in proportion, and
they shouted and screamed with a proportiouate increase of noise and bustle; and at length
they ran about mad with rage and vexation, doing all the mischief that was in their power to
inflict.
Then they became mischievous, and tore the furniture from its place, and broke it into
pieces, and then amused themselves with breaking it up, throwing pieces at the pierglasses,
in which they made dreadful holes; and when that was gone, they broke up the frames.
Every hole and corner of the house was searched; but there was no Sir Francis Varney to
be found.
"The cellars, the cellars!" shouted a voice.
"The cellars, the cellars!" re-echoed nearly every pair of lips in the whole place; in
another moment, there was crushing and crowding to get down into the cellars.
"Hurray!" said one, as he knocked off the neck of the bottle that first came to hand.
"Here's luck to vampyre-hunting! Success to our chase!"
"So say I, neighbour; but is that your manners to drink before your betters?"
So saying, the speaker knocked the other's elbow, while he was in the act of lifting the
wine to his mouth; and thus he upset it over his face and eyes.
"D -- n it!" cried the man; "how it makes my eyes smart! Dang thee! if I could see, I'd
ring thy neck!"
"Success to vampyre-hunting!" said one.
"May we be lucky yet!" said another.
"I wouldn't be luckier than this," said another, as he, too, emptied a bottle. "We couldn't
desire better entertainment, where the reckoning is all paid."

"Excellent!"
"Very good!"
"Capital wine this!"
"I say, Huggins!"
"Well," said Huggins.
"What are you drinking?"
"Wine."
"What wine?"
"Danged if I know," was the reply. "It's wine, I suppose; for I know it ain't beer nor
spirits; so it must be wine."
"Are you sure it ain't bottled men's blood?"
"Eh?"
"Bottled blood, man! Who knows what a vampyre drinks? It may be his wine. He may
feast upon that before he goes to bed of a night, drink anybody's health, and make himself
cheerful on bottled blood!"
"Oh, danged! I'm so sick; I wish I hadn't taken the stuff. It may be as you say, neighbour,
and then we be cannibals."
"Or vampyres."
"There's a pretty thing to think of."
By this time some were drunk, some were partially so, and the remainder were crowding
into the cellars to get their share of the wine.
The servants had now slunk away; they were no longer noticed by the rioters, who,
having nobody to oppose them, no longer thought of anything, save the searching after the
vampyre, and the destruction of the property. Several hours had been spent in this manner,
and yet they could not find the object of their search.
There was not a room, or cupboard, or a cellar, that was capable of containing a cat, that
they did not search, besides a part of the rioters keeping a very strict watch on the outside
of the house and all about the grounds, to prevent the possibility of the escape of the
vampyre.

There was a general cessation of active hostilities at that moment; a reaction after the
violent excitement and exertion they had made to get in. Then the escape of their victim,
and the mysterious manner in which he got away, was also a cause of the reaction, and the
rioters looked in each others' countenances inquiringly.
Above all, the discovery of the winecellar tended to withdraw them from violent
measures; but this could not last long, there must be an end to such a scene, for there never
was a large body of men assembled for an evil purpose, who ever were, for any length of
time, peaceable.
To prevent the more alarming effects of drunkenness, some few of the rioters, after
having taken some small portion of the wine, became, from the peculiar flavour it
possessed, imbued with the idea that it was really blood, and forthwith commenced an
instant attack upon the wine and liquors, and they were soon mingling in one stream
throughout the cellars.
This destruction was loudly declaimed against by a large portion of the rioters, who were
drinking; but before they could make any efforts to save the liquor, the work of destruction
had not only been begun, but was ended, and the consequence was, the cellars were very
soon evacuated by the mob.
--

Chapter LIII.
THE DESTRUCTION OF SIR FRANCIS VARNEY'S HOUSE BY FIRE. -- THE

ARRIVAL OF THE MILITARY, AND A SECOND MOB.
Thus many moments had not elapsed ere the feelings of the rioters became directed into a
different channel from that in which it had so lately flowed. When urged about the house
and grounds for the vampyre, they became impatient and angry at not finding him. Many
believed that he was yet about the house, wile many were of opinion that he had flown
away by some mysterious means only possessed by vampyres and such like people.
"Fire the house, and burn him out," said one.
"Fire the house!"
"Burn the den!" now arose in shouts from all present, and then the mob were again
animated by the love of mischief that seemed to be the strongest feelings that animated
them.
"Burn him out -- burn him out!" were the only words that could be heard from any of the
mob. The words ran through the house like wild-fire, nobody thought of anything else, and
all were seen running about in confusion. There was no want of good will on the part of the
mob to the undertaking; far from it, and they proceeded in the work con amore. They
worked together ith right good will, and the result was soon seen by the heaps of
combustible materials that were collected in a short time from all parts of the house.
All the old dry wood furniture that could be found was piled up in a heap, and to these
were added a number of faggots, and also some shavings that wre found in the cellar.
"All right!" exclaimed one man, in exultation. "Yes," replied a second; "all right -- all
right! Set light to it, and he will be smoked out if not burned."
"Let us be sure that all are out of the house," suggested one of the bystanders.
"Ay, ay," shouted several; "give them all a chance. Search through the house and give
them a warning."
"Very well; give me the light, and then when I come back I will set light to the fire at
once, and then I shall know all is empty, and so will you too."
This was at once agreed to by all, with acclamations, and the light being handed to the
man, he ascended the stairs, crying out in a loud voice, --
"Come out -- come out! the house is on fire!"

"Fire! fire! fire!" shouted the mob as a chorus, every now and then at intervals.
In about ten minutes more, there came a cry of " all right; the house is empty," from up
the stairs, and the man descended in haste to the hall.
"Make haste, lads, and fire away, for I see the red coats are leaving the town."
"Hurra! hurra!" shouted the infuriated mob. " Fire -- fire -- fire the house! Burn out the
vampyre! Burn down the house -- burn him out, and see if e can stand fire."
Amidst all this tumult there came a sudden blaze upon all around, for the pile had been
fired.
"Hurra!" shouted the mob -- "hurra!" and they danced like maniacs round the fire;
looking, in fact, like so many wild Indians, dancing round their roasting victims, or some
demons at an infernal feast.
The torch had been put to twenty different places, and the flames united into one, and
suddenly shot up with a velocity, and roared with a sound that aused many who were
present to make a precipitate retreat from the hall. This soon became a necessary measure
of self-preservation, and it required no urging to induce them to quit a place that was
burning rapidly and ven furiously.
"Get the poles and firewood -- get faggots," shouted some of the mob, and, lo, it was done
almost by magic. They brought the faggots and wood piled up or winter use, and laid them
near all the doors, and especially the main entrance. Nay, every gate or door belonging to
the outhouses was brought forward and placed upon the fire, which now began to reach the
upper stories.
"Hurra -- fire! Hurra -- fire!"
And a loud shout of triumph came from the mob as they viewed the progress of the
flames, as they came roaring and tearing through the house doors and the windows.
Each new victory of the element was a signal to the mob for a cheer; and a hearty cheer,
too, came from them.
"Where is the vampyre now?" exclaimed one.
"Ha! where is he?" said another.
"If he be there," said the man, pointing to the flames, "I reckon he's got a warm berth of
it, and, at the same time, very little water to boil in his kettle."
"Ha, ha! what a funny old man is Bob Mason; he's always poking fun; he'd joke if his
wife were dying."

"There is many a true word spoken in jest," suggested another; "and, to my mind, Bob
Mason wouldn't be very much grieved if his wife were to die."
"Die?" said Bob; "she and I have lived and quarrelled daily a matter of five-and-thirty
years, and, if that ain't enough to make a man sick of being married, and of his wife, hang
me, that's all. I say I am tired." This was said with much apparent sincerity, and several
laughed at the old man's heartiness.
"It's all very well," said the old man; "it's all very well to laugh about matters you don't
understand, but I know it isn't a joke -- not a bit on it. I tells you what it is, neighbour, I
never made but one grand mistake in all my life."
"And what was that?"
"To tie myself to a woman."
"Why, you'd get married to-morrow if your wife were to die to-day," said one.
"If I did, I hope I may marry a vampyre. I should have something then to think about. I
should know what's o'clock. But, as for my old woman, lord, lord, I wish Sir Francis
Varney had had her for life. I'll warrant when the next natural term of his existence came
round again, he wouldn't be in no hurry to renew it; if he did, I should say that vampyres
had the happy lot of managing women, which I haven't got."
"No, nor anybody else."
A loud shout now attracted their attention, and, upon looking in the quarter whence it
came, they descried a large body of people coming towards them; from one end of the mob
could be seen a long string of red coats.
"The red coats!" shouted one.
"The military!" shouted another.
It was plain the military who had been placed in the town to quell disturbances, had been
made acquainted with the proceedings at Sir Francis Varney's house, and were now
marching to relieve the place, and to save the property.
They were, as we have stated, accompanied by a vast concourse of people, who came out
to see what they were going to see, and seeing the flames at Sir Fancis Varney's house, they
determined to come all the way, and be present.
The military, seeing the disturbance in the distance, and the flames issuing from the
windows, made the best of their way towards the scene of tumult with what speed they
could make.

"Here they come," said one.
"Yes, just in time to see what is done." "Yes, they can go back and say we have burned
the vampyre's house down -- hurra!"
"Hurra!" shouted the mob, in prolonged accents, and it reached the ears of the military.
The officer urged the men onwards, and they responded to his words, by exerting
themselves to step out a little faster.
"Oh, they should have been here before this; it's no use, now, they are too late."
"Yes, they are too late."
"I wonder if the vampyre can breathe through the smoke, and live in fire," said one.
"I should think he must be able to do so, if he can stand shooting, as we know he can --
you can't kill a vampyre; but yet he must be consumed, if the fre actually touches him, but
not unless he can bear almost anything."
"So he can."
"Hurra!" shouted the mob, as a tall flame shot through the top windows of the house.
The fire had got the ascendant now, and no hopes could be entertained, however
extravagant, of saving the smallest article that had been left in the ansion.
"Hurra!" shouted the mob with the military, who came up with them. "Hurra!" shouted
the others in reply.
"Quick march!" said the officer; and then, in a loud, commanding tone, he shouted,
"Clear the way, there! clear the way." "Ay, there's room enough for you," said the old
Mason; "what are you making so much noise about?"
There was a general laugh at the officer, who took no notice of the words, but ordered his
men up before the burning pile, which was now an immense mass of flame.
The mob who had accompanied the military now mingled with the mob that had set the
house of Sir Francis Varney on fire ere the military had come up ith them.
"Halt!" cried out the officer; and the men, obedient to the word of command, halted, and
drew up in a double line before the house.
There were then some words of command issued, and some more given to some of the
subalterns, and a party of men, under the command of a sergeant, was sent off from the
main body, to make a circuit of the house and grounds.

The officer gazed for some moments upon the burning pile without speaking; and then,
turning to the next in command, he said in low tones, as h looked upon the mob, --
"We have come too late."
"Yes, much."
"The house is now nearly gutted."
"It is."
"And those who came crowding along with us are inextricably mingled with the others
who have been the cause of all this mischief; there's no distinguishing them one from
another."
"And if you did, you could not say who had done it, and who had not; you could prove
nothing."
"Exactly."
"I shall not attempt to take prisoners, unless any act is perpetrated beyond what has been
done."
"It is a singular affair."
"Very."
"This Sir Francis Varney is represented to be a courteous, gentlemanly man," said the
officer.
"No doubt about it, but he's beset by a parcel of people who do not mind cutting a throat
if they can get an opportunity of doing so." "And I expect they will."
"Yes, when there is a popular excitement against any man, he had better leave this part at
once and altogether. It is dangerous to tamper with popular prejudices; no man who has any
value for his life ought to do so. It is a sheer act of suicide."
--

Chapter LIV.
THE BURNING OF VARNEY'S HOUSE. -- A NIGHT SCENE. -- POPULAR

SUPERSTITION.
The officer ceased to speak, and then the party whom he had sent round the house and
grounds returned, and gained the main body orderly enough, and the sergeant went forward
to make his report to his superior officer.
After the usual salutation, he waited for the inquiry to be put to him as to what he had
seen.
"Well, Scott, what have you done?"
"I went round the premises, sir, according to your instructions, but saw no one either in
the vicinity of the house, or in the grounds around it."
"No strangers, eh?"
"No, sir, none."
"You saw nothing at all likely to lead to any knowledge as to who it was that has caused
this catastrophe?"
"No, sir."
"Have you learnt anything among the people who are the perpetrators of this fire?"
"No, sir."
"Well, then, that will do, unless there is anything else that you can think of."
"Nothing further, sir, unless it is that I heard some of them say that Sir Francis Varney
has persished in the flames."
"Good heavens!"
"So I heard, sir."
"That must be impossible, and yet why should it be so? Go back, Scott, and bring me
some person who can give me some information upon this point."
The sergeant departed towards the people, who looked at him without any distrust, for he
came single-handed, though they thought he came with the intention of learning what they
knew of each other, and so stroll about with the intention of getting up accusations against

them. But this was not the case; the officer didn't like the work well enough; he'd rather
have been elsewhere.
At length the sergeant came to one man, whom he accosted, and said to him, --
"Do you know anything of yonder fire?"
"Yes; I do know it is a fire."
"Yes, and so do I."
"My friend," said the sergeant, "when a soldier asks a question he does not expect an
uncivil answer."
"But a soldier may ask a question that may have an uncivil end to it."
"He may; but it is easy to say so."
"I do say so, then, now."
"Then I'll not trouble you any more."
The sergeant moved on a pace or two more, and then, turning to the mob, he said, --
"Is there any one among you who can tell me anything concerning the fate of Sir Francis
Varney?"
"Burnt!"
"Did you see him burnt?"
"No; but I saw him."
"In the flames?"
"No; before the house was on fire."
"In the house?"
"Yes; and he has not been seen to leave it since, and we conclude he must have been
burned."
"Will you come and say as much to my commanding officer? It is all I want."
"Shall I be detained?"

"No."
"Then I will go," said the man, and he hobbled out of the crowd towards the sergeant. "I
will go and see the officer, and tell him what I know, and that is very little, and can
prejudice no one."
"Hurrah!" said the crowd, when they heard this latter assertion; for, at first, they began to
be in some alarm lest there should be something wrong about this, and some of them get
identified as being active in the fray.
The sergeant let the man back to the spot, where the officer stood a little way in advance
of his men.
"Well, Scott," he said, "what have we here?"
"A man who has volunteered a statement, sir."
"Oh! Well, my man, can you say anything concerning all this disturbance that we have
here?"
"No, sir."
"Then what did you come here for?"
"I understood the sergeant to want some one who could speak of Sir Francis Varney."
"Well?"
"I saw him."
"Where?"
"In the house.
"Exactly; but have you not seen him out of it?"
"Not since; nor any one else, I believe."
"Where was he?"
"Upstairs, where he suddenly disappeared, and nobody can tell where he may have gone
to. But he has not been seen out of the house since, and they say he could not have gone
bodily out if they had not seen him."
"He must have been burnt," said the officer, musingly; "he could not escape, one would
imagine, without being seen by some one out of such a mob."

"Oh, dear no, for I am told they placed a watch at every hole, window, or door, however
high, and they say nothing of him -- not even fly out!"
"Fly out! I'm speaking of a man!"
"And I of a vampire!" said the man, carelessly.
"A vampyre! Pooh, pooh!"
"Oh no! Sir Francis Varney is a vampyre! There can be no sort of doubt about it. You
have only to look at him, and you will soon be satisfied of that. See his great sharp teeth in
front, and ask yourself what they are for, and you will soon find the answer. They are to
make holes with in the bodies of his victims, through which he can suck their blood!"
The officer looked at the man in astonishment for a few moments, as if he doubted his
own ears, and then he said, --
"Are you serious?"
"I am ready to swear to it."
"Well, I have heard a great deal about popular superstition, and thought I had seen
something of it; but this is decidedly the worst case that ever I saw or heard of. You had
better go home, my man, than, by your presence, countenance such a gross absurdity."
"For all that," said the man, "Sir Francis Varney is a vampyre -- a blood-sucker -- a
human blood-sucker!"
"Get away with you," said the officer, "and do not repeat such folly before any one."
The man almost jumped when he heard the tone in which this was spoken, for the officer
was both angry and contemptuous, when he heard the words of the man.
"These people," he added, turning to the sergeant, "are ignorant in the extreme. One
would think we had got into the country of vampires, instead of a civilised community."
The day was going down now; the last rays of the setting sun glimmered upwards, and
still shone upon the tree-tops. The darkness of night was still fast closing around them. The
mob stood a motley mass of human beings, wedged together, dark and sombre, gazing upon
the mischief that had been done -- the work of their hands. The military stood at ease before
the burning pile, and by their order and regularity, presented a contrast to the mob, as
strongly by their bright gleaming arms, as by their dress and order.
The flames now enveloped the whole mansion. There was not a window or a door from
which the fiery element did not burst forth in clouds, and forked flames came rushing forth
with a velocity truly wonderful.

The red glare of the flames fell upon all objects around for some distance -- the more
especially so, as the sun had sunk, and a bank of clouds rose from beneath the horizon and
excluded all his rays; there was no twilight, and there was, as yet, no moon.
The country side was enveloped in darkness, and the burning house could be seen for
miles around, and formed a rallying-point to all men's eyes.
The engines that were within reach came tearing across the country, and came to the fire;
but they were of no avail. There was no supply of water, save from the ornamental ponds.
These they could only get at by means that were tedious and unsatisfactory, considering the
emergency of the case.
The house was a lone one, and it was being entirely consumed before they arrived, and
therefore there was not the remotest chance of saving the least article. Had they ever such a
supply of water, nothing could have been effected by it.
Thus the men stood idly by, passing their remarks upon the fire and the mob.
Those who stood around, and within the influence of the red glare of the flames, looked
like so many demons in the infernal regions, watching the progress of lighting the fire,
which we are told by good Christians is the doom of the unfortunate in spirit, and the
woefully unlucky in circumstances.
It was a strange sight that; and there were many persons who would, without doubt, have
rather been snug by their own fire-side than they would have remained there; but it
happened that no one felt inclined to express his inclination to his neighbour, and,
consequently, no one said anything on the subject.
None would venture to go alone across the fields, where the spirit of the vampyre might,
for all they knew to the contrary, be waiting to pounce upon them, and worry them.
No, no; no man would have quitted that mob to go back alone to the village; they would
sooner have stood there all night through. That was an alternative that none of the number
would very willingly accept.
The hours passed away, and the house that had been that morning a noble and well-
furnished mansion, was now a smouldering heap of ruins. The flames had become
somewhat subdued, and there was now more smoke than flames.
The fire had exhausted itself. There was now no more material that could serve it for fuel,
and the flames began to become gradually enough subdued.
Suddenly there was a rush, and then a bright flame shot upward for an instant, so bright
and so strong, that it threw a flash of light over the country for miles; but it it was only
momentary, and it subsided.

The roof, which had been built strong enough to resist almost anything, after being
burning for a considerable time, suddenly gave way, and came in with a tremendous crash,
and then all was for a moment darkness.
After this the fire might be said to be subdued, it having burned itself out; and the flames
that could now be seen were but the result of so much charred wood, that would probably
smoulder away for a day or two, if left to itself to do so. A dense mass of smoke arose from
the ruins, and blackened the atmosphere around, and told the spectators the work was done.
--

Chapter LV.
THE RETURN OF THE MOB AND MILITARY TO THE TOWN. -- THE MADNESS
OF THE MOB. -- THE GROCER'S REVENGE.
On the termination of the conflagration, or, rather, the fall of the roof, with the loss of
grandeur in the spectacle, men's minds began to be free from the exitement that chained
them to the spot, watching the progress of that element which has been truly described as a
very good servant, but a very bad master; and of the truth of this every one must be well
satisfied.
There was now remaining little more than the livid glare of the hot and burning embers;
and this did not extend far, for the walls were too strongly built to fall in from their own
weight; they were strong and stout, and intercepted the little light the ashes would have
given out.
The mob now began to feel fatigued and chilly. It had been standing and walking about
many hours, and the approach of exhaustion could not be put off much longer, especially as
there was no longer any great excitement to carry it off.
The officer, seeing that nothing was to be done, collected his men together, and they were
soon seen in motion. He had been ordered to stop any tumult that he might have seen, and
to save any property. But there was nothing to do now; all the property that could have been
saved was now destroyed, and the mob were beginning to disperse, and creep towards their
own houses.
The order was then given for the men to take close order, and keep together, and the word
to march was given, which the men obeyed with alacrity, for they had no good-will in
stopping there the whole of the night.
The return to the village of both the mob and the military was not without its vicissitudes;
accidents of all kinds were rife amongst them; the military, however, taking the open paths,
soon diminished the distance, and that, too, with little or no accidents, save such as might
have been expected from the state of the fields, after they had been so much trodden down
of late.
Not so the townspeople or the peasantry; for, by way of keeping up their spirits, and
amusing themselves on their way home, they commenced larking, as they called it, which
often meant the execution of practical jokes, and these sometimes were of a serious nature.
The night was dark at that hour, especially so when there was a number of persons
traversing about, so that little or nothing could be seen.

The mistakes and blunders that were made were numerous. In one place there were a
number of people penetrating a path that lead only to a hedge and deep ditch; indeed it was
a brook very deep and muddy.
Here they came to a stop and endeavoured to ascertain its width, but the little reflected
light they had was deceptive, and it did not appear so broad as it was.
"Oh, I can jump it," exclaimed one.
"And so an I," said another, "I have done so before, and why should I not do so now."
This was unanswerable, and as there were many present, at least a dozen were eager to
jump.
"If thee can do it, I know I can," said a brawny countryman; "so I'll do it at once."
"The sooner the better," shouted some one behind, "or you'll have no room for a run,
here's a lot of 'em coming up; push over as quickly as you can."
Thus urged, the jumpers at once made a rush to the edge of the ditch, and many jumped,
and many more, from the prevailing darkness, did not see exactly where the ditch was, and
taking one or two steps too many, found themselves up above the waist in muddy water.
Nor were those who jumped much better off, for nearly all jumped short or fell
backwards into the stream, and were dragged out in a terrible state.
"Oh, lord! oh, lord!" exclaimed one poor fellow, dripping wet and shivering with cold, "I
shall die! oh, the rheumatiz; there'll be a pretty winter for for me; I'm half dead."
"Hold your noise," said another, "and help me to get the mud out of my eye; I can't see."
"Never mind," added a third, "considering how you jump, I don't think you want to see."
"This comes a hunting vampyres."
"Oh, it's all a judgment; who knows but he mayh be in the air; it is nothing to laugh at as I
shouldn't be surprised if he were; only think how precious pleasant."
"However pleasant it may be to you," remarked one, "it's profitable to a good many."
"How so?"
"Why, see the numbers of things that will be spoiled, coats torn, hats crushed, heads
broken, and shoes burst. Oh, it's an ill-wind that blows nobody any good."
"So it is, but you may benefit anybody you like, so you don't do it at my expence."

In one part of a field where there were some stiles and gates, a big countryman caught a
fat shopkeeper with the arms of the stile a terrible poke in the stomach; while the breath
was knocked out of the poor man's stomach, and he was gasping with agony, the fellow set
to laughing, and said to his companions, who were of the same class --
"I say, Jim, look at the grocer, he hasn't got any wind to spare, I'd run him for a wager,
see how he gapes like a fish out of water."
The poor shopkeeper felt indeed like a fish out of water, and as he afterwards declared he
felt just as if he had had a red hot clock weight thrust into the midst of his stomach and
there left to cool.
However, the grocer would be revenged upon his tormentor, who had now lost sight of
him, but the fat man, after a time, recovering his wind, and the pain in his stomach
becoming less intense, he gathered himself up.
"My name ain't Jones," he muttered, "if I don't be one to his one for that; I'll do something
that shall make him remember what it is to insult a respectable tradesman. I'll never forgive
such an insult. It is dark, and that's why it is he has dared to do this."
Filled with dire thoughts and a spirit of revenge, he looked from side to side to see with
what he could effect his object, but could espy nothing.
"It's shameful," he muttered; "what would I give for a little retort. I'd plaster his ugly
countenance."
As he spoke, he placed his hands on some pales to rest himself, when he found that they
stuck to them, the pales had that day been newly pitched.
A bright idea now struck him.
"If I could only get a handful of this stuff," he thought, "I should be able to serve him out
for serving me out. I will, cost what it may; I'm resolved upon that. I'll not have my wind
knocked out, and my inside set on fire for nothing. No, no; I'll be revenged on him."
With this view he felt over the pales, and found that he could scrape off a little only, but
not with his hands; indeed, it only plastered them; he, therefore, marched about for
something to scrape it off with.
"Ah, I have a knife, a large pocket knife, that will do, that is the sort of thing I want."
He immediately commenced feeling for it, but had scarcely got his hand into his pocket
when he found there would be a great difficulty in either pushing it in further or
withdrawing it altogether, for the pitch made it difficult to do either, and his pocket stuck to
his hands like a glove.

"D -- n it," said the grocer, "who would have thought of that! here's a pretty go, curse that
fellow, he is the cause of all this; I'll be revenged upon him, if it's a year hence."
The enraged grocer drew his hand out, but was unable to effect his object in withdrawing
the knife also; but he saw something shining, he stooped to pick it up, exclaiming as he did
so, in a gratified tone of voice,
"Ah, here's something that will do better."
As he made a grasp at it, he found he had inserted his hand into something soft.
"God bless me! what now?"
He pulled his hand hastily away, and found that it stuck slightly, and then he saw what it
was.
"Ay, ay, the very thing. Surely it must have been placed here on purpose by the people."
The fact was, he had placed his hand into a pot of pitch that had been left by the people
who had been at work at pitching the pales, but had been attracted by the fire at Sir Francis
Varney's, and to see which they had left their work, and the pitch was left on a smouldering
peat fire, so that when Mr. Jones, the grocer, accidentally put his hand into it he found it
just warm.
When he made this discovery he dabbed his hand again into the pitch-pot, exclaiming, --
"In for a penny, in for a pound."
And he endeavoured to secure as large a handful of the slippery and stickey stuff as he
could, and this done he set off to come up with the big countryman who had done him so
much indignity and made his stomach uncomfortable.
He soon came up with him, for the man had stopped rather behind, and was larking, as it
is called, with some men, to whom he was a companion.
He had slipped down a bank, and was partially sitting down on the soft mud. In his bustle,
the little grocer came down with a slide, close to the big countryman.
"Ah -- ah! my little grocer," said the countryman, holding out his hand to catch him, and
drawing him towards himself, "You will come and sit down by the side of your old friend."
As he spoke, he endeavoured to pull Mr. Jones down, too; but that individual only replied
by fetching the countryman a swinging smack across the face with the handful of pitch.
"There, take that; and now we are quits; we shall be old friends after this, eh? Are you
satisfied? You'll remember me, I'll warrant."

As the grocer spoke, he rubbed his hands over the face of the fallen man, and then rushed
from the spot with all the haste he could make.
The countryman sat a moment or two confounded, cursing, and swearing, and spluttering,
vowing vengeance, believing that it was mud only that had been plastered over his face; but
when he put his hands up, and found out what it was, he roared and bellowed like a town-
bull.
He cried out to his companions that his eyes were pitched; but they only laughed at him,
thinking he was having some foolish lark with them.
It was next day before he got home, for he wandered about all night; and it took him a
week to wash the pitch off by means of grease; and ever afterwards he recollected the
pitching of his face; nor did he ever forget the grocer.
Thus it was the whole party returned a long while after dark across the fields, with all the
various accidents that were likely to befal such an assemblage of people.
The vampyre hunting cost many of them dear, for clothes were injured on all sides, hats
lost, and shoes missing in a manner that put some of the rioters to much inconvenience.
Soon afterwards, the military retired to their quarters; and the townspeople at length
became tranquil, and nothing more was heard or done that night.
--

Chapter LVI.
THE DEPARTURE OF THE BANNERWORTHS FROM THE HALL. -- THE NEW

ABODE. -- JACK PRINGLE, PILOT.
During that very evening, on which the house of Sir Francis Varney was fired by the mob,
another scene, and one of a different character, was enacted at Bannerworth Hall, where the
owners of that ancient place were departing from it.
It was towards the latter part of the day, that Flora Bannerworth, Mrs. Bannerworth, and
Henry Bannerworth, were preparing themselves to depart from the house of their ancestors.
The intended proprietor was, as we have already been made acquainted with, the old
admiral, who had taken the place somewhat mysteriously, considering the way in which he
usually did business.
The admiral was walking up and down the lawn before the house, and looking up at the
windows every now and then; and turning to Jack Pringle, he said, --
"Jack, you dog."
"Ay -- ay sir."
"Mind you convoy these women into the right port; do you hear? and no mistaking the
bearings; do you hear?"
"Ay, ay sir."
"These crafts want care; and you are pilot, commander, and all; so mind and keep your
weather eye open."
"Ay, ay, sir. I knows the craft well enough, and I knows the roads, too; there'll be no end
of foundering against the breakers to find where they lie."
"No, no, Jack; you needn't do that; but mind your bearings. Jack, mind your bearings."
"Never fear; I know 'em, well enough; my eyes ain't laid up in ordinary yet."
"Eh? What do you mean by that, you dog, eh?"
"Nothing; only I can see without helps to read, or glasses either; so I know one place from
another."
There was now some one moving within; and the admiral, followed by Jack Pringle,
entered the Hall. Henry Bannerworth was there. They were all ready to go when the coach
came for them, which the admiral had ordered for them.

"Jack, you lubber; where are you?"
"Ay, ay, sir, here am I."
"Go, and station yourself up in some place where you can keep a good look-out for the
coach, and come and report when you see it."
"Ay -- ay, sir," said Jack, and away he went from the room, and stationed himself up in
one of the trees, that commanded a good view of the main road for some distance.
"Admiral Bell," said Henry, "here we are, trusting implicitly to you; and in doing so, I am
sure I am doing right."
"You will see that," said the admiral. "All's fair and honest as yet; and what is to come,
will speak for itself."
"I hope you won't suffer from any of these nocturnal visits," said Henry.
"I don't much care about them; but old Admiral Bell don't strike his colours to an enemy,
however ugly he may look. No, no; it must be a better craft than his own that'll take him;
and one who won't run away, but that will grapple yard-arm and yard-arm, you know."
"Why, admiral, you must have seen many dangers in your time, and be used to all kinds
of disturbances and conflicts. You have had a life of experience."
"Yes; and experience has come pretty thick sometimes, I can tell you, when it comes in
the shape of Frenchmen's broadsides."
"I dare say, then, it must be rather awkward."
"Death by the law," said the admiral, "to stop one of them with your head, I assure you. I
dare not make the attempt myself, though I have often seen it done."
"I dare say; but here are Flora and my mother."
As he spoke, Flora and her mother entered the apartment.
"Well, admiral, we are all ready; and, though I may feel somewhat sorry at leaving the
old Hall, yet it arises from attachment to the place, and not any disinclination to be beyond
the reach of these dreadful alarms."
"And I, too, shall be by no means sorry," said Flora; "I am sure it is some gratification to
know we leave a friend here, rather than some others, who would have had the place, if
they could have got it, by any means."

"Ah, that's true enough, Miss Flora," said the admiral; "but we'll run the enemy down yet,
depend upon it. But once away, you will be free from these terrors; and now, as you have
promised, do not let yourselves be seen any where at all."
"You have our promises, admiral; and they shall be religiously kept, I can assure you."
"Boat, ahoy -- ahoy!" shouted Jack.
"What boat?" said the admiral, surprised; and then he muttered, "Confound you for a
lubber! Didn't I tell you to mind your bearings, you dog-fish you?"
"Ay, ay, sir -- and so I did."
"You did."
"Yes, here they are. Squint over the larboard bulk-heads, as they call walls, and then
atween the two trees on the starboard side of the course, then straight ahead for a few
hundred fathoms, when you come to a funnel as is smoking like the crater of Mount
Vesuvius, and then in a line with that on the top of the hill, comes our boat."
"Well," said the admiral, "that'll do. Now go open the gates, and keep a bright look out,
and if you see anybody near your watch, why douse their glim."
"Ay -- ay, sir," said Jack, and he disappeared.
"Rather a lucid description," said Henry, as he thought of Jack's report to the admiral.
"Oh, it's a seaman's report. I know what he means; it's quicker and plainer than the land
lingo, to my ears, and Jack can't talk any other, you see."
By this time the coach came into the yard, and the whole party descended into the court-
yard, where they came to take leave of the old place.
"Farewell, admiral."
"Good bye," said the admiral. "I hope the place you are going to will be such as will
please you -- I hope it will."
"I am sure we shall endeavour to be pleased with it, and I am pretty sure we shall."
"Good bye."
"Farewell, Admiral Bell," said Henry.
"You remember your promises?"

"I do. Good bye, Mr. Chillingworth."
"Good bye," said Mr. Chillingworth, who came up to bid them farewell; "a pleasant
journey, and may you all be the happier for it."
"You do not come with us?"
"No; I have some business of importance to attend to, else I should have the greatest
pleasure in doing so. But good bye; we shall not be long apart, I dare say."
"I hope not," said Henry.
The door of the carriage was shut by the admiral, who looked round, saying, --
"Jack -- Jack Pringle, where are you, you dog?"
"Here am I," said Jack.
"Where have you been to?"
"Only been for pigtail," said Jack. "I forgot it, and couldn't set sail without it."
"You dog you; didn't I tell you to mind your bearings?"
"So I will," said Jack, "fore and aft -- fore and aft, admiral."
"You had better," said the admiral, who, however, relaxed into a broad grin, which he
concealed from Jack Pringle.
Jack mounted the coach-box, and away it went, just as it was getting dark. The old
admiral had locked up all the rooms in the presence of Henry Bannerworth; and when the
coach had gone out of sight, Mr. Chillingworth came back to the Hall, where he joined the
admiral.
"Well," he said, "they are gone Admiral Bell, and we are alone; we have a clear stage and
no favour."
"The two things of all others I most desire. Now, they will be strangers where they are
going to, and that will be something gained. I will endeavour to do something if I get yard-
arm and yard-arm with these pirates. I'll make 'em feel the weight of true metal; I'll board
'em -- d -- -- e, I'll do everything."
"Everything that can be done."
"Ay -- ay." * * * *

The coach in which the family of the Bannerworths were carried away continued its
course without any let or hindrance, and they met no one on their road during the whole
drive. The fact was, nearly everybody was at the conflagration at Sir Francis Varney's
house.
Flora knew not which way they were going, and, after a time, all trace of the road was
lost. Darkness set in, and they all sat in silence in the coach.
At length, after some time had been spent thus, Flora Bannerworth turned to Jack Pringle,
and said, --
"Are we near, or have we much further to go?"
"Not very much, ma'am," said Jack. "All's right, however -- ship in the direct course, and
no breakers ahead -- no lookout necessary; however there's a landlubber aloft to keep a look
out."
As this was not very intelligible, and Jack seemed to have his own reasons for silence,
they asked him no further questions; but in about three-quarters of an hour, during which
time the coach had been driving through the trees, they came to a standstill by a sudden pull
of the checkstring from Jack, who said, --
"Hilloa! -- take in sails, and drop anchor."
"Is this the place.?"
"Yes, here we are," said Jack; "we're in port now, at all events;" and he began to sing, --
"The trials and the dangers of the voyage is past," when the coach door opened, and they all
got out and looked about them where they were.
"Up the garden if you please, ma'am -- as quick as you can; the night air is very cold."
Flora and her mother and brother took the hint, which was meant by Jack to mean that
they were not to be seen outside. They at once entered a pretty garden, and then they came
to a very neat and picturesque cottage. They had no time to look up at it, as the door was
immediately opened by an elderly female, who was intended to wait upon them.
Soon after, Jack Pringle and the coachman entered the passage with the small amount of
luggage which they had brought with them. This was deposited in the passage, and then
Jack went out again, and, after a few minutes, there was the sound of wheels, which
intimated that the coach had driven off.
Jack, however, returned in a few minutes afterwards, having secured the wicket-gate at
the end of the graden [sic] , and then entered the house, shutting the door carefully after
him.

Flora and her mother looked over the apartments in which they were shown with some
surprise. It was, in everything, such as they could wish; indeed, though it could not be
termed handsomely or extravagantly furnished, or that the things were new, yet there was
all that convenience and comfort could require, and some little of the luxuries.
"Well," said Flora, "this is very thoughtful of the admiral. The place will really be
charming, and the garden, too, delightful."
"Mustn't be made use of just now," said Jack, "if you please, ma'am; them's the orders at
present."
"Very well," said Flora, smiling. "I suppose, Mr. Pringle, we must obey them."
"Jack Pringle, if you please," said Jack. "My command's only temporary. I ain't got a
commission."
--

Chapter LVII.
THE LONELY WATCH, AND THE ADVENTURE IN THE DESERTED HOUSE.
It is now quite night, and so peculiar and solemn a stillness reigns in and about
Bannerworth Hall and its surrounding grounds, that one might have supposed it a place of
the dead, deserted completely after sunset by all who would still hold kindred with the
living. There was not a breath of air stirring, and this circumstance added greatly to the
impression of profound repose which the whole scene exhibited.
The wind during the day had been rather of a squally character, but towards nightfall, as
is often usual after a day of such a character, it had completely lulled, and the serenity of
the scene was unbroken even by the faintest sigh from a wandering zephyr.
The moon rose late at that period, and as is always the case at that interval between sunset
and the rising of that luminary which makes the night so beautiful, the darkness was of the
most profound character.
It was one of those nights to produce melancholy reflections -- a night on which a man
would be apt to review his past life, and to look into the hidden recesses of his soul to see if
conscience could make a coward of him in the loneliness and stillness that breathed around.
It was one of those nights in which wanderers in the solitude of nature feel that the eye of
Heaven is upon them, and on which there seems to be a more visible connection between
the world and its great Creator than upon ordinary occasions.
The solemn and melancholy appear places once instinct with life, when deserted by those
familiar forms and faces that have long inhabited them. There is no desert, no uninhabited
isle in the far ocean, no wild, barren, pathless tract of unmitigated sterility, which could for
one moment compare in point of loneliness and desolation to a deserted city.
Strip London, mighty and majestic as it is, of the busy swarm of humanity that throng its
streets, its suburbs, its temples, its public edifices, and its private dwellings, and how awful
would be the walk of one solitary man throughout its noiseless thoroughfares.
If madness seized not upon him ere he had been long the sole survivor of a race, he would
need be cast in no common mould.
And to descend from great things to smaller -- from the huge levathian city to one
mansion far removed from the noise and bustle of conventional life, we may imagine the
sort of desolation that reigned through Bannerworth Hall, when, for the first time, after
nearly a hundred and fifty years of occupation, it was deserted by the representatives of that
family, so many members of which had lived and died beneath its roof.

The house, and everything within, without, and around it, seemed actually to sympathize
with its own desolation and desertion.
It seemed as if twenty years of continued occupation could not have produced such an
effect upon the ancient edifice as had those few hours of neglect and desertion.
And yet it was not as if it had been stripped of those time-worn and ancient relics of
ornament and furnishing that so long had appertained to it. No, nothing but the absence of
those forms which had been accustomed quietly to move from room to room, and to be met
here upon a staircase, there upon a corridor, and even in some of the ancient panelled
apartments, which gave it an air of dreary repose and listlessness.
The shutters, too, were all closed, and that circumstance contributed largely to the
production of that gloomy effect which otherwise could not have ensued.
In fact, what could be done without attracting very special observation was done to prove
to any casual observer that the house was untenanted.
But such was not really the case. In that very room where the much dreaded Varney the
vampyre had made one of his dreaded appearances to Flora Bannerworth and her mother,
sat two men.
It was from that apartment that Flora had discharged the pistol, which had been left to her
by her brother, and the shot from which it was believed by the whole family had most
certainly taken effect upon the person of the vampyre.
It was a room peculiarly accessible from the gardens, for it had long French windows
opening to the very ground, and but a stone step intervened between the flooring of the
apartment and a broad gravel walk which wound round that entire portion of the house.
It was in this room, then, that two men sat in silence, and nearly in darkness.
Before them, and on a table, were several articles of refreshment, as well of defence and
offence, according as their intentions might be.
There were a bottle and three glasses, and lying near the elbow of one of the men was a
large pair of pistols, such as might have adorned the belt of some desperate character, who
wished to instil an opinion of his prowess into his foes by the magnitude of his weapons.
Close at hand, by the same party, lay some more modern fire-arms, as well as a long dirk,
with a silver mounted handle.
The light they had consisted of a large lantern, so constructed with a slide, that it could be
completely obscured at a moment's notice; but now as it was placed, the rays that were
allowed to come from it were directed as much from the window of the apartment, as

possible, and fell upon the faces of the two men, revealing them to be Admiral Bell and Dr.
Chillingworth.
It might have been the effect of the particular light in which he sat, but the doctor looked
extremely pale, and did not appear at all at his ease.
The admiral, on the contrary, appeared in as placable a state of mind as possible, and had
his arms folded across his breast, and his head shrunk down between his shoulders, as if he
had made up his mind to something that was to last a long time, and, therefore, he was
making the best of it.
"I do hope," said Mr. Chillingworth, after a long pause, "that our efforts will be crowned
with success -- you know, my dear sir, that I have always been of your opinion, that there
was a great deal more in this matter than met the eye."
"To be sure," said the admiral, "and as to to [sic] our efforts being crowned with success,
why, I'll give you a toast, doctor, 'may the morning's reflection provide for the evening's
amusement.'"
"Ha! ha!" said Chillingworth, faintly; "I'd rather not drink any more, and you seem,
admiral, to have transposed the toast in some way. I believe it runs, 'may the evening's
amusement bear the morning's reflection.'"
"Transpose the devil!" said the admiral; "what do I care how it runs? I gave you my toast,
and as to that you mention, it's another one altogether, and a sneaking, shore-going one too:
but why don't you drink?"
"Why, my dear sir, medically speaking, I am strongly of opinion that, when the human
stomach is made to contain a large quantity of alcohol, it produces bad effects upon the
system. Now, I've certainly taken one glass of this infernally strong Hollands, and it is now
lying in my stomach like the red-hot heater of a tea-urn."
"Is it? put it out with another, then."
"Ay, I'm afraid that would not answer; but do you really think, admiral, that we shall
effect anything by waiting here, and keeping watch and ward, not under the most
comfortable circumstances, this first night of the Hall being empty."
"Well, I don't know that we shall," said the admiral; "but when you really want to steal a
march upon the enemy, there is nothing like beginning betimes. We are both of opinion that
Varney's great object throughout has been, by some means or another, to get possession of
the house."
"Yes; true, true."

"We know that he has been unceasing in his endeavours to get the Bannerworth family
out of it; that he has offered them their own price to become its tenant, and that the whole
gist of his quiet and placid interview with Flora in the garden, was to supply her with a new
set of reasons for urging her mother and brother to leave Bannerworth Hall, because the old
ones were certainly not found sufficient."
"True, true, most true," said Mr. Chillingworth, emphatically. "You know, sir, that from
the first time you broached that view of the subject to me, how entirely I coincided with
you."
"Of course you did, for you are a honest fellow, and a right-thinking fellow, though you
are a doctor, and I don't know that I like doctors, much better than I like lawyers -- they're
only humbugs in a different sort of way. But I wish to be liberal; there is such a thing as an
honest lawyer, and, d -- -e, you're an honest doctor!"
"Of course I'm much obliged, admiral, for your good opinion. I only wish it had struck
me to bring something of a solid nature in the shape of food, to sustain the waste of the
animal economy during the hours we shall have to wait here."
"Don't trouble yourself about that," said the admiral. "Do you think I'm a donkey, and
would set out on a cruise without victualling my ship? I should think not. Jack Pringle will
be here soon, and he has my orders to bring in something to eat."
"Well," said the doctor, "that's very provident of you, admiral, and I feel personally
obliged; but tell me, how do you intend to conduct the watch?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why, I mean, if we sit here with the window fastened so as to prevent our light from
being seen, and the door closed, how are we by any possibility to know if the house is
attacked or not?"
"Hark'ee, my friend," said the admrial; "I've left a weak point for the enemy."
"A what, admiral?"
"A weak point. I've taken good care to secure everything but one of the windows on the
ground floor, and that I've left open, or so nearly open, that it will look like the most natural
place in the world to get in at. Now, just inside that window, I've placed a lot of the family
crockery. I'll warrant, if anybody so much as puts his foot in, you'll hear the smash; -- and,
d -- -e, there it is!"
There was a long crash at this moment, followed by a succession of similar sounds, but of
a lesser degree; and both the admiral and Mr. Chillingworth sprung to their feet.
"Come on," cried the former; "here'll be a precious row -- take the lantern."

"Mr. Chillingworth did so, but he did not seem possessed of a great deal of presence of
mind; for, before they got out of the room, he twice accidentally put on the dark slide, and
produced a total darkness.
"D -- -n!" said the admiral; "don't make it wink and wink in that way; hold it up, and run
after me as hard as you can."
"I'm coming, I'm coming," said Mr. Chillingworth.
It was one of the windows of a long room, containing five, fronting the garden, which the
admiral had left purposely unguarded; and it was not far from the apartment in which they
had been sitting, so that, probably, not half a minute's time elapsed between the moment of
the first alarm, and their reaching the spot from whence it was presumed to arise.
The admiral had armed himself with one of the huge pistols, and he dashed forward, with
all the vehemence of his character, towards the window, where he knew he had placed the
family crockery, and where he fully expected to meet the reward of his exertion by
discovering some one lying amid its fragments.
In this, however, he was disappointed; for, although there was evidently a great smash
amongst the plates and dishes, the window remained closed, and there was no indication
whatever of the presence of any one.
"Well, that's odd," said the admiral; "I balanced them up amazingly careful, and two of
'em edgeways -- d -- -e, a fly would have knocked them down."
"Mew," said a great cat, emerging from under a chair.
"Curse you, there you are," said the admiral, "Put out the light, put out the light; here
we're illuminating the whole house for nothing."
With a click went the darkening slide over the lantern, and all was obscurity.
At that instant a shrill, clear whistle came from the garden.
--

Chapter LVIII.
THE ARRIVAL OF JACK PRINGLE -- MIDNIGHT AND THE VAMPYRE. -- THE

MYSTERIOUS HAT.
"Bless me! what is that?" said Mr. Chillingworth; "what a very singular sound."
"Hold your noise," said the admiral; "did you never hear that before?"
"No; how should I?"
"Lor, bless the ignorance of some people, that's a boatswain's call."
"Oh, it is," said Mr. Chillingworth; "is he going to call again?"
"D -- -e, I tell ye it's a boatswain's call."
"Well, then, d -- -e, if it comes to that," said Mr. Chillingworth, "what does he call here
for?"
The admiral disdained an answer; but demanding the lantern, he opened it, so that there
was sufficient glimmering of light to guide him, and then walked from the room towards
the front door of the Hall.
He asked no questions before he opened it, because, no doubt, the signal was
preconcerted; and Jack Pringle, for it was he indeed who had arrived, at once walked in,
and the admiral barred the door with the same precision with which it was before secured.
"Well, Jack," he said, "did you see anybody?"
"Ay, ay, sir," said Jack.
"Why, ye don't mean that -- where?"
"Where I bought the grub; a woman -- "
"D -- -e, you're a fool, Jack."
"You're another."
"Hilloa, ye scoundrel, what d'ye mean by talking to me in that way? Is this your respect
for your superiors?"
"Ship's been paid off, long ago," said Jack, "and I ain't got no superiors. I ain't a marine or
a Frenchman."

"Why, you're drunk."
"I know it; put that in your eye."
"There's a scoundrel. Why, you know-nothing-lubber, didn't I tell you to be careful, and
that everything depended upon secresy and caution? and didn't I tell you, above all this, to
avoid drink?"
"To be sure you did."
"And yet you come here like a rum cask."
"Yes; now you've had your say, what then?"
"You'd better leave him alone," said Mr. Chillingworth; "it's no use arguing with a
drunken man."
"Harkye, admiral," said Jack, steadying himself as well as he could. "I've put up with you
a precious long while, but I won't no longer; you're so drunk, now, that you keeping
bobbing up and down like the mizen gaff in a storm -- that's my opinion -- tol de rol."
"Let him alone, let him alone," urged Mr. Chillingworth.
"The villain," said the admiral; "he's enough to ruin everything; now, who would have
thought that? but it's always been the way with him for a matter of twenty years -- he never
had any judgment in his drink. When it was all smooth sailing, and nothing to do, and the
fellow might have got an extra drop on board, which nobody would have cared for, he's as
sober as a judge; but, whenever there's anything to do, that wants a little cleverness,
confound him, he ships rum enough to float a seventy-four."
"Are you going to stand anything to drink," said Jack, "my old buffer? Do you recollect
where you got your knob scuttled off Beyrout -- how you fell on your latter end and tried to
recollect your church cateckis, you old brute? -- I's ashamed of you. Do you recollect the
brown girl you bought for thirteen bob and a tanner, at the blessed Society Islands, and sold
her again for a dollar, to a nigger seven feet two, in his natural pumps? you're a nice article,
you is, to talk of marines and swabs, and shore-going lubbers, blow yer. Do you recollect
the little Frenchman that told ye he'd pull your blessed nose, and I advised you to soap it?
do you recollect Sall at Spithead, as you got in at a port hole of the state cabin, all but her
behind?"
"Death and the devil!" said the admiral, breaking from the grasp of Mr. Chillingworth.
"Ay," said Jack, "you'll come to 'em both one of these days, old cock, and no mistake."
"I'll have his life, I'll have his life," roared the admiral.

"Nay, nay, sir," said Mr. Chillingworth, catching the admiral round the waist. "My dear
sir, recollect, now, if I may venture to advise you, Admiral Bell, there's a lot of that fiery
hollands you know, in the next room; set him down to that, and finish him off. I'll warrant
him, he'll be quiet enough."
"What's that you say?" cried Jack -- "hollands! -- who's got any? -- next to rum and
Elizabeth Baker, if I has an affection, it's hollands."
"Jack!" said the admiral.
"Ay, ay, sir!" said Jack, instinctively.
"Come this way."
Jack staggered after him, and they all reached the room where the admiral and Mr.
Chillingworth had been sitting before the alarm.
"There!" said the admiral, putting the light upon the table, and pointing to the bottle;
"what do yo think of that?"
"I never thinks under such circumstances," said Jack. "Here's to the wooden walls of old
England!"
He seized the bottle, and, putting its neck into his mouth, for a few moments nothing was
heard but a gurgling sound of the liquor passing down his throat; his head went further and
further back, until, at last, over he went, chair and bottle and all, and lay in a helpless state
of intoxication on the floor.
"So far, so good," said the admiral. "He's out of the way, at all events."
"I'll just loosen his neckcloth," said Mr. Chillingworth, "and then we'll go and sit
somewhere else; and I should recommend that, if anywhere, we take up our station in that
chamber, once Flora's, where the mysterious panelled portrait hangs, that bears so strong a
resemblance to Varney, the vampyre."
"Hush!" said the admiral. "What's that?"
They listened for a moment intently; and then, distinctly, upon the gravel path outside the
window, they heard a footstep, as if some person were walking along, not altogether
heedlessly, but yet without any very great amount of caution or attention to the noise he
might make.
"Hist!" said the doctor. "Not a word. They come."
"What do you say they for?" said the admiral.

"Because something seems to whisper me that Mr. Marchdale knows more of Varney, the
vampyre, than ever he has chosen to reveal. Put out the light."
"Yes, yes -- that'll do. The moon has risen; see how it streams through the chinks of the
shutters."
"No, no -- it's not in that direction, or our light would have betrayed us. Do you not see
the beams come from that half glass-door leading to the greenhouse?"
"Yes; and there's the footstep again, or another."
Tramp, tramp came a footfall again upon the gravel path, and, as before, died away upon
their listening ears.
"What do you say now," said Mr. Chillingworth -- "are there not two?"
"If they were a dozen," said the admiral, "although we have lost one of our force, I would
tackle them. Let's creep on through the rooms in the direction the footsteps went."
"My life on it," said Mr. Chillingworth, as they left the apartment, "if this be Varney, he
makes for that apartment where Flora slept, and which he knows how to get admission to.
I've studied the house well, admiral, and to get to that window any one from here outside
must take a considerable round. Come on -- we shall be beforehand."
"A good idea -- a good idea. Be it so."
Just allowing themselves sufficient light to guide them on the way from the lantern, they
hurried on with as much precipitation as the intricacies of the passage would allow, nor
halted till they had reached the chamber were [sic] hung the portrait which bore so striking
and remarkable a likeness to Varney, the vampyre.
They left the lamp outside the door, so that not even a straggling beam from it could
betray that there were persons on the watch; and then, as quietly as foot could fall, they
took up their station among the hangings of the antique bedstead, which has been before
alluded to in this work as a remarkable piece of furniture appertaining to that apartment.
"Do you think," said the admiral, "we've distanced them?"
"Certainly we have. It's unlucky that the blind of the window is down."
"Is it? By Heaven, there's a d -- -d strange-looking shadow creeping over it."
Mr. Chillingworth looked almost with suspended breath. Even he could not altogether get
rid of a tremulous feeling, as he saw that the shadow of a human form, apparently of very
large dimensions, was on the outside, with the arms spread out, as if feeling for some
means of opening the window.

It would have been easy now to have fired one of the pistols direct upon the figure; but,
somehow or another, both the admiral and Mr. Chillingworth shrank from that course, and
they felt much rather inclined to capture whoeve might make his appearance, only using
their pistols as a last resource, than gratuitously and at once to resort to violence.
"Who should you say that was?" whispered the admiral.
"Varney, the vampyre."
"D -- -e, he's ill-looking adn big enough for anything -- there's a noise!"
There was a strange cracking sound at the window, as if a pane of glass was being very
stealthily and quietly broken; and then the blind was agitated slightly, confusing much the
shadow that was cast upon it, as if the hand of some person was introduced for the purpose
of effecting a complete entrance into the apartment.
"He's coming in," whispered the admiral.
"Hush, for Heaven's sake!" said Mr. Chillingworth; "you will alarm him, and we shall
lose the fruit of all the labour we have already bestowed upon the matter; but did you not
say something, admiral, about lying under the window and catching him by the leg?"
"Why, yes; I did."
"Go and do it, then; for, as sure as you are a living man, his leg will be in in a minute."
"Here goes," said the admiral; "I never suggest anything which I'm unwilling to do
myself."
Whoever it was that now was making such strenuous exertions to get into the apartment
seemed to find some difficulty as regarded the fastenings of the window, and as this
difficulty increased, the patience of the party, as well as his caution deserted him, and the
casement was rattled with violence.
With a far greater amount of caution than any one from a knowledge of his character
would have given him credit for, the admiral crept forward and laid himself exactly under
the window.
The depth of the wood-work from the floor to the lowest part of the window-frame did
not exceed above two feet; so that any one could conveniently step in from the balcony
outside on to the floor of the apartment, which was just what he who was attempting to
effect an entrance was desirous of doing.
It was quite clear that, be he who he might, mortal or vampyre, he had some acquaintance
with the fastening of the window; for now he succeeded in moving it, and the sash was
thrown open.

The blind was still an obstacle; but a vigorous pull from the intruder brought that down
on the prostate admiral; and then Mr. Chillingworth saw, by the moonlight, a tall, gaunt
figure, standing in the balcony, as if just hesitating for a moment whether to get head first
or feet first into the apartment.
Had he chosen the former alternative he would need, indeed, to have been endowed with
more than mortal powers of defence and offence to escape capture, but his lucky star was in
the ascendancy, and he put his foot in first.
He turned his side to the apartment, and, as he did so, the bright moonlight fell upon his
face, enabling Mr. Chillingworth to see, without the shadow of a doubt, that it was, indeed,
Varney, the vampyre, who was thus stealthily making his entrance into Bannerworth Hall,
according to the calculation which had been made by the admiral upon that subject. The
doctor scarcely knew whether to be pleased or not at this discovery; it was almost a
terrifying one, sceptical as he was upon the subject of vampyres, and he waited breathless
for the issue of the singular and perilous adventure.
No doubt Admiral Bell deeply congratulated himself upon the success which was about
to crown hsi stratagem for the capture of the intruder, be he who he might, and he writhed
with impatience for the foot to come sufficiently near him to enable him to grasp it.
His patience was not severely tried, for in another moment it rested upon his chest.
"Boarders a hoy!" shouted the admiral, and at once he laid hold of the trespasser. "Yard-
arm to yard-arm. I think I've got you now. Here's a prize, doctor! he shall go away without
his leg if he goes away now. Eh! what! the light -- d -- -e, he has -- Doctor, the light! the
light! Why what' this! -- Hilloa, there!"
Dr. Chillingworth sprang into the passage, and procured the light -- in another moment he
was at the side of the admiral, and the lantern slide being thrown back, he saw at once the
dilemma into which his friend had fallen.
There he lay upon his back, grasping, with the vehemence of an embrace that had in it
much of the ludicrous, a long boot, from which the intruder had cleverly slipped his leg,
leaving it as a poor trophy in the hands of his enemies.
"Why you've only pulled his boot off," said the doctor; "and now he's gone for good, for
he knows what we're about, and has slipped through your fingers."
Admiral Bell sat up and looked at the boot with a rueful countenance.
"Done again!" he said.
"Yes, you are done," said the doctor; "why didn't you lay hold of the leg while you were
about it, instead of the boot? Admiral, are these your tactics?"

"Don't be a fool," said the admiral; "put out the light and give me the pistols, or blaze
away yourself into the garden; a chance shot may do something. It's no use running after
him; a stern chase is a long chase; but fire away."
As if some parties below had heard him give his word, two loud reports from the garden
immediately ensued, and a crash of glass testified to the fact that some deadly missile had
entered the room.
"Murder!" said the doctor, and he fell flat upon his back. "I don't like this at all; it's all in
your line, admiral, but not in mine."
"All's right, my lad," said the admiral; "now for it."
He saw lying in the moonlight the pistols which he and the doctor had brought into the
room, and in another moment he, to use his own words, returned the broadside of the
enemy.
"D -- n it!" he said, "this puts me in mind of old times. Blaze away, you thieves, while I
load; broadside to broadside. It's your turn now; I scorn to take an advantage. What the
devil's that?"
Something very large and very heavy came bang against the window, sending it all into
the room, and nearly smothering the admiral with the fragments. Another shot was then
fired, and in came something else, which hit the wall on the opposite side of the room,
rebounding from thence on to the doctor, who gave a yell of despair.
After that all was still; the enemy seemed to be satisfied that they had silenced the
garrison. And it took the admiral a great deal of kicking and plunging to rescue himself
from some superincumbent mass that was upon him, which seemed to him to be a
considerable sized tree.
"Call this fair fighting," he shouted -- "getting a man's legs and arms tangled up like a
piece of Indian matting in the branches of a tree? Doctor, I say! hilloa! where are you?"
"I don't know," said the doctor; "but there's somebody getting into the balcony -- now we
shall be murdered in cold blood."
"Where's the pistols?"
"Fired off, of course; you did it yourself."
Bang came something else into the room, which, from the sound it made, closely
resembled a brick, and after that somebody jumped clean into the centre of the floor, and
then, after rolling and writhing about in a most singular manner, slowly got up, and, with
various preliminary hiccups, said, --

"Come on, you lubbers, many of you as like. I'm the tar for all weathers."
"Why, d -- e," said the admiral, "it's Jack Pringle."
"Yes it is," said Jack, who was not sufficiently sober to recognise the admiral's voice. "I
sees as how you've heard of me. Come on, all of you."
"Why, Jack, you scoundrel," roared the admiral, "how came you here? Don't you know
me? I'm your admiral, you horse-marine."
"Eh?" said Jack. "Ay -- ay, sir, how came you here?"
"How came you, you villain?"
"Boarded the enemy."
"The enemy who you boarded was us; and hang me if I don't think you haven't been
pouring broadsides into us, while the enemy were scudding before the wind in another
direction."
"Lor!" said Jack.
"Explain, you scoundrel, directly -- explain."
"Well, that's only reasonable," said Jack; and giving a heavier lurch than usual, he sat
down with a great bounce upon the floor. "You see it's just this here, -- when I was a
coming of course I heard, just as I was a going, that ere as made me come all in
consequence of somebody a going, or for to come, you see, admiral."
"Doctor," cried the admiral, in a great rage, "just help me out of this entanglement of
branches, and I'll rid the world from an encumbrance by smashing that fellow."
"Smash yourself!" said Jack. "You know you're drunk."
"My dear admiral," said Mr. Chillingworth, laying hold of one of his legs, and pulling it
very hard, which brought his face into a lot of brambles, "we're making a mess of this
business."
"Murder!" shouted the admiral; "you are indeed. Is that what you call pulling me out of
it? You've stuck me fast."
"I'll manage it," said Jack. "I've seed him in many a scrape, and I've seed him out. You
pull me, doctor, and I'll pull him. Yo hoy!"
Jack laid hold of the admiral by the scuff of the neck, and the doctor laid hold of Jack
round the waist, the consequence of which was that he was dragged out from the branches

of the tree, which seemed to have been thrown into the room, and down fell both Jack and
the doctor.
At this instant there was a strange hissing sound heard below the window; then there was
a sudden, loud report, as if a hand-grenade had gone off. A spectral sort of light gleamed
into the room, and a tall, gaunt-looking figure rose slowly up in the balcony.
"Beware of the dead!" said a voice. "Let the living contend with the living, the dead with
the dead. Beware!"
The figure disappeared, as did also the strange, spectral-looking light. A deathlike silence
ensued, and the cold moonbeams streamed in upon the floor of the apartment, as if nothing
had occurred to disturb the wrapped repose and serenity of the scene.
--

Chapter LIX.
THE WARNING. -- THE NEW PLAN OF OPERATION. -- THE INSULTING

MESSAGE FROM VARNEY.
So much of the night had been consumed in these operations, that by the time they were
over, and the three personages who lay upon floor of what might be called the haunted
chamber of Bannerworth Hall, even had they now been disposed to seek repose, would
have had a short time to do so before the daylight would have streamed in upon them, and
roused them to the bustle of waking existence.
It may be well believed what a vast amount of surprise came over the three persons in that
chamber at the last little circumstance that had occurred in connection with the night's
proceedings.
There was nothing which had preceded that, that did not resemble a genuine attack upon
the premises; but about that last mysterious appearance, with its curious light, there was
quite enough to bother the admiral and Jack Pringle to a considerable effect, whatever
might be the effect upon Mr. Chillingworth, whose profession better enabled him to
comprehend, chemically, what would produce effects that, no doubt, astonished them
amazingly.
What with his intoxication and the violent exercise he had taken, Jack was again
thoroughly prostrate; while the admiral could not have looked more astonished had the evil
one himself appeared in propria persona and given him notice to quit the premises.
He was, however, the first to speak, and the words he spoke were addressed to Jack, to
whom he said, --
"Jack, you lubber, what do you think of all that?"
Jack, however, was too far gone even to say "Ay, ay, sir;" and Mr. Chillingworth, slowly
getting himself up to his feet, approached the admiral.
"It's hard to say so much, Admiral Bell," he said, "but it strikes me that whatever object
this Sir Francis Varney, o Varney, the vampyre, has in coming into Bannerworth Hall, it is,
at all events, of sufficient importance to induce him to go any length, and not to let even a
life to stand in the way of it's accomplishment."
"Well, it seems so," said the admiral; "for I'll be hanged if I can make head or tail of the
fellow."
"If we value our personal safety, we shall hesitate to continue a perilous adventure, which
I think can end only in defeat, if not in death."

"But we don't value our personal safety," said the admiral. "We've got into the adventure,
and I don't see why we shouldn't carry it out. It may be growing a little serious; but what of
that? For the sake of that young girl, Flora Bannerworth, as well as for the sake of my
nephew, Charles Holland, I will see the end of this affair, let it be what it may; but mind
you, Mr. Chillingworth, if one man chooses to go upon a desperate service, that's no reason
why he should ask another to do so."
"I understand you," said Mr. Chillingworth; "but, having commenced the adventure with
you, I am not the man to desert you in it. We have committed a great mistake."
"A mistake! how?"
"Why, we ought to have watched outside the house, instead of within it. There can be no
doubt that if we had lain in wait in the garden, we should have been in a better position to
have accomplished our object."
"Well, I don't know, doctor, but is seems to me that if Jack Pringle hadn't made such a
fool of himself, we should have managed very well; and I don't know now how he came to
behave in the manner he did."
"Nor I," said Mr. Chillingworth. "But, at all events, so far as the results goes, it is quite
clear that any further watching, in this house, for the appearance of Sir Francis Varney, will
now be in vain. He has nothing to do now but to keep quiet until we are tired out -- a fact,
concerning which he can easily obtain information -- and then he immediately, without
trouble, walks into the premises, to his own satisfaction."
"But what the deuce can he want upon the premises?"
"That question, admiral, induces me to think that we have made another mistake. We
ought not to have attempted to surprise Sir Francis Varney in coming into Bannerworth
Hall, but to catch him as he came out."
"Well, there's something in that." said the admiral. "This is a pretty night's business, to be
sure. However, it can't be helped; it's done, and there's an end on't. And now, as the
morning is near at hand, I certainly must confess I should like to get some breakfast,
although I don't like that we should all leave the house together."
"Why," said Mr. Chillingworth, "as we have now no secret to keep with regard to our
being here, because the principal person we wished to keep it from is aware of it, I think we
cannot do better than send at once for Henry Bannerworth, tell him of the non-success of
the effort we have made in his behalf, and admit him at once into our consultation of what
is next to be done."
"Agreed, agreed; I think that, without troubling him, we might have captured this Varney;
but that's over now, and, as soon as Jack Pringle chooses to wake up again, I'll send him to
the Bannerworths with a message."

"Ay, ay, sir," said Jack, suddenly; "all's right."
"Why, you vagabond," said the admiral, "I do believe you've been shamming."
"Shamming what?"
"Being drunk, to be sure."
"Lor! couldn't do it," said Jack; "I'll just tell you how it was. I wakened up and found
myself shut in somewhere; and, as I couldn't get out of the door, I thought I'd try the
window, and there I did get out. Well, perhaps I wasn't quite the thing, but I sees two
people in the garden a looking up at this ere room; and, to be sure, I thought it was you and
the doctor. Well, it warn't no business of mine to interfere, so I seed one of you climb up
the balcony, as I thought, and then, after which, come down head over heels with such a
run, that I thought you must have broken your neck. Well, after that you fired a couple of
shots in, and then, after that, I made sure it was you, admiral."
"And what made you make sure of that?"
"Why, because you scuttled away like an empty tar-barrel in full tide."
"Confound you, you scoundrel!"
"Well, then, confound you, if it comes to that. I thought I was doing you good service,
and that the enemy was here, when all the while it turned out as you was and the enemy
wasn't, and the enemy was outside and you wasn't."
"But who threw such a confounded lot of things into the room?"
"Why, I did, of course; I had but one pistol, and, when I fired that off, I was forced to
make up a broadside with what I could."
"Was there ever such a stupid!" said the admiral; "doctor, doctor, you talked of us making
two mistakes; but you forgot a third and worse one still, and that was the bringing such a
lubberly son of a seacook into the place as this fellow."
"You're another," said Jack; "and you knows it."
"Well, well," said Mr. Chillingworth, "it's no use continuing it, admiral; Jack, in his way,
did, I dare say, what he considered for the best."
"I wish he'd do, then, what he considers for the worst, next time."
"Perhaps I may," said Jack, "and then you will be served out above a bit. What 'ud
become of you, I wonder, if it wasn't for me? I'm as good as a mother to you, you knows
that, you old babby."

"Come, come, admiral," said Mr. Chillingworth; "come down to the gardengate; it is now
just upon daybreak, and the probability is that we shall not be long there before we see
some of the country people, who will get us anything we require in the shape of
refreshment; and as for Jack, he seems quite sufficiently recovered now to go to the
Bannerworths'."
"Oh! I can go," said Jack; "as for that, the only thing as puts me out of the way is the want
of something to drink. My constitution won't stand what they call temperance living, or
nothing with the chill off."
"Go at once," said the admiral, "and tell Mr. Henry Bannerworth that we are here; but do
not tell him before his sister or his mother. If you meet anybody on the road, send them
here with a cargo of victuals. It strikes me that a good, comfortable breakfast wouldn't be at
all amiss, doctor."
"How rapidly the day dawns," remarked Mr. Chillingworth, as he walked into the balcony
from whence Varney, the vampire, had attempted to make good his entrance to the Hall.
Just as he spoke, and before Jack Pringle could get half way over to the garden gate, there
came a tremendous ring at the bell which was suspended over it.
A view of that gate could not be commanded from the window of the haunted apartment,
so that they could not see who it was that demanded admission.
As Jack Pringle was going down at any rate, they saw no necessity for personal
interference; and he proved that there was not, by presently returning with a note which he
said had been thrown over the gate by a lad, who then scampered off with all the speed he
could make.
The note, exteriorly, was well got up, and had all the appearance of great care having
been bestowed upon its folding and sealing.
It was duly addressed to "Admiral Bell, Bannerworth Hall," and the word "immediate"
was written at one corner.
The admiral, after looking at it for some time with very great wonder, came at last to the
conclusion that probably to open it would be the shortest way of arriving at a knowledge of
who had sent it, and he accordingly did so.
The note was as follows: --
"My dear sir, -- Feeling assured that you cannot be surrounded with those means and
appliances for comfort in the Hall, in its now deserted condition, which you have a right to
expect, and so eminently deserve, I flatter myself that I shall receive an answer in the
affirmative, when I request the favour of your company to breakfast, as well as that of your
learned friend, Mr. Chillingworth.

"In consequence of a little accident which occurred last evening to my own residence, I
am, ad interim, until the county build it up for me again, staying at a house called
Walmesley Lodge, where I shall expect you with all the impatience of one soliciting an
honour, and hoping that it will be conferred upon him.
"I trust that any little difference of opinion on other subjects will not interfere to prevent
the harmony of our morning's meal together.
"Believe me to be, my dear sir, with the greatest possible consideration, your very
obedient, humble servant, "FRANCIS VARNEY."
The admiral gasped again, and looked at Mr. Chillingworth, and then at the note, and then
at Mr. Chillingworth again, as if he was perfectly bewildered.
"That's about the coolest piece of business," said Mr. Chillingworth, "that ever I heard
of."
"Hang me," said the admiral, "if i sha'n't like the fellow at last. It is cool, and I like it
because it is cool. Where's my hat? where's my stick?"
"What are you going to do?"
"Accept his invitation, to be sure, and breakfast with him; and, my learned friend, as he
calls you, I hope you'll come likewise. I'll take the fellow at his word. By fair means, or by
foul, I'll know what he wants here; and why he persecutes this family, for whom I have an
attachment; and what hand he has in the disappearance of my nephew, Charles Holland;
for, as sure as there's a Heaven above us, he's at the bottom of that affair. Where is this
Walmesley Lodge?"
"Just in the neighbourhood; but -- "
"Come on, then; come on."
"But, really, admiral, you don't mean to say you'll breakfast with -- with -- "
"A vampyre? Yes, I would, and will, and mean to do so. Here, Jack, you needn't go to Mr.
Bannerworth's yet. Come, my learned friend, let's take Time by the forelock."
--

Chapter LX.
THE INTERRUPTED BREAKFAST AT SIR FRANCIS VARNEY'S.
Notwithstanding all Mr. Chillingworth could say to the contrary, the admiral really meant
to breakfast with Sir Francis Varney.
The worthy doctor could not for some time believe but that the admiral must be joking,
when he talked in such a strain; but he was very soon convinced to the contrary, by the
latter actually walking out and once more asking him, Mr. Chillingworth, if he meant to go
with him, or not.
This was conclusive, so the doctor said, --
"Well, admiral, this appears to me rather a mad sort of freak; but, as I have begun the
adventure with you, I will conclude it with you."
"That's right," said the admiral; "I'm not deceived in you, doctor; so come along. Hang
these vampyres, I don't know how to tackle them, myself. I think, after all, Sir Francis
Varney is more in your line than he is in mine."
"How do you mean?"
"Why, couldn't you persuade him he's ill, and wants some physic? That would soon settle
him, you know."
"Settle him!" said Mr. Chillingworth; "I beg to say, that if I did give him any physic, the
dose would be much to his advantage; but, however, my opinion is, that this invitation to
breakfast is, after all, a mere piece of irony; and that, when we get to Walmesley Lodge, we
shall not see anything of him; on the contrary, we shall probably find it's a hoax."
"I certainly should like that, but still it's worth the trying. The fellow has really behaved
himself in such an extraordinary manner, that, if I can make terms with him I will; and
there's one thing, you know, doctor, that I think we may say we have discovered."
"And what may that be? Is it, not to make too sure of a vampyre, even when you have
him by the leg?"
"No, that ain't it, though that's a very good thing in its way; but it is just this, that Sir
Francis Varney, whoever he is and whatever he is, is after Bannerworth Hall, and not the
Bannerworth family. If you recollect, Mr. Chillingworth, in our conversation, I have always
insisted upon that fact."

"You have; and it seems to me to be completely verified by the proceedings of the night.
There, then, admiral, is the great mystery -- what can he want at Bannerworth Hall that
makes him take such a world of trouble, and run so many fearful risks in trying to get at it?"
"That is, indeed, the mystery; and if he really means this invitation to breakfast, I shall
ask him plumply, and tell him, at the same time, that possibly his very best way to secure
his object will be to be candid, vampyre as he is."
"But really, admiral, you do not still cling to that foolish superstition of believing that Sir
Francis Varney is in reality a vampyre?"
"I don't know, and I can't say; if anybody was to give me a description of a strange sort of
fish that I had never seen, I wouldn't take upon myself to say there ain't such a thing; nor
would you, doctor, if you had really seen the many odd ones that I have encountered at
various times."
"Well, well, admiral, I'm certainly not belonging to that school of philosophy which
declares the impossible to be what it don't understand; there may be vampyres, and there
may be apparitions, for all I know to the contrary; I only doubt these things, because I
think, if they were true, that, as a phenomena of nature, they would have been by this time
established by repeated instances without the possibility of doubt or cavil."
Well, there's something in that; but how far have we got to go now?"
"No further than to yon enclosure where you see those park-like looking gates, and that
cedar-tree stretching its dark-green foliage so far into the road; this is Walmesley Lodge,
whither you have been invited."
"And you, my learned friend, recollect that you were invited too; so that you are no
intruder upon the hospitality of Varney the vampyre."
"I say, admiral," said Mr. Chillingworth, when they reached the gates, "you know it is not
quite the thing to call a man a vampyre at his own breakfast-table, so just oblige me by
promising not to make any such remark to Sir Francis."
"A likely thing!" said the admiral; "he knows I know what he is, and he knows I'm a plain
man and a blunt speaker; however, I'll be civil to him, and more than that I can't promise. I
must wring out of him, if I can, what has become of Charles Holland, and what the deuce
he really wants himself."
"Well, well; come to no collision with him, while we're his guests."
"Not if I can help it."
The doctor rang at the gate bell of Walmesley Lodge, and was in a few moments
answered by a woman, who demanded their business.

"Is Sir Francis Varney here?" said the doctor.
"Oh, ah! yes," she replied; "you see his house was burnt down, for something or other --
I'm sure I don't know what -- by some people -- I'm sure I don't know who; so, as the lodge
was to let, we have took him in till he can suit himself."
"Ah! that's it, is it?" said the admiral; "tell him that Admiral Bell and Dr. Chillingworth
are here."
"Very well," said the woman; "you may walk in."
"Thank ye; you're vastly obliging, ma'am. Is there anything going on in the breakfast
line?"
"Well, yes; I am getting him some breakfast, but he didn't say as he expected company."
The woman opened the garden gate, and they walked up a trimly laid out garden to the
lodge, which was a cottage-like structure in external appearance, although within it boasted
of all the comforts of a tolerably extensive house.
She left them in a small room, leading from the hall, and was absent about five minutes;
when she returned, and, merely saying that Sir Francis Varney presented his compliments,
and desired them to walk up stairs, she preceded them up a handsome flight which led to
the first floor of the lodge.
Up to this moment, Mr. Chillingworth had expected some excuses, for, notwithstanding
all he had heard and seen of Sir Francis Varney, he could not believe that any amount of
impudence would suffice to enable him to receive people as his guests, with whom he must
feel that he was at such positive war.
It was a singular circumstance; and, perhaps, the only thing that matched the cool
impertinence of the invitation, was the acceptance of it under the circumstances by the
admiral.
Sir Francis Varney might have intended it as a jest; but if he did so, in the first instance, it
was evident he would not allow himself to be beaten with his own weapons.
The room into which they were shown was a longish narrow one; a very wide door gave
them admission to it, at the end nearest the staircase, and at its other extremity there was a
similar door opening into some other apartments of the house.
Sir Francis Varney sat with his back towards this second door, and a table, with some
chairs and other articles of furniture, were so arranged before him, that while they seemed
but to be carelessly placed in the position they occupied, they really formed a pretty good
barrier between him and his visitors.

The admiral, however, was too intent upon getting a sight of Varney, to notice any
preparation of this sort, and he advanced quickly into the room.
And there, indeed, was the much dreaded, troublesome, perservering, and singular
looking being who had caused such a world of annoyance to the family of the
Bannerworths, as well as disturbing the peace of the whole district, which had the
misfortune to have him as an inhabitant.
If anything, he looked thinner, taller, and paler than usual, and there seemed to be a slight
nervousness of manner about him, as he slowly inclined his head towards the admiral,
which was not quite intelligible.
"Well," said Admiral Bell, "you invited me to breakfast, and my learned friend; here we
are."
"No two human beings," said Varney, "could be more welcome to my hospitality than
yourself and Dr. Chillingworth. I pray you to be seated. What a pleasant thing it is, after the
toils and struggles of this life, occasionally to sit down in the sweet companionship of such
dear friends."
He made a hideous face as he spoke, and the admiral looked as if he were half inclined to
quarrel at that early stage of the proceedings.
"Dear friends!" he said; "well, well -- it's no use squabbling about a word or two; but I tell
you what it is, Mr. Varney, or Sir Francis Varney, or whatever your d -- -- d name is -- "
"Hold, my dear sir," said Varney -- "after breakfast, if you please -- after breakfast."
He rang a hand-bell as he spoke, and the woman who had charge of the house brought in
a tray tolerably covered with the materials for a substantial morning's meal. She placed it
upon the table, and certainly the various articles that smoked upon it did great credit to her
culinary powers.
"Deborah," said Sir Varney, in a mild sort of tone, "keep on continually bringing things to
eat until this old brutal sea ruffian has satiated his disgusting appetite."
The admiral opened his eyes an enormous width, and, looking at Sir Francis Varney, he
placed his two fists upon the table and drew a long breath.
"Did you address those observations to me," he said at length, "you blood-sucking
vagabond?"
"Eh?" said Sir Francis Varney, looking over the admiral's head, as if he saw something
interesting on the wall beyond.
"My dear admiral," said Mr. Chillingworth, "come away."

"I'll see you d -- -- d first!" said the admiral. "Now, Mr. Vampyre, no shuffling; did you
address those observations to me?"
"Deborah," said Sir Francis Varney, in the silvery tones, "you can remove this tray and
bring on the next."
"Not if I know it," said the admiral. "I came to breakfast, and I'll have it; after breakfast
I'll pull your nose -- ay, if you were fifty vampyres, I'd do it."
"Dr. Chillingworth," said Varney, without paying the least attention to what the admiral
said, "you don't eat, my dear sir; you must be fatigued with your night's exertions. A man of
your age, you know, cannot be supposed to roll and tumble about like a fool in a
pantomime with impunity. Only think what a calamity it would be if you were laid up.
Your patients would all get well, you know."
"Sir Francis Varney," said Mr. Chillingworth, "we're your guests; we come here at your
invitation to partake of a meal. You have wantonly attacked both of us. I need not say that
by so doing you cast a far greater slur upon your own taste and judgment than you can upon
us."
"Admirably spoken," said Sir Francis Varney, giving his hands a clap together that made
the admiral jump again. "Now, old Bell, I'll fight you, if you think yourself aggrieved,
while the doctor sees fair play."
"Old who?" shouted the admiral.
"Bell, Bell -- is not your name Bell? -- a family cognomen, I presume, on account of the
infernal clack, clack, without any sense in it, that is characteristic of your race."
"You'll fight me?" said the admiral, jumping up.
"Yes, if you challenge me."
"By Jove I do; of course."
"Then I accept it; and the challenged party, you know well, or ought to know, can make
his own terms in the encounter."
"Make what terms you please; I care not what they are. Only say you will fight, and that's
sufficient."
"It is well," said Sir Francis Varney, in a solemn tone.
"Nay, nay," interrupted Mr. Chillingworth; "this is boyish folly."
"Hold your row," said the admiral, "and let's hear what he's got to say."

"In this mansion," said Sir Francis Varney -- "for a mansion it is, although under the
unpretending name of a lodge -- in this mansion there is a large apartment which was
originally fitted up by a scientific proprietor of the place, for the purpose of microscopic
and other experiments, which required a darkness total and complete, such a darkness as
seems as if it could be felt -- palpable, thick, and obscure as the darkness of the tomb, and I
know what that is."
"The devil you do!" said the admiral. "It's damp, too, ain't it?"
"The room?"
"No; the grave."
"Oh! uncommonly, after autumnal rains. But to resume -- this room is large, lofty, and
perfectly empty."
"Well?"
"I propose that we procure two scythes."
"Two what?"
"Scythes, with their long handles, and their convenient holding places."
"Well, I'll be hanged! What next do you propose?"
"You may be hanged. The next is, that with these scythes we be both of us placed in the
darkened room, and the door closed, and doubly locked upon us for one hour, and that then
and there we do our best each to cut the other in two. If you succeed in dismembering me,
you will have won the day; but I hope, from my superior agility" -- here Sir Francis jumped
upon his chair, and sat upon the back of it -- "to get the better of you. How do you like the
plan I have proposed? Does it meet your wishes?"
"Curse your impudence!" said the admiral, placing his elbows upon the table, and resting
his chin in astonishment upon his two hands.
"Nay," interrupted Sir Francis, "you challenged me; and, besides, you'll have an equal
chance, you know that. If you succeed in striking me first, down I go; whereas, if I succeed
in striking you first, down you go."
As he spoke, Sir Francis Varney stretched out his foot, and closed a small bracket, which
held out the flap of the table on which the admiral was leaning, and, accordingly, down the
admiral went, tea-tray and all.
Mr. Chillingworth ran to help him up, and, when they both recovered their feet, they
found they were alone.

Chapter LXI.
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. -- THE PARTICULARS OF THE SUICIDE AT

BANNERWORTH HALL.
"Hilloa where the deuce is he?" said the admiral. "Was there ever such a confounded take-
in?"
"Well, I really don't know," said Mr. Chillingworth; "but it seems to me that he must have
gone out of that door that was behind him. I begin, do you know, admiral, to wish -- "
"What?"
"That we had never come here at all; and I think that the sooner we get out of it the
better."
"Yes; but I am not going to be hoaxed and humbugged in this way. I will have
satisfaction, but not with those confounded scythes and things he talks about in the dark
room. Give me broad daylight and no favour; yardarm and yardarm; broadside and
broadside; hand-grenades and marling-spikes."
"Well, but that's what he won't do. Now, admiral, listen to me."
"Well, go on; what next?"
"Come away at once."
"Oh, you said that before."
"Yes; but I'm going to say something else. Look round you. Don't you think this is a
large, scientific-looking room?"
"What of that?"
"Why, what if suppose it was to become as dark as the grave, and Varney was to enter
with his scythe, that he talks of, and begin mowing about our legs."
"The devil! Come along!"
The door at which they entered was at this moment opened, and the old woman made her
appearance.
"Please, sir," she said, "here's a Mr. Mortimer," in a loud voice. "Oh, Sir Francis ain't
here! Where's he gone, gentlemen?"

"To the devil!" said the admiral. "Who may Mr. Mortimer be?"
There walked past the woman a stout, portly-looking man, well dressed, but with a very
odd look upon his face, in consequence of an obliquity of vision, which prevented the
possibility of knowing which way he was looking.
"I must see him," he said; "I must see him."
Mr. Chillingworth started back as if in amazement.
"Good God!" he cried, "you here?"
"Confusion!" said Mortimer; "are you Dr. -- Dr. -- "
"Chillingworth."
"The same. Hush! there is no occasion to betray -- that is, to state my secret."
"And mine, too," said Chillingworth. "But what brings you here?"
"I cannot and dare not tell you. Farewell!"
He turned abruptly, and was leaving the room; but he ran against some one at the
entrance, and in another moment Henry Bannerworth, heated and almost breathless by
evident haste, made his appearance.
"Hilloa! bravo!" cried the admiral; "the more the merrier! Here's a combined squadron!
Why, how came you here, Mr. Henry Bannerworth?"
"Bannerworth!" said Mortimer; "is this young man's name Bannerworth?"
"Yes," said Henry. "Do you know me, sir?"
"No, no; only I -- I -- must be off. Does anyone know anything of Sir Francis Varney?"
"We did know something of him," said the admiral, "a little while ago; but he's taken
himself off. Don't you do so likewise. If you've got anything to say, stop and say it, like an
Englishman."
"Stuff! stuff!" said Mortimer, impatiently. "What do you all want here?"
"Why, Sir Francis Varney," said Henry, -- "and I care not if the whole world heard it -- is
the persecutor of my family."
"How? in what way?"

"He has the reputation of a vampyre; he has hunted me and mine from house and home."
"Indeed!"
"Yes," cried Dr. Chillingworth; "and, by some means or another, he seems determined to
get possession of Bannerworth Hall."
"Well, gentlemen," said Mortimer, "I promise you that I will inquire into this. Mr.
Chillingworth, I did not expect to meet you. Perhaps the least we say to each other is, after
all, the better."
"Let me ask but one question," said Dr. Chillingworth, imploringly.
"Ask it."
"Did he live after -- "
"Hush! he did."
"You always told me to the contrary."
"Yes; I had an object; the game is up. Farewell; and, gentlemen, as I am making my exit,
let me do so with a sentiment: -- Society at large is divided into two great classes."
"And what may they be?" said the admiral.
"Those who have been hanged, and those who have not. Adieu!"
He turned and left the room; and Mr. Chillingworth sunk into a chair, and said, in a low
voice, --
"It is uncommonly true; and I've found out an acquaintance among the former."
"D -- n it! you seem all mad," said the admiral. "I can't make out what you are about.
How come you here, Mr. Henry Bannerworth?"
"By mere accident I heard," said Henry, "that you were keeping watch and ward in the
Hall. Admiral, it was cruel, and not well done of you, to attempt such an enterprise without
acquainting me with it. Did you suppose for a moment that I, who had the greatest interest
in this affair, would have shrunk from danger, if danger there be; or lacked perseverance, if
that quality were necessary in carrying out any plan by which the safety and honour of my
family might be preserved?"
"Nay, now, my young friend," said Mr. Chillingworth.

"May, sir; but I take it ill that I should have been kept out of this affair; and it should have
been sedulously, as it were, kept a secret from me."
"Let him go on as he likes," said the admiral; "boys will be boys. After all, you know,
doctor, it's my affair, and not yours. Let him say what he likes; where's the odds? It's of no
consequence."
"I do not expect, Admiral Bell," said Henry, "that it is to you; but it is to me."
"Psha!"
"Respecting you, sir, as I do -- "
"Gammon!"
"I must confess that I did expect -- "
"What you didn't get; therefore, there's an end of that. Now, I tell you what, Henry, Sir
Francis Varney is within this house; at least, I have reason to suppose so."
"Then," exclaimed Henry, impetuously, "I will wring from him answers to various
questions which concern my peace and happiness."
"Please, gentlemen," said the woman Deborah, making her appearance, "Sir Francis
Varney has gone out, and he says I'm to show you all the door, as soon as it is convenient
for you all to walk out of it."
"I feel convinced," said Mr. Chillingworth, "that it will be a useless search now to attempt
to find Sir Francis Varney here. Let me beg of you all to come away; and believe me that I
do not speak lightly, or with a view to get you from here, when I say, that after I have heard
something from you, Henry, which I shall ask you to relate to me, painful though it may be,
I shall be able to suggest some explanation of many things which appear at present obscure,
and to put you in a course of freeing you from difficulties which surround you, which,
Heaven knows, I little expected I should have it in my power to propose to any of you."
"I will follow your advice, Mr. Chillingworth," said Henry; "for I have always found that
it has been dictated by good feeling as well as correct judgment. Admiral Bell, you will
oblige me much by coming away with me now and at once."
"Well," remarked the admiral, "if the doctor has really something to say, it alters the
appearance of things, and, of course, I have no objection."
Upon this, the whole three of them immediately left the place, and it was evident that Mr.
Chillingworth had something of an uncomfortable character upon his mind. He was
unusually silent and reserved, and, when he did speak, he seemed rather inclined to turn the

conversation upon indifferent topics, than to add anything more to what he had said upon
the deeply interesting one which held so foremost a place in all their minds.
"How is Flora, now," he asked of Henry, "since her removal?"
"Anxious still," said Henry; "but, I think, better."
"That is well. I perceive that, naturally, we are all three walking towards Bannerworth
Hall, and, perhaps, it is as well that on that spot I should ask of you, Henry, to indulge me
with a confidence such as, under ordinary circumstances, I should not at all feel myself
justified in requiring of you."
"To what does it relate?" said Henry. "You may be assured, Mr. Chillingworth, that I am
not likely to refuse my confidence to you, whom I have so much reason to respect as an
attached friend of myself and my family."
"You will not object, likewise, I hope," added Mr. Chillingworth, "to extend that
confidence to Admiral Bell; for, as you well know, a truer and more warm-hearted man
than he does not exist."
"What do you expect for that, doctor?" said the admiral.
"There is nothing," said Henry, "that I could relate at all, that I should shrink from
relating to Admiral Bell."
"Well, my boy," said the admiral, "and all I can reply to that is, you are quite right; for
there can be nothing that you need shrink from telling me, so far as regards the fact of
trusting me with it goes."
"I am assured of that."
"A British officer, once pledging his word, prefers death to breaking it. Whatever you
wish kept secret in the communication you make to me, say so, and it will never pass my
lips."
"Why, sir, the fact is," said Henry, "that what I am about to relate to you consists of much
of secrets as of matters which would be painful to my feelings to talk of more than may be
absolutely required."
"I understand you."
"Let me, for a moment," said Mr. Chillingworth, "put myself right. I do not suspect, Mr.
Henry Bannerworth, that you fancy I ask you to make a recital of circumstances which
must be painful to you, from any idle motive. But let me declare that I have now a stronger
impulse, which induces me to wish to hear from your own lips those matters which popular
rumour may have greatly exaggerated or vitiated."

"It is scarcely possible," remarked Henry, sadly, "that popular rumour should exaggerate
the facts."
"Indeed!"
"No. They are, unhappily, of themselves, in their bare truthfulness, so full of all that can
be grevious to those who are in any way connected with them, that there needs no
exaggeration to invest them with more terror, or with more of that sadness which must ever
belong to a recollection of them in my mind."
In suchlike discourse as this, the time was passed, until Henry Bannerworth and his
friends once more reached the Hall, from which he, with his family, had so recently
removed, in consequence of the fearful persecution to which they had been subjected.
They passed again into the garden which they all knew so well, and then Henry paused
and looked around him with a deep sigh.
In answer to an inquiring glance from Mr. Chillingworth, he said, --
"Is it not strange, now, that I should have only been away from here a space of time
which may be counted by hours, and yet all seems changed. I could almost fancy that years
had elapsed since I had looked at it."
"Oh," remarked the doctor, "time is always by the imagination measured by the number
of events which are crowded into a given space of it, and not by its actual duration. Come
into the house; there you will find all just as you left it, Henry, and you can tell us your
story at leisure."
"The air," said Henry, "about here is fresh and pleasant. Let us sit down in the summer-
house yonder, and there I will tell you all. It has a local interest, too, connected with this
tale."
This was agreed to, and, in a few moments, the admiral, Mr. Chillingworth, and Henry
were seated in the same summer-house which had witnessed the strange interview between
Sir Francis Varney and Flora Bannerworth, in which he had induced her to believe that he
felt for the distress he had occasioned her, and was strongly impressed with the injustice of
her sufferings.
Henry was silent for some few moments, and then he said, with a deep sigh, as he looked
mournfully around him, --
"It was on this spot that my father breathed his last, and hence have I said that it has a
local interest in the tale I have to tell, which makes it the most fitting place in which to tell
it."
"Oh?" said the admiral; "he died here, did he?"

"Yes, where you are now sitting."
"Very good; I have seen many a brave man die in my time, and I hope to see a few more;
although, I grant you, the death in the heat of conflict, and fighting for our country, is a
vastly different thing to some shore-going mode of leaving the world."
"Yes," said Henry, as if pursuing his own meditation, rather than listening to the admiral.
"Yes, it was from this precise spot that my father took his last look at the ancient house of
his race. What we can now see of it, he saw of it with his dying eyes, and many a time I
have sat here and fancied the world of terrible thoughts that must at such a moment have
come across his brain."
"You might well do so," said the doctor.
"You see," added Henry, "that from here the fullest view you have of any of the windows
of the house is of that of Flora's room, as we have always called it, because for years she
had had it as her chamber; and, when all the vegetation of summer is in its prime, and the
vine which you perceive crawls over this summer-house is full of leaf and fruit, the view is
so much hindered that it is difficult, without making an artificial gap in the clustering
foliage, to see anything but the window."
"So I should imagine," replied Mr. Chillingworth.
"You, doctor," added Henry, "who know much of my family, need not be told what sort
of man my father was."
"No, indeed."
"But you, Admiral Bell, who do not know, must be told, and, however grevious it may be
to me to have to say so, I must inform you that he was not a man who would have merited
your esteem."
"Well," said the admiral, "you know, my boy, that can make no difference as regards you
in anybody's mind, who has got the brains of an owl. Every man's credit, character, and
honour, to my thinking, is in his own most special keeping, and let your father be what he
might, or who he might, I do not see that any conduct of his ought to raise upon your cheek
the flush of shame, or cost you more uneasiness than ordinary good feeling dictates to the
errors and feelings of a fellow creature."
"If all the world," said Henry, "would take such liberal and comprehensive views as you
do, admiral, it would be much happier than it is; but such is not the case, and people are but
too apt to blame one person for the evil that another has done."
"Ah, but," said Mr. Chillingworth, "it so happens that those are the people whose
opinions are of the very least consequence."

"There is some truth in that," said Henry, sadly; "but, however, let me proceed; since I
have to tell the tale, I could wish it over. My father, then, Admiral Bell, although a man not
tainted in early life with vices, became, by the force of bad associates, and a sort of want of
congeniality and sentiment that sprang up between him and my mother, plunged into all the
excesses of his age.
These excesses were all of that character which the most readily lay hold strongly of an
unreflecting mind, because they all presented themselves in the garb of sociality.
The wine cup is drained in the name of good fellowship; money which is wanted for
legitimate purposes is squandered under the mask of a noble and free generosity; and all
that the small imagination of a number of persons of perverted intellects could enable them
to do, has been done, from time to time, to impart a kind of lustre to intemperance and all
its dreadful and criminal consequences.
My father, having once got into the company of what he considered wits and men of
spirit, soon became thoroughly vitiated. He was almost the only one of the set among
whom he passed what he considered his highly convivial existence, who was really worth
anything, pecuniarily speaking. There were some among them who might have been
respectable men, and perchance carved their way to fortune, as well as some others who
had started in life with good patrimonies; but he, my father, at the time he became
associated with them, was the only one, as I say, who, to use a phrase I have heard myself
from his lips concerning them, had got a feather to fly with.
The consequence of this was, that his society, merely for the sake of the animal
gratification of drinking at his expense was courted, and he was much flattered, all of which
he laid to the score of his own merits, which had been found out, and duly appreciated by
these bon vivants, while he considered that the grave admonitions of his real friends
proceeded from nothing in the world but downright envy and malice.
Such a state of things as this could not last very long. The associates of my father wanted
money as well as wine, so they introduced him to the gaming-table, and he became
fascinated with the fearful vice to an extent which predicted his own destruction and the
ruin of every one who was in in any way dependent upon him.
He could not absolutely sell Bannerworth Hall, unless I had given my consent, which I
refused; but he accumulated debt upon debt, and from time to time stripped the mansion of
all its most costly contents.
With various mutations of fortune, he continued this horrible and baneful career for a
long time, until, at last, he found himself utterly and irretrievably ruined, and he came home
in an agony of despair, being so weak, and utterly ruined in constitution, that he kept his
bed for many days.
It appeared, however, that something occurred at this juncture which gave him actually,
or all events awakened a hope that he should possess some money, and be again in a
position to try his fortune at the gaming-table.

He rose, and, fortifying himself once more with the strong stimulant of wine and spirits,
he left his home, and was absent for about two months.
What occurred to him during that time we none of us ever knew, but late one night he
came home, apparently much flurried in manner, and seeming as if something had
happened to drive him half mad.
He would not speak to any one, but he shut himself up the whole of the night in the
chamber where hangs the portrait that bears so strong a resemblance to Sir Francis Varney,
and there he remained till the morning, when he emerged, and said briefly that he intended
to leave the country.
He was in a most fearful state of nervousness, and my mother tells me that he shook like
one in an ague, and started at every little sound that occurred in the house, and glared about
him so wildly that it was horrible to see him, or to sit in the same apartment with him.
She says that the whole morning passed on in this way till a letter came to him, the
contents of which appeared to throw him into a perfect convulsion of terror, and he retired
again to the room with the portrait, where he remained some hours, and then he emerged,
looking like a ghost, so dreadfully pale and haggard was he.
He walked into the garden here, and was seen to sit down in this summer-house, and fix
his eyes upon the window of that apartment.
Henry paused for a few moments, and then he added --
You will excuse me from entering upon any details of what next ensued in the
melancholy history. My father here committed suicide. He was found dying, and all the
words he spoke were, "The money is hidden!" Death claimed his victim, and, with a
convulsive spasm, he resigned his spirit, leaving what he had intended to say hidden in the
oblivion of the grave.
"That was an odd affair," said the admiral.
"It was, indeed. We have all pondered deeply, and the result was, that, upon the whole,
we were inclined to come to an opinion that the words he so uttered were but the result of
the mental disturbance that at such a moment might well be supposed to be ensuing in the
mind, and that they related really to no foregone fact any more than some incoherent words
uttered by a man in a dream might be supposed to do so."
"It may be so."
"I do not mean," remarked Mr. Chillingworth, "for one moment to attempt to dispute,
Henry, the rationality of such an opinion as you have just given utterance to; but you forget
that another circumstance occurred, which gave a colour to the words used by your father."

"Yes; I know to what you allude."
"Be so good at to state it to the admiral."
"I will. On the evening of that same day there came a man here, who, in seeming
ignorance of what had occurred, although by that time it was well known to all the
neighbourhood, asked to see my father.
"Upon being told that he was dead, he started back, either with well acted or with real
surprise, and seemed to be immensely chagrined. He then demanded to know if he had left
any disposition of his property; but he got no information, and departed muttering the most
diabolical oaths and curses that can be imagined. He mounted his horse, for he had ridden
to the Hall, and his last words were, as I am told --
"'Where, in the name of all that's damnable, can he have put the money?'"
"And did you never find out who this man was?" asked the admiral.
"Never."
"It is an odd affair."
"It is," said Mr. Chillingworth, "and full of mystery. The public mind was much taken up
at the time with some other matters, or it would have made the death of Mr. Bannerworth
the subject of more prolific comment than it did. As it was, however, a great deal was said
upon the subject, and the whole county was in a state of commotion for weeks afterwards."
"Yes," said Henry; "it so happened that about that very time a murder was committed in
the neighbourhood of London, which baffled all the exertions of the authorities to discover
the perpetrators of. It was the murder of Lord Lorne."
"Oh! I remember," said the admiral; "the newspapers were full of it for a long time."
"They were; and more so, as Mr. Chillingworth says, the more exciting interest which
that affair created drew off public attention, in a great measure, from my father's suicide,
and we did not suffer so much from public remark and from impertinent curiosity as might
have been expected."
"And, in addition," said Mr. Chillingworth, and he changed colour a little as he spoke,
"there was an execution shortly afterwards."
"Yes," said Henry, "there was."
"The execution of a man named Angerstein," added Mr. Chillingworth "for a highway
robbery, attended with the most brutal violence."

"True; all the affairs of that period of time are strongly impressed upon my mind," said
Henry; "but you do not seem well, Mr. Chillingworth."
"Oh, yes; I am quite well -- you are mistaken."
Both the admiral and Henry looked scrutinizingly at the doctor, who certainly appeared to
them to be labouring under some great mental excitement, which he found it almost beyond
his power to repress.
"I tell you what it is, doctor," said the admiral; "I don't pretend, and never did, to see
further through a tar-barrel than my neighbours; but I can see far enough to feel convinced
that you have got something on your mind, and that it somehow concerns this affair."
"Is it so?" said Henry.
"I cannot if I would," said Mr. Chillingworth; "and I may with truth add, that I would not,
if I could, hide from you that I have something on my mind connected with this affair; but
let me assure you it would be premature of me to tell you of it."
"Premature be d -- -- d!" said the admiral; "out with it."
"Nay, nay, dear sir; I am not now in a position to say what is passing through my mind."
"Alter your position, then, and be blowed!" cried Jack Pringle, suddenly stepping
forward, and giving the doctor such a push, that he nearly went through one of the sides of
the summer-house.
"Why, you scoundrel!" cried the admiral, "how came you here?"
"On my legs," said Jack. "Do you think nobody wants to know nothing but yourself? I'm
as fond of a yarn as anybody."
"But if you are," said Mr. Chillingworth, "you had no occasion to come against me as if
you wanted to move a house."
"You said as you wasn't in a position to say something as I wanted to hear, so I thought
I'd alter it for you."
"Is this fellow," said the doctor, shaking his head, as he accosted the admiral, "the most
artful or stupid?"
"A little of both," said Admiral Bell -- "a little of both, doctor. He's a great fool and a
great scamp."

"The same to you," said Jack; "you're another. I shall hate you presently, if you go on
making yourself so ridiculous. Now, mind, I'll only give you a trial of another week or so,
and if you don't be more purlite in your d -- n language, I'll leave you."
Away strolled Jack, with his hands in his pockets, towards the house, while the admiral
was half choked with rage, and could only glare after him, without the ability to say a word.
Under any other circumstances than the present one of trouble, and difficulty; and deep
anxiety, Henry Bannerworth mush have laughed at these singular little episodes between
Jack and the admiral; but his mind was now by far too much harassed to permit him to do
so.
"Let him go, let him go, my dear sir," said Mr. Chillingworth to the admiral, who showed
some signs of an intention to pursue Jack; "he no doubt has been drinking again."
"I'll turn him off the first moment I catch him sober enough to understand me," said the
admiral.
"Well, well; do as you please; but now let me ask a favour of both of you."
"What is it?"
"That you will leave Bannerworth Hall to me for a week."
"What for?"
"I hope to make some discoveries connected with it which shall well reward you for the
trouble."
"It's no trouble," said Henry; "and for myself, I have amply sufficient faith, both in your
judgment and in your friendship, doctor, to accede to any request which you may make to
me."
"And I," said the admiral. "Be it so -- be it so. For one week, you say?"
"Yes -- for one week. I hope, by the end of that time, to have achieved something worth
the telling of; and I promise you that, if I am at all disappointed in my expecting, that I will
frankly and freely communicate to you all I know and all I suspect."
"Then that's a bargain."
"It is."
"And what's to be done at once?"

"Why, nothing, but to take the greatest possible care that Bannerworth Hall is not left
another hour without some one in it; and in order that such should be the case, I have to
request that you two will remain here until I go to the town, and make preparations for
taking quiet possession of it myself, which I will do in the course of two hours, at most."
"Don't be longer," said the admiral, "for I am so desperately hungry, that I shall certainly
begin to eat somebody, if you are."
"Depend upon me."
"Very well," said Henry; "you may depend we will wait here until you come back."
The doctor at once hurried from the garden, leaving Henry and the admiral to amuse
themselves as best they might, with conjectures as to what he was really about, until his
return.
--

Chapter LXII.
THE MYSTERIOUS MEETING IN THE RUIN AGAIN. -- THE VAMPYRE'S

ATTACK UPON THE CONSTABLE.
It is now necessary that we return once more to that mysterious ruin in the intricacies of
which Varney, when pursued by the mob, had succeeded in finding a refuge which defied
all the exertions which were made for his discovery. Our readers must be well aware, that,
connected with that ruin, are some secrets of great importance to our story; and we will
now, at the solemn hour of midnight, take another glance at what is doing within its
recesses.
At that solemn hour it is not probable that anyone would seek that gloomy place from
choice. Some lover of the picturesque certainly might visit it; but such was not the inciting
cause of the pilgrimage with those who were soon to stand within its gloomy precincts.
Other motives dictated their presence in that spot -- motives of rapine; peradventure of
murder itself.
As the neighbouring clocks sounded the hour of twelve, and the faint strokes were born
gently on the wind to that isolated ruin, there might have been seen a tall man standing by
the porch of what had once been a large doorway to some portion of the ruin.
His form was enveloped in a large cloak, which was of such ample material that he
seemed well able to wrap it several times around him, and then leave a considerable portion
of it floating idly in the gentle wind.
He stood as still, as calm, and as motionless as a statue, for a considerable time, before
any degree of impatience began to show itself. Then he took from his pocket a large antique
watch, the white face of which just enabled him to see what the time was, and, in a voice
which had in it some amount of petulance and anger, he said, --
"Not come yet, and nearly half an hour beyond the time! What can have detained him?
This is, indeed, trifling with the most important moments of a man's existence."
Even as he spoke, he heard, from some distance off, the sound of a short, quick footstep.
He bent forwards to listen, and then, in a tone of satisfaction, he said, --
"He comes -- he comes!"
But he who thus waited for some confederate among these dim and old grey ruins,
advanced not a step to meet him. On the contrary, such seemed the amount of cold-blooded
caution which he possessed, that the nearer the man -- who was evidently advancing -- got
to the place, the further back did he who had preceded him shrink into the shadow of the

dim and rumbling walls, which had, for some years now past, seemed to bend to the
passing blast, and to be on the point of yielding to the destroying hand of time.
And yet, surely he needed not have been so cautious. Who was likely, at such an hour as
that, to come to the ruins, but one who sought it by appointment?
And, moreover, the manner of the advancing man should have been quite sufficient to
convince him who waited, that so much caution was unnecessary; but it was a part and
parcel of his nature.
About three minutes more sufficed to bring the second man to the ruin, and he, at once,
and fearlessly, plunged into its recesses.
"Who comes?" said the first man, in a deep, hollow voice.
"He whom you expect," was the reply.
"Good," he said, and at once he now emerged from his hiding-place, and they stood
together in the nearly total darkness with which the place was enshrouded; for the night was
a cloudy one, and there appeared not a star in the heavens, to shed its faint light upon the
scene below.
For a few moments they were both silent, for he who had last arrived had evidently made
great exertions to reach the spot, and was breathing laboriously, while he who was there
first appeared, from some natural taciturnity of character, to decline opening the
conversation.
At length the second comer spoke, saying, --
"I have made some exertion to get here to my time, and yet I am beyond it, as you are no
doubt aware."
"Yes, yes."
"Well, such would not have been the case; but yet, I stayed to bring you some news of
importance."
"Indeed!"
"It is so. This place, which we have now for some time had as a quiet and perfectly
eligible one of meeting, is about to be invaded by one of those restless, troublesome spirits,
who are never happy but when they are contriving something to the annoyance of others
who do not interfere with them."
"Explain yourself more fully."

"I will. At a tavern in the town, there has happened some strange scenes of violence, in
consequence of the general excitement into which the common people have been thrown
upon the dreadful subject of vampyres."
"Well."
"The consequence is, that numerous arrests have taken place, and the places of
confinement for offenders against the laws are now full of those whose heated and angry
imaginations have induced them to take violent steps to discover the reality or the falsehood
of rumours which so much affected them, their wives, and their families, that they feared to
lie down to their night's repose."
The other laughed a short, hollow, restless sort of laugh, which had not one particle of
real mirth in it.
"Go on -- go on," he said. "What did they do?"
"Immense excesses have been committed; but what made me, first of all, stay beyond my
time, was that I overheard a man declare his intentions this night, from twelve till the
morning, and for some nights to come, to hold watch and ward for the vampyre."
"Indeed!"
"Yes. He did but stay, at the earnest solicitation of his comrades, to take yet another glass,
ere he came upon his expedition."
"He must be met. The idiot! what business is it of his?"
"There are always people who will make everything their business, whether it be so or
not."
"There are. Let us retire further into the recesses of the ruin, and there consider as well
what is to be done regarding more important affairs, as with this rash intruder here."
They both walked for some twenty paces, or so, right into the ruin, and then he who had
been there first, said, suddenly, to his companion, --
"I am annoyed, although the feeling reaches no farther than annoyance, for I have a
natural love of mischief, to think that my reputation has spread so widely, and made so
much noise."
"Your reputation as a vampyre, Sir Francis Varney, you mean?"
"Yes; but there is no occasion for you to utter my name aloud, even here where we are
alone together."

"It came out unawares."
"Unawares! Can it be possible that you have so little command over yourself as to allow a
name to come from your lips unawares?"
"Sometimes."
"I am surprised."
"Well, it cannot be helped. What do you now propose to do?"
"Nay, you are my privy councillor. Have you no deep-laid, artful project in hand? Can
you not plan and arrange something which may yet have the effect of accomplishing what
at first seemed so very simple, but which has, from one unfortunate circumstance and
another, become full of difficulty and pregnant with all sorts of dangers?"
"I must confess I have no plan."
"I listen with astonishment."
"Nay, now, you are jesting."
"When did you ever hear of me jesting?"
"Not often, I admit. But you have a fertile genius, and I have always, myself, found it
easier to be the executive than to plan an elaborate course of action for others."
"Then you throw it all on me?"
"I throw a weight, naturally enough, upon the shoulders which I think the best adapted to
sustain it."
"Be it so, then -- be it so."
"You are, I presume, from what you say, provided with a scheme of action which shall
present better hopes of success, at less risk, I hope. Look what great danger we have
already passed through."
"Yes, we have."
"I pray you avoid that in the next campaign."
"It is not the danger that annoys and troubles me, but it is that, notwithstanding it, the
object is as far off as ever from being attained."

"And not only so, but as is invariably the case under such circumstance, we have made it
more difficult of execution because we have put those upon their guard thoroughly who are
the most likely to oppose us."
"We have -- we have."
"And placed the probability of success afar off indeed."
"And yet I have set my life upon the case, and I will stand the hazard. I tell you I will
accomplish this object, or I will perish in the attempt."
"You are too enthusiastic."
"Not at all. Nothing has been ever done, the execution of which was difficult, without
enthusiasm. I will do what I intend, or Bannerworth Hall shall become a heap of ruins,
where fire shall do its worst work of devastation, and I will myself find a grave in the
midst."
"Well, I quarrel with no man for chalking out the course he intends to pursue, but what do
you mean to do with the prisoner below here?"
"Kill him."
"What?"
"I say kill him. Do you not understand me?"
"I do, indeed."
"When everything else is secured, and when the whole of that which I so much court, and
which I will have, is in my possession, I will take his life, or you shall. Ay, you are just the
man for such a deed. A smooth-faced, specious sort of man are you, and you like not
danger. There will be none in taking the life of a man who is chained to the floor of a
dungeon."
"I know not why," said the other, "you take a pleasure on this particular night, of all
others, in saying all you can which you think will be offensive to me."
"Now, how you wrong me. This is the reward of confidence."
"I don't want such confidence."
"Why, you surely don't want me to flatter you."
"No; but -- "

"Psha! Hark you. That admiral is the great stumbling-block in my way. I should ere this
have had undisturbed possession of Bannerworth Hall but for him. He must be got out of
the way somehow."
"A short time will tire him out of watching. He is one of those men of impulse who soon
become wearied of inaction."
"Ay, and then the Bannerworths return to the Hall."
"It may be so."
"I am certain of it. We have been out-generalled in this matter, although I grant we did all
that men could do to give us success."
"In what way would you get rid of this troublesome admiral?"
"I scarcely know. A letter from his nephew might, if well put together, get him to
London."
"I doubt it. I hate him mortally. He has offended me more than once most grievously."
"I know it. He saw through you."
"I do not give him so much credit. He is a suspicious man, and a vain and a jealous one."
"And yet he saw through you. Now, listen to me. You are completely at fault, and have
no plan of operations whatever in your mind. What I want you to do is, to disappear from
the neighborhood for a while, and so will I. As for our prisoner here below, I cannot see
what else can be done with him than -- than -- "
"Than what? Do you hesitate?"
"I do."
"Then what is it you were about to say?"
"I cannot but feel that all we have done, hitherto, as regards this young prisoner of ours,
has failed. He has, with a determined obstinacy, set at naught, as well you know, all
threats."
"He has."
"He has refused to do one act which could in any way aid me in my objects. In fact, from
the first to the last, he has been nothing but an expense and an encumbrance to us both."

"And yet, although you, as well as I, know of a marvellously ready way of getting rid of
such encumbrances, I must own that I shrink with more than a feeling of reluctance from
the murder of the youth."
"You contemplated it, then?" asked the other.
"No; I cannot be said to have contemplated it. That is not the proper sort of expression to
use."
"What is then?"
"To contemplate a deed seems to me to have some close connexion to the will to do it."
"And you have no such wish?"
"I have no such wish, and what is more I will not do it."
"Then that is sufficient; and the only question that remains for you to consider is, what
you will do. It is far easier in all enterprises to decide upon what we will not do, than upon
what we will. For my own part I must say that I can perceive no mode of extricating
ourselves from this involvement with anything like safety."
"Then it must be done with something like danger."
"As you please."
"You say so, and your words bear a clear enough significance; but from your tone I can
guess how much you are dissatisfied with the aspect of affairs."
"Dissatisfied!"
"Yes; I say, dissatisfied. Be frank, and own that which it is in vain to conceal from me. I
know you too well; arch hypocrite as you are, and fully capable of easily deceiving many,
you cannot deceive me."
"I really cannot understand you."
"Then I will take care that you shall."
"How?"
"Listen. I will not have the life of Charles Holland taken."
"Who wishes to take it?"
"You."

"There, indeed, you wrong me. Unless you yourself thought that such an act was
imperatively called for by the state of affairs, do you think that I would needlessly bring
down upon my head the odium as well as the danger of such a deed? No, no. Let him live,
if you are willing; he may live a thousand years for all I care."
"'Tis well. I am, mark me, not only willing, but I am determined that he shall live so far as
we are concerned. I can respect the courage that, even when he considered that his life was
at stake, enabled him to say no to a proposal which was cowardly and dishonourable,
although it went far to the defeat of my own plans and has involved me in much trouble."
"Hush! hush!"
"What is it?"
"I fancy I hear a foot step."
"Indeed; that were a novelty in such a place as this."
"And yet not more than I expected. Have you forgotten what I told you when I reached
here to-night after the appointed hour?"
"Truly; I had for the moment. Do you think then that the footstep which now meets our
ears, is that of the adventurer who boasted that he could keep watch for the vampyre?"
"In faith do I. What is to be done with such a meddling fool?"
"He ought certainly to be taught not to be so fond of interfering with other people's
affairs."
"Certainly."
"Perchance the lesson will not be wholly thrown away upon others. It may be worth while
to take some trouble with the pot valiant fellow, and let him spread his news so as to stop
any one else from being equally venturous and troublesome."
"A good thought."
"Shall it be done?"
"Yes; if you will arrange that which shall accomplish such a result."
"Be it so. The moon rises."
"It does."

"Ah, already I fancy I see a brightening of the air as if the mellow radiance of the queen
of night were already quietly diffusing itself throughout the realms of space. Come further
within the ruins."
They both walked further among the crumbling walls and fragments of columns with
which the place abounded. As they did so they paused now and then to listen, and more
than once they both heard plainly the sound of certain footsteps outside the once handsome
and spacious building.
Varney, the vampyre, who had been holding this conversation with no other than
Marchdale, smiled as he, in a whispered voice, told the latter what to do in order to frighten
away from the place the foolhardy man who thought that, by himself, he should be able to
accomplish anything against the vampyre.
It was, indeed, a hair-brained expedition, for whether Sir Francis Varney was really so
awful and preternatural a being as so many concurrent circumstances would seem to
proclaim, or not, he was not a likely being to allow himself to be conquered by any one
individual, let his powers or his courage be what they might.
What induced this man to become so venturesome we shall now proceed to relate, as well
as what kind of reception he got in the old ruins, which, since the mysterious disappearance
of Sir Francis Varney within their recesses, had possessed so increased a share of interest
and attracted so much popular attention and speculation.
--

Chapter LXIII.
THE GUESTS AT THE INN, AND THE STORY OF THE DEAD UNCLE.
As had been truly stated by Mr. Marchdale, who now stands out in his true colours to the
reader as the confidant and abettor of Sir Francis Varney, there had assembled on that
evening a curious and gossipping party at the inn where such dreadful proceedings had
taken place, we have already duly and at length recorded.
It was not very likely that, on that evening, or for many and many an evening to come, the
conversation in the parlour of the inn would be upon any other subject than that of the
vampyre.
Indeed, the strange, mysterious, and horrible circumstances which had occurred bade fair
to be gossipping stock in trade for many a year.
Never before had a subject presenting so many curious features arisen. Never, within the
memory of that personage who is supposed to know everything had there occurred any
circumstances in the county, or set of circumstances, which afforded such abundant scope
for conjecture and speculation.
Everybody might have his individual opinion, and be just as likely to be right as his
neighbours; and the beauty of the affair was, that such was the interest of the subject itself,
that there was sure to be a kind of reflected interest with eery surmise that at all bore upon
it.
On this particular night, when Marchdale was prowling about, gathering what news he
could, in order that he might carry it to the vampyre, a more than usually strong muster of
the gossips of the town took place.
Indeed, all of any note in the talking way were there, with the exception of one, and he
was in the county gaol, being one of the prisoners apprehended by the military when they
made the successful attack upon the lumber-room of the inn, after the dreadful desecration
of the dead which had taken place.
The landlord of the inn was likely to make a good thing of it, for talking makes people
thirsty; and he began to consider that a vampyre about once-a-year would be a good thing
for the Blue Lion.
"It's shocking," said one of the guests; "it's shocking to think of. Only last night, I am
quite sure I had such a fright that it added at least ten years to my age."
"A fright!" said several.
"I believe I speak English -- I said a fright."

"Well, but had it anything to do with the vampyre?"
"Everything."
"Oh! do tell us; do tell us all about it. How was it? Did he come to you? Go on. Well,
well."
The first speaker became immediately a very important personage in the room; and, when
he was that, he became at once a very important personage in his own eyes likewise; and,
before he would speak another word, he filled a fresh pipe, and ordered another mug of ale.
"It's no use trying to hurry him," said one.
"No," he said, "it isn't. I'll tell you in good time what a dreadful circumstance has made
me sixty-three to-day, when I was only fifty-three yesterday."
"Was it very dreadful?"
"Rather. You wouldn't have survived at all."
"Indeed!"
"No. Now listen. I went to bed at a quarter after eleven, as usual. I didn't notice anything
particular in the room."
"Did you peep under the bed?"
"No, I didn't. Well, as I was a-saying, to bed I went, and I didn't fasten the door; because,
being a very sound sleeper, in case there was a fire, I shouldn't hear a word of it if I did."
"No," said another. "I recollect once -- "
"Be so good as to allow me to finish what I know, before you begin to recollect anything,
if you please. As I was saying, I didn't lock the door, but I went to bed. Somehow or
another, I did not feel at all comfortable, and I tossed about, first on one side, and then on
the other; but it was all in vain; I only got, every moment, more and more fidgetty."
"And did you think of the vampyre?" said one of the listeners.
"I thought of nothing else till I heard my clock, which is on the landing of the stairs above
my bed-room, begin to strike twelve."
"Ah! I like to hear a clock sound in the night," said one; "it puts one in mind of the rest of
the world, and lets one know one isn't all alone."

"Very good. The striking of the clock I should not at all have objected to; but it was what
followed that did the business."
"What, what?"
"Fair and softly; fair and softly. Just hand me a light, Mr. Sprigs, if you please. I'll tell
you all, gentlemen, in a moment or two."
With the most provoking deliberation, the speaker re-lit his pipe, which had gone out
while he was talking, and then, after a few whiffs, to assure himself that its contents had
thoroughly ignited, he resumed --
"No sooner had the last sound of it died away, than I heard something on the stairs."
"Yes, yes."
"It was as if some man had given his foot a hard blow against one of the stairs; and he
would have needed to have had a heavy boot on to do it. I started up in bed and listened, as
you may well suppose, not in the most tranquil state of mind, and then I heard an odd,
gnawing sort of noise, and then another dab upon one of the stairs."
"How dreadful!"
"It was. What to do I knew not, or what to think, except that the vampyre had, by some
means, got in at the attic window, and was coming down stairs to my room. That seemed
the most likely. Then there was another groan, and then another heavy step; and, as they
were evidently coming towards my door, I felt accordingly, and got out of bed, not
knowing hardly whether I was on my head or my heels, to try and lock my door."
"Ah, to be sure."
"Yes; that was all very well, if I could have done it; but a man in such a state of mind as I
was in is not a very sharp hand at doing anything. I shook from head to foot. The room was
very dark, and I couldn't, for a moment or two, collect my senses sufficient really to know
which way the door lay."
"What a situation!"
"It was. Dab, dab, dab, came these horrid footsteps, and there was I groping about the
room in an agony. I heard them coming nearer and nearer to my door. Another moment,
and they must have reached it, when my hand struck against the lock."
"What an escape!"
"No, it was not."

"No?"
"No, indeed. The key was on the outside, and you may well guess I was not over and
above disposed to open the door to get at it."
"No, no."
"I felt regularly bewildered, I can tell you; it seemed to me as if the very devil himself
was coming down stairs hopping all the way upon one leg."
"How terrific!"
"I felt my senses almost leaving me; but I did what I could to hold the door shut just as I
heard the strange step come from the last stair on to the landing. Then there was a horrid
sound, and some one began trying the lock of my door."
"What a moment!"
"Yes, I can tell you it was a moment. Such a moment as I don't wish to go through again.
I held the door as close as I could, and did not speak. I tried to cry out help and murder, but
I could not; my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my strength was fast failing me."
"Horrid, horrid!"
"Take a drop of ale."
"Thank you. Well, I don't think this went on above two or three minutes, and all the while
some one tried might and main to push open the door. My strength left me all at once; I had
only time to stagger back a step or two, and then, as the door opened, I fainted away."
"Well, well!"
"Ah, you wouldn't have said well, if you had been there, I can tell you."
"No; but what become of you. What happened next? How did it end? What was it?"
"Why, what exactly happened next after I fainted I cannot tell you; but the first thing I
saw when I recovered was a candle."
"Yes, yes."
"And then a crowd of people."
"Ah, ah!"
"And then Dr. Webb."

"Gracious!"
"And Mrs. Bulk, my housekeeper. I was in my own bed, and when I opened my eyes I
heard Dr. Webb say, --
"'He will be better soon. Can no one form any idea of what it is all about. Some sudden
fright surely alone could have produced such an effect.'
"'The Lord have mercy upon me!' said I.
"Upon this everybody who had been called in got round the bed, and wanted to know
what had happened; but I said not a word of it; but turning to Mrs. Bulk, I asked her how it
was she found out I had fainted.
"'Why, sir,' says she, 'I was coming up to bed as softly as I could, because I knew you had
gone to rest some time before. The clock was striking twelve, and as I went past it some of
my clothes, I suppose, caught the large weight, but it was knocked off, and down the stairs
it rolled, going with such a lump from one to the other, and I couldn't catch it because it
rolled so fast, that I made sure you would be awakened; so I came down to tell you what it
was, and it was some time before I could get your room door open, and when I did I found
you out of bed and insensible.'"
There was a general look of disappointment when this explanation was given, and one
said, --
"Then it was not the vampire?"
"Certainly not."
"And, after all, only a clock weight."
"That's about it."
"Why didn't you tell us about that at first?"
"Because that would have spoilt the story."
There was a general murmur of discontent, and, after a few moments one man said, with
some vivacity, --
"Well, although our friend's vampyre has turned out, after all, to be nothing but a
confounded clock-weight, there's no disputing the fact about Sir Francis Varney being a
vampyre, and not a clock-weight."
"Very true -- very true."

"And what's to be done to rid the town of such a man?"
"Oh, don't call him a man."
"Well, a monster."
"Ah, that's more like. I tell you what, sir, if you had got a light, when you first heard the
noise in your room, and gone out to see what it was, you would have spared yourself much
fright."
"Ah, no doubt; it's always easy afterwards to say, if you had done this, and if you had
done the other, so and so would have been the effect; but there is something about the hour
of midnight that makes men tremble."
"Well," said one, who had not yet spoken, "I don't see why twelve at night should be a
whit more disagreeable than twelve at day."
"Don't you?"
"Not I."
"Now, for instance, many a party of pleasure goes to that old ruin where Sir Francis
Varney so unaccountably disappeared in broad daylight. But is there nay one here who
would go to it alone, and at midnight?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"I would."
"What! and after what has happened as regards the vampyre in connection with it?"
"Yes, I would."
"I'll bet you twenty shillings you won't."
"And I -- and I," cried several.
"Well, gentlemen," said the man, who certainly shewed no signs of fear, "I will go, and
not only will I go and take all your bets, but, if I do meet the vampyre; then I'll do my best
to take him prisoner."
"And when will you go?"

"To-night," he cried, and he sprang to his feet; "hark ye all, I don't believe one word about
vampyre. I'll go at once; it's getting late, and let any one of you, in order that you may be
convinced I haver been to the place, give me any article, which I will hide among the ruins;
and tell you where to find it to-morrow in broad daylight."
"Well," said one, "that's fair, Tom Eccles. Here's a handkerchief of mine; I should know it
again among a hundred others."
"Agreed; I'll leave it in the ruins."
The wagers were fairly agreed upon; several handkerchiefs were handed to Tom Eccles;
and at eleven o'clock he fairly started, through the murky darkness of the night, to the old
ruin where Sir Francis Varney and Marchdale were holding their most unholy conference.
It is one thing to talk and to accept wagers in the snug parlour of an inn, and another to go
alone across a tract of country wrapped in the profound stillness of night to an ancient ruin
which, in addition to the natural gloom which might well be supposed to surround it, has
superadded associations which are anything but of a pleasant character.
Tom Eccles, as he was named, was one of those individuals who act greatly from
impulse. He was certainly not a coward, and, perhaps, really as free from superstition as
most persons, but he was human, and consequently he had nerves, and he had likewise
imagination.
He went to his house first before he started on his errand to the ruins. It was to get a
horse-pistol which he had, and which he duly loaded and placed in his pocket. Then he
wrapped himself up in a great-coat, and with the air of a man quite determined upon
something desperate he left the town.
The guests at the inn looked after him as he walked from the door of that friendly
establishment, and some of them, as they saw his resolved aspect, began to quake for the
amount of the wagers they had laid upon his non-success.
However, it was resolved among them, that they would stay until half-past twelve, in the
expectation of his return, before they separated.
To while away the time, he who had been so facetious about his story of the clock-
weight, volunteered to tell what happened to a friend of his who went to take possession of
some family property which he became possessed of as heir-at-law to an uncle who had
died without a will, having an illegitimate family unprovided for in every shape.
"Ah! nobody cares for other people's illegitimate children, and, if their parents don't
provide for them, why, the workhouse is open for them, just as if they were something
different from other people."

"So they are; if their parents don't take care of them, and provide for them, nobody else
will, as you say, neighbour, except when they have a Fitz put to their name, which tells you
they are royal bastards, and of course unlike anybody else's."
"But go on -- let's know all about it; we sha'n't hear what he has got to say at all, at this
rate."
"Well, as I was saying, or about to say, the nephew, as soon as he heard his uncle was
dead, comes and claps his seal upon everything in the chouse."
"But, could he do so?" inquired one of the guests.
"I don't see what was to hinder him," replied a third. "He could do so, certainly."
"But there was a son, and, as I take it, a son's nearer than a nephew any day."
"But the son is illegitimate."
"Legitimate, or illegitimate, a son's a son; don't bother me about distinction of that sort;
why, now, there was old Weatherbit -- "
"Order, order."
"Let's hear the tale."
"Very good, gentlemen, I'll go on, if I ain't to be interrupted; but I'll say this, that an
illegitimate son is no son, in the eyes of the law; or at most he's an accident, quite, and ain't
what he is, and so can't inherit."
"Well, that's what I call making matters plain," said one of the guests, who took his pipe
from his mouth to make room for the remark; "now that is what I likes."
"Well, as I have proved then," resumed the speaker, "the nephew was the heir, and into
the house he would come. A fine affair it was too -- the illegitimates looking the color of
sloes; but he knew the law, and would have it put in force."
"Law's law, you know."
"Uncommonly true that, and the nephew stuck to it like a cobbler to his last -- he said
they should go out, and they did go out; and say what they would about their natural claims,
he would not listen to them, but bundled them out and out in a pretty short space of time."
"It was trying to them, mind you, to leave the house they had been born in with very
different expectations to those which now appeared to be their fate. Poor things, they
looked ruefully enough, and well they might, for there was a wide world for them, and no
prospect of a warm corner."

"Well, as I was saying, he had them all out, and the house clear to himself.
"Now," said he, "I have and open field and no favour. I don't care for no -- Eh! what!"
"There was a sudden knocking, he thought, at the door, and went and opened it, but
nothing was to be seen."
"Oh, I see -- somebody next door; and if it wasn't it don't matter. There's nobody here. I'm
alone, and there's plenty of valuables in the house. That is what I call very good company. I
wouldn't wish for better."
He turned about, looked over room after room, and satisfied himself that he was alone --
that the house was empty.
At every room he entered he paused to think over the value -- what it was worth, and that
he was a very fortunate man in having dropped into such a good thing."
"Ah! there's the old boy's secretary, too -- his bureau -- there'll be something in that that
will amuse me mightily; but I don't think I shall sit up late. He was a rum old man, to say
the least of it -- a very odd sort of man." With that he gave himself a shrug, as if some very
uncomfortable feeling had come over him.
"I'll go to bed early, and get some sleep, and then in daylight I can look after these papers.
They won't be less interesting in the morning than they are now."
There was been some rum stories about the old man, and now the nephew seemed to
think that he might have let the family sleep on the premises for that night; yes, at that
moment he could have found it in his heart to have paid for all the expense of their keep,
had it been possible to have had them back to remain the night.
But that wasn't possible, for they would not have done it, but sooner have remained in the
streets all night than stay there all night, like so many house-dogs, employed by one who
stepped in between them and their father's goods, which were their inheritance, but for one
trifling circumstance -- a mere ceremony.
The night came on, and he had lights. True it was that he had not been down stairs, only
just to have a look. He could not tell what sort of a place it was; there were a good many
odd sort of passages, that seemed to end nowhere, and others that did.
There were large doors; but they were all locked, and he had the keys; so he didn't mind,
but secured all places that were not fastened.
He then went up stairs again, and sat down in the room where the bureau was placed.
"I'll be bound," said one of the guests, "he was in a bit of a stew, notwithstanding all his
brag."

"Oh! I don't believe," said another, "that anything done that is dangerous, or supposed to
be dangerous, by the bravest man, is any way wholly without some uncomfortable feelings.
They may not be strong enough to prevent the thing proposed to be done from being done,
but they give a disagreeable sensation to the skin."
"You have felt it, then?"
"Ha! ha! ha!"
"Why, at that time I slept in the churchyard for a wager, I must say I felt cold all over, as
if my skin was walking about me in an uncomfortable manner."
"But you won your wager?"
"I did."
"And of course you slept there?"
"To be sure I did."
"And met with nothing?"
"Nothing, save a few bumps against the gravestones."
"Those were hard knocks, I should say."
They were, I assure you; but I lay there, and slept there, and won my wager."
"Would you do it again?"
"No."
"And why not?"
"Because of the rheumatism?"
"You caught that?"
"I did; I would give ten times my wager to get rid of them. I have them very badly."
"Come, order, order -- the tale; let's hear the end of that, since it has begun."
"With all my heart. Come, neighbour."
"Well, as I said, he was fidgetty; but yet he was not a man to be very easily frightened or
overcome, for he was stout and bold.

When he shut himself up in the room, he took out a bottle of some good wine, and helped
himself to drink; it was good old wine, and he soon felt himself warmed and comforted. He
could have faced the enemy.
"If one bottle produces such an effect," he muttered, "what will two do?"
This was a question that could only be solved by trying it, and this he proceeded to do.
But first he drew a brace of long barrelled pistols from his coat pocket, and taking a
powder-flask and bullets from his pocket also, he loaded them very carefully.
"There," said he, "are my bull-dogs; and rare watch-dogs they are. They never bark but
they bite. Now, if anybody does come, it will be all up with them. Tricks upon travellers
ain't a safe game when I have these; and now for the other bottle."
He drew the other bottle, and thought, if anything, it was better than the first. He drank it
rather quick, to be sure, and then he began to feel sleepy and tired.
"I think I shall go to bed," he said; "that is, if I can find my way there, for it does seem to
me as if the door was travelling. Never mind, it will make a call here again presently, and
then I'll get through."
So saying, he arose. Taking the candle in his hand, he walked with a better step than
might have been expected under the circumstance. True it was the candle wagged to and
fro, and his shadow danced upon the wall; but still, when he got to the bed, he secured his
door, put the light in a safe place, threw himself down, and was fast asleep in a few
moments, or rather he fell into a doze instantaneously.
How long he remained in this state he knew not, but he was suddenly awakened by a loud
bang, as though something heavy had flat had fallen upon the floor -- such, for instance, as
a door, or anything of that sort. He jumped up, rubbed his eyes, and could even then hear
the reverberations through the house.
"What is that?" he muttered; "what is that?"
He listened, and thought he could hear something moving down stairs, and for a moment
he was seized with an ague fit; but recollecting, I suppose, that there were some valuables
down stairs that were worth fighting for, he carefully extinguished the light that still
burned, and softly crept down stairs.
When he got down stairs he thought he could hear some one scramble up the kitchen
stairs, and then into the room where the bureau was. Listening for a moment to ascertain if
there were more than one, and then feeling convinced there was not, he followed into the
parlour, when he heard the cabinet open by a key.

This was a new miracle, and one he could not understand; and then he heard the papers
begin to rattle and rustle; so, drawing out one of the pistols, he cocked it, and walked in.
The figure instantly began to jump about; it was dressed in white -- in grave-clothes. He
was terribly nervous, and shook so he feared to fire the pistol; but at length he did, and the
report was followed by a fall and a loud groan.
This was very dreadful -- very dreadful; but all was quiet, and he lit the candle again, and
approached the body to examine it and ascertain if he knew who it was. A groan came from
it. The bureau was open, and the figure clutched firmly a will in his hand.
The figure was dressed in grave-clothes, and he started up when he saw the form and
features of his own uncle, the man who was dead, who somehow or other had escaped his
confinement, and found his way up, here. He held his will firmly; and the nephew was so
horrified and stunned, that he threw down the light, and rushed out of the room with a shout
of terror, and never returned again. ******
The narrator concluded, and one of the guests said, --
"And do you really believe it?" -- "No, no -- to be sure not."
"You don't?" -- "Why should I? My friend was, out of all hand, one of the greatest liars I
ever came near; and why, therefore, should I believe him? I don't, on my conscience,
believe one word of it."
"It was now half-past twelve, and, as Tom Eccles came not back, and the landlord did not
feel disposed to draw any more liquor, they left the inn, and retired to their separate houses
in a great state of anxiety to know the fate of their respective wagers.
--

Chapter LXIV.
THE VAMPIRE IN THE MOONLIGHT. -- THE FALSE FRIEND.
Part of the distance being accomplished toward the old ruins, Tom Eccles began to feel that
what he had undertaken was not altogether such child's-play as he had at first imagined it to
be. Somehow or another, with a singular and uncomfortable sort of distinctness, there came
across his mind every story that he had remembered of the wild and the wonderful. All the
long-since-forgotten tales of superstition that in early childhood he had learned, came now
back upon him, suggesting to his mind a thousand uncomfortable fancies of the strangest
description.
It was not likely that when once a man under such circumstances, got into such a frame of
mind, he would readily get out of it again, while he continued surrounded by such scenes as
had first called them into existence.
No doubt, had he turned about, and faced the inn again instead of the old ruins, he would
soon have shaken off these "thick-coming fancies;" but such a result was not to be
expected, so long as he kept on toward the dismal place he had pledged himself to reach.
As he traversed meadow after meadow, he began to ask himself some questions, which he
found that he could not answer exactly in a consolatory manner, under the present state of
things.
Among these questions was the very pertinent one of, -- "It's no argument against
vampyres, because I don't see the use of 'em -- is it?" This he was compelled to answer as
he had put it; and when, in addition, he began to recollect that, without the shadow of a
doubt, Sir Francis Varney, the supposed vampyre, had been chased across the fields to that
very ruin, whither he was bound, and had then and there disappeared, he certainly found
himself in a decidedly uncomfortable and most unpromising situation.
"No," he said, "no. Hang it, I won't go back now, to be made the laughing-stock of the
whole town, which I should be. Come what may of it, I will go on as I have commenced; so
I shall put on as stout a heart as I can."
Then, having come to this resolve, he strove might and main to banish from his mind
those disagreeable reminiscences that had been oppressing him, to turn his attention to
subjects of a different complexion.
During the progress of making this endeavour, which was rather futile, he came within
sight of the ruins. Then he slackened his pace a little, telling himself, with a pardonable
self-deceit, that it was common, ordinary caution only, which induced him to do so, and
nothing at all in the shape of fear.

"Time enough," he remarked, "to be afraid, when I see anything to be afraid of, which I
don't see as yet. So, as all's right, I may as well put a good face upon the matter."
He tried to whistle a tune, but it turned out only a melancholy failure; so he gave that up
in despair, and walked on until he got within a hundred yards, or thereabouts, of the old
ruins.
He thus proceeded, and bending his ear close to the ground, he listened attentively for
several minutes. Somehow, he fancied that a strange, murmuring sound came to his ears;
but he was not quite sure that it proceeded from the ruins, because it was just that sort of
sound that might come from a long way off, being mellowed by distance, although,
perhaps, loud enough at its source.
"Well, well," he whispered to himself, "it don't matter much, after all. Go I must, and hide
the handkerchiefs somewhere, or else be laughed at, besides losing my wages. The former I
don't like, and the latter I cannot afford."
Thus clinching the matter by such knock-down arguments, he walked on until he was
almost within the very shadow of the ruins, and, probably, it was at this juncture that his
footsteps may have been heard by Marchdale and Sir Francis Varney.
Then he paused again; but all was profoundly still, and he began to think that the strange
sort of murmuring noise that he had heard must have come from far off, and not at all from
any person or persons within the ruins.
"Let me see," he said to himself; "I have five handkerchiefs to hide among the old ruins
somewhere, and the sooner I do so the better, because then I will get away; for, as regards
staying here to watch, Heaven knows how long, for Sir Francis Varney, I don't intend to do
it, upon second thoughts, and second thoughts, they say, are generally best."
With the most careful footsteps now, as if he were treading upon some fragile substance,
which he feared to injure, he advanced until he was fairly within the precincts of the ancient
place, which now bore so ill a reputation.
He then made to himself much the same remark that Sir Francis Varney had made to
Marchdale, with respect to the brightening up of the sky, in consequence of its being near
the time for the moon to rise from the horizon, and he saw more clearly around him,
although he could not find any good place to hide the handkerchiefs in.
"I must and will," he said, "hide them securely; for it would, indeed, be remarkably
unpleasant, after coming here and winning my wages, to have the proofs that I had done so
taken away by some chance visitor to the place."
He at length saw a tolerably large stone, which stood, in a slant position, up against one
of the walls. Its size attracted him. He thought, if his strength was sufficient to move it, that
it would be a good thing to do so, and to place the handkerchiefs beneath it, for at all

events, it was so heavy that it could not be kicked aside, and no one, without some sort of
motive to do so, beyond the mere love of labour, would set about moving it from its
position.
"I may go further and fare worse," he said to himself; "so here shall all the handkerchiefs
lie, to afford a proof that I have been here."
He packed them into a small compass, and then stooped to roll aside the heavy stone,
when, at the moment, before he could apply his strength to that purpose, he heard some
one, in his immediate neighbourhood, say, -- "Hist!"
This was so sudden, and so utterly unexpected, that he not only ceased his exertions to
move the stone, but he nearly fell down in his surprise.
"Hist -- hist!"
"What -- what," gasped Tom Eccles -- "what are you?" -- "Hush -- hush -- hush!"
The perspiration broke out upon his brow, and he leaned against the wall for support, as
he managed to say, faintly, --
"Well, hush -- what then?" -- "Hist!"
"Well, I hear you. Where are you?" -- "Near at hand. Who are you?"
"Tom Eccles. Who are you?" -- "A friend. Have you seen anything?"
"No; I wish I could. I should like to see you if I could." -- "I'm coming."
There was a slow and cautious footstep, and Marchdale advanced to where Tom Eccles
was standing.
"Come, now," said the latter, when he saw the dusky-looking form stalking towards him;
"till I know you better, I'll be obliged to you to keep off. I am well armed. Keep your
distance, be you friend or foe."
"Armed!" exclaimed Marchdale, and he at once paused. -- "Yes, I am."
"But I am a friend. I have no sort of objection frankly to tell you my errand. I am a friend
of the Bannerworth family, and have kept watch here now for two nights, in the hopes of
meeting with Varney, the vampyre."
"The deuce you have; and pray what may your name be?" -- "Marchdale."
"If you be Mr. Marchdale, I know you by sight; for I have seen you with Mr. Henry
Bannerworth several times. Come out from among the shadows, and let us have a look at

you; but, till you do, don't come within arm's length of me. I am not naturally suspicious;
but we cannot be too careful."
"Oh! certainly -- certainly. The silver edge of the moon is now just peeping up from the
east, and you will be able to see me well, if you step from the shadow of the wall by which
you now are."
This was a reasonable enough proposition, and Tom Eccles at once acceded to it, by
stepping out boldly into the partial moonlight, which now began to fall upon the open
meadows, tinting the grass with a silvery refulgence, and rendering even minute objects
visible. The moment he saw Marchdale he knew him, and, advancing frankly to him, he
said, --
"I know you, sir, well."
"And what brings you here?" -- "A wager for one thing, and a wish to see the vampyre for
another."
"Indeed!" -- "Yes, I must own I have such a wish, along with a still stronger one, to
capture him, if possible; and, as there are now two of us, why may we not do it?"
"As for capturing him," said Marchdale, "I should prefer shooting him." -- "You would?"
"I would, indeed. I have seen him once shot down, and he is now, I have no doubt, as well
as ever. What were you doing with that huge stone I saw you bending over?" -- "I have
some handkerchiefs to hide here, as a proof that I have to-night really been to this place."
"Oh, I will show you a better spot, where there is a crevice in which you can place them
with perfect safety. Will you walk with me into the ruins?" -- "Willingly."
"It's odd enough," remarked Marchdale, after he had shown Tom Eccles where to hide the
handkerchiefs, "that you and I should both be here upon so similar an errand." -- "I'm very
glad of it. It robs the place of its gloom, and makes it ten times more endurable than it
otherwise would be. What do you propose to do if you see the vampyre?"
"I shall try a pistol bullet on him. You say you are armed?" -- "Yes."
"With pistols?" -- "One. Here it is."
"A huge weapon; loaded well, of course?" -- "Oh, yes, I can depend upon it; but I did not
intend to use it, unless assailed."
"'Tis well. What is that?" -- "What -- what?"
"Don't you see anything there? Come farther back. Look -- look. At the corner of that
wall there I am certain there is the flutter of a human garment." -- "There is -- there is."

"Hush! Keep close. It must be the vampyre." -- "Give me my pistol. What are you doing
with it?"
"Only ramming down the charge more firmly for you. Take it. If that be Varney the
vampyre, I shall challenge him to surrender the moment he appears; and if he does not, I
will fire upon him, and do you do so likewise." -- "Well, I -- I don't know."
"You have scruples?" -- "I certainly have."
"Well, well -- don't you fire, then, but leave it to me. There; look -- look. Now have you
any doubt? There he goes, in his cloak. It is -- it is -- -- " " -- Varney, by Heavens!" cried
Tom Eccles.
"Surrender!" shouted Marchdale.
At the instant Sir Francis Varney sprang forward, and made off at a rapid pace across the
meadows.
"Fire after him -- fire!" cried Marchdale, "or he will escape. My pistol has missed fire. He
will be off."
On the impulse of the moment, and thus urged by the voice and the gesture of his
companion, Tom Eccles took aim as well as he could, and fired after the retreating form of
Sir Francis Varney. His conscience smote him as he heard the report and saw the flash of
the large pistol amid the half sort of darkness that was still around.
The effect of the shot was then to him painfully apparent. He saw Varney stop instantly;
then make a vain attempt to stagger forward a little, and finally fall heavily to the earth,
with all the appearance of one killed upon the spot.
"You have hit him," said Marchdale -- "you have hit him. Bravo!" -- "I have -- hit him."
"Yes, a capital shot, by Jove!" -- "I am very sorry."
"Sorry! sorry for ridding the world of such a being! What was in your pistol?" -- "A
couple of slugs."
"Well, they have made a lodgment in him, that's quite clear. Let's go up and finish him at
once." -- "He seems finished."
"I beg your pardon there. When the moonbeams fall upon him he'll get up and walk away
as if nothing was the matter." -- "Will he?" cried Tom, with animation -- "will he?"
"Certainly he will." -- "Thank God for that. Now, hark you, Mr. Marchdale: I should not
have fired if you had not at the moment urged me to do so. Now, I shall stay and see if the

effect which you talk of will ensue, and although it may convince me that he is a vampyre,
and that there are such things, he may go off, scot free, for me."
"Go off?" -- "Yes; I don't want to have even a vampyre's blood upon my hands."
"You are exceedingly delicate." -- "Perhaps I am; it's my way, though. I have shot him --
not you, mind; so, in a manner of speaking, he belongs to me. Now, mark you: I won't have
him touched any more to-night, unless you think there's a chance of making a prisoner of
him without violence."
"There he lies; you can go and make a prisoner of him at once, dead as he is; and if you
take him out of the moonlight -- "
"I understand; he won't recover." -- "Certainly not."
"But, as I want him to recover, that don't suit me." -- "Well, I cannot but honour your
scruples, although I do not actually share in them; but I promise you that, since such is your
wish, I will take no steps against the vampyre; but let us come up to him and see if he be
really dead, or only badly wounded."
Tom Eccles hung back a little from this proposal; but upon being urged again by
Marchdale, and told that he need not go closer than he chose, he consented, and the two of
them approached the prostrate form of Sir Francis Varney, which lay upon its face in the
faint moonlight, which each moment was gathering strength and power.
"He lies upon his face," said Marchdale. "Will you go and turn him over?" -- "Who -- I?
God forbid I should touch him."
"Well -- well, I will. Come on."
They halted within a couple of yards of the body. Tom Eccles would not go a step farther;
so Marchdale advanced alone, and pretended to be, with great repugnance, examining for
the wound.
"He is quite dead," he said; "but I cannot see the hurt." -- "I think he turned his head as I
fired."
"Did he? Let us see."
Marchdale lifted up the head, and disclosed such a mass of clotted-looking blood, that
Tom Eccles at once took to his heels, nor stopped until he was nearly as far off as the ruins.
Marchdale followed him more slowly, and when he came up to him, he said, --
"The slugs have taken effect on his face." -- "I know it -- I know it. Don't tell me."
"He looks horrible." -- "And I am a murderer."

"Psha! You look upon this matter too seriously. Think of who and what he was, and then
you will soon acquit yourself of being open to any such charge." -- "I am bewildered, Mr.
Marchdale, and cannot now know whether he be a vampyre or not. If he be not, I have
murdered, most unjustifiably, a fellow-creature."
"Well, but if he be?" -- "Why, even then I do not know but that I ought to consider myself
as guilty. He is one of God's creatures if he were ten times a vampyre."
"Well, you really do take a serious view of the affair." -- "Not more serious than it
deserves."
"And what do you mean to do?" -- "I shall remain here to await the result of what you tell
me will ensue, if he be a real vampire. Even now the moonbeams are full upon him, and
each moment increasing in intensity. Think you he will recover?"
"I do indeed." -- "Then here will I wait."
"Since that is your resolve, I will keep you company. We shall easily find some old stone
in the ruins which will serve us for a seat, and there at leisure we can keep our eyes upon
the dead body, and be able to observe if it make the least movement."
This plan was adopted, and they sat down just within the ruins, but in such a place that
they had a full view of the dead body, as it appeared to be, of Sir Francis Varney, upon
which the sweet moonbeams shone full and clear.
Tom Eccles related how he was incited to come upon his expedition, but he might have
spared himself that trouble, as Marchdale had been in a retired corner of the inn parlour
before he came to his appointment with Varney, and heard the business for the most part
proposed.
Half-an-hour, certainly not more, might have elapsed; when suddenly Tom Eccles uttered
an exclamation, partly of surprise and partly of terror, --
"He moves; he moves!" he cried. "Look at the vampyre's body."
Marchdale affected to look with an all-absorbing interest, and there was Sir Francis
Varney, raising slowly one arm with the hand outstretched towards the moon, as if
invoking that luminary to shed more of its beams upon him. Then the body moved slowly,
like some one writhing in pain, and yet unable to move from the spot on which it lay. From
the head to the foot, the whole frame seemed to be convulsed, and now and then as the
ghastly object seemed to be gathering more strength, the limbs were thrown out with a
rapid and a frightful looking violence.
It was truly to one, who might look upon it as a reality and no juggle, a frightful sight to
see, and although Marchdale, of course, tolerably well preserved his equanimity, only now
and then, for appearance sake, affecting to be wonderfully shocked, poor Tom Eccles was

in such a state of horror and fright that he could not, if he would, have flown from the spot,
so fascinated was he by the horrible spectacle.
This was a state of things which continued for many minutes, and then the body showed
evident symptoms of so much returning animation, that it was about to rise from its gory
bed and mingle once again with the living.
"Behold!" said Marchdale -- "behold!" -- "Heaven have mercy upon us!"
"It is as I said; the beams of the moon have revived the vampyre. You perceive now that
there can be no doubt." -- "Yes, yes, I see him; I see him."
Sir Francis Varney now, as if with a great struggle, rose to his feet, and looked up at the
bright moon for some moments with such an air and manner that it would not have required
any very great amount of imagination to conceive that he was returning to it some sort of
thanksgiving for the good that it had done to him.
He then seemed for some moments in a state of considerable indecision as to which way
he should proceed. He turned around several times. Then he advanced a step or two
towards the house, but apparently his resolution changed again, and casting his eyes upon
the ruins, he at once made towards them.
This was too much for the philosophy as well as for the courage of Tom Eccles. It was all
very well to look on at some distance, and observe the wonderful and inexplicable
proceedings of the vampyre; but when he showed symptoms of making a nearer
acquaintance, it was not to be borne.
"Why, he's coming here," said Tom. -- "He seems so indeed," remarked Marchdale.
"Do you mean to stay?" -- "I think I shall."
"You do, do you?" -- "Yes, I should much like to question him, and as we are two to one I
think we really can have nothing to fear."
"Do you? I'm altogether of a different opinion. A man who has more lives than a cat don't
much mind at what odds he fights. You may stay if you like." -- "You do not mean to say
that you will desert me?"
"I don't see a bit how you call it deserting you; if we had come out together on this
adventure, I would have stayed it out with you; but as we came separate and independent,
we may as well go back so." -- "Well, but -- "
"Good morning," cried Tom, and he at once took to his heels towards the town, without
staying to pay any attention to the remonstrances of Marchdale, who called after him in
vain.

Sir Francis Varney, probably, had Tom Eccles not gone off so rapidly, would have yet
taken another thought, and gone in another direction than that which led him to the ruins,
and Tom, if he had had his senses fully about him, as well as all his powers of perception,
would have seen that the progress of the vampyre was very slow, while he continued to
converse with Marchdale, and that it was only when he went off at good speed that Sir
Francis Varney likewise thought it prudent to do so.
"Is he much terrified?" said Varney, as he came up to Marchdale. -- "Yes, most

completely."
"This, then, will make a good story in the town." -- "It will, indeed, and not a little
enhance your reputation."
"Well, well; it don't much matter now; but if by terrifying people I can purchase for
myself anything like immunity for the past, I shall be satisfied." -- "I think you may now
safely reckon that you have done so. This man who has fled with so much precipitation, had
courage."
"Unquestionably." -- "Or else he would have shrunk from coming here at all."
"True, but his courage and presence arose from his strong doubts as to the existence of
such beings as vampyres." -- "Yes, and now that he is convinced, his bravery has
evaporated along with his doubts; and such a tale as he has now to tell, will be found
sufficient to convert even the most sceptical in the town."
"I hope so." -- "And yet it cannot much avail you."
"Not personally, but I must confess that I am not dead to all human passions, and I feel
some desire of revenge against those dastards who by hundreds have hunted me, burnt
down my house, and sought my destruction." -- "That I do not wonder at."
"I would fain leave among them a legacy of fear. Such fear as shall haunt them and their
children for years to come. I would wish that the name of Varney, the vampire, should be a
sound of terror for generations." -- "It will be so."
"It shall." -- "And now, then for a consideration of what is to be done with our prisoner.
What is your resolve upon that point?"
"I have considered it while I was lying upon yon green sward waiting for the friendly
moonbeams to fall upon my face, and it seems to me that there is no sort of resource but to
-- " -- "Kill him?"
"No, no." -- "What then?"
"To set him free." -- "Nay, have you considered the immense hazard of doing so? Think
again; I pray you think again. I am decidedly of opinion that he more than suspects who are

his enemies; and in that case, you know what consequences would ensue; besides, have we
not enough already to encounter? Why should we add another young, bold, determined
spirit to the band which is already arrayed against us?"
"You talk in vain, Marchdale; I know to what it all tends; you have a strong desire for the
death of this young man." -- "No; there you wrong me. I have no desire for his death, for its
own sake; but where great interests are at stake, there must be sacrifices made."
"So there must; therefore, I will make a sacrifice, and let this young prisoner free from his
dungeon." -- "If such be your determination, I know well it is useless to combat with it.
When do you purpose giving him his freedom?"
"I will not act so heedlessly as that your principles of caution shall blame me. I will
attempt to get from him some promise that he will not make himself an active instrument
against me. Perchance, too, as Bannerworth Hall, which he is sure to visit, wears such an
air of desertion, I may be able to persuade him that the Bannerworth family, as well as his
uncle, have left this part of the country altogether; so that, without making any inquiry for
them about the neighbourhood, he may be induced to leave at once." -- "That would be
well."
"Good; your prudence approves of the plan, and therefore it shall be done." -- "I am rather
inclined to think" said Marchdale, with a slight tone of sarcasm, "that if my prudence did
not approve of the plan, it would still be done."
"Most probably," said Varney, calmly. -- "Will you release him tonight?"
"It is morning, now, and soon the soft grey light of day will tint the east. I do not think I
will release him till sunset again now. Has he provision to last him until then?" -- "He has."
"Well, then, two hours after sunset, I will come here and release him from his weary
bondage, and now I must go to find some place in which to hide my proscribed head. As
for Bannerworth Hall, I will yet have it in my power; I have sworn to do so, I will keep my
oath." -- "The accomplishment of our purpose, I regret to say, seems as far off as ever."
"Not so -- not so. As I before remarked, we must disappear, for a time, so as to lull
suspicion. There will then arise a period when Bannerworth Hall will neither be watched, as
it is now, nor will it be inhabited, -- a period before the Bannerworth family has made up its
mind to go back to it, and when long watching without a result has become too tiresome to
be continued at all; then we can at once pursue our object." -- "Be it so."
"And now, Marchdale, I want more money." -- "More money!"
"Yes; you know that I have had large demands of late." -- "But I certainly had an
impression that you were possessed, by the death of some one, with very ample means."

"Yes, but there is a means by which all is taken from me. I have no real resources but
what are rapidly used up, so I must come upon you again." -- "I have already completely
crippled myself as regards money matters in this enterprise, and I do certainly hope that the
fruits will not be far distant. If they be much longer delayed, I shall really not know what to
do. However, come to the lodge where you have been staying, and then I will give you, to
the extent of my ability, whatever sum you think your present exigencies require."
"Come on, then, at once. I would certainly, of course, rather leave this placed now, before
daybreak. Come on, I say, come on."
Sir Francis Varney and Marchdale walked for some time in silence across the meadows.
It was evident that there was not between these associates the very best of feelings.
Marchdale was always smarting under an assumption of authority over him, on the part of
Sir Francis Varney, while the latter scarcely cared to conceal any portion of the contempt
with which he regarded his hypocritical companion.
Some very strong band of union, indeed, must surely bind these two strange persons
together! It must be something of a more than common nature which induces Marchdale
not only to obey the behests of his mysterious companion, but to supply him so readily with
money as we perceive he promises to do.
And as regards Varney, the vampyre, he, too, must have some great object in view to
induce him to run such a world of risk, and to take so much trouble as he was doing with
the Bannerworth family.
What his object is, and what is the object of Marchdale, will, now that we have
progressed so far in our story, soon appear, and then much that is perfectly inexplicable,
will become clear and distinct, and we shall find that some strong human motives are at the
bottom of it all.
--

Chapter LXV.
VARNEY'S VISIT TO THE DUNGEON OF THE LONELY PRISONER IN THE

RUINS.
Evident it was that Marchdale was not near so scrupulous as Sir Francis Varney, in what he
chose to do. He would, without hesitation, have sacrificed the life of that prisoner in the
lonely dungeon, whom it would be an insult to the understanding of our readers, not to
presume that they had, long ere this, established in their minds to be Charles Holland.
His own safety seemed to be the paramount consideration with Marchdale, and it was
evident that he cared for nothing in comparison with that object.
It says much, however, for Sir Francis Varney, that he did not give in to such a blood-
thirsty feeling, but rather chose to set the prisoner free, and run all the chances of the
danger to which he might expose himself by such a course of conduct, than to insure safety,
comparatively, by his destruction.
Sir Francis Varney is evidently a character of strangely mixed feelings. It is quite evident
that he has some great object in view, which he wishes to accomplish almost at any risk;
but it is equally evident, at the same time, that he wishes to do so with the least possible
injury to others, or else he would never had behaved as he had done in his interview with
the beautiful and persecuted Flora Bannerworth, or now suggested the idea of setting
Charles Holland free from the dreary dungeon in which he had so long been confined.
We are always anxious and willing to give every one credit for the good that is in them;
and, hence, we are pleased to find that Sir Francis Varney, despite his singular, and
apparently preternatural capabilities, has something sufficiently human about his mind and
feelings, to induce him to do as little injury as possible to others in the pursuit of his own
objects.
Of the two, vampyre as he is, we prefer him much to the despicable and hypocritical
Marchdale, who, under the pretence of being the friend of the Bannerworth family, would
freely have inflicted upon them the most deadly injuries.
It was quite clear that he was most dreadfully disappointed that Sir Francis Varney, would
not permit him to take the life of Charles Holland, and it was with a gloomy and
dissatisfied air that he left the ruins to proceed towards the town, after what we may almost
term the altercation he had had with Varney the vampyre upon that subject.
It must not be supposed that Sir Francis Varney, however, was blind to the danger which
must inevitably accrue from permitting Charles Holland once more to obtain his liberty.
What the latter would be able to state would be more than sufficient to convince the
Bannerworths, and all interested in their fortunes, that something was going on of a

character, which, however supernatural as it might seem to be, still seemed to have some
human and ordinary objects for its ends.
Sir Francis Varney thought over all this before he proceeded, according to his promise, to
the dungeon of the prisoner; but it would seem as if there was considerable difficulty, even
to an individual of his long practice in all kinds of chicanery and deceit, in arriving at any
satisfactory conclusion, as to a means of making Charles Holland's release a matter of less
danger to himself, than it would be likely to be, if, unfettered by obligation, he was at once
set free.
At the solemn hour of midnight, while all was still, that is, to say, on the night succeeding
the one, on which he had held the interview with Marchdale, we have recorded, Sir Francis
Varney alone sought the silent ruins. He was attired, as usual, in his huge cloak, and,
indeed, the chilly air of the evening warranted such protection against its numerous
discomforts.
Had any one seen him, however, upon that evening, they would have observed an air of
great doubt, and irresolution upon his brow, as if he were struggling with some impulses
which he found it extremely difficult to restrain.
"I know well," he muttered, as he walked among the shadow of the ruins, "that
Marchdale's reasoning is coldly and horribly correct, when he says that there is danger in
setting this youth free; but, I am about to leave this place, and not to show myself for some
time, and I cannot reconcile myself to inflicting upon him the horror of a death by
starvation, which must ensue."
It was a night of more than usual dullness, and, as Sir Francis Varney removed the massy
stone, which hid the narrow and tortuous entrance to the dungeons, a chilly feeling crept
over him, and he could not help supposing, that even then Marchdale might have played
him false, and neglected to supply the prisoner food, according to his promise.
Hastily he descended to the dungeons, and with a step, which had in it far less of caution,
than had usually characterised his proceedings, he proceeded onwards until he reached that
particular dungeon, in which our young friend, to whom we wished so well, had been so
long confined from the beautiful and cheering light of day, and from all that his heart's best
affections most cling to.
"Speak," said Sir Francis Varney, as he entered the dungeon. "If the occupant of this
dread place live, let him answer one who is as much his friend as he has been his enemy."
"I have no friend," said Charles Holland, faintly; "unless it be one who would come and
restore me to liberty."
"And how know you that I am not he?"

"Your voice sounds like that of one of my persecutors. Why do you not place the climax
of your injuries by at once taking away my life. I should be better pleased that you would
do so, than that I should wear out the useless struggle of existence in so dreary and
wretched an abode as this."
"Young man," said Sir Francis Varney, "I have come to you on a greater errand of mercy
than, probably, you will ever give me credit for. There is one who would too readily have
granted your present request, and who would at once have taken that life of which you
profess to be so wearied; but which may yet present to you some of its sunniest and most
beautiful aspects."
"Your tones are friendly," said Charles; "but yet I dread some new deception. That you
are one of those who consigned me by stratagem, and by brute force, to this place of
durance, I am well assured, and, therefore, any good that may be promised by you, presents
itself to me in a very doubtful character."
"I cannot be surprised," said Sir Francis Varney, "at such sentiments arising from your
lips; but, nevertheless, I am inclined to save you. You have been detained here because it
was supposed by being so, a particular object would be best obtained by your absence. That
object, however, has failed, notwithstanding, and I do not feel further inclined to protract
your sufferings. Have you any guess as to the parties who have thus confined you?" -- "I
am unaccustomed to dissemble, and, therefore, I will say at once that I have a guess."
"In what way does it tend?" -- "Against Sir Francis Varney, called the vampyre."
"Does it strike you that this may be a dangerous candour?" -- "It may, or it may not be; I
cannot help it. I know I am at the mercy of my foes, and I do not believe that anything I can
say or do will make my situation worse or better."
"You are much mistaken there. In other hands than mine, it might make it much worse;
but it happens to be one of my weaknesses, that I am charged with candour, and that I
admire boldness of disposition." -- "Indeed! and yet can behave in the manner you have
done towards me."
"Yes. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreampt of in your philosophy. I
am the more encouraged to set you free, because, if I procure from you a promise, which I
intend to attempt, I am inclined to believe that you will keep it." -- "I shall assuredly keep
whatever promise I may make. Propound your conditions, and if they be such as honour
and honesty will permit me to accede to, I will do so willingly and at once. Heaven knows I
am weary enough of this miserable imprisonment."
"Will you promise me then, if I set you free, not to mention your suspicions that it is to
Sir Francis Varney you owe this ill turn, and not to attempt any act of revenge against him
as a retaliation for it." -- "I cannot promise so much as that. Freedom, indeed, would be a
poor boon, if I were not permitted freely to converse of some of the circumstances
connected with my captivity."

"You object?" -- "I do to the former of your propositions, but not to the latter. I will
promise not to go at all out of my way to execute any vengeance upon you; but I will not
promise that I will not communicate the circumstances of my forced absence from them, to
those friends whose opinion I so much value, and to return to whom is almost as dear to me
as liberty itself."
Sir Francis Varney was silent for a few moments, and then he said, in a tone of deep
solemnity, --
"There are ninety-nine persons out of a hundred who would take your life for the
independence of your tongue; but I am as the hundredth one, who looks with a benevolent
eye at your proceedings. Will you promise me, if I remove the fetters which now bind your
limbs, that you will make no personal attack upon me; for I am weary of personal
contention, and I will have no disposition to endure it. Will you make me this promise?" --
"I will."
Without another word, but trusting implicitly to the promise which had been given to
him, Sir Francis Varney produced a small key from his pocket, and unlocked with it a
padlock which confined the chains about the prisoner.
With ease, Charles Holland was then enabled to shake them off, and then, for the first
time, for some weeks, he rose to his feet, and felt all the exquisite relief of being
comparatively free from bondage.
"This is delightful indeed," he said.
"It is," said Sir Francis Varney -- "it is but a foretaste of the happiness you will enjoy
when you are entirely free. You see that I have trusted you."
"You have trusted me as you might trust me, and you perceive that I have kept my word."
"You have; and since you decline to make me the promise which I would fain have from
you, to the effect that you would not mention me as one of the authors of your calamity, I
must trust to your honour not to attempt revenge for what you have suffered."
"That I will promise. There can be but little difficulty to any generous mind in giving up
such a feeling. In consequence of your sparing me what you might still further have
inflicted, I will let the past rest, and as if it had never happened really to me; and speak of it
to others, but as a circumstance which I wish not to revert to, but prefer should be buried in
oblivion."
"It is well; and now I have a request to make of you, which, perhaps, you will consider
the hardest of all."
"Name it. I feel myself bound to a considerable extent to comply with whatever you may
demand of me, that is not contrary to honourable principle."

"Then it is this, that, comparatively free as you are, and in a condition, as you are, to
assert your own freedom, you will not do so hastily, or for a considerable period; in fact, I
wish and expect that you should wait yet awhile, until it shall suit me to say that it is my
pleasure that you shall be free."
"That is, indeed, a hard condition to a man who feels, as you yourself remark, that he can
assert his freedom. It is one which I have still a hope you will not persevere in."
"Nay, young man, I think that I have treated you with generosity, to make you feel that I
am not the worst of foes you could have had. All I require of you is, that you should wait
here for about an hour. It is now nearly one o'clock; will you wait until you hear it strike
two before you actually make movement to leave this place?"
Charles Holland hesitated for some moments, and then he said, --
"Do not fancy that I am not one who appreciates the singular trust you have reposed in
me; and, however repugnant to me it may be to remain here, a voluntary prisoner, I am
inclined to do so, if it be but to convince you that the trust you have reposed in me is not in
vain, and that I can behave with equal generosity to you as you can to me."
"Be it so," said Sir Francis Varney; "I shall leave you with a full reliance that you will
keep your word; and now, farewell. When you think of me, fancy me rather one unfortunate
than criminal, and tell yourself that even Varney the vampyre had some traits in his
character, which, although they might not raise your esteem, at all events did not loudly call
for your reprobation."
"I shall do so. Oh! Flora, Flora, I shall look upon you once again, after believing and
thinking that I had bidden you a long and last adieu. My own beautiful Flora, it is joy
indeed to think that I shall look upon that face again, which, to my perception, is full of all
the majesty of loveliness."
Sir Francis Varney looked coldly on while Charles uttered this enthusiastic speech.
"Remember," he said, "till two o'clock;" and he walked towards the door of the dungeon.
"You will have no difficulty in finding your way out of this place. Doubtless you already
perceive the entrance by which I gained admission."
"Had I been free," said Charles, "and had the use of my limbs, I should, long ere this,
have worked my way to life and liberty."
"'Tis well. Good night."
Varney walked from the place, and just closed the door behind him. With a slow and
stately step he left the ruins, and Charles Holland found himself once more alone, but in a
much more enviable condition than for many weeks he could have called his.

Chapter LXVI.
FLORA BANNERWORTH'S APPARENT INCONSISTENCY. -- THE ADMIRAL'S

CIRCUMSTANCES AND ADVICE. -- MR. CHILLINGWORTH'S MYSTERIOUS
ABSENCE.
For a brief space let us return to Flora Bannerworth, who had suffered so much on account
of her affections, as well as on account of the mysterious attack that had been made upon
her by the reputed vampyre.
After leaving Bannerworth Hall for a short time, she seemed to recover her spirits; but
this was a state of things which did not last, and only showed how fallacious it was to
expect that, after the grevious things that had happened, she would rapidly recover her
equanimity.
It is said, by learned physiologists, that two bodily pains cannot endure at the same space
of time in the system; and, whether it be so or not, is a question concerning which it would
be foreign to the nature of our work, to enter into anything like an elaborate disquisition.
Certainly, however, so far as Flora Bannerworth was concerned, she seemed inclined to
show that, mentally, the observation was a true one, for that, now she became released from
a continued dread of the visits of the vampyre, her mind would, with more painful interest
than ever, recur to the melancholy condition, probably, of Charles Holland, if he were alive,
and to soul-harrowing reflections concerning him, if he were dead.
She could not, and she did not, believe, for one moment, that his desertion of her had
been of a voluntary character. She knew, or fancied she knew, him by far too well for that;
and she more than once expressed her opinion, to the effect that she was perfectly
convinced his disappearance was a part and parcel of all that train of circumstances which
had so recently occurred, and produced such a world of unhappiness to her, as well as to the
whole of the Bannerworth family.
"If he had never loved me," she said to her brother Henry, "he would have been alive and
well; but he has fallen a victim to the truth of a passion, and to the constancy of an affection
which, to my dying day, I will believe in."
Now that Mr. Marchdale had left the place there was no one to dispute this proposition
with Flora, for all, as well as she, were fully inclined to think well of Charles Holland.
It was on the very morning which preceded that evening when Sir Francis Varney called
upon Charles Holland in the manner we have related, with the gratifying news that, upon
certain conditions, he might be released, that Flora Bannerworth, when the admiral came to
see them, spoke to him of Charles Holland, saying, --

"Now, sir, that I am away from Bannerworth Hall, I do not, and cannot feel satisfied; for
the thought that Charles may eventually come back, and seek us there, still haunts me.
Fancy him, sir, doing so and seeing the place completely deserted."
"Well, there's something in that," said the admiral; "but, however, he's hardly such a
goose, if it were so to happen, to give up the chase -- he'd find us out somehow."
"You think he would, sir? or, do you not think that despair would seize upon him, and
that, fancying we had all left the spot for ever, he might likewise do so; so that we should
lose him more effectually than we have done at present?"
"No; hardly," said the admiral; "he wouldn't be such a goose as that. Why, when I was of
his age, if I had secured the affections of a young girl like you, I'd have gone over all the
world, but I'd have found out where she was; and what I mean to say is, if he's half such a
goose as you think him, he deserves to lose you."
"Did you not tell me something, sir, of Mr. Chillingworth talking of taking possession of
the Hall for a brief space of time?"
"Why, yes, I did; and I expect he is there now; in fact, I'm sure he's there, for he said he
would be."
"No, he ain't," said Jack Pringle, at that moment entering the room; "you're wrong again,
as you always are, somehow or other."
"What, you vagabond, are you here, you mutinous rascal?" -- "Ay, ay, sir; go on; don't
mind me. I wonder what you'd do, sir, if you hadn't somebody like me to go on talking
about."
"Why, you infernal rascal, I wonder what you'd do if you had not an indulgent
commander, who puts up even with real mutiny, and says nothing about it. But where have
you been? Did you go as I directed you, and take some provisions to Bannerworth Hall?" --
"Yes, I did; but I brought them back again; there's nobody there, and don't seem likely to
be, except a dead body."
"A dead body! Whose body can that be?" -- "Tom somebody; for I'm d -- -- d if he ain't a
great he cat."
"You scoundrel, how dare you alarm me in such a way? But do you meant to tell me that
you did not see Dr. Chillingworth at the Hall?" -- "How could I see him, if he wasn't
there?"
"But he was there; he said he would be there." -- "Then he's gone again, for there's
nobody there that I know of in the shape of a doctor. I went through every part of the ship --
I mean the house -- and the deuce a soul could I find; and as it was rather lonely and

uncomfortable, I came away again. 'Who knows,' thought I, 'but some blessed vampyre or
another may come across me.'"
"This won't do," said the old admiral, buttoning up his coat to the chin; "Bannerworth
Hall must not be deserted in this way. It is quite clear that Sir Francis Varney and his
associates have some particular object in view in getting possession of the place. Here, you
Jack." -- "Ay, ay, sir."
"Just go back again, and stay at the Hall till somebody comes to you. Even such a stupid
hound as you will be something to scare away unwelcome visitors. Go back to the Hall, I
say. What are you staring at?" -- "Back to Bannerworth Hall!" said Jack. "What! just where
I've come from; all that way off, and nothing to eat, and, what's worse, nothing to drink. I'll
see you d -- -- d first."
The admiral caught up a table-fork, and made a rush at Jack; but Henry Bannerworth
interfered.
"No, no," he said, "admiral, no, no -- not that. You must recollect that you yourself have
given the, no doubt, faithful fellow of yours liberty to do and say a great many things which
don't look like good service; but I have no doubt, from what I have seen of his disposition,
that he would risk his life rather than that you should come to any harm.
"Ay, ay," said Jack; "he quite forgets when the bullets were scuttling our nobs off Cape
Ushant, when that big Frenchman had hold of him by the skirf of his neck, and began
pummelling his head, and the lee scuppers were running with blood, and a bit of Joe
Wiggins's brains had come slap in my eye, while some of Jack Marling's guts were hanging
round my neck like a nosegay, all in consequence of grape-shot -- then he didn't say as I
was a swab, when I came up, and bored a hole in the Frenchman's back with a pike. Ay, it's
all very well now, when there's a peace, and no danger, to call Jack Pringle a lubberly
rascal, and mutinous. I'm blessed if it ain't enough to make an old pair of shoes faint away."
"Why, you infernal scoundrel," said the admiral, "nothing of the sort ever happened, and
you know it. Jack, you're no seaman." -- "Werry good," said Jack; "then, if I ain't no
seaman, you are what shore-going people calls a jolly fat old humbug."
"Jack, hold your tongue," said Henry Bannerworth; "you carry these things too far. You
know very well that your master esteems you, and you should not presume too much upon
that fact." -- "My master!" said Jack; "don't call him my master. I never had a master, and
don't intend. He's my admiral if you like; but an English sailor don't like a master."
"I tell you what it is, Jack," said the admiral; "you've got your good qualities, I admit." --
"Ay, ay, sir -- that's enough; you may as well leave off well while you can."
"But I'll just tell you what you resemble more than anything else." -- "Chew me up! what
may that be, sir?"

"A French marine." -- "A what! A French marine! Good-bye. I wouldn't say another word
to you, if you was to pay me a dollar a piece. Of all the blessed insults rolled into one, this
here's the worstest. You might have called me a marine, or you might have called me a
Frenchman; but to make out that I'm both a marine and a Frenchman, d -- me, if it isn't
enough to make human nature stand on an end! Now, I've done with you."
"And a good job, too," said the admiral. "I wish I'd thought of it before. You're worse
than a third day's ague, or a hot and a cold fever in the tropics." -- "Very good," said Jack;
"I only hope Providence will have mercy upon you, and keep an eye upon you when I'm
gone, otherwise, I wonder what will become of you? It wasn't so when young Belinda, who
you took off the island of Antiggy, in the Ingies, jumped overboard, and I went arter her in
a heavy swell. Howsumdever, never mind, you shook hands with me then; and while a
bushel of the briney was weeping out of the corner of each of your blinkers, you says, says
you, -- "
"Hold!" cried the admiral, "hold! I know what I said, Jack. It's cut a fathom deep in my
memory. Give us your fist, Jack, and -- and -- " -- "Hold yourself," said Jack; "I know what
you're going to say, and I won't hear you say it -- so there's an end of it. Lor bless you! I
knows you, I ain't a going to leave you. Don't be afraid; I only works you up, and works
you down again, just to see if there's any of that old spirit in you when we was aboard the
Victory. Don't you recollect, admiral?"
"Yes -- yes; enough, Jack." -- "Why, let me see -- that was a matter of forty years ago,
nearly, when I was a youngster."
"There -- there, Jack -- that'll do. You bring the events of other years fresh upon my
memory. Peace -- peace. I have not forgotten; but still, to hear what you know of them, if
recited, would give the old man a pang." -- "A pang," said Jack; "I suppose that's some
dictionary word for a punch in the eye. That would be mutiny with a vengeance; so I'm
off."
"Go, go." -- "I'm a going; and just to please you, I'll go to the Hall, so you sha'n't say that
you told me to do anything that I didn't."
Away went Jack, whistling an air, that might have been popular when he and the admiral
were young, and Henry Bannerworth could not but remark that an appearance of great
sadness came over the old man, when Jack was gone.
"I fear, sir," he said, "That heedless sailor has touched upon some episode in your
existence, the wounds of which are still fresh enough to give you pain." -- "It is so," said
the admiral; "just look at me, now. Do I look like the hero of a romantic love story?"
"Not exactly, I admit." -- "Well, notwithstanding that, Jack Pringle has touched a chord
that vibrates in my heart yet," replied the admiral.

"Have you any objection to tell me of it?" -- "None, whatever; and perhaps, by the time I
have done, the doctor may have found his way back again, or Jack may bring us some news
of him. So here goes for a short, but true yarn."
--
Chapter LXVII.
THE ADMIRAL'S STORY OF THE BEAUTIFUL BELINDA.
Just at this moment Flora Bannerworth stole into the room from whence she had departed a
short time since; but when she saw that old Admiral Bell was looking so exceedingly
serious, and apparently about to address Henry upon some very important subject, she
would have retired, but he turned towards her, and said, --
"My story, my dear, I've no objection to your hearing, and, like all women folks, a love
story never comes amiss to you: so you may as well stay and hear it." -- "A love story," said
Flora; "you tell a love story, sir?"
"Yes, my dear, and not only tell it, but be the hero of it, likewise; ain't you astonished?" --
"I am, indeed."
"Well, you'll be more astonished then before I've done; so just listen. As Jack Pringle
says, it was the matter of about somewhere forty years ago, that I was in command of the
Victory frigate, which was placed upon the West Indian station, during a war then raging,
for the protection of our ports and harbours in that vicinity. We'd not a strong force in that
quarter, therefore, I had to cut about from place to place, and do the best I could. After a
time, though, I rather think that we frightened off the enemy; during which time I chiefly
anchored off the island of Antigua, and was hospitably received at the house of a planter, of
the name of Marchant, who, in fact, made his house my home, and introduced me to all the
elite of the society of the island. Ah! Miss Flora, you've no idea, to look at me now, what I
was then; I held a captain's commission, and was nearly the youngest man in the service,
with such a rank. I was as slender, ay, as a dancing master. These withered and bleached
locks were black as the raven's plume. Ay, ay, but no matter: the planter had a daughter."
"And you loved her?" said Flora -- "Loved her," said the old man, and the flush of
youthful animation came to his countenance; "I loved her, do you say! I adored her; I
worshipped her; she was to me -- but what a d -- -- d old fool I am; we'll skip that if you
please."

"Nay, nay," said Flora; "that is what I want to hear." -- "I haven't the least doubt of that, in
the world; but that's just what you won't hear; none of your nonsense, Miss Flora; the old
man may be a fool, but he isn't quite an idiot."
"He's neither," said Flora; "true feelings can never disgrace any one." -- "Perhaps not; but,
however, to make a long story short, somehow or other, one day, Belinda was sitting alone,
and I rudely pounced upon her; I rather think then I must have said something that I
oughtn't to have said, for it took her so aback; I was forced, somehow or other, to hold her
up, and then I -- I -- yes; I'm sure I kissed her; and so, I told her I loved her; and then, what
do you think she said?"
"Why," said Flora, "that she reciprocated the passion." -- "D -- n my rags," said Jack, who
at that moment came into the room, "I suppose that's the name of some shell or other."
"You here, you villain!" said the admiral; "I thought you were gone." -- "So I was," said
Jack, "but I came back for my hat, you see."
Away he went again, and the admiral resumed his story.
"Well, Miss Flora," he said, "you haven't made a good guess, as she didn't say anything at
all, she only clung to me like some wild bird to its mother's breast, and cried as if her heart
would break." -- "Indeed!"
"Yes; I didn't know the cause of her emotion, but at last I got it out of her." -- "What was
it?"
"Oh, a mere trifle; she was already married to somebody else, that's all; some d -- -- d
fellow, who had gone trading about the islands, a fellow she didn't care a straw about, that
was old enough to be her father."
"And you left her?" -- "No, I didn't. Guess again. I was a mad-headed youngster. I only
felt -- I didn't think. I persuaded her to come away with me. I took her aboard my ship, and
set sail with her. A few weeks flew like hours; but one day we were hailed by a vessel, and
when we neared her, she manned a boat and brought a letter on board, addressed to
Belinda. It was from her father, written in his last moments. It began with a curse and ended
with a blessing. There was a postscript in another hand, to say the old man died of grief.
She read it by my side on the quarter-deck. It dropped from her grasp, and she plunged into
the sea. Jack Pringle went after her; but I never saw her again."
"Gracious Heavens! what a tragedy!" -- "Yes, tolerable," said the old man.
He arose and took his hat and placed it on his head. He gave the crown of it a blow that
sent it nearly over his eyes. He thrust his hands deep into his breeches pockets, clenched his
teeth, and muttered something inaudible as he strode from the apartment.

"Who would have thought, Henry," said Flora, "that such a a man as Admiral Bell had
been the hero of such an adventure?" -- "Ay, who indeed; but it shows that we never can
judge from appearances, Flora; and that those who seem to us the most heart-whole may
have experienced the wildest vicissitudes of passion."
"And we must remember, likewise, that this was forty years ago, Henry, which makes a
material difference in the state of the case as regards Admiral Bell."
"It does indeed -- more than half a lifetime; and yet how evident it was that his old
feelings clung to him. I can well imagine the many hours of bitter regret which the memory
of this his lost love must have given him."
"True -- true." I can feel something for him; for have I not lost one who loved me -- a
worse loss, too, than that which Admiral Bell relates; for am I not a prey to all the horrors
of uncertainty? Whereas, he knew the worst, and that, at all events, death had claimed its
victim, leaving nothing to conjecture in the shape of suffering, so that the mind had nothing
to do but to recover slowly, but surely, as it would, from the shock which it had received."
"That is worse than you, Flora; but rather would I have you cherish hope of soon
beholding Charles Holland, probably alive and well, than fancy any great disaster has come
over him."
"I will endeavour to do so," replied Flora.
"I long to hear what has become of Dr. Chillingworth. His disappearance is most singular;
for I fully suspected that he had some particular object in view in getting possession for a
short time of Bannerworth Hall; but now, from Jack Pringle's account, he appears not to be
in it, and, in fact, to have disappeared completely from the sight of all who knew him."
"Yes," said Flora; "but he may have done that, brother, still in furtherance of his object."
"It may be so, and I will hope that it is so. Keep yourself close, sister, and see no one,
while I proceed to his house to inquire if they have heard anything of him. I will return
soon, be assured; and, in the meantime, should you see my brother, tell him I shall be at
home in an hour or so, and not to leave the cottage; for it is more than likely that the
admiral has gone to Bannerworth Hall, so that you may not see anything of him for some
time."
--

Chapter LXVIII.
MARCHDALE'S ATTEMPTED VILLANY, AND ITS RESULT.
Varney the vampyre left the dungeon of Charles Holland amid the grey ruins, with a perfect
confidence the young man would keep his word, and not attempt to escape from that place
until the time had elapsed which he had dictated to him.
And well might he have that confidence, for having once given his word that he would
remain until he heard the clock strike two from a neighbouring church, Charles Holland
never dreamt for a moment of breaking it.
To be sure it was a weary time to wait when liberty appeared before him; but he was the
soul of honour, and the least likely man in all the world to infringe in the slightest upon the
condition which he had, of his own free will, acceded to.
Sir Francis Varney walked rapidly until he came nearly to the outskirts of the town, and
then he slackened his pace, proceeding more cautiously, and looking carefully about him,
as if he feared to meet any one who might recognize him.
He had not proceeded far in this manner, when he became conscious of the cautious
figure of a man gliding along in the opposite direction that which he was taking.
A suspicion struck him, from the general appearance, that it was Marchdale, and if so, he
wondered to see him abroad at such a time. Still he would not be quite certain; but he
hurried forward, so as to meet the advancing figure, and then his suspicions were
confirmed; and Marchdale with some confusion in his looks and manners, accosted him.
"Ah, Sir Francis Varney," he said, "you are out late." -- "Why, you know I should be out
late," said Varney, "and you likewise know the errand upon which I was to be out."
"Oh, I recollect; you were to release your prisoner." -- "Yes, I was."
"And have you done so?" -- "Oh, no."
"Oh, indeed. I -- I am glad you have taken better thought of it. Good night -- good night;
we shall meet to-morrow." -- "Adieu," said Sir Francis Varney; and he watched the
retreating figure of Marchdale, and then he added, in a low tone to himself, --
"I know his object well. His craven spirit shrinks at the notion, a probable enough one, I
will admit, that Charles Holland has recognised him, and that, if once free, he would
denounce him to the Bannerworths, holding him up to scorn in his true colours, and
bringing down upon his head, perhaps, something more than detestation and comtempt. The
villain! he is going now to take the life of the man whom he considers chained to the

ground. Well, well, they must fight it out together. Charles Holland is sufficiently free to
take his own part, although Marchdale little thinks such is the case."
Marchdale walked on for some little distance, and then he turned and looked after Sir
Francis Varney.
"Indeed!" he said; "so you have not released him to-night, but I know well will do so
soon. I do not, for my part, admire this romantic generosity which sets a fox free at the
moment that he's the most dangerous. It's all very well to be generous, but it is better to be
just first, and that I consider means looking after one's self first. I have a poniard here
which will soon put an end to the troubles of the prisoner in his dungeon -- its edge is keen
and sharp, and will readily find a way to his heart."
He walked on quite exultingly and carelessly now, for he had got into the open country,
and it was extremely unlikely that he would meet anybody on his road to the ruins.
It did not take many minutes sharp walking now to bring him close to the spot which he
intended should become such a scene of treacherous slaughter, and just then he heard from
afar off something like the muttering of thunder, as if Heaven itself was proclaiming its
vengeance against the man who had come out to slay one of its best and noblest creatures.
"What is that?" said Marchdale, shrinking back a moment; "what is that -- an approaching
storm? It must be so, for, now I recollect me, the sun set behind a bank of clouds of a fiery
redness, and as the evening drew in there was every appearance in the heavens of some
ensuing strife of the elements."
He listened for a few moments, and fixed his eyes intently in the direction of the horizon
from where the muttering sounds had proceeded.
He had not long to wait before he saw a bright flash of blue lightning, which for one
instant illumined the sky; then by the time he could have counted twelve there came the
thunder which the flash preceded, and he felt terribly anxious to complete his enterprize, so
that he might get back to the town and be safely housed before the storm, which was
evidently approaching, should burst upon him.
"It is sweeping on apace," he said; "why did I not come earlier?"
Even as he spoke he plunged among the recesses of the ruins, and searching about for the
old stone which covered the entrance to the dungeon, he was surprised to find it rolled from
its place and the aperture open.
"What is the meaning of this?" he said; "how negligent of Sir Francis Varney; or perhaps,
after all, he was only jesting with me, and let the prisoner go. If that should be the case, I
am foiled indeed; but surely he could not be so full of indiscretion."

Again came a dazzling flash of lightning, which now, surrounded by the ruins as he was,
made him shrink back and cover his eyes for a moment; and then followed a peal of
thunder with not half the duration of time between it and the flash which had characterized
the previous electric phenomenon.
"The storm approaches fast," said Marchdale; "I must get my work done quickly, if
indeed my victim be here, which I begin seriously to doubt."
He descended the intricate winding passage to the vault below, which served the purpose
of a dungeon, and when he got very nearly into the depth of the recesses, he called aloud,
saying, --
"Ho! what ho! is there any one here?" -- "Yes," said Charles Holland, who fancied it
might be his former visitor returned. "Have you come to repent of your purpose?"
"Ah!" said Marchdale to himself, "Sir Francis, after all, has told me the truth -- the
prisoner is still here."
The light from without was not near sufficient to send the least ray into the depths of that
dungeon; so that Marchdale, when he entered the place, could see nothing but an absolute
blackness.
It was not so, however, with Charles Holland, whose eyes had been now so long
accustomed to the place that he could see in it as if a dim twilight irradiated it, and he at
once, in his visitor, saw his worst foe, and not the man who had comparatively set him free.
He saw, too, that the hand of his visitor grasped a weapon, which Marchdale thought that,
favoured by the darkness, he might carry openly in perfect security.
"Where are you?" said Marchdale; "I cannot see you." -- "Here!" said Charles, "you may
feel my grip;" and he sprung upon him in an instant.
The attack was so sudden and so utterly unexpected, that Marchdale was thrown
backwards, and the dagger wrested from his grasp, during the first impulse which Charles
Holland had thrown into his attack.
Moreover, his head struck with such violence against the earthen floor, that it produced a
temporary confusion of his faculties, so that, had Charles Holland been so inclined, he
might, with Marchdale's own weapon, have easily taken his life.
The young man did, on the impulse of the moment, raise it in his hand, but, on the
impulse of another thought, he cast it from him, exclaiming --
"No, no! not that; I should be as bad as he, or nearly so. This villain has come to murder
me, but yet I will not take his life for the deed. What shall I do with him? Ha! a lucky
thought -- chains!"

He dragged Marchdale to the identical spot of earth on which he had lain so long; and, as
Sir Francis Varney had left the key of the padlock which bound the chains together in it, he,
in a few moments, had succeeded in placing the villain Marchdale in the same durance
from which he had himself shortly since escaped.
"Remain there," he said, "until some one comes to rescue you. I will not let you starve to
death, but I will give you a long fast; and, when I come again, it shall be along with some
of the Bannerworth family, to show them what a viper they have fostered in their hearts."
Marchdale was just sufficiently conscious now to feel all the realities of his situation. In
vain he attempted to rise from his prostrate position. The chains did their duty, keeping
down a villain with the same means that they had held in ignominious confinment a true
man.
He was in a perfect agony, inasmuch as he considered that he would be allowed to remain

there to starve to death, thus achieving for himself a more horrible death than any he had
ever thought of inflicting.
"Villain!" exclaimed Charles Holland, "you shall there remain; and, let you have what
mental sufferings you may, you richly deserve them."
He heeded not the cries of Marchdale -- he heeded not his imprecations any more than he
did his prayers; and the arch hypocrite used both in abundance. Charles was but too happy
once more to look upon the open sky, although it was then in darkness, to heed anything
that Marchdale, in the agony to which he was now reduced, might feel inclined to say; and,
after glancing around him for some few moments, when he was free of the ruins, and
inhaling with exquisite delight the free air of the surrounding meadows, he saw, by the
twinkling of the lights, in which direction the town lay, and knowing that by taking a line in
that path, and then after a time diverging a little to the right, he should come to
Bannerworth Hall, he walked on, never in his whole life probably feeling such an
enjoyment of the mere fact of existence as at such a moment as that of exquisite liberty.
Our readers may with us imagine what it is to taste the free, fresh air of heaven, after
being long pent up, as he, Charles Holland, had been, in a damp, noisome dungeon,
teeming with unwholesome exhalations. They may well suppose with what an amount of
rapture he now found himself unrestrained in his movements by those galling fetters which
had hung for so long a period upon his youthful limbs, and which, not unfrequently in the
despair of his heart, he had thought he should surely die in.
And last, although not least in his dear esteem, did the rapturous thought of once more
looking in the sweet face of her he loved come cross him with a gust of delight.
"Yes!" he exclaimed, as he quickened his pace; "yes! I shall be able to tell Flora
Bannerworth how well and how truly I love her. I shall be able to tell her that, in my weary
and hideous imprisonment, the thought alone of her has supported me."

As he neared the Hall, he quickened his pace to such an extent that soon he was forced to
pause altogether, as the exertion he had undertaken pretty plainly told him that the
emprisonment, scanty diet, and want of exercise, which had been his portion for some time
past, had most materially decreased his strength.
His limbs trembled, and a profuse persperation bedewed his brow, although the night was
rather cold otherwise.
"I am very weak," he said; "and much I wonder now that I succeeded in overcoming that
villain Marchdale; who, if I had not done so, would most assuredly have murdered me."
And it was a wonder; for Marchdale was not an old man, although he might be considered
certainly as past the prime of life, and he was of a strong and athletic build. But it was the
suddenness of this attack upon him which had given Charles Holland the great advantage,
and had caused the defeat of the ruffian who came bent on one of the most cowardly and
dastardly murders that could be committted -- namely, upon an unoffending man, whom he
supposed to be loaded with chains, and incapable of making the least efficient resistance.
Charles soon again recovered sufficient breath and strength to proceed towards the Hall,
and now warned, by the exhaustion which had come over him that he had not really
anything like strength enough to allow him to proceed rapidly, he walked with slow and
deliberate steps.
This mode of proceeding was more favourable to reflection than the wild, rapid one
which he had at first adopted, and in all the glowing colours of youthful and ingenious
fancy did he depict to himself the surprise and the pleasure that would beam in the
countenance of his beloved Flora when she should find him once again by her side.
Of course, he, Charles, could know nothing of the contrivances which had been resorted
to, and which the reader may lay wholly to the charge of Marchdale, to blacken his
character, and to make him appear faithless to the love he had professed.
Had he known this, it is probable that indignation would have added wings to his
progress, and he would not have been able to proceed at the leisurely pace he felt that his
state of physical weakness dictated to him.
And now he saw the topmost portion of Bannerworth Hall pushing out from amongst the
trees with which the ancient pile was so much surrounded, and the sight of the home of his
beloved revived him, and quickened the circulation of the warm blood in the veins.
"I shall behold her now," he said -- "I shall behold her now! A few minutes more, and I
shall hold her to my heart -- that heart which has been ever hers, and which carried her
image enshrined in its deepest recesses, even into the gloom of a dungeon!"
But let us, while Charles Holland is indulging in these delightful anticipations --
anticipations which, we regret, in consequence of the departure of the Bannerworths from

the Hall, will not be realized so soon as he supposes -- look back upon the discomfited
hypocrite and villain, Marchdale, who occupies his place in the dungeon of the old ruins.
Until Charles Holland actually had left the strange, horrible, and cell-like place, he could
scarcely make up his mind that the young man entertained a serious intention of leaving
him there.
Perhaps he did not think any one could be so cruel and so wicked as he himself; for the
reader will no doubt recollect that his, Marchdale's, counsel to Varney, was to leave Charles
Holland to his fate, chained down as he was in the dungeon, and that fate would have been
the horrible one of being starved to death in the course of a few days.
When now, however, he felt confident that he was deserted -- when he heard the sound of
Charles Holland's retreating footsteps slowly dying away in the distance, until not the
faintest echo of them reached his ears, he despaired indeed; and the horror he experienced
during the succeeding ten minutes, might be considered an ample atonement for some of
his crimes. His brain was in a complete whirl; nothing of a tangible nature, but that he was
there, chained down, and left to starve to death, came across his intellect. Then a kind of
madness, for a moment or two, took possession of him; he made a tremendous effort to
burst asunder the bands that held him.
But it was in vain. The chains -- which had been placed upon Charles Holland during the
first few days of his confinement, when he had a little recovered from the effects of the
violence which had been committed upon him at the time when he was captured --
effectually resisted Marchdale.
They even cut into his flesh, inflicting upon him some grevious wounds; but that was all
he achieved by his great effort to free himself, so that, after a few moments, bleeding and in
great pain, he, with a deep groan, desisted from the fruitless efforts he had better not to
have commenced.
Then he remained silent for a time, but it was not the silence of reflection; it was that of
exhaustion, and, as such, was not likely to last long; nor did it, for, in the course of another
five minutes, he called out loudly.
Perhaps he thought there might be a remote chance that some one traversing the meadows
would hear him; and yet, if he had duly considered the matter, which he was not in a fitting
frame of mind to do, he would have recollected that, in choosing a dungeon among the
underground vaults of these ruins, he had, by experiment, made certain that no cry,
however loud, from where he lay, could reach the upper air. And thus had this villain, by
the very cautions which he had himself taken to ensure the safe custody of another, been his
own greatest enemy.
"Help! help! help!" he cried frantically. "Varney! Charles Holland! have mercy upon me,
and do not leave me here to starve! Help, oh, Heaven! Curses on all your heads -- curses!
Oh, mercy -- mercy -- mercy!"

In suchlike incoherent expressions did he pass some hours, until, what with exhaustion
and a raging thirst that came over him, he could not utter another word, but lay the very
picture of despair and discomfited malice and wickedness.
--

Chapter LXIX.
FLORA BANNERWORTH AND HER MOTHER. -- THE EPISODE OF CHIVALRY.
Gladly we turn from such a man as Marchdale to a consideration of the beautiful and
accomplished Flora Bannerworth, to whom we may, without destroying in any way the
interest of our plot, predict a much happier destiny than, probably, at that time, she
considers as at all likely to be hers.
She certainly enjoyed, upon her first removal from Bannerworth Hall, greater serenity of
mind than she had done there; but, as we have already remarked of her, the more her mind
was withdrawn, by change of scene, from the horrible considerations which the attack of
the vampyre had forced upon her, the more she reverted to the fate of Charles Holland,
which was still shrouded in so much gloom.
She would sit and converse with her mother upon that subject until she worked up her
feelings to a most uncomfortable pitch of excitement, and then Mrs. Bannerworth would
get her younger brother to join them, who would occasionally read to her some
compositions of his own, or of some favourite writer whom he thought would amuse her.
It was on the very evening when Sir Francis Varney had made up his mind to release
Charles Holland, that young Bannerworth read to his sister and his mother the following
little chivalric incident, which he told them he himself had collated from authentic sources:
--
"The knight with the green shield," exclaimed one of a party of men-at-arms, who were
drinking together at an ancient hostel, not far from Shrewsbury -- "the knight with the green
shield is as good a knight as ever buckled on a sword, or wore spurs." -- "Then how comes
it that he is not one of the victors in the day's tournament?" exclaimed another. -- "By the
bones of Alfred!" said a third, "a man must be judged of by his deserts, and not by the
partiality of his friends. That's my opinion, friends." -- "And mine too," said another.
"That is all very true, and my opinion would go with yours, too; but not in this instance.
Though you may accuse me of partiality, yet I am not so; for I have seen some of the
victors of to-day by no means forward in the press of battle -- men who, I will not say
feared danger, but who liked it not so well but they avoided it as much as possible."
"Ay, marry, and so have I. The reason is, 'tis much easier to face a blunted lance, than one
with a spear-head; and a man may practise the one and thrive in it, but not the other; for the
best lance in the tournament is not always the best arm in the battle."
"And that is the reason of my saying the knight with the green shield was a good knight. I
have seen him in the midst of the melee, when men and horses have been hurled to the
ground by the shock; there he has behaved himself like a brave knight, and has more than
once been noticed for it."

"But how came he to be so easily over thrown to-day? That speaks something." -- "His
horse is an old one."
"So much the better," said another; "he's used to his work, and as cunning as an old man."
-- "But he has been wounded more than once, and is weakened very much; besides, I saw
him lose his footing, else he had overthrown his opponent."
"He did not seem distressed about his accident at all events, but sat contented in the tent."
-- "He knows well that those who know him will never attribute his misadventure either to
want of courage or conduct; moreover, he seems to be one of those who care but little for
the opinion of men who care nothing for him."
"And he's right. Well, dear comrades, the health of Green Knight, or the Knight with a
Green Shield, for that's his name or the designation he chooses to go by." -- "A health to the
Knight with the Green Shield!" shouted the men-at-arms, as they lifted their cups on high.
"Who is he?" inquired one of the men-at-arms, of him who had spoken favourably of the
stranger. -- "I don't know."
"And yet you spoke favourably of him but a few seconds back, and said what a brave
knight he was!" -- "And so I uphold him to be; but, I tell you what, friend, I would do as
much for the greatest stranger I ever met. I have seen him fight where men and horses have
bit the dust in hundreds; and that, in my opinion, speaks out for the man and warrior; he
who cannot, then, fight like a soldier, have better tilt at home in the castle-yard, and there
win ladies' smiles, but not the commendation of the leader of the battle."
"That's true; I myself recollect very well Sir Hugh de Colbert, a very accomplished knight
in the castle-yard; but his men were as fine a set of fellows as ever crossed a horse, to look
at, but they proved deficient at the moment of trial; they were broken, and fled in a
moment, and scarce one of them received a scratch."
"Then they hadn't stood the shock of the foeman?" -- "No; that's certain."
"But still I should like to know the knight, -- to know his name very well." -- "I know it
not; he has some reason for keeping it secret, I suppose; but his deeds will not shame it, be
it what it may. I can bear witness to more than one foeman falling beneath his battle-axe."
"Indeed!" -- "Yes; and he took a banner from the enemy in the last battle that was
fought."
"Ah, well! he deserves a better fortune to-morrow. Who is to be the bridegroom of the
beautiful Bertha, daughter of Lord de Cauci?" -- "That will have to be decided: but it is
presumed that Sir Guthrie de Beaumont is the intended."

"Ah! but should he not prove the victor?" -- "It's understood; because it's known he is
intended by the parents of the lady, and none would be ungallant enough to prevail against
him, -- save on such conditions as would not endanger the fruits of the victory."
"No?" -- "Certainly not; they would lay the trophies at the foot of the beauty worshipped
by the knights at the tournament."
"So, triumphant or not, he's to be the bridegroom; bearing off the prize of valour whether
or no, -- in fact deserve her or not, -- that's the fact." -- "So it is; so it is."
"And a shame, too, friends; but so it is now; but yet, if the knight's horse recovers from
the strain, and is fit for work to-morrow, it strikes me that the Green Shield will give some
work to the holiday knight." * * * *
There had been a grand tournament held near Shrewsbury Castle, in honour of the
intended nuptials of the beautiful Lady Bertha de Cauci. She was the only daughter of the
Earl de Cauci, a nobleman of some note; he was one of an ancient and unblemished name,
and of great riches.
The lady was beautiful, but, at the same time, she was an unwilling bride, -- every one
could see that; but the bridegroom cared not for that. There was a settled sorrow on her
brow, -- a sorrow that seemed sincere and lasting; but she spoke not of it to any one, -- her
lips were seldom parted. She loved another. Yes; she loved one who was far away, fighting
in the wars of his country, -- one who was not so rich in lands as her present bridegroom.
When he left her, she remembered his promise; it was, to fight on till he earned a fortune,
or name that should give him some right to claim her hand, even from her imperious father.
But alas! he came not; and what could she do against the commands of one who would be
obeyed? Her mother, too, was a proud, haughty woman, one whose sole anxiety was to
increase the grandeur and power of her house by such connections.
Thus it was pressed on by circumstances, she could no longer hold out, more especially as
she heard nothing of her knight. She knew not where he was, or indeed if he were living or
dead. She knew not he was never named. This last circumstance, indeed, gave her pain; for
it assured her that he whom she loved had been unable to signalize himself from among
other men. That, in fact, he was unknown in the annals of fame, as well as the probability
that he had been slain in some of the earlier skirmishes of the war. This, if it had happened,
caused her some pain to think upon; but such events were looked upon with almost
indifference by females, save in such cases where their affections were engaged, as on this
occasion. But the event was softened by the fact that men were continually falling by the
hand of man in such encounters, but at the same time it was considered an honourable and
praiseworthy death for a soldier. He was wounded, but not with the anguish we now hear
of; for the friends were consoled by the reflection that the deceased warrior died covered
with glory.
Bertha, however, was young, and as yet she knew not the cause of her absent knight's
silence, or why he had not been heard of among the most forward in the battle.

"Heaven's will be done," she exclaimed; "what can I do? I must submit to my father's
behests; but my future life will be one of misery and sorrow."
She wept to think of the past, and to dream of the future; both alike were sorrowful to
think upon -- no comfort in the past and no joy in the future.
Thus she wept and sorrowed on the night of the first tournament; there was to be a
second, and that was to be the grand one, where her intended bridegroom was to show
himself off in her eyes, and take his part in the sport. * * * *
Bertha sat late -- she sat sorrowing by the light of the lamps and the flickering flame of
the fire, as it rose and fell on the hearth and threw dancing shadows on the walls.
"Oh, why, Arthur Home, should you thus be absent? Absent, too, at such a time when you
are more needed than ever. Alas, alas! you may no longer be in the land of the living. Your
family is great and your name known -- your own has been spoken with commendation
from the lips of your friend; what more of fame do you need? but I am speaking without
purpose. Heaven have mercy on me."
As she spoke she looked up and saw one of her women in waiting standing by.
"Well, what would you?" -- "My lady, there is one who would speak with you," said the
hand-maiden.
"With me?" -- "Yes, my lady; be named you the Lady Bertha de Cauci."
"Who and what is he?" she inquired, with something like trepidation, of the maiden. -- "I
know not, my lady."
"But gave he not some token by which I might known who I admit to my chamber?" --
"None," replied the maiden.
"And what does he bear by way of distinguishing himself? What crest or device doth he
bear?" -- "Merely a green shield."
"The unsuccessful knight in the tournament to-day. Heaven's! what can he desire with
me; he is not -- no, no, it cannot be." -- "Will you admit him, lady?"
"Indeed, I known not what to do; but yet he may have some intelligence to give me. Yes,
yes, admit him; but first throw some logs on the fire."
The attendant did as she was desired, and then quitted the room for the purpose of
admitting the stranger knight with the green shield. In a few moments she could hear the
stride of the knight as he neared the apartment, and she thought the step was familiar to her
ear -- she thought it was the step of Sir Arthur Home, her lover. She waited anxiously to see

the door open, and then the stranger entered. His form and bearing was that of her lover, but
his visor was down, and she was unable to distinguish the features of the stranger.
His armour was such as had seen many a day's hard wear, and there were plenty of marks
of the battle about him. His travel-worn accoutrements were altogether such as bespoke
service in the field.
"Sir, you desired to see me; say wherefore you do so, and if it is news you bring." The
knight answered not, but pointed to the female attendant, as if he desired she would
withdraw. "You may retire," said Bertha; "be within call, and let me know if I am
threatened with interruption."
The attendant retired, and then the knight and lady were left alone. The former seemed at
a loss how to break silence for some moments, and then he said, --
"Lady -- " -- "Oh, Heavens! 'tis he!" exclaimed Bertha, as she sprang to her feet; "it is Sir
Arthur Home!"
"It is," exclaimed the knight, pulling up his visor, and dropping on one knee he encircled
his arm round the waist of the lady, and at the same moment he pressed her lips to his own.
The first emotion of joy and surprise over, Bertha checked her transports, and chid the
knight for his boldness.
"Nay, chide me not, dear Bertha; I am what I was when I left you, and hope to find you
the same."
"Am I not?" said Bertha. -- "Truly I know not, for you seem more beautiful than you were
then; I hope that is the only change."
"If there be a change, it is only such as you see. Sorrow and regret form the principal
causes." -- "I understand you."
"My intended nuptials -- " -- "Yes, I have heard all. I came here but late in the morning;
and my horse was jaded and tired, and my impatience to attend the tournament caused me a
disaster which it is well it came not on the second day."
"It is, dear Arthur. How is it I never heard your name mentioned, or that I received no
news from any one about you during the wars that have ended?" -- "I had more than one
personal enemy, Bertha; men who would have been glad to see me fall, and who, in default
of that, would not have minded bribing an assassin to secure my death for them at any risk
whatever."
"Heavens! and how did you escape such a death from such people, Arthur?" -- "By
adopting such a device as that I wear. The Knight of the Green Shield I'm called."

"I saw you to-day in the tournament." -- "And there my tired and jaded horse gave way;
but to-morrow I shall have, I hope, a different fortune."
"I hope so too." -- "I will try; my arm has been good in battle, and I see not why it should
be deficient in peaceful jousts."
"Certainly not. What fortune have you met with since you left England?" -- "I was of
course known but to a few; among those few were the general under whom I served and my
more immediate officers, who I knew would not divulge my secret."
"And they did not?" -- "No; kept it nobly, and kept their eyes upon me in battle; and I
have reaped a rich harvest in fame, honour, and riches, I assure you."
"Thank Heaven!" said Bertha. -- "Bertha, if I be conqueror, may I claim you in the court-
yard before all the spectators?"
"You may," said Bertha, and she hung her head. -- "Moreover," said Sir Arthur, "you will
not make a half promise, but when I demand you, you will at once come down to me and
accept me as your husband; if I be the victor then he cannot object to the match."
"But he will have many friends, and his intended bridegroom will have many more, so
that you may run some danger among so many enemies." -- "Never fear for me, Bertha,
because I shall have many friends of distinction there too -- many old friends who are tried
men in battle, and whose deeds are a glory and honour to them; besides, I shall have my
commander and several gentlemen who would at once interfere in case any unfair
advantage was attempted to be taken of my supposed weakness."
"Have you a fresh horse?" inquired Bertha. -- "I have, or shall have by the morning; but
promise me you will do what I ask you, and then my arm will be nerved to its utmost, and I
am sure to be victorious."
"I do promise," said Bertha; "I hope you may be as successful as you hope to be, Arthur;
but suppose fortune should declare against you; suppose an accident of any kind were to
happen, what could be done then?" -- "I must be content to hide myself for ever afterwards,
as a defeated knight; how can I appear before your friends as the claimant of your hand?"
"I will never have any other." -- "But you will be forced to accept this Guthrie de
Beaumont, your father's chosen son-in-law."
"I will seek refuge in a cloister." -- "Will you fly with me, Bertha, to some sequestered
spot, where we can live in each others society?"
"Yes," said Bertha, "anything, save marriage with Guthrie de Beaumont." -- "Then await
the tournament of to-morrow," said Sir Arthur, "and then this may be avoided; in the
meantime, keep up a good heart and remember I am at hand."

****
These two lovers parted for the present, after a protracted interview, Bertha to her
chamber, and the Knight of the Green Shield to his tent.
The following morning was one of great preparation; the lists had been enlarged, and the
seats made more commodious, for the influx of visitors appeared to be much greater than
had been anticipated.
Moreover, there were many old warriors of distinction to be present, which made the
bridegroom look pale and feel uncomfortable as to the results of the tournament. The tilting
was to begin at an early hour, and then the feasting and the revelry would begin early in the
evening, after the tilting had all passed off.
In that day's work there were many thrown from their saddles, and many broke their
lances. The bridegroom tilted with several knights, and came off victorious, or without
disadvantage to either.
The green knight, on the contrary, tilted with but few, and always victorious, and such
matches were with men who had been men of some name in the wars, or at least in the tilt
yard.
The sports drew to a close, and when the bridegroom became the challenger, the Knight
of the Green Shield at once rode out quietly to meet him. The encounter could not well be
avoided, and the bridegroom would willingly have declined the joust with a knight who had
disposed of his enemies so easily, and so unceremoniously as he had.
The first encounter was enough; the bridegroom was thrown to a great distance, and lay
insensible on the ground, and was carried out of the field. There was an immediate
sensation among the friends of the bridegroom, several of whom rode out to challenge the
stranger knight for his presumption.
In this, however, they had misreckoned the chances, for the challenged accepted their
challenges with alacrity and disposed of them one by one with credit to himself until the
day was concluded. The stranger was then asked to declare who he was, upon which he
lifted his visor and said,
"I am Sir Arthur Home, and claim the Lady Bertha as my bride, by the laws of arms, and
by those of love." * * * *
Again the tent was felled, and again the hostelry was tenanted by the soldier, who
declared for one side and then for the other, as the cups clanged and gingled together.
"Said I not," exclaimed one of the troopers, "that the knight with a green shield was a
good knight?" -- "You did," replied the other.

"And you knew who he was?" said another of the troopers. -- "Not I, comrades; I had
seen him fight in battle, and, therefore, partly guessed how it would be if he had any chance
with the bridegroom. I'm glad he has won the lady."
It was true, the Lady Bertha was won, and Sir Arthur Home claimed his bride, and then
they attempted to defeat his claim; yet Bertha at once expressed herself in his favour, so
strongly that they were, however reluctantly compelled, to consent at last.
At this moment, a loud shout as from a multitude of persons came upon their ears and
Flora started from her seat in alarm. The cause of the alarm we shall proceed to detail.
--

Chapter LXX.
THE FUNERAL OF THE STRANGER OF THE INN. -- THE POPULAR

COMMOTION, AND MRS. CHILLINGWORTH'S APPEAL TO THE MOB. -- THE
NEW RIOT. -- THE HALL IN DANGER.
A yet the town was quiet; and, though there was no appearance of riot or disturbance, yet
the magistracy had taken every precaution they deemed needful, or their position and
necessities warranted, to secure the peace of the town from the like disturbance to that
which had been, of late, a disgrace and terror of peaceably-disposed persons.
The populace were well advertised of the fact, that the body of the stranger was to be
buried that morning in their churchyard; and that, to protect the body, should there be any
necessity for so doing, a large body of constables would be employed.
There was no disposition to riot; at least, none was visible. It looked as if there was some
event about to take place that was highly interesting to all parties, who were peaceably
assembling to witness the interment of nobody knew who.
The early hour at which persons were assembling, at different points, clearly indicated
that there was a spirit of curiosity about the town, so uncommon that none would have
noticed it but for the fact of the crowd of people who hung about the streets, and there
remained, listless and impatient.
The inn, too, was crowded with visitors, and there were many who, not being blessed
with the strength of purse that some were, were hanging about in the distance, waiting and
watching the moitions of those who were better provided.
"Ah!" said one of the visitors, "this is a disagreeable job in your house, landlord." -- "Yes,
sir; I'd sooner it had happened elsewhere, I assure you. I know it has done me no good."
"No; no man could expect any, and yet it is none the less unfortunate for that." -- "I would
sooner anything else happen than that, whatever it might be. I think it must be something
very bad, at all events; but I dare say I shall never see the like again."
"So much the better for the town," said another; "for, what with vampyres and riots, there
has been but little else stirring than mischief and disturbances of one kind or another."
"Yes; and, what between Varneys and Bannerworths, we have had but little peace here."
"Precisely. Do you know it's my opinion that the least thing would upset the whole town.
Any one unlucky word would do it, I am sure," said a tall thin man.

"I have no doubt of it," said another; "but I hope the military would do their duty under
such circumstances, for people's lives and property are not safe in such a state of things." --
"Oh, dear no."
"I wonder what has become of Varney, or where he can have gone to." -- "Some thought
he must have been burned when they burned his house," replied the landlord.
"But I believe it generally understood he's escaped, has he not? No traces of his body
were found in the ruins." -- "None. Oh! he's escaped, there can be no doubt of that. I wish I
had some fortune depending upon the fact; it would be mine, I am sure."
"Well, the lord keep us from vampyres and such-like cattle," said an old woman. "I shall
never sleep again in my bed with any safety. It frightens one out of one's life to think of it.
What a shame the men didn't cath him and stake him!"
The old woman left the inn as soon as she had spoke this Christian speech.
"Humane!" said a gentleman, with a sporting coat on. "The old woman is no advocate for
half measures!"
"You are right, sir," said the landlord; "and a very good look-out she keeps upon the pot,
to see it's full, and carefully blows the froth off!" -- "Ah! I thought as much."
"How soon will the funeral take place, landlord?" inquired a person, who had at that
moment entered the inn. -- "In about an hour's time, sir."
"Oh! the town seems pretty full, though it is very quiet. I suppose it is more as a matter of
curiosity people congregate to see the funeral of this stranger?"
"I hope so, sir."
"The time is wearing on, and if they don't make a dust, why then the military will not be
troubled."
"I do not expect anything more, sir," said the landlord; "for you see they must have had
their swing out, as the saying is, and be fully satisfied. They cannot have much more to do
in the way of exhibiting their anger or dislike to vampyres -- they all have done enough."
"So they have -- so they have."
"Granted," said an old man with a troublesome cough; "but when did you ever know a
mob to be satisfied? If they wanted the moon and got it, they'd find out it would be
necessary to have the stars also."

"That's uncommonly true," said the landlord. "I shouldn't be surprised if they didn't do
something worse than ever." -- "Nothing more likely," said the little old man. "I can believe
anything of a mob -- anything -- no matter what."
The inn was crowded with visitors, and several extra hands were employed to wait upon
the customers, and a scene of bustle and activity was displayed that was never before seen.
It would glad the heart of a landlord, though he were made of stone, and landlords are
usually of much more malleable materials than that.
However, the landlord had hardly time to congratulate himself, for the bearers were come
now, and the undertaker and his troop of death-following officials.
There was a stir among the people, who began now to awaken from the lethargy that
seemed to have come over them while they were waiting for the moment when it should
arrive, that was to place the body under the green sod, against which so much of their anger
had been raised. There was a decent silence that pervaded the mob of individuals who had
assembled.
Death, with all its ghastly insignia, had an effect even upon the unthinking multitude,
who were ever ready to inflict death or any violent injury upon any object that came in their
way -- they never hesitated; but even these, now the object of their hatred was no more, felt
appalled.
'Tis strange what a change comes over masses of men as they gaze upon a dead body. It
may be that they all know that to that complexion they must come at last. This may be the
secret of the respect offered to the dead.
The undertakers are men, however, who are used to the presence of death -- it is their
element; they gain a living by attending upon the last obsequies of the dead; they are used
to dead bodies, and care not for them. Some of them are humane men, that is, in their way;
and even among them are men who wouldn't be deprived of their joke as they screwed
down the last screw. They could not forbear, even on this occasion, to hold their converse
when left alone.
"Jacobs," said one who was turning a long screw, "Jacobs, my boy, do you take the chair
to-night?" -- "Yes," said Jacobs, who was a long lugubrious-looking man, "I do take the
chair, if I live over this blessed event."
"You are not croaking, Jacobs, are you? Well you are a lively customer, you are." --
"Lively -- do you expect people to be lively when they are full dressed for a funeral? You
are a nice article for your profession. You don't feel like an undertaker, you don't."
"Don't, Jacobs, my boy. As long as I look like one when occasion demands; when I have
done my job I puts my comfort in my pocket, and thinks how much more pleasanter it is to
be going to other people's funerals than to our own, and then only see the difference as
regards the money."

"True," said Jacobs with a groan; "but death's a melancholy article, at all events." -- "So it
is."
"And then when you come to consider the number of people we have buried -- how many
have gone to their last homes -- and how many more will go the same way." -- "Yes, yes;
that's all very well, Jacob. You are precious surly this morning. I'll come to-night. You're
brewing a sentimental tale as sure as eggs is eggs."
"Well, that is pretty certain; but as I was saying how many more are there -- "
"Ah, don't bother yourself with calculations that have neither beginning nor end, and
which haven't one point to go. Come, Jacob, have you finished yet?" -- "Quite," said Jacob.
They now arranged the pall, and placed all in readiness, and returned to a place down
stairs where they could enjoy themselves for an odd half hour, and pass that time away until
the moment should arrive when his reverence would be ready to bury the deceased, upon
consideration of the fees to paid upon the occasion.
The tap-room was crowded, and there was no room for the men, and they were taken into
the kitchen, where they were seated, and earnestly at work, preparing bodily for the
ceremony that had so shortly to be performed.
"Any better, Jacobs?" -- "What do you mean?" inquired Jacobs, with a groan. "It's news
to me if I have been ill."
"Oh, yes, you were doleful up stairs, you know." -- "I've a proper regard for my
profession -- that's the difference between you and I, you know."
"I'll wager you what you like, now, that I'll handle a corpse and drive a screw in a coffin
as well as you, now, although you are so solid and miserable." -- "So you may -- so you
may."
"Then what do you mean by saying I haven't a proper regard for my profession?" -- "I say
you haven't, and there's the thing that shall prove it -- you don't look it, and that's the truth."
"I don't look like an undertaker! indeed I dare say I don't if I ain't dressed like one." --
"Nor when you are," reiterated Jacob.
"Why not, pray?" -- "Because you have always a grin on your face as broad as a gridiron -
- that's why."
This ended the dispute, for the employer of the men suddenly put his head in, saying, --
"Come, now, time's up; you are wanted up stairs, all of you. Be quick; we shall have his
reverence waiting for us, and then we shall lose his recommendation."

"Ready, sir," said the round man, taking up his pint and finishing it off as a draught, at the
same moment he thrust the remains of some bread and cheese into his pocket.
Jacob, too, took his pot, and, having finished it, with great gravity followed the example
of his more jocose companion, and they all left the kitchen for the room above, where the
corpse was lying ready for interment.
There was an unusual bustle; everybody was on the tip-top of expectation, and awaiting
the result in a quiet hurry, and hoped to have the first glimpse of the coffin, though why
they should do so it was difficult to define. But in this fit of mysterious hope and
expectation they certainly stood.
"Will they be long?" inquired a man at the door of one inside, -- "will they be long before
they come?" -- "They are coming now," said the man. "Do you all keep quiet; they are
knocking their heads against the top of the landing. Hark! There, I told you so."
The man departed, hearing something, and being satisfied that he had got some
information.
"Now, then," said the landlord, "move out of the way, and allow the corpse to pass out.
Let me have no indecent conduct; let everything be as it should be."
The people soon removed from the passage and vicinity of the doorway, and then the
mournful procession -- as the newspapers have it -- moved forward. They were heard
coming down stairs, and thence along the passage, until they came to the street, and then
the whole number of attendants was plainly discernible.
How different was the funeral of one who had friends. He was alone; none followed, save
the undertaker and his attendants, all of whom looked solemn from habit and professional
motives. Even the jocose man was a supernaturally solemn as could be well imagined;
indeed, nobody knew he was the same man.
"Well," said the landlord, as he watched them down the street, as they slowly paced their
way with funeral, not sorrowful, solemnity -- "well, I am very glad that it is all over."
"It has been a sad plague to you," said one.
"It has, indeed; it must be to any one who has had another such a job as this. I don't say it
out of any disrespect to the poor man who is dead and gone -- quite the reverse; but I would
not have such another affair on my hands for pounds."
"I can easily believe you, especially when we come to consider the disagreeables of a
mob."

"You may say that. There's no knowing what they will or won't do, confound them! If
they'd act like men, and pay for what they have, why, then I shouldn't care much about
them; but it don't do to have other people in the bar."
"I should think not, indeed; that would alter the scale of your profits, I reckon."
"It would make all the difference to me. Business," added the landlord, "conducted on
that scale, would become a loss; and a man might as well walk into a well at once."
"So I should say. Have many such occurrences as these been usual in this part of the
country?" inquired the stranger.
"Not usual at all," said the landlord; "but the fact is, the whole neighbourhood has run
distracted about some superhuman being they call a vampyre."
"Indeed!" -- "Yes; and they suspected the unfortunate man who has been lying up-stairs, a
corpse, for some days."
"Oh, the man they have just taken in the coffin to bury?" said the stranger. -- "Yes, sir, the
same."
"Well, I thought perhaps somebody of great consequence had suddenly become defunct."
-- "Oh, dear no; it would not have caused half the sensation; people have been really mad."
"It was a strange occurrence, altogether, I believe, was it?" inquired the stranger. --
"Indeed it was, sir. I hardly know the particulars, there have been so many tales afloat;
though they all concur in one point, and that is, it has destroyed the peace of one family."
"Who had done so?" -- "The vampyre."
"Indeed! I never heard of such an animal, save as a fable, before; it seems to me

extraordinary."
"So it would do to any one, sir, as was not on the spot, to see it; I'm sure I wouldn't." * * *
***
In the meantime, the procession, short as it was of itself, moved along in slow time
through a throng of people who ran out of their houses on either side of the way, and lined
the whole length of the town.
Many of these closed in behind, and followed the mourners until they were near the
church, and then they made a rush to get into the churchyard.
As yet all had been conducted with toerable propriety, the funeral met with no
impediment. The presence of death among so many of them seemed some check upon the
license of the mob, who bowed in silence to the majesty of death.

Who could bear ill-will against him who was now no more? Man, while he is man, is
always the subject of hatred, fear, or love. Some one of these passions, in a modified state,
exists in all men, and with such feelings they will regard each other; and it is barely
possible that any one should not be the object of some of these, and hence the stranger's
corpse was treated with respect.
In silence the body proceeded along the highway until it came to the churchyard, and
followed by an immense multitude of people of all grades.
The authorities trembled; they knew not what all this portended. They thought it might
pass off; but it might become a storm first; they hoped and feared by turns, till some of
them fell sick with apprehension.
There was a deep silence observed by all those in the immediate vicinity of the coffin, but
those farther in the rear found full expression for their feelings.
"Do you think," said an old man to another, "that he will come to life again, eh?" -- "Oh,
yes, vampyres always do, and lay in the moonlight, and then they come to life again.
Moonlight recovers a vampyre to life again."
"And yet the moonlight is cold." -- "Ah, but who's to tell what may happen to a vampyre,
or what's hot or what's cold?"
"Certainly not; oh, dear, no." -- "And then they have permission to suck the blood of
other people, to live themselves, and to make other people vampyres, too."
"The lord have mercy upon us!" -- "Ay, but they have driven a stake through this one, and
he can't get in moonlight or daylight; it's all over -- he's certainly done for; we may
congratulate ourselves on this point."
"So we may -- so we may."
They now neared the grave, the clergyman officiating as usual on such occasions. There
was a large mob of persons on all sides, with serious faces, watching the progress of the
ceremony, and who listened in quietness.
There was no sign of any disturbance amongst the people, and the authorities were well
pleased; they congratulated themselves upon the quietness and orderliness of the
assemblage.
The service was ended and the coffin lowered, and the earth was thrown on the coffin-lid
with a hollow sound. Nobody could hear that sound unmoved. But in a short while the
sound ceased as the grave became filled; it was then trodden carefully down.

There were no relatives there to feel affected at the last scene of all. They were far away,
and, according to popular belief upon the subject, they must have been dead some ages. * *
****
The mob watched the last shovel-full of earth thrown upon the coffin, and witnessed the
ramming down of the soil, and the heaping of it over at top to make the usual monument;
for all this was done speedily and carefully, lest there should be any tendency to exhume
the body of the deceased.
The people were now somewhat relieved, as to their state of solemnity and silence. They
would all of them converse freely on the matter that had so long occupied their thoughts.
They seemed now let loose, and everybody found himself at liberty to say or do
something, no matter if it were not very reasonable; that is not always required of human
beings who have souls, or, at least, it is unexpected; and were it expected, the expectation
would never be realized.
The day was likely to wear away without a riot, nay, even without a fight; a most
extraordinary occurrence for such a place, under the existing circumstances; for of late the
populace, or perhaps, the townspeople, were extremely pugnacious, and many were the
disputes that were settled by the very satisfactory application of the knuckles to the head of
the party holding a contrary opinion.
Thus it was they were ready to take fire, and a hubbub would be the result of the slightest
provocation. But, on the present occasion, there was a remarkable dearth of all subjects of
the nature described.
Who was to lead Israel out to battle? Alas! no one on the present occasion.
Such a one, however, appeared; at least, one who furnished a ready excuse for a
disturbance.
Suddenly, Mrs. Chillingworth appeared in the midst of a large concourse of people. She
had just left her house, which was close at hand; her eyes red with weaping, and her
children around her on this occasion. The crowd made way for her, and gathered round her
to see what was going to happen.
"Friends and neighbours," she said, "can any of you relieve the tears of a distressed wife
and mother; have any of you seen anything of my husband, Mr. Chillingworth?"
"What the doctor?" exclaimed one. -- "Yes; Mr. Chillingworth, the surgeon. He has not
been home two days and a night. I'm distracted! -- what can have become of him I don't
know, unless -- "
Here Mrs. Chillingworth paused; and some person said, --

"Unless what, Mrs. Chillingworth? there are none but friends here, who wish the doctor
well, and would do anything to serve him -- unless what? speak out."
"Unless he's been destroyed by the vampyre. Heaven knows what we may all come to!
Here am I and my children deprived of our protector by some means which we cannot
imagine. He never, in all his life, did the same before."
"He must have been spirited away by some of the vampyres. I'll tell you what, friend,"
said one to another, "that something must be done; nobody's safe in their bed."
"No; they are not, indeed. I think that all vampyres ought to be burned and a stake run
through them, and then we should be safe."
"Ay; but you must destroy all those who are even suspected of being vampyres, or else
one may do all the mischief." -- "So he might."
"Hurrah! shouted the mob. "Chillingworth for ever! We'll find the doctor somewhere, if
we pull down the whole town."
"There was an immense commotion among the populace, who began to start throwing
stones, and do all sorts of things without any particular object, and some, as they said, to
find the doctor, or to show how willing they were to do so if they knew how.
Mrs. Chillingworth, however, kept on talking to the mob, who continued shouting; and
the authorities anticipated an immediate outbreak of popular opinion, which is generally
accompanied by some forcible demonstration, and on this occasion some one suggested the
propriety of burning down Bannerworth Hall; because they had burned down the vampyre's
house, and they might as well burn down that of the injured party, which was carried by
acclamation; and with loud shouts they started on their errand.
"This was a mob's proceeding all over, and we regret very much to say, that it is very
much the characteristic of English mobs. What an uncommonly strange thing it is that
people in multitudes seem completely to get rid of all reason -- all honour -- all common
ordinary honesty; while, if you were to take the same people singly, you would find that
they were reasonable enough, and would shrink with a feeling quite approaching to horror
from anything in the shape of very flagrant injustice.
This can only be accounted for by a piece of cowardice in the human race, which induces
them when alone, and acting with the full responsibility of their actions, to shrink from
what it is quite evident they have a full inclination to do, and will do when, having partially
lost their individuality in a crowd, they fancy, that to a certain extent they can do so with
impunity.
The burning of Sir Francis Varney's house, although it was one of those proceedings
which would not bear the test of patient examination, was yet, when we take all the

circumstances into consideration, an act really justifiable and natural in comparison with
the one which was now meditated.
Bannerworth Hall had never been the residence even of any one who had done the people
any injury or given them any offence, so that to let it become a prey to the flames was but a
gratuitous act of mischief.
It was, however, or seemed to be, doomed, for all who have had any experience in mobs,
must know how extremely difficult it is to withdraw them from any impulse once given,
especially when that impulse, as in the present instance, is of a violent character.
"Down with Bannerworth Hall!" was the cry. "Burn it -- burn it," and augmented by fresh
numbers each minute, the ignorant, and, in many respects, ruffianly assemblage, soon
arrived within sight of what had been for so many years the bane of the Bannerworths, and
whatever may have been the fault of some of that race, those faults had been of a domestic
character, and not at all such as would interfere with the public weal.
The astonished, and almost worn-out authorities, hastily, now, after having disposed of
their prisoners, collected together what troops they could, and by the time the misguided, or
rather the not guided at all populace, had got half way to Bannerworth Hall, they were
being outflanked by some of the dragoons, who, by taking a more direct route, hoped to
reach Bannerworth Hall first, and so perhaps, by letting the mob see that it was defended,
induce them to give up the idea of its destruction on account of the danger attendant upon
the proceeding by far exceeding any of the anticipated delight of the disturbance.
--

Chapter LXXI.
THE STRANGE MEETING AT THE HALL BETWEEN MR. CHILLINGWORTH

AND THE MYSTERIOUS FRIEND OF VARNEY.
When we praise our friend Mr. Chillingworth for not telling his wife where he was going,
in pursuance of a caution and a discrimination so highly creditable to him, we are quite
certain that he has no such excuse as regards the reader. Therefore we say at once that he
had his own reasons now for taking up his abode at Bannerwoth Hall for a time. These
reasons seemed to be all dependant upon the fact of having met the mysterious man at Sir
Francis Varney's; and although we perhaps would have hoped that the doctor might have
communicated to Henry Bannerworth all that he knew and all that he surmised, yet have we
no doubt that what he keeps to himself he has good reasons for so keeping, and that his
actions as regards it are founded upon some very just conclusions.
He has then made a determination to take possession of, and remain in, Bannerworth Hall
according to the full and free leave which the admiral had given him so to do. What results
he anticipated from so lonely and so secret a watch we cannot say, but probably they will
soon exhibit themselves. It needed no sort of extraordinary discrimination for any one to
feel at once that not the least good, in the way of an ambuscade, was likely to be effected
by such persons as Admiral Bell or Jack Pringle. They were all very well when fighting
should actually ensue, but they both were certainly remarkably and completely deficient in
diplomatic skill, or in that sort of patience which should enable them at all to compete with
the cunning, the skill, and the nice discrimination of such a man as Sir Francis Varney.
If anything were to be done in that way it was unquestionably to be done by some one
alone, who, like the doctor, would, and could, remain profoundly quiet and await the issue
of events, be they what they might, and probably remain a spy and attempt no overt act
which should be of a hostile character. This unquestionably was the mode, and perhaps we
should not be going too far when we say it was the only mode which could be with
anything like safety relied upon as one likely to lead really to a discovery of Sir Francis
Varney's motives in making such determined exertions to get possession of Bannerworth
Hall.
That night was doomed to be a very eventful one, indeed; for on it had Charles Holland
been, by a sort of wild impulsive generosity of Sir Francis Varney, rescued from the
miserable dungeon in which he had been confined, and on that night, too, he, whom we
cannot otherwise describe than as the villain Marchdale, had been, in consequence of the
evil that he himself meditated, and the crime with which he was quite willing to stain his
soul, been condemned to occupy Charles's position.
On that night, too, had the infuriated mob determined upon the destruction of
Bannerworth Hall, and on that night was Mr. Chillingworth waiting with what patience he
could exert, at the Hall, for whatever in the chapter of accidents might turn up of an

advantageous character to that family in whose welfare and fortunes he felt so friendly and
so deep an interest.
Let us look, then, at the worthy doctor as he keeps his solitary watch.
He did not, as had been the case when the admiral shared the place with him in the hope
of catching Varney on that memorable occasion when he caught only his boot, sit in a room
with a light and the means and appliances for making the night pass pleasantly away; but,
on the contrary, he abandoned the house altogether, and took up a station in that summer-
house which has been before mentioned as the scene of a remarkable interview between
Flora Bannerworth and Varney the vampyre.
Alone and in the dark, so that he could not be probably seen, he watched that one window
of the chamber where the first appearance of the hideous vampyre had taken place, and
which seemed ever since to be the special object of his attack.
By remaining from twilight, and getting accustomed to the gradually increasing darkness
of the place, no doubt the doctor was able to see well enough without the aid of any
artificial light whether any one was in the place besides himself.
"Night after night," he said, "will I watch here until I have succeeded in unravelling this
mystery; for that there is some fearful and undreamt of mystery at the bottom of all these
proceedings I am well convinced."
When he made such a determination as this, Dr. Chillingworth was not at all a likely man
to break it, so there, looking like a modern statue in the arbour, he sat with his eyes fixed
upon the balcony and the window of what used to be called Flora's room for some hours.
The doctor was a contemplative man, and therefore he did not so acutely feel the
loneliness of his position as many persons would have done; moreover, he was decidedly
not of a superstitious turn of mind, although certainly we cannot deny an imagination to
him. However, if he really had harboured some strange fears and terrors they would have
been excusable, when we consider how many circumstances had combined to make it
almost a matter of demonstration that Sir Francis Varney was something more than mortal.
What quantities of subjects the doctor thought over during his vigil in that garden it is
hard to say, but never in his whole life, probably, had he such a glorious opportunity for the
most undisturbed contemplation of subjects requiring deep thought to analyze, than as he
had then. At least he felt that since his marriage he had never been so thoroughly quiet, and
left so completely to himself.
It is to be hoped that he succeeded in settling any medical points of a knotty character that
might be hovering in his brain, and certain it is that he had become quite absorbed in an
abstruse matter connected with physiology, when his ears were startled, and he was at once
aroused to a full consciousness of where he was, and why he had come there, by the distant
sound of a man's footstep.

It was a footstep which seemed to be that of a person who scarcely thought it at all
necessary to use any caution, and the doctor's heart leaped within him as in the lowest
possible whisper he said to himself, --
"I am successful -- I am successful. It is believed now that the Hall is deserted, and no
doubt that is Sir Francis Varney come with confidence, to carry out his object in so
sedulously attacking it, be that object what it may."
Elated with this idea, the doctor listened intently to the advancing footstep, which each
moment sounded more clearly upon his ears.
It was evidently approaching from the garden entrance towards the house, and he thought,
by the occasional deadened sound of the person's feet, be he whom he might, that he could
not see his way very well, and, consequently, frequently strayed from the path, on to some
of the numerous flowerbeds which were in the way.
"Yes," said the doctor, exultingly, "it must be Varney; and now I have but to watch him,
and not to resist him; for what good on earth is it to stop him in what he wishes to do, and,
by such means, never wrest his secret from him. The only way is to let him go on, and that
will I do, most certainly."
Now he heard the indistinct muttering of the voice of some one, so low that he could not
catch what words were uttered; but he fancied that, in the deep tones, he recognised,
without any doubt, the voice of Sir Francis Varney.
"It must be he," he said, "it surely must be he. Who else would come here to disturb the
solitude of an empty house? He comes! he comes!"
Now the doctor could see a figure emerge from behind some thick beeches, which had
before obstructed his vision, and he looked scrutinisingly about, while some doubts stole
slowly over his mind now as to whether it was the vampyre or not. The height was in
favour of the supposition that it was none other than Varney; but the figure looked so much
stouter, that Mr. Chillingworth felt a little staggered upon the subject, and unable wholly to
make up his mind upon it.
The pausing of this visitor, too, opposite that window where Sir Francis Varney had made
his attempts, was another strong reason why the doctor was inclined to believe it must be
him, and yet he could not quite make up his mind upon the subject, so as to speak with
certainty.
A very short time, however, indeed, must have sufficed to set such a question as that at
rest; and patience seemed the only quality of mind necessary under those circumstances for
Mr. Chillingworth to exert.
The visitor continued gazing either at that window, or at the whole front of the house, for
several minutes, and then he turned away from a contemplation of it, and walked slowly

along, parallel with the windows of that dining-room, one of which had been broken so
completely on the occasion of the admiral's attempt to take the vampyre prisoner.
The moment the stranger altered his position, from looking at the window, and
commenced walking away from it, Mr. Chillingworth's mind was made up. It was not
Varney -- of that he felt now most positively assured, and could have no doubt whatever
upon the subject.
The gait, the general air, the walk, all were different; and then arose the anxious question
of who could it be that had intruded upon that lonely place, and what could be the object of
any one else but Varney the vampyre to do so.
The stranger looked a powerful man, and walked with a firm tread, and, altogether, he
was an opponent that, had the doctor been ever so belligerently inclined, it would have been
the height of indiscretion for him to attempt to cope with.
It was a very vexatious thing, too, for any one to come there at such a juncture, perhaps
only from motives of curiosity, or possibly just to endeavour to commit some petty
depredations upon the deserted building, if possible; and mostly heartily did the doctor
wish that, in some way, he could scare away the intruder.
The man walked along very slowly, indeed, and seemed to be quite taking his time in
making his observations of the building; and this was the more provoking, as it was getting
late, and, if having projected a visit at all, it would surely soon be made, and then, when he
found any one there, of course, he would go.
Amazed beyond expression, the doctor felt about on the ground at his feet, until he found
a tolerably large stone, which he threw at the stranger with so good an aim, that it hit him a
smart blow on the back, which must have been anything but a pleasant surprise.
That it was a surprise, and that, too, a most complete one, was evident from the start
which the man gave, and then he uttered a furious oath, and rubbed his back, as he glanced
about him to endeavour to ascertain from whence the missile had come.
"I'll try him again with that," thought the doctor; "it may succeed in scaring him away;"
and he stooped to search for another stone.
It was well that he did so at that precise moment; for, before he rose again, he heard the
sharp report of a pistol, and a crashing sound among some of the old wood work of which
the summer-house was composed, told him that a shot had there taken effect. Affairs were
now getting much too serious; and, accordingly, Dr. Chillingworth thought that, rather than
stay there to be made a target of, he would face the intruder.
"Hold -- hold!" he cried. "Who are you, and what do you mean by that?" -- "Oh!
somebody is there," cried the man, as he advanced. "My friend, whoever you are, you were
very foolish to throw a stone at me."

"And, my friend, whoever you are," responded the doctor, "you were very spiteful to fire
a pistol bullet at me in consequence." -- "Not at all."
"But I say yes; for, probably, I can prove a right to be here, which you cannot." -- "Ah!"
said the stranger, "that voice -- why -- you are Dr. Chillingworth?"
"I am; but I don't know you," said the doctor, as he emerged now from the summer-house,
and confronted the stranger, who was within a few paces of the entrance to it. Then he
started, as he added, --
"Yes, I do know you, though. How in the name of Heaven, came you here, and what
purpose have you in so coming?"
"What purpose have you? Since we met at Varney's, I have been making some inquiries
about this neighbourhood, and learn strange things." -- "That you may very easily do here;
and, what is more extraordinary, the strange things are, for the most part, I can assure you,
quite true."
The reader will, from what has been said, now readily recognise this man as Sir Francis
Varney's mysterious visitor, to whom he gave, from some hidden cause or another, so large
a sum of money, and between whom and Dr. Chillingworth a mutual recognition had taken
place, on the occasion when Sir Francis Varney had, with such cool assurance, invited the
admiral to breakfast with him at his new abode.
"You, however," said the man, "I have no doubt, are fully qualified to tell me of more
than I have been able to learn from other people; and, first of all, let me ask you why you
are here?" -- "Before I answer you that question, or any other," said the doctor, "let me beg
of you to tell me truly, is Sir Francis Varney -- -"
The doctor whispered in the ear of the stranger some name, as if he feared, even there, in
the silence of that garden, where everything conspired to convince him that he could not be
overheard, to pronounce it in an audible tone.
"He is," said the other. -- "You have no manner of doubt of it?"
"Doubt? -- certainly not. What doubt can I have? I know it for a positive certainty, and he
knows, of course, that I do know it, and has purchased my silence pretty handsomely,
although I must confess that nothing but my positive necessities would have induced me to
make the large demands upon him that I have, and I hope soon to be able to release him
altogether from them."
The doctor shook his head repeatedly, as he said, --
"I suspected it; I suspected it, do you know, from the first moment that I saw you there in
his house. His face haunted me ever since -- awfully haunted me; and yet, although I felt

certain that I had once seen it under strange circumstances, I could not identify it with -- but
no matter, no matter. I am waiting here for him."
"Indeed!" -- "Ay, that I am; and I flung a stone at you, not knowing you, with a hope that
you would be, by such means, perhaps, scared away, and so leave the coast clear for him."
"Then you have an appointment with him?" -- "By no means; but he has made such
repeated and determined attacks upon this house that the family who inhabited it were
compelled to leave it, and I am here to watch him, and ascertain what can possibly be his
object."
"It is as I suspected, then," muttered this man. "Confound him! Now can I read, as if in a
book, most clearly, the game that he is playing!"
"Can you?" cried the doctor, energetically -- "can you? What is it? Tell me, for that is the
very thing I want to discover." -- "You don't say so?"
"It is, indeed; and I assure you that it concerns the peace of a whole family to know it.
You say you have made inquiries about this neighbourhood, and, if you have done so, you
have discovered how the family of the Bannerworths have been persecuted by Varney, and
how, in particular, Flora Bannerworth, a beautiful and intelligent girl, has been most cruelly
made to suffer."
"I have heard all that, and I dare say with many exaggerations." -- "It would be difficult
for any one really to exaggerate the horrors that have taken place in this house, so that any
information which you can give respecting the motives of Varney will tend, probably, to
restore peace to those who have been so cruelly persecuted, and be an act of kindness
which I think not altogether inconsistent with your nature."
"You think so, and yet know who I am." -- "I do, indeed."
"And what I am. Why if I were to go into the market-place of yon town, and proclaim
myself, would not all shun me -- ay, even the lowest and vilest; and yet you talk of an act of
kindness not being altogether inconsistent with my nature!" -- "I do, because I know
something more of you than many."
There was a silence of some moments' duration, and then the stranger spoke in a tone of
voice which looked as if he were struggling with some emotion.
"Sir, you do know more of me than many. You know what I have been, and you know
how I left an occupation which would have made me loathed. But you -- even you -- do not
know what made me take to so terrible a trade." -- "I do not."
"Would it suit you for me now to tell you?" -- "Will you first promise me that you will do
all you can for this persecuted family of the Bannerworths, in whom I take so strange an
interest?"

"I will. I promise you that freely. Of my own knowledge, of course, I can say but little
concerning them, but, upon that warranting, I well believe they deserve abundant sympathy,
and from me they shall have it."
"A thousand thanks! With your assistance, I have little doubt of being able to extricate
them form the tangled web of dreadful incidents which has turned them from their home;
and now, whatever you may choose to tell me of the cause which drove you to be what you
became, I shall listen to with abundant interest. Only let me beseech you to come into this
summer-house, and to talk low."
"I will, and you can pursue your watch at the same time, while I beguile its weariness." --
"Be it so."
"You knew me years ago, when I had all the chances in the world of becoming
respectable and respected. I did, indeed; and you may, therefore, judge of my surprise
when, some years since, being in the metropolis, I met you, and you shunned my
company." -- "Yes; but, at last, you found out why it was that I shunned your company."
"I did. You yourself told me once that I met you, and would not leave you, but insisted
upon your dining with me. Then you told me, when you found that I would take no other
course whatever, that you were no other than the -- the -- -" -- "Out with it! I can bear to
hear it now better than I could then! I told you that I was the common hangman of
London!"
"You did, I must confess, to my most intense surprise."
"Yes, and yet you kept to me; and, but that I respected you too much to allow you to do
so, you would, from old associations, have countenanced me; but I could not, and I would
not, let you do so. I told you then that, although I held the terrible office, that I had not been
yet called upon to perform its loathsome functions. Soon -- soon -- come the first effort -- it
was the last!"
"Indeed! You left the dreadful trade?" -- "I did -- I did. But what I want to tell you, for I
could not then, was why I went ever to it. The wounds my heart had received were then too
fresh to allow me to speak of them, but I will tell you now. The story is a brief one, Mr.
Chillingworth. I pray you be seated."
--

Chapter LXXII.
THE STRANGE STORY. -- THE ARRIVAL OF THE MOB AT THE HALL, AND
THEIR DISPERSION.
"You will find that the time which elapsed since I last saw you in London, to have been
spent in an eventful, varied manner." -- "You were in good circumstances then," said Mr.
Chillingworth. -- "I was, but many events happened after that which altered the prospect;
made it even more gloomy than you can well imagine: but I will tell you all candidly, and
you can keep watch upon Bannerworth Hall at the same time. You are well aware that I was
well to do, and had ample funds, and inclination to spend them." -- "I recollect: but you
were married then, surely?" -- "I was," said the stranger, sadly, "I was married then." --
"And now?" -- "I am a widower." The stranger seemed much moved, but, after a moment or
so, he resumed -- "I am a widower now; but how that event came about is partly my
purpose to tell you. I had not married long -- that is very long -- for I have but one child,
and she is not old, or of an age to know much more than what she may be taught; she is still
in the course of education. I was early addicted to gamble; the dice had its charms, as all
those who have ever engaged in play but too well know; it is perfectly fascinating." -- "So I
have heard," said Mr. Chillingworth; "though, for myself, I found a wife and professional
pursuits quite incompatible with any pleasure that took either time or resources." -- "It is so.
I would I had never entered one of those houses where men are deprived of their money
and their own free will, for at the gambling table you have no liberty, save that in gliding
down the stream in company with others. How few have ever escaped destruction -- none, I
believe -- men are perfectly fascinated; it is ruin alone that enables a man to see how he has
been hurried onwards without thought or reflection; and how fallacious were all the hopes
he ever entertained! Yes, ruin, and ruin alone, can do this; but alas! 'tis too late -- the evil is
done. Soon after my marriage I fell in with a Chevalier St. John. He was a man of the world
in every sense of the word, and one that was well versed in all the ways of society. I never
met with any man who was so perfectly master of himself, and of perfect ease and self-
confidence as he was. He was never at a loss, and, come what would, never betrayed
surprise or vexation -- two qualities, he thought, never ought to be shown by any man who
moved in society." -- "Indeed!" -- "He was a strange man -- a very strange man." -- "Did he
gamble?" -- "It is difficult to give you a correct and direct answer. I should say he did, and
yet he never lost or won much; but I have often thought he was more connected with those
who did than was believed." -- "Was that a fact?" inquired Mr. Chillingworth. -- "You shall
see as we go on, and be able to judge for yourself. I have thought he was. Well, he first took
me to a handsome saloon, where gambling was carried on. We had been to the opera. As
we came out, he recommended that we should sup at a house where he was well known,
and where he was in the habit of spending his evenings after the opera, and before he
retired. I agreed to this. I saw no reason why I should not. We went there, and bitterly have
I repented of so doing for years since, and do to this day." -- "Your repentance has been
sincere and lasting," said Mr. Chillingworth; "the one proves the other." -- "It does; but I
thought not so then. The place was glittering, and the wine was good. It was a kind of
earthly paradise; and when we had taken some wine, the chevalier said to me, --

"'I am desirous of seeing a friend backwards; he is at the hazard-table. Will you go with
me?' -- I hesitated. I feared to see the place where a vice was carried on. I knew myself
inclined to prudential motives. I said to him, -- 'No, St. John, I'll wait here for you; it may
be as well -- the wine is good, and it will content me?'
"'Do so,' he said, smiling; 'but remember I seldom or never play myself, nor is there any
reason why you should.' -- 'I'll go, but I will not play.' -- 'Certainly not; you are free alike to
look on, play, or quit the place at any moment you please, and not be noticed, probably, by
a single soul.'
"I arose, and we walked backwards, having called one of the men who were waiting
about, but who were watchers and doorkeepers of the 'hell.' We were led along the passage,
and passed through the pair of doors, which were well secured and rendered the possibility
of a surprise almost impossible. After these dark places, we were suddenly let into a place
where we were dazzled by the light and brilliancy of the saloon. It was not so large as the
one we left, but it was superior to it in all its appointments.
"At first I could not well see who was, or who was not, in the room where we were. As
soon, however, as I found the use of my eyes, I noticed many well-dressed men, who were
busily engaged in play, and who took no notice of any one who entered. We walked about
for some minutes without speaking to any one, but merely looking on. I saw men engaged
in play; some with earnestness, others again with great nonchalance, and money changed
hands without the least remark. There were but few who spoke, and only those in play.
There was a hum of conversation; but you could not distinguish what was said, unless you
paid some attention to, and was in close vicinity with, the individual who spoke.
"'Well,' said St. John, 'what do you think of this place?' -- 'Why,' I replied, 'I had no
notion of seeing a place fitted up as this is.'
"'No; isn't it superb?' -- 'It is beautifully done. They have many visitors,' said I, 'many
more than I could have believed.'
"'Yes, they are all bona fide players; men of stamp and rank -- none of your seedy legs
who have only what they can cheat you out of.' -- 'Ah!' -- 'And besides,' he added, 'you may
often form friendships here that lead to fortune hereafter. I do not mean in play, because
there is no necessity for your doing so, or, if yo do so, in going above a stake which you
know won't hurt you.' -- 'Exactly.'
"'Many men can never approach a table like this, and sit down to an hour's play, but, if
they do, they must stake not only more than they can afford, but all their property, leaving
themselves beggars.' 'They do?' said I.
"'But men who know themselves, their resources, and choose to indulge for a long time,
many often come and lay the foundation to a very pretty fortune.'

"'Do you see your friend?' I inquired. -- 'No, I do not; but I will inquire if he has been here
-- if not, we will go.'
"He left me for a moment or two to make some inquiry, and I stood looking at the table,
where there were four players, and who seemed to be engaged at a friendly game; and when
one party won they looked grave, and when the other party lost they smiled and looked
happy. I walked away, as the chevalier did not return immediately to me; and then I saw a
gentleman rise up from a table. He had evidently lost. I was standing by the seat,
unconsciously holding the back of my hand. I sat down without thinking or without
speaking, and found myself at the hazard table.
"'Do you play, sir?' -- 'Yes,' I said. I had hardly uttered the words when I was sorry for
them; but I could not recall them. I sat down, and play at once commenced.
"In about ten or fifteen minutes, often losing and then winning, I found myself about a
hundred and twenty pounds in pocket, clear gain by the play.
"'Ah!' said the chevalier, who came up at that moment, 'I thought you wouldn't play.' -- 'I
really don't know how it happened,' said I, 'but I suddenly found myself here without any
previous intention.'
"'You are not a loser, I hope?' -- 'Indeed I am not,' I replied; 'but not much a gainer.'
"'Nor need you desire to be. Do you desire to give your adversary his revenge now, or
take another opportunity.' -- 'At another time,' I replied.
"'You will find me here the day after to-morrow, when I shall be at your service; then
bowing, he turned away.
"'He is a very rich man whom you have been playing with,' said the chevalier. -- 'Indeed!'
"'Yes, and I have known him to lose for three days together; but you may take his word
for any amount; he is a perfect gentleman and man of honour.' -- ''Tis well to play with
such,' I replied; 'but I suppose you are about to leave.'
"'Yes, it grows late, and I have some business to transact to-morrow, so I must leave.' -- 'I
will accompany you part of the way home.' said I, 'and then I shall have finished the night.'
"I did leave with him, and accompanied him home, and then walked to my own home.
****
"This was my first visit, and I thought a propitious beginning, but it was the more
dangerous. Perhaps a loss might have effectually deterred me, but it doubtful to tell how
certain events might have been altered. It is just possible that I might have been urged on by
my desire to retrieve any loss I might have incurred, and so made myself at once the
miserable being it took months to accomplish in bringing me to.

"I went the day but one after this, to meet the same individual at the gambling-table, and
played some time with varied success, until I left off with a trifling loss upon the night's
play, which was nothing of any consequence.
"Thus matters went on; I sometimes won and sometimes lost, until I won a few hundreds,
and this determined me to play for higher stakes than any I had yet played for.
"It was no use going on in the peddling style I had been going on; I had won two hundred
and fifty pounds in three months, and had I been less fearful I might have had twenty-five
thousand pounds. Ah! I'll try my fortune at a higher game.
"Having once made this resolution, I was anxious to begin my new plan, which I hoped
would have the effect of placing me far above my then present position in society, which
was good, and with a little attention it would have made me an independent man; but then it
required patience, and nothing more. However, the other method was so superior since it
might all be done with good luck in a few months. Ah! good luck; how uncertain is good
luck; how changeful is fortune; how soon is the best prospect blighted by the frosts of
adversity. In less than a month I had lost more than I could pay, and then I gambled on for a
living.
"My wife had but one child; her first and only one; an infant at her breast; but there was a
change came over her; for one had come over me -- a fearful one it was too -- one not only
in manner but in fortune too. She would beg me to come home early; to attend to other
matters, and leave the dreadful life I was then leading.
"'Lizzy,' said I, 'we are ruined.' -- 'Ruined!' she exclaimed, and staggered back, until she
fell into a seat. 'Ruined!'
"'Ay, ruined. It is a short word, but expressive.' -- 'No, no, we are not ruined. I know what
you mean, you would say, we cannot live as we have lived; we must retrench, and so we
will, right willingly.'
"'You much retrench most wonderfully,' I said, with desperate calmness, 'for the murder
must out.' -- 'And so we will; but you will be with us; you will not go out night after night,
ruining your health, our happiness, and destroying both peace and prospects.'
"'No, no, Lizzy, we have no chance of recovering ourselves; house and home -- all gone -
- all, all.' -- 'My God!' she exclaimed.
"'Ay, rail on.' said I; 'you have cause enough; but, no matter -- we have lost all.' -- 'How --
how?'
"'It is useless to ask how; I have done, and there is an end of the matter; you shall know
more another day; we must leave this house for a lodging.' -- 'It matters little,' she said; 'all
may be won again, if you will but say you will quit the society of those who have ruined
you.'

"'No one,' said I, 'has ruined me; I did it; it was no fault of any one else's; I have not that
excuse.' -- 'I am sure you can recover.'
"'I may; some day fortune will shower her favours upon me, and I live on in that
expectation.' -- 'You cannot mean that you will chance the gaming-table? for I am sure you
must have lost all there?"
"'I have.' -- 'God help me,' she said; 'you have done your child a wrong, but you may
repair it yet.'
"'Never!' -- ''Tis a long day! let me implore you, on my knees, to leave this place, and
adopt some other mode of life; we can be careful; a little will do, and we shall, in time, be
equal to, and better than what we have been.'
"'We never can, save by chance.' -- 'And by chance we never shall,' she replied; 'if you
will exert yourself, we may yet retrieve ourselves.'
"And exert myself I will.' -- 'And quit the gaming-table?'
"'Ask me to make no promises,' said I; 'I may not be able to keep them; therefore, ask me
to make none.' -- 'I do ask you, beg of, entreat of you to promise, and solemnly promise me
that you will leave that fearful place, where men not only lose all their goods, but the
feelings of nature also.'
"'Say no more, Lizzy; if I can get a living elsewhere I will, but if not, I must get it there.'
"She seemed to be cast down at this, and she shed tears. I left the room, and again went to
the gambling-house, and there, that night, I won a few pounds, which enabled me to take
my wife and child away from the house they had so long lived in, and took them afterwards
to a miserable place, -- one room, where, indeed, there were a few articles of furniture that I
had saved from the general wreck of my own property.
"She took things much less to heart than I could have anticipated; she seemed cheerful
and happy, -- she endeavoured to make my home as comfortable as she could.
"Her whole endeavour was to make me, as much as possible, forget the past. She wanted,
as much as possible, to wean me away from my gambling pursuits, but that was impossible.
I had no hope, no other prospect.
"Thus she strove, but I could see each day she was getting paler, and more pale; her
figure, before round, was more thin, and betrayed signs of emaciation. This preyed upon
me; and, when fortune denied me the means of carrying home that which she so much
wanted, I could never return for two days at a time. Then I would find her shedding tears,
and sighing; what could I say? If I had anything to take her, then I used to endeavour to
make her forget that I had been away.

"'Ah!' she would exclaim, 'you will find me dead one of these days; what you do now for
one or two days, you will do by-and-bye for many days, perhaps weeks.' -- 'Do not
anticipate evil.'
"'I cannot do otherwise; were you in any other kind of employment but that of gambling,'
she said, 'I should have some hope of you; but, as it is, there is none.' -- 'Speak not of it; my
chances may turn out favourable yet, and you may be again as you were.'
"'Never.' -- 'But fortune is inconstant, and may change in my favour as much as she has
done in others.'
"'Fortune is indeed constant, but misfortune is an inconstant." -- "You are prophetic of

evil."
"'Ah! I would to Heaven I could predict good; but who ever yet heard of a ruined gambler
being able to retrieve himself by the same means that he was ruined?'
"Thus we used to converse, but our conversation was usually of but little comfort to either
of us, for we could give neither any comfort to the other; and as that was usually the case,
our interviews became less frequent, and of less duration. My answer was always the same.
"'I have no other chance; my prospects are limited to that one place; deprive me of that,
and I never more should be able to bring you a mouthful of bread.'
"Day after day, -- day after day, the same result followed, and I was as far from success
as ever I was, and ever should be; I was yet a beggar.
"The time flew by; my little girl was nearly four years old, but she knew not the misery
her father and mother had to endure. The poor little thing sometimes went without more
than a meal a day; and while I was living thus upon the town, upon the chances of the
gaming table, many a pang did she cause me, and so did her mother. My constant
consolation was this, --
"'It is bad luck now,' I would say; 'but will be better by-and-bye; things cannot always
continue thus. It is all for them -- all for them.'
"I thought that by continuing constantly in one course, I must be at land at the ebb of the
tide. 'It cannot always flow one way,' I thought. I had often heard people say that if you
could but have the resolution to play on, you must in the end seize the turn of fortune.
"'If I could but once do that, I would never enter a hell again as long as I drew breath.'
"This was a resolve I could not only make but keep, because I had suffered so much that I
would never run through the same misery again that I had already gone through. However,
fortune never seemed inclined to take the turn I had hoped for; fortune was as far off as
ever, and had in no case given me any opportunity of recovering myself.

"A few pounds were the utmost I could at any time muster, and I had to keep up
something of an appearance, and seem as if I had a thousand a year; when, God knows, I
could not have mustered a thousandth part of that sum, were all done and paid for.
"Day after day passed on, and yet no change. I had almost given myself up to despair,
when one night when I went home I saw my wife was more than usually melancholy and
sad, and perhaps ill; I didn't look at her -- I seldom did, because her looks were always a
reproach to me; I could not help feeling them so.
"'Well,' said I, 'I have come home to you because I have something to bring you; not what
I ought -- but what I can -- you must be satisfied!' -- 'I am,' she said.
"'I know also you want it; how is the child, is she quite well?' -- 'Yes, quite.'
"'Where is she?' inquired I, looking round the room, but I didn't see her; she used to be
up. -- 'She has gone to bed,' she said.
"'It is very early.' -- 'Yes, but she cried so for food that I was obliged to get her to sleep to
forget her hunger; poor thing, she has wanted bread very badly.'
"'Poor thing!' I said, 'let her be awakened and partake of what I have brought home.'
"With that my wife waked her up, and the moment she opened her eyes she again began
to cry for food, which I immediately gave her, and saw her devour with the utmost haste
and hunger. The sight smote my heart, and my wife sat by watching, and endeavouring to
prevent her from eating so fast.
"'This is bad,' I said. -- 'Yes, but I hope it may be the worst,' she replied, in a deep and
hollow voice.
"'Lizzy,' I exclaimed, 'what is the matter -- are you ill?' -- 'Yes, very ill.'
"'What is the matter with you? For God's sake tell me,' I said, for I was alarmed. -- 'I am
very ill,' she said, 'very ill indeed; I feel my strength decreasing every day. I must drink.'
"You, too, want food?' -- 'I have and perhaps do, though the desire to eat seems almost to
have left me.'
"'For Heaven's sake eat,' said I; 'I will bring you home something more by to-morrow; eat
and drink Lizzy. I have suffered; but for you and your child's sake, I will do my best.' --
'Your best,' she said, 'will kill us both; but, alas, there is no other aid at hand. You may one
day, however, come here too late to find us living.'
"'Say no more, Lizzy, you know not my feelings when you speak thus; alas, I have no
hope -- no aid -- no friend.' -- 'No,' she replied, 'your love of gaming drove them from you,
because they would not aid a gambler.'

"'Say no more, Lizzy,' I said; 'if there be not an end to this life soon, there will be an end
to me. In two days more I shall return to you. Good bye; God bless you. Keep up your heart
and the child.' -- 'Good bye,' she said, sorrowfully. She shed tears, and wrung her hands
bitterly. I hastened away -- my heart was ready to burst, and I could not speak.
"I walked about to recover my serenity, but could not do so sufficiently well to secure
anything like an appearance that would render me fit to go to the gaming-house. That night
I remained away, but I could not avoid falling into a debauch to drown my misfortunes, and
shift the scene of misery that was continually before my eyes. ****
"The next night I was at the gaming-house. I went there in better than usual spirits. I saw,
I thought, a change in fortune, and hailed that as the propitious moment of my life, when I
was to rise above my present misfortunes.
"I played and won -- played and lost -- played and won, and then lost again; thus I went
on, fluctuating more and more, until I found I was getting money in my pocket. I had, at
one moment, more than three hundred pounds in my pocket, and I felt that then was my
happy moment -- then the tide of fortune was going in my favour. I ought to have left off
with that -- to have been satisfied with such an amount of money; but the demon of avarice
seemed to have possessed me, and I went on and on with fluctuating fortune, until I lost the
whole of it.
"I was mad -- desperate, and could have destroyed myself; but I thought of the state my
wife and child were in; I thought that that night they would want food; but they cound not
hurt for one day -- they must have some, or would procure some.
"I was too far gone to be able to go to them, even if I were possessed of means; but I had
none, and daylight saw me in a deep sleep, from which I awoke not until the next evening
set in, and then I once more determined that I would make a desperate attempt to get a little
money. I had always paid, and thought my word would be taken for once; and, if I won, all
well and good; if not, then I was no worse off than before.
"This was easy to plan, but not to execute. I went there, but there were none present in
whom I had sufficient interest to dare make the attempt. I walked about, and felt in a most
uncomfortable state. I feared I should not succeed at all, then what was to become of me --
of my wife and child? This rendered me almost mad. I could not understand what I was to
do, what to attempt, or where to go. One or two persons came up, and asked me if I were
ill. My answers were, that I was well enough. Good God! how far from the truth was that;
but I found I must place more control on my feelings, else I should cause much
conversation, and then I should lose all hope of recovering myself, and all prospect of
living, even.
"At length some one did come in, and I remarked I had been there all the evening, and
had not played. I had an invitation to play with him, which ended, by a little sleight of
hand, in my favour; and on that I had calculated as much as on any good fortune I might
meet. The person I played with observed it not, and, when we left off playing, I had some

six or seven pounds in pocket. This, to me, was a very great sum; and, the moment I could
decently withdraw myself, I ran off home.
"I was fearful of the scene that awaited me. I expected something worse than I had yet
seen. Possibly Lizzy might be angry, and scold as well as complain. I therefore tapped at
the door gently, but heard no one answer; but of this I took no notice, as I believed that they
might be, and were, most probably, fast asleep. I had provided myself with a light, and I
therefore opened the door, which was not fastened.
"'Lizzy!' said I, 'Lizzy!' There was no answer given, and I paused. Everything was as still
as death. I looked on the bed -- there lay my wife with her clothes on.
"'Lizzy! Lizzy!' said I. But still she did not answer me.
"'Well,' said I, 'she sleeps sound;' and I walked towards the bed, and placed my hand upon
her shoulder, and began to shake her, saying, as I did so, --
"'Lizzy! Lizzy! I'm come home.' But still no answer, or signs of awaking.
"I went on the other side of the bed to look at her face, and some misgivings overtook me.
I trembled much. She lay on the bed, with her back towards the spot where I stood.
"I came towards her face. My hand shook violently as I endeavoured to look at her. She
had her eyes wide open, as if staring at me.
"'Lizzy,' said I. No answer was returned. I then placed my hand upon her cheek. It was
enough, and I started back in great horror. She was dead!
"This was horror itself. I staggered back and fell into a chair. The light I placed down,
Heaven knows how or why; but there I sat staring at the corpse of my unfortunate wife. I
can hardly tell you the tremendous effect this had upon me. I could not move. I was
fascinated to the spot. I could not move and could not turn. *****
"It was morning, and the rays of the sun illuminated the apartment; but there sat I, still
gazing upon the face of my unfortunate wife. I saw, I knew she was dead; but yet I had not
spoken, but sat looking at her.
"I believe my heart was as cold as she was; but extreme horror and dread had dried up all
the warm blood in my body, and I hardly think there was a pulsation left. The thoughts of
my child never once seemed to cross my mind. I had, however, sat there long -- some hours
before I was discovered, and this was by the landlady.
"I had left the door open behind me, and she, in passing down, had the curiosity to peep,
and saw me sitting in what she thought to be a very strange attitude, and could hear no
sounds.

"After some time she discovered my wife was dead, and, for some time, she thought me
so, too. However, she was convinced to the contrary, and then began to call for assistance.
This awoke the child, which was nearly famished. The landlady, to become useful, and to
awaken me from my lethargy, placed the child in my hands, telling me I was the best
person now to take care of it.
"And so I was; there was no doubt of the truth of that, and I was compelled to
acknowledge it. I felt much pride and pleasure in my daughter, and determined she should,
if I starved, have the benefit of all I could do for her in the way of care, &. *****
"The funeral over, I took my child and carried it to a school, where I left her, and paid in
advance, promising to do so as often as the quarter came round. My wife I had seen buried
by the hands of man, and I swore I would do the best for my child, and to keep this oath
was a work of pleasure.
"I determined also I would never more enter a gaming-house, be the extremity what it
might; I would suffer even death before I would permit myself to enter the house in which
it took place.
"'I will,' I thought, 'obtain some employment of some kind or other. I could surely obtain
that. I have only to ask and I have it, surely -- something, however menial, that would keep
me and my child. Yes, yes -- she ought, she must have her charges paid at once.'
"The effect of my wife's death was a very great shock to me, and such a one I could not
forget -- one I shall ever remember, and one that at least made a lasting impression upon
me. *****
"Strange, but true, I never entered a gambling-house; it was my horror and my aversion.
And yet I could obtain no employment. I took my daughter and placed her at a boarding-
school, and tried hard to obtain bread by labour; but, do what I would, none could be had; if
my soul depended upon it, I could find none. I cared not what it was -- anything that was
honest.
"I was reduced low -- very low; gaunt starvation showed itself in my cheeks; but I
wandered about to find employment; none could be found, and the world seemed to have
conspired together to throw me back to the gaming-table.
"But this I would not. At last employment was offered; but what was it? The situation of
common hangman was offered me. The employment was disgusting and horrible; but, at
the same time, it was all I could get, and that was a sufficient inducement for me to accept
of it. I was, therefore, the common executioner; and in that employment for some time
earned a living. It was terrible; but necessity compelled me to accept the only thing I could
obtain. You now know the reason why I became what I have told you."
--


Chapter LXXIII.
THE VISIT OF THE VAMPIRE. -- THE GENERAL MEETING.
"The mysterious friend of Mr. Chillingworth finished his narrative, and then the doctor said
to him, --
"And that, then, is the real cause of why you, a man evidently far above the position in
life which is usually that of those who occupy the dreadful post of executioner, came to
accept of it." -- "The real reason, sir. I considered, too, that in holding such a humiliating
situation that I was justly served for the barbarity of which I had been guilty; for what can
be a greater act of cruelty than to squander, as I did, in the pursuit of mad excitement, those
means which should have rendered my home happy, and conduced to the welfare of those
who were dependant upon me?"
"I do not mean to say that your self-reproaches are unjust altogether, but -- What noise is
that? do you hear anything? -- "Yes -- yes."
"What do you take it to be?" -- "It seemed like the footsteps of a number of persons, and
it evidently approaches nearer and nearer. I know not what to think."
"Shall I tell you?" said a deep-toned voice, and some one, through the orifice in the back
of the summer-house, which, it will be recollected, sustained some damage at the time that
Varney escaped from it, laid a hand upon Mr. Chillingworth's shoulder. "God bless me!"
exclaimed the doctor; "who's that?" and he sprang from his seat with the greatest
perturbation in the world.
"Varney, the vampyre!" added the voice, and then both the doctor and his companion
recognised it, and saw the strange, haggard features, that now they knew so well,
confronting them. There was a pause of surprise, for a moment or two, on the part of the
doctor, and then he said, "Sir Francis Varney, what brings you here? I conjure you to tell
me, in the name of common justice and common feeling, what brings you to this house so
frequently? You have dispossessed the family, whose property it is, of it, and you have
caused great confusion and dismay over a whole county. I implore you now, not in the
language of menace or as an enemy, but as the advocate of the oppressed, and one who
desires to see justice done to all, to tell me what it is you require."
"There is no time now for explanation," said Varney, "if explanations were my full and
free intent. You wished to know what noise was that you heard?"
"I did; can you inform me?" -- "I can. The wild and lawless mob which you and your
friends first induced to interfere in affairs far beyond their or your control, are now flushed
with the desire of riot and of plunder. The noise you hear is that of their advancing
footsteps; they come to destroy Bannerworth Hall."

"Can that be possible? The Bannerworth family are the sufferers from all that has
happened, and not the inflictors of suffering." -- "Ay, be it so; but he who once raises a mob
has raised an evil spirit, which, in the majority of cases, it requires a far more potent spell
than he is master of to quell again."
"It is so. That is a melancholy truth; but you address me, Sir Francis Varney, as if I led on
the mob, when in reality I have done all that lay in my power, from the very first moment
of their rising on account of this affair, which, in the first instance, was your work, to
prevent them from proceeding to acts of violence." -- "It may be so; but if you have now
any regard for your own safety you will quit this place. It will too soon become the scene of
a bloody contention. A large party of dragoons are even now by another route coming
towards it, and it will be their duty to resist the aggressions of the mob; then should the
rioters persevere, you can guess the result." -- "I can, indeed."
"Retire then while you may, and against the bad deeds of Sir Francis Varney at all events
place some of his good ones, that he may not seem wholly without one redeeming trait." --
"I am not accustomed," said the doctor, "to paint the devil blacker than he really is; but yet
the cruel persecutions that the Bannerworth family have endured call aloud for justice. You
still, with a perseverance which shows you regardless of what others suffer so that you
compass your own ends, hover round a spot which you have rendered desolate."
"Hark, sir; do you not hear the tramp of horses' feet?" -- "I do."
The noise made by the feet of the insurgents was now almost drowned in the louder and
more rapid tramp of the horses' feet of the advancing dragoons, and, in a few momemts
more, Sir Francis Varney waved his arm, exclaiming, --
"They are here. Will you not consult your safety by flight?" -- "No," said Mr.
Chillingworth's companion; "we prefer remaining here at the risk even of whatever danger
may accrue to us."
"Fools, would you die in a chance melee between an infuriated populace and soldiery?" --
"Do not leave," whispered the ex-hangman to Mr. Chillingworth; "do not leave, I pray you.
He only wants to have the Hall to himself."
There could be no doubt now of the immediate appearance of the cavalry, and, before Sir
Francis Varney could utter another word, a couple of the foremost of the soldiers cleared
the garden fence at a part where it was low, and alighted not many feet from the summer-
house in which this short colloquy was taking place. Sir Francis Varney uttered a bitter
oath, and immediately disappeared in the gloom.
"What shall we do?" said the hangman. -- "You can do what you like, but I shall avow my
presence to the military, and claim to be on their side in the approaching contest, if it
should come to one, which I sincerely hope it will not."

The military detachment consisted of about twenty-five dragoons, who now were all in
the gardens. An order was given by the officer in command for them to dismount, which
was at once obeyed, and the horses were fastened by their bridles to the various trees with
which the place abounded.
"They are going to oppose the mob on foot, with their carbines," said the the hangman;
"there will be sad work here I am afraid." -- "Well, at all events," said Mr. Chillingworth, "I
shall decline acting the part of a spy here any longer; so here goes."
"Hilloa! a friend, -- a friend here, in the summer-house!"
"Make it two friends," cried the hangman, "if you please, while you are about it."
A couple of the dragoons immediately appeared, and the doctor, with his companion,
were marched, as prisoners, before the officer in command.
"What do you do here?" he said; "I was informed that the Hall was deserted. Here,
orderly, whre is Mr. Adamson, the magistrate, who came with me?" -- "Close at hand, sir,
and he says he's not well."
"Well, or ill, he must come here, and do something with these people."
A magistrate of the district who had accompanied the troops, and been accommodated
with a seat behind one of the dragoons, which seemed very much to have disagreed with
him, for he was as pale as death, now stepped forward.
"You know me, Mr. Adamson?" said the doctor; "I am Mr. Chillingworth." -- "Oh! yes;
Lord bless you! how came you here?"
"Never mind that just now; you can vouch for my having no connection with the rioters."
-- "Oh! dear, yes; certainly. This is a respectable gentleman, Captain Richardson, and a
personal friend of mine."
"Oh! very good." -- "And I," said the doctor's companion, "am likewise a respectable and
useful memeber of society, and a great friend of Mr. Chillingworth."
"Well, gentlemen," said the captain in command, "you may remain here, if you like, and
take the chances, or you may leave."
They intimated that they preferred remaining, and, almost at the moment that they did so,
a loud shout from many throats announced the near approach of the mob. -- "Now, Mr.
Magistrate, if you please," said the officer; "you will be so good as to tell the mob that I am
here with my troop, under your orders, and strongly advise them to be off while they can,
with whole skins, for if they persevere in attacking the place, we must persevere in
defending it; and, if they have half a grain of sense among them, they can surely guess what
the result of that will be."

"I will do the best I can, as Heaven is my judge," said the magistrate, "to produce a
peaceable result, -- more no man can do."
"Hurrah! hurrah!" shouted the mob, "down with the Vampyre! down with the Hall!" and
then one, more candid than his fellows shouted, -- "Down with everything and everybody!"
"Ah!" remarked the officer; "that fellow now knows what he came about."
A great number of torches and links were lighted by the mob, but the moment the glare of
light fell upon the helmets and accoutrements of the military, there was a pause of
consternation on the part of the multitude, and Mr. Admason, urged on by the officer, who,
it was evident, by no means liked the service he was on, took advantage of the opportunity,
and, stepping forward, he said, --
"My good people, and fellow townsmen, let me implore you to listen to reason, and go to
your homes in peace. If you do not, but, on the contrary, in defiance of law and good order,
persist in attacking this house, it will become my painful duty to read the riot act, and then
the military and you will have to fight it out together, which I beg you will avoid, for you
know that some of you will be killed, and a lot more of you receive painful wounds. Now
disperse, let me beg of you, at once."
There seemed for a moment a disposition among the mob to give up the contest, but there
were others among them who were infuriated with drink, and so regardless of all
consequences. Those set up a shout of "Down with the red coats; we are Englishmen, and
will do what we like." Some one then threw a heavy stone, which struck one of the soldiers,
and brought blood from his cheek. The officer saw it, but he said at once, --
"Stand firm, now, stand firm. No anger -- steady."
"Twenty pounds for the man who threw that stone," said the magistrate. -- "Twenty
pound ten for old Adamson, the magistrate," cried a voice in the crowd, which, no doubt
came from him who had cast the missile.
Then, at least fifty stones were thrown, some of which hit the magistrate, and the
remainder came rattling upon the helmets of the dragoons, like a hail shower.
"I warn you, and beg of you to go," said Mr. Adamson; "for the sake of your wives and
families; I beg of you not to pursue this desperate game."
Loud cries now arose of "Down with the soldiers; down with the vampyre. He's in
Bannerworth Hall. Smoke him out. And then one or two links were hurled among the
dismounted dragoons. All this was put up with patiently; and then again the mob were
implored to leave, which being answered by fresh taunts, the magistrate proceeded to read
the riot act, not one word of which was audible amid the tumult that prevailed.

"Put out all the lights," cried a voice among the mob. The order was obeyed, and the same
voice added; "they dare not fire on us. Come on:" and a rush was made at the garden wall.
"Make ready -- present," cried the officer. And then he added, in an under tone, "above
their heads, now -- fire."
There was a blaze of light for a moment, a stunning noise, a shout of dismay from the
mob, and in another moment all was still.
"I hope," said Dr. Chillingworth, "that this is, at all events, a bloodless victory."
"You may depend upon that," said his companion; "but is not there some one yet
remaining? Look there, do you not see a figure clambering over the fence?"
"Yes, I do, indeed. Ah, they have him a prisoner, at all events. Those two dragoons have
him, fast enough; we shall now, perhaps, hear from this fellow who is the actual ringleader
in such an affair, which, but for the pusillanimity of the mob, might have turned out to be
really most disastrous."
It was strange how one man should think it expedient to attack the military post after the
mob had been so completely routed at the first discharge of fire-arms, but so it was. One
man did make an attempt to enter the garden, and it was so rapid and so desperate an one,
that he rather seemed to throw himself bodily at the fence, which separated it from the
meadows without, than to clamber over it, as any one under ordinary circumstances, who
might wish to effect an entrance by that means, would have done.
He was no sooner, however, perceived, than a couple of the dismounted soldiers stepped
forward and made a prisoner of him.
"Good God!" exclaimed Mr. Chillingworth, as they approached nearer with him. "Good
God! what is the meaning of that? Do my eyes deceive me, or are they, indeed, so blessed?"
"Blessed by what?" exclaimed the hangman.
"By a sight of the long lost, deeply regretted Charles Holland. Charles -- Charles, is that
indeed you, or some unsubstantial form in your likeness?"
Charles Holland, for it was, indeed, himself, heard the friendly voice of the doctor, and he
called out to him.
"Speak to me of Flora. Oh, speak to me of Flora, if you would not have me die at once of
suspense, and all the torture of apprehension."
"She lives and is well."
"Thank Heaven. Do with me what you please."

Dr. Chillingworth sprang forward, and addressing the magistrate, he said, --
"Sir, I know this gentleman. He is not one of the rioters, but a dear friend of the family of
the Bannerworths. Charles Holland, what in the name of Heaven had become of you so
long, and what brought you here at such a juncture as this?"
"I am faint," said Charles; "I -- I only arrived as the crowd did. I had not the strength to
fight my way through them, and was compelled to pause until they had dispersed. Can --
can you give me water?"
"Here's something better," said one of the soldiers, as he handed a flask to Charles, who
partook of some of the contents, which greatly revived him, indeed.
"I am better now," he said. "Thank you kindly. Take me into the house. Good God! why
is it made a point of attack? Where are Flora and Henry? Are they all well? And my uncle?
Oh! what must you all have thought of my absence! But you cannot have endured a
hundredth part of what I have suffered. Let me look once again upon the face of Flora.
Take me into the house."
"Release him," said the officer, as he pointed to his head, and looked significantly, as
much to say, "Some mad patient of yours, I suppose."
"You are much mistaken, sir," said Dr. Chillingworth; "this gentleman has been cruelly
used, I have no doubt. He has, I am inclined to believe, been made the victim, for a time, of
the intrigues of that very Sir Francis Varney, whose conduct has been the real cause of all
the serious disturbances that have taken place in the country."
"Confound Sir Francis Varney," muttered the officer; "he is enough to set a whole nation
by the ears. However, Mr. Magistrate, if you are satisfied that this young man is not one of
the rioters, I have, of course, no wish to hold him a prisoner."
"I can take Mr. Chillingworth's word for more than that," said the magistrate.
Charles Holland was accordingly released, and then the doctor, in hurried accents, told
him the principal outlines of what had occurred.
"Oh! take me to Flora," he said; "let me not delay another moment in seeking her, and
convincing her that I could not have been guilty of the baseness of deserting her."
"Hark you, Mr. Holland, I have quite made up my mind that I will not leave Bannerworth
Hall yet; but you can go alone, and easily find them by the directions which I will give you;
only let me beg of you not to go abruptly into the presence of Flora. She is in an extremely
delicate state of health, and although I do not take upon myself to say that a shock of a
pleasurable nature would prove of any paramount bad consequence to her, yet it is as well
not to risk it."

"I will be most careful, you may depend."
At this moment there was a loud ringing at the garden bell, and, when it was answered by
one of the dragoons, who was ordered to do so by his officer, he came back, escorting no
other than Jack Pringle, who had been sent by the admiral to the Hall, but who had solaced
himself so much on the road with divers potations, that he did not reach it till now, which
was a full hour after the reasonable time in which he ought to have gone the distance.
Jack was not to say dumb, but he had had enough to give him a very jolly sort of feeling
of independence, and so he came along quarrelling with the soldier all the way, the latter
only laughing and keeping his temper admiralbly well, under a great deal of provocation.
"Why, you land lubbers," cried Jack, "what do you do here, all of you, I wonder? You are
all vamphighers, I'll be bound, every one of you. You mind me of marines, you do, and
that's quite enough to turn a proper seaman's stomach, any day in the week."
The soldier only laughed, and brought Jack up to the little group of persons consisting of
Dr. Chillingworth, the hangman, Charles Holland, and the officer.
"Why, Jack Pringle," said Dr. Chillingworth, stepping before Charles, so that Jack should
not see him, -- "why, Jack Pringle, what brings you here?"
"A slight squall, sir, to the nor west. Brought you something to eat."
Jack produced a bottle.
"To drink, you mean?"
"Well, it's all one; only in this here shape you see, it goes down better, I'm thinking,
which does make a little difference somehow."
"How is the admiral?"
"Oh, he's as stupid as ever; Lord bless you, he'd be like a ship without a rudder without
me, and would go swaying about at the mercy of winds and waves, poor old man. He's bad
enough as it is, but if so be I wasn't to give the eye to him as I does, bless my heart if I
thinks as he'd be above hatches long. Here's to you all."
Jack took the cork from the bottle he had with him, and there came from it a stong odour
of rum. Then he placed it to his lips, and was enjoying the pleasant gurgle of the liquor
down his throat, when Charles stepped up to him, and laying hold of the lower end of the
bottle, he dragged it from his mouth, saying, --
"How dare you talk in the way you have of my uncle, you drunken, mutinous rascal, and
behind his back too!"

The voice of Charles Holland was as well known to Jack Pringle as that of the admiral,
and his intense astonishment at hearing himself so suddenly addressed by one, of whose
proximity he had not the least idea, made some of the rum go, what is popularly termed, the
wrong way, and nearly choked him.
He reeled back, till he fell over some obstruction, and then down he sat on a flower bed,
while his eyes seemed ready to come out of his head.
"Avast heavings," he cried. "Who's that?"
"Come, come," said Charles Holland, "don't pretend you don't know me; I will not have
my uncle spoken of in a disrespectful manner by you."
"Well, shiver my timbers, if that ain't our nevey. Why, Charley, my boy, how are you?
Here we are in port at last. Won't the old commodore pipe his eye, now. Whew! here's a go.
I've found our nevey, after all."
"You found him," said Dr. Chillingworth; "now, that is as great a piece of impudence as
ever I heard in all my life. You mean that he has found you, and found you out, too, you
drunken fellow. Jack, you get worse and worse every day."
"Ay, ay, sir."
"What, you admit it?"
"Ay, ay, sir. Now Master Charley, I tell you what it is, I shall take you off to your old
uncle, you shore-going sneak, and you'll have to report what cruise you've been upon all
this while, leaving the ship to look after itself. Lord love you all, if it hadn't been for me I
don't know what anybody would have done."
"I only know of the result," said Dr. Chillingworth, "that would ensue, if it were not for
you, and that would consist in a great injury to the revenue, in consequence of the much
less consumption of rum and other strong liquors."
"I'll be hanged up at the yard if I understands what you mean," said Jack; "as if I ever
drunk anything -- I, of all people in the world. I am ashamed of you. You are drunk."
Several of the dragoons had to turn aside to keep themselves from laughing, and the
officer himself could not forbear from a smile as he said to the doctor, --
"Sir, you seem to have many acquaintances, and by some means or another they all have
an inclination to come here tonight. If, however, you consider that you are bound to remain
here from a feeling that the Hall is threatened with any danger, you may dismiss that fear,
for I shall leave a picquet here all night."

"No, sir," replied Dr. Chillingworth, "it is not that I fear now, after the manner in which
they have been repulsed, any danger to the Hall from the mob; but I have reasons for
wishing to be in it or near it for some time to come."
"As you please."
"Charles, do not wait for or accept the guidance of that drunken fellow, but go yourself
with a direction which I will write down for you in a leaf of my pocket-book."
"Drunken fellow," exclaimed Jack, who had now scrambled to his feet, "who do you call
a drunken fellow?"
"Why you, unquestionably."
"Well, now, that is hard. Come along, nevey; I'll shew you where they all are. I could
walk a plank on any deck with any man in the service, I could. Come along, my boy, come
along."
"You can accept of him as a guide if you like, of course," said the doctor; "he may be
sober enough to conduct you."
"I think he can," said Charles. "Lead on, Jack; but mark me, I shall inform my uncle of
this intemperance, as well as of the manner in which you let your tongue wag about him
behind his back, unless you promise to reform."
"He is long past all reformation," remarked Dr. Chillingworth; "it is out of the question."
"And I am afraid my uncle will not have courage to attempt such an ungrateful task, when
there is so little chance of success." replied Charles Holland, shaking the worthy doctor by
the hand. "Farewell, for the present, sir; the next time I see you, I hope we shall both be
more pleasantly situated."
"Come along, nevey," interrupted Jack Pringle; "now you've found your way back, the
first thing you ought to do, is to report yourself as having come aboard. Follow me, and I'll
soon show yer the port where the old hulk's laid hisself up."
Jack walked on first, tolerably steady, if one may take into account his divers deep
potations, and Charles Holland, anticipating with delight again looking upon the face of his
much loved Flora, followed closely behind him.
We can well imagine the world of delightful thoughts that came crowding upon him when
Jack, after a rather long walk, announced that they were now very near the residence of the
object of his soul's adoration.

We trust that there is not one of our readers who, for one moment, will suppose that
Charles Holland was the sort of man to leave even such a villain and double-faced
hypocrite as Marchdale, to starve amid the gloomy ruins where he was immured.
Far from Charles's intentions was any such thing; but he did think that a night passed
there, with no other company than his own reflections, would do him a world of good, and
was, at all events, no very great modicum of punishment for the rascality with which he had
behaved.
Besides, even during that night there were refreshments in the shape of bread and water,
such as had been presented to Charles himself, within Marchdale's reach as they had been
within his.
That individual now, Charles thought, would have a good opportunity of testing the
quality of that kind of food, and of finding out what an extremely light diet it was for a
strong man to live upon.
But in the morning it was Charles's intention to take Henry Bannerworth and the admiral
with him to the ruins, and then and there release the wretch from his confinement, on
condition that he made a full confession of his villanies before those persons.
Oh, how gladly would Marchdale have exchanged the fate which actually befell him for
any amount of personal humiliation, always provided that it brought with it a
commensurate amount of personal safety.
But that fate was one altogether undreamt of by Charles Holland, and wholly without his
control.
It was a fate which would have been his, but for the murderous purpose which had
brought Marchdale to the dungeon, and those happy accidents which had enabled Charles
to change places with him, and breathe the free, cool, fresh air; while he left his enemy
loaded with the same chains that had encumbered his limbs so cruelly, and lying on that
same damp dungeon floor, which he thought would be his grave.
We mentioned that as Charles left the ruins, the storm, which had been giving various
indications of its coming, seemed to be rapidly approaching.
It was one of these extremely local tempests which expend all their principal fury over a
small space of country; and, in this instance, the space seemed to include little more than
the river, and the few meadows which immediately surrounded it, and lent it so much of its
beauty.
Marchdale soon found that his cries were drowned by the louder voices of the elements.
The wailing of the wind among the ancient ruins was much more full of sound than his
cries; and, now and then, the full-mouthed thunder filled the air with such a volume of

roaring, and awakened so many echoes among the ruins, that, had he possessed the voices
of fifty men, he could not have hoped to wage war with it.
And then, although we know that Charles Holland would have encountered death himself,
rather than he would have willingly left anything human to expire of hunger in that
dungeon, yet Marchdale, judging of others by himself, felt by no means sure of any such
thing, and, in his horror of apprehension, fancied that that was just the sort of easy, and
pleasant, and complete revenge that it was in Charles Holland's power to take, and just the
one which would suggest itself, under the circumstances, to his mind.
Could anything be possibly more full of horror than such a thought? Death, let it come in
any shape it may, is yet a most repulsive and unwelcome guest; but, when it comes, so
united with all that can add to its terrors, it is enough to drive reason from its throne, and
fill the mind with images of absolute horror.
Tired of shrieking, for his parched lips and clogged tongue would scarely now permit him
to utter a sound higher than a whisper, Marchdale lay, listening to the furious storm
without, in the last abandonment of despair.
"Oh! what a death is this," he groaned. "Here, alone -- all alone -- and starvation to creep
on me by degrees, sapping life's energies one by one. Already do I feel the dreadful
sickening weakness growing on me. Help, oh! help me Heav -- -no, no! Dare I call on
Heaven to help me? Is there no fiend of darkness who now will bid me a price for a human
soul? Is there not one who will do so -- not one who will rescue me from the horror that
surrounds me, for Heaven will not? I dare not ask mercy there."
The storm continued louder and louder. The wind, it is true, was nearly hushed, but the
roar and the rattle of the echo-awakening thunder fully made up for its cessation, while,
now and then, even there, in that underground abode, some sudden reflection of the vivid
lightning's light would find its way, lending, for a fleeting moment, sufficient light to
Marchdale, wherewith he could see the gloomy place in which he was.
At times he wept, and at times he raved, while ever and anon he made such frantic efforts
to free himself from the chains that were around him, that, had they not been strong, he
must have succeeded; but, as it was, he only made deep indentations into his flesh, and
gave himself much pain.
"Charles Holland!" he shouted; "oh! release me! Varney! Varney! why do you not come
to save me? I have toiled for you most unrequitedly -- I have not had my reward. Let it all
consist in my release from this dreadful bondage. Help! help! oh, help!"
There was no one to hear him. The storm continued, and now, suddenly, a sudden and a
sharper sound than any awakened by the thunder's roar came upon his startled ear, and, in
increased agony, he shouted, --

"What is that? oh! what is that? God of heaven, do my fears translate that sound aright?
Can it be, oh! can it be, that the ruins which have stood for so many a year are now
crumbling down before the storm of to-night?"
The sound came again, and he felt the walls of the dungeon in which he was shake. Now
there could be no doubt but that the lightning had struck some part of the building, and so
endangered the safety of all that was above ground. For a moment there came across his
brain such a rush of agony, that he neither spoke nor moved. Had that dreadful feeling
continued much longer, he must have lapsed into insanity; but that amount of mercy -- for
mercy it would have been -- was not shown to him. He still felt all the accumulating horrors
of his situation, and then, with such shrieks as nothing but a full appreciation of such
horrors could have given him strength to utter, he called upon earth, upon heaven, and upon
all that was infernal, to save him from his impending doom.
All was in vain. It was an impending doom which nothing but the direct interposition of
Heaven could have at all averted; and it was not likely that any such perversion of the
regular laws of nature would take place to save such a man as Marchdale.
Again came the crashing sound of falling stones, and he was certain that the old ruins,
which had stood for so many hundred years the storm, and the utmost wrath of the
elements, was at length yielding, and crumbling down.
What else could he expect but to be engulphed among the fragments -- fragments still
weighty and destructive, although in decay. How fearfully now did his horrified
imagination take in at one glance, as it were, a panoramic view of all his past life, and how
absolutely contemptible, at that moment, appeared all that he had been striving for.
But the walls shake again, and this time the vibration is more fearful than before. There is
a tremendous uproar above him -- the roof yields to some superincumbent pressure -- there
is one shriek, and Marchdale lies crushed beneath a mass of masonry that it would take men
and machinery days to remove from off him.
All is over now. That bold, bad man -- that accomplished hypocrite -- that mendacious,
would-be murderer was no more. He lies but a mangled, crushed, and festering corpse.
May his soul find mercy with his God!
The storm, from this moment, seemed to relax in its violence, as if it had accomplished a
great purpose, and, consequently, now, need no longer "vex the air with its boisterous
presence." Gradually the thunder died away in the distance. The wind no longer blew in
blustrous gusts, but, with a gentle murmuring, swept around the ancient pile, as if singing
the requiem of the dead that lay beneath -- that dead which mortal eyes were never to look
upon.
--

Chapter LXXIV.
THE MEETING OF CHARLES AND FLORA.
Charles Holland followed Jack Pringle for some time in silence from Bannerworth Hall; his
mind was too full of thought concerning the past to allow him to indulge in much of that
kind of conversation in which Jack Pringle might be fully considered to be a proficient.
As for Jack, somehow or another, he had felt his dignity offended in the garden of
Bannerworth Hall, and he had made up his mind, as he afterwards stated in his own
phraseology, not to speak to nobody till somebody spoke to him.
A growing anxiety, however, to ascertain from one who had seen her lately, how Flora
had borne his absence, at length induced Charles Holland to break his self-imposed silence.
"Jack," he said, "you have had the happiness of seeing her lately, tell me, does Flora
Bannerworth look as she was wont to look, or have all the roses faded from her cheeks?"
"Why, as for the roses," said Jack, "I'm blowed if I can tell, and seeing as how she don't
look at me much, I doesn't know nothing about her; I can tell you something, though, about
the old admiral that will make you open your eyes."
"Indeed, Jack, and what may that be?"
"Why, he's took to drink, and gets groggy about every day of his life, and the most
singular thing is, that when that's the case with the old man, he says it's me."
"Indeed, Jack! taken to drinking has my poor old uncle, from grief, I suppose, Jack at my
disappearance."
"No, I don't think it's grief," said Jack; "it strikes me it's rum-and-water."
"Alas, alas, I never could have imagined he could have fallen into that habit of yours; he
always seemed so far from anything of this kind."
"Ay, ay, sir," said Jack, "I know'd you'd be astonished. It will be the death of him, that's
my opinion; and the idea, you know, Master Charles, of accusing me when he gets drunk
himself."
"I believe that is a common delusion of intemperate persons," said Charles.
"Is it, sir; well, it's a very awkward thing, because you know, sir, as well as most people,
that I'm not the fellow to take a drop too much."

"I cannot say, Jack, that I know so much, for I have certainly heard my uncle accuse you
of intoxication."
"Lor', sir, that was all just on account of his trying it hisself; he was a thinking on it then,
and wanted to see how I'd take it."
"But tell me of Flora; are you quite certain that she has had no more alarms from
Varney?"
"What, that ere vampyre fellow? not a bit of it, your honour. Lor' bless you, he must have
found out by some means or another that I was on the look out, and that did the business.
He'll never come near Miss Flora again, I'll be bound, though to be sure we moved away
from the Hall on account of him; but not that I saw the good of cruising out of one's own
latitude, but somehow or another you see the doctor and the admiral got it into their heads
to establish a sort of blockade, and the idea of the thing was to sail away in the night quite
quiet, and after that take up a position that would come across the enemy on the larboard
tack, if so be as he made his appearance."
"Oh, you allude to watching the Hall, I presume?"
"Ay, ay, sir, just so; but would you believe it, Master Charlie, the admiral and the doctor
got so blessed drunk that I could do nothing with 'em."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, they did indeed, and made all kinds of queer mistakes, so that the end of all that
was, that the vampyre did come; but he got away again."
"He did come then; Sir Francis Varney came again after the house was presumed to be
deserted?"
"He did, sir."
"That is very strange; what on earth could have been his object? This affair is most
inexplicably mysterious. I hope the distance, Jack, is not far that you're taking me, for I'm
incapable of enduring much fatigue."
"Not a great way, your honour; keep two points to the westward, and sail straight on;
we'll soon come to port. My eye, won't there be a squall when you get in. I expect as Miss
Flora will drop down as dead as a herring, for she doesn't think you're above the hatches."
"A good thought, Jack; my sudden appearance may produce alarm. When we reach the
place of abode of the Bannerworths, you shall precede me, and prepare them in some
measure for my reception."
"Very good, sir; do you see that there little white cottage a-head, there in the offing?"

"Yes, yes; is that the place?"
"Yes, your honour, that's the port to which we are bound."
"Well, then, Jack, you hasten a-head, and see Miss Flora, and be sure you prepare her
gently and by degrees, you know, Jack, for my appearance, so that she shall not be
alarmed."
"Ay, ay, sir, I understand; you wait here, and I'll go and do it; there would be a squall if
you were to make your appearance, sir, all at once. She looks upon you as safely lodged in
Davy's locker; she minds me, all the world, of a girl I knew at Portsmouth, called Bet
Bumplush. She was one of your delicate little creatures as don't live long in this here world;
no, blow me; when I came home from a eighteen months' cruise, once I seed her drinking
rum out of a quart pot, so I says, 'Hilloa, what cheer?' And only to think now of the
wonderful effect that there had upon her; with that very pot she gives the fellow as was
standing treat a knobber on the head as lasted him three weeks. She was too good for this
here world, she was, and too rummantic. 'Go to blazes,' she says to him, 'here's Jack Pringle
come home.'"
"Very romantic indeed," said Charles.
"Yes, I believe you, sir; and that puts me in mind of Miss Flora and you."
"An extremely flattering comparison. Of course I feel much obliged."
"Oh, don't name it, sir. The British tar as can't oblige a feller-cretor is unworthy to tread
the quarter-deck, or to bear a hand to the distress of a woman."
"Very well," said Charles. "Now, as we are here, precede me, if you please, and let me
beg of you to be especially cautious in your manner of announcing me."
"Ay, ay, sir," said Jack; and away he walked towards the cottage, leaving Charles some
distance behind.
Flora and the admiral were sitting together conversing. The old man, who loved her as if
she had been a child of his own, was endeavouring, to the extent of his ability, to assuage
the anguish of her thoughts, which at that moment chanced to be bent upon Charles
Holland.
"Never mind, my dear," he said; "he'll turn up some of these days, and when he does, I
sha'n't forget to tell him that it was you who stood out for his honesty and truth, when every
one else was against him, including myself, an old wretch that I was."
"Oh, sir, how could you for one moment believe that those letters could have been written
by your nephew Charles? They carried, sir, upon the face of them their own refutation; and

I'm only surprised that for one instant you, or any one who knew him, could have believed
him capable of writing them."
"Avast, there," said the admiral; "that'll do. I own you got the better of the old sailor
there. I think you and Jack Pringle were the only two persons who stood out from the first."
"Then I honour Jack for doing so."
"And here he is," said the admiral, "and you'd better tell him. The mutinous rascal! he
wants all the honour he can get, as a set-off against his drunkenness and other bad habits."
Jack walked into the room, looked about him in silence for a moment, thrust his hands in
his breeches pockets, and gave a long whistle.
"What's the matter now?" said the admiral.
"D -- me, if Charles Holland ain't outside, and I've come to prepare you for the blessed
shock," said Jack. "Don't faint either of you, because I'm only going to let you know it by
degrees, you know."
A shriek burst from Flora's lips, and she sprung to the door of the apartment.
"What!" cried the admiral, "my nephew -- my nephew Charles! Jack, you rascal, if you're
joking, it's the last joke you shall make in this world; and if it's true, I -- I -- I'm an old fool,
that's all."
"Ay, ay, sir," said Jack; "didn't you know that afore?"
"Charles -- Charles!" cried Flora. He heard the voice. Her name escaped his lips, and rang
with a pleasant echo through the house.
In another moment he was in the room, and had clasped her to his breast.
"My own -- my beautiful -- my true!"
"Charles, dear Charles!"
"Oh, Flora, what have I not endured since last we met; but this repays me -- more than
repays me for all."
"What is the past now," cried Flora -- "what are all its miseries placed against this happy,
happy moment?"
"D -- me, nobody thinks of me," said the admiral.

"My dear uncle," said Charles, looking over Flora's shoulder, as he still held her in his
arms, "is that you?"
"Yes, yes, swab, it is me, and you know it; but give us your five, you mutinous vagabond;
and I tell you what, I'll do you the greatest favour I've had an opportunity of doing you
some time -- I'll leave you alone, you dog. Come along, Jack."
"Ay, ay, sir," said Jack; and away they went out of the apartment.
And now those two loving hearts were alone -- they who had been so long separated by
malignant destiny, once again were heart to heart, looking into each other's faces with all
the beaming tenderness of an affection of the truest, holiest character.
The admiral had done a favour to them both to leave them alone, although we much doubt
whether his presence or the presence of the whole world would have had the effect of
controlling one generous sentiment of noble feeling.
They would have forgotten everything but that they were together, and that once again
each looked into the other's eyes with all the tenderness of a love purer and higher than
ordinarily belongs to mortal affections.
Language was weak to give utterance to the full gust of happy feelings that now were
theirs. It was ecstacy enough to feel, to know that the evil fortune which had so long
separted them, depriving each existence of its sunniest aspect, was over. It was enough for
Charles Holland to feel that she loved him still. It was enough for Flora Bannerworth to
know, as she looked into his beaming countenance, that that love was not misplaced, but
was met by feelings such as she herself would have dictated to be the inhabitants of the of
the heart of him whom she would have chosen from the mass of mankind as her own.
"Flora -- dear Flora," said Charles, "and you have never doubted me?"
"I've never doubted, Charles, Heaven or you. To doubt one would have been to doubt
both."
"Generous and best of girls, what must you have thought of my enforced absence! Oh!
Flora, I was unjust enough to your truth to make my greatest pang the thought that you
might doubt me, and cast me from your heart for ever."
"Ah! Charles, you ought to have known me better. I stood amid sore temptation to do so
much. There were those who would have urged me on to think that you had cast me from
your heart for ever. There were those ready and willing to place the worst construction
upon your conduct, and with a devilish ingenuity to strive to make me participate in such a
feeling; but, no, Charles, no -- I loved you, and I trusted you, and I could not so far belie
my own judgment as to tell you other than what you always seemed to my young fancy."

"And you are right, my Flora, right; and is it not a glorious triumph to see that love -- that
sentiment of passion -- has enabled you to have so enduring and so noble a confidence in
aught human?"
"Ay, Charles, it is the sentiment of passion, for our love has been more a sentiment than a
passion. I would fain think that we had loved each other with an affection not usually
known, appreciated, or understood, and so, in the vanity of my best affections, I would
strive to think them something exclusive, and beyond the common feelings of humanity."
"And you are right, my Flora; such love as yours is the exception; there may be
preferences, there may be passions, and there may be sentiments, but never, never, surely
was there a heart like yours."
"Nay, Charles, now you speak from a too poetical fancy; but is it possible that I have had
you here so long, with your hand clasped in mine, and asked you not the causes of your
absence?"
"Oh, Flora, I have suffered much -- much physically, but more mentally. It was the
thought of you that was at once the bane and the antidote of my existence."
"Indeed, Charles! Did I present myself in such contradictory colours to you?"
"Yes, dearest, as thus. When I thought of you, sometimes, in the deep seclusion of a
dungeon, that thought almost goaded me to madness, because it brought with it the
conviction -- a conviction peculiar to a lover -- that none could so effectually stand between
you and all evil as myself."
"Yes, yes, Charles; most true."
"It seemed to me as if all the world in arms could not have protected you so well as this
one heart, clad in the triple steel of its affections, could have shielded you from evil."
"Ay, Charles; and then I was the bane of your existence, because I filled you with
apprehension?"
"For a time, dearest; and then came the antidote; for when exhausted alike in mind and
body -- when lying helpless, with chains upon my limbs -- when expecting death at every
visit of those who had dragged me from light and from liberty, and from love; it was but the
thought of thy beauty and thy affection that nerved me, and gave me a hope even amidst the
cruellest disasters."
"And then -- and then, Charles?"
"You were my blessing, as you have ever been -- as you are, and as you will ever be --
my own Flora, my beautiful -- my true!"

We won't go so far as to say it is the fact; but, from a series of singular sounds which
reached even to the passage of the cottage, we have our own private opinion to the effect
that Charles began kissing Flora at the top of her forehead, and never stopped, somehow or
another, till he got down to her chin -- no, not her chin -- her sweet lips -- he could not get
past them. Perhaps it was wrong; but we can't help it -- we are faithful chroniclers. Reader,
if you be of the sterner sex, what would you have done? -- if of the gentler, what would you
have permitted?
--

Chapter LXXV.
MUTUAL EXPLANATIONS, AND THE VISIT TO THE RUINS.
During the next hour, Charles informed Flora of the whole particulars of his forcible
abduction; and to his surprise he heard, of course, for the first time, of those letters,
purporting to be written by him, which endeavoured to give so bad an aspect to the fact of
his sudden disappearance from Bannerworth Hall.
Flora would insist upon the admiral, Henry, and the rest of the family, hearing all that
Charles had to relate concerning Mr. Marchdale; for well she knew that her mother, from
early associations, was so far impressed in the favour of that hypocritical personage, that
nothing but damning facts, much to his prejudice, would suffice to convince her of the
character he really was.
But she was open to conviction, and when she really found what a villain she had
cherished and given her confidence to, she shed abundance of tears, and blamed herself
exceedingly as the cause of some of the misfortunes which had fallen upon her children.
"Very good," said the admiral; "I ain't surprised a bit. I knew he was a vagabond from the
first time I clapped eyes upon him. There was a down look about the fellow's figure-head
that I didn't like, and be hanged to him, but I never thought he would have gone the length
he has done. And so you say you've got him safe in the ruins, Charles?"
"I have, indeed, uncle."
"And then there let him remain, and a good place, too, for him."
"No, uncle, no. I'm sure you speak without thought. I intend to release him in a few hours,
when I have rested from my fatigues. He could not come to any harm if he were to go
without food entirely for the time that I leave him; but even that he will not do, for there is
bread and water in the dungeon."
"Bread and water! that's too good for him. But, however, Charles, when you go to let him
out, I'll go with you, just to tell him what I think of him, the vagabond."
"He must suffer amazingly, for no doubt knowing well, as he does, his own infamous
intentions, he will consider that if I were to leave him to starve to death, I should be but
retailing upon him the injuries he would have inflicted upon me."
"The worst of it is," said the admiral, "I can't think what to do with him."
"Do nothing, uncle, but just let him go; it will be a sufficient punishment for such a man
to feel that, instead of succeeding in his designs, he has only brought upon himself the

bitterest contempt of those whom he would fain have injured. I can have no desire for
revenge on such a man as Marchdale."
"You are right, Charles," said Flora; "let him go, and let him go with a feeling that he has
acquired the contempt of those whose best opinions might have been his for a far less
amount of trouble than he has taken to acquire their worst."
Excitement had kept up Charles to this point, but now, when he arose and expressed his
intention of going to the ruins, for the purpose of releasing Marchdale, he exhibited such
unequivocal symptoms of exhaustion and fatigue that neither his uncle nor Flora would
permit him to go, so, in deference to them, he gave up the point, and commissioned the
admiral and Jack, with Henry, to proceed to the place, and give the villain his freedom;
little suspecting what had occurred since he had himself left the neighbourhood of those
ruins.
Of course Charles Holland couldn't be at all accountable for the work of the elements, and
it was not for him to imagine that when he left Marchdale in the dungeon that so awful a
catastrophe as that we have recorded to the reader was to ensue.
The distance to the ruins was not so great from this cottage even as it was from
Bannerworth Hall, provided those who went knew the most direct and best road to take; so
that the admiral was not gone above a couple of hours, and when he returned he sat down
and looked at Charles with such a peculiar expression, that the latter could not for the life of
him tell what to make of it.
"Something has happened, uncle," he said, "I am certain; tell me at once what it is."
"Oh! nothing, nothing," said the admiral, "of any importance."
"Is that what you call your feelings?" said Jack Pringle. "Can't you tell him as there came
on a squall last night, and the ruins have come in with a dab upon old Marchdale, crushing
his guts, so that we smelt him as soon as we got nigh at hand?"
"Good God!" said Charles, "has such a catastrophe occurred?"
"Yes, Charles, that's just about the catastrophe that has occurred. He's dead; and rum
enough it is that it should happen on the very night that you escaped."
"Rum!" said Jack, suddenly; "my eye, who mentions rum? What a singular sort of liquour
rum must be. I heard of a chap as used to be fond of it once on board a ship; I wonder if
there's any in the house."
"No!" said the admiral; "but there's a fine pump of spring water outside if you feel a little
thirsty, Jack; and I'll engage it shall do you more good than all the rum in the world."
"Uncle," said Charles, "I'm glad to hear you make that observation."

"What for?"
"Why, to deal candidly with you, uncle, Jack informed me that you had lately taken quite
a predilection for drinking."
"Me!" cried the admiral; "why the infernal rascal, I've had to threaten him with his
discharge a dozen times, at least, on that very ground, and no other."
"There's somebody calling me," said Jack. "I'm a coming! I'm a coming!" and so he
bolted out of the room, just in time to escape an inkstand, which the admiral caught up and
flung after him.
"I'll strike that rascal off the ship's books this very day," muttered Admiral Bell. "The
drunken vagabond, to pretend that I take anything, when all the while it's himself!"
"Well, well, I ought certainly to have suspected the quarter from whence the intelligence
came; but he told it to me so circumstantially, and with such an apparent feeling of regret
for the weakness into which he said you had fallen, that I really thought there might be
some truth in it."
"The rascal! I've done with him from this moment; I have put up with too much from him
for years past."
"I think now that you have given him a great deal of liberty, and that, with a great deal
more he has taken, makes up an amount which you find it difficult to endure."
"And I won't endure it."
"Let me talk to him, and I dare say I shall be able to convince him that he goes too far,
and when he finds that such is the case he will mend."
"Speak to him, if you like, but I have done with such a mutinous rascal, I have. You can
take him into your service, if you like, till you get tired of him; and that won't be very
long."
"Well, well we shall see. Jack will apologise to you I have no doubt; and then I shall
intercede for him, and advise you to give him another trial."
"If you get him into the apology, then there's no doubt about me giving him another trial.
But I know him too well for that; he's as obstinate as a mule, he is, and you won't get a civil
word out of him; but never mind that, now. I tell you what, Master Charley, it will take a
good lot of roast beef to get up your good looks again."
"It will, indeed, uncle; and I require, now, rest, for I am thoroughly exhausted. The great
privations I have undergone, and the amount of mental excitement which I have
experienced, in consequence of the sudden and unexpected release from a fearful

confinement, have greatly weakened all my energies. A few hours' sleep will make quite a
different being of me."
"Well, my boy, you know best," returned the admiral; "and I'll take care, if you sleep till
to-morrow, that you sha'n't be disturbed. So now be off to bed at once."
The young man shook his uncle's hand in a cordial manner, and then repaired to the
apartment which had been provided for him.
Charles Holland did, indeed, stand in need of repose; and for the first time now for many
days he laid down with serenity at his heart, and slept for many hours. And was there not
now a great and a happy change in Flora Bannerworth! As if by magic, in a few short
hours, much of the bloom of her before-fading beauty returned to her. Her step again
recovered its springy lightness; again she smiled upon her mother, and suffered herself to
talk of a happy future; for the dread even of the vampyre's visitations had faded into
comparative insignificance against the heart's deep dejection which had come over her at
the thought that Charles Holland must surely be murdered, or he would have contrived to
come to her.
And what a glorious recompense she had now for the trusting confidence with which she
had clung to a conviction of his truth! Was it not great, now, to feel that when he was
condemned by others, and when strong and unimpeachable evidence seemed to be against
him, she had clung to him and declared her faith in his honour, and wept for him instead of
condemning?
Yes, Flora; you were of that order of noble minds that, where once confidence is given,
give it fully and completely, and will not harbour a suspicion of the faith of the loved one, a
happy disposition when verified, as in this instance, by an answering truthfulness.
But when such a heart trusts not with judgment -- when that pure, exalted, and noble
confidence is given to an object unworthy of it -- then comes, indeed, the most fearful of all
mental struggles; and if the fond heart, that has hugged to its inmost core so worthless a
treasure, do not break in the effort to discard it, we may well be surprised at the amount of
fortitude that has endured so much.
Although the admiral had said but little concerning the fearful end Marchdale had come
to, it really did make some impression upon him; and, much as he held in abhorrence the
villany of Marchdale's conduct, he would gladly in his heart have averted the fate from him
that he had brought upon himself.
On the road to the ruins, he calculated upon taking a different kind of vengeance.
When they had got some distance from the cottage, Admiral Bell made a proposal to
Henry to be his second while he fought Marchdale, but Henry would not hear of it for a
moment.

"My dear sir," he said, "could I, do you think, stand by and see a valuable, a revered, and
a respected life like yours exposed to any hazard merely upon the chance of punishing a
villain? No, no; Marchdale is too base now to be met in honourable encounter. If he is dealt
with in any way let it be by the laws."
This was reasonable enough, and after some argument the admiral coincided in it, and
then they began to wonder how, without Charles, they should be able to get an entrance to
the dungeons, for it had been his intention originally, had he not felt so fatigued, to go with
them.
As soon, however, as they got tolerably near to the ruins, they saw what had happened.
Neither spoke, but they quickened their pace, and soon stood close to the mass of stone-
work which now had assumed so different a shape to what it had a few short hours before.
It needed little examination to let them feel certain that whoever might have been in any
of the underground dungeons must have be crushed to death.
"Heaven have mercy upon his soul!" said Henry.
"Amen!" said the admiral.
They both turned away, and for some time they neither of them spoke, for their thoughts
were full of reflection upon the horrible death which Marchdale must have endured. At
length the admiral said --
"Shall we tell this or not?"
"Tell it at once," said Henry; "let us have no secrets."
"Good. Then I will not make one you may depend. I only wish that while he was about it,
Charley could have popped that rascal Varney as well in the dungeon, and then there would
have been an end and a good riddance of them both."
--

Chapter LXXVI.
THE SECOND NIGHT-WATCH OF MR. CHILLINGWORTH AT THE HALL.
The military party in the morning left Bannerworth Hall, and the old place resumed its
wonted quiet. But Dr. Chillingworth found it difficult to get rid of his old friend, the
hangman, who seemed quite disposed to share his watch with him.
The doctor, without being at all accused of being a prejudiced man, might well object to
the continued companionship of one, who, according to his own account, was decidedly no
better than he should be, if he were half so good.
Moreover, it materially interfered with the proceedings of our medical friend, whose
object was to watch the vampyre with all imaginable quietness and secrecy, in the event of
his again visiting Bannerworth Hall.
"Sir," he said, to the hangman, "now that you have so obligingly related to me you
melancholy history, I will not detain you."
"Oh, you are not detaining me."
"Yes, but I shall probably remain here for a considerable time."
"I have nothing to do; and one place is about the same as another to me."
"Well, then, if I must speak plainly, allow me to say, that as I came here upon a very
important and special errand, I desire most particularly to be left alone. Do you understand
me now?"
"Oh! ah! -- I understand; you want me to go?"
"Just so."
"Well, then, Dr. Chillingworth, allow me to tell you, I have come here on a very special
errand likewise."
"You have?"
"I have. I have been putting one circumstance to another, and drawing a variety of
conclusions from a variety of facts, so that I have come to what I consider an important
resolve, namely, to have a good look at Bannerworth Hall, and if I continue to like it as
well as I do now, I should like to make the Bannerworth family an offer for the purchase of
it."

"The devil you would! Why all the world seems mad upon the project of buying this old
building, which really is getting into such a state of dilapidation, that it cannot last many
years longer."
"It is my fancy."
"No, no; there is something more in this than meets the eye. The same reason, be it what
may, that has induced Varney the vampyre to become so desirous of possessing the Hall,
actuates you."
"Possibly."
"And what is that reason? You may as well be candid with me."
"Yes, I will, and am. I like the picturesque aspect of the place."
"No, you know that that is a disingenuous answer, that you know well. It is not the aspect
of the old Hall that has charms for you. But I feel, only from your conduct, more than ever
convinced, that some plot is going on, having the accomplishment of some great object as
its climax, a something of which you have guessed."
"How much you are mistaken!"
"No, I am certain I am right; and I shall immediately advise the Bannerworth family to
return, and to take up their abode again here, in order to put an end to the hopes which you,
or Varney, or any one else may have, of getting possession of the place."
"If you were a man," said the hangman, "who cared a little more for yourself, and a little
less for others, I would make a confidant of you."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, I mean, candidly, that you are not selfish enough to be entitled to my confidence."
"That is a strange reason for withholding confidence from any man."
"It is a strange reason; but, in this case, a most abundantly true one. I cannot tell you what
I would tell you, because I cannot make the agreement with you that I would fain make."
"You talk in riddles."
"To explain which, then, would be to tell my secret."
Dr. Chillingworth was, evidently, much annoyed, and yet he was in an extremely helpless
condition; for as to forcing the hangman to leave the Hall, if he did not feel disposed to do
so, that was completely out of the question, and could not be done. In the first place, he was

a much more powerful man than the doctor, and in the second, it was quite contrary to all
Mr. Chillingworth's habits, to engage in anything like personal warfare.
He could only, therefore, look his vexation, and say, --
"If you are determined upon remaining, I cannot help it; but, when some one, as there
assuredly will, comes from the Bannerworths, here, to me, or I shall be under the necessity
of stating candidly that you are intruding."
"Very good. As the morning air is keen, and as we now are not likely to be as good
company to each other as we were, I shall go inside the house."
This was a proposition which the doctor did not like, but he was compelled to submit to
it; and he saw, with feelings of uneasiness, the hangman make his way into the Hall by one
of the windows.
Then Dr. Chillingworth sat down to think. Much he wondered what could be the secret of
the great desire which Varney, Marchdale, and even this man had, all of them to be
possessors of the old Hall.
That there was some powerful incentive he felt convinced, and he longed for some
conversation with the Bannerworths, or with Admiral Bell, in order that he might state what
had now taken place. That some one would soon come to him, in order to bring fresh
provisions for the day, he was certain, and all he could do, in the interim, was, to listen to
what the hangman was about in the Hall.
Not a sound, for a considerable time, disturbed the intense stillness of the place; but, now,
suddenly, Mr. Chillingworth thought he heard a hammering, as if some one was at work in
one of the rooms of the Hall.
"What can be the meaning of that?" he said, and he was about to proceed at once to the
interior of the building, through the same window which had enabled the hangman to gain
admittance, when he heard his own name pronounced by some one at the back of the
garden fence, and upon casting his eyes in that direction, he, to his great relief, saw the
admiral and Henry Bannerworth.
"Come round to the gate," said the doctor. "I am more glad to see you than I can tell you
just now. Do not make more noise than you can help; but, come round to the gate at once."
They obeyed the injunction with alacrity, and when the doctor had admitted them, the
admiral said, eagerly, --
"You don't mean to tell us that he is here?"

"No, no, not Varney; but he is not the only one who has taken a great affection for
Bannerworth Hall; you may have another tenant for it, and I believe at any price you like to
name."
"Indeed!"
"Hush! creep along close to the house, and then you will not be seen. There! do you hear
that noise in the hall?"
"Why it sounds," said the admiral, "like the ship's carpenter at work."
"It does, indeed, sound like a carpenter; it's only the new tenant making, I dare say, some
repairs."
"D -- n his impudence!"
"Why, it certainly does look like a very cool proceeding, I must admit."
"Who, and what is he?"
"Who he is now, I cannot tell you, but he was once the hangman of London, at a time
when I was practising in the metropolis, and so I became acquainted with him. He knows
Sir Francis Varney, and, if I mistake not, has found out the cause of that mysterious
personage's great attachment to Bannerworth Hall, and has found the reasons so cogent,
that he has got up an affection for it himself."
"To me," said Henry, "all this is as incomprehensible as anything can possibly be. What
on earth does it all mean?"
"My dear Henry," said the doctor, "will you be ruled by me?"
"I will be ruled by any one whom I know I can trust; for I am like a man groping his way
in the dark."
"Then allow this gentleman who is carpentering away so pleasantly within the house, to
do so to his heart's content, but don't let him leave it. Show yourselves now in the garden,
he has sufficient prudence to know that three constitute rather fearful odds against one, and
so he will be careful, and remain where he is. If he should come out, we need not let him go
until we thoroughly ascertain what he has been about."
"You shall command the squadron, doctor," said the admiral, "and have it all your own
way, you know, so here goes! Come along, Henry, and let's show ourselves; we are both
armed too!"

They walked out into the centre of the garden, and they were soon convinced that the
hangman saw them, for a face appeared at the window, and was as quickly withdrawn
again.
"There," said the doctor, "now he knows he is a prisoner, and we may as well place
ourselves in some position which commands a good view of the house, as well as of the
garden gate, and so see if we cannot starve him out, though we may be starved out
ourselves."
"Not at all!" said Admiral Bell, producing from his ample pockets various parcels, -- "we
came to bring you ample supplies."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; we have been as far as the ruins."
"Oh, to release Marchdale. Charles told me how the villain had fallen into the trap he had
laid for him."
"He has, indeed, fallen into the trap, and it's one he won't easily get out of again. He's
dead."
"Dead! -- dead!"
"Yes; in the storm of last night the ruins have fallen, and he is by this time as flat as a
pancake."
"Good God! and yet it is but a just retribution upon him. He would have assassinated poor
Charles Holland in the cruelest and most cold-blooded manner, and, however we may
shudder at the manner of his death, we cannot regret it."
"Except that he has escaped your friend the hangman," said the admiral.
"Don't call him my friend, if you please," said Dr. Chillingworth, "but, hark how he is
working away, as if he really intended to carry the house away piece by piece, as
opportunity may serve, if you will not let it to him altogether, just as it stands."
"Confound him! he is evidently working on his own account," said the admiral, "or he
would not be half so industrious."
There was, indeed, a tremendous amount of hammering and noise, of one sort and
another, from the house, and it was quite clear that the hangman was too heart and soul in
his work, whatever may have been the object of it, to care who was listening to him, or to
what conjecture he gave rise.

He thought probably that he could but be stopped in what he was about, and, until he was
so, that he might as well go on.
And on he went, with a vengeance, vexing the admiral terribly, who proposed so
repeatedly to go into the house and insist upon knowing what he was about, that his wishes
were upon the point of being conceded to by Henry, although they were combatted by the
doctor, when, from the window at which he had entered, out stepped the hangman.
"Good morning, gentlemen! good morning," he said, and he moved towards the garden
gate. "I will not trouble you any longer. Good morning!"
"Not so fast," said the admiral, "or we may bring you up with a round turn, and I never
miss my mark when I can see it, and I shall not let it get out of sight, you may depend."
He drew a pistol from his pocket, as he spoke, and pointed it at the hangman, who,
thereupon, paused and said: --
"What! am I not to be permitted to go in peace? Why it was but a short time since the
doctor was quarrelling with me because I did not go, and now it seems that I am to be shot
if I do."
"Yes," said the admiral, "that's it."
"Well! but, -- "
"You dare," said he, "stir another inch towards the gate, and you are a dead man!"
The hangman hesitated a moment, and looked at Admiral Bell; apparently the result of
the scrutiny was, that he would keep his word, for he suddenly turned and dived in at the
window again without saying another word.
"Well; you have certainly stopped him from leaving," said Henry; "but what's to be done
now?"
"Let him be, let him be," said the doctor; "he must come out again, for there are no
provisions in the place, and he will be starved out."
"Hush! what is that?" said Henry.
There was a very gentle ring at the bell which hung over the garden gate.
"That's an experiment, now, I'll be bound," said the doctor, "to ascertain if any one is
here; let us hide ourselves, and take no notice."

The ring in a few moments was repeated, and the three confederates hid themselves
effectually behind some thick laurel bushes and awaited with expectation what might next
ensue.
Not long had they occupied their place of concealment, before they heard a heavy fall
upon the gravelled pathway, immediately within the gate, as if some one had clambered to
the top from the outside, and then jumped down.
That this was the case the sound of footsteps soon convinced them, and to their surprise
as well as satisfaction, they saw through the interstices of the laurel bush behind which they
were concealed, no less a personage that [sic] Sir Francis Varney himself.
"It is Varney," said Henry.
"Yes, yes," whispered the doctor. "Let him be, do not move for any consideration, for the
first time let him do just what he likes."
"D -- n the fellow!" said the admiral; "there are some points about him that I like, after
all, and he's quite an angel compared to that rascal Marchdale."
"He is, -- he saved Charles."
"He did, and not if I know it shall any harm come to him, unless he were terribly to
provoke it by becoming himself the assailant."
"How sad he looks!"
"Hush! he comes nearer; it is not safe to talk. Look at him."
--

Chapter LXXVII.
VARNEY IN THE GARDEN. -- THE COMMUNICATION OF DR.

CHILLINGWORTH TO THE ADMIRAL AND HENRY.
Kind reader, it was indeed Varney who had clambered over the garden wall, and thus made
his way into the garden of Bannerworth Hall; and what filled those who looked at him with
the most surprise was, that he did not seem in any particular way to make a secret of his
presence, but walked on with an air of boldness which either arose from a feeling of
absolute impunity, from his thinking there was no one there, or from an audacity which
none but he could have compassed.
As for the little party that was there assembled, and who looked upon him, they seemed
thunderstricken by his presence; and Henry, probably, as well as the admiral, would have
burst out into some sudden exclamation, had they not been restrained by Dr. Chillingworth,
who, suspecting that they might in some way give an alarm, hastened to speak first, saying
in a whisper, --
"For Heaven's sake, be still; fortune, you see, favours us most strangely. Leave Varney
alone. You have no other mode whatever of discovering what he really wants at
Bannerworth Hall."
"I am glad you have spoken," said Henry, as he drew a long breath. "If you had not, I feel
convinced that in another moment I should have rushed forward and confronted this man
who has been the very bane of my life."
"And so should I," said the admiral; "although I protest against any harm being done to
him, on account of some sort of good feeling that he has displayed, after all, in releasing
Charles from that dungeon in which Marchdale has perished."
"At the momemt," said Henry, "I had forgotten that; but I will own that his conduct has
been tinctured by a strange and wild kind of generosity at times, which would seem to
bespeak, at the bottom of his heart, some good feelings, the impulses of which were only
quenched by circumstances."
"That is my firm impression of him, I can assure you," said Dr. Chillingworth.
They watched Varney now from the leafy covert in which they were situated, and, indeed,
had they been less effectually concealed, it did not seem likely that the much dreaded
vampyre would have perceived them; for not only did he make no effort at concealment
himself, but he took no pains to see if any one was watching him in his progress to the
house.

His footsteps were more rapid than they usually were, and there was altogether an air and
manner about him, as if he were moved to some purpose which of itself was sufficiently
important ot submerge in its consequences all ordinary risks and all ordinary cautions.
He tried several windows of the house along that terrace of which we have more than
once had occasion to speak, before he found one that opened; but at length he did succeed,
and stepped at once into the Hall, leaving those, who now for some moments in silence had
regarded his movements, to lose themselves in a fearful sea of conjecture as to what could
possiblly be his object.
"At all events," said the admiral, "I'm glad we are here. If the vampyre should have a fight
with that other fellow, that we heard doing such a lot of carpentering work in the house, we
ought, I think, to see fair play."
"I, for one," said the doctor, "would not like to stand by and see the vampyre murdered;
but I am inclined to think he is a good match for any mortal opponent."
"You may depend he is," said Henry. "But how long, doctor, do you purpose that we
should wait here in such a state of suspense as to what is going on within the house?"
"I hope not long; but that something will occur to make us have food for action. Hark!
what is that?"
There was a loud crash within the building, as of broken glass. It sounded as if some
window had been completely dashed in; but although they looked carefully over the front
of the building, they could see no evidences of such a thing having happened, and were
compelled, consequently, to come to the opinion that Varney and the other man must have
met in one of the back rooms, and that the crash of glass had arisen from some personal
conflict in which they had engaged.
"I cannot stand this," said Henry.
"Nay, nay," said the doctor; "be still, and I will tell you something, than which there can
be no more fitting time than this to reveal it."
"Refers it to the vampyre?"
"It does -- it does."
"Be brief, then; I am in an agony of impatience."
"It is a circumstance concerning which I can be brief; for, horrible as it is, I have no wish
to dress it in any adventitious colours. Sir Francis Varney, although under another name, is
an old acquaintance of mine."
"Acquaintance!" said Henry.

"Why, you don't mean to say you are a vampyre?" said the admiral; "or that he has ever
visited you?"
"No; but I knew him. From the first moment that I looked upon him in this
neighbourhood, I thought I knew him; but the circumstance which induced me to think so
was of so terrific a character, that I made some efforts to chase it from my mind. It has,
however, grown upon me day by day, and, lately, I have had proof sufficient to convince
me of his identity with one whom I first saw under most singular circumstances of
romance."
"Say on, -- you are agitated."
"I am, indeed. This revelation has several times, within the last few days, trembled on my
lips, but now you shall have it; because you ought to know all that it is possible for me to
tell you of him who has caused you so serious an amount of disturbance."
"You awaken, doctor," said Henry, "all my interest."
"And mine, too," remarked the admiral. "What can it be all about? and where, doctor, did
you first see this Varney the vampyre?"
"In his coffin."
Both the admiral and Henry gave starts of surprise as, with one accord, they exclaimed, --
"Did you say coffin?"
"Yes; I tell you, on my word of honour, that the first time in my life I saw ever Sir Francis
Varney, was in his coffin."
"Then he is a vampyre, and there can be no mistake," said the admiral.
"Go on, I pray you, doctor, go on," said Henry, anxiously.
"I will. The reason why he became the inhabitant of a coffin was simply this: -- he had
been hanged, -- executed at the Old Bailey, in London, before ever I set eyes upon that
strange countenance of his. You know that I was practising surgery at the London schools
some years ago, and that, consequently as I commenced the profession rather late in life, I
was extremely anxious to do the most I could in a very short space of time."
"Yes -- yes."
"Arrived, then, with plenty of resources, which I did not, as the young men who affected
to be studying in the same classes as myself, spend in the pursuit of what they considered
life in London, I was indefatigable in my professional labours, and there was nothing
connected with them which I did not try to accomplish.

"At that period, the difficulty of getting a subject for anatomization was very great, and
all sorts of schemes had to be put into requistion to accomplish so desirable, and, indeed,
absolutely necessary a purpose.
"I became acquainted with the man who, I have told you, is in the Hall, at present, and
who then filled the unenviable post of public executioner. It so happened too, that I had
read a learned treatise, by a Frenchman, who had made a vast number of experiments with
galvanic and other apparatus, upon persons who had come to death in different ways, and,
in one case, he asserted that he had actually recovered a man who had been hanged, and he
had lived five weeks afterwards.
"Young as I then was, in comparison to what I am now, in my profession, this inflamed

my imagination, and nothing seemed to me so desirable as getting hold of some one who
had only recently been put to death, for the purpose of trying what I could do in the way of
attempting a resuscitation of the subject. It was precisely for this reason that I sought out
the public executioner, and made his acquaintance, whom every one else shunned, because
I thought he might assist me by handing over to me the body of some condemned and
executed man, upon whom I could try my skill.
"I broached the subject to him, and found him not averse. He said, that if I would come
forward and claim, as next of kin, the body of the criminal who was to be executed the first
time, from that period, that he could give me a hint that I should have no real next of kin
opponents, he would throw every facility in my way, and allow the body to be removed to
his house.
"This was just what I wanted; and, I believe, I waited with impatience for some poor
wretch to be hurried to his last account by the hands of my friend, the public executioner.
"At length a circumstance occurred which favoured my designs most effectually, -- a man
was apprehended for a highway robbery of a most agravated character. He was tried, and
the evidence against him was so conclusive, that the defence which was attempted by his
counsel, became a mere matter of form.
"He was convicted, and sentenced. The judge told him not to flatter himself with the least
notion that mercy would be extended to him. The crime of which he had been found guilty
was on the increase; it was highly necessary to make some great public example, to show
evil doers that they could not, with impunity, thus trample upon the liberty of the subject,
and had suddenly, just as it were, in the very nick of time, committed the very crime,
attended with all the aggravated circumstances which made it easy and desirable to hang
him out of hand.
"He heard his sentence, they tell me, unmoved. I did not see him, but he was represented
to me as a man of a strong, and well-knit frame, with rather a strange, but what some would
have considered a handsome expression of countenance, inasmuch as that there was an
expression of much haughty resolution depicted on it.
"I flew to my friend, the executioner.

"'Can you,' I said, 'get me that man's body, who is to be hanged for the highway robbery,
on Monday?'
"'Yes,' he said; 'I see nothing to prevent it. Not one soul has offered to claim even
common companionship with him, -- far less kindred. I think if you in your claim as a
cousin, who will bear the expense of his decent burial, you will have every chance of
getting possession of the body.'
"I did not hesitate, but, on the morning before the execution, I called upon one of the
sheriffs.
"I told him that the condemned man, I regretted to say, was related to me; but as I knew
nothing could be done to save him on the trial, I had abstained from coming forward; but
that as I did not like the idea of his being rudely interred by the authorities, I had come
forward to ask for the body, after the execution should have taken place, in order that I
might, at all events, bestow upon it, in some sequestered spot, a decent burial, with all the
rites of the church.
"The sheriff was a man not overburthened with penetration. He applauded my pious
feelings, and actually gave me, without any inquiry, a written order to receive the body
from the hands of the hangman, after it had hung the hour prescribed by the law.
"I did not, as you may well suppose, wish to appear more in the business than was
absoulutely necessary; but I gave the executioner the sheriff's order for the body, and he
promised that he would get a shell ready to place it in, and four stout men to carry it at once
to his house, when he should cut it down.
"'Good!" I said; 'and now as I am not a little anxious for the success of my experiment, do
you not think that you can manage so that the fall of the criminal shall not be so sudden as
to break his neck?'
"'I have thought of that,' he said, 'and I believe that I can manage to let him down gently,
so that he shall die of suffocation, instead of having his neck put out of joint. I will do my
best.'
"'If you can but succeed in that,' said I, for I was quite in a state of mania upon the
subject, 'I shall be much indebted to you, and will double the amount of money which I
have already promised.'
"This was, as I believed it would be, a powerful stimulus to him to do all in his power to
meet my wishes, and he took, no doubt, active measures to accomplish all that I desired.
"You can imagine with what intense impatience I waited the result. He resided in an old
ruinous looking house, a short distance on the Surrey side of the river, and there I had
arranged all my apparatus for making experiments upon the dead man, in an apartment the
windows of which commanded a view of the entrance."

"I was completely ready by half-past eight, although a moment's consideration of course
told me that at least another hour must elapse before there could be the least chance of my
seeing him arrive, for whom I so anxiously longed.
"I can safely say so infatuated was I upon the subject, that no fond lover ever looked with
more nervous anxiety for the arrival of the chosen object of his heart, than I did for that
dead body, upon which I proposed to exert all the influences of professional skill, to recall
back he soul to its earthly dwelling-place.
"At length I heard the sound of wheels. I found that my friend the hangman had procured
a cart, in which he brought the coffin, that being a much quicker mode of conveyance than
by bearers, so that about a quarter past nine o'clock the vehicle, with its ghastly contents,
stopped at the door of his house.
"In my impatience I ran down stairs to meet that which ninety-nine men out of a hundred
would have gone some distance to avoid the sight of, namely, a corpse, livid and fresh from
the gallows. I, however, heralded it as a great gift, and already, in imagination, I saw myself
imitating the learned Frenchman, who had published such an elaborate treatise on the mode
of restoring life under all sorts of circumstances, to those who were already pronounced by
unscientific persons to be dead.
"To be sure, a sort of feeling had come over me at times, knowing as I did that the French
are a nation that do not scruple at all to sacrifice truth on the altar of vanity, that it might be
after all a mere rhodomontade; but, however, I could only ascertain so much by actually
trying, so the suspicion that such might, by a possibility, be the end of the adventure, did
not deter me.
"I officiously assisted in having the coffin brought into the room where I had prepared
everything that was necessary in the conduction of my grand experiment; and then, when
no one was there with me but my friend the executioner, I, with his help, the one of us
taking the head and the other the feet, took the body from the coffin and laid it upon a table.
"Hastily I placed my hand upon the region of the heart, and to my great delight I found it
still warm. I drew off the cap that covered the face, and then, for the first time, my eyes
rested upon the countenance of him who now calls himself -- Heaven only knows why --
Sir Francis Varney."
"Good God!" said Henry, "are you certain?"
"Quite."
"It may have been some other rascal like him," said the admiral.
"No, I am quite sure now; I have, as I have before mentioned to you, tried to get out of
my own conviction upon the subject, but I have been actually assured that he is the man by
the very hangman himself."

"Go on, go on! Your tale certainly is a strange one, and I do not say it either to
compliment you or to cast a doubt upon you, but, except from the lips of an old and valued
friend, such as you yourself are, I should not believe it."
"I am not surprised to hear you say that," replied the doctor; "nor should I be offended
even now if you were to entertain a belief that I might, after all, be mistaken."
"No, no; you would not be so positive upon the subject, I well know, if there was the
slightest possibility of an error."
"Indeed I should not."
"Let us have the sequel, then."
"It is this. I was most anxious to effect an immediate resuscitation, if it were possible, of
the hanged man. A little manipulation soon convinced me that the neck was not broken,
which left me at once everything to hope for. The hangman was more prudent than I was,
and before I commenced my experiments, he said, --
"'Doctor, have you duly considered what you mean to do with this fellow, in case you
should be successful in restoring him to life?'
"'Not I,' said I.
"'Well,' he said, 'you can do as you like; but I consider that it is really worth thinking of.'
"I was headstrong on the matter, and could think of nothing but the success or the non-
success, in a physiological point of view, of my plan for restoring the dead to life; so I set
about my experiments without any delay, and with a completeness and a vigour that
promised the most completely successful results, if success could at all be an ingredient in
what sober judgment would doubtless have denominated a mad-headed and wild scheme.
"For more than half an hour I tried in vain, by the assistance of the hangman, who acted
under my directions. Not the least symptom of vitality presented itself; and he had a smile
upon his countenance, as he said in a bantering tone, --
"'I am afraid, sir, it is much easier to kill than to restore their patients with doctors.'
"Before I could make him any reply, for I felt that his observation had a good amount of
truth in it, joined to its sarcasm, the hanged man uttered a loud scream, and opened his
eyes.
"I must own I was myself rather startled; but I for some moments longer continued the
same means which had produced such an effect, when suddenly he sprang up and laid hold
of me, at the same time exclaiming, --

"'Death, death, where is the treasure?'
"I had fully succeeded -- too fully; and while the executioner looked on with horror
depicted in his countenance, I fled from the room and the house, taking my way home as
fast as I possibly could.
"A dread came over me, that the restored man would follow me if he should find out to
whom it was he was indebted for the rather questionable boon of a new life. I packed up
what articles I set the greatest store by, bade adieu to London, and never have I since set
foot within that city."
"And you never met the man you had so resuscitated?"
"Not till I saw Varney, the vampyre; and, as I tell you, I am now certain that he is the
man."
"That is the strangest yarn that ever I heard," said the admiral.
"A most singular circumstance," said Henry.
"You may have noticed about his countenance," said Dr. Chillingworth, "a strange
distorted look?"
"Yes, yes."
"Well, that has arisen from a spasmodic contraction of the muscles, in consequence of his
having been hanged. He will never lose it, and it has not a little contributed to give him the
horrible look he has, and to invest him with some of the seeming outward attributes of the
vampyre."
"And that man who is now in the hall with him, doctor," said Henry, "is the very
hangman who executed him?"
"The same. He tells me that after I left, he paid attention to the restored man, and
completed what I had nearly done. He kept him in his house for a time, and then made a
bargain with him, for a large sum of money per annum, all of which he has regularly been
paid, although he tells me he has no more idea where Varney gets it, than the man in the
moon."
"It is very strange; but, hark! do you not hear the sound of voices in angry altercation?"
"Yes, yes, they have met. Let us approach the windows now. We may chance to hear
something of what they say to each other."
--

Chapter LXXVIII.
THE ALTERCATION BETWEEN VARNEY AND THE EXECUTIONER IN THE

HALL. -- THE MUTUAL AGREEMENT.
There was certainly a loud wrangling in the Hall, just as the doctor finished his most
remarkable revelation concerning Sir Francis Varney, a revelation which by no means
attacked the fact of his being a vampyre or not; but rather on the contrary, had a tendency to
confirm any opinion that might arise from the circumstance of his being restored to life
after his execution, favourable to that belief.
They all three now carefully approached the windows of the Hall, to listen to what was
going on, and after a few moments they distinctly heard the voice of the hangman, saying in
loud and rather angry accents, --
"I do not deny but that you have kept your word with me -- our bargain has been, as you
say, a profitable one; but, still I cannot see why that circumstance should give you any sort
of control over my actions."
"But what do you here?" said Varney, impatiently.
"What do you?" cried the other.
"Nay, to ask another question, is not to answer mine. I tell you that I have special and
most important business in this house; you can have no motive but curiosity."
"Can I not, indeed? What, too, if I have serious and important business here?"
"Impossible."
"Well, I may as easily use such a term as regards what you call important business, but
here I shall remain."
"Here you shall not remain."
"And will you make the somewhat hazardous attempt to force me to leave?"
"Yes, much as I dislike lifting my hand against you, I must do so; I tell you that I must be
alone in this house. I have most special reasons -- reasons which concern my continued
existence."
"Your continued existence you talk of. -- Tell me, now, how is it that you have acquired
so frightful a reputation in this neighbourhood? Go where I will, the theme of conversation
is Varney, the vampyre! and it is implicitly believed that you are one of those dreadful

characters that feed upon the life-blood of others, only now and then revisiting the tomb to
which you ought long since to have gone in peace."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; what, in the name of all that's inexplicable, has induced you to enact such a
character?"
"Enact it! you say. Can you, then, from all you have heard of me, and from all you know
of me, not conceive it possible that I am not enacting any such character? Why may it not
be real? Look at me. Do I look like one of the inhabitants of the earth?"
"In sooth, you do not."
"And yet I am, as you see, upon it. Do not, with an affected philosophy, doubt all that
may happen to be in any degree repugnant to your usual experiences."
"I am not one disposed to do so; nor am I prepared to deny that such dreadful beings may
exist as vampyres. However, whether or not you belong to so frightful a class of creatures, I
do not intend to leave here; but, I will make an agreement with you."
Varney was silent; and after a few moments' pause, the other exclaimed, --
"There are people, even now, watching the place, and no doubt you have been seen
coming into it."
"No, no, I was satisfied no one was here but you."
"Then you are wrong. A Doctor Chillingworth, of whom you know something, is here;
and him, you have said, you would do no harm to, even to save your life."
"I do know him. You told me that it was to him that I was mainly indebted for my mere
existence; and although I do not consider human life to be a great boon, I cannot bring
myself to raise my hand against the man who, whatever might have been the motives for
the deed, at all events, did snatch me from the grave."
"Upon my word," whispered the admiral, "there is something about that fellow that I like,
after all."
"Hush!" said Henry, "listen to them. This would all have been unintelligible to us, if you
had not related to us what you have."
"I have just told you in time," said Chillingworth, "it seems."
"Will you then," said the hangman, "listen to proposals?"

"Yes," said Varney.
"Come along, then, and I will show you what I have been about; and I rather think you
have already a shrewd guess as to my motive. This way -- this way."
They moved off to some other part of the mansion, and the sound of their voices
gradually died away, so that after all, the friends had not got the least idea of what that
motive was, which still induced the vampyre and the hangman, rather than leave the other
on the premises, to make an agreement to stay with each other.
"What's to be done now?" said Henry.
"Wait," said Dr. Chillingworth, "wait, and watch still. I see nothing else that can be done
with any degree of safety."
"But what are we to wait for?" said the admiral.
"By waiting, we shall, perhaps, find out," was the doctor's reply; "but you may depend
that we never shall by interfering."
"Well, well, be it so. It seems that we have no other resource. And when either or both of
those fellows make their appearance, and seem about to leave, what is to be done with
them?"
"They must be seized then, and in order that that may be done without any bloodshed, we
ought to have plenty of force here. Henry, could you get your brother, and Charles, if he be
sufficiently recovered, to come?"
"Certainly, and Jack Pringle."
"No," said the admiral, "no Jack Pringle for me; I have done with him completely, and I
have made up my mind to strike him off the ship's books, and have nothing more to do with
him."
"Well, well," added the doctor, "we will not have him, then; and it is just as well, for, in
all likelihood, he would come drunk, and we shall be -- let me see -- five strong without
him, which ought to be enough to take prisoners two men."
"Yes," said Henry, "although one of them may be a vampyre."
"That makes no difference," said the admiral. "I'd as soon take a ship manned with
vampyres as with Frenchmen."
Henry started off upon his errand, certainly leaving the admiral and the doctor in rather a
critical situation while he was gone; for had Varney the vampyre and the hangman chosen,
they could certainly easily have overcome so inefficient a force.

The admiral would, of course, have fought, and so might the doctor, as far as his hands
would permit him; but if the others had really been intent upon mischief, they could, from
their downright superior physical power, have taken the lives of the two that were opposed
to them.
But somehow the doctor appeared to have a great confidence in the affair. Whether that
confidence arose from what the vampyre had said with regard to him, or from any hidden
conviction of his own that they would not yet emerge from the Hall, we cannot say; but
certain it is, he waited the course of events with great coolness.
No noise for some time came from the house; but then the sounds, as if workmen were
busy within it, were suddenly resumed, and with more vigour than before.
It was nearly two hours before Henry made the private signal which had been agreed
upon as that which should proclaim his return; and then he and his brother, with Charles,
who, when he heard of the matter, would, notwithstanding the persuasions of Flora to the
contrary, come, got quietly over the fence at a part of the garden which was quite hidden
from the house by abundant vegetation, and the whole three of them took up a position that
tolerably well commanded a view of the house, while they were themselves extremely well
hidden behind a dense mass of evergreens.
"Did you see that rascal, Jack Pringle?" said the admiral.
"Yes," said Henry; "he is drunk."
"Ah, to be sure."
"And we had no little difficulty in shaking him off. He suspected where we were going;
but I think, by being peremptory, we got fairly rid of him."
"The vagabond! if he comes here, I'll brain him, I will, the swab. Why, lately he's done
nothing but drink. That's the way with him. He'll go on sometimes for a year and more, and
not take more than enough to do him good, and then all at once, for about six or eight
weeks, he does nothing but drink."
"Well, well, we can do without him," said Henry.
"Without him! I should think so. Do you hear those fellows in the Hall at work? D -- n
me, if I haven't all of a sudden thought what the reason of it all is."
"What -- what?" said the doctor, anxiously.
"Why, that rascal Varney, you know, had his house burnt down."
"Yes; well?"

"Yes, well. I dare say he didn't think it well. But, however, he no doubt wants another; so,
you see, my idea is, that he's stealing the material from Bannerworth Hall."
"Oh, is that your notion?"
"Yes, and a very natural one, I think, too, Master Doctor, whatever you may think of it.
Come, now, have you a better?"
"Oh, dear, no, certainly not; but I have a notion that something to eat would comfort the
inward man much."
"And so would something to drink, blow me if it wouldn't," said Jack Pringle, suddenly
making his appearance.
The admiral made a rush upon him; but he was restrained by the others, and Jack, with a
look of triumph, said, --
"Why, what's amiss with you now? I ain't drunk now. Come, come, you have something
dangerous in the wind, I know, so I've made up my mind to be in it, so don't put yourself
out of the way. If you think I don't know all about it, you are mistaken, for I do. The
vampyre is in the house yonder, and I'm the fellow to tackle him, I believe you, my boys."
"Good God!" said the doctor, "what shall we do?"
"Nothing," said Jack, as he took a bottle from his pocket and applied the neck of it to his
lips -- "nothing -- nothing at all."
"There's something to begin with," said the admiral, as with his stick he gave the bottle a
sudden blow that broke it and spilt all its contents, leaving Jack petrified, with the bit of the
neck of it still in his mouth.
"My eye, admiral," he said, "was that done like a British seaman? My eye -- was that the
trick of a lubber, or of a thorough-going first-rater? My eye -- "
"Hold your noise, will you; you are not drunk yet, and I was determined that you should
not get so, which you soon would with that rum-bottle, if I had not come with a broadside
across it. Now you may stay; but, mark me, you are on active service now, and must do
nothing without orders."
"Ay, ay, your honour," said Jack, as he dropped the neck of the bottle, and looked
ruefully upon the ground, from whence arose the aroma of rum -- "ay, ay; but it's a hard
case, take it how you will, to have your grog stopped; but, d -- n it, I never had it stopped
yet when it was in my mouth."
Henry and Charles could not forbear a smile at Jack's discomfiture, which, however, they
were very glad of, for they knew full well his failing, and that in the course of another half

hour he would have been drunk, and incapable of being controlled, except, as on some
former occasions, by the exercise of brute force.
But Jack was evidently displeased, and considered himself to be grievously insulted,
which, after all, was the better, inasmuch as, while he was brooding over his wrongs, he
was quiet; when, otherwise, it might have been a very difficult matter to make him so.
They partook of some refreshments, and, as the day advanced, the brothers Bannerworth,
as well as Charles Holland, began to get very anxious upon the subject of the proceedings
of Sir Francis Varney in the Hall.
They conversed in low tones, exhausting every, as they considered, possible conjecture to
endeavour to account for his mysterious predilection for that abode, but nothing occurred to
them of a sufficiently probable motive to induce them to adopt it as a conclusion.
They more than suspected Dr. Chillingworth, because he was so silent, and hazarded no
conjecture at all of knowing something, or of having formed to himself some highly
probable hypothesis upon the subject; but they could not get him to agree that such was the
case.
When they challenged him upon the subject, all he would say was, --
"My good friends, you perceive that there is a great mystery somewhere, and I do hope
that to-night it will be cleared up satisfactorily."
With this they were compelled to be satisfied; and now the soft and sombre shades of
evening began to creep over the scene, enveloping all objects in the dimness and repose of
early night.
The noise from the house had ceased, and all was profoundly still. But more than once
Henry fancied he heard footsteps outside the garden.
He mentioned his suspicions to Charles Holland, who immediately said, --
"The same thing has come to my ears."
"Indeed! Then it must be so; we cannot both of us have merely imagined such a thing.
You may depend that this place is beleaguered in some way, and that to-night will be
productive of events which will throw a great light upon the affairs connected with this
vampyre that have hitherto baffled conjecture."
"Hush!" said Charles; "there, again; I am quite confident I heard a sound as of a broken
twig outside the garden-wall. The doctor and the admiral are in deep discussion about
something, -- shall we tell them?"
"No; let us listen, as yet."

They bent all their attention to listening, inclining their ears towards the ground, and, after
a few moments, they felt confident that more than one footstep was creeping along, as
cautiously as possible, under the garden wall. After a few moments' consultation, Henry
made up his mind -- he being the best acquainted with the localities of the place -- to go and
reconnoitre, so he, without saying anything to the doctor or the admiral, glided from where
he was, in the direction of a part of the fence which he knew he could easily scale.
--

Chapter LXXIX.
THE VAMPYRE'S DANGER. -- THE LAST REFUGE. -- THE RUSE OF HENRY

BANNERWORTH.
Yet knowing to what deeds of violence the passions of a lawless mob will sometimes lead
them, and having the experience of what had been attempted by the alarmed and infuriated
populace on a former occasion, against the Hall, Henry Bannerworth was, reasonably
enough, not without his fears that something might occur of a nature yet highly dangerous
to the stability of his ancient house.
He did not actually surmount the fence, but he crept so close to it, that he could get over
in a moment, if he wished; and, if any one should move or speak on the other side, he
should be quite certain to hear them.
For a few moments all was still, and then suddenly he heard some one say, in a low voice,
--
"Hist! hist! did you hear nothing?"
"I thought I did," said another; "but I now am doubtful."
"Listen again."
"What," thought Henry, "can be the motives of these men lying secreted here? It is most
extraordinary what they can possibly want, unless they are brewing danger for the Hall."
Most cautiously now he raised himself, so that his eyes could just look over the fence,
and then, indeed, he was astonished.
He had expected to see two or three persons, at the utmost; what was his surprise to find a
compact mass of men crouching down under the garden wall, as far as his eye could reach.
For a few moments, he was so surprised, that he continued to gaze on, heedless of the
danger there might be from a discovery that he was playing the part of a spy upon them.
When, however, his first sensations of surprise were over, he cautiously removed to his
former position, and, just as he did so, he heard those who had before spoken, again, in low
tones, breaking the stillness of the night.
"I am resolved upon it," said one; "I am quite determined. I will, please God, rid the
country of that dreadful man."
"Don't call him a man," said the other.

"Well, well; it is a wrong name to apply to a vampyre."
"It is Varney, after all, then," said Henry Bannerworth, to himself; -- "it is his life that
they seek. What can be done to save him? -- for saved he shall be if I can compass such an
object. I feel that there is yet a something in his character which is entitled to consideration,
and he shall not be savagely murdered while I have an arm to raise in his defence. But if
anything is now to be done, it must be done by stratagem, for the enemy are, by far, in too
great force to be personally combatted with."
Henry resolved to take the advice of his friends, and with that view he went silently and
quietly back to where they were, and communicated to them the news that he had so
unexpectedly discovered.
They were all much surprised, and then the doctor said,
"You may depend, that since the disappointment of the mob in the destruction of this
place, they have had their eye upon Varney. He has been dogged here by some one, and
then by degrees that assemblage has sought the spot."
"He's a doomed man, then," remarked the admiral; "for waht can save him from a
determined number of persons, who, by main force, will overcome us, let us make what
stand we may in his defence."
"Is there no hiding-place in the house." said Charles, "where you might, after warning
him of his danger, conceal him?"
"There are plenty, but of what avail would that be, if they burn down the Hall, which in
all probability they will?"
"None, certainly."
"There is but one chance," said Henry, "and that is to throw them off the scent, and
induce them to think that he whom they seek is not here; I think that may possibly be done
by boldness."
"But how?"
"I will go among them and make the effort."
He at once left the friends, for he felt that there might be no time to lose, and hastening to
the same part of the wall, over which he had looked so short a time before, he clambered
over it, and cried, in a loud voice,
"Stop the vampyre! stop the vampyre!"

"Where, where?" shouted a number of persons at once, turning their eyes eagerly towards
the spot where Henry stood.
"There, across the fields," cried Henry. "I have lain in wait for him long; but he has
eluded me, and is making his way again towards the old ruins, where I am sure he has some
hiding-place that he thinks will elude all search. There, I see his dusky form speeding
onwards."
"Come on," cried several; "to the ruins! to the ruins! We'll smoke him out if he will not
come by fair means: we must have him, dead or alive."
"Yes, to the ruins!" shouted the throng of persons, who up to this time had preserved so
cautious a silence, and, in a few moments more, Henry Bannerworth had the satisfaction of
finding that his ruse had been perfectly successful, for Bannerworth Hall and its vicinity
were completely deserted, and the mob, in a straggling mass, went over hedge and ditch
towards those ruins in which there was nothing to reward the exertions they might choose
to make in the way of an exploration of them, but the dead body of the villain Marchdale,
who had come there to so dreadful, but so deserved a death.
--

Chapter LXXX.
THE DISCOVERY OF THE BODY OF MARCHDALE IN THE RUINS BY THE

MOB. -- THE BURNING OF THE CORPSE. -- THE MURDER OF THE HANGMAN.
The mob reached the ruins of Bannerworth Hall, and crowded round it on all sides, with the
view of ascertaining if a human creature, dead or alive, were there; various surmises were
afloat, and some were for considering that everybody but themselves, or their friends, must
be nothing less than vampyres. Indeed, a strange man, suddenly appearing among them,
would have caused a sensation, and a ring would no doubt have been formed round him,
and then a hasty council held, or, what was more probable, some shout, or word uttered by
some one behind, who could not understand what was going on in front, would have
determined them to commit some desperate outrage, and the sacrifice of life would have
been the inevitable result of such an unfortunate concurrence of circumstances.
There was a pause before any one ventured among the ruins; the walls were carefully
looked to, and in more than one instance, but they were found dangerous, what were
remaining; some parts had been so completely destroyed, that there was nothing but heaps
of rubbish.
However, curiosity was exerted to such an extraordinary pitch that it overcame the fear of
danger, in search of the horrible; for they believed that if there were any one in the ruins he
must be a vampyre, of course, and they were somewhat cautious in going near such a
creature, lest in so doing they should meet with some accident, and become vampyres too.
This was a dreadful reflection, and one that every now and then impressed itself upon the
individuals composing the mob; but at the same time any new impulse, or a shout, and they
immediately became insensible to all fear; and mere impulse is the dominant one, and then
all is forgotten.
The scene was an impressive one; the beautiful house and grounds looked desolate and
drear; many of the trees were stripped and broken down, and many scorched and burned,
while the gardens and flower beds, the delight of the Bannerworth family, were rudely
trodden under foot by the rabble, and all those little beauties so much admired and tended
by the inhabitants, were now utterly destroyed, and in such a state that their site could not
even be detected by their former owners.
It was a sad sight to see such a sacrilege committed, -- such violence done to private
feelings, as to have all these places thrown open to the scrutiny of the brutal and vulgar,
who are incapable of appreciating or understanding the pleasures of a refined taste.
The ruins presented a remarkable contrast to what the place had been but a very short
time before; and now the scene of desolation was complete, there was no one spot in which
the most wretched could find shelter.

To be sure, under the lee of some broken and crumbling wall, that tottered, rather than
stood, a huddled wretch might have found shelter from the wind, but it would have been at
the risk of his life, and not there complete.
The mob became quiet for some moments, but was not so long; indeed, a mob of people,
-- which is, in fact, always composed of the most disorderly characters to be found in a
place, is not exactly the assembly that is most calculated for quietness; somebody gave a
shout, and then somebody else shouted, and the one wide throat of the whole concourse
was opened, and sent forth a mighty yell.
After this exhibition of power, they began to run about like mad, -- traverse the ground
from one end to the other, and then the ruins were in progress of being explored.
This was a tender affair, and had to be done with some care and caution by those who
were so engaged; and they walked over crumbling and decayed masses.
In one or two places, they saw what appeared to be large holes, into which the building
materials had been sunk, by their own weight, through the flooring, that seemed as roofs to
some cellars or dungeons.
Seeing this, they knew not how soon some other part might sink in, and carry their
precious bodies down with the mass of rubbish; this gave an interest to the scene, -- a little
danger is a sort of salt to an adventure, and enables those who have taken their part in it to
talk of their exploits, and of their dangers, which is pleasant to do, and to hear in the ale-
house, and by the inglenook in the winter.
However, when a few had gone some distance, others followed, when they saw them
enter the place in safety: and at length the whole ruins were covered with living men, and
not a few women, who seemed necessary to make up the elements of mischief in this case.
There were some shouting and hallooing from one to the other as they hurried about the
ruins.
At length they had explored the ruins nearly all over, when one man, who had stood a few
minutes upon a spot, gazing intently upon something, suddenly exclaimed, --
"Hilloa! hurrah! here we are, altogether, -- come on, -- I've found him, I've found --
recollect it's me and nobody else has found, -- hurrah!"
Then, with a wild kind of frenzy, he threw his hat up into the air, as if to attract attention,
and call others round him, to see what it was he had found.
"What's the matter, Bill?" exclaimed one who came up to him, and who had been close at
hand.
"The matter? why, I've found him; that's the matter, old man," replied the first.

"What, a whale?"
"No, a wampyre; the blessed wampyre! there he is, -- don't you see him under them ere
bricks?"
"Oh, that's not him; he's got away."
"I don't care," replied the other, "who got away, or who didn't; I know this much, that he's
a wampire, -- he wouldn't be there if he warn't."
This was an unanswerable argument, and nobody could deny it; consequently, there was a
cessation of talk, and the people then came up, as the two first were looking at the body.
"Whose is it?" inquired a dozen voices.
"Not Sir Francis Varney's?" said the second speaker; "the clothes are not his -- "
"No, no; not Sir Francis's."
"But I tell you what, mates," said the first speaker; "that if it isn't Sir Francis Varney's, it
is somebody else's as bad. I dare say, now, he's a wictim."
"A what?"
"A wictim to the wampyre; and, if he sees the blessed moonlight, he will be a wampyre
hisself, and so shall we be, too, if he puts his teeth into us."
"So we shall, -- so we shall," said the mob, and their flesh began to run cold, and there
was feeling of horror creeping over the whole body of persons within hearing.
"I tell you what it is; our only plan will be to get him out of the ruins, then," remarked
another.
"What!" said one; "who's going to handle such cattle? if you've a sore about you, and his
blood touches you, who's to say you won't a be a vampyre, too!"
"No, no you won't," said an old woman.
"I won't try," was the happy rejoinder; "I ain't a-going to carry a wampyre on my two legs
home to my wife and small family of seven children, and another a-coming."
There was a pause for a few moments, and then one man more adventurous than the rest,
exclaimed, --

"Well, vampyre, or no vampyre, his dead body can harm no one; so here goes to get it
out, help me who will; once have it out, and then we can prevent any evil, by burning it,
and thus destroying the whole body."
"Hurrah!" shouted three or four more, as they jumped down into the hole formed by the
falling in of the materials which had crushed Marchdale to death, for it was his body they
had discovered.
They immediately set to work to displace such of the materials as lay on the body, and
then, having cleared it of all superincumbent rubbish, they proceeded to lift it up, but found
that it had got entangled, as they called it, with some chains: with some trouble they got
them off, and the body was lifted out to a higher spot.
"Now, what's to be done?" inquired one.
"Burn it," said another.
"Hurrah!" shouted a female voice; "we've got the wampyre! run a stake through his body,
and then place him upon some dry wood, -- there's plenty to be had about here, I am sure, --
and then burn him to a cinder."
"That's right, old woman, -- that's right," said a man; "nothing better: the devil must be in
him if he come to life after that, I should say."
There might be something in that, and the mob shouted its approbation, as it was sure to
do at anything stupid or senseless, and the proposal might be said to have been carried by
acclamation, and it required only the execution.
This was soon done. There were plenty of laths and rafters, and the adjoining wood
furnished an abundant supply of dry sticks, so there was no want of fuel.
There was a loud shout as each accession of sticks took place, and, as each individual
threw his bundle into the heap, each man felt all the self-devotion to the task as the Scottish
chieftain who sacrificed himself and seven sons in the battle for his superior; and, when one
son was cut down, the man filled up his place with the exclamation, -- "Another for
Hector," until he himself fell as the last of his race.
Soon now the heap became prodigious, and it required an effort to get the mangled corpse
upon his funeral bier; but it was then a shout from the mob that rent the air announced both
the fact and their satisfaction.
The next thing to be done was to light the pile -- this was no easy task; but like all others,
it was accomplished, and the dead body of the vampyre's victim was thrown on to prevent
that becoming a vampyre too, in its turn.

"There, boys," said one, "he'll not see the moonlight, that's certain, and the sooner we put
a light to this the better: for it may be, the soldiers will be down upon us before we know
anything of it; so, now, who's got a light?"
This was a question that required a deal of searching; but, at length one was found, by one
of the mob coming forward, and after drawing his pipe vigorously for some moments, he
collected some scraps of paper, upon which he emptied the contents of the pipe, with the
hope they would take fire.
In this, however, he was doomed to disappointment; for it produced nothing but a deal of
smoke, and the paper burned without producing any flame.
This act of disinterestedness, however, was not without its due consequences, for there
were several who had pipes, and first with the hope of emulating the first projector of the
scheme for raising the flame, they joined together, and putting the contents of their pipes
together on some paper, straw, and chips, they produced, after some little trouble, a flame.
Then there was a shout, and the burning mass was then placed in a favourable position
nearer the pile of materials collected for burning, and then, in a few moments, it began to
take light; one piece communicated the fire to another, until the whole was in a blaze.
When the first flame fairly reached the top, a loud and tremendous shout arose from the
mob, and the very welkin reechoed with its fullness.
Then the forked flames rushed through the wood, and hissed and crackled as they flew,
throwing up huge masses of black smoke, and casting a peculiar reflection around. Not a
sound was heard save the hissing and roaring of the flames, which seemed like the
approaching of a furious whirlwind.
At length there was nothing to be seen but the blackened mass; it was enveloped in one
huge flame, that threw out a great heat, so much so, that those nearest to it felt induced to
retire from before it.
"I reckon," said one, "that he's pretty well done by this time -- he's had a warm berth of it
up there."
"Yes," said another, "farmer Watkins's sheep he roasted whole at last harvest-home hadn't
such a fire as this, I'll warrant; there's no such fire in the county -- why, it would prevent a
frost, I do believe it would."
"So it would, neighbour," answered another.
"Yes," replied a third, "but you'd want such a one corner of each field though." * * * *

There was much talk and joking going on among the men who stood around, in the midst
of which, however, they were disturbed by a loud shout, and upon looking in the quarter
whence it came, they saw stealing from among the ruins, the form of a man.
He was a strange, odd looking man, and at the time it was very doubtful among the mob
as to whom it was -- nobody could tell, and more than one looked at the burning pile, and
then at the man who seemed to be so mysteriously present, as if they almost imagined that
the body had got away.
"Who is it?" exclaimed one.
"Danged if I knows," said another, looking very hard, and very white at the same time; --
"I hope it ain't the chap what we've burned here jist now."
"No," said the female, "that you may be sure of, for he's had a stake through his body, and
as you said, he can never get over that, for as the stake is consumed, so are his vitals, and
that's a sure sign he's done for."
"Yes, yes, she's right -- a vampyre may live upon blood, but cannot do without his
inside."
This was so obvious to them all, that it was at once conceded, and a general impression
pervaded the mob that it might be Sir Francis Varney: a shout ensued.
"Hurrah! -- After him -- there's a vampyre -- there he goes! -- after him -- catch him --
burn him!"
And a variety of other exclamations were uttered, at the same time; the victim of popular
wrath seemed to be aware that he was now discovered, and made off with all possible
expedition, towards some wood.
Away went the mob in pursuit, hooting and hallooing like demons, and denouncing the
unfortunate being with all the terrors that could be imagined, and which naturally added
greater speed to the unfortunate man.
However, some among the mob, seeing that there was every probability of the stranger's
escaping at a mere match of speed, brought a little cunning to bear upon the matter, and
took a circuit round, and thus intercepted him.
This was not accomplished without a desperate effort, and by the best runners, who thus
reached the spot he made for, before he could get there.
When the stranger saw himself thus intercepted, he endeavoured to fly in a different
direction; but was soon secured by the mob, who made somewhat free with his person, and
commenced knocking him about.

"Have mercy on me," said the stranger. "What do you want? I am not rich; but take all I
have."
"What do you do here?" inquired twenty voices. "Come, tell us that -- what do you do
here, and who are you?"
"A stranger, quite a stranger to these parts."
"Oh, yes! he's a stranger; but that's all the worse for him -- he's a vampyre -- there's no
doubt about that."
"Good God," said the man, "I am a living and breathing man like yourselves. I have done
no wrong, and injured no man -- be merciful unto me; I intend no harm."
"Of course not; send him to the fire -- take him back to the ruins -- to the fire."
"Ay, and run a stake through his body, and then he's safe for life. I am sure he has
something to do with the vampyre; and who knows, if he ain't a vampyre, how soon he may
become one?"
"Ah! that's very true; bring him back to the fire, and we'll try the effects of the fire upon
his constitution."
"I tell you what, neighbour, it's my opinion, that as one fool makes many, so one vampyre
makes many."
"So it does; there's much truth and reason in that neighbour; I am decidedly of that
opinion, too."
"Come along then," cried the mob, cuffing and pulling the unfortunate stranger with
them.
"Mercy, mercy!"
But it was useless to call for mercy to men whose superstitious feelings urged them on;
for when the demon of superstition is active, no matter what form it may take, it always
results in cruelty and wickedness to all.
Various were the shouts and menaces of the mob, and the stranger, who was certainly a
somewhat odd and remarkable looking man, and who appeared in their eyes the very
impersonation of their notions of a vampyre, was thrust from one to the other, kicked by
one, and then cuffed by the other, as if he was doomed to run the gauntlet.
"Down with the vampyre!" said the mob.

"I am no vampyre," said the stranger; "I am new to these parts, and I pray you have mercy
upon me. I have done you no wrong. Hear me, -- I know nothing of these people of whom
you speak."
"That won't do; you've come here to see what you can do, I dare say; and, though you
may have been hurt by the vampyre, and may be only your misfortune, and not your fault,
yet the mischief is as great as ever it was or can be, you become, in spite of yourself, a
vampyre, and do the same injury to others that has been done to you -- there's no help for
you."
"No help, -- we can't help it," shouted the mob; "he must die, -- throw him on the pile."
"Put a stake through him first, though," exclaimed the humane female; "put a stake
through him and then he's safe."
This horrible advice had an electric effect on the stranger, who jumped up, and eluded the
grasp of several hands that were stretched forth to seize him.
"Throw him upon the burning wood!" shouted one.
"And a stake through his body," suggested the humane female again, who seemed to have
this one idea in her heart, and no other, and, upon every available opportunity, she seemed
to be anxious to give utterance to the comfortable notion.
"Seize him!" exclaimed one.
"Never let him go," said another; "we've gone too far to hang back now; and, if he escape,
he will visit us in our sleep, were it only out of spite."
The stranger made a dash among the ruins, and, for a moment, out-stripped his pursuers;
but a few, more adventurous than the rest, succeeded in driving him into an angle formed
by two walls, and the consequence was, he was compelled to come to a stand.
"Seize him -- seize him!" exclaimed all those at a distance.
The stranger, seeing he was now nearly surrounded, and had no chance of escape, save by
some great effort, seized a long piece of wood, and struck two of his assailants down at
once, and then dashed through the opening.
He immediately made for another part of the ruins, and succeeded in making his escape
for some short distance, but was unable to keep up the speed that was required, for his great
exertion before had nearly exhausted him, and the fear of a cruel death before his eyes was
not enough to give him strength, or lend speed to his flight. He had suffered too much from
violence, and, though he ran with great speed, yet those who followed were uninjured, and
fresher, -- he had no chance.

They came very close upon him at the corner of a field, which he endeavoured to cross,
and had succeeded in doing, and he made a desperate attempt to scramble up the bank that
divided the field from the next, but he slipped back, almost exhausted, into the ditch, and
the whole mob came up.
However, he got on the bank, and leaped into the next field, and then he was immediately
surrounded by those who pursued him, and he was struck down.
"Down with the vampyre! -- kill him, -- he's one of 'em, -- run a stake through him!" were
a few of the cries of the infuriated mob of people, who were only infuriated because he
attempted to escape their murderous intentions.
It was strange to see how they collected in a ring as the unfortunate man lay on the
ground, panting for breath, and hardly able to speak -- their infuriated countenances plainly
showing the mischief they were intent upon.
"Have mercy upon me!" he exclaimed, as he lay on the earth; "I have no power to help
myself."
The mob returned no answer, but stood collecting their numbers as they came up.
"Have mercy on me! it cannot be any pleasure to you to spill my blood. I am unable to
resist -- I am only one man among many, -- you surely cannot wish to beat me to death?"
"We want to hurt no one, except in our own defence, and we won't be made vampyres of
because you don't like to die."
"No, no; we won't be vampyres," exclaimed the mob, and there arose a great shout from
the mob.
"Are you men -- fathers? -- have you families? if so, I have the same ties as you have;
spare me for their sakes, -- do not murder me, -- you will leave one an orphan if you do;
besides, what have I done? I have injured no one."
"I tell you what, friends, if we listen to him we shall all be vampyres, and all our children
will all be vampyres and orphans."
"So we shall, so we shall; down with him!"
The man attempted to get up, but, in doing so, he received a heavy blow from a hedge-
stake, wielded by the herculean arm of a peasant. The sound of the blow was heard by those
immediately around, and the man fell dead. There was a pause, and those nearest,
apparently fearful of the consequences, and hardly expecting the catastrophe, began to
disperse, and the remainder did so very soon afterwards.
--


Chapter LXXXI.
THE VAMPYRE'S FLIGHT. -- HIS DANGER, AND THE LAST PLACE OF

REFUGE.
Leaving the disorderly and vicious mob, who were thus sacrificing human life to their
excited passions, we return to the brothers Bannerworth and the doctor, who together with
Admiral Bell, still held watch over the hall.
No indication of the coming forth of Varney presented itself for some time longer, and
then, at least they thought, they heard a window open; and, turning their eyes in the
direction whence the sound proceeded, they could see the form of a man slowly and
cautiously emerging from it.
As far as they could judge, from the distance at which they were, that form partook much
of the appearance and the general aspect of Sir Francis Varney, and the more they looked
and noticed its movements the more they felt convinced that such was the fact.
"There comes your patient, doctor," said the admiral.
"Don't call him my patient," said the doctor, "if you please."
"Why you know he is; and you are, in a manner of speaking, bound to look after him.
Well, what is to be done?"
"He must not, on any account," said Dr. Chillingworth, "be allowed to leave the place.
Believe me, I have the very strongest reasons for saying so."
"He shall not leave it then," said Henry.
Even as he spoke, Henry Bannerworth darted forward, and Sir Francis Varney dropped
from the window, out of which he had clambered, close to his feet.
"Hold!" cried Henry, "you are my prisoner."
With the most imperturbable coolness in the world, Sir Francis Varney turned upon him,
and replied, --
"And pray, Henry Bannerworth, what have I done to provoke your wrath?"
"What have you done? -- have you not, like a thief, broken into my house? Can you ask
what you have done?"
"Ay," said the vampyre, "like a thief, perchance, and yet no thief. May I ask you, what
there is to steal, in the house?"

By the time this short dialogue had been uttered, the rest of the party had come up, and
Varney was, so far as regarded numbers, a prisoner.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, with that strange contortion of countenance which, now they
all understood, arose from the fact of his having been hanged, and restored to life again.
"Well, gentlemen, now that you have beleagured me in such a way, may I ask you what it is
about?"
"If you will step aside with me, Sir Francis Varney, for a moment," said Dr.
Chillingworth, "I will make you a communication which will enable you to know what it is
all about."
"Oh, with pleasure," said the vampyre. "I am not ill at present; but still, sir, I have no
objection to hear what you have to say."
He stepped a few paces on one side with the doctor, while the others waited, not without
some amount of impatience for the result of the communication. All that they could hear
was, that Varney said, suddenly --
"You are quite mistaken."
And then the doctor appeared to be insisting upon something, which the vampyre listened
to patiently; and, at the end, burst out with, --
"Why, doctor, you must be dreaming."
At this, Dr. Chillingworth at once left him, and advancing to his friends, he said, --
"Sir Francis Varney denies in toto all that I have related to you concerning him; therefore,
I can say no more than that I earnestly recommend you, before you let him go, see that he
takes nothing of value with him."
"Why, what can you mean?" said Varney.
"Search him," said the doctor; "I will tell you why, very shortly."
"Indeed -- indeed!" said Sir Francis Varney. "Now, gentlemen, I will give you a chance of
behaving justly and quietly, so saving yourself the danger of acting otherwise. I have made
repeated offers to take this house, either as a tenant or as a purchaser, all of which offers
have been declined, upon, I dare say, a common enough principle, namely, one which
induces people to enhance the value of anything they have for disposal, if it be unique, by
making it difficult to come at. Seeing that you had deserted the place, I could make no
doubt but that it was to be had, so I came here to make a thorough examination of its
interior, to see if it would suit me. I find that it will not; therefore, I have only to apologise
for the intrusion, and to wish you a remarkably good evening."

"That won't do," said the doctor.
"What won't do, sir?"
"This excuse will not do, Sir Francis Varney. You are, although you deny it, the man who
was hanged in London some years ago for a highway robbery."
Varney laughed, and held up his hands, exclaiming, --
"Alas! alas! our good friend, the doctor, has studied too hard; his wits, probably, at the
best of times, none of the clearest, have become hopelessly entangled."
"Do you deny," said Henry, "then that you are that man?"
"Most unequivocally."
"I assert it," said the doctor, "and now, I will tell you all, for I perceive you hesitate about
searching, Sir Francis Varney, I tell you all why it is that he has such an affection for
Bannerworth Hall."
"Before you do," said Varney, "there is a pill for you, which you may find more nauseous
and harder of digestion, than any your shop can furnish."
As Varney uttered these words, he suddenly drew from his pocket a pistol, and, leveling it
at the unfortunate doctor, he fired it full at him.
The act was so sudden, so utterly unexpected, and so stunning, that it was done before
any one could move hand or foot to prevent it. Henry Bannerworth and his brother were the
furthest off from the vampyre; and, unhappily, in the rush which they, as soon as possible,
made towards him, they knocked down the admiral, who impeded them much; and, before
they could spring over, or past him, Sir Francis Varney was gone.
So sudden, too, had been his departure, that they had not the least idea in which direction
he had gone; so that to follow him would have been a work of the greatest possible
difficulty.
Notwithstanding, however, both the difficulty and the danger, for no doubt the vampyre
was well enough armed, Henry and his brother both rushed after the murderer, as they now
believed him to be, in the route which they thought it was most probable he would take,
namely, that which led towards the garden gate.
They reached that spot in a few moments, but all was profoundly still. Not the least trace
of any one could be seen, high or low, and they were compelled, after a cursory
examination, to admit that Sir Francis Varney had again made his escape, despite the great
odds that were against him in point of numbers.

"He has gone," said Henry. "Let us go back, and see into the state of poor Dr.
Chillingworth, who, I fear, is a dead man."
They hurried back to the spot, and there they found the admiral looking as composed as
possible, and solacing himself with a pinch of snuff, as he gazed upon the apparently
lifeless form at his feet.
"Is he dead?" said Henry.
"I should say he was," replied the admiral; "such a shot as that was don't want to be
repeated. Well, I liked the doctor with all his faults. He only had one foolish way with him
and that was, that he shirked his grog."
"This is an awful catastrophe," said Henry, as he knelt down by the side of the body.
"Assist me, some of you. Where is Charles?"
"I'll be hanged," said the admiral, "if I know. He disappeared somewhere."
"This is a night of mystery as well as terror. Alas! poor Dr. Chillingworth! I little thought
that you would have fallen a victim to the man whom you preserved from death. How
strange it is that you should have snatched from the tomb the very individual who was,
eventually, to take your own life."
The brothers gently raised the body of the doctor, and carried it on to the grass plot,
which was close at hand.
"Farewell, kind and honest-hearted Chillingworth," said Henry; "I shall, many and many
a time, feel your loss; and now I will rest not until I have delivered up to justice your
murderer. All consideration, or feeling, for what seemed to be latent virtues in that strange
and inexplicable man, Varney, shall vanish, and he shall reap the consequences of the crime
he has now committed."
"It was a cold blooded, cowardly murder," said his brother.
"It was; but you may depend the doctor was about to reveal something to us, which
Varney so much dreaded, that he took his life as the only effectual way, at the moment, of
stopping him."
"It must be so," said Henry.
"And now," said the admiral, "it's too late, and we shall not know it at all. That's the way.
A fellow saves up what he has got to tell till it is too late to tell it, and down he goes to
Davy Jones's locker with all his secrets aboard."
"Not always," said Dr. Chillingworth, suddenly sitting bolt upright -- "not always."

Henry and his brother started back in amazement, and the admiral was so taken by
surprise, that had not the resuscitated doctor suddenly stretched out his hand and laid hold
of him by the ankle, he would have made a precipitate retreat.
"Hilloa! murder!" he cried. "Let me go! How do I know but you may be a vampyre by
now, as you were shot by one."
Henry soonest recovered from the surprise of the moment, and with the most unfeigned
satisfaction, he cried, --
"Thank God you are unhurt, Dr. Chillingworth! Why he must have missed you by a
miracle."
"Not at all," said the doctor. "Help me up -- thank you -- all right. I'm only a little singed
about the whiskers. He hit me safe enough."
"Then how have you escaped?"
"Why from the want of a bullet in the pistol, to be sure. I can understand it all well
enough. He wanted to create sufficient confusion to cover a desperate attempt to escape,
and he thought that would be best done by seeming to shoot me. The suddenness of the
shock, and the full belief, at the moment, that he had sent a bullet into my brains, made me
fall, and produced a temporary confusion of ideas, amounting to insensibility."
"From which you are happily recovered. Thank Heaven for that, after all, he is not such a
villain as this act would have made him."
"Ah!" said the admiral, "it takes people who have lived little in these affairs to know the
difference in sound between a firearm with a bullet in it and one without. I knew it was all
right."
"Then why did you not say so, admiral?"
"What was the use? I thought the doctor might be amused to know what you should say
of him, so you see I didn't interfere; and, as I am not a good hand at galloping after
anybody, I didn't try that part of the business, but just remained where I was."
"Alas! alas!" cried the doctor, "I much fear that, by his going, I have lost all that I
expected to be able to do for you, Henry. It's of not the least use now telling you or
troubling you about it. You may now sell or let Bannerworth Hall to whomever you please,
for I am afraid it is really worthless."
"What on earth do you mean?" said Henry. "Why, doctor, will you keep up this mystery
among us? If you have anything to say, why not say it at once?"

"Because, I tell you it's of no use now. The game is up, Sir Francis Varney has escaped;
but still I don't know that I need exactly hesitate."
"There can be no reason for your hesitating about making a communication to us," said
Henry. "It is unfriendly not to do so."
"My dear boy, you will excuse me for saying that you don't know what you are talking
about."
"Can you give any reason?"
"Yes; respect for the living. I should have to relate something about the dead which
would be hurtful to their feelings."
Henry was silent for a few moments, and then he said, --
"What dead? And who are the living?"
"Another time," whispered the doctor to him; "another time, Henry. Do not press me now.
But you shall know all another time."
"I must be content. But now let us remember that another man yet lingers in Bannerworth
Hall. I will endure suspense on his account no longer. He is an intruder there; so I go at
once to dislodge him."
No one made any opposition to this move, not even the doctor; so Henry preceeded them
all to the house. They passed through the open window into the long hall, and from thence
into every apartment of the mansion, without finding the object of their search. But from
one of the windows up to which there grew great masses of ivy, there hung a rope, by
which any one might easily have let himself down; and no doubt, therefore, existed in all
their minds that the hangman had sufficiently profited by the confusion incidental to the
supposed shooting of the doctor, to make good his escape from the place.
"And so, after all," said Henry, "we are completely foiled?"
"We may be," said Dr. Chillingworth; "but it is, perhaps, going too far to say that we
actually are. One thing, however, is quite clear; and that is, no good can be done here."
"Then let us go home," said the admiral. "I did not think from the first that any good
would be done here."
They all left the garden together now; so that almost for the first time, Bannerworth Hall
was left to itself, unguarded and unwatched by any one whatever. It was with an evident
and marked melancholy that the doctor proceeded with the party to the cottage-house of the
Bannerworths; but, as after what he has said, Henry forebore to question him further upon
those subjects which he admitted he was keeping secret; and as none of the party were

much in a cue for general conversation, the whole of them walked on with more silence
than usually characterized them.
--

Chapter LXXXII.
CHARLES HOLLAND'S PURSUIT OF THE VAMPYRE. -- THE DANGEROUS

INTERVIEW.
It will be recollected that the admiral had made a remark about Charles Holland having
suddenly disappeared; and it is for us now to account for that disappearance and to follow
him to the pathway he had chosen.
The fact was, that he, when Varney fired the shot at the doctor, or what was the supposed
shot, was the farthest from the vampyre; and he, on that very account, had the clearest and
best opportunity of marking which route he took when he had discharged the pistol.
He was not confused by the smoke, as the others were; nor was he stunned by the noise of
the discharge; but he distinctly saw Varney dart across one of the garden beds, and make
for the summer house, instead of for the garden gate, as Henry had supposed was the most
probable path he had chosen.
Now, Charles Holland either had an inclination, for some reasons of his own, to follow
the vampyre alone; or, on the spur of the moment, he had not time to give an alarm to the
others; but certain it is that he did, unaided, rush after him. He saw him enter the summer-
house, and pass out of it again at the back portion of it, as he had once before done, when
surprised in his interview with Flora.
But the vampyre did not now, as he had done on the former occasion, hide immediately
behind the summer-house. He seemed to be well aware that that expedient would not
answer twice; so he at once sped onwards, clearing the garden fence, and taking to the
meadows.
It formed evidently no part of the intentions of Charles Holland to come up with him. He
was resolved upon dogging his footsteps, to know where he should go; so that he might
have a knowledge of his hiding-place if he had one.
"I must and will," said Charles to himself, "penetrate the mystery that hangs about this
most strange and inexplicable being. I will have an interview with him, not in hostility, for I
forgive him the evil he has done me, but with a kindly spirit; and I will ask him to confide
in me."
Charles, therefore, did not keep so close upon the heels of the vampyre as to excite any
suspicions of his intention to follow him; but he waited by the garden paling long enough
not only for Varney to get some distance off, but long enough likewise to know that the
pistol which had been fired at the doctor had produced no real bad effects, except singing
some curious tufts of hair upon the sides of his face, which the doctor was pleased to call
whiskers.

"I thought as much," was Charles's exclamation when he heard the doctor's voice. "It
would have been strikingly at variance with all Varney's other conduct, if he had committed
such a deliberate and heartless murder."
Then, as the form of the vampyre could be but dimly seen, Charles ran on for some
distance in the direction he had taken, and then paused again; so that if Varney heard the
sound of footsteps, and paused to listen they had ceased again probably, and nothing was
discernible.
In this manner he followed the mysterious individual, if we may really call him such, for
above a mile; and then Varney made a rapid detour, and took his way towards the town.
He went onwards with wonderful precision now in a right line, not stopping at any
obstruction, in the way of fences, hedges, or ditches, so that it took Charles some exertion,
to which, just then, he was scarcely equal, to keep up with him.
At length the outskirts of the town were gained, and then Varney paused, and looked
around him, scarcely allowing Charles, who was now closer to him than he had been, time
to hide himself from observation, which, however, he did accomplish, by casting himself
suddenly upon the ground, so that he could not be detected against the sky, which then
formed a back ground to the spot where he was.
Apparently satisfied that he had completely now eluded pursuit, if any had been
attempted, of those whom he had left in such a state of confusion, the vampyre walked
hastily towards a house which was to let, and which was only to be reached by going up an
avenue of trees, and then unlocking a gate in a wall which bounded the premises next to the
avenue. But the vampyre appeared to be possessed of every facility for effecting an
entrance to the place and, producing from his pocket a key, he at once opened the gate, and
disappeared within the precincts of those premises.
He, no doubt, felt that he was hunted by the mob of the town, and hence his frequent
change of residence, since his own had been burnt down, and, indeed, situated as he was,
there can be no manner of doubt that he would have been sacrificed to the superstitious fury
of the populace, if they could but have got hold of him.
He had, from his knowledge, which was no doubt accurate and complete, of what had
been done, a good idea of what his own fate would be, were he to fall into the hands of that
ferocious multitude; each individual composing which, felt a conviction that there would be
no peace, nor hope of prosperity or happiness, in the place, until he, the arch vampyre of all
the supposed vampyres, was destroyed.
Charles did pause for a few moments, after having thus become housed, to consider
whether he should then attempt to have the interview he had resolved upon having by some
means or another, or defer it, now that he knew where Varney was to be found, until
another time.

But when he came to consider how extremely likely it was that, even in the course of a
few hours, Varney might shift his abode for some good and substantial reasons, he at once
determined upon attempting to see him.
But how to accomplish such a purpose was not the easiest question in the world to
answer. If he rung the bell that presented itself above the garden gate, was it at all likely
that Varney, who had come there for concealment, would pay any attention to the
summons?
After some consideration, he did, however, think of a plan by which, at all events, he
could ensure effecting an entrance into the premises, and then he would take his chance of
finding the mysterious being whom he sought, and who probably might have no particular
objection to meeting with him, Charles Holland, because their last interview in the ruins
could not be said to be otherwise than of a peaceable and calm enough character.
He saw by the board, which was nailed in front of the house, that all applications to see it
were to be made to a Mr. Nash, residing close at hand; and, as Charles had the appearance
of a respectable person, he thought he might possibly have the key entrusted to him,
ostensibly to look at the house, preparatory possibly to taking it, and so he should, at all
events, obtain admission.
He, accordingly, went at once to this Mr. Nash, and asked about the house; of course he
had to affect an interest in its rental and accommodations, which he did not feel, in order to
lull any suspicion, and, finally, he said, --
"I should like to look over it if you will lend me the key, which I will shortly bring back
to you."
There was an evident hesitation about the agent when this proposal was communicated by
Charles Holland, and he said, --
"I dare say, sir, you wonder that I don't say yes, at once; but the fact is there came a
gentleman here one day when I was out, and got a key, for we have two to open the house,
from my wife, and he never came back again."
That this was the means by which Varney, the vampyre, had obtained the key, by the aid
of which Charles had seen him effect so immediate an entrance to the house, there could be
no doubt.
"How long ago were you served that trick?" he said.
"About two days ago, sir."
"Well, it only shows how, when one person acts wrongly, another is at once suspected of
a capability to do so likewise. There is my name and address; I should like rather to go
alone to see the house, because I always fancy I can judge better by myself of the

accommodation, and I can stay as long as I like, and ascertain the sizes of all the rooms
without the disagreeable feeling upon my mind, which no amount of complaisance on your
part could ever get me over, that I was most unaccountably detaining somebody from more
important business of their own."
"Oh, I assure you, sir," said Mr. Nash, "that I should not be at all impatient. But if you
would rather go alone -- "
"Indeed I would."
"Oh, then, sir, there is the key. A gentleman who leaves his name and address, of course,
we can have no objection to. I only told you of what happened, sir, in the mere way of
conversation, and I hope you won't imagine for a moment that I meant to insinuate that you
were going to keep the key."
"Oh, certainly not -- certainly not," said Charles, who was only too glad to get the key
upon any terms. "You are quite right, and I beg you will say no more about it; I quite
understand."
He then walked off to the empty house again, and, proceeding to the avenue, he fitted the
key to the lock, and had the satisfaction of finding the gate instantly yield to him.
When he passed thought it, and closed the door after him, which he did carefully, he
found himself in a handsomely laid-out garden, and saw the house a short distance in front
of him, standing upon a well got-up lawn.
He cared not if Varney should see him before he reached the house, because the fact was
sufficiently evident to himself that after all he could not actually enforce an interview with
the vampyre. He only hoped that as he had found him out it would be conceded to him.
He, therefore, walked up the lawn without making the least attempt at concealment, and
when he reached the house he allowed his footsteps to make what noise they would upon
the stone steps which led up to it. But no one appeared; nor was there, either by sight or by
sound, any indication of the presence of any living being in the place besides himself.
Insensibly, as he contemplated the deserted place around him, the solemn sort of stillness
began to have its effect upon his imagination, and, without being aware that he did so, he
had, with softness and caution, glided onwards, as if he were bent on some errand requiring
the utmost amount of caution and discrimination in the conduction of it.
And so he entered the hall of the house, where he stood some time, and listened with the
greatest attention, without, however, being able to hear the least sound throughout the
whole of the house.
"And yet he must be here," thought Charles to himself; "I was not gone many minutes,
and it is extremely unlikely that in so short a space of time he has left, after taking so much

trouble, by making such a detour around the meadows to get here, without being observed.
I will examine every room in the place, but I will find him."
Charles immediately commenced going from room to room of that house in his search for
the vampyre. There were but four apartments upon the ground floor, and these, of course,
he quickly ran through. Nothing whatever at all indicative of any one having been there met
his gaze, and with a feeling of disappointment creeping over him, he commenced the ascent
of the staircase.
The day had now fairly commenced, so that there was abundance of light, although, even
for the country, it was an early hour, and probably Mr. Nash had been not a little surprised
to have a call from one whose appearance bespoke no necessity for rising with the lark at
such an hour.
All these considerations, however, sank into insignificance in Charles's mind, compared
with the object he had in view, namely, the unravelling the many mysteries that hung
around that man. He ascended to the landing of the first story, and then, as he could have no
choice, he opened the first door that his eyes fell upon, and entered a tolerably large
apartment. It was quite destitute of furniture, and at the moment Charles was about to
pronounce it empty; but then his eyes fell upon a large black-looking bundle of something,
that seemed to be lying jammed up under the window on the floor -- that being the place of
all others in the room which was enveloped in the most shadow.
He started back involuntarily at the moment, for the appearance was one so shapeless,
that there was no such thing as defining, from even that distance, what it really was.
Then he slowly and cautiously approached it, as we always approach that of the character
of which we are ignorant, and concerning the powers of which to do injury we can
consequently have no defined idea.
That it was a human form there, was the first tangible opinion he had about it; and from
its profound stillness, and the manner in which it seemed to be laid close under the window,
he thought that he was surely upon the point of finding out that some deed of blood had
been committed, the unfortunate victim of which was now lying before him.
Upon a nearer examination, he found that the whole body, including the greater part of
the head and face, was wrapped in a large cloak; and there, as he gazed, he soon found
cause to correct his first opinion as to the form belonging to the dead, for he could distinctly
hear the regular breathing, as of some one in a sound and dreamless sleep.
Closer he went, and closer still. Then, as he clasped his hands, he said, in a voice scarcely
above a whisper, --
"It is -- it is the vampyre."

Yes, there could be no doubt of the fact. It was Sir Francis Varney who lay there,
enveloped in the huge horseman's cloak, in which, on two or three occasions during the
progress of this narrative, he has figured. There he lay, at the mercy completely of any arm
that might be raised against him, apparently so overcome by fatigue that no ordinary noise
would have awakened him.
Well might Charles Holland gaze at him with mingled feelings. There lay the being who
had done almost enough to drive the beautiful Flora Bannerworth distracted -- the being
who had compelled the Bannerworth family to leave their ancient house, to which they had
been bound by every description of association. The same mysterious existence, too, who,
the better to carry on his plots and plans, had, by dint of violence, immured him, Charles, in
a dungeon, and loaded him with chains. There he lay sleeping, and at his mercy.
"Shall I awaken him," said Charles, "or let him sleep off the fatigue, which, no doubt, is
weighing down his limbs, and setting heavily on his eyelids. No, my business with him is
too urgent."
He then raised his voice, and cried, --
"Varney, Varney, awake!"
The sound disturbed, without altogether breaking up, the deep slumber of the vampyre,
and he uttered a low moan, and moved one hand restlessly. Then, as if that disturbance of
the calm and deep repose which had sat upon him, had given at once the reign to fancy, he
began to mutter strange words in his sleep, some of which could be heard by Charles
distinctly, while others were too incoherently uttered to be clearly understood.
"Where is it?" he said; "where -- where hidden? -- Pull the house down! -- Murder! -- No,
no, no! no murder! -- I will not, I dare not. Blood enough is upon my hands. -- The money!
-- the money! Down, villains! down! down!"
What these incoherent words alluded to specifically, Charles, of course, could not have
the least idea, but he listened attentively, with a hope that something might fall from his
lips that would afford a key to some of the mysterious circumstances with which he was so
intimately connected.
Now, however, there was a longer silence than before, only broken occasionally by low
moans; but suddenly, as Charles was thinking of again speaking, he uttered some more
disjointed sentences.
"No harm," he said, "no harm, -- Marchdale is a villain! -- Not a hair of his head injured -
- no, no. Set him free -- yes, I will set him free. Beware! beware, Marchdale! and you,
Mortimer. The scaffold! ay, the scaffold! but where is the bright gold? The memory of the
deed of blood will not cling to it. Where is it hidden? The gold! the gold! the gold! It is not
in the grave -- it cannot be there -- no, no, no! -- not there, not there! Load the pistols.
There, there! Down, villain, down! -- down, down!"

Despairing, now, of obtaining anything like tangible information from these ravings,
which, even if they did, by accident, so connect themselves together as to seem to mean
something, Charles again cried aloud, --
"Varney, awake, awake!"
But, as before, the sleeping man was sufficiently deaf to the cry to remain, with his eyes
closed, still in a disturbed slumber, but yet a slumber which might last for a considerable
time.
"I have heard," said Charles, "that there are many persons whom no noise will awaken,
which the slightest touch rouses them in an instant. I will try that upon this slumbering
being."
As he spoke, he advanced close to Sir Francis Varney, and touched him slightly with the
toe of his boot.
The effect was as startling as it was instantaneous. The vampyre sprang to his feet, as he
had been suddenly impelled up by some powerful machinery; and, casting his cloak away
from his arms, so as to have them at liberty, he sprang upon Charles Holland, and hurled
him to the ground, where he held him in a giant's gripe, as he cried, --
"Rash fool! be you whom you may. Why have you troubled me to rid the world of your
intrusive existence?"
The attack was so sudden and so terrific, that resistance to it, even if Charles had had the
power, was out of the question. All he could say, was, --
"Varney, Varney! do you not know me? I am Charles Holland. Will you now, in your
mad rage, take the life you might more easily have taken when I lay in the dungeon from
which you released me?"
The sound of his voice at once convinced Sir Francis Varney of his identity; and it was
with a voice that had some tones of regret in it, that he replied, --
"And wherefore have you thought proper, when you were once free and unscathed, to cast
yourself into such a position of danger as to follow me to my haunt?"
"I contemplated no danger," said Charles, "because I contemplated no evil. I do not know
why you should kill me."
"You came here, and yet you say you do not know why I should kill you. Young man,
have you a dozen lives that you can afford to tamper with them thus? I have, at much
chance of imminence to myself, already once saved you, when another, with a sterner
feeling, would have gladly taken your life; but now, as if you were determined to goad me
to an act which I have shunned committing, you will not let me close my eyes in peace."

"Take you hand from off my throat, Varney, and I will then tell you what brought me
here."
Sir Francis Varney did so.
"Rise," he said -- "rise; I have seen blood enough to be sickened at the prospect of more;
but you should not have come here and tempted me."
"Nay, believe me, I came here for good and not for evil. Sir Francis Varney, hear me out,
and then judge for yourself whether you can blame the perseverance which enabled me to
find out this secret place of refuge; but let me first say that now it is as good a place of
concealment to you as before it was, for I shall not betray you."
"Go on, go on. What is it you desire?"
"During the long and weary hours of my captivity, I thought deeply, and painfully too, as
may be well imagined, of all the circumstances connected with your appearance at
Bannerworth Hall, and your subsequent conduct. Then I felt convinced that there was
something far more than met the eye, in the whole affair, and, from what I have been
informed of since, I am the more convinced that some secret, some mystery, which it is in
your power only perhaps to explain, lurks at the bottom of all your conduct."
"Well, proceed," said Varney.
"Have I not said enough now to enable you to divine the object of my visit? It is that you
should shake off the trammels of mystery in which you have shrouded yourself, and declare
what it is you want, what it is you desire, that has induced you to set yourself up such a
determined foe to the Bannerworth family."
"And that, you say, is the modest request that brings you here?"
"You speak as if you thought it was idle curiosity that prompts me, but you know it is not.
Your language and manner are those of a man of too much sagacity not to see that I have
higher notions."
"Name them."
"You have yourself, in more than one instance, behaved with a strange sort of romantic
generosity, as if, but for some great object which you felt impelled to seek by any means,
and at any sacrifice, you would be something in character and conduct very different from
what you are. One of my objects, then, is to awaken that better nature which is slumbering
within you, only now and then rousing itself to do some deed which should be the character
of all your actions -- for your own sake I have come."
"But not wholly?"

"Not wholly, as you say. There is another than whom, the whole world is not so dear to
me. That other one was serene as she was beautiful. Happiness danced in her eyes, and she
ought -- for not more lovely is the mind that she possesses than the glorious form that
enshrines it -- to be happy. Her life would have passed like one long summer's day of
beauty, sunshine, and pure heavenly enjoyment. You have poisoned the cup of joy that the
great God of nature had permitted her to place to her lips and taste of mistrustingly. Why
have you done this?"
"Have you said all that you came to say?"
"I have spoken the substance of my message. Much could I elaborate upon such a theme;
but it is not one, Varney, which is congenial to my heart; for your sake, however, and for
the sakes of those whom I hold most dear, let me implore you to act in this matter with a
kindly consideration. Proclaim your motives; you cannot say that they are not such as we
may aid you in."
Varney was silent for several moments; he seemed perceptibly moved by the manner of
the young man, as well as by the matter of his discourse. In fact, one would suppose that
Charles Holland had succeeded in investing what he said with some sort to charm that won
much upon the fancy of Sir Francis Varney, for when he ceased to speak, the latter said in a
low voice, --
"Go on, go on; you have surely much more to say."
"No, Varney; I have said enough, and not thus much would I have said had I not been
aware, most certainly and truly aware, without the shadow of a doubt, by your manner, that
you were most accessible to human feeling."
"I accessible to human feeling! know you to whom you speak? Am I not he before whom
all men shudder, whose name has been a terror and desolation; and yet you can talk of my
human feelings. Nay, if I had had any, be sure they would have been extinguished by the
persecutions I have endured from those who, you know, with savage ferocity have sought
my life."
"No, Varney; I give you credit for being a subtler reasoner than thus to argue; you know
well that you were the aggressor to those parties who sought your life; you know well that
with the greatest imaginable pains you held yourself up to them as a thing of great terror."
"I did -- I did."
"You cannot, then, turn round upon ignorant persons, and blame them because your
exertions to make yourself seem what you wish were but too successful."
"You use the word seem," said Varney, with a bitterness of aspect, "as if you would imply
a doubt that I am that which thousands, by their fears, would testify me to be."

"Thousands might," said Charles Holland; "but not among them am I, Varney; I will not
be made the victim of superstition. Were you to enact before my very eyes some of those
feats which, to the senses of others, would stamp you as the preternatural being you assume
to be, I would doubt the evidence of my own senses ere I permitted such a bugbear to
oppress my brain."
"Go," said Sir Francis Varney, "go: I have no more words for you; I have nothing to
relate to you."
"Nay, you have already listened sufficiently to me to give me hope that I had awakened
some of the humanity that was in your nature. Do not, Sir Francis Varney, crush that hope,
even as it was budding forth; not for my own sake do I ask you for revelations; that may,
perhaps -- must be painful for you; but for the sake of Flora Bannerworth, to whom you
own abundance of reparation."
"No, no."
"In the name of all that is great, and good, and just, I call upon you for justice."
"What have I to do with such an invocation? Utter such a sentiment to men who, like
yourself, are invested with the reality as well as the outward show of human nature."
"Nay, Sir Francis Varney, now you belie yourself. You have passed through a long, and,
perchance, a stormy life. Can you look back upon your career, and find no reminiscences of
the past that shall convince you that you are of the great family of man, and have had
abundance of human feelings and human affections?"
"Peace, peace!"
"Nay, Sir Francis Varney, I will take your word, and if you will lay your hand upon your
heart, and tell me truly that you never felt what it was to love -- to have all feeling, all taste,
and all hope of future joy, concentrated in one individual, I will despair, and leave you. If
you will tell me that never, in your whole life, you have felt for any fair and glorious
creature, as I now feel for Flora Bannerworth, a being for whom you could have sacrificed
not only existence, but all the hopes of a glorious future that bloom around it -- if you will
tell me, with the calm, dispassionate aspect of truth, that you have held yourself aloof from
such human feelings, I will no longer press you to a disclosure which I shall bring no
argument to urge."
The agitation of Sir Francis Varney's countenance was perceptible, and Charles Holland
was about to speak again, when, striking him upon the breast with his clinched hand, the
vampyre checked him, saying --
"Do you wish to drive me mad, that you thus, from memory's hidden cells, conjure up
images of the past?"

"Then there are such images to conjure up -- there are such shadows only sleeping, but
which require only, as you did even now, but a touch to awaken them to life and energy.
Oh, Sir Francis Varney, do not tell me that you are not human."
The vampyre made a furious gesture, as if he would have attacked Charles Holland; but
then he sank nearly to the floor, as if soul-stricken by some recollection that unnerved his
arm; he shook with unwonted emotion, and, from the frightful livid aspect of his
countenance, Charles dreaded some serious accession of indisposition, which might, if
nothing else did, prevent him from making the revelation he so much sought to hear from
his lips.
"Varney," he cried, "Varney, be calm! you will be listened to by one who will draw no
harsh -- no hasty conclusions; by one, who, with that charity, I grieve to say, is rare, will
place upon the words you utter the most favourable construction. Tell me all, I pray you,
tell me all."
"This is strange," said the vampyre. "I never thought that aught human could have moved
me. Young man, you have touched the chords of memory; they vibrate throughout my
heart, producing cadences and sounds of years long past. Bear with me awhile."
"And you will speak to me?"
"I will."
"Having your promise, then, I am content, Varney."
"But you must be secret; not even in the wildest waste of nature, where you can well
presume that nought but Heaven can listen to your whispering, must you utter one word of
that which I shall tell to you."
"Alas!" said Charles, "I dare not take such a confidence; I have said that it is not for
myself; I seek such knowledge of what you are, and what you have been, but it is for
another so dear to me, that all the charms of life that make up other men's delights, equal
not the witchery of one glance from her, speaking as it does of the glorious light from that
Heaven which is eternal, from whence she sprung."
"And you reject my communication," said Varney, "because I will not give you leave to
expose it to Flora Bannerworth."
"It must be so."
"And you are most anxious to hear that which I have to relate?"
"Most anxious, indeed -- indeed, most anxious."

"Then have I found in that scruple which besets your mind, a better argument for trusting
you, than had ye been loud in protestation. Had your promises of secrecy been but those
which come from the lip, and not from the heart, my confidence would not have been
rejected on such grounds. I think that I dare trust you."
"With leave to tell to Flora that which you shall communicate."
"You may whisper it to her, but to no one else, without my special leave and licence."
"I agree to those terms, and will religiously preserve them."
"I do not doubt you for one moment; and now I will tell to you what never yet has passed
my lips to mortal man. Now will I connect together some matters which you may have
heard piecemeal from others."
"What others are they?"
"Dr. Chillingworth, and he who once officiated as a London hangman."
"I have heard something from those quarters."
"Listen then to me, and you shall better understand that which you have heard. Some
years ago, it matters not the number, on a stormy night, towards the autumn of the year, two
men sat alone in poverty, and that species of distress which beset the haughty, profligate,
daring man, who has been accustomed all his life to its most enticing enjoyments, but never
to that industry which alone ought to produce them, and render them great and
magnificent."
"Two men; and who were they?"
"I was one. Look upon me! I was one of those men; and strong and evil passions were
battling in my heart."
"And the other?"
"Was Marmaduke Bannerworth."
"Gracious Heaven! the father of her whom I adore; the suicide."
"Yes, the same; that man stained with a thousand vices -- blasted by a thousand crimes --
the father of her who partakes nothing of his nature, who borrows nothing from his memory
but his name -- was the man who there sat with me, plotting and contriving how, by fraud
or violence, we were to lead our usual life of revelry and wild audacious debauch."
"Go on, go on; believe me, I am deeply interested."

"I can see as much. We were not nice in the various schemes which our prolific fancies
engendered. If trickery, and the false dice at the gaming table, sufficed not to fill our purses,
we were bold enough for violence. If simple robbery would not succeed, we could take a
life."
"Murder?"
"Ay, call it by its proper name, a murder. We sat till the midnight hour had passed,
without arriving at a definite conclusion; we saw no plan of practicable operation, and so
we wandered onwards to one of those deep dens of iniquity, a gaming house, wherein we
had won and lost thousands.
"We had no money, but we staked largely, in the shape of a wager, upon the success of
one of the players; we knew not, or cared not, for the consequences, if we had lost; but, as it
happened, we were largely successful, and beggars as we had walked into that place, we
might have left it independent men.
"But when does the gambler know when to pause in his career? If defeat awakens all the
raging passions of humanity within his bosom, success but feeds the great vice that has
been there engendered. To the dawn of morn we played; the bright sun shone in, and yet we
played -- the midday came, and went -- the stimulant of wine supported us, and still we
played; then came the shadows of evening, stealing on in all their beauty. But what were
they to us, amid those mutations of fortune, which, at one moment, made us princes, and
placed palaces at our control, and, at another, debased us below the veriest beggar, that
craves the stinted alms of charity from door to door.
"And there was one man who, from the first to the last, stayed by us like a very fiend;
more than man, I thought he was not human. We won of all, but of him. People came and
brought their bright red gold, and laid it down before us, but for us to take it up, and then,
by a cruel stroke of fortune, he took it from us.
"The night came on; we won, and he won of us; the clock struck twelve -- we were
beggars. God knows what was he.
"We saw him place his winnings about his person -- we saw the smile that curved the
corners of his lips; he was calm, and we were maddened. The blood flowed temperately
through his veins, but in ours it was burning lava, scorching as it went through every petty
artery, and drying up all human thought -- all human feeling.
"The winner left, and we tracked his footsteps. When he reached the open air, although he
had taken much less than we of the intoxicating beverages that are supplied gratis to those
who frequent those haunts of infamy, it was evident that some sort of inebriation attacked
him; his steps were disordered and unsteady, and, as we followed him, we could perceive,
by the devious track that he took, that he was somewhat uncertain of his route.

"We had no fixed motive in so pursuing this man. It was but an impulsive proceeding at
the best; but as he still went on and cleared the streets, getting into the wild and open
country, and among the hedge-rows, we began to whisper together, and to think that what
we did not owe to fortune, we might to our own energy and courage at such a moment.
"I need not hesitate to say so, since, to hide the most important feature of my revelation
from you, would be but to mock you; we resolved upon robbing him."
"And was that all?"
"It was all that our resolution went to. We were not anxious to spill blood; but still we
were resolved that we would accomplish our purpose, even if it required murder for its
consummation. Have you heard enough?"
"I have not heard enough, although I guess the rest."
"You may well guess it, from its preface. He turned down a lonely pathway, which, had
we chosen it ourselves, could not have been more suitable for the attack we meditated.
"There were tall trees on either side, and a hedge-row stretching high up between them.
We knew that that lane led to a suburban village, which, without a doubt, was the object of
his destination.
"Then Marmaduke Bannerworth spoke, saying, --
"'What we have to do, must be done now or never. There needs not two in this adventure.
Shall you or I require him to refund what he has won from us?'
"'I care not,' I said; 'but if we are to accomplish our purpose without arousing even a
shadow of resistance, it is better to show him its futility by both appearing, and take a share
in the adventure.'
"This was agreed upon, and we hastened forward. He heard footsteps pursuing him, and
quickened his pace. I was the fleetest runner, and overtook him. I passed him a pace or two,
and then turning, I faced him, and impeded his progress.
"The lane was narrow, and a glance behind him showed him Marmaduke Bannerworth;
so that he was hemmed in between two enemies, and could move neither to the right nor to
the left on account of the thick brushwood that intervened between the trees.
"Then, with an amazing courage, that sat but ill upon him, he demanded of us what we
wanted, and proclaimed his right to pass, despite the obstruction we placed in his way.
"The dialogue was brief. I, being foremost, spoke to him.

"'Your money,' I said; 'your winnings at the gaming-table. We cannot, and we will not
lose it.'
"So suddenly, that he had nearly taken my life, he drew a pistol from his pocket, and
levelling it at my head, he fired upon me.
"Perhaps, had I moved, it might have been my death; but, as it was, the bullet furrowed
my cheek, leaving a scar, the path of which is yet visible in a white cicatrix.
"I felt a stunning sensation, and thought myself a dead man. I cried aloud to Marmaduke
Bannerworth, and he rushed forward. I knew not that he was armed, and that he had the
power about him to do the deed which he then accomplished; but there was a groan, a slight
struggle, and the successful gamester fell upon the green sward, bathed in his blood."
"And this is the father of her whom I adore?"
"It is. Are you shocked to think of such a near relationship between so much beauty and
intelligence and a midnight murderer? Is your philosophy so poor, that the daughter's
beauty suffers from the commission of a father's crime?"
"No, no, it is not so. Do not fancy that, for one moment, I can entertain such unworthy
opinions. The thought that crossed me was that I should have to tell one of such a gentle
nature that her father had done such a deed."
"On that head you can use your own discretion. The deed was done; there was sufficient
light for us to look upon the features of the dying man. Ghastly and terrific they glared
upon us; while the glazed eyes, as they were upturned to the bright sky, seemed appealing
to Heaven for vengeance against us, for having done the deed.
"Many a day and many an hour since, at all those times and all seasons, I have seen them,
following me, and gloating over the misery they had the power to make. I think I see them
now."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; look -- look -- see how they glare upon me -- with what a fixed and frightful stare
the bloodshot pupils keep their place -- there, there! oh! save me from such a visitation
again. It is too horrible. I dare not -- I cannot endure it; and yet why do you gaze at me with
such an aspect, dread visitant? You know that it was not my hand that did the deed -- who
laid you low. You know that not to me are you able to lay the heavy charge of your death!"
"Varney, you look upon vacancy," said Charles Holland.
"No, no; vacancy it may be to you, but to me 'tis full of horrible shapes."

"Compose yourself; you have taken me far into your confidence already; I pray you now
to tell me all. I have in my brain no room for horrible conjectures such as those which
might else torment me."
Varney was silent for a few minutes, and then he wiped from his brow the heavy drops of
perspiration that had there gathered, and heaved a deep sigh.
"Speak to me," added Charles; "nothing will so much relieve you from the terrors of this
remembrance as making a confidence which reflection will approve of, and which you will
know that you have no reason to repent."
"Charles Holland," said Varney, "I have already gone too far to retract -- much too far, I
know, and can well understand all the danger of half confidence. You already know so
much, that it is fit you should know more."
"Go on then, Varney, I will listen to you."
"I know not if, at this juncture, I can command myself to say more. I feel that what next
has to be told will be most horrible for me to tell -- most sad for you to hear told."
"I can well believe, Varney, from your manner of speech, and from the words you use,
that you have some secret to relate beyond the simple fact of the murder of this gamester by
Marmaduke Bannerworth."
"You are right -- such is the fact; the death of that man could not have moved me as you
now see me moved. There is a secret connected with his fate which I may well hesitate to
utter -- a secret too horrible even to whisper to the winds of heaven -- although I did not do
the deed; no, no -- I did not strike the blow -- not I -- not I!"
"Varney, it is astonishing to me the pains you take to assure yourself of your innocence of
this deed; no one accuses you, but still, were it not that I am impressed with a strong
conviction that you're speaking to me nothing but the truth, the very fact of your extreme
anxiety to acquit yourself, would engender suspicion."
"I can understand that feeling, Charles Holland; I can fully understand it. I do not blame
you for it -- it is a most natural one; but when you know all, you will feel with me how
necessary it must have been to my peace to seize upon every trivial circumstance that can
help me to a belief in my own innocence."
"It may be so; as yet, you well know, I speak in ignorance. But what could there have
been in the character of that gambler, that has made you so sympathetic concerning his
decease?"
"Nothing -- nothing whatever in his character. He was a bad man; not one of these free,
open spirits which are seduced into crime by thoughtlessness -- not one of those whom we
pity, perchance, more than we condemn; but a man without a redeeming trait in his

disposition -- a man so heaped up with vices and iniquities, that society gained much by his
decease, and not an individual could say that he had lost a friend."
"And yet the mere thought of the circumstances connected with his death seems almost to
drive you to the verge of despair."
"You are right; the mere thought has that effect."
"You have aroused all my curiosity to know the causes of such a feeling."
Varney paced the apartment in silence for many minutes. He seemed to be enduring a
great mental struggle, and at length, when he turned to Charles Holland and spoke, there
were upon his countenance traces of deep emotion.
"I have said, young man, that I will take you into my confidence. I have said that I will
clear up many seeming mysteries, and that I will enable you to understand what was
obscure in the narrative of Dr. Chillingworth, and of that man who filled the office of
public executioner, and who has haunted me so long."
"It is true, then, as the doctor states, that you were executed in London?"
"I was."
"And resuscitated by the galvanic process, put into operation by Dr. Chillingworth?"
"As he supposed; but there are truths connected with natural philosophy which he
dreamed not of. I bear a charmed life, and it was but accident which produced a similar
effect upon the latent springs of my existence in the house to which the executioner
conducted me, to what would have been produced had I been suffered, in the free and open
air, to wait until the cool moonbeams fell upon me."
"Varney, Varney," said Charles Holland, "you will not succeed in convincing me of your
supernatural powers. I hold such feelings and sensations at arm's length. I will not -- I
cannot assume you to be what you affect."
"I ask for no man's belief. I know that which I know, and, gathering experience from the
coincidence of different phenomena, I am compelled to arrive at certain conclusions.
Believe what you please, doubt what you please; but I say again that I am not as other
men."
"I am in no condition to dispute your proposition; I wish not to dispute it; but you are
wandering, Varney, from the point. I wait anxiously for a continuation of your narrative."
"I know that I am wandering from it -- I know well that I am wandering from it, and that
the reason I do so is that I dread that continuation."

"That dread will not be the less for its postponement."
"You are right; but tell me, Charles Holland, although you are young you have been about
in the great world sufficiently to form correct opinions, and to understand that which is
related to you, drawing proper deductions from certain facts, and arriving possibly at more
correct conclusions than some of maturer years with less wisdom."
"I will freely answer, Varney, any question you may put to me."
"I know it; tell me then what measure of guilt you attach to me in the transaction I have
noticed to you."
"It seems then to me that, not contemplating the man's murder, you cannot be accused of
the act, although a set of fortuitous circumstances made you appear an accomplice to its
commission."
"You think I may be acquitted?"
"You can acquit yourself, knowing that you did not contemplate the murder."
"I did not contemplate it. I know not what desperate deed I should have stopped short at
then, in the height of my distress, but I neither contemplated taking that man's life, nor did I
strike the blow which sent him from existence."
"There is even some excuse as regards the higher crime for Marmaduke Bannerworth."
"Think you so?"
"Yes; he thought that you were killed, and impulsively he might have struck the blow that
made him a murderer."
"Be it so. I am willing, extremely willing that anything should occur that should remove
the odium of guilt from any man. Be it so, I say, with all my heart; but now, Charles
Holland, I feel that we must meet again ere I can tell you all; but in the meantime let Flora
Bannerworth rest in peace -- she need dread nothing from me. Avarice and revenge, the two
passions which found a home in my heart, are now stifled forever."
"Revenge! did you say revenge?"
"I did; whence the marvel, am I not sufficiently human for that?"
"But you coupled it with the name of Flora Bannerworth."
"I did, and that is part of my mystery."

"A mystery, indeed, to imagine that such a being as Flora could awaken any such feeling
in your heart -- a most abundant mystery."
"It is so. I do not affect to deny it; but yet it is true, although so greatly mysterious; but
tell her that although at one time I looked upon her as one whom I cared not if I injured, her
beauty and distress changed the current of my thoughts, and won me greatly. From the
moment I found I had the power to become the bane of her existence, I ceased to wish to be
so, and never again shall she experience a pang of alarm from Varney, the vampyre."
"Your message shall be faithfully delivered, and doubt not that it will be received with
grateful feelings. Nevertheless I should have much wished to have been in a position to
inform her of more particulars."
"Come to me here at midnight to-morrow, and you shall know all. I will have no
reservation with you, no concealments; you shall know whom I have had to battle against,
and how it is that a world of evil passions took possession of my heart and made me what I
am."
"Are you firm in this determination, Varney -- will you indeed tell me no more to-night?"
"No more, I have said it. Leave me now, I have need of more repose; for of late sleep has
seldom closed my eyelids."
Charles Holland was convinced, from the positive manner in which he spoke, that
nothing more in the shape of information, at that time, was to be expected from Varney;
and being fearful that if he urged this strange being too far, at a time when he did not wish
it, he might refuse all further communication, he thought it prudent to leave him, so he said
to him, --
"Be assured, Varney, I shall keep the appointment you have made, with an expectation
when we do meet of being rewarded by a recital of some full particulars."
"You shall not be disappointed; farewell, farewell!"
Charles Holland bade him adieu, and left the place.
Although he had now acquired all the information he hoped to take away with him when
Varney first began to be communicative, yet, when he came to consider how strange and
unaccountable a being he had been in communication with, Charles could not but
congratulate himself that he had heard so much; for, from the manner of Varney, he could
well suppose that that was, indeed, the first time he had been so communicative upon
subjects which evidently held so conspicuous a place in his heart.
And he had abundance of hope, likewise, from what had been said by Varney, that he
would keep his word, and communicate to him fully all else that he required to know and
when he recollected those words which Varney had used, signifying that he knew the

danger of half confidences, that hope grew into a certainty, and Charles began to have no
doubt but that on the next evening all that was mysterious in the various affairs connected
with the vampyre would become clear and open to the light of day.
He strolled down the lane in which the lone house was situated, revolving these matters in
his mine, and when he arrived at its entrance, he was rather surprised to see a throng of
persons hastily moving onward, with some appearance of dismay about them, and anxiety
depicted upon their countenances.
He stopped a lad, and inquired of him the cause of the seeming tumult.
"Why, sir, the fact is," said the boy, "a crowd from the town's been burning down
Bannerworth Hall, and they've killed a man."
"Bannerworth Hall! you must be mistaken."
"Well, sir, I ought not to call it Bannerworth Hall, because I mean the old ruins in the
neighbourhood that are supposed to have been originally Bannerworth Hall before the
house now called such was built; and, moreover, as the Bannerworths have always had a
garden there, and two or three old sheds, the people in the town called it Bannerworth Hall
in common with the other building."
"I understand. And do you say that all have been destroyed?"
"Yes, sir. All that was capable of being burnt has been burnt, and, what is more, a man
has been killed among the ruins. We don't know who he is, but the folks said he was a
vampyre, and they left him for dead."
"When will these terrible outrages cease? Oh! Varney, Varney, you have much to answer
for; even if in your conscience you succeed in acquitting yourself of the murder, some of
the particulars concerning which you have informed me of."
--

Chapter LXXXIII.
THE MYSTERIOUS ARRIVAL AT THE INN. -- THE HUNGARIAN NOBLEMAN. -

- THE LETTER TO VARNEY.
While these affairs are proceeding, and when there seems every appearance of Sir Francis
Varney himself quickly putting an end to some of the vexatious circumstances connected
with himself and the Bannerworth family, it is necessary that we should notice an
occurrence which took place at the same inn which the admiral had made such a scene of
confusion upon the occasion of his first arrival in the town.
Not since the admiral had arrived with Jack Pringle, and so disturbed the whole economy
of the household, was there so much curiosity excited as on the morning following the
interview which Charles Holland had had with Varney, the vampyre.
The inn was scarcely opened, when a stranger arrived, mounted on a coal-black horse,
and, alighting, he surrendered the bridle into the hands of a boy who happened to be at the
inn-door, and stalked slowly and solemnly into the building.
He was tall, and of a cadaverous aspect; in attire he was plainly apparelled, but there was
no appearance of poverty about him; on the contrary, what he really had on was of a rich
and costly character, although destitute of ornament.
He sat down in the first room that presented itself, and awaited the appearance of the
landlord, who, upon being informed that a guest of apparently ample means, and of some
consequence, had entered the place, hastily went to him to receive his commands.
With a profusion of bows, our old friend, who had been so obsequious to Admiral Bell,
entered the room, and begged to know what orders the gentleman had for him.
"I presume," said the stranger, in a deep, solemn voice, "I presume that you have no
objection, for a few days that I shall remain in this town, to board and lodge me for a
certain price which you can name to me at once?"
"Certainly, sir," said the landlord; "any way you please; without wine, sir, I presume?"
"As you please; make your own arrangements."
"Well, sir, as we can't tell, of course, what wine a gentleman may drink, but when we
come to consider breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper, and a bed, and all that sort of thing, and
a private sitting-room, I suppose, sir?"
"Certainly."

"You would not, then, think, sir, a matter of four guineas a week will be too much,
perhaps."
"I told you to name your own charge. Let it be four guineas; if you had said eight I should
have paid it."
"Good God!" said the publican, "here's a damned fool that I am. I beg your pardon, sir, I
didn't mean you. Now I could punch my own head -- will you have breakfast at once, sir,
and then we shall begin regularly, you know, sir?"
"Have what?"
"Breakfast, breakfast, you know, sir; tea, coffee, cocoa, or chocolate; ham, eggs, or a bit
of grilled fowl, cold sirloin of roast beef, or a red herring -- anything you like, sir."
"I never take breakfast, so you may spare yourself the trouble of providing anything for
me."
"Not take breakfast, sir! not take breakfast! Would you like to take anything to drink then,
sir? People say it's an odd time, at eight o'clock in the morning, to drink; but, for my part, I
always have thought that you couldn't begin a good thing too soon."
"I live upon drink," said the stranger; "but you have none in the cellar that will suit me."
"Indeed, sir."
"No, no, I am certain."
"Why, we've got some claret now, sir," said the landlord.
"Which may look like blood, and yet not be it."
"Like what, sir? -- damn my rags!"
"Begone, begone."
The stranger uttered these words so peremptorily that the landlord hastily left the room,
and going into his own bar, he gave himself so small a tap on the side of the head, that it
would not have hurt a fly, as he said, --
"I could punch myself into bits, I could tear my hair out by the roots;" and then he pulled
a little bit of his hair, so gently and tenderly that it showed what a man of discretion he was,
even in the worst of all his agony of passion.

"The idea," he added, "of a fellow coming here, paying four guineas a week for board and
lodging, telling me he would not have minded eight, and then not wanting any breakfast;
it's enough to aggravate half a dozen saints; but what an odd fish he looks."
At this moment the ostler came in, and, standing at the bar, he wiped his mouth with his
sleeve, as he said, --
"I suppose you'll stand a quart for that, master?"
"A quart for what, you vagabond? A quart because I've done myself up in heaps; a quart
because I'm fit to pull myself into fiddlestrings?"
"No," said the ostler; "because I've just put up the gentleman's horse."
"What gentleman's horse?"
"Why, the big-looking fellow with the white face, now in the parlour."
"What, did he come on a horse, Sam? What sort of a looking creature is it? you may
judge of a man from the sort of horse-company he keeps."
"Well, then, sir, I hardly know. It's coal black, and looks as knowing as possible; it's tried
twice to get a kick at me, but I was down upon him, and put the bucket in his way.
Howsomdever, I don't think it's a bad animal, as a animal, mind you, sir, though a little bit
wicious or so."
"Well," said the publican, as he drew the ostler half a pint instead of a quart, "you're
always drinking; take that."
"Blow me," said the ostler, "half a pint, master!"
"Plague take you, I can't stand parleying with you, there's the parlour bell; perhaps after
all, he will have some breakfast."
While the landlord was away the ostler helped himself to a quart of the strongest ale,
which, by a singular faculty that he had acquired, he poured down his throat without any
effort at swallowing, holding his head back, and the jug at a little distance from his mouth.
Having accomplished this feat, he reversed the jug, giving it a knowing tap with his
knuckles as though he would have signified to all the world that it was empty, and that he
had accomplished what he desired.
In the meantime, the landlord had made his way to his strange guest, who said to him,
when he came into the room,
"Is there not one Sir Francis Varney residing in this town?"

"The devil!" thought the landlord; "this is another of them, I'll bet a guinea. Sir Francis
Varney, sir, did you say? Why, sir, there was a Sir Francis Varney, but folks seem to think
as how he's no better than he should be -- a sort of vampyre, sir, if you know what that is."
"I have, certainly, heard of such things; but can you not tell me Varney's address? I wish
to see him."
"Well, then, sir, I cannot tell it to you, for there's really been such a commotion and such
a riot about him that he's taken himself off, I think, altogether, and we can hear nothing of
him. Lord bless you, sir, they burnt down his house, and hunted him about so, that I don't
think that he'll ever show his face here again."
"And cannot you tell me where he was seen last?"
"That I cannot, sir; but, if anybody knows anything about him, it's Mr. Henry
Bannerworth, or perhaps Dr. Chillingworth, for they have had more to do with him than
anybody else."
"Indeed; and can you tell me the address of the former individual?"
"That I cannot, sir, for the Bannerworths have left the Hall. As for the doctor, sir, you'll
see his house in High-street, with a large brass plate on the door, so that you cannot mistake
it. It's No. 9, on the other side of the way."
"I thank you for so much information," said the stranger, and rising, he walked to the
door. Before, however, he left, he turned, and added, -- "You can say, if you should by
chance meet Mr. Bannerworth, that a Hungarian nobleman wishes to speak to him
concerning Sir Francis Varney, the vampyre?"
"A what, sir?"
"A nobleman from Hungary," was the reply.
"The deuce!" said the landlord, as he looked after him. "He don't seem at all hungry here,
not thirsty neither. What does he mean by a nobleman from Hungary? The idea of a man
talking about hungry, and not taking any breakfast. He's queering me. I'll be hanged if I'll
stand it. Here I clearly lose four guineas a week, and then get made a game of besides. A
nobleman, indeed! I think I see him. Why, he isn't quite so big as old Slaney, the butcher.
It's a do. I'll have at him when he comes back."
Meanwhile, the unconscious object of this soliloquy passed down High-street, until he
came to Dr. Chillingworth's, at whose door he knocked.
Now Mrs. Chillingworth had been waiting the whole night for the return of the doctor,
who had not yet made his appearance, and, consequently, that lady's temper had become
acidulated to an uncommon extent, and when she heard a knock at the door, something

possessed her that it could be no other than her spouse, and she prepared to give him that
warm reception which she considered he had a right, as a married man, to expect after such
conduct.
She hurriedly filled a tolerably sized hand-basin with not the cleanest water in the world,
and then, opening the door hurriedly with one hand, she slouced the contents into the face
of the intruder, exclaiming, --
"Now you've caught it!"
"D -- n!" said the Hungarian nobleman, and then Mrs. Chillingworth uttered a scream, for
she feared she had made a mistake.
"Oh, sir! I'm very sorry; but I thought it was my husband."
But if you did," said the stranger, "there was no occasion to drown him with a basin of
soap-suds. It is your husband I want, madam, if he be Dr. Chillingworth."
"Then, indeed, you must go on wanting him, sir, for he's not been to his own home for a
day and a night. He takes up all his time in hunting after that beastly vampyre."
"Ah! Sir Francis Varney, you mean."
"I do; and I'd Varney him if I caught hold of him."
"Can you give me the least idea of where he can be found?"
"Of course I can."
"Indeed! where?" said the stranger, eagerly.
"In some churchyard, to be sure, gobbling up the dead bodies."
With this Mrs. Chillingworth shut the door with a bang that nearly flattened the
Hungarian's nose with his face, and he was fain to walk away, quite convinced that there
was no information to be had in that quarter.
He returned to the inn, and having told the landlord that he would give a handsome
reward to any one who would discover to him the retreat of Sir Francis Varney, he shut
himself up in an apartment alone, and was busy for a time in writing letters.
Although the sum which the the stranger offered was an indefinite one, the landlord
mentioned the matter across the bar to several persons; but all of them shook their heads,
believing it to be a very perilous adventure indeed to have anything to do with so
troublesome a subject as Sir Francis Varney. As the day advanced, however, a young lad
presented himself, and asked to see the gentleman who had been inquiring for Varney.

The landlord severely questioned and cross-questioned him, with the hope of discovering
if he had any information; but the boy was quite obdurate, and would speak to no one but
the person who had offered the reward, so that mine host was compelled to take him to the
Hungarian nobleman, who, as yet, had neither eaten nor drunk in the house.
The boy wore upon his countenance the very expression of juvenile cunning, and when
the stranger asked him if he really was in possession of any information concerning the
retreat of Sir Francis Varney, he said, --
"I can tell you where he is, but what are you going to give?"
"What sum do you require?" said the stranger.
"A whole half-crown."
"It is your's; and, if your information prove correct, come to-morrow, and I'll add another
to it, always provided, likewise, you keep the secret from any one else."
"Trust me for that," said the boy. "I live with my grandmother; she's precious old, and has
got a cottage. We sell milk and cakes, sticky stuff, and pennywinkles."
"A goodly collection. Go on."
"Well, sir, this morning, there comes a man in with a bottle, and he buys a bottle full of
milk and a loaf. I saw him, and I knew it was Varney, the vampyre."
"You followed him?"
"Of course I did, sir; and he's staying at the house that's to let down the lane, round the
corner, by Mr. Biggs's, and past Lee's garden, leaving old Slaney's stacks on your right
hand, and so cutting on till you come to Grant's meadow, when you'll see old Madhunter's
brick-field staring of you in the face; and arter that -- "
"Peace -- peace! -- you shall yourself conduct me. Come to this place at sunset; be secret,
and, probably, ten times the reward you have already received may be yours," said the
stranger.
"What, ten half-crowns?"
"Yes; I will keep my word with you."
"What a go! I know what I'll do. I'll set up as a showman, and what a glorious treat it will
be, to peep through one of the holes all day myself, and get somebody to pull the strings up
and down, and when I'm tired of that, I can blaze away upon the trumpet like one o'clock. I
think I see me. Here you sees the Duke of Marlborough a whopping of everybody, and here
you see the Frenchmen flying about like parched peas in a sifter."

Chapter LXXXIV.
THE EXCITED POPULACE. -- THE PLACE OF REFUGE.
There seemed now a complete lull in the proceedings as connected with Varney, the
vampyre. We have reason to believe that the executioner who had been as solicitous as
Varney to obtain undisputed possession of Bannerworth Hall, has fallen a victim to the
indiscriminate rage of the mob. Varney himself is a fugitive, and bound by the most solemn
ties to Charles Holland, not only to communicate to him such particulars of the past, as will
bring satisfaction to his mind, but to abstain from any act which, for the future, shall
exercise a disastrous influence upon the happiness of Flora.
The doctor and the admiral, with Henry, had betaken themselves from the Hall as we had
recorded, and, in due time, reached the cottage where Flora and her mother had found a
temporary refuge.
Mrs. Bannerworth was up; but Flora was sleeping, and, although the tidings they had to
tell were of a curious and mixed nature, they would not have her disturbed to listen to them.
And, likewise, they were rather pleased than otherwise, since they knew not exactly what
had become of Charles Holland, to think that they would probably be spared the necessity
of saying they could not account for his absence.
That he had gone upon some expedition, probably dangerous, and so one which he did
not wish to communicate the particulars of to his friends, lest they should make a strong
attempt to dissuade him from it, they were induced to believe.
But yet they had that confidence in his courage and active intellectual resources, to
believe that he would come through it unscathed, and, probably, shortly show himself at the
cottage.
In this hope they were not disappointed, for in about two hours Charles made his
appearance; but, until he began to be questioned concerning his absence by the admiral, he
scarcely considered the kind of dilemma he had put himself into by the promise of secrecy
he had given to Varney, and was a little puzzled to think how much he might tell, and how
much he was bound in honour to conceal.
"Avast there!" cried the admiral; "what's become of your tongue, Charles? You've been
on some cruize, I'll be bound. Haul over the ship's books, and tell us what's happened."
"I have been upon an adventure," said Charles, "which I hope will be productive of
beneficial results to us all; but, the fact is, I have made a promise, perhaps incautiously, that
I will not communicate what I know."

"Whew!" said the admiral; "that's awkward; but, however, if a man sails under sealed
instructions, there's an end of it. I remember when I was off Candia once -- "
"Ha!" interposed Jack, "that was the time you tumbled over the blessed binnacle, all in
consequence of taking too much Madiera. I remember it, too -- it's an out and out good
story, that 'ere. You took a rope's end, you know, and laid into the bowsprit; and, says you,
'Get up, you lubber,' says you, all the while a thinking, I suppose, as it was long Jack
Ingram, the carpenter's mate, laying asleep. What a lark!"
"This scoundrel will be the death of me," said the admiral; "there isn't one word of truth
in what he says. I never got drunk in all my life, as everybody knows. Jack, affairs are
getting serious between you and I -- we must part, and for good. It's a good many times that
I've told you you've forgot the difference between the quarter-deck and the caboose. Now,
I'm serious -- you're off the ship's books, and there's an end of you."
"Very good," said Jack; "I'm willing. I'll leave you. Do you think I want to keep you any
longer? Good by, old bloak -- I'll leave you to repent, and when old grim death comes yard-
arm with you, and you can't shake off his boarding-tackle, you'll say, 'Where's Jack
Pringle?' says you; and then what's his name -- oh, ah! echo you call it -- echo'll say, it's d --
-- d if it knows."
Jack turned upon his heel, and before the admiral could make any reply, he left the place.
"What's the rascal up to now?" said the admiral. "I really didn't think he'd have taken me
at my word."
"Oh, then, after all, you didn't mean it, uncle?" said Charles.
"What's that to you, you lubber, whether I mean it, or not, you shore-going squab? Of
course I expect everybody to desert an old hulk, rats and all -- and now Jack Pringle's gone;
the vagabond, couldn't he stay? and get drunk as long as he liked! Didn't he say what he
pleased, and do what he pleased, the mutinous thief? Didn't he say I run away from a
Frenchman off Cape Ushant, and didn't I put up with that?"
"But, my dear uncle, you sent him away yourself."
"I didn't, and you know I didn't; but I see how it is, you've disgusted Jack among you. A
better seaman never trod the deck of a man-of-war."
"But his drunkenness, uncle?"
"It's a lie. I don't believe he ever got drunk. I believe you all invented it, and Jack's so
good-natured, he tumbled about just to keep you in countenance."
"But his insolence, uncle; his gross insolence towards you -- his inventions, his
exaggerations of the truth?"

"Avast, there -- avast, there, -- none of that, Master Charlie; Jack couldn't do anything of
the sort; and I means to say this, that if Jack was here now, I'd stick up for him, and say he
was a good seaman."
"Tip us your fin, then," said Jack, darting into the room; "do you think I'd leave you, you
d -- -- d old fool? What would become of you, I wonder, if I wasn't to take you in to dry
nurse? Why, you blessed old babby, what do you mean by it?"
"Jack, you villain!"
"Ah! go on and call me a villain as much as you like. Don't you remember when the
bullets were scuttling our nobs?"
"I do, I do, Jack; tip us your fin, old fellow. You've saved my life more than once."
"It's a lie."
"It ain't. You did, I say."
"You be d -- -- d!"
And thus was the most serious misunderstanding that these two worthies ever had
together made up. The real fact is, that the admiral could as little do without Jack, as he
could have done without food; and as for Pringle, he no more thought of leaving the old
commodore, than of -- what shall we say? forswearing rum. Jack himself could not have
taken a stronger oath.
But the old admiral had suffered so much from the idea that Jack had actually left him,
that although he abused him as usual often enough, he never again talked of taking him off
the ship's books; and, to the credit of Jack be it spoken, he took no advantage of the
circumstance, and only got drunk just as usual, and called his master an old fool whenever
it suited him.
--
Chapter LXXXV.
THE HUNGARIAN NOBLEMAN GETS INTO DANGER. -- HE IS FIRED AT, AND

SHOWS SOME OF HIS QUALITY.

Considerably delighted was the Hungarian, not only at the news he had received from the
boy, but as well for the cheapness of it. Probably he did not conceive it possible that the
secret of the retreat of such a man as Varney could have been attained so easily.
He waited with great impatience for the evening, and stirred not from the inn for several
hours; neither did he take any refreshment, notwithstanding he had made so liberal an
arrangement with the landlord to be supplied.
All this was a matter of great excitement and speculation in the inn, so much so, indeed,
that the landlord sent for some of the oldest customers of his house, regular topers, who sat
there every evening, indulging in strong drinks, and pipes and tobacco, to ask their serious
advice as to what he should do, as if it were necessary he should do anything at all.
But, somehow or another, these wiseacres who assembled at the landlord's bidding, and
sat down, with something strong before them, in the bar parlour, never once seemed to
think that a man might, if he choosed, come to an inn, and agree to pay four guineas a week
for board and lodging, and yet take nothing at all.
No; they could not understand it, and therefore they would not have it. It was quite
monstrous that anybody should attempt to do anything so completely out of the ordinary
course of proceeding. It was not to be borne; and as in this country it happens, free and
enlightened as we are, that no man can commit a greater social offence than doing
something his neighbours never thought of doing themselves, the Hungarian nobleman was
voted a most dangerous character, and, in fact, not to be put up with.
"I shouldn't have thought so much of it," said the landlord; "but only look at the
aggravation of the thing. After I have asked him four guineas a week, and expected to be
beaten down to two, to be then told that he would not have cared if it had been eight. It is
enough to aggravate a saint."
"Well, I agree with you there," said another; "that's just what it is, and I only wonder that
a man of your sagacity has not quite understood it before."
"Understood what?"
"Why, that he is a vampyre. He has heard of Sir Francis Varney, that's the fact, and he's
come to see him. Birds of a feather, you know, flock together, and now we shall have two
vampyres in the town instead of one."
The party looked rather blank at this suggestion, which, indeed, seemed rather
uncomfortable probably. The landlord had just opened his mouth to make some remark,
when he was stopped by the violent ringing of what he now called the vampyre's bell, since
it proceeded from the room where the Hungarian nobleman was.
"Have you an almanack in the house?" was the question of the mysterious guest.

"An almanack, sir? well, I really don't know. Let me see, an almanack."
"But, perhaps, you can tell me. I was to know the moon's age."
"The devil!" thought the landlord; "he's a vampyre, and no mistake. Why, sir, as to the
moon's age, it was a full moon last night; very bright and beautiful, only you could not see
it for the clouds."
"A full moon last night," said the mysterious guest, thoughtfully; "it may shine, then,
brightly to-night, and if so, all will be well. I thank you, -- leave the room."
"Do you mean to say, sir, you don't want anything to eat now?"
"What I want I will order."
"But you have ordered nothing."
"Then presume that I want nothing."
The discomfited landlord was obliged to leave the room, for there was no such thing as
making any answer to this, and so, still further confirmed in his opinion that the stranger
was a vampyre that came to see Sir Francis Varney from a sympathetic feeling towards
him, he again reached the bar-parlour.
"You may depend," he said, "as sure as eggs is eggs, that he is a vampyre. Hilloa! he's
gone off, -- after him -- after him; he thinks we suspect him. There he goes -- down the
High-street."
The landlord ran out, and so did those who were with him, one of whom carried his
brandy and water in his hand, which, being too hot for him to swallow all at once, he still
could not think of leaving behind.
It was now getting rapidly dark, and the mysterious stranger was actually proceeding
towards the lane to keep his appointment with the boy who had promised to conduct him to
the hiding-place of Sir Francis Varney.
He had not proceeded far, however, before he began to suspect that he was followed, as it
was evident on the instant that he altered his course; for, instead of walking down the lane,
where the boy was waiting for him, he went right on, and seemed desirous of making his
way into the open country between the town and Bannerworth Hall.
His pursuers -- for they assumed that character -- when they saw this became anxious to
intercept him; and thinking that the greater force they had the better, they called out aloud
as they passed a smithy, where a man was shoeing a horse, --
"Jack Burdon, here is another vampyre!"

"The deuce there is!" said the person who was addressed. "I'll soon settle him. Here's my
wife gets no sleep of a night as it is, all owing to that Varney, who has been plaguing us so
long. I won't put up with another."
So saying, he snatched from a hook on which it hung, an old fowling-piece, and joined
the pursuit, which now required to be conducted with some celerity, for the stranger had
struck into the open country, and was getting on at a good speed.
The last remnants of the twilight were fading away, and although the moon had actually
risen, its rays were obscured by a number of light, fleecy clouds, which, although they did
not promise to be of long continuance, as yet certainly impeded the light.
"Where is he going?" said the blacksmith. "He seems to be making his way towards the
mill-stream."
"No," said another; "don't you see he is striking higher up towards the old ford, where the
stepping-stones are?"
"He is -- he is," cried the blacksmith, "Run on -- run on; don't you see he is crossing it
now? Tell me, all of you, are you quite sure he is a vampyre, and no mistake? He ain't the
exciseman, landlord, now, is he?"
"The exciseman, the devil! Do you think I want to shoot the exciseman?"
"Very good -- then here goes," exclaimed the Smith.
He stopped, and just as the brisk night air blew aside the clouds from before the face of
the moon, and as the stranger was crossing the slippery stones, he fired at him. * * * *
How silently and sweetly the moon's rays fall upon the water, upon the meadows, and
upon the woods. The scenery appeared the work of enchantment, some fairy land, waiting
the appearance of its inhabitants. No sound met the ear; the very wind was hushed; nothing
was there to distract the sense of sight, save the power of reflection.
This, indeed, would aid the effect of such a scene. A cloudless sky, the stars all radiant
with beauty, while the moon, rising higher and higher in the heavens, increasing in the
strength and refulgence of her light, and dimming the very stars, which seemed to grow
gradually invisible as the majesty of the queen of night became more and more manifest.
The dark woods and the open meadows contrasted more and more strongly; like light and
shade, the earth and sky were not more distinct and apart; and the rippling stream, that
rushed along with all the impetuosity of uneven ground.
The banks are clothed with verdure; the tall sedges, here and there, lined the sides; beds
of bulrushes raised their heads high above all else, and threw out their round clumps of
blossoms like tufts, and looked strange in the light of the moon.

Here and there, too, the willows bent gracefully over the stream, and their long leaves
were wafted and borne up and down by the gentler force of the stream.
Below, the stream widened, and ran foaming over a hard, stony bottom, and near the
middle is a heap of stones -- of large stones, that form the bed of the river, from which the
water has washed away all earthy particles, and left them by themselves.
These stones in winter could not be seen, they were all under water, and the stream
washed over in a turbulent and tumultuous manner. But now, when the water was clear and
low, they are many of them positively out of the water, the stream running around and
through their interstices; the water-weeds here and there lying at the top of the stream, and
blossoming beautifully.
The daisy-like blossoms danced and waved gently on the moving flood, at the same time
they shone in the moonlight, like fairy faces rising from the depths of the river, to receive
the principle of life from the moon's rays.
'Tis sweet to wander in the moonlight at such an hour, and it is sweet to look upon such a
scene with an unruffled mind, and to give way to the feelings that are engendered by a walk
by the river side.
See, the moon is rising higher and higher, the shadows grow shorter and shorter; the river,
which in places was altogether hidden by the tall willow trees, now gradually becomes less
and less hidden, and the water becomes more and more lit up.
The moonbeams play gracefully on the rippling surface, here and there appearing like
liquid silver, that each instant changed its position and surface exposed to the light.
Such a moment -- such a scene, were by far too well calculated to cause the most solemn
and serious emotions of the mind, and he must have been but at best insensible, who could
wander over meadow and through grove, and yet remain untouched by the scene of poetry
and romance in which he breathed and moved.
At such a time, and in such a place, the world is alive with all the finer essences of
mysterious life. 'Tis at such an hour that the spirits quit their secret abodes, and visit the
earth, and whirl round the enchanted trees.
'Tis now the spirits of earth and air dance their giddy flight from flower to flower. 'Tis
now they collect and exchange their greetings; the wood is filled with them, the meadows
teem with them, the hedges at the river side have them hidden among the deep green leaves
and blades.
But what is that yonder, on the stones, partially out of the water -- what can it be?
The more it is looked at, the more it resembles the human form -- and yet it is still and
motionless on the hard stones -- and yet it is a human form. The legs are lying in the water,

the arms appear to be partially in and partially out, they seem moved by the stream now and
then, but very gently -- so slightly, indeed, that it might well be questioned if it moved at
all.
The moon's rays had not reached it; the bank on the opposite side of the stream was high,
and some tall trees rose up and obscured the moon. But she was rising higher and higher
each moment, and, finally, when it has reached the tops of those trees, then the rays will
reach the middle of the river, and then, by degrees, it will reach the stones in the river, and,
finally, the body that lies there so still and so mysteriously.
How it came there it would be difficult to say. It appeared as though, when the waters
were high, the body had floated down, and, at the subsidence of the waters, it had been left
upon the stones, and now it was exposed to view.
It was strange and mysterious, and those who might look upon such a sight would feel
their blood chill, and their body creep, to contemplate the remains of humanity in such a
place, and in such a condition as that must be in.
A human life had been taken! How? Who could tell? Perhaps accident alone was the
cause of it; perhaps some one had taken a life by violent means, and thrown the body in the
waters to conceal the fact and the crime.
The waters had brought it down, and deposited it there in the middle of the river, without
any human creature being acquainted with the fact.
But the moon rises -- the beams come trembling through the tree tops and straggling
branches, and fall upon the opposite bank, and there lies the body, midstream, and in
comparative darkness.
By the time the river is lit up by the moon's rays, then the object on the stones will be
visible, then it can be ascertained what appears now only probable, namely, is the dark
object a human form or not?
In the absence of light it appears to be so, but when the flood of silver light falls upon it,
it would be placed then beyond a doubt.
The time is approaching -- the moon each moment approaches her meridian, and each
moment do the rays increase in number and in strength, while the shadows shorten.
The opposite bank each moment becomes more and more distinct, and the side of the
stream, the green rushes and sedges, all by degrees come full into view.
Now and then a fish leaps out of the stream, and just exhibits itself, as much as to say,
"There are things living in the stream, and I am one of them."

The moment is one of awe -- the presence of that mysterious and dreadful-looking object,
even while its identity remains doubt, chills the heart -- it contracts the expanding thoughts
to that one object -- all interest in the scene lies centered in that one point.
What could it be? What else but a human body? What else could assume such a form?
But see, nearly half the stream is lit by the moonbeams struggling through the tree tops, and
now rising above them. The light increases, and the shadows shorten.
The edge of the bed of stones now becomes lit up by the moonlight; the rippling stream,
the bubbles, and the tiny spray that was caused by the rush of water against the stones,
seemed like sparkling flashes of silver fire.
Then came the moonbeams upon the body, for it was raised above the level of the water,
and shewed conspicuously; of the moonbeams reached the body before they fell on the
surrounding water; for that reason then it was the body presented a strange and ghastly
object against a deep, dark background, by which it was surrounded.
But this did not last long -- the water in another minute was lit up by the moon's pale
beams, and then indeed could be plainly enough seen the body of a man lying on the heap
of stones motionless and ghastly.
The colourless hue of the moonlight gave the object a most horrific and terrible
appearance! The face of the dead man was turned towards the moon's rays, and the body
seemed to receive all the light that could fall upon it.
It was a terrible object to look upon, and one that added a new and singular interest to the
scene! The world seemed then to be composed almost exclusively of still life, and the body
was no impediment to the stillness of the scene.
It was, all else considered, a calm, beautiful scene, lovely the night, gorgeous the silvery
rays that lit up the face of nature; the hill and dale, meadow, and wood, and river, all
afforded contrasts strong, striking, and strange.
But strange, and more strange than any contrast in nature, was that afforded to the calm
beauty o the night and placed by the deep stillness and quietude imposed upon the mind by
that motionless human body.
The moon's rays now fell upon its full length; the feet were lying in the water, the head
lay back, with its features turned towards the quarter of the heavens where the moon shone
from; the hair floated on the shallow water, while the face and body were exposed to all
influences, from its raised and prominent position.
The moonbeams had scarcely settled upon it -- scarce a few minutes -- when the body
moved. Was it the water that moved it? it could not be, surely, that the moonbeams had the
power of recalling life into that inanimate mass, that lay there for some time still and
motionless as the very stones on which it lay.

It was endued with life; the dead man gradually rose up, and leaned himself upon his
elbow; he paused a moment like one newly recalled to life; he seemed to become assured
he did live. He passed one hand through his hair, which was wet, and then rose higher into
a sitting posture, and then he leaned on one hand, inclining himself towards the moon.
His breast heaved with life, and a kind of deep inspiration, or groan, came from him, as
he first awoke to life, and then he seemed to pause for a few moments. He turned gradually
over, till his head inclined down the stream.
Just below, the water deepened, and ran swiftly and silently on amid meads and groves of
trees. The vampyre was revived; he awoke again to a ghastly life; he turned from the heap
of stones, he gradually allowed himself to sink into deep water, and then, with a loud
plunge, he swam to the centre of the river.
Slowly and surely did he swim into the centre of the river, and down the stream he went.
He took long, but easy strokes, for he was going down the stream, and that aided him.
For some distance might he be heard and seen through the openings in the trees, but he
became gradually more and more indistinct, till sound and sight both ceased, and the
vampyre had disappeared.
During the continuance of this singular scene, not one word had passed between the
landlord and his companions. When the blacksmith fired the fowling-piece, and saw the
stranger fall, apparently lifeless, upon the stepping-stones that crossed the river, he became
terrified at what he had done, and gazed upon the seeming lifeless form with a face on
which the utmost horror was depicted.
They all seemed transfixed to the spot, and although each would have given worlds to
move away, a kind of nightmare seemed to possess them, which stunned all their faculties,
and brought over them a torpidity from which they found it impossible to arouse
themselves.
But, when the apparently dead man moved again, and when, finally, the body, which
appeared so destitute of life, rolled into the stream, and floated away with the tide, their
fright might be considered to have reached its climax. The absence of the body, however,
had seemingly, at all events, the effect of releasing them from the mental and physical
thraldom in which they were, and they were enabled to move from the spot, which they did
immediately, making their way towards the town with great speed.
As they got near, they held a sort of council of war as to what they should do under the
circumstances, the result of which was, that they came to a conclusion to keep all that they
had done and seen to themselves; for, if they did not, they might be called upon for some
very troublesome explanations concerning the fate of the Hungarian nobleman whom they
had taken upon themselves to believe was a vampyre, and to shoot accordingly, without
taking the trouble to inquire into the legality of such an act.

How such a secret was likely to be kept, when it was shared amongst seven people, it is
hard to say; but, if it were so kept, it could only be under the pressure of a strong feeling of
self-preservation.
They were forced individually, of course, to account for their absence during the night at
their respective homes, and how they managed to do that is best known to themselves.
As to the landlord, he felt compelled to state that, having his suspicions of his guest
aroused, he followed him on a walk that he pretended to take, and he had gone so far, that
at length he had given up the chase, and lost his own way in returning.
Thus was it, then, that this affair still preserved all its mystery, with a large superadded
amount of fear attendant upon it; for, if the mysterious guest were really anything
supernatural, might he not come again in a much more fearful shape, and avenge the
treatment he had received?
The only person who felt any disappointment in the affair, or whose expectations were
not realised, was the boy who had made the appointment with the supposed vampyre at the
end of the lane, and who was to have received what he considered so large a reward for
pointing out the retreat of Sir Francis Varney.
He waited in vain for the arrival of the Hungarian nobleman, and, at last, indignation got
the better of him, and he walked away. Feeling that he had been jilted, he resolved to
proceed to the public-house and demand the half-crowns which had been so liberally
promised him; but when he reached there he found that the party whom he sought was not
within, nor the landlord either, for that was the precise time when that worthy individual
was pursuing his guest over meadow and hill, through brake and briar, towards the stepping
stones on the river.
What the boy further did on the following day, when he found that he was to reap no
more benefit for the adventure, we shall soon perceive.
As for the landlord, he did endeavour to catch a few hours' brief repose; but as he
dreamed that the Hungarian nobleman came in the likeness of a great toad, and sat upon his
chest, feeling like the weight of a mountain, while he, the landlord, tried to scream and cry
for help, but found that he could neither do one thing nor the other, we may guess that his
repose did not at all invigorate him.
As he himself expressed it, he got up all of a shake, with a strong impression that he was
a very ill-used individual, indeed, to have had the night-mare in the day time.
And now we will return to the cottage where the Bannerworth family were at all events,
making themselves quite as happy as they did at their ancient mansion, in order to see what
is there passing, and how Dr. Chillingworth made an effort to get up some evidence of
something that the Bannerworth family knew nothing of, therefore could not very well be
expected to render him much assistance. That he did, however, make what he considered an

important discovery, we shall perceive in the course of the ensuing chapter, in which it will
be seen that the best hidden things will, by the merest accident, sometimes come to light,
and that, too, when least expected by any one at all connected with the result.
--
Chapter LXXXVI.
THE DISCOVERY OF THE POCKETBOOK OF MARMADUKE BANNERWORTH.

-- ITS MYSTERIOUS CONTENTS.
The little episode had just taken place which we have recorded between the old admiral and
Jack Pringle, when Henry Bannerworth and Charles Holland stepped aside to converse.

"Charles," said Henry, "it has become absolutely necessary that I should put an end to this
state of dependence in which we all live upon your uncle. It is too bad to think, that
because, through fighting the battles of his country, he has amassed some money, we are to
eat it up."
"My dear friend," said Charles, "does it not strike you, that it would be a great deal worse
than too bad, if my uncle could not do what he liked with his own?"
"Yes; but, Charles, that is not the question."
"I think it is, though I know not what other question you can make of it."
"We have talked it over, my mother, my brother, and Flora; and my brother and I have
determined, if this state of things should last much longer, to find out some means of
honourable exertion by which we may, at all events, maintain ourselves without being
burdensome to any."
"Well, well, we will talk of that another time."
"Nay, but hear me; we were thinking that if we went into some branch of the public
service, your uncle would have the pleasure, such we are quite sure it would be to him, of
assisting us greatly by his name and influence."
"Well, well, Henry, that's all very well; but for a little time do not throw up the old man
and make him unhappy. I believe I am his only relative in the world, and, as he has often
said, he intended leaving me heir to all he possesses, you see there is no harm done by your
receiving a small portion of it beforehand."
"And," said Henry, "by that line of argument, we are to find an excuse for robbing your
uncle; in the fact, that we are robbing you likewise."
"No, no; indeed, you do not view the matter rightly."
"Well, all I can say is, Charles, that while I feel, and while we all feel, the deepest debt of
gratitude towards your uncle, it is our duty to do something. In a box which we have
brought with us from the Hall, and which has not been opened since our father's death, I
have stumbled over some articles of ancient jewellery and plate, which, at all events, will
produce something."
"But which you must not part with."
"Nay, but, Charles, these are things I knew not we possessed, and most ill-suited do they
happen to be to our fallen fortunes. It is money we want, not the gewgaws of a former state,
to which we can have now no sort of pretension."

"Nay, I know you have all the argument; but still is there something sad and
uncomfortable to one's feelings in parting with such things as those which have been in
families for many years."
"But we knew not that we had them; remember that, Charles. Come and look at them.
Those relics of a bygone age may amuse you, and, as regards myself, there are no
circumstances whatever associated with them that give them any extrinsic value; so laugh
at them or admire them, as you please, I shall most likely be able to join with you in either
feeling."
"Well, be it so -- I will come and look at them; but you must think better of what you say
concerning my uncle, for I happen to know -- which you ought likewise by this time -- how
seriously the old man would feel any rejection on your part of the good he fancies he is
doing you. I tell you, Henry, it is completely his hobby, and let him have earned his money
with ten times the danger he has, he could not spend it with anything like the satisfaction
that he does, unless he were allowed to dispose of it in this way."
"Well, well; be it so for a time."
"The fact is, his attachment to Flora is so great -- which is a most fortunate circumstance
for me -- that I should not be at all surprised that she cuts me out of one half my estate,
when the old man dies. But come, we will look at your ancient bijouterie."
Henry led Charles into an apartment of the cottage where some of the few things had
been placed that were brought from Bannerworth Hall, which were not likely to be in
constant and daily use.
Among these things happened to be the box which Henry had mentioned, and from which
he had taken a miscellaneous assortment of things of an antique and singular character.
There were old dresses of a season and of a taste long gone by; ancient articles of
defence; some curiously wrought daggers; and a few ornaments, pretty, but valueless, along
with others of more sterling pretensions, which Henry pointed out to Charles.
"I am almost inclined to think," said the latter, "that some of these things are really of
considerable value; but I do not profess to be an accurate judge, and, perhaps, I am more
taken with the beauty of an article, than the intrinsic worth. What is that which you have
just taken from the box?"
"It seems a half-mask," said Henry, "made of silk; and here are initial letters within it --
M. B."
"To what do they apply?"
"Marmaduke Bannerworth, my father."

"I regret I asked you."
"Nay, Charles, you need not. Years have now elapsed since that misguided man put a
period to his own existence, in the gardens of Bannerworth Hall. Of course, the shock was a
great one to us all, although I must confess that we none of us knew much of a father's
affections. But time reconciles one to these dispensations, and to a friend, like yourself, I
can talk upon these subjects without a pang."
He laid down the mask, and proceeded further in his search in the old box.
Towards the bottom of it there were some books, and, crushed in by the side of them,
there was an ancient-looking pocket-book, which Charles pointed out, saying, --
"There, Henry, who knows but you may find a fortune when you least expect it?"
"Those who expect nothing," said Henry, "will not be disappointed. At all events, as
regards this pocket-book, you see it is empty."
"Not quite. A card has fallen from it."
Charles took up the card, and read upon it the name of Count Barrare.
"That name," he said, "seems familiar to me. Ah! now I recollect, I have read of such a
man. He flourished some twenty, or five-and-twenty years ago, and was considered a roue
of the first water -- a finished gamester; and, in a sort of brief memoir I read once of him, it
said that he disappeared suddenly one day, and was never again heard of."
"Indeed! I'm not puzzled to think how his card came into my father's pocket-book. They
met at some gaming-house; and, if some old pocket-book of Count Barrare's were shaken,
there might fall from it a card, with the name of Mr. Marmaduke Bannerworth upon it."
"Is there nothing further in the pocket-book -- no memoranda?"
"I will look. Stay! here is something upon one of the leaves -- let me see -- 'Mem.,
twenty-five thousand pounds! He who robs the robber, steals little; it was not meant to kill
him: but it will be unsafe to use the money for a time -- my brain seems on fire -- the
remotest hiding place in the house is behind the picture."
"What do you think of that?" said Charles.
"I know not what to think. There is one thing though, that I do know."
"And what is that?"
"It is my father's handwriting. I have many scraps of his and his peculiar hand is familiar
to me."

"It is very strange, then, what it can refer to."
"Charles -- Charles! there is a mystery connected with our fortunes, that I never could
unravel; and once or twice it seemed as if we were upon the point of discovering all; but
something has ever interfered to prevent us, and we have been thrown back into the realms
of conjecture. My father's last words were, 'The money is hidden;' and then he tried to add
something; but, death stopped his utterance. Now, does it not almost seem that this
memorandum alluded to the circumstance?"
"It does, indeed."
"And then, scarcely had my father breathed his last, when a man comes and asked for him
at the garden-gate, and, upon hearing that he is dead, utters some imprecations, and walks
away."
"Well, Henry, you must trust to time and circumstances to unravel these mysteries. For
myself, I own that I cannot do so; I see no earthly way out of the difficulty whatever. But
still it does appear to me as if Dr. Chillingworth knew something or had heard something,
with which he really ought to make you acquainted."
"Do not blame the worthy doctor; he may have made an error in judgment, but never one
of feeling; and you may depend, if he is keeping anything from me, that he is doing so from
some excellent motive; more probably because he thinks it will give me pain, and so will
not let me endure any unhappiness from it, unless he is quite certain as regards the facts.
When he is so, you may depend he will be communicative, and I shall know all that he has
to relate. But, Charles, it is evident to me that you, too, are keeping something."
"I!"
"Yes; you acknowledge to having had an interview, and a friendly one, with Varney; and
you likewise acknowledge that he had told you things which he has compelled you to keep
secret."
"I have promised to keep them secret, and I deeply regret the promise that I have made.
There cannot be anything to my mind more essentially disagreeable than to have one's
tongue tied in one's interview with friends. I hate to hear anything that I may not repeat to
those whom I take into my own confidence."
"I can understand the feeling; but here comes the worthy doctor."
"Show him the memorandum."
"I will."
As Dr. Chillingworth entered the apartments Henry handed him the memorandum that
had been found in the old pocket-book, saying as he did so, --

"Look at that, doctor, and give us your candid opinion upon it."
Dr. Chillingworth fitted on his spectacles, and read the paper carefully. At its conclusion,
he screwed up his mouth into an extremely small compass, and doubling up the paper, he
put it into his capacious waistcoat pocket, saying as he did so, --
"Oh! oh! oh! hum!"
"Well, doctor," said Henry; "we are waiting for your opinion."
"My opinion! Well, then, my dear boy, I must say, my opinion, to the best of my belief is,
that I really don't know anything about it."
"Then, perhaps, you'll surrender us the memorandum," said Charles "because, if you don't
know anything, we may as well make a little inquiry."
"Ha!" said the worthy doctor; "we can't put old heads upon young shoulders, that's quite
clear. Now, my good young men, be patient and quiet; recollect, that what you know you're
acquainted with, and that that which is hidden from you, you cannot very well come to any
very correct conclusion upon. There's a right side and a wrong one you may depend, to
every question; and he who walks heedlessly in the dark, is very apt to run his head against
a post. Good evening, my boys -- good evening."
Away bustled the doctor.
"Well," said Charles, "what do you think of that, Mr. Henry?"
"I think he knows what he's about."
"That may be; but I'll be hanged if anybody else does. The doctor is by no means
favourable to the march of popular information; and I really think he might have given us
some food for reflection, instead of leaving us so utterly and entirely at fault as he has; and
you know he's taken away your memorandum even."
"Let him have it, Charles -- let him have it; it is safe with him. The old man may be, and I
believe is, a little whimsical and crotchety; but he means abundantly well, and he's just one
of those sort of persons, and always was, who will do good his own way, or not at all; so
we must take the good with the bad in those cases, and let Dr. Chillingworth do as he
pleases."
"I cannot say it is nothing to me, although those words were rising to my lips, because
you know, Henry, that everything which concerns you or yours is something to me; and
therefore it is that I feel extremely anxious for the solution of all this mystery. Before I hear
the sequel of that which Varney, the vampyre, has so strongly made me a confidant of, I
will, at all events, make an effort to procure his permission to communicate it to all those

who are in any way beneficially interested in the circumstances. Should he refuse me that
permission, I am almost inclined myself to beg him to withhold his confidence."
"Nay, do not do so, Charles -- do not do that, I implore you. Recollect, although you
cannot make us joint recipients with you in your knowledge, you can make use of it,
probably, to our advantage, in saving us, perchance, from the different consequences, so
that you can make what you know in some way beneficial to us, although not in every
way."
"There is reason in that, and I give in at once. Be it so, Henry. I will wait on him, and if I
cannot induce him to change his determination, and allow me to tell some other as well as
Flora, I must give in, and take the thing as a secret, although I shall not abandon a hope,
even after he has told me all he has to tell, that I may induce him to permit me to make a
general confidence, instead of a partial one he has empowered me to do."
"It may be so; and, at all events, we must not reject a proffered good because it is not
quite so complete as might be."
"You are right; I will keep my appointment with him, entertaining the most sanguine
hope that our troubles and disasters -- I say our, because I consider myself quite associated
in thought, interest, and feelings with your family -- may soon be over."
"Heaven grant it may be so, for your's and Flora's sake; but I feel that Bannerworth Hall
will never again be the place it was to us. I should prefer that we sought for new
associations, which I have no doubt we may find, and that among us we get up some other
home that would be happier, because not associated with so many sad scenes in our
history."
"Be it so; and I am sure that the admiral would gladly give way to such an arrangement.
He has often intimated that he thought Bannerworth Hall was a dull place; consequently,
although he pretends to have purchased it of you, I think he will be very glad to leave it."
"Be it so, then. If it should really happen that we are upon the eve of any circumstances
that will really tend to relieve us from our mystery and embarrassments, we will seek for
some pleasanter abode than the Hall, which you may well imagine, since it became the
scene of that dreadful tragedy that left us fatherless, has borne but a distasteful appearance
to all our eyes."
"I don't wonder at that, and am only surprised that, after such a thing had happened, any
of you liked to inhabit the place."
"We did not like, but our poverty forced us. You have no notion of the difficulties
through which we have struggled; and the fact that we had a home rent free was one of so
much importance to us, that had it been surrounded by a thousand more disagreeables than
it was, we must have put up with it; but now that we owe so much to the generosity of your
uncle, I suppose we can afford to talk of what we like and of what we don't like."

"You can, Henry, and it shall not be my fault if you do not always afford to do so; and
now, as the time is drawing on, I think I will proceed at once to Varney, for it is better to be
soon than late, and get from him the remainder of the story." ****
There were active influences at work, to prevent Sir Francis Varney from so quickly as he
had arranged to do, carrying out his intention of making Charles Holland acquainted with
the history of the eventful period of his life, which had been associated with Marmaduke
Bannerworth.
One would have scarcely thought it possible that anything now would have prevented
Varney from concluding his strange narrative; but that he was prevented, will appear.
The boy who had been promised such liberal payment by the Hungarian nobleman, for
betraying the place of Varney's concealment, we have already stated, felt bitterly the
disappointment of not being met, according to promise, at the corner of the lane, by that
individual.
It not only deprived him of the half-crowns, which already in imagination he had laid out,
but it was a great blow to his own importance, for after his discovery of the residence of the
vampyre, he looked upon himself as quite a public character, and expected great applause
for his cleverness.
But when the Hungarian nobleman came not, all these dreams began to vanish into thin
air, and, like the unsubstantial fabric of a vision, to leave no trace behind them.
He got dreadfully aggravated, and his first thought was to go to Varney, and see what he
could get from him, by betraying the fact that some one was actively in search of him.
That seemed, however, a doubtful good, and perhaps there was some personal dread of
the vampyre mixed up with the rejection of this proposition. But reject it he did, and then
he walked moodily into the town without any fixed resolution of what he should do.
All that he thought of was a general idea that he should like to create some mischief, if
possible -- what it was he cared not, so long as it made a disturbance.
Now, he knew well that the most troublesome and fidgetty man in the town was Tobias
Philpots, a saddler, who was always full of everybody's business but his own, and ever
ready to hear any scandal of his neighbours.
"I have a good mind," said the boy, "to go to old Philpots, and tell him all about it, that I
have."
The good mind soon strengthened itself into a fixed resolution, and full of disdain and
indignation at the supposed want of faith of the Hungarian nobleman, he paused opposite
the saddler's door.

Could he but for a moment have suspected the real reason why the appointment had not
been kept with him, all his curiosity would have been doubly aroused, and he would have
followed the landlord of the inn and his associate upon the track of the second vampyre that
had visited the town.
But of this he knew nothing, for that proceeding had been conducted with amazing
quietness; and the fact of the Hungarian nobleman, when he found that he was followed,
taking a contrary course to that in which Varney was concealed, prevented the boy from
knowing anything of his movements.
Hence the thing looked to him like a piece of sheer neglect and contemptuous
indifference, which he felt bound to resent.
He did not pause long at the door of the saddler's, but, after a few moments, he walked
boldly in, and said, --
"Master Philpots, I have got something extraordinary to tell you, and you may give me
what you like for telling you."
"Go on, then," said the saddler, "that's just the price I always likes to pay for everything."
"Will you keep it secret?" said the boy.
"Of course I will. When did you ever hear of me telling anything to a single individual?"
"Never to a single individual, but I have heard you tell things to the whole town."
"Confound your impudence. Get out of my shop directly."
"Oh! very good. I can go and tell old Mitchell, the pork-butcher."
"No, I say -- stop; don't tell him. If anybody it to know, let it be me, and I'll promise you
I'll keep it secret, so that if it gets known, you know it cannot be any fault of mine."
The fact was, the boy was anxious it should be known, only that in case some
consequences might arise, he thought he would quiet his own conscience, by getting a
promise of secrecy from Tobias Philpots, which he well knew that individual would not
think of keeping.
He then related to him the interview he had had with the Hungarian nobleman at the inn,
how he had promised a number of half-crowns, but a very small instalment of which he had
received.
All this Master Philpots cared very little for, but the information that the much dreaded
Varney, the vampyre, was concealed so close to the town was a matter of great and
abounding interest, and at that part of the story he suddenly pricked up his ears amazingly.

"Why, you don't mean to say that?" he exclaimed. "Are you sure it was he?"
"Yes, I am quite certain. I have seen him more than once. It was Sir Francis Varney,
without any mistake."
"Why, then, you may depend he's only waiting until it's very dark, and then he will walk
into somebody, and suck his blood. Here's a horrid discovery! I though we had had enough
of Master Varney, and that he would hardly show himself here again, and now you tell me
he is not ten minutes' walk off."
"It's a fact," said the boy. "I saw him go in, and he looks thinner and more horrid than
ever. I am sure he wants a dollop of blood from somebody."
"I shouldn't wonder."
"Now there is Mrs. Philpots, you know, sir; she's rather big, and seems most ready to
burst always; I shouldn't wonder if the vampyre came to her to-night."
"Wouldn't you?" said Mrs. Philpots, who had walked into the shop, and overheard the
whole conversation; "wouldn't you, really? I'll vampyre you, and teach you to make these
remarks about respectable married women. You young wretch, take that, will you!"
She gave the boy such a box on the ears, that the place seemed to spin round with him. As
soon as he recovered sufficiently to be enabled to walk, he made his way from the shop
with abundance of precipitation, much regretting that he had troubled himself to make a
confidant of Master Philpots.
But, however, he could not but tell himself that if the object was to make a general
disturbance through the whole place, he had certainly succeeded in doing so.
He slunk home perhaps with a feeling that he might be called upon to take part in
something that might ensue, and at all events be compelled to become a guide to the place
of Sir Francis Varney's retreat, in which case, for all he knew, the vampyre might, by some
more than mortal means, discover what a hand he had had in the matter, and punish him
accordingly.
The moment he had left the saddler's Mrs. Philpots, after using some bitter reproaches to
her husband for not at once sacrificing the boy upon the spot for the disrespectful manner in
which he had spoken to her, hastily put on her bonnet and shawl, and the saddler, although
it was a full hour before the usual time, began putting up the shutters of his shop.
"Why, my dear," he said to Mrs. Philpots, when she came down stairs equipped for the
streets, "why, my dear, where are you going?"
"And pray, sir, what are you shutting up the shop for at this time of the evening?"

"Oh! why, the fact is, I though I'd just go to the Rose and Crown, and mention that the
vampyre was so near at hand."
"Well, Mr. Philpots, and in that case there can be no harm in my calling upon some of my
acquaintance and mentioning it likewise."
"Why, I don't suppose there would be much harm; only remember, Mrs. Philpots,
remember if you please -- "
"Remember what?"
"To tell everyone to keep it a secret."
"Oh, of course I will; and mind you do it likewise."
"Most decidedly."
The shop was closed, Mr. Philpots ran off to the Rose and Crown, and Mrs. Philpots, with
as much expedition as she could, purposed making the grand tour of all her female
acquaintance in the town, just to tell them, as a great secret, that the vampyre, Sir Francis
Varney, as he called himself, had taken refuge at the house that was to let down the lane
leading to Higg's farm.
"But by no means," she said, "let it go no further, because it is a very wrong thing to
make any disturbance, and you will understand that it's quite a secret."
She was listened to with breathless attention, as may well be supposed, and it was a
singular circumstance that at every house she left some other lady put on her bonnet and
shawl, and ran out to make the circle of her acquaintance, with precisely the same story,
and precisely the same injunctions to secrecy.
And, as Mr. Philpots pursued an extremely similar course, we are not surprised that in the
short space of one hour the news should have spread through all the town, and that there
was scarcely a child old enough to understand what was being talked about, who was
ignorant of the fact, that Sir Francis Varney was to be found at the empty house down the
lane.
It was an unlucky time, too, for the night was creeping on, a period at which people's
apprehension of the supernatural becomes each moment stronger and more vivid -- a period
at which a number of idlers are let loose for different employments, and when anything in
the shape of a row or a riot presents itself in pleasant colours to those who have nothing to
lose, and who expect, under the cover of darkness, to be able to commit outrages they
would be afraid to think of in the daytime, when recognition would be more easy.
Thus was it that Sir Francis Varney's position, although he knew it not, became
momentarily one of extreme peril, and the danger he was about to run, was certainly greater

than any he had as yet experienced. Had Charles Holland but known what was going on, he
would undoubtedly have done something to preserve the supposed vampyre from the
mischief that threatened him, but the time had not arrived when he had promised to pay him
a second visit, so he had no idea of anything serious having occurred.
Perhaps, too, Mr. and Mrs. Philpots scarcely anticipated creating so much confusion, but
when they found that the whole place was in an uproar, and that a tumultuous assemblage
of persons called aloud for vengeance upon Varney, the vampyre, they made their way
home again in no small fright.
And, now, what was the result of all these proceedings will be best known by our
introducing the reader to the interior of the house in which Varney had found a temporary
refuge, and following in detail his proceedings as he waited for the arrival of Charles
Holland.
--
Chapter LXXXVII.
THE HUNT FOR VARNEY. -- THE HOUSE-TOPS. -- THE MIRACULOUS ESCAPE.

-- THE LAST PLACE OF REFUGE.
On the tree tops the moon shines brightly, and the long shadows are shooting its rays down
upon the waters, and the green fields appear clothed in a flood of silver light; the little town
was quiet and tranquil -- nature seemed at rest.
The old mansion in which Sir Francis Varney had taken refuge, stood empty and solitary;
it seemed as though it were not associated with the others by which it was surrounded. It
was gloomy, and in the moonlight it reminded one of things long gone by, existences that
had once been, but now no longer of this present time -- a mere memento of the past.

Sir Francis Varney reclined upon the house-top: he gazed upon the sky, and upon the
earth; he saw the calm tranquility that reigned around, and could not but admire what he
saw; he sighed, he seemed to sigh, from a pleasure he felt in the fact of his security; he
could repose there without fear, and breathe the balmy air that fanned his cheek.
"Certainly," he muttered, "things might have been worse, but not much worse; however,
they might have been much better; the ignorant are always the most to be feared, because
they have no guide and no control, save what can be exerted over them by their fears and
their passions."
He paused to look again over the scene, and, as far as the eye could reach, and that,
moonlight as it was, was many miles, the country was diversified with hill and dale,
meadow and ploughed land; the open fields, and the darker woods, and the silvery stream
that ran at no great distance, all presented a scene that was well calculated to warm the
imagination, and to give the mind that charm which a cultivated understanding is capable of
receiving.
There was but one thing wanted to make such a scene one of pure happiness, and that was
all absence of care of fears for the future and the wants of life.
Suddenly there was a slight sound that came from the town. It was very slight, but the
ears of Sir Francis Varney were painfully acute of late; the least sound that came across him
was heard in a moment, and his whole visage was changed to one of listening interest.
The sound was hushed; but his attention was not lulled, for he had been placed in
circumstances that made all his vigilance necessary for his own preservation. Hence it was,
what another would have passed over, or not heard at all, he both heard and noticed. He
was not sure of the nature of the sound, it was so slight and so indistinct.
There it was again! Some persons were moving about in the town. The sounds that came
upon the night air seemed to say that there was an unusual bustle in the town, which was, to
Sir Francis Varney, ominous in the extreme.
What could people in such a quiet, retired place require out at such an hour at night? It
must be something very unusual -- something that must excite them to a great degree; and
Sir Francis began to feel very uneasy.
"They surely," he muttered to himself -- "they surely cannot have found out my hiding
place, and intend to hunt me from it, the blood-thirsty hounds! they are never satisfied. The
mischief they are permitted to do on one occasion is but the precursor to another. The taste
has caused the appetite for more, and nothing short of his blood can satisfy it."
The sounds increased, and the noise came nearer and nearer, and it appeared as though a
number of men had collected together, and were coming towards him. Yes, they were
coming down the lane towards the deserted mansion where he was.

For once in his life, Sir Francis Varney trembled; he felt sick at heart, though no man was
less likely to give up hope and to despair than he; yet this sign of unrelenting hatred and
persecution was too unequivocal and too stern not to produce its effect upon even his mind;
for he had no doubt but that they were coming with the express purpose of seeking him.
How they could have found him out was a matter he could not imagine. The
Bannerworths could not have betrayed him -- he was sure of that; and yet who could have
seen him, so cautious and so careful as he had been, and so very sparing had he lived,
because he would not give the slightest cause for all that was about to follow. He hoped to
have hidden himself; but now he could hear the tramp of men distinctly, and their voices
came now on the night air, though it was in a subdued tone, as if they were desirous of
approaching unheard and unseen by their victim.
Sir Francis Varney stirred not from his position. He remained silent and motionless. He
appeared not to heed what was going on; perhaps he hoped to see them go by -- to be upon
some false scent; or, if they saw no signs of life, they might leave the place, and go
elsewhere.
Hark! they stop at the house -- they go not by; they seem to pause, and then a thundering
knock came at the door, which echoed and re-echoed through the empty and deserted
house, on the top of which sat, in silent expectation, the almost motionless Sir Francis
Varney, the redoubted vampyre.
The knock which came so loud and so hard upon the door caused Sir Francis to start
visibly, for it seemed his own knell. Then, as if the mob were satisfied with their
knowledge of his presence, and of their victory, they sent up a loud shout that filled the
whole neighborhood with its sound.
It seemed to come from below and around the house; it rose from all sides, and that told
Sir Francis Varney that the house was surrounded and all escape was cut off; there was no
chance of his being able to rush through such a multitude of men as that which now
encircled him.
With the calmest despair, Sir Francis Varney lay still and motionless on the housetop, and
listened to the sounds that proceeded from below. Shout after shout arose on the still, calm
air of the night; knock after knock came upon the stout old door, which awakened
responsive echoes throughout the house that had for many years lain dormant, and which
now seemed disturbed, and resounded in hollow murmurs to the voices from without.
Then a loud voice shouted from below, as if to be heard by any one who might be within,
--
"Sir Francis Varney, the vampyre, come out and give yourself up at discretion! If we have
to search for you, you may depend it will be to punish you; you will suffer by burning.
Come out and give yourself up."

There was a pause, and then a loud shout.
Sir Francis Varney paid no attention to this summons, but sat, motionless, on the house-
top, where he could hear all that passed below in the crowd.
"He will not come out," said one.
"Ah! he's much too cunning to be caught in such a trap. Why, he knows what you would
do with him; he knows you would stake him, and make a bonfire about him."
"So he has no taste for roasting," remarked another; "but still, it's no use hiding; we have
too many hands, and know the house too well to be easily baffled."
"That may be; and although he don't like burning, yet we will unearth the old fox,
somehow or other; we have discovered his haunt at last, and certainly we'll have him out."
"How shall we get in?"
"Knock in the door -- break open the door! the front door -- that is the best, because it
leads to all parts of the house, and we can secure any one who attempts to move from one
to the other, as they come down."
"Hurrah!" shouted several men in the crowd.
"Hurrah!" echoed the mob, with one accord, and the shout rent the air, and disturbed the
quiet and serenity that scarce five minutes before reigned throughout the place.
Then, as if actuated by one spirit, they all set to work to force the door in. It was strong,
and capable of great defence, and employed them, with some labour, for fifteen or twenty
minutes, and then, with a loud crash, the door fell in.
"Hurrah!" again shouted the crowd.
These shouts announced the fall of the door, and then, and not until then, did Sir Francis
Varney stir.
"They have broken the door," he muttered; "well, if die I must, I will sell my life dearly.
However, all is not yet lost, and, in the struggle for life, the loss is not so much felt."
He got up, and crept towards the trap that led into the house, or out of it, as the occasion
might require.
"The vampyre! the vampyre!" shouted a man who stood on a garden wall, holding on by
the arm of an apple-tree.
"Varney, the vampyre!" shouted a second.

"Hurrah! boys, we are on the right scent; now for a hunt; hurrah! we shall have him now."
They rushed in a tumultuous riot up the stone steps, and into the hall. It was a large,
spacious place, with a grand staircase that led up to the upper floor, but it had two ends, and
then terminated in a gallery.
It could not be defended by one man, save at the top, where it could not long be held,
because the assailants could unite, and throw their whole weight against the entrance, and
thus storm it. This actually happened.
They looked up, and seeing nobody, they rushed up, some by one stair, and some by the
other; but it was dark; there were but few of the moon's rays that pierced the gloom of that
place, and those who first reached the place which we have named, were seized with
astonishment, staggered, and fell.
Sir Francis Varney had met them; he stood there with a staff -- something he had found
about the house -- not quite so long as a broom-handle, but somewhat thicker and heavier,
being made of stout ash.
This formidable weapon, Sir Francis Varney wielded with strength and resolution; he was
a tall man, and one of no mean activity and personal strength, and such a weapon, in his
hands, was one of a most fearful character, and, for the occasion, much better than his
sword.
Man after man fell beneath the fearful force of these blows, for though they could not see
Sir Francis, yet he could see them, for the hall-lights were behind them at the time, while he
stood in the dark, and took advantage of this to deal murderous blows upon his assailants.
This continued for some minutes, till they gave way before such a vigorous defiance, and
paused.
"On, neighbours, on," cried one; "will you be beaten off by one man? Rush in at once and
you must force him from his position -- push him hard, and he must give way."
"Ay," said one fellow who sat upon the ground rubbing his head; "its all very well to say
push him hard, but if you felt the weight of that d -- -- d pole on your head, you wouldn't be
in such a blessed hurry."
However true that might be, there was but little attention paid to it, and a determined rush
was made at the entrance to the gallery, and they found that it was unoccupied; and that was
explained by the slamming of a door, and its being immediately locked upon them; and
when the mob came to the door, they found they had to break their way through another
door.
This did not take long in effecting; and in less than five minutes they had broken through
that door which led into another room; but the first man who entered it fell from a crashing

blow on the head from the ashen staff of Sir Francis Varney, who hurried and fled, closely
pursued, until he came to another door, through which he dashed.
Here he endeavoured to make a stand and close it, but was immediately struck and
grappled with; but he threw his assailant, and turned and fled again.
His object had been to defend each inch of the ground as long as he was able; but he
found they came too close upon his steps, and prevented his turning in time to try the
strength of his staff upon the foremost.
He dashed up the first staircase with surprising rapidity, leaving his pursuers behind; and
when he had gained the first landing, he turned upon those who pursued him, who could
hardly follow him two abreast.
"Down with the vampyre!" shouted the first, who rushed up heedless of the staff.
"Down with a fool!" thundered Varney, as he struck the fellow a terrific blow, which
covered his face with blood, and he fell back into the arms of his companions.
A bitter groan and execration arose from them below, and again they shouted, and rushed
up headlong.
"Down with the vampyre!" was again shouted, and met by a corresponding, but deep
guttural sound of --
"Down with a fool!"
And sure enough the first again came to the earth without any preparation, save the
application of an ashen stick to his skull, which, by-the-bye, by no means aided the
operation of thinking.
Several more shared a similar fate; but they pressed hard, and Sir Francis was compelled
to give ground to keep them at the necessary length from him, as they rushed on regardless
of his blows, and if he had not he would soon have been engaged in a personal struggle, for
they were getting too close for him to use the staff.
"Down with the vampyre!" was the renewed cry, as they drove him from spot to spot until
he reached the roof of the house, and then he ran up the steps to the loft, which he had just
reached when they came to the bottom.
Varney attempted to draw the ladder up, but four or five stout men held that down; then
by a sudden turn, as they were getting up, he turned it over, threw those on it down, and the
ladder too, upon the heads of those who were below.

"Down with the vampyre!" shouted the mob, as they, with the most untiring energy, set
the ladder, or steps, against the loft, and as many as could held it, while others rushed up to
attack Varney with all the ferocity and courage of so many bull dogs.
It was strange, but the more they were baffled the more enraged and determined they
rushed on to a new attack, with greater resolution than ever.
On this occasion, however, they were met with a new kind of missile, for Sir Francis had
either collected and placed there for the occasion, or they had been left there for years, a
number of old bricks, which lay close at hand. These he took, one by one, and deliberately
took aim at them, and flung them with great force, striking down every one they hit.
This caused them to recoil; the bricks caused fearful gashes in their heads, and the
wounds were serious, the flesh being, in many places, torn completely off. They however,
only paused, for one man said, --
"Be of good heart, comrades, we can do as he does; he has furnished us with weapons,
and we can thus attack him in two ways, and he must give way in the end."
"Hurrah! down with the vampyre!" sounded from all sides, and the shout was answered
by a corresponding rush.
It was true; Sir Francis had furnished them with weapons to attack himself, for they could
throw them back at him, which they did, and struck him a severe blow on the head, and it
covered his face with blood in a moment.
"Hurrah!" shouted the assailants; "another such blow, and all will be over with the
vampyre."
"He's got -- "
"Press him sharp, now," cried another man, as he aimed another blow with a brick, which
struck Varney on the arm, causing him to drop the brick he held in his hand. He staggered
back, apparently in great pain.
"Up! up! we have him now; he cannot get away; he's hurt; we have him -- we have him!"
And up they went with all the rapidity they could scramble up the steps; but this had
given Varney time to recover himself; and though his right arm was almost useless, yet he
contrived, with his left, to pitch the bricks so as to knock over the first three or four, when,
seeing that he could not maintain his position to advantage, he rushed to the outside of the
house, the last place he had capable of defence.
There was a great shout by those outside, when they saw him come out and stand with his
staff, and those who came first got first served, for the blows resounded, while he struck
them, and sent them over below.

Then came a great shout from within and without, and then a desperate rush was made at
the door, and, in the next instant, Varney was seen flying, followed by his pursuers, one
after the other, some tumbling over the tiles, to the imminent hazard of their necks. Sir
Francis Varney rushed along with a speed that appeared by far too great to admit of being
safely followed, and yet those who followed appeared infected by his example, and
appeared heedless of all consequences by which their pursuit might be attended to
themselves.
"Hurrah!" shouted the mob below.
"Hurrah!" shouted the mob on the tiles.
Then, over several housetops might be seen the flying figure of Sir Francis Varney,
pursued by different men at a pace almost equal to his own.
They, however, could keep up the same speed, and not improve upon it, while he kept the
advantage he first obtained in the start.
Then suddenly he disappeared.
It seemed to the spectators below that he had dropped through a house, and they
immediately surrounded the house, as well as they could, and then set up another shout.
This took place several times, and as often was the miserable man hunted from his place
of refuge only to seek another, from which he was in like manner hunted by those who
thirsted for his blood.
On one occasion, they drove him into a house which was surrounded, save at one point,
which had a long room, or building in it, that ran some distance out, and about twenty feet
high.
At the entrance to the roof of this place, or leads, he stood and defended himself for some
moments with success; but having received a blow himself, he was compelled to retire,
while the mob behind forced those in front forward faster than he could by any exertion
wield the staff that had so much befriended him on this occasion.
He was, therefore, on the point of being overwhelmed by numbers, when he fled; but,
alas! there was no escape; a bare coping stone and rails ran round the top of that.
There was not much time for hesitation, but he jumped over the rails and looked below. It
was a great height, but if he fell and hurt himself, he knew he was at the mercy of the
bloodhounds behind him, who would do anything but show him any mercy, or spare him a
single pang.
He looked round and beheld his pursuers close upon him, and one was so close to him
that he seized upon his arm, saying, as he shouted to his companions, --

"Hurrah, boys! I have him."
With an execration, Sir Francis wielded his staff with such force, that he struck the fellow
in the head, crushing in his hat as if it had been only so much paper. The man fell, but a
blow followed from some one else which caused Varney to relax his hold, and finding
himself falling, he, to save himself, sprang away.
The rails, at that moment, were crowded with men who leaned over to ascertain the effect
of the leap.
"He'll be killed," said one.
"He's sure to be smashed," said another.
"I'll lay any wager he'll break a limb!" said a third.
Varney came to the earth -- for a moment he lay stunned, and not able to move hand or
foot.
"Hurrah!" shouted the mob.
Their triumph was short, for just as they shouted Varney arose, and after a moment or
two's stagger he set off at full speed, which produced another shout from the mob; and just
at that moment, a body of his pursuers were seen scaling the walls after him.
There was now a hunt through all the adjoining fields -- from cover after cover they
pursued him until he found no rest from the hungry wolves that beset him with cries,
resembling beasts of prey rather than any human multitude.
Sir Francis heard them, at the same time, with the despair of a man who is struggling for
life, and yet knows he is struggling in vain; he knew his strength was decaying -- his
immense exertions and the blows he had received, all weakened him, while the number and
strength of his foes seemed rather to increase than to diminish.
Once more he sought the houses, and for a moment he believed himself safe, but that was
only a momentary deception, for they had traced him.
He arrived at a garden wall, over which he bounded, and then he rushed into the house,
the door of which stood open, for the noise and disturbance had awakened most of the
inhabitants, who were out in all directions.
He took refuge in a small closet on the stairs, but was seen to do so by a girl, who
screamed out with fear and fright,
"Murder! murder! -- the wampyre! -- the wampyre!" with all her strength, and in the way
of screaming that was no little, and then she went off into a fit.

This was signal enough, and the house was at once entered, and beset on all sides by the
mob, who came impatient of obtaining their victim who had so often baffled them.
"There he is -- there he is," said the girl, who came to as soon as other people came up.
"Where? -- where?"
"In that closet," she said, pointing to it with her finger. "I see'd him go in the way above."
Sir Francis, finding himself betrayed, immediately came out of the closet, just as two or
three were advancing to open it, and dealt so hard a blow on the head of the first that came
near him that he fell without a groan, and a second shared the same fate; and then Sir
Francis found himself grappled with, but with a violent effort he relieved himself and
rushed up the stairs.
"Oh! murder -- the wampyre! what shall I do -- fire -- fire!"
These exclamations were uttered in consequence of Varney in his haste to get up stairs,
having inadvertently stepped into the girl's lap with one foot, while he kicked her in the
chin with the other, besides scratching her nose till it bled.
"After him -- stick to him," shouted the mob, but the girl kicked and sprawled so much
they were impeded, till, regardless of her cries, they ran over her and pursued Varney, who
was much distressed with the exertions he had made.
After about a minute's race he turned upon the head of the stairs, not so much taking some
breathing time; but seeing his enemies so close, he drew his sword, and stood panting, but
prepared.
"Never mind his toasting-fork," said one bulky fellow, and, as he spoke, he rushed on, but
the point of the weapon entered his heart and he fell dead.
There was a dreadful execration uttered by those who came up after him, and there was a
momentary pause, for none liked to rush on to the bloody sword of Sir Francis Varney, who
stood so willing and so capable of using it with the most deadly effect. They paused, as
well they might, and this pause was the most welcome thing next to life to the unfortunate
fugitive, for he was dreadfully distressed and bleeding.
"On to him boys! He can hardly stand. See how he pants. On to him, I say -- push him
hard."
"He pushes hard, I tell you," said another. "I felt the point of his sword, as it came
through Giles's back."
"I'll try my luck, then," said another, and he rushed up; but he was met by the sword of
Sir Francis, who pierced it through his side, and he fell back with a groan.

Sir Francis, fearful of stopping any longer to defend that point, appeared desirous of
making good his retreat with some little advantage, and he rushed up stairs before they had
recovered from the momentary consternation into which they had been thrown by the
sudden disaster they had received.
But they were quickly after him, and before he, wearied as he was, could gain the roof,
they were up the ladder after him.
The first man who came through the trap was again set upon by Varney, who made a
desperate thrust at him, and it took effect; but the sword snapped by the handle.
With an execration, Sir Francis threw the hilt at the head of the next man he saw; then
rushing, with headlong speed, he distanced his pursuers for some house tops.
But the row of houses ended at the one he was then at, and he could go no further. What
was to be done? The height was by far too great to be jumped; death was certain. A hideous
heap of crushed and mangled bones would be the extent of what would remain of him, and
then, perhaps, life not extinct for some hours afterwards.
He turned round; he saw them coming hallooing over the house tops, like a pack of
hounds. Sir Francis struck his hands together, and groaned. He looked round, and perceived
some ivy peeping over the coping-stone. A thought struck him, and he instantly ran to the
spot and leaned over.
"Saved -- saved!" he exclaimed.
Then, placing his hand over, he felt for the ivy; then he got over, and hung by the coping-
stone, in a perilous position, till he found a spot on which he could rest his foot, and then he
grasped the ivy as low down as he could, and thus he lowered himself a short way, till he
came to where the ivy was stronger and more secure to the wall, as the upper part was very
dangerous with his weight attached to it.
The mob came on, very sure of having Sir Francis Varney in their power, and they did not
hurry on so violently, as their position was dangerous at that hour of the night.
"Easy, boys, easy," was the cry. "The bird is our own; he can't get away, that's very
certain."
They, however, came on, and took no time about it hardly; but what was their amazement
and rage at finding he had disappeared.
"Where is he?" was the universal inquiry, and "I don't know," an almost universal answer.
There was a long pause, while they searched around; but they saw no vestige of the object
of their search.

"There's no trap door open," remarked one; "and I don't think he could have got in any
one."
"Perhaps, finding he could not get away, he has taken the desperate expedient of jumping
over, and committing suicide, and so escape the doom he ought to be subjected to."
"Probably he has; but then we can run a stake through him and burn him all the same."
They now approached the extreme verge of the houses, and looked over the sides, but
they could see nothing. The moon was up, and there was light enough to have seen him if
he had fallen to the earth, and they were quite sure that he could not have got up after such
a fall as he must have received.
"We are beaten after all, neighbours."
"I am not so sure of that," was the reply. "He may now be hidden about, for he was too
far spent to be able to go far; he could not do that, I am sure."
"I think not either."
"Might he not have escaped by means of that ivy, yonder?" said one of the men, pointing
to the plant, as it climbed over the coping-stones of the wall.
"Yes; it may be possible," said one; "and yet it is very dangerous, if not certain
destruction to get over."
"Oh, yes; there is no possibility of escape that way. Why, it wouldn't bear a cat, for there
are no nails driven into the wall at this height."
"Never mind," said another, "we may as well leave no stone unturned, as the saying is,
but at once set about looking out for him."
The individual who spoke now leant over the coping stone, for some moments, in silence.
He could see nothing, but yet he continued to gaze for some moments.
"Do you see him?" inquired one.
"No," was the answer.
"Ay, ay, I thought as much," was the reply. "He might as well have got hold of a corner
of the moon, which, I believe, is more likely -- a great deal more likely."
"Hold still a moment," said the man, who was looking over the edge of the house.
"What's the matter now? A gnat flew into your eye?"

"No; but I see him -- by Jove, I see him!"
"See who -- see who?"
"Varney, the vampyre!" shouted the man. "I see him about half-way down, clinging, like
a fly to the wall. Odd zounds! I never saw the like afore!"
"Hurrah! after him then, boys!"
"Not the same way, if you please. Go yourself, and welcome; but I won't go that way."
"Just as you please," said the man; "but what's good for the goose is good for the gander
is an old saying, and so is Jack as good as his master."
"So it may be; but cuss me if you ain't a fool if you attempt that!"
The man made no reply, but did as Varney had done before, got over the coping stone,
and then laid hold of the ivy; but, whether his weight was heavier than Varney's, or whether
it was that the latter had loosened the hold of the ivy or not, but he had no sooner left go of
the coping stone than the ivy gave way, and he was precipitated from the height of about
fifty feet to the earth -- a dreadful fall!
There was a pause -- no one spoke. The man lay motionless and dead -- he had dislocated
his neck!
The fall had not, however, been without its effect upon Varney, for the man's heels struck
him so forcibly on his head as he fell, that he was stunned, and let go his hold, and he, too,
fell to the earth, but not many feet.
He soon recovered himself, and was staggering away, when he was assailed by those
above with groans, and curses of all kinds, and then by stones, and tiles, and whatever the
mob could lay their hands upon.
Some of these struck him, and he was cut about in various places, so that he could hardly
stand.
The hoots and shouts of the mob above had now attracted those below to the spot where
Sir Francis Varney was trying to escape, but he had not gone far before the loud yells of
those behind him told him that he was again pursued.
Half dead, and almost wholly spent, unarmed, and defenceless, he scarce knew what to
do; whether to fly, or to turn round and die as a refuge from the greater evil of
endeavouring to prolong a struggle which seemed hopeless. Instinct, however, urged him
on, at all risks, and though he could not go very far, or fast, yet on he went, with the crowd
after him.

"Down with the vampyre! -- seize him -- hold him -- burn him! he must be down
presently, he can't stand!"
This gave them new hopes, and rendered Varney's fate almost certain. They renewed their
exertions to overtake him, while he exerted himself anew, and with surprising agility,
considering how he had been employed for more than two hours.
There were some trees and hedges now that opposed the progress of both parties. The
height of Sir Francis Varney gave him a great advantage, and, had he been fresh, he might
have shown it to advantage in vaulting over the hedges and ditches, which he jumped when
obliged, and walked through when he could.
Every now and then, the party in pursuit, who had been behind him some distance, now
they gained on him; however, they kept, every now and then, losing sight of him among the
trees and shrubs, and he made direct for a small wood, hoping that when there, he should be
able to conceal himself for some time, so as to throw his pursuers off the track.
They were well aware of this, for they increased their speed, and one or two swifter of
foot than the others, got a-head of them, and cried out aloud as they ran, --
"Keep up! keep up! he's making for the wood."
"He can't stop there long; there are too many of us to beat that cover without finding our
game. Push, lads, he's our own now, as sure as we know he's on a-head."
They did push on, and came in full sight as they saw Sir Francis enter the wood, with
what speed he could make; but he was almost spent. This was a cheering sight to them, and
they were pretty certain he would not leave the wood in the state he was then -- he must
seek concealment.
However, they were mistaken, for Sir Francis Varney, as soon as he got into the wood,
plunged into the thickest of it, and then paused to gain breath.
"So far safe," he muttered; "but I have had a narrow escape; they are not yet done,
though, and it will not be safe here long. I must away, and seek shelter and safety
elsewhere, if I can; -- curses on the hounds that run yelping over the fields!"
He heard the shouts of his pursuers, and prepared to quit the wood when he thought the
first had entered it.
"They will remain there some time in beating about," he muttered; "that is the only
chance I have had since the pursuit; curse them! I say again. I may now get free; this delay
must save my life, but nothing else will."
He moved away, and, at a slow and lazy pace, left the wood, and then made his way
across some fields, towards some cottages that lay on the left.

The moon yet shone on the fields; he could hear the shouts of the mob, as various parties
went through the wood from one covert to another, and yet unable to find him.
Then came a great shout upon his ears, as though they had found out he had left the
wood. This caused him to redouble his speed, and, fearful lest he should be seen in the
moonlight, he leaped over the first fence that he came to, with almost the last effort that he
could make, and then staggered in at an open door -- through a passage -- into a front
parlour, and there fell, faint, and utterly spent and speechless, at the feet of Flora
Bannerworth.
--
Chapter LXXXVIII.
THE RECEPTION OF THE VAMPYRE BY FLORA. -- VARNEY SUBDUED.
We must say that the irruption into the house of the Bannerworths by Sir Francis Varney,
was certainly unpremeditated by him, for he knew not into whose house he had thus
suddenly rushed for refuge from the numerous foes who were pursing him with such
vengeful ire. It was a strange and singular incident, and one well calculated to cause the
mind to pause before it passed it by, and consider the means to an end which are sometimes
as wide of the mark, as it is in nature possible to be.
But truth is stronger than fiction by far, and the end of it was, that, pressed on all sides by
danger, bleeding, faint, and exhausted, he rushed into the first house he came to, and thus
placed himself in the very house of those whom he had brought to such a state of
misfortune.
Flora Bannerworth was seated at some embroidery, to pass away an hour or so, and thus
get over the tedium of time; she was not thinking, either, upon the unhappy past; some
trifling object or other engaged her attention. But what was her anguish when she saw a
man staggering into the room bleeding, and bearing the marks of a bloody contest, and
sinking at her feet.
He astonishment was far greater yet, when she recognized that man to be Sir Francis
Varney.

"Save me! -- save me! Miss Bannerworth, save me! -- only you can save me from the
ruthless multitude which follows, crying aloud for my blood."
As he spoke, he sank down speechless. Flora was so much amazed, not to say terrified,
that she knew not what to do. She saw Sir Francis a suppliant at her feet, a fugitive from his
enemies, who would show him no mercy -- she saw all this at a moment's glance; and yet
she had not recovered her speech and presence of mind enough to enable her to make any
reply to him.
"Save me! Miss Flora Bannerworth, save me!" he again said, raising himself on his
hands. "I am beset, hunted like a wild beast -- they seek to destroy my life -- they have
pursued me from one spot to another, and I have unwittingly intruded upon you. You will
save me; I am sure your kindness and goodness of heart will never permit me to be turned
out among such a crew of blood-thirsty butchers as those who pursue me are."
"Rise, Sir Francis Varney," said Flora, after a moment's hesitation; "in such an extremity
as that which you are in, it would be inhuman indeed to thrust you out among your
enemies."
"Oh! it would," said Varney. "I had thought, until now, I could have faced such a mob,
until I was in this extremity; and then, disarmed and thrown down, bruised, beaten, and
incapable of stemming such a torrent, I fled from one place to another, till hunted from
each, and then instinct alone urged me to greater exertion than before, and here I am -- this
is now my last and only hope."
"Rise, Sir Francis."
"You will not let me be torn out and slaughtered like an ox. I am sure you will not."
"Sir Francis, we are incapable of such conduct; you have sought refuge here, and shall
find it as far as we are able to afford it to you."
"And your brother -- and -- "
"Yes -- yes -- all who are here will do the same; but here they come to speak for
themselves."
As she spoke, Mrs. Bannerworth entered, also Charles Holland, who both started on
seeing the vampyre present, Sir Francis Varney, who was too weak to rise without
assistance.
"Sir Francis Varney," said Flora, speaking to them as they entered, "has sought refuge
here; his life is in peril, and he has no other hope left; you will, I am sure, do what can be
done for him."

"Mr. Holland," said Sir Francis, "I am, as you may see by my condition, a fugitive, and
have been beaten almost to death; instinct alone urged me on to save my life, and I,
unknowingly, came in here."
"Rise, Sir Francis," said Charles Holland; "I am not one who would feel any pleasure in
seeing you become the victim of any brutal mob. I am sure there are none amongst us who
would willingly do so. You have trusted to those who will not betray you."
"Thank you," said Sir Francis, faintly. "I thank you; your conduct is noble, and Miss
Bannerworth's especially so."
"Are you much hurt, Sir Francis?" inquired Charles.
"I am much hurt, but not seriously or dangerously; but I am weak and exhausted."
"Let me assist you to rise," said Charles Holland.
"Thank you," said Sir Francis, as he accepted of the assistance, and when he stood up, he
found how incapable he really was, for a child might have grappled with him.
"I have been sore beset, Mrs. Bannerworth," he said, endeavouring to bow to that lady;
"and I have suffered much ill-usage. I am not in such a plight as I could wish to be seen in
by ladies; but my reasons for coming will be an excuse for my appearance in such
disorder."
"We will not say anything about that," said Charles Holland; "under the circumstances, it
could not be otherwise."
"It could not," said Sir Francis, as he took the chair Miss Flora Bannerworth placed for
him.
"I will not ask you for any explanation as to how this came about; but you need some
restorative and rest."
"I think I suffer more from exhaustion than anything else. The bruises I have, of course,
are not dangerous."
"Can you step aside a few moments?" said Mrs. Bannerworth. "I will show you where
you can remove some of those stains and make yourself more comfortable."
"Thank you, madam -- thank you. It will be most welcome to me, I assure you."
Sir Francis rose up, and, with the aid of Charles Holland, he walked to the next room,
where he washed himself, and arranged his dress as well as it would admit of its being
done.

"Mr. Holland," he said, "I cannot tell you how grateful I feel for this. I have been hunted
from the house where you saw me. From what source they learned my abode -- my place of
concealment -- I know not; but they found me out."
"I need hardly say, Sir Francis, that it could not have occurred through me," said Charles
Holland.
"My young friend," said Sir Francis, "I am quite sure you were not; and, moreover, I
never, for one moment, suspected you. No, no; some accidental circumstance alone has
been the cause. I have been very cautious -- I may say extremely so -- but at the same time,
living, as I have, surrounded by enemies on all sides, it is not to be wondered at that I
should be seen by some one, and thus traced to my lair, whither they followed me at their
leisure."
"They have been but too troublesome in this matter. When they become a little
reasonable, it will be a great miracle; for, when their passions and fears are excited, there is
no end to the extremes they will perpetrate."
"It is so," said Varney, "as the history of these last few days amply testifies to me. I could
never have credited the extent to which popular excitement could be carried, and the results
it was likely to produce."
"It is an engine of very difficult control," pursued Charles Holland; "but what will raise it
will not allay it, but add fuel to the fire that burns so fiercely already."
"True enough," said Sir Francis.
"If you have done, will you again step this way?"
Sir Francis Varney followed Charles Holland into the sitting-room, and sat down with
them, and before him was spread a light supper, with some good wine.
"Eat, Sir Francis," said Mrs. Bannerworth. "Such a state as that in which you are, must, of
necessity, produce great exhaustion, and you must require food and drink."
Sir Francis bowed as well as he was able, and even then, sore and bruised as he was,
fugitive as he had been, he could not forget his courtesy; but it was not without an effort.
His equanimity was, however, much disturbed, by finding himself in the midst of the
Bannerworths.
"I owe you a relation," he said, "of what occurred to drive me from my place of
concealment."
"We should like to hear it, if you are not too far fatigued to relate it," said Charles.

"I will. I was sitting at the top of that house in which I sought to hide myself, when I
heard sounds come that were of a very suspicious nature; but did not believe that it could
happen that they had discovered my lurking-place; far from it; though, of late, I had been
habitually cautious and suspicious, yet I thought I was safe, till I heard the noise of a
multitude coming towards me. I could not be mistaken in it, for the sounds are so peculiar
that they are like nothing else. I heard them coming.
"I moved not; and when they surrounded the house as far as was practicable, they gave an
immense shout, and made the welkin ring with the sound."
"I heard a confused noise at a distance," remarked Flora; "but I had no idea that anything
serious was contemplated. I imagined it was some festival among some trade, or portion of
the townspeople, who were shouting from joy."
"Oh, dear, no," said Sir Francis; "but I am not surprised at the mistake, because there are
such occurrences occasionally; but whenever the mob gained any advantage upon me they
shouted, and when I was able to oppose them with effect, they groaned at me most
horribly."
"The deuce," said Charles; "the sound, I suppose, serves to express their feelings, and to
encourage each other."
"Something of the sort, I dare say," said Varney; "but at length, after defending the house
with all the desperation that despair imparted to me, I was compelled to fly from floor to
floor, until I had reached the roof; there they followed me, and I was compelled again to
fly. House after house they followed me to, until I could go no farther," said Varney.
"How did you escape?"
"Fortunately I saw some ivy growing and creeping over the coping-stones, and by
grasping that I got over the side, and so let myself down by degrees, as well as I was able."
"Good heavens! what a dreadful situation," exclaimed Flora; "it is really horrible!"
"I could not do it again, under, I think, any circumstances."
"Not the same?" said Mrs. Bannerworth.
"I really doubt if I could," said Varney. "The truth is, the excitement of the moment was
great, and I at that moment thought of nothing but getting away.
"The same circumstances, the same fear of death, could hardly be produced in me again,
and I am unable to account for the phenomenon on this occasion."
"Your escape was very narrow indeed," said Flora; "it makes me shudder to think of the
dangers you have gone through; it is really terrible to think of it."

"You," said Sir Francis, "are young and susceptible, and generous in your disposition.
You can feel for me, and do; but how little I could have expected it, it is impossible to say;
but your sympathy sinks into my mind, and causes such emotions as never can be erased
from my soul.
"But to proceed. You may guess how dreadful was my position, by the fact that the first
man who attempted to get over tore the ivy away and fell, striking me in his fall; he was
killed, and I thrown down and stunned, I then made for the wood, closely pursued, and got
into it; then I baffled them: they searched the wood, and I went through it. I then ran across
the country to these houses here; I got over the fence, and in at the back door."
"Did they see you come?" inquired Charles Holland.
"I cannot say, but I think that they did not; I heard them give a loud shout more than once
when on this side of the wood."
"You did? How far from here were you when you heard the shouts?" inquired Mrs.
Bannerworth.
"I was close here; and, as I jumped over the fence, I heard them shout again; but I think
they cannot see so far; the night was moonlight, to be sure, but that is all; the shadow of the
hedge, and the distance together, would make it, if not impossible, at least very
improbable."
"That is very likely," said Mrs. Bannerworth.
"In that case," said Charles Holland, "you are safe here; for none will suspect your being
concealed here."
"It is the last place I should myself have thought of," said Varney; "and I may say the last
place I would knowingly have come to; but had I before known enough of you, I should
have been well assured of your generosity, and have freely come to claim your aid and
shelter, which accident has so strangely brought me to be a candidate for, and which you
have so kindly awarded me."
"The night is wearing away," said Flora, "and Sir Francis is doubtless fatigued to an
excess; sleep, I dare say, will be most welcome to him."
"It will indeed, Miss Bannerworth," said Varney; "but I can do that under any
circumstances; do not let me put you to any inconvenience; a chair, and at any hour, will
serve me for sleep."
"We cannot do for you what we would wish," said Flora, looking at her mother; "but
something better than that, at all events, we can and will provide for you."

"I know not how to thank you," said Sir Francis Varney; "I assure you, of late I have not
been luxuriously lodged, and the less trouble I give you the greater I shall esteem the
favour."
The hour was late, and Sir Francis Varney, before another hour had elapsed, was
consigned to his own reflections, in a small but neat room, there to repose his bruised and
battered carcass, and court the refreshing influence of sleep.
His reflections were, for nearly an hour, of the most contradictory character; some one
passion was trying to overcome the other; but he seemed quite subdued.
"I could not have expected this," he muttered; "Flora Bannerworth has the soul of a
heroine. I deserved not such a reception from them; and yet, in my hour of utmost need,
they have received me like a favoured friend; and yet all their misfortunes have taken their
origin from me; I am the cause of all."
Filled with these thoughts, he fell asleep; he slept undisturbed; it seemed as though the
influence of sleep was sweeter far there, in the cottage of the Bannerworths, than ever he
had before received.
It was late on that morning before Sir Francis rose, and then only through hearing the
family about, and, having performed his toilet, so far as circumstances permitted, he
descended,and entered the front-parlour, the room he had been in the night before.
Flora Bannerworth was already there; indeed, breakfast was waiting the appearance of Sir
Francis Varney.
"Good morning, Sir Francis," said Flora, rising to receive him; and she could not avoid
looking at him as he entered the room. "I hope you have had a pleasant night."
"It has been the best night's rest I have had for some time, Miss Bannerworth. I assure
you I have to express my gratitude to you for so much kindness. I have slept well, and
soundly."
"I think yet I shall escape the search of these people who have hunted me from so many
places."
"I hope you may, indeed, Sir Francis."
"You, Miss Bannerworth! and do you hope that I may escape the vengeance of these
people -- the populace?"
"I do, Sir Francis, most sincerely hope so. Why should I wish evil to you, especially at
their hands?"

Sir Francis did not speak for a minute or two, and then he said, turning full upon Flora --
"I don't know why, Miss Bannerworth, that I should think so, but perhaps it is because
there are peculiar circumstances connected with myself, that have made me feel conscious
that I have not deserved so much goodness at your hands."
"You have not deserved any evil. Sir Francis, we could not do that if it were in our power;
we would do you a service at any time."
"You have done so, Miss Bannerworth -- the greatest that can be performed. You have
saved my life."
At that moment Charles Holland entered, and Sir Francis bowed, as he said, --
"I hope you, Mr. Holland, have slept as well, and passed as good a night as I have
passed?"
"I am glad you, at least, have passed a quiet one," said Charles Holland; "you, I dare say,
feel all the better for it? How do you feel yourself? Are you much hurt?"
"Not at all, not at all," said Sir Francis Varney. "Only a few bruises, and so forth, some of
which, as you may perceive, do not add to one's personal appearance. A week or two's quiet
would rid me of them. At all events, I would it may do the same with my enemies."
"I wish they were as easily gotten rid of myself," said Charles; "but as that cannot be, we
must endeavour to baffle them in the best way we may."
"I owe a debt to your I shall never be able to repay; but where there is a will, they say
there is a way; and if the old saying be good for anything, I need not despair, though the
way is by no means apparent at present."
"Time is the magician," said Flora, "whose wand changes all things -- the young to the
aged, and the aged to nothing."
"Certainly, that is true," said Varney, "and many such changes have I seen. My mind is
stored with such events; but this is sadness, and I have cause to rejoice."
The breakfast was passed off in pleasing conversation, and Varney found himself much at
home with the Bannerworths, whose calm and even tenour was quite new to him.
He could not but admit the charms of such a life as that led by the Bannerworths; but
what it must have been when they were supplied with ample means, with nothing to prey
upon their minds, and no fearful mystery to hang on and weigh down their spirits, he could
scarcely imagine.

They were amiable, accomplished; they were in the same mind at all times, and nothing
seemed to ruffle them; and when night came, he could not but acknowledge to himself that
he had never formed half the opinion of them they were deserving of.
Of course during that day he was compelled to lie close, so as not to be seen by any one,
save the family. He sat in a small room, which was overlooked by no other in the
neighbourhood, and he remained quiet, sometimes conversing, and sometimes reading, but
at the same time ever attentive to the least sound that appeared at all of a character to
indicate the approach of persons for any purpose whatever.
At supper time he spoke to Flora, and to Charles Holland, saying, --
"There are certain matters connected with myself -- I may say with you now -- sure all
that has happened will make it so -- of which you would be glad to hear something."
"You mean upon the same subject upon which I had some conversation with you a day or
two back?"
"Yes, the same. Allow me one week, and you shall know all. I will then relate to you that
which you so much desire to know -- one week, and all shall be told."
"Well," said Charles Holland, "this has not been exacted from you as the price of your
safety, but you can choose your own time, of course; what you promise is most desired, for
it will render those happy who now are much worse than they were before these
occurrences took place."
"I am aware of all that; grant me but one week, and then you shall be made acquainted
with all."
"I am satisfied, Sir Francis," said Flora; "but while here under our roof, we should never
have asked you a question."
"Of this, Miss Bannerworth, the little I have seen of you assures me you would not do so;
however, I am the more inclined to make it -- I am under so deep an obligation to you all,
that I can never repay it."
Sir Francis Varney retired to rest that night -- his promise to the Bannerworths filled his
mind with many reflections -- the insecurity of his own position, and the frail tenure which
even he held in the hands of those whom he had most injured.
This produced a series of reflections of a grave and melancholy nature, and he sat by his
window, watching the progress of the clouds, as they appeared to chase each other over the
face of the scene -- now casting a shade over the earth, and then banishing the shadows, and
throwing a gentle light over the earth's surface, which was again chased away, and shadows
again fell upon the scene below.

How long he had sat there in melancholy musing he knew not; but suddenly he was
aroused from his dreams by a voice that shook the skies, and caused him to start to his feet.
"Hurrah! -- hurrah! -- hurrah!" shouted the mob, which had silently collected around the
cottage of the Bannerworths.
"Curses!" muttered Sir Francis, as he again sank in his chair, and struck his head with his
hand. "I am hunted to death -- they will not leave me until my body has graced a cross-
road."
"Hurrah! -- down with the vampyre -- pull him out!"
Then came an instant knocking at the doors, and the people on the outside made a great
din, that it seemed as though they contemplated knocking the house down at once, without
warning the inmates that they waited there.
There was a cessation for about a minute, when one of the family hastened to the door,
and inquired what was wanted.
"Varney, the vampyre," was the reply.
"You must seek him elsewhere."
"We will search this place before we go further," replied a man.
"But he is not here."
"We have reason to believe otherwise. Open the door, and let us in -- no one shall be hurt,
or one single object in the house, but we must come in, and search for the vampyre."
"Come to-morrow, then."
"That will not do," said the voice; "open, or we force our way in without more notice."
At the same a tremendous blow was bestowed upon the door, and then much force was
used to thrust it in. A consultation was suddenly held among the inmates as to what was to
be done, but no one could advise, and each was well aware of the utter impossibility of
keeping the mob out.
"I do not see what is to become of me," said Sir Francis Varney, suddenly appearing
before them. "You must let them in; there is no chance of keeping them out, neither can you
conceal me. You will have no place, save one, that will be sacred from their profanation."
"And what is that?"
"Flora's own room."

All started at the thought that Flora's chamber could in any way be profaned by any such
presence as Sir Francis Varney's.
However, the doors below were suddenly burst open, amid loud cries front the populace,
who rushed in in great numbers, and began to search the lower rooms, immediately.
"All is lost!" said Sir Francis Varney, as he dashed away and rushed to the chamber of
Flora, who, alarmed at the sounds that were now filling the house, stood listening to them.
"Miss Bannerworth -- " began Varney.
"Sir Francis!"
"Yes, it is I, Miss Bannerworth. Hear me, for one moment."
"What is the matter?"
"I am again in peril -- in more imminent peril than before; my life is not worth a minute's
purchase, unless you save me. You, and alone, can now save me. Oh! Miss Bannerworth, if
ever pity touched your heart, save me from those only whom I now fear. I could meet death
in any shape but that in which they will inflict it upon me. Hear their execrations below!"
"Death to the vampyre! death to Varney! burn him! run a stake through his body!"
"What can I do, Sir Francis?"
"Admit me to your chamber."
"Sir Francis, are you aware of what you are saying?"
"I am well. It is a request which you would justly scorn to reply to; but now my life --
recollect you have saved me once -- my life; -- do now now throw away the boon you have
so kindly bestowed. Save me, Miss Bannerworth."
"It is not possible. I -- "
"Nay, Miss Bannerworth, do you imagine this is a time for ceremony, or the observances
of polished life? On my honour, you run no risk of censure."
"Where is Varney? Where is the vampyre? He ain't far off."
"Hear -- hear them, Miss Bannerworth. They are now at the foot of the stairs. Not a
moment to lose. One minute more, and I am in the hands of a crew that has no mercy."
"Hurrah! upstairs. He's not below. Upstairs, neighbours; we shall have him yet."

These words sounded on the stairs; half-a-dozen more steps, and Varney would be seen.
It was a miracle he was not heard begging for his life.
Varney cast a look of despair at the stairhead and felt for his sword, but it was not there;
he had lost it. He struck his head with his clenched hand, and was about to rush upon his
foes, when he heard the lock turn; he looked, and saw the door opened gently, and Flora
stood there; he passed in, and sank cowering into a chair, at the other end of the room,
behind some curtains.
The door was scarcely shut ere some tried to force it, and then a loud knocking came at
the door.
"Open! open! we want Varney, the vampyre. Open! or we will burst it open."
Flora did open it, but stood resolutely in the opening, and held up her hand to impose
silence.
"Are you men, that you can come thus to force yourselves upon the privacy of a female?
Is there nothing in the town or house, that you must intrude in numbers into a private
apartment? Is no place sacred from you?"
"But, ma'am -- miss -- we only want Varney, the vampyre."
"And can you find him nowhere but in a female's bedroom? Shame on you! shame on
you! Have you no sisters, wives, or mothers, that you act thus?"
"He's not in there, you may be sure of that, Jack," said a gruff voice. "Let the lady be in
quiet; she's had quite enough trouble with him to sicken her of a vampyre. You may be sure
that's the last place to find him in."
With this they all turned away, and Flora shut the door and locked it upon them, and
Varney was safe.
"You have saved me," said Varney.
"Hush!" said Flora. "Speak not; there may be some one listening."
Sir Francis Varney stood in the attitude of one listening most anxiously to catch some
sounds; the moon fell across his face, and gave it a ghastly hue, that, added to his natural
paleness and wounds, gave him an almost unearthly aspect.
The sounds grew more and more distant; the shouts and noise of men traversing the
apartments subsided, and gradually the place became restored to its original silence. The
mob, after having searched every other part of the house, and not finding the object of their
search, they concluded that he was not there, but must have made his escape before.

We must say that the irruption into the house of the Bannerworths by Sir Francis Varney,
was certainly unpremeditated by him, for he knew not into whose house he had thus
suddenly rushed for refuge from the numerous foes who were pursing him with such
vengeful ire. It was a strange and singular incident, and one well calculated to cause the
mind to pause before it passed it by, and consider the means to an end which are sometimes
as wide of the mark, as it is in nature possible to be.
But truth is stronger than fiction by far, and the end of it was, that, pressed on all sides by
danger, bleeding, faint, and exhausted, he rushed into the first house he came to, and thus
placed himself in the very house of those whom he had brought to such a state of
misfortune.
Flora Bannerworth was seated at some embroidery, to pass away an hour or so, and thus
get over the tedium of time; she was not thinking, either, upon the unhappy past; some
trifling object or other engaged her attention. But what was her anguish when she saw a
man staggering into the room bleeding, and bearing the marks of a bloody contest, and
sinking at her feet.
He astonishment was far greater yet, when she recognized that man to be Sir Francis
Varney.
"Save me! -- save me! Miss Bannerworth, save me! -- only you can save me from the
ruthless multitude which follows, crying aloud for my blood."
As he spoke, he sank down speechless. Flora was so much amazed, not to say terrified,
that she knew not what to do. She saw Sir Francis a suppliant at her feet, a fugitive from his
enemies, who would show him no mercy -- she saw all this at a moment's glance; and yet
she had not recovered her speech and presence of mind enough to enable her to make any
reply to him.
"Save me! Miss Flora Bannerworth, save me!" he again said, raising himself on his
hands. "I am beset, hunted like a wild beast -- they seek to destroy my life -- they have
pursued me from one spot to another, and I have unwittingly intruded upon you. You will
save me; I am sure your kindness and goodness of heart will never permit me to be turned
out among such a crew of blood-thirsty butchers as those who pursue me are."
"Rise, Sir Francis Varney," said Flora, after a moment's hesitation; "in such an extremity
as that which you are in, it would be inhuman indeed to thrust you out among your
enemies."
"Oh! it would," said Varney. "I had thought, until now, I could have faced such a mob,
until I was in this extremity; and then, disarmed and thrown down, bruised, beaten, and
incapable of stemming such a torrent, I fled from one place to another, till hunted from
each, and then instinct alone urged me to greater exertion than before, and here I am -- this
is now my last and only hope."

"Rise, Sir Francis."
"You will not let me be torn out and slaughtered like an ox. I am sure you will not."
"Sir Francis, we are incapable of such conduct; you have sought refuge here, and shall
find it as far as we are able to afford it to you."
"And your brother -- and -- "
"Yes -- yes -- all who are here will do the same; but here they come to speak for
themselves."
As she spoke, Mrs. Bannerworth entered, also Charles Holland, who both started on
seeing the vampyre present, Sir Francis Varney, who was too weak to rise without
assistance.
"Sir Francis Varney," said Flora, speaking to them as they entered, "has sought refuge
here; his life is in peril, and he has no other hope left; you will, I am sure, do what can be
done for him."
"Mr. Holland," said Sir Francis, "I am, as you may see by my condition, a fugitive, and
have been beaten almost to death; instinct alone urged me on to save my life, and I,
unknowingly, came in here."
"Rise, Sir Francis," said Charles Holland; "I am not one who would feel any pleasure in
seeing you become the victim of any brutal mob. I am sure there are none amongst us who
would willingly do so. You have trusted to those who will not betray you."
"Thank you," said Sir Francis, faintly. "I thank you; your conduct is noble, and Miss
Bannerworth's especially so."
"Are you much hurt, Sir Francis?" inquired Charles.
"I am much hurt, but not seriously or dangerously; but I am weak and exhausted."
"Let me assist you to rise," said Charles Holland.
"Thank you," said Sir Francis, as he accepted of the assistance, and when he stood up, he
found how incapable he really was, for a child might have grappled with him.
"I have been sore beset, Mrs. Bannerworth," he said, endeavouring to bow to that lady;
"and I have suffered much ill-usage. I am not in such a plight as I could wish to be seen in
by ladies; but my reasons for coming will be an excuse for my appearance in such
disorder."

"We will not say anything about that," said Charles Holland; "under the circumstances, it
could not be otherwise."
"It could not," said Sir Francis, as he took the chair Miss Flora Bannerworth placed for
him.
"I will not ask you for any explanation as to how this came about; but you need some
restorative and rest."
"I think I suffer more from exhaustion than anything else. The bruises I have, of course,
are not dangerous."
"Can you step aside a few moments?" said Mrs. Bannerworth. "I will show you where
you can remove some of those stains and make yourself more comfortable."
"Thank you, madam -- thank you. It will be most welcome to me, I assure you."
Sir Francis rose up, and, with the aid of Charles Holland, he walked to the next room,
where he washed himself, and arranged his dress as well as it would admit of its being
done.
"Mr. Holland," he said, "I cannot tell you how grateful I feel for this. I have been hunted
from the house where you saw me. From what source they learned my abode -- my place of
concealment -- I know not; but they found me out."
"I need hardly say, Sir Francis, that it could not have occurred through me," said Charles
Holland.
"My young friend," said Sir Francis, "I am quite sure you were not; and, moreover, I
never, for one moment, suspected you. No, no; some accidental circumstance alone has
been the cause. I have been very cautious -- I may say extremely so -- but at the same time,
living, as I have, surrounded by enemies on all sides, it is not to be wondered at that I
should be seen by some one, and thus traced to my lair, whither they followed me at their
leisure."
"They have been but too troublesome in this matter. When they become a little
reasonable, it will be a great miracle; for, when their passions and fears are excited, there is
no end to the extremes they will perpetrate."
"It is so," said Varney, "as the history of these last few days amply testifies to me. I could
never have credited the extent to which popular excitement could be carried, and the results
it was likely to produce."
"It is an engine of very difficult control," pursued Charles Holland; "but what will raise it
will not allay it, but add fuel to the fire that burns so fiercely already."

"True enough," said Sir Francis.
"If you have done, will you again step this way?"
Sir Francis Varney followed Charles Holland into the sitting-room, and sat down with
them, and before him was spread a light supper, with some good wine.
"Eat, Sir Francis," said Mrs. Bannerworth. "Such a state as that in which you are, must, of
necessity, produce great exhaustion, and you must require food and drink."
Sir Francis bowed as well as he was able, and even then, sore and bruised as he was,
fugitive as he had been, he could not forget his courtesy; but it was not without an effort.
His equanimity was, however, much disturbed, by finding himself in the midst of the
Bannerworths.
"I owe you a relation," he said, "of what occurred to drive me from my place of
concealment."
"We should like to hear it, if you are not too far fatigued to relate it," said Charles.
"I will. I was sitting at the top of that house in which I sought to hide myself, when I
heard sounds come that were of a very suspicious nature; but did not believe that it could
happen that they had discovered my lurking-place; far from it; though, of late, I had been
habitually cautious and suspicious, yet I thought I was safe, till I heard the noise of a
multitude coming towards me. I could not be mistaken in it, for the sounds are so peculiar
that they are like nothing else. I heard them coming.
"I moved not; and when they surrounded the house as far as was practicable, they gave an
immense shout, and made the welkin ring with the sound."
"I heard a confused noise at a distance," remarked Flora; "but I had no idea that anything
serious was contemplated. I imagined it was some festival among some trade, or portion of
the townspeople, who were shouting from joy."
"Oh, dear, no," said Sir Francis; "but I am not surprised at the mistake, because there are
such occurrences occasionally; but whenever the mob gained any advantage upon me they
shouted, and when I was able to oppose them with effect, they groaned at me most
horribly."
"The deuce," said Charles; "the sound, I suppose, serves to express their feelings, and to
encourage each other."
"Something of the sort, I dare say," said Varney; "but at length, after defending the house
with all the desperation that despair imparted to me, I was compelled to fly from floor to
floor, until I had reached the roof; there they followed me, and I was compelled again to
fly. House after house they followed me to, until I could go no farther," said Varney.

"How did you escape?"
"Fortunately I saw some ivy growing and creeping over the coping-stones, and by
grasping that I got over the side, and so let myself down by degrees, as well as I was able."
"Good heavens! what a dreadful situation," exclaimed Flora; "it is really horrible!"
"I could not do it again, under, I think, any circumstances."
"Not the same?" said Mrs. Bannerworth.
"I really doubt if I could," said Varney. "The truth is, the excitement of the moment was
great, and I at that moment thought of nothing but getting away.
"The same circumstances, the same fear of death, could hardly be produced in me again,
and I am unable to account for the phenomenon on this occasion."
"Your escape was very narrow indeed," said Flora; "it makes me shudder to think of the
dangers you have gone through; it is really terrible to think of it."
"You," said Sir Francis, "are young and susceptible, and generous in your disposition.
You can feel for me, and do; but how little I could have expected it, it is impossible to say;
but your sympathy sinks into my mind, and causes such emotions as never can be erased
from my soul.
"But to proceed. You may guess how dreadful was my position, by the fact that the first
man who attempted to get over tore the ivy away and fell, striking me in his fall; he was
killed, and I thrown down and stunned, I then made for the wood, closely pursued, and got
into it; then I baffled them: they searched the wood, and I went through it. I then ran across
the country to these houses here; I got over the fence, and in at the back door."
"Did they see you come?" inquired Charles Holland.
"I cannot say, but I think that they did not; I heard them give a loud shout more than once
when on this side of the wood."
"You did? How far from here were you when you heard the shouts?" inquired Mrs.
Bannerworth.
"I was close here; and, as I jumped over the fence, I heard them shout again; but I think
they cannot see so far; the night was moonlight, to be sure, but that is all; the shadow of the
hedge, and the distance together, would make it, if not impossible, at least very
improbable."
"That is very likely," said Mrs. Bannerworth.

"In that case," said Charles Holland, "you are safe here; for none will suspect your being
concealed here."
"It is the last place I should myself have thought of," said Varney; "and I may say the last
place I would knowingly have come to; but had I before known enough of you, I should
have been well assured of your generosity, and have freely come to claim your aid and
shelter, which accident has so strangely brought me to be a candidate for, and which you
have so kindly awarded me."
"The night is wearing away," said Flora, "and Sir Francis is doubtless fatigued to an
excess; sleep, I dare say, will be most welcome to him."
"It will indeed, Miss Bannerworth," said Varney; "but I can do that under any
circumstances; do not let me put you to any inconvenience; a chair, and at any hour, will
serve me for sleep."
"We cannot do for you what we would wish," said Flora, looking at her mother; "but
something better than that, at all events, we can and will provide for you."
"I know not how to thank you," said Sir Francis Varney; "I assure you, of late I have not
been luxuriously lodged, and the less trouble I give you the greater I shall esteem the
favour."
The hour was late, and Sir Francis Varney, before another hour had elapsed, was
consigned to his own reflections, in a small but neat room, there to repose his bruised and
battered carcass, and court the refreshing influence of sleep.
His reflections were, for nearly an hour, of the most contradictory character; some one
passion was trying to overcome the other; but he seemed quite subdued.
"I could not have expected this," he muttered; "Flora Bannerworth has the soul of a
heroine. I deserved not such a reception from them; and yet, in my hour of utmost need,
they have received me like a favoured friend; and yet all their misfortunes have taken their
origin from me; I am the cause of all."
Filled with these thoughts, he fell asleep; he slept undisturbed; it seemed as though the
influence of sleep was sweeter far there, in the cottage of the Bannerworths, than ever he
had before received.
It was late on that morning before Sir Francis rose, and then only through hearing the
family about, and, having performed his toilet, so far as circumstances permitted, he
descended,and entered the front-parlour, the room he had been in the night before.
Flora Bannerworth was already there; indeed, breakfast was waiting the appearance of Sir
Francis Varney.

"Good morning, Sir Francis," said Flora, rising to receive him; and she could not avoid
looking at him as he entered the room. "I hope you have had a pleasant night."
"It has been the best night's rest I have had for some time, Miss Bannerworth. I assure
you I have to express my gratitude to you for so much kindness. I have slept well, and
soundly."
"I think yet I shall escape the search of these people who have hunted me from so many
places."
"I hope you may, indeed, Sir Francis."
"You, Miss Bannerworth! and do you hope that I may escape the vengeance of these
people -- the populace?"
"I do, Sir Francis, most sincerely hope so. Why should I wish evil to you, especially at
their hands?"
Sir Francis did not speak for a minute or two, and then he said, turning full upon Flora --
"I don't know why, Miss Bannerworth, that I should think so, but perhaps it is because
there are peculiar circumstances connected with myself, that have made me feel conscious
that I have not deserved so much goodness at your hands."
"You have not deserved any evil. Sir Francis, we could not do that if it were in our power;
we would do you a service at any time."
"You have done so, Miss Bannerworth -- the greatest that can be performed. You have
saved my life."
At that moment Charles Holland entered, and Sir Francis bowed, as he said, --
"I hope you, Mr. Holland, have slept as well, and passed as good a night as I have
passed?"
"I am glad you, at least, have passed a quiet one," said Charles Holland; "you, I dare say,
feel all the better for it? How do you feel yourself? Are you much hurt?"
"Not at all, not at all," said Sir Francis Varney. "Only a few bruises, and so forth, some of
which, as you may perceive, do not add to one's personal appearance. A week or two's quiet
would rid me of them. At all events, I would it may do the same with my enemies."
"I wish they were as easily gotten rid of myself," said Charles; "but as that cannot be, we
must endeavour to baffle them in the best way we may."

"I owe a debt to your I shall never be able to repay; but where there is a will, they say
there is a way; and if the old saying be good for anything, I need not despair, though the
way is by no means apparent at present."
"Time is the magician," said Flora, "whose wand changes all things -- the young to the
aged, and the aged to nothing."
"Certainly, that is true," said Varney, "and many such changes have I seen. My mind is
stored with such events; but this is sadness, and I have cause to rejoice."
The breakfast was passed off in pleasing conversation, and Varney found himself much at
home with the Bannerworths, whose calm and even tenour was quite new to him.
He could not but admit the charms of such a life as that led by the Bannerworths; but
what it must have been when they were supplied with ample means, with nothing to prey
upon their minds, and no fearful mystery to hang on and weigh down their spirits, he could
scarcely imagine.
They were amiable, accomplished; they were in the same mind at all times, and nothing
seemed to ruffle them; and when night came, he could not but acknowledge to himself that
he had never formed half the opinion of them they were deserving of.
Of course during that day he was compelled to lie close, so as not to be seen by any one,
save the family. He sat in a small room, which was overlooked by no other in the
neighbourhood, and he remained quiet, sometimes conversing, and sometimes reading, but
at the same time ever attentive to the least sound that appeared at all of a character to
indicate the approach of persons for any purpose whatever.
At supper time he spoke to Flora, and to Charles Holland, saying, --
"There are certain matters connected with myself -- I may say with you now -- sure all
that has happened will make it so -- of which you would be glad to hear something."
"You mean upon the same subject upon which I had some conversation with you a day or
two back?"
"Yes, the same. Allow me one week, and you shall know all. I will then relate to you that
which you so much desire to know -- one week, and all shall be told."
"Well," said Charles Holland, "this has not been exacted from you as the price of your
safety, but you can choose your own time, of course; what you promise is most desired, for
it will render those happy who now are much worse than they were before these
occurrences took place."
"I am aware of all that; grant me but one week, and then you shall be made acquainted
with all."

"I am satisfied, Sir Francis," said Flora; "but while here under our roof, we should never
have asked you a question."
"Of this, Miss Bannerworth, the little I have seen of you assures me you would not do so;
however, I am the more inclined to make it -- I am under so deep an obligation to you all,
that I can never repay it." * * * *
The most desperate peril of Sir Francis Varney seemed to have more effect upon him than
anything that had occurred during his most strange and most eventful career.
When he was assured that the riotous mod [sic] that had been so intent upon his
destruction was gone, and that he might emerge from his place of concealment, he did so
with an appearance of such utter exhaustion that the Bannerworth family could not but look
upon him as a being who was near his end.
At any time his countenance, as we long have had occasion to remark, was a strange and
unearthly looking one; but when we come to superadd to the strangeness of his ordinary
appearance the traces of deep mental emotion, we may well say that Varney's appearance
was positively of the most alarming character.
When he was seated in the ordinary sitting apartment of the Bannerworths, he drew a
long sighing breath, and placing his hand upon his heart, he said, in a faint tone of voice, --
"It beats now laboriously, but it will soon cease its pulsations for ever."
These words sounded absolutely prophetic, there was about them such a solemn aspect,
and he looked at the same time that he uttered them so much like one whose mortal race
was run, and who was now a candidate for the grave.
"Do not speak so despairingly," said Charles Holland; "remember, that if your life has
been one of errors hitherto, how short a space of time may suffice to redeem some of them
at least, and the communication to me which you have not yet completed may to some
extent have such an effect."
"No, no. It may contribute to an act of justice, but it can do no good to me. And yet do not
suppose that because such is my impression that I mean to hesitate in finishing to you that
communication."
"I rejoice to hear you say so, and if you would, now that you must be aware of what good
feelings towards you we are all animated with, remove the bar of secrecy from the
communication, I should esteem it a great favour."
Varney appeared to be considering for a few moments, and then he said, --
"Well, well. Let the secrecy no longer exist. Have it removed at once. I will no longer
seek to maintain it. Tell all, Charles Holland -- tell all."

Thus empowered by the mysterious being, Charles Holland related briefly what Varney
had already told him, and then concluded by saying, --
"That is all that I have myself as yet been made aware of, and I now call upon Sir Francis
Varney to finish his narration."
"I am weak," said Varney, "and scarcely equal to the task; but yet I will not shrink from
the promise that I have made. You have been the preservers of my life, and more
particularly to you, Flora Bannerworth, am I indebted for a continued existence, which
otherwise must have been sacrificed upon the altar or superstition."
"But you will recollect, Master Varney," said the admiral, who had sat looking on for
some time in silent wonder, "you must recollect, Master Varney, that the people are, after
all, not so much to blame for their superstition, because, whether you are a vampyre or not,
and I don't pretend to come to a positive opinion now, you took good care to persuade them
you were."
"I did," said Varney, with a shudder; "but why did I?"
"Well, you know best."
"It was, then, because I did believe, and do believe, that there is something more than
natural about my strangely protracted existence; but we will waive that point, and, before
my failing strength, for it appears to me to be failing, completely prevents me from doing
so, let me relate to you the continued particulars of the circumstances that made me what I
am."
Flora Bannerworth, although she had heard before from the lips of Charles Holland the to
her dreadful fact, that her father, in addition to having laid violent hands upon his own life,
was a murderer, now that that fearful circumstance was related more publicly, felt a greater
pang than she had done when it was whispered to her in the accents of pure affection, and
softened down by a gentleness of tone, which Charles Holland's natural delicacy would not
allow him to use even to her whom he loved so well in the presence of others.
She let her beautiful face be hidden by her hands, and she wept as she listened to the sad
detail.
Varney looked inquiringly in the countenance of Charles Holland, because, having given
him leave to make Flora acquainted with the circumstance, he was rather surprised at the
amount of emotion which it produced in her.
Charles Holland answered the appealing look by saying, --
"Flora is already aware of the facts, but it naturally affects her much to hear them now
repeated in the presence of others, and those too, towards whom she cannot feel -- "

What Charles Holland was going to say was abruptly stopped short by the admiral, who
interposed, exclaiming, --
"Why, what do you mean, you son of a sea cook? The presence of who do you mean? Do
you mean to say that I don't feel for Miss Flora, bless her heart! quite as much as a white-
faced looking swab like you? Why I shall begin to think you are only fit for a marine."
"Nay, uncle, now do not put yourself out of temper. You must be well aware that I could
not mean anything disrespectful to you. You should not suppose such a state of things
possible; and although, perhaps, I did not express myself so felicitously as I might, yet what
I intended to say, was, -- -"
"Oh, bother what you intended to say. You go on, Mr. Vampyre, with your story. I want
to know what became of it all; just you get on as quick as you can, and let us know what
you did after the man was murdered."
"When the dreadful deed was committed," said Varney, "and our victim lay weltering in
his blood, and had breathed his last, we stood like men who for the first time were
awakened to the frightful consequences of what they had done.
"I saw by the dim light that hovered round us a great change come over the countenance
of Marmaduke Bannerworth, and he shook in every limb.
"This soon passed away, however, and the powerful and urgent necessity which arose of
avoiding the consequences of the deed that we had done, restored us to ourselves. We
stooped and took from the body the ill-gotten gains of the gambler. They amounted to an
immense sum, and I said to Marmaduke Bannerworth, --
"'Take you the whole of this money and proceed to your own home with it, where you
will be least suspected. Hide it in some place of great secrecy, and to-morrow I will call
upon you, when we will divide it, and will consider of some means of safely exchanging
the notes for gold.'
"He agreed to this, and placed the money in his pocket, after which it became necessary
that we should dispose of the body, which, if we did not quickly remove, must in a few
hours be discovered, and so, perchance, accompanied by other criminating circumstances,
become a frightful evidence against us, and entail upon us all those consequences of the
deed which we were so truly anxious to escape from.
"It is ever the worst part of the murderer's task, that after he has struck the blow that has
deprived his victim of existence, it becomes his frightful duty to secrete the corpse, which,
with its dead eyes, ever seems to be glaring upon him such a world of reproach.
"That it is which should make people pause ere they dipped their hands in the blood of
others, and that it is which becomes the first retribution that the murderer has to endure for
the deep crime that he has committed.

"We tore two stakes from a hedge, and with their assistance we contrived to dig a very
superficial hole, such a hole as was only sufficient, by placing a thin coating of earth over
it, to conceal the body of the murdered man.
"And then came the loathsome task of dragging him into it -- a task full of horror, and
from which we shrunk aghast; but it had to be done, and, therefore, we stooped, and
grasping the clothes as best we might, we dragged the body into the chasm we had prepared
for its reception. Glad were we then to be enabled to throw earth upon it and to stamp upon
it with such vehemence as might well be supposed to actuate men deeply anxious to put out
of sight some dangerous and loathsome object.
"When we had completed this, and likewise gathered handsfull of dust from the road, and
dry leaves, and such other matter, to sprinkle upon the grave, so as to give the earth an
appearance of not having been disturbed, we looked at each other and breathed from our
toil.
"Then, and not till then, was it that we remembered that among other things which the
gambler had won of Marmaduke were the deeds belonging to the Dearbrook property."
"The Dearbrook property!" exclaimed Henry Bannerworth; "I know that there was a
small estate going by that name, which belonged to our family, but I always understood that
long ago my father had parted with it."
"Yes; it was mortgaged for a small sum -- a sum not a fourth part of its value -- and it had
been redeemed by Marmaduke Bannerworth, not for the purpose of keeping it, but in order
that he might sell it outright, and so partially remedy his exhausted finances."
"I was not aware of that," returned Henry.
"Doubtless you were not, for of late -- I mean for the twelve months or so preceding your
father's death -- you know he was must estranged from all the family, so that you none of
you knew much of what he was doing, except that he was carrying on a very wild and
reckless career, such as was sure to end in dishonour and poverty; but I tell you he had the
title deeds of the Dearbrook property, and that they were only got from him, along with
everything else of value that he possessed, at the gaming table, by the man who paid such a
fearful penalty for his success.
"It was not until after the body was completely buried, and we had completed all our
precautions for more effectually hiding it from observation, that we recollected the fact of
those important papers being in his possession. It was Marmaduke Bannerworth who first
remembered it, and he exclaimed, --
"'By Heaven, we have buried the title deeds of the property, and we shall have again to
exhume the corpse for the purpose of procuring them.'

"Now those deeds were nothing to me, and repugnant as I had felt from the first to having
anything whatever to do with the dead body, it was not likely that I would again drag it
from the earth for such an object.
"'Marmaduke Bannerworth,' I said, 'you can do what you please, and take the
consequences of what you do, but I will not again, if I can help it, look upon the face of that
corpse. It is too fearful a sight to contemplate again. You have a large sum of money, and
what need you care now for the title deeds of a property comparatively insignificant?'
"'Well, well,' he said, 'I will not, at the present time, disturb the remains; I will wait to see
if anything should arise from the fact of the murder; if it should turn out that no suspicion
of any kind is excited, but that all is still and quiet, I can then take measures to exhume the
corpse, and recover those papers, which certainly are important.'
"By this time the morning was creeping on apace, and we thought it prudent to leave the
spot. We stood at the end of the lane for a few moments conversing, and those moments
were the last in which I ever saw Marmaduke Bannerworth."
"Answer me a question," said Henry.
"I will; ask me what you please, I will answer it."
"Was it you that called at Bannerworth Hall, after my father's melancholy death, and
inquired for him?"
"I did; and when I heard of the deed that he had done, I at once left, in order to hold
counsel with myself as to what I should do to obtain at least a portion of the property, one-
half of which, it was understood, was to have been mine. I heard what had been the last
words used by Marmaduke Bannerworth on the occasion of his death, and they were amply
sufficient to let me know what had been done with the money -- at all events, so far as
regards the bestowal of it in some secret place; and from that moment the idea of, by some
means or another, getting the exclusive possession of it, never forsook my mind.
"I thought over the matter by day and by night; and with the exception of having a
knowledge of the actual hiding-place of the money, I could see, in the clearest possible
manner, how the whole affair had been transacted. There can be no doubt but that
Marmaduke Bannerworth had reached home safely with the large sum of which he had
become possessed, and that he had hidden it securely, which was but an ordinary measure
of precaution, when we come to consider how the property had been obtained.
"Then I suspect that, being alone, and left to the gloom of his own miserable thoughts,
they reverted so painfully to the past that he was compelled to drink deeply for the purpose
of drowning reflection.

"The natural consequence of this, in his state, was, that partial insanity supervened, and at
a moment when frenzy rose far above reflection, he must have committed the dreadful act
which hurried him instantaneously to eternity."
"Yes," said Henry; "it must have been so; you have guessed truly. He did on that occasion
drink an immense quantity of wine; but instead of stilling the pangs of remorse it must have
increased them, and placed him in such a frenzied condition of intellect, that he found it
impossible to withstand the impulse of it, unless by the terrific act which ended his
existence."
"Yes, and which at once crushed all my expectations of the large fortune which was to
have been mine; for even the one-half of the sum which had been taken from the gamester's
pocket would have been sufficient to have enabled me to live for the future in affluence.
"I became perfectly maddened at the idea that so large a sum had passed out of my hands.
I constantly hovered about Bannerworth Hall, hoping and expecting that something might
arise which would enable me to get admittance to it, and make an active search through its
recesses for the hidden treasure.
"All my exertions were in vain. I could hit upon no scheme whatever; and at length,
wearied and exhausted, I was compelled to proceed to London for the sake of a subsistence.
It is only in that great metropolis that such persons as myself, destitute of real resources, but
infinitely reckless as regards the means by which they acquire a subsistence, can hope to do
so. Once again, therefore, I plunged into the vortex of London life, and proceeded, heedless
of the criminality of what I was about, to cater for myself by robbery, or, indeed, in any
manner which presented a prospect of success. It was during this career of mine, that I
became associated with some of the most desperate characters of the time; and the offences
we committed were of that dariing [sic] character that it could not be wondered at
eventually so formidable a gang of desperadoes must be by force broken up.
"It so occurred, but unknown to us, that the police resolved upon making one of the most
vigorous efforts to put an end to the affair, and in consequence a watch was set upon every
one of our movements.
"The result of this was, as might have been expected, our complete dispersion, and the
arrest of some our members, and among them myself.
"I knew my fate almost from the first. Our depredations had created such a sensation, that
the legislature, even, had made it a matter of importance that we should be suppressed, and
it was an understood thing among the judges, that the severest penalties of the law should
be inflicted upon any one of the gang who might be apprehended and convicted.
"My trial scarcely occupied an hour, and then I was convicted and sentenced to execution,
with an intimation from the judge that it would be perfectly absurd of me to dream, for one
moment, of a remission of that sentence.

"In this state of affairs, and seeing nothing but death before me, I gave myself up to
despair, and narrowly missed cheating the hangman of his victim.
"More dead than alive, I was, however, dragged out to be judicially murdered, and I shall
never forget the crowd of frightful sensations that came across my mind upon that terrific
occasion.
"It seemed as if my fate had then reached its climax, and I have really but a dim
recollection of the terrible scene.
"I remember something of the confused murmur arising from an immense throng of
persons. I remember looking about me, and seeing nothing but what appeared to me an
immense sea of human heads, and then suddenly I heard a loud roar of execration burst
from the multitude.
"I shrunk back terrified, and it did, indeed, seem to me a brutal thing thus to roar and
shout at a man who was brought out to die. I soon, however, found that the mob who came
to see such a spectacle was not so debased as I imagined, but that it was at the hangman,
who had suddenly made his appearance on the scaffold, at whom they raised that fearful
yell.
"Some one -- I think it was one of the sheriffs -- must have noticed that I was labouring
under the impresssion that the cry from the mob was levelled at me, for he spoke, saying, --
"'It is at the hangman they shout,' and he indicated with his finger that public functionary.
In my mind's eye I think I see him now, and I am certain that I shall never forget the
expression of his face. It was perfectly fearful; and afterwards, when I learned who and
what he was, I was not surprised that he should feel so acutely the painfully degrading
office which he had to perform.
"The fatal rope was in a few minutes adjusted to my neck. I felt its pressure, and I heard
the confused sounds of the monotonous voice of the clergyman, as he muttered some
prayers, that I must confess sounded to me at the time like a mockery of human suffering.
"Then suddenly there was a loud shout -- I felt the platform give way beneath my feet -- I
tried to utter a yell of agony, but could not -- it seemed to me as if I was encompassed by
fire, and then sensation left me, and I knew no more. * * * *
"The next feelings of existence that came over me consisted in a frightful tingling
sensation throughout my veins, and I felt myself making vain efforts to scream. All the
sensations of a person suffering from a severe attack of night-mare came across me, and I
was in such an agony, that I inwardly prayed for death to release me from such a cruel state
of suffering. Then suddenly the power to utter a sound came to me, and I made use of it
well, for the piercing shriek I uttered, must have struck terror into the hearts of all who
heard it, since it appalled even myself.

"Then I suppose I must have fainted, but when I recovered consciousness again, I found
myself upon a couch, and a man presenting some stimulus to me in a cup. I could not
distinguish objects distinctly, but I heard him say, 'Drink, and you will be better.'
"I did drink, for a raging thirst consumed me, and then I fell into a sound sleep, which, I
was afterwards told, lasted nearly twenty-four hours, and when I recovered from that, I
heard again the same voice that had before spoken to me, asking me how I was.
"I turned in the direction of the sound, and, as my vision was now clearer, I could see that
it was the hangman, whose face had made upon the scaffold such an impression upon me --
an impression which I then considered my last in this world, but which turned out not to be
such by many a mingled one of pain and pleasure since.
"It was some time before I could speak, and when I did, it was only in a few muttered
words, to ask what had happened, and where I was.
"'Do you not remember,' he said, 'that you were hanged?'
"'I do -- I do,' was my reply. Is this the region of damned souls?"
"'No; you are still in this world, however strange you may think it. Listen to me, and I
will briefly tell you how it is that you have come back again, as it were, from the very
grave, to live and walk about among the living.'
"I listened to him with a strange and rapt attention, and then he told how a young and
enthusiastic medical man had been anxious to try some experiments with regard to the
restoration of persons apparently dead, and he proceeded to relate how it was that he had
given ear to the solicitations of the man, and had consented to bring my body after it was
hung for him to experiment upon. He related how the doctor had been successful, but how
he was so terrified at his own success, that he hastily fled, and had left London, no one
knowing whither he had gone.
"I listened to this with the most profound attention, and then he concluded, by saying to
me, --
"'There can be no doubt but my duty requires of me to give you up again to the offended
laws of your country. I will not, however, do that, if you will consent to an arrangement
that I shall propose to you.'
"I asked him what the arrangement was, and he said that if I would solemnly bind myself
to pay to him a certain sum per annum, he would keep my secret, and forsaking his calling
as hangman, endeavour to do something that should bring with it pleasanter results. I did so
solemnly promise him, and I have kept my word. By one means or another I have
succeeded in procuring the required amount, and now he is no more."
"I believe," cried Henry, "that he has fallen a victim to the blind fury of the populace."

"You are right, he has so, and accordingly I am relieved from the burden of those
payments; but it matters little, for now I am so near the tomb myself, that, together with all
my obligations, I shall soon be beyond the reach of mortal cavilling."
"You need not think so, Varney; you must remember that you are at present suffering
from circumstances, the pressure of which will soon pass away, and then you will resume
your wonted habits."
"What did you do next?" said the admiral. "Let's know all while you are about it."
"I remained at the hangman's house for some time, until all fear of discovery was over,
and then he removed me to a place of greater security, providing me from his own
resources with the means of existence, until I had fully recovered my health, and then he
told me to shift for myself.
"During my confinement though, I had not been idle mentally, for I concocted a plan, by
which I should be enabled not only to live well myself, but to pay to the hangman, whose
name was Mortimore, the annual sum I had agreed upon. I need not go into the details of
this plan. Of course it was neither an honest nor respectable one, but it succeeded, and I
soon found myself in a position to enable me thereby to keep my engagement, as well as to
supply me with means of plotting and planning for my future fortunes.
"I had never for a moment forgotten that so large a sum of money was somewhere
concealed about Bannerworth Hall, and I still looked forward to obtaining it by some
means or another.
"It was in this juncture of affairs, that one night I was riding on horseback through a
desolate part of England. The moon was shining sweetly, as I came to a broad stream of
water, across which, about a mile further on, I saw that there was a bridge, but being
unwilling to waste time by riding up to it, and fancying, by the lazy ripple of the waters,
that the river was not shallow, I plunged my horse boldly into the stream.
"When we reached its centre, some sudden indisposition must have seized the horse, for
instead of swimming on well and gallantly as it had done before, it paused for a moment,
and then plunged headlong into the torrent.
"I could not swim, and so, for a second time, death, with all its terrors, appeared to be
taking possession of me. The waters rolled over my head, gurgling and hissing in my ears,
and then all was past. I know no more, until I found myself lying upon a bright green
meadow, and the full beams of the moon shining upon me.
"I was giddy and sick, but I rose, and walked slowly away, each moment gathering fresh
strength, and from that time to this, I never discovered how I came to be rescued from the
water, and lying upon that green bank. It has ever been a mystery to me, and I expect it ever
will.

"Then from that moment the idea that I had a sort of charmed life came across me, and I
walked about with an impression that such was the case, until I came across a man who said
that he was a Hungarian, and who was full of strange stories of vamypres. Among other
things, he told me that a vampyre could not be drowned, for that the waters would cast him
upon its banks, and, if the moonbeams fell upon him, he would be restored to life.
"This was precisely my story, and from that moment I believed myself to be one of those
horrible, but charmed beings, doomed to such a protracted existence. The notion grew upon
me day by day, and hour by hour, until it became quite a fixed and strong belief, and I was
deceiving no one when I played the horrible part that has been attributed to me."
"But you don't mean to say that you believe you are a vampyre now?" said the admiral.
"I say nothing, and know not what to think. I am a desperate man, and what there is at all
human in me, strange to say, all of you whom I sought to injure, have awakened."
"Heed not that," said Henry, "but continue your narrative. We have forgiven everything,
and that ought to suffice to quiet your mind upon such a subject."
"I will continue; and, believe me, I will conceal nothing from you. I look upon the words
I am now utttering as full, candid, and free confession; and, therefore, it shall be complete."
"The idea struck me that if, by taking advantage of my supposed preternatural gifts, I
could drive you from Bannerworth Hall, I should have it to myself to hunt through at my
leisure, and possibly find the treasure. I had heard from Marmaduke Bannerworth some
slight allusion to concealing the money behind a picture that was in a bed-room called the
panelled chamber. By inquiry, I ascertained that in that bed-room slept Flora Bannerworth.
"I had resolved, however, at first to try pacific measures, and accordingly, as you are well
aware, I made various proposals to you to purchase or to rent Bannerworth Hall, the whole
of which you rejected; so that I found myself compelled to adopt the original means that
had suggested themselves to me, and endeavour to terrify you from the house.
"By prowling about, I made myself familiar with the grounds, and with all the plan of the
residence, and then one night made my appearance in Flora's chamber by the window."
"But how do you account," said Charles Holland, "for your extraordinary likeness to the
portrait?"
"It is partly natural, for I belong to a collateral branch of the family; and it was previously
arranged. I had seen the portrait in Marmaduke Bannerworth's time, and I knew some of its
peculiarities and dress sufficiently well to imitate them. I calculated upon producing a much
greater effect by such an imitation; and it appears that I was not wrong, for I did produce it
to the full."

"You did, indeed," said Henry; "and if you did not bring conviction to our minds that you
were what you represented yourself to be, you at least staggered our judgments upon the
occasion, and left us in a position of great doubt and difficulty."
"I did; I did all that, I know I did; and, by pursuing that line of conduct, I, at last, I
presume, entirely forced you from the house."
"That you did."
"Flora fainted when I entered her chamber; and the moment I looked upon her sweet
countenance my heart smote me for what I was about; but I solemnly aver, that my lips
never touched her, and that, beyond the fright, she suffered nothing from Varney, the
vampyre."
"And you have succeeded," said Henry, "in your object now?"
"No; the treasure has yet to be found. Mortimore, the hangman, followed me into the
house, guessing my intention, and indulging a hope that he would succeed in sharing with
me its proceeds. But he, as well as myself, was foiled, and nothing came of the toilsome
and anxious search but disappointment and bitterness."
"Then it is supposed that the money is still concealed?"
"I hope so; I hope, as well, that it will be discovered by you and yours; for surely none
can have a better right to it than you, who have suffered so much on its account."
"And yet," remarked Henry, "I cannot help thinking it is too securely hidden from us. The
picture has been repeatedly removed from its place, and produced no results; so that I fear
we have little to expect from any further or more protracted research."
"I think," said Varney, "that you have everything to expect. The words of the dying
Marmaduke Bannerworth, you may depend, were not spoken in vain; and I have every
reason to believe that, sooner or later, you must, without question, become the possessors
of that sum."
"But ought we rightly to hold it?"
"Who ought more rightly to hold it?" said Varney; "answer me that."
"That's a sensible enough idea of your's," said the admiral; "and if you were twice over a
vampyre, I would tell you so. It's a very sensible idea; I should like to know who has more
right to it than those who have had such a world of trouble about it."
"Well, well," said Henry, "we must not dispute, as yet, about a sum of money that may
really never come to hand. For my own part, I have little to hope for in the matter; but,

certainly, nothing shall be spared, on my part, to effect such a thorough search of the Hall
as shall certainly bring it to light, if it be in existence."
"I presume, Sir Francis Varney," said Charles Holland, "that you have now completed
your narrative?"
"I have. After events are well known to you. And, now, I have but to lie down and die,
with the hope of finding that rest and consolation in the tomb which has been denied me
hitherto in this world. My life has been a stormy one, and full of the results of angry
passions. I do hope now, that, for the short time I have to live, I shall know something like
serenity, and die in peace."
"You may depend, Varney, that, as long as you have an asylum with us," said the admiral
-- "and that you may have as long as you like, -- you may be at peace. I consider that you
have surrendered at discretion, and, under such circumstances, an enemy always deserves
honourable treatment, and always gets it on board such a ship as this."
"There you go again," said Jack, "calling the house a ship."
"What's that to you, if I were to call it a bowsprit? Ain't I your captain, you lubber, and
so, sure to be right, while you are wrong, in the natural order of things? But you go and lay
down, Master Varney, and rest yourself, for you seem completely done up."
Varney did look fearfully exhausted; and, with the assistance of Henry and Charles, he
went into another apartment, and laid down upon a couch, showing great symptoms of
debility and want of power.
And now it was a calm; Varney's stay at the cottage of the Bannerworths was productive
of a different mood of mind than ever he had possessed before. He looked upon them in a
very different manner to what he had been used to. He had, moreover, considerably altered
prospects; there could not be the same hopes and expectations that he once had. He was an
altered man. He saw in the Bannerworths those who had saved his life, and who, without
doubt, had possessed an opinion, not merely obnoxious to him, but must have had some
fearful misgivings concerning his character, and that, too, of a nature that usually shuts out
all hope of being received into any family.
But, in the hour of his need, when his life was in danger, no one else would have done
what they had done for him, especially when so relatively placed.
Moreover, he had been concealed, when to do so was both dangerous and difficult; and
then it was done by Flora Bannerworth herself.
Time flew by. The mode of passing time at the cottage was calm and serene. Varney had
seldom witnessed anything like it; but, at the same time, he felt more at ease than ever he
had; he was charmed with the society of Flora -- in fact, with the whole of the little knot of
individuals who there collected together; from what he saw he was gratified in their society;

and it seemed to alleviate his mental disquiet, and the sense he must feel of his own
peculiar position.
But Varney became ill. The state of mind and body he had been in for some time past
might be the cause of it. He had been much harassed, and hunted from place to place. There
was not a moment in which his life was not in danger, and he had, moreover, in more than
one case, received some bodily injuries, bruises, and contusions of a desperate character;
and yet he would take no notice of them, but allow them to get well again, as best they
could.
His escapes and injuries had made a deep impression upon his mind, and had no doubt a
corresponding effect upon his body, and Varney became very ill.
Flora Bannerworth did all that could be done for one in his painful position, and this
greatly added to the depth of thought that occasionally beset him, and he could scarcely
draw one limb after the other.
He walked from room to room in the twilight, at which time he had more liberty
permitted him than at any other, because there was not the same danger in his doing so; for,
if once seen, there could be no matter of doubt but he would have been pursued until he
was destroyed, when no other means of escape were at hand; and Varney himself felt that
there could be no chance of his again escaping from them, for his physical powers were fast
decaying; he was not, in fact, the same man.
He came out into the parlour from the room in which he had been seated during the day.
Flora and her mother were there, while Charles Holland and Henry Bannerworth had both
at that moment entered the apartment.
"Good evening, Miss Bannerworth," said Sir Francis, bowing to her, and then to her
mother, Mrs. Bannerworth; "and you, Mr. Holland, I see, have been out enjoying the free
breeze that plays over the hot fields. It must be refreshing."
"It is so, sir," said Charles. "I wish we could make you a partaker in our walks."
"I wish you could with all my heart," said Varney.
"Sir Francis," said Flora, "must be a prisoner for some short time longer yet."
"I ought not to consider it in any such light. It is not imprisonment. I have taken
sanctuary. It is the well spring of life to me," said Varney.
"I hope it may prove so; but how do you find yourself this evening, Sir Francis Varney?"
"Really, it is difficult to say -- I fluctuate. At times, I feel as though I should drop

insensible on the earth, and then I feel better than I have done for some time previously."

"Doctor Chillingworth will be here by-and-bye, no doubt; and he must see what he can do
for you to relieve you of these symptoms.' said Flora.
"I am much beholden to you -- much beholden to you; but I hope to be able to do without
the good doctor's aid in this instance, though I must admit I may appear ungrateful."
"Not at all -- not at all."
"Have you heard any news abroad today?" inquired Varney.
"None, Sir Francis -- none; there is nothing apparently stirring; and now, go out when you
would, you would find nothing but what was old, quiet, and familiar."
"We cannot wish to look upon anything with more charms for a mind at ease, than we can
see under such circumstances; but I fear there are some few old and familiar features that I
should find sad havoc in."
"You would, certainly, for the burnings and razings to the ground of some places, have
made some dismal appearances; but time may efface that, and then the evil may die away,
and the future will become the present, should we be able to allay popular feeling."
"Yes," said Sir Francis; "but popular prejudices, or justice, or feeling, are things not easily
assuaged. The people when once aroused go on to commit all kinds of excess, and there is
no one point at which they will stop short of the complete extirpation of some one object or
other that they have taken a fancy to hunt.'
"The hubbub and excitement must subside."
"The greater the ignorance the more persevering and the more brutal they are," said Sir
Francis; "but I must not complain of what is the necessary consequence of their state."
"It might be otherwise."
"So it might, and no mischief arise either; but as we cannot divert the stream, we may as
well bend to the force of a current too strong to resist."
"The moon is up," said Flora, who wished to turn the conversation from that to another
topic. "I see it yonder through the trees; it rises red and large -- it is very beautiful -- and yet
there is not a cloud about to give it the colour and appearance it now wears."
"Exactly so," said Sir Francis Varney; "but the reason is the air is filled with a light,
invisible vapour, that has the effect you perceive. There has been much evaporation going
on, and now it shows itself in giving the moon that peculiar large appearance and deep
colour."

"Ay, I see; it peeps through the trees, the branches of which cut it up into various
portions. It is singular, and yet beautiful, and yet the earth below seems dark."
"It is dark; you would be surprised to find it so if you walked about. It will soon be lighter
than it is at this present moment."
"What sounds are those?" inquired Sir Francis Varney, as he listened attentively.
"Sounds! What sounds?" returned Henry.
"The sounds of wheels and horses' feet," said Varney.
"I cannot even hear them, much less can I tell what they are," said Henry.
"Then listen. Now they come along the road. Cannot you hear them now?" said Varney.
"Yes, I can," said Charles Holland; "but I really don't know what they are, or what it can
matter to us; we don't expect any visitors."
"Certainly, certainly, said Varney. "I am somewhat apprehensive of the approach of

strange sounds."
"You are not likely to be disturbed here," said Charles.
"Indeed; I thought so when I had succeeded in getting into the house near the town, and
so far from believing it was likely I should be discovered, that I sat on the house-top while
the mob surrounded it."
"Did you not hear them coming?"
"I did."
"And yet you did not attempt to escape from them?"
"No, I could not persuade them I was not there save by my utter silence. I allowed them
to come too close to leave myself time to escape -- besides, I could hardly persuade myself
there could be any necessity for so doing."
"It was fortunate it was as it happened afterwards, that you were able to reach the wood,
and get out of it unperceived by the mob."
"I should have been in an unfortunate condition had I been in their hands long. A man
made of iron would be able to resist the brutality of those people."

As they were speaking, a gig, with two men, drove up, followed by one on horseback.
They stopped at the garden-gate, and then tarried to consult with each other, as they looked
at the house.
"What can they want, I wonder?" inquired Henry; "I never saw them before."
"Nor I," said Charles Holland.
"Do you not know them at all?" inquired Varney.
"No," replied Flora; "I never saw them, neither can I imagine what is their object in
coming here."
"Did you ever see them before?" inquired Henry of his mother, who held up her hand to
look more carefully at the strangers; then, shaking her head, she declared she had never
seen such persons as those.
"I dare say not," said Charles Holland. "They certainly are not gentlemen; but here they
come; there is some mistake, I daresay -- they don't want to come here."
As they spoke, the two strangers got down; after picking up a top coat they had let fall,
they turned round, and deliberately put it into the chaise again; they walked up the path to
the door, at which they knocked.
The door was opened by the old woman, when the two men entered.
"Does Francis Beauchamp live here?"
"Eh?" said the old woman, who was a little deaf, and she put her hand behind her ear to
catch the sounds more distinctly -- "eh? -- who did you say?"
Sir Francis Varney started as the sounds came upon his ear, but he sat still an attentive
listener.
"Are there any strangers in the house?" inquired the other officer, impatiently. "Who is
here?"
"Strangers!" said the old woman; "you are the only strangers that I have seen here."
"Come," said the officer to his companion, "come this way; there are people in this
parlour. Our business must be an apology for any rudeness we may commit."
As he spoke he stepped by the old woman, and laying his hand upon the handle of the
door, entered the apartment, at the same time looking carefully around the room as if he
expected some one.

"Ladies," said the stranger, with an offhand politeness that had something repulsive in it,
though it was meant to convey a notion that civility was intended; "ladies, I beg pardon for
intruding, but I am looking for a gentleman."
"You shall hear from me again soon," said Sir Francis, in an almost imperceptible
whisper.
"What is the object of this intrusion?" demanded Henry Bannerworth, rising and
confronting the stranger. "This is a strange introduction."
"Yes, but not an unusual one," said the stranger, "in these cases -- being unavoidable, at
the least."
"Sir," said Charles Holland, "if you cannot explain quickly your business here, we will
proceed to take those measures which will, at least rid ourselves of your company."
"Softly, sir. I mean no offence -- not the least; but I tell you I do not come for any purpose
that is at all consonant to my wishes. I am a Bow-street officer in the execution of my duty
-- excuse me, therefore."
"Whom do you want?"
"Francis Beauchamp; and, from the peculiarity of the appearance of this individual here, I
think I may safely request the pleasure of his company."
Varney now rose, and the officer made a rush at him, when he saw him do so, saying, --
"Surrender in the king's name."
Varney, however, paid no attention to that, but rushed past, throwing his chair down to
impede the officer, who could not stay himself, but fell over it, while Varney made a rush
towards the window, which he cleared at one bound, and crossing the road, was lost to sight
in a few seconds in the trees and hedges on the other side.
"Accidents will happen," said the officer, as he rose to his feet; "I did not think the fellow
would have taken the window in that manner; but we have him in view, and that will be
enough."
"In heaven's name," said Henry, "explain all about this; we cannot understand one word
of it -- I am at a loss to understand one word of it."
"We will return and do so presently," said the officer as he dashed out of the house after
the fugitive at a rapid and reckless speed, followed by his companion.
The man who had been left with the chaise, however, was the first in the chase; seeing an
escape from the window, he immediately guessed that he was the man wanted, and, but for

an accident, he would have met Varney at the gate, for, as he was getting out in a hurry, his
foot became entangled with the reins, and he fell to the ground, and Varney at the same
moment stepped over him.
"Curse his infernal impudence, and d -- n these reins!" muttered the man in a fury at the
accident, and the aggravating circumstance of the fugitive walking over him in such a
manner, and so coolly too -- it was vexing.
The man, however, quickly released himself, and rushed after Varney across the road, and
kept on his track for some time. The moon was still rising, and shed but a gloomy light
around. Everything was almost invisible until you came close to it. This was the reason
why Varney and his pursuer met with several severe accidents -- tumbles and hard knocks
against impediments which the light and the rapid flight they were taking did not admit of
their avoiding very well.
They went on for some time, but it was evident that Varney knew the place best, and
could avoid what the man could not, and that was the trees and the natural impediments of
the ground, which Varney was acquainted with.
For instance, at full speed across a meadow, a hollow would suddenly present itself, and
to an accustomed eye the moonlight might enable it to be distinguished at a glance what it
was, while to one wholly unaccustomed to it, the hollow would often look like a hillock by
such a light. This Varney would clear at a bound, which a less agile and heavier person
would step into, lifting up his leg to meet an impediment, when he would find it come
down suddenly some six or eight inches lower than he anticipated, almost dislocating his
leg and neck, and producing a corresponding loss of breath, which was not regained by the
muttered curse upon such a country where the places were so uneven.
Having come to one of these places, which was little more perceptible than the others, he
made a desperate jump, but he jumped into the middle of the hole with such force that he
sprained his ankle, besides sinking into a small pond that was almost dry, being overgrown
with rushes and aquatic plants.
"Well?" said the other officer coming up -- "well?"
"Well, indeed!" said the one who came first; "it's anything but well. D -- n all country
excursions say I."
"Why, Bob, you don't mean to say as how you are caught in a rat-trap?"
"Oh, you be d -- -d! I am, ain't I?"
"Yes; but are you going to stop there, or coming out, eh? You'll catch cold."
"I have sprained my ankle."

"Well?"
"It ain't well, I tell you; here have I a sprained foot, and my wind broken for a month at
least. Why were you not quicker? If you had been sharper we should have had the
gentleman, I'll swear!"
"I tumbled down over the chair, and he got out of the window, and I come out of the
door."
"Well, I got entangled in the reins; but I got off after him, only his long legs carried him
over everything. I tell you what, Wilkinson, if I were to be born again, and intended to be a
runner, I would bespeak a pair of long legs."
"Why?"
"Because I should be able to get along better. You have no idea of how he skimmed along
the ground; it was quite beautiful, only it wasn't good to follow it."
"A regular sky scraper!"
"Yes, or something of that sort; he looked like a patent flying shadow."
"Well, get up and lead the way; we'll follow you."
"I dare say you will -- when I lead the way back there; for as to going out yonder, it is
quite out of the question. I want supper to-night and breakfast to-morrow morning."
"Well, what has that to do with it?"
"Just this much: if you follow any farther, you'll get into the woods, and there you'll be,
going round and round, like a squirrel in a cage, without being able to get out, and you will
there get none of the good things included under the head of those meals."
"I think so too," said the third,
"Well, then, let's go back; we needn't run, though it might be as well to do so."
"It would be anything but well. I don't gallop back, depend upon it."
The three men now slowly returned from their useless chase, and re-trod the way they had
passed once in such a hurry that they could hardly recognize it.
"What a dreadful bump I came against that pole standing there," said one.

"Yes, and I came against a hedge-stake, that was placed so as the moon didn't show any
light on it. It came into the pit of my stomach. I never recollect such a pain in my life; for
all the world like a hot coal being suddenly and forcibly intruded into your stomach."
"Well, here's the road. I must go up to the house where I started from. I promised them
some explanation. I may as well go and give it to them a once."
"Do as you will. I will wait with the horse, else, perhaps, that Beauchamp will again
return and steal him."
The officer who had first entered the house now returned to the Bannerworths, saying,
"I promised you I would give you some explanation as to what you have witnessed."
"Yes," said Henry; "we have been awaiting your return with some anxiety and curiosity.
What is the meaning of all this? I am, as we are all, in perfect ignorance of the meaning of
what took place."
"I will tell you. The person whom you have had here, and goes by the name of Varney, is
named Francis Beauchamp."
"Indeed! Are you assured of this?"
"Yes, perfectly assured of it; I have it in my warrant to apprehend him by either name."
"What crime had he been guilty of?"
"I will tell you: he has been hanged."
"Hanged!" exclaimed all present.
"What do you mean by that?" added Henry; "I am at a loss to understand what you can
mean by saying he was hanged."
"What I say is literally true."
"Pray tell us all about it. We are much interested in the fact; go on, sir."
"Well, sir, then I believe it was for murder that Francis Beauchamp was hanged -- yes,
hanged; a common execution, before a multitude of people, collected to witness such an
exhibition."
"Good God!" exclaimed Henry Bannerworth. "And was -- but that is impossible. A dead
man come to life again! You must be amusing yourself at our expense."
"Not I," replied the officer. "Here is my warrant; they don't make these out in a joke."

And, as he spoke, he produced the warrant, when it was evident the officer spoke the
truth.
"How was this?"
"I will tell you, sir. You see that this Varney was a regular scamp, gamester, rogue, and
murderer. He was hanged, and hung about the usual time; he was cut down and the body
was given to some one for dissection, when a surgeon, with the hangman, one
Montgomery, succeeded in restoring the criminal to life."
"But I always thought they broke the neck when they were hanged; the weight of the
body would alone do that."
"Oh, dear, no, sir," said the officer; "that is one of the common every day mistakes; they
don't break the neck once in twenty times."
"Indeed!"
"No; they die of suffocation only; this man, Beauchamp, was hanged thus, but they
contrived to restore him, and then he assumed a new name, and left London."
"But how came you to know all this?"
"Oh! it came to us, as many things usually do, in a very extraordinary manner, and in a
manner that appears most singular and out of the way; but such it was.
"The executioner who was the means of his being restored, or one of them, wished to turn
him to account, and used to draw a yearly sum of money from him, as hush money, to
induce them to keep the secret; else, the fact of his having escaped punishment would
subject him to a repetition of the same punishment; when, of course, a little more care
would be taken that he did not escape a second time."
"I dare say not."
"Well, you see, Varney, or rather Beauchamp, was to pay a heavy sum to this man to
keep him quiet, and to permit him to enjoy the life he had so strangely become possessed
of."
"I see," said Holland.
"Well, this man, Montgomery; had always some kind of suspicion that Varney would
murder him."
"Murder him! and he the means of saving his life; surely he could not be so bad as that."

"Why, you see, sir, this hangman drew a heavy sum yearly from him; thus making him
only a mine of wealth to himself; this, no doubt, would rankle in the other's heart, to think
he should be so beset, and hold his life upon such terms."
"I see, now."
"Yes; and then came the consideration that he did not do it from any good motive, merely
a selfish one, and he was consequently under no obligation to him for what he had done;
besides, self-preservation might urge him on, and tell him to do the deed.
"However that may be, Montgomery dreaded it, and was resolved to punish the deed if he
could not prevent it. He, therefore, left general orders with his wife, whenever he went on a
journey to Varney, if he should be gone beyond a certain time, she was to open a certain
drawer, and take out a sealed packet to the magistrate at the chief office, who would attend
to it.
"He has been missing, and his wife did as she was desired and now we have found what
he there mentioned to be true; but, now, sir, I have satisfied you and explained to you why
we intruded upon you, we must now leave and seek for him elsewhere."
"It is most extraordinary, and that is the reason why his complexion is so singular."
"Very likely."
They poured out some wine, which was handed to the officers, who drank and then
quitted the house, leaving the inmates in a state of stupefaction, from surprise and
amazement at what they had heard from the officers.
There was a strange feeling came over them when they recollected the many occurrences
they had witnessed, and even the explanation of the officers; it seemed as if some mist had
enveloped objects and rendered them indistinct, but which was fast rising, and they were
becoming plainer and more distinct every moment in which they were regarded.
There was a long pause, and Flora was about to speak, when suddenly there came the
sound of a footstep across the garden. It was slow but unsteady, and paused between whiles
until it came close beneath the windows. They remained silent, and then some one was
heard to climb up the rails of the veranda, and then the curtains were thrust aside, but not
till after the person outside had paused to ascertain who was there.
Then the curtains were opened, and the visage of Sir Francis Varney appeared, much
altered; in fact, completely worn and exhausted.
It was useless to deny it, but he looked ghastly -- terrific; his singular visage was as pallid
as death; his eyes almost protruding, his mouth opened, and his breathing short, and
laboured in the extreme.

He climbed over with much difficulty, and staggered into the room, and would have
spoken, but he could not; he fell senseless upon the floor, utterly exhausted and motionless.
There was a long pause, and each one present looked at each other, and then they gazed
upon the inanimate body of Sir Francis Varney, which lay supine and senseless in the
middle of the floor. * * * * *
The importance of the document, said to be on the dead body, was such that it would
admit of no delay before it was obtained, and the party determined that it should be
commenced instanter. Lost time would be an object to them; too much haste could hardly
be made; and now came the question of, "should it be to-night, or not?"
"Certainly," said Henry Bannerworth; "the sooner we can get it, the sooner all doubt and
distress will be at an end; and, considering the run of events, that will be desirable for all
our sakes; besides, we know not what unlucky accident may happen to deprive us of what
is so necessary."
"There can be none," said Mr. Chillingworth; "but there is this to be said, this has been
such an eventful history, that I cannot say what might or what might not happen."
"We may as well go this very night," said Charles Holland. "I give my vote for an
immediate exhumation of the body. The night is somewhat stormy, but nothing more; the
moon is up, and there will be plenty of light."
"And rain," said the doctor.
"Little or none," said Charles Holland. "A few gusts of wind now and then drive a few
heavy plashes of rain against the windows, and that gives a fearful sound, which is, in fact,
nothing, when you have to encounter it; but you will go, doctor?"
"Yes, most certainly. We must have some tools."
"Those may be had from the garden," said Henry. "Tools for the exhumation, you mean?"
"Yes; pick-axe, mattocks, and a crowbar; a lantern, and so forth," said the doctor. "You
see I am at home in this; the fact is, I have had more than one affair of this kind on my
hands before now, and whilst a student I have had more than one adventure of a strange
character."
"I dare say, doctor," said Charles Holland, "you have some sad pranks to answer for; you
don't think of it then, only when you find them accumulated in a heap, so that you shall not
be able to escape from them; because they come over your senses when you sleep at night."
"No, no," said Chillingworth; "you are mistaken in that. I have long since settled all my
accounts of that nature; besides, I never took a dead body out of a grave but in the name of

science, and never for my own profit, seeing I never sold one in my life, or got anything by
it."
"That is not the fact," said Henry; "you know, doctor, you improved your own talents and
knowledge."
"Yes, yes; I did."
"Well, but you profited by such improvements?"
"Well, granted, I did. How much more did the public not benefit then," said the doctor,
with a smile.
"Ah, well, we won't argue the question," said Charles; "only it strikes me that the doctor
could never have been a doctor if he had not determined upon following a profession."
"There may be a little truth in that," said Chillingworth; "but now we had better quit the
house, and make the best of our way to the spot where the unfortunate man lies buried in
his unhallowed grave."
"Come with me into the garden," said Henry Bannerworth; "we shall there be able to suit
ourselves to what is required. I have a couple of lanterns."
"One is enough," said Chillingworth; "we had better not burden ourselves more than we
are obliged to do; and we shall find enough to do with the tools."
"Yes, they are not light; and the distance is by far too great to make walking agreeable
and easy; the wind blows strong, and the rain appears to be coming up afresh, and, by the
time we have done, we shall find the ground will become slippy, and bad for walking."
"Can we have a conveyance?"
"No, no," said the doctor; "we could, but we must trouble the turnpike man; besides, there
is a shorter way across some fields, which will be better and safer."
"Well, well," said Charles Holland; "I do not mind which way it is, as long as you are
satisfied yourselves. The horse and cart would have settled it all better, and done it quicker,
besides carrying the tools."
"Very true, very true," said the doctor; "all that is not without its weight, and you shall
choose which way you would have it done; for my part, I am persuaded the expedition on
foot is to be preferred for two reasons."
"And what are they?"

"The first is, we cannot obtain a horse and cart without giving some detail as to what you
want it for, which is awkward, on account of the hour. Moreover, you could not get one at
this moment in time."
"That ought to settle the argument," said Henry Bannerworth; "an impossibility, under the
circumstances, at once is a clincher, and one that may be allowed to have some weight."
"You may say that," said Charles.
"Besides which, you must go a greater distance, and that, too, along the main road, which
is objectionable."
"Then we are agreed," said Charles Holland, and the sooner we are off the better; the
night grows more and more gloomy every hour, and more inclement."
"It will serve our purpose the better," said Chillinworth. "What we do, we may as well do
now."
"Come with me to the garden," said Henry, "and we will take the tools. We can go out the
back way; that will preclude any observation being made."
They all now left the apartment, wrapped up in great overcoats, to secure themselves
against the weather, and also for the purpose of concealing themselves from any chance
passenger.
In the garden they found the tools they required, and having chosen them, they took a
lantern, with the means of getting a light when they got to their journey's end, which they
would do in less than an hour.
After having duly inspected the state of their efficiency, they started away on their
expedition.
The night had turned gloomy and windy; heavy driving masses of clouds obscured the
moon, which only now and then was to be seen, when the clouds permitted her to peep out.
At the same time, there were many drifting showers, which lasted but a few minutes, and
then the clouds were carried forwards by some sudden gust of wind so that, altogether, it
was a most uncomfortable night as well could be imagined.
However, there was no time to lose, and, under all circumstances, they could not have
chosen a better night for their purpose than the one they had; indeed, they could not desire
another night to be out on such a purpose.
They spoke not while they were within sight of the houses, though at the distance of
many yards, and, at the same time, there was a noise through the trees that would have
carried their voices past every object, however close; but they would make assurance
doubly sure.

"I think we are fairly away now," said Henry, "from all fear of being recognized."
"To be sure you are. Who would recognize us now, if we were met?"
"No one."
"I should think not; and, moreover, there would be but small chance of any evil coming
from it, even if it were to happen that we were to be seen and known. Nobody knows what
we are going to do, and, if they did, there is no illegality in the question."
"Certainly not; but we wish the matter to be quite secret, therefore, we don't wish to be
seen by any one while upon this adventure."
"Exactly," said Chillingworth; "and, if you'll follow my guidance, you shall meet
nobody."
"We will trust you, most worthy doctor. What have you to say for our confidence?"
"That you will find it is not misplaced."
Just as the doctor had uttered the last sound, there came a hearty laugh upon the air,
which, indeed, sounded but a few paces in advance of them. The wind blew towards them,
and would, therefore, cause the sounds to come to them, but not to go away in the direction
they were going.
The whole party came to a sudden stand still; there was something so strange in hearing a
laugh at that moment, especially as Chillingworth was, at that moment, boasting of his
knowledge of the ground and the certainty of their meeting no one.
"What is that?" inquired Henry.
"Some one laughing, I think," said Chillingworth.
"Of that there can be little or no doubt," said Charles Holland; "and, as people do not
usually laugh by themselves so heartily, it may be presumed there are, at least, two."
"No doubt of it."
"And, moreover, their purpose cannot be a very good one, at this hour of the night, and of
such a night, too. I think we had better be cautious."
"Hush! Follow me silently," said Henry.
As he spoke, he moved cautiously from the spot where he stood, and, at the same time, he
was followed by the whole party, until they came to the hedge which skirted a lane, in
which were seated three men.

They had a sort of tent erected, and that was hung upon a part of the hedge which was to
windward of them, so that it sheltered them from wind and rain.
Henry and Chillingworth both peeped over the bank, and saw them seated beneath this
kind of canopy. They were shabby, gipsy-looking men, who might be something else --
sheep-stealers, or horse-stealers, in fact, anything, even to beggars.
"I say, Jack," said one; "it's no bottle to-night."
"No; there's nobody about these parts to-night. We are safe, and so are they."
"Exactly."
"Besides, you see, those who do happen to be out are not worth talking to."
"No cash."
"None, not enough to pay turnpike for a walking-stick, at the most."
"Besides, it does us no good to take a few shillings from a poor wretch, who has more in
family than he has shillings in pocket."
"Ay, you are right, quite right. I don't like it myself, I don't; besides that, there's fresh risk
in every man you stop, and these poor fellows will fight hard for a few shillings, and there
is no knowing what an unlucky blow may do for a man."
"That is very true. Has anything been done to-night?"
"Nothing," said one.
"Only three half crowns," said the other; "that is the extent of the common purse to-
night."
"And I," said the third, "I have got a bottle of bad gin from the Cat and Cabbagestump."
"How did you manage it?"
"Why, this way. I went in, and had some beer, and you know I can give a long yarn when
I want; but it wants only a little care to deceive these knowing countrymen, so I talked and
talked, until they got quite chatty, and then I put the gin in my pocket."
"Good."
"Well, then, the loaf and beef I took out of the safe as I came by, and I dare say they
know they have lost it by this time."

"Yes, and so do we. I expect the gin will help to digest the beef, so we mustn't complain
of the goods."
"No; give us another glass, Jim."
Jim held the glass towards him, when the doctor, animated by the spirit of mischief, took
a good sized pebble, and threw it into the glass, smashing it, and spilling the contents.
In a moment there was a change of scene; the men were all terrified, and started to their
feet, while a sudden gust of wind caused their light to go out; at the same time their tent-
cloth was thrown down by the wind, and fell across their heads.
"Come along," said the doctor.
There was no need of saying so, for in a moment the three were as if animated by one
spirit, and away they scudded across the fields, with the speed of a race-horse.
In a few minutes they were better than half a mile away from the spot.
"In absence of all authentic information," said the doctor, speaking as well as he could,
and blowing prodigiously between each word, as though he were fetching breath all the
way from his heels, "I think we may conclude we are safe from them. We ought to thank
our stars we came across them in the way we did."
"But, doctor, what in the name of Heaven induced you to make such a noise, to frighten
them, in fact, and to tell them some one was about?"
"They were too much terrified to tell whether it was one, or fifty. By this time they are
out of the county; they knew what they were talking about."
"And perhaps we may meet them on the road where we are going, thinking it a rare lonely
spot where they can hide, and no chance of their being found out."
"No," said the doctor; "they will not go to such a place; it has by far too bad a name for
even such men as those to go near, much less stop in."
"I can hardly think that," said Charles Holland, "for these fellows are too terrified for their
personal safety, to think of the superstitious fears with which a place may be regarded; and
these men, in such a place as the one you speak of, they will be at home."
"Well, well, rather than be done, we must fight for it; and when you come to consider we
have one pick and two shovels, we shall be in full force."
"Well said, doctor; how far have we to go?"
"Not more than a quarter of a mile."

They pursued their way through the fields, and under the hedgerows, until they came to a
gate, where they stopped awhile, and began to consult and to listen.
"A few yards up here, on the left," said the doctor; "I know the spot; besides, there is a
particular mark. Now, then, are you all ready?"
"Yes, all."
"Here," said the doctor, pointing out the marks by which the spot might be recognized;
"here is the spot, and I think we shall not be half a foot out of our reckoning."
"Then let us begin instanter," said Henry, as he seized hold of the pickaxe, and began to
loosen the earth by means of the sharp end.
"That will do for the present," said Chillingworth; "now let me and Charles take a turn
with our shovels, and you will get on again presently. Throw the earth up on the bank in
one heap, so that we can put it on again without attracting any attention to the spot by its
being left in clods and uneven."
"Exactly," said Henry, "else the body will be discovered."
They began to shovel away, and continued to do so, after it had been picked up, working
alternately, until at length Charles stuck his pick-axe into something soft, and upon pulling
it up, he found it was the body.
A dreadful odour now arose from the spot, and they were at no loss to tell where the body
lay. The pick-axe had stuck into the deceased's rib and clothing, and thus lifted it out of its
place.
"Here it is," said the doctor; "but I needn't tell you that; the charnel-house smell is enough
to convince you of the fact of where it is."
"I think so; just show a light upon the subject, doctor, and then we can see what we are
about -- do you mind, doctor -- you have the management of the lantern, you know?"
"Yes, yes," said Chillingworth; "I see you have it -- don't be in a hurry, but do things
deliberately and coolly whatever you do -- you will not be so liable to make mistakes, or to
leave anything undone."
"There will be nothing of any use to you here, doctor, in the way of dissection, for the
flesh is one mass of decay. What a horrible sight, to be sure!"
"It is; but hasten the search."
"Well, I must; though, to confess the truth, I'd sooner handle anything than this."

"It is not the most pleasant thing in the world, for there is no knowing what may be the
result -- what creeping thing has made a home of it."
"Don't mention anything about it."
Henry and Charles Holland now began to search the pockets of the clothes of the dead
body, in one of which was something hard, that felt like a parcel.
"What have you got there?" said Chillingworth, as he held his lantern up so that the light
fell upon the ghastly object that they were handling.
"I think it is the prize," said Charles Holland; "but we have not got it out yet, though I
dare say it won't be long first, if this wind will but hold good for about five minutes, and
keep the stench down."
They now tore open the packet and pulled out the papers, which appeared to have been
secreted upon his person.
"Be sure there are none on any other part of the body," said Chillingworth; "because what
you do now, you had better do well, and leave nothing to after thought, because it is
frequently impracticable."
"The advice is good," said Henry, who made a second search, but found nothing.
"We had better re-bury him," said the doctor; "it had better be done cleanly. Well, it is a
sad hole for a last resting-place, and yet I do not know that it matters -- it is all a matter of
taste -- the fashion of the class, or the particular custom of the country."
There was but little to be said against such an argument, though the custom of the age had
caused them to look upon it more as a matter of feeling than in such a philosophical sense
as that in which the doctor had put it.
"Well, there he is now -- shovel the earth in, Charles," said Henry Bannerworth, as he
himself set the example, which was speedily and vigorously followed by Charles Holland,
when they were not long before the earth was thrown in and covered up with care, and
trodden down so that it should not appear to be moved.
"This will do, I think," said Henry.
"Yes; it is not quite the same, but I dare say no one will try to make any discoveries in
this place; besides, if the rain continues to come down very heavy, why, it will wash much
of it away, and it will make it look all alike."
There was little inducement to hover about the spot, but Henry could not forbear holding
up the papers to the light of the lantern to ascertain what they were.

"Are they all right?" inquired the doctor.
"Yes," replied Henry, "yes. The Deerbrook estate. Oh! yes; they are the papers I am in
want of."
"It is singularly fortunate, at least, to be so successful in securing them. I am very glad a

living person has possession of them, else it would have been very difficult to have
obtained it from them."
"So it would; but now homeward is the word, doctor; and on my word there is reason to
be glad, for the rain is coming on very fast now, and there is no moon at all -- we had better
step out."
They did, for the three walked as fast as the nature of the soil would permit them, and the
darkness of the night.
--
Chapter LXXXIX.
TELLS WHAT BECAME OF THE SECOND VAMPYRE WHO SOUGHT VARNEY.
We left the Hungarian nobleman swimming down the stream; he swam slowly, and used
but little exertion in doing so. He appeared to use his hands only as a means of assistance.
The stream carried him onwards, and he sided himself so far that he kept the middle of the
stream, and floated along.
Where the stream was broad and shallow, it sometimes left him a moment or two, without
being strong enough to carry him onwards; then he would pause, as if gaining strength, and
finally he would, when he had rested, and the water came a little faster, and lifted him,
make a desperate plunge, and swim forward, until he again came in deep water, and then he
went slowly along with the stream, as he supported himself.
It was strange thus to see a man going down slowly, and without any effort whatever,
passing through shade and through moonlight -- now lost in shadow of the tall trees, and
now emerging into that part of the stream which ran through meadows and cornfields, until
the stream widened, and then, at length, a ferry-house was to be seen in the distance.

Then came the ferryman out of his hut, to look upon the beautiful moonlight scene. It was
cold, but pure, and brillantly light. The chaste moon was sailing through the heavens, and
the stars diminished in their lustre by the power of the luminous goddess of night.
There was a small cottage -- true; it was somewhat larger than was generally supposed by
any casual observer who might look at it. The place was rambling, and built chiefly of
wood; but in it there lived the ferryman, his wife, and family; among these was a young girl
of about seventeen years of age, but, at the same time, very beautiful.
They had been preparing their supper, and the ferryman himself walked out to look at the
river and the shadows of the tall trees that stood on the hill opposite.
While thus employed, he heard a plashing in the water, and on turning towards the quarter
whence the sound proceeded for a few yards, he came to the spot where he saw the stranger
struggling in the stream.
"Good God!" he muttered to himself, as he saw the struggle continued; "good God! he
will sink and drown."
As he spoke, he jumped into his boat and pushed it off, for the purpose of stopping the
descent of the body down the stream, and in a moment or two it came near to him. He
muttered, --
"Come, come -- he tries to swim; life is not gone yet -- he will do now, if I can catch hold
of him. Swimming with one's face under the stream doesn't say much for his skill, though it
may account for the fact that he don't cry out."
As the drowning man neared, the ferryman held on by the boat-hook, and stooping down,
he seized the drowning man by the hair of the head, and then paused.
After a time, he lifted him up, and placed him across the edge of the boat, and then, with
some struggling of his own, he was rolled over into the boat.
"You are safe now," muttered the ferryman.
The stranger spoke not, but sat or leaned against the boat's head, sobbing and catching at
his breath, and spitting off his stomach the water it might be presumed he had swallowed.
The ferryman put back to the shore, when he paussed, and secured his boat, and then
pulled the stranger out, saying, --
"Do you feel any better now?"
"Yes," said the stranger; "I feel I am living -- thanks to you, my good friend; I owe you
my life."

"You are welcome to that," replied the ferryman; "it costs me nothing; and, as for my
little trouble, I should be sorry to think of that, when a fellow-being's life was in danger."
"You have behaved very well -- very well, and I can do little more now than thank you,
for I have been robbed of all I possessed about me at the moment."
"Oh! you have been robbed?"
"Aye, truly, I have, and have been thrown into the water, and thus I have been nearly
murdered."
"It is lucky you escaped from them without further injury," said the ferryman; "but come
in doors, you must be unfit to stand here in the cold."
"Thank you; your hospitality is great, and, at this moment, of the greatest importance to
me."
"Such as we have," said the honest ferryman, "you shall be welcome to. Come in -- come
in."
He turned round and led the way to the house, which he entered, saying -- as he opened
the small door that led into the main apartment, where all the family were assembled,
waiting for the almost only meal they had had that day,; for the ferryman had not the
means, before the sun had set, of sending for food, and then it was a long way before it
could be found, and then it was late before they could get it, --
"Wife, we have a stranger to sleep with us to-night, and for whom we must prepare a
bed."
"A stranger!" echoed the wife -- "a stranger, and we so poor!"
"Yes; one whose life I have saved, and who was nearly drowned. We cannot refuse
hospitality upon such an occasion as that, you know, wife."
The wife looked at the stranger as he entered the room, and sat down by the fire.
"I am sorry," he said, "to intrude upon you; but I will make you amends for the
interruption and inconvenience I may cause you; but it is too late to apply elsewhere, and
yet I am doubtful, if there were, whether I could go any further."
"No, no," said the ferryman; "I am sure a man who has been beaten and robbed, and
thrown into a rapid and, in some parts, deep stream, is not fit to travel at this time of night."
"You are lonely about here," said the stranger, as he shivered by the fire.
"Yes, rather; but we are used to it."

"You have a family, too; that must help to lighten the hours away, and help you over the
long evenings."
"So you may think, stranger, and, at times, so it is; but when food runs short, it is a long
while to daylight, before any more money can be had. To be sure, we have fish in the river,
and we have what we can grow in the garden; but these are not all the wants that we feel,
and those others are sometimes pinching. However, we are thankful for what we have, and
complain but little when we can get no more; but sometimes we do repine -- though I
cannot say we ought -- but I am merely relating the fact, whether it be right or wrong."
"Exactly. How old is your daughter?"
"She is seventeen come Allhallow's eve."
"That is not far hence," said the stranger. "I hope I may be in this part of the country --
and I think I shall -- I will on that eve pay you a visit; not one on which I shall be a burden
to you, but one more useful to you, and more consonant to my character."
"The future will tell us all about that," said the ferryman; "at present we will see what we
can do, without complaining, or taxing anybody."
The stranger and the ferryman sat conversing for some time before the fire, and then the
latter pointed out to him which was his bed -- one made up near the fire, for the sake of its
warmth; and then the ferryman retired to the next room, a place which was merely divided
by an imperfect partition.
However, they all fell soundly asleep. The hours on that day had been longer than usual;
there was not that buoyancy of spirit; when they retire, they fell off into a heavy, deep
slumber.
From this they were suddenly aroused by loud cries and piercing screams from one of the
family.
So loud and shrill were the cries, that they all started up, terrified and bewildered beyond
measure, unable to apply their faculties to any one object.
"Help -- help, father! -- help!" shrieked the voice of the young girl whom we have before
noticed.
The ferryman jumped up, and rushed to the spot where his daughter lay.
"Fanny," he said -- "Fanny, what ails thee -- what ails thee? Tell me, my dear child."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, almost choked -- "oh, father! are we all alone? I am terrified."

"What ails thee -- what ails thee? Tell me what caused you to scream out in such a
manner?"
"I -- I -- that is, father, thought -- but no, I am sure it was reality. Where is the stranger?"
"A light -- a light!" shouted the fisherman.
In another moment a light was brought him, and he discovered the stranger reclining in
his bed, but awake, and looking around him, as if in the utmost amazement.
"What has happened?" he said -- "what has happened?"
"That is more than I know as yet," the man replied. "Come, Fanny," he added, "tell me
what it is you fear. What caused you to scream out in that dreadful manner?"
"Oh, father -- the vampyre!"
"Great God! what do you mean, Fanny, by that?"
"I hardly know, father. I was fast asleep, when I thought I felt something at my throat; but
being very sound asleep, I did not immediately awake. Presently I felt the sharp pang of
teeth being driven into the flesh of my neck -- I awoke, and found the vampyre at his repast.
Oh, God! oh God! what shall I do?"
"Stay, my child, let us examine the wound," said the fisherman, and he held the candle to
the spot where the vampyre's teeth had been applied. There, sure enough, were teeth marks,
such as a human being's would make were they applied, but no blood had been drawn
therefrom."
"Come, come, Fanny, so far, by divine Providence, you are not injured; another moment,
and the mischief would have been done entire and complete, and you would have been his
victim."
Then, turning to the stranger, he said, --
"You have had some hand in this. No human being but you could come into this place.
The cottage door is secured. You must be the vampyre."
"I!"
"Yes; who else could?"
"I! -- As Heaven's my judge -- but there, it's useless to speak of it; I have not been out of
my bed. In this place, dark as it is, and less used to darkness than you, I could not even find
my way about. -- It is impossible."

"Get out of your bed, and let me feel," said the ferryman, peremptorily -- "get out, and I
will soon tell."
The stranger arose, and began to dress himself, and the ferryman immediately felt the bed
on which he had been lying; but it was ice cold -- so cold that he started upon his legs in an
instant, exclaiming with vehemence, --
"It is you, vile wretch! that has attempted to steal into the cottage of the poor man, and
then to rob him of his only child, and that child of her heart's blood, base ingrate!"
"My friend, you are wrong, entirely wrong. I am not the creature you believe me. I have
slept, and slept soundly, and awoke not until your daughter screamed."
"Scoundrel! -- liar! -- base wretch! you shall not remain alive to injure those who have
but one life to lose."
As he spoke, the ferryman made a desperate rush at the vampyre, and seized him by the
throat, and a violent struggle ensued, in which the superior strength of the ferryman
prevailed, and he brought his antagonist to the earth, at the same time bestowing upon him
some desperate blows.
"Thou shalt go to the same element from which I took thee," said the ferryman, "and there
swim or sink as thou wilt until some one shall drag thee ashore, and when they do, may
they have a better return than I."
As he spoke, he dragged along the stranger by main force until they came to the bank of
the river, and then pausing, to observe the deepest part, he said, --
"Here, then, you shall go."
The vampyre struggled, and endeavoured to speak, but he could not; the grasp at this
throat prevented all attempts at speech; and then, with a sudden exertion of his strength, the
ferryman lifted the stranger up, and heaved him some distance into the river.
Then in deep water sank the body.
The ferryman watched for some moments, and farther down the stream he saw the body
again rise upon the current and struggling slightly, as for life -- now whirled around and
around, and then carried forward with the utmost velocity.
This continued as far as the moonlight enabled the ferryman to see, and then, with a slow
step and clouded brow, he returned to his cottage, which he entered, and closed the door.
--

Chapter XC.
DR. CHILLINGWORTH AT THE HALL. -- THE ENCOUNTER OF MYSTERY. --

THE CONFLICT. -- THE RESCUE, AND THE PICTURE.
There have been many events that have passed rapidly in this our narrative; but more have
yet to come before we can arrive at that point which will clear up much that appears to be
most mysterious and unaccountable.
Doctor Chillingworth, but ill satisfied with the events that had yet taken place, determined
once more upon visiting the Hall, and there to attempt a discovery of something respecting
the mysterious apartment in which so much has already taken place.
He communicated his design to no one; he resolved to prosecute the inquiry alone. He

determined to go there and await whatever might turn up in the shape of events. He would
not for once take any companion; such adventures were often best prosecuted alone -- they
were most easily brought to something like an explanatory position; one person can often
consider matters more cooly than more. At all events, there is more secrecy than under any
other circumstances.
Perhaps this often is of greater consequence than many others; and, moreover, when there
is more than one, something is usually overdone. Where one adventurous individual will
rather draw back in a pursuit, more than one would induce them to urge each other on.

In fact, one in such a case could act the part of a spy -- a secret observer; and in that case
can catch people at times when they could not under any other circumstances be caught or
observed at all.
"I will go," he muttered; "and should I be compelled to run away again, why, nobody
knows anything about it and nobody will laugh at me."
This was all very well; but Mr. Chillingworth was not the man to run away without
sufficient cause. But there was so much mystery in all this that he felt much interested in
the issue of the affair. But this issue he could not command; at the same time he was
determined to sit and watch, and thus become certain that either something or nothing was
to take place.
Even the knowledge of that much -- that some inexplicable action was still going on --
was far preferable to the uncertainty of not knowing whether what had once been going on
was still so or not, because, if it had ceased, it was probable that nothing more would ever
be known concerning it, and the mystery would still be a mystery to the end of time.
"It shall be fathomed if there be any possibility of its being discovered," muttered
Chillingworth. "Who would have thought that so quiet and orderly a spot as this, our quiet
village, would have suffered so much commotion and disturbance? Far from every cause of
noise and strife, it is quite as great a matter of mystery as the vampyre business itself.
"I have been so mixed up in this business that I must go through with it. By the way, of
the mysteries, the greatest that I have met with is the fact of the vampyre having anything to
do with so quiet a family as the Bannerworths."
Mr. Chillingworth pondered over the thought; but yet he could make nothing of it. It in no
way tended to elucidate anything connected with the affair, and it was much too strange and
singular in all its parts to be submitted to any process of thought, with any hope of coming
to anything like a conclusion upon the subject -- that must remain until some facts were
ascertained, and to obtain them Mr. Chillingworth now determined to try.
This was precisely what was most desirable in the present state of affairs; while things
remained in the present state of uncertainty, there would be much more of mystery than
could ever be brought to light.
One or two circumstances cleared up, the minor ones would follow in the same train, and
they would be explained by the others; and if ever that happy state of things were to come
about, why, then there would be a perfect calm in the town.
As Mr. Chillingworth was going along, he thought he observed two men sitting inside a
hedge, close to a hay-rick, and thinking neither of them had any business there, he
determined to listen to their conversation, and ascertain if it had any evil tendency, or
whether it concerned the late event.

Having approached near the gate, and they being on the other side, he got over without
any noise, and, unperceived by either of them, crept close up to them.
"So you haven't long come from sea?"
"No; I have just landed."
"How is it you have thrown aside your seaman's clothes and taken to these?"
"Just to escape being found out."
"Found out! what do you mean by that? Have you been up to anything?"
"Yes, I have, Jack. I have been up to something, worse luck to me; but I'm not to be
blamed either."
"What is it all about?" inquired his companion. "I always thought you were such a steay-
going old file that there was no going out of the even path with you."
"Nor would there have been, but for one simple circumstance."
"What was that?"
"I will tell you Jack -- I will tell you; you will never betray me, I am sure."
"Never, by heavens!"
"Well, then, listen -- it was this. I had been some time aboard our vessel. I had sailed
before, but the captain never showed any signs of being a bad man, and I was willing
enough to sail with him again.
"He knew I was engaged to a young woman in this country, and that I was willing to
work hard to save money to make up a comfortable home for us both, and that I would not
sail again, but that I intended to remain ashore, and make up my mind to a shore life."
"Well, you would have a house then?"
"Exactly; and that's what I wished to do. Well I made a small venture in the cargo, and
thought, by so doing, that I should have a chance of realizing a sum of money that would
put us both in a comfortable line of business.
"Well, we went on very smoothly until we were coming back. We had disposed of the
cargo, and I had received some money, and this seemed to cause our captain to hate me,
because I had been successful; but I thought there was something else in it than that, but I
could not tell what it was that made him so intolerably cross and tyrannous.

"Well, I found out, at length, he knew my intended wife. He knew her very well, and at
the same time he made every effort he could to induce me to commit some act of
disobedience and insubordination; but I would not, for it seemed to me he was trying all he
could to prevent my doing my duty with anything like comfort.
"However, I learned the cause of all this afterwards. It was told me by one of the crew.
"'Bill,' said my mate, 'look out for yourself.'
"'What's in the wind?' said I.
"'Only the captain has made a dead set at you, and you'll be a lucky man if you escape.'
"'What's it all about?' said I. 'I cannot understand what he means. I have done nothing
wrong. I don't see why I should suddenly be treated in this way.'
"'It's all about your girl, Bill.'
"'Indeed!' said I. "What can that have to do with the captain? he knows nothing of her.'
"'Oh, yes, he does,' he said. 'If it were not for you he would have the girl himself.'
"'I see now,' said I.
"'Ay, and so can a blind man if you open his eyes; but he wants to make you do wrong --
to goad you on to do something that will give him the power of disgracing you, and,
perhaps, of punishing you.'
"'He won't do that,' said I.
"'I am glad to hear you say so, Bill; for, to my mind, he has made up his mind go the
whole length against you. I can't make it out, unless he wishes you were dead.'
"'I dare say he does,' said I; 'but I will take care I will live to exact a reckoning when he
comes ashore.'
"'That is the best; and when we are paid off, Bill, if you will take it out of him, and pay
him off, why, I don't care if I lend you a hand.'
"'We'll say more about that, Dick,' said I, 'when we get ashore and are paid off. If we are
overheard now, it will be said that we are conspiring, or committing mutiny, or something
of that sort.'
"'You are right, Bill,' he said -- 'you are right. We'll say no more about this now, but you
may reckon upon me when we are no longer under his orders.'

"'Then there's no danger, you know.'
"Well, we said nothing about this, but I thought of it, and I had cause enough, too, to
think of it; for each day the captain grew more and more tyrannous and brutal. I knew not
what to do, but kept my resolution of doing my duty in spite of all he could do, though I
don't mind admitting I had more than one mind to kill him and myself afterwards.
"However, I contrived to hold out for another week or two, and then we came into port,
and were released froom his tyranny. I got paid off, and then I met my messmate, and we
had some talk about the matter.
"'The worst of it is,' said I, 'we shall have some difficulty to catch him; and, if we can, I'll
be sworn we shall give him enough to last him for at least a voyage or two.'
"'He ought to have it smart,' said my messmate; 'and I know where he is to be found.'
"'Do you? -- at what hour?'
"'Late at night, when he may be met with as he comes from a house where he spends his
evenings.'
"'That will be the best time in the world, when we shall have less interference than at any
other time in the day. But we'll have a turn to-night if you will be with me, as he will be
able to make too good a defence to one. It will be a fight, and not a chastisement.'
"'It will. I will be with you; you know where to meet me. I shall be at the old spot at the
usual time, and then we will go.'
"We parted; and, in the evening, we both went together, and sought the place where we
should find him out, and set upon him to advantage.
"He was nearly two hours before he came; but when he did come, we saluted him with a
rap on the head, that made him hold his tongue; and then we set to, and gave him such a
tremendous drubbing, that we left him insensible; but he was soon taken away by some
watchmen, and we heard that he was doing well; but he was dreadfully beaten; indeed, it
would take him some weeks before he could be about in his duties.
"He was fearfully enraged, and offered fifty pounds reward to any one who could give
him information as to who it was that assaulted him.
"I believe he had a pretty good notion of who it was; but he could not swear to me; but
still, seeing he was busying himself too much about me, I at once walked away, and went
on my way to another part of the country."
"To get married?"

"Ay, and to get into business."
"Then, things are not quite so bad as I thought for at first."
"No -- no, not so bad but what they might have been worse a great deal; only I cannot go
to sea any more, that's quite certain."
"You needn't regret that."
"I don't know."
"Why not know? Are you not going to be married? -- ain't that much better?"
"I can't say," replied the sailor; "there's no knowing how my bargain may turn out; if she
does well, why, then the cruising is over; but nothing short of that will satisfy me; for if my
wife is at all not what I wish her to be, why, I shall be off to sea."
"I don't blame you, either; I would do so too, if it were possible; but you see, we can't do
so well on land as you do at sea; we can be followed about from pillar to post, and no
bounds set to our persecution."
"That's true enough," said the other; "we can cut and run when we have had enough of it.
However, I must get to the village, as I shall sleep there to-night, if I find my quarters
comfortable enough."
"Come on, then, at once," said his companion; "it's getting dark now; and you have no
time to lose."
These two now got up, and walked away towards the village; and Chillingworth arose
also, and pursued his way towards the Hall, while he remarked to himself, --
"Well -- well, they have nothing to do with that affair at all events. By-the-bye, I wonder
what amount of females are deserted in the navy; they certainly have an advantage over
landsmen, in the respect of being tied to tiresome partners; they can, at least, for a season,
get a release from their troubles, and be free at sea."
However, Mr. Chillingworth got to the Hall, and unobserved, for he had been especially
careful not to be seen; he had watched on all sides, and no signs of a solitary human being
had he seen, that could in any way make the slightest observation upon him.
Indeed, he had sheltered himself from observation at every point of his road, especially so
when near Bannerworth Hall, where there were plenty of corners to enable him to do so;
and when he arrived there, he entered at the usual spot, and then sat down a few moments
in the bower.

"I will not sit here," he muttered. "I will go and have a watch at that mysterious picture;
there is the centre of attraction, be it what it may."
As he spoke, he arose and walked into the house, and entered the same apartment which
has been so often mentioned to the reader.
Here he took a chair, and sat down full before the picture, and began to contemplate it.
"Well, for a good likeness, I cannot say I ever saw anything more unprepossessing. I am
sure such a countenance as that could never have won a female heart. Surely, it is more
calculated to terrify the imagination, than to soothe the affections of the timid and shrinking
female.
"However, I will have an inspection of the picture, and see if I can make anything of it."
As he spoke, he put his hand upon the picture with the intention of removing it, when it
suddenly was thrust open, and a man stepped down.
The doctor was for a moment completely staggered, it was so utterly unexpected, and he
stepped back a pace or two in the first emotion of his surprise; but this soon passed by, and
he prepared to close with his antagonist, which he did without speaking a word.
There was a fair struggle for more than two or three minutes, during which the doctor
struggled and fought most manfully; but it was evident that Mr. Chillingworth had met with
a man who was his superior in point of strength, for he not only withstood the utmost force
that Chillingworth could bring against him, but maintained himself, and turned his strength
against the doctor.
Chillingworth panted with exertion, and found himself gradually losing ground, and was
upon the point of being thrown down at the mercy of his adversary, who appeared to be
inclined to take all advantages of him, when an occurrence happened that altered the state
of affairs altogether.
While they were struggling, the doctor borne partially to the earth -- but yet struggling,
suddenly his antagonist released his hold, and staggered back a few paces.
"There, you swab -- take that; I am yard-arm and yard-arm with you, you piratical-
looking craft -- you lubberly, buccaneering son of a fish-fag."
Before, however, Jack Pringle, for it was he who came so opportunely to the rescue of
Doctor Chillingworth, could find time to finish the sentence, he found himself assailed by
the very man who, but a minute before, he had, as he thought, placed hors de combat.
A desperate fight ensued, and the stranger made the greatest efforts to escape with the
picture, but found he could not get off without a desperate struggle. He was, at length,
compelled to relinquish the hope of carrying that off, for both Mr. Chillingworth and Jack

Pringle were engaged hand to hand; but the stranger struck Jack so heavy a blow on the
head, that made him reel a few yards, and then he escaped through the window, leaving
Jack and Mr. Chillingworth masters of the field, but by no means unscathed by the conflict
in which they had been engaged.
--
Chapter XCI.
THE GRAND CONSULTATION BROKEN UP BY MRS CHILLINGWORTH, AND

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF VARNEY.
Remarkable was the change that had taken place in the circumstances of the Bannerworth
family. From a state of great dispondency, and, indeed, absolute poverty, they had suddenly
risen to comfort and independence.
It seemed as if the clouds that had obscured their destiny, had now, with one accord,
dissipated, and that a brighter day was dawning. Not only had the circumstances of mental
terror which had surrounded them given way in a great measure to the light of truth and
reflection, but those pecuniary distresses which had pressed upon them for a time, were
likewise passing away, and it seemed probable that they would be a prosperous condition.
The acquisition of the title deeds of the estate, which they thought had passed away from
the family for ever, became to them, in their present circumstances, an immense
acquisition, and brought to their minds a feeling of great contentment.
Many persons in their situation would have been extremely satisfied at having secured so
strong an interest in the mind of the old admiral, who was very wealthy, and who, from
what he had already said and done, no doubt fully intended to provided handsomely for the
Bannerworth family.

And not only had they this to look forward to, if they had chosen to regard it as an
advantage, but they knew that by the marriage of Flora with Charles Holland she would
have a fortune at her disposal, while he (Charles) would be the last man in the world to
demur at any reasonable amount of it being lavished upon her mother and her brothers.
But all this did not suit the high and independent spirit of Henry Bannerworth. He was
one who would rather have eaten the crust that he procured for himself by some meritorious
exertion, than have feasted on the most delicate viands placed before him from the
resources of another.
But now that he knew this small estate, the title deeds of which had been so singularly
obtained, had once really belonged to the family, but had been risked and lost at the
gaming-table, he had no earthly scruple in calling such property again his own,
As to the large sum of money which Sir Francis Varney in his confessions had declared to
have found its way into the possession of Marmaduke Bannerworth, Henry did not expect,
and scarely wished to become possessed of wealth through so tainted a source.
"No," he said to himself frequently; "no -- I care not if that wealth be never forthcoming,
which was so badly got possession of. Let it sink into the earth, if, indeed, it be buried
there; or let it rot in some unknown corner of the old mansion. I care not for it."
In this view of the case he was not alone, for a family more unselfish, or who cared so
little for money, could scarcely have been found; but Admiral Bell and Charles Holland
argued now that they had a right to the amount of money which Marmaduke Bannerworth
had hidden somewhere, and the old admiral reasoned upon it rather ingeniously, for he said,
--
"I suppose you don't mean to dispute that the money belongs to somebody, and in that
case I should like to know who else it belonged to, if not to you? How do you get over that,
master Henry?"
"I don't attempt to get over it at all," said Henry; "all I say is, that I do dislike the whole
circumstances connected with it, and the manner in which it was come by; and, now that we
have a samll independence, I hope it will not be found. But, admiral, we are going to hold a
family consultation as to what we shall do, and what is to become of Varney. He has
convinced me of his relationship to our family, and, although his conduct has certainly been
extremely equivocal, he has made all the amends in his power; and now, as he is getting
old, I do not like to throw him upon the wide world for a subsistence."
"You don't contemplate," said the admiral, "letting him remain with you, do you?"
"No; that would be objectionable for a variety of reasons; and I could not think of it for a
moment."

"I should think not. The idea of sitting down to breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper with a
vampyre, and taking your grog with a fellow that sucks other people's blood!"
"Really, admiral, you do not really still cling to the idea that Sir Francis Varney is a
vampyre."
"I really don't know; he clings to it himself, that's all I can say; and I think, under those
circumstances, I might as well give him the benefit of his own proposition, and suppose
that he is a vampyre."
"Really, uncle," said Charles Holland, "I did think that you had discarded the notion."
"Did you? I have been thinking of it, and it ain't so desirable to be a vampyre, I am sure,
that any one should pretend to it who is not; therefore, I take the fellow upon his own
showing. He is a vampyre in his own opinion, and so I don't see, for the life of me, why he
should not be so in ours."
"Well," said Henry, "waving all that, what are we to do with him? Circumstances seem to
have thrown him completely at our mercy. What are we to do with him, and what is to
become of him for the future?"
"I'll tell you what I'll do," said the admiral. "If he were ten times a vampyre, there is some
good in the fellow; and I will give him enough to live upon if he will go to America and
spend it. They will take good care there that he sucks no blood out of them; for, although an
American would always rather lose a drop of blood than a dollar, they keep a pretty sharp
look out upon both."
"The proposal can be made to him," said Henry, "at all events. It is one which I don't
dislike, and probably one that he would embrace at once; because he seems, to me, to have
completely done with ambition, and to have abandoned those projects concerning which, at
one time, he took such a world of trouble."
"Don't you trust to that," said the admiral. "What's bred in the bone don't so easily get out
of the flesh; and once or twice, when Master Varney has been talking, I have sen those odd
looking eyes of his flash up for a moment, as if he were quite ready to begin his old capers
again, and alarm the whole country side."
"I must confess," said Charles Holland, "that I myself have had the impression once or
twice that Varney was only subdued for a time, and that, with a proper amount of
provocation, he would become again a very serious fellow, and to the full as troublesome as
he has been."
"Do you doubt his sincerity?" said Henry.
"No, I do not do that, Henry. I think Varney fully means what he says; but I think, at the
same time, that he has for so long lead a strange, wild, and reckless life, that he will find it

very far from easy, if indeed possible, to shake off his old habits and settle down quietly, if
not to say comfortably."
"I regret," said Henry, "that you have such an impression, but, while I do so, I cannot help
admitting that it is, to a considerable extent, no more than a reasonable one; and perhaps,
after all, my expectation that Varney will give us no more trouble, only amounts to a hope
that he will not do so, and nothing more. But let us consider; there seems to be some slight
difference of opinion among us, as to whether we should take up our residence at this new
house of ours, which we did not know we owned, at Dearbrook, or proceed to London, and
there establish ourselves, or again return to Bannerworth Hall, and, by a judicious
expenditure of some money, make that a more habitable place than it has been for the last
twenty years."
"Now, I'll tell you what," said the admiral, "I would do. It's quite out of the question for
any body to live long unless they see a ship; don't you think so, Miss Flora?"
"Why, how can you ask Flora such a question, uncle," said Charles Holland, "when you
know she don't care a straw about ships, and only looks upon admirals as natural
curiosities?"
"Excepting one," said Flora, "and he is an admiral who is natural but no curiosity, unless
it be that you can call him such because he is so just and generous; and, as for ships, who
can help admiring them; and if Admiral Bell proposes that we live in some plesant, marine
villa by the sea-coast, he shall have my vote and interest for the proceeding."
"Bravo! Huzza!" cried the admiral. "I tell you what it is, Master Charley -- you horse
marine, -- I have a great mind to cut you out, and have Miss Flora myself."
"Don't, uncle," said Charles; "that would be so very cruel, after she has promised me so
faithfully. How do you suppose I should like it; come now, be merciful."
At this moment, and before any one could make another remark, there came rather a
sharp ring at the garden-gate bell, and Henry exclaimed, --
"That's Mr. Chillingworth, and I am glad he has come in time to join our conference. His
advice is always valuable; and, moreover, I rather think he will bring us some news worth
the hearing."
The one servant who they had to wait upon them looked into the room, and said, --
"If you please, here is Mrs. Chillingworth."
"Mistress? you mean Mr."
"No; it is Mrs. Chillingworth and her baby."

"The devil!" said the admiral; "what can she want?"
"I'll come and let you know," said Mrs. Chillingworth, "what I want;" and she darted into
the room past the servant. "I'll soon let you know, you great sea crab. I want my husband;
and what with your vampyre, and one thing and another, I haven't had him at home an hour
for the last three weeks. What am I to do? There is all his patients getting well as fast as
they can without him; and, when they find that out, do you think they will take any more
filthy physic? No, to be sure not; people ain't such fools as to do anything of the sort."
"I'll tell you what we will do, ma'am," said the admiral; "we'll all get ill at once, on
purpose to oblige ye; and I'll begin by having the measles."
"You are an old porpoise, and I believe it all owing to you that my husband neglects his
wife and family. What's vampyres to him, I should like to know, that he should go troubling
about them? I never heard of vampyres taking draughts and pills."
"No, nor any body else that had the sense of a goose," said the admiral; "but if it's your
husband you want, ma'am, it's no use your looking for him here, for here he is not."
"Then where is he? He is running after some of your beastly vampyres somewhere, I'll be
bound, and you know where to send for him."
"Then you are mistaken; for, indeed, we don't. We want him ourselves, ma'am, and can't
find him -- that's the fact."
"It's all very well talking, sir, but if you were a married woman, with a family about you,
and the last at the breast, you'd feel very different from what you do now."
"I'm d -- -- d if I don't suppose I should," said the admiral; "but as for the last, ma'am, I'd
soon settle that. I'd wring its neck, and shove it overboard."
"You would, you brute? It's quite clear to me you never had a child of your own."
"Mrs. Chillingworth," said Henry, "I think you have no right to complain to us of your
domestic affairs. Where your husband goes, and what he does, is at his own will and
pleasure, and, really, I don't see that we are to be made answerable as to whether he is at
home or abroad; to say nothing of the bad taste -- and bad taste it most certainly is, of
talking of your private affairs to other people."
"Oh, dear!" said Mrs. Chillingworth; "that's your idea, is it, you no-whiskered puppy?"
"Really, madam, I cannot see what my being destitute of whiskers has to do with the
affair; and I am inclined to think my opinion is quite as good without them as with them."
"I will speak," said Flora, "to the doctor, when I see him."

"Will you, Miss Doll's-eyes? Oh, dear me! you'll speak to the doctor, will you?"
"What on earth do you want?" said Henry. "For your husband's sake, whom we all
respect, we wish to treat you with every imaginable civility; but we tell you, candidly, that
he is not here, and, therefore, we cannot conceive what more you can require of us."
"Oh, it's a row," said the admiral; "that's what she wants -- woman like. D -- -- d a bit do
they care what it's about as long as there's a disturbance. And now, ma'am, will you sit
down and have a glass of grog?"
"No, I will not sit down; and all I can say is, that I look upon this place as a den full of
snakes and reptiles. That's my opinion; so I'll not stay any longer; but, wishing that great
judgments may some day come home to you all, and that you may know what it is to be a
mother, with five babies, and one at the breast, I despise you all and leave you."
So saying, Mrs. Chillingworth walked from the place, feeling herself highly hurt and
offended at what had ensued; and they were compelled to let her go just as she was, without
giving her any information, for they had a vivid recollecion of the serious disturbance she
had created on a former occasion, when she had actually headed a mob, for the purpose of
hunting out Varney, the vampyre, from Bannerworth Hall, and putting an end consequently,
as she considered, to that set of circumstances which kept the doctor so much from his
house, to the great detriment of a not very extensive practice.
"After all," said Flora, "Mrs. Chillingworth, although she is not the most refined person in
the world, is to be pitied."
"What!" cried the admiral; "Miss Doll's-eyes, are you taking her part?"
"Oh, that's nothing. She may call me what she likes."
"I believe she is a good wife to the doctor," said Henry, "notwithstanding her little
eccentricities; but suppose we now at once make the proposal we were thinking of to Sir
Francis Varney, and so get him to leave England as quickly as possible and put an end to
the possibility of his being any more trouble to anybody."
"Agreed -- agreed. It's the best thing that can be done, and it will be something gained to
get his consent at once."
"I'll run up stairs to him," said Charles, "and call him down at once. I scarcely doubt for a
moment his acquiescence in the proposal."
Charles Holland rose, and ran up the little staircase of the cottage to the room which, by
the kindness of the Bannerworth family, had been devoted to the use of Varney. He had not
been gone above two minutes, when he returned, hastily, with a small scrap of paper in his
hand, which he laid before Henry, saying, --

"There, what think you of that?"
Henry, upon taking up the paper, saw written upon it the words, --
"The Farewell of Varney the Vampyre."
"He is gone," said Charles Holland. "The room is vacant. I saw at a glance that he had
removed his hat, and cloak, and all that belonged to him. He's off, and at so short a
warning, and in so abrupt a manner, that I fear the worst."
"What can you fear?"
"I scarcely know what; but we have a right to fear everything and anything from this most
inexplicable being, whose whole conduct has been of that mysterious nature, as to put him
past all calculation as regards his motives, his objects, or his actions. I must confess that I
would have hailed his departure from England with feelings of satisfaction; but what he
means now, by this strange manoeuvre, Heaven, and his own singular intellect, can alone
divine."
"I must confess," said Flora, "I should not at all have thought this of Varney. It seems to
me as if something new must have occurred to him. Altogether, I do not feel any alarm
concerning his actions as regards us. I am convinced of his sincerity, and, therefore, do not
view with sensations of uneasiness this new circumstance, which appears at present so
inexplicable, but for which we may yet get some explanation that will be satisfactory to us
all."
"I cannot conceive," said Henry, "what new circumstances could have occurred to
produce this effect upon Varney. Things remain just as they were; and, after all, situated as
he is, if any change had taken place in matters out of doors, I do not see how he could
become acquainted with them, so that his leaving must have been a matter of mere
calculation, or of impulse at the moment -- Heaven knows which -- but can have nothing to
do with actual information, because it is quite evident he could not get it."
"It is rather strange," said Charles Holland, "that just as we were speculating upon the
probability of his doing something of this sort, he should suddenly do it, and in this singular
manner too."
"Oh," said the old admiral, "I told you I saw his eye, that was enough for me. I knew he
would do something, as well as I know a mainmast from a chain cable. He can't help it; it's
in the nature of the beast, and that's all you can say about it."
--

Chapter XCII.
THE MISADVENTURE OF THE DOCTOR WITH THE PICTURE.
The situation of Dr. Chillingworth and Jack Pringle was not of that character that permitted
much conversation or even congratulation. They were victors it was true, and yet they had
but little to boast of besides the victory.
Victory is a great thing; it is like a gilded coat, it bewilders and dazzles. Nobody can say
much when you are victorious. What a sound! and yet how much misery is there not hidden
beneath it.
This victory of the worthy doctor and his aid amounted to this, they were as they were
before, without being any better, but much the worse, seeing they were so much buffetted
that they could hardly speak, but sat for some moments opposite to each other, gasping for
breath, and staring each other in the face without speaking.
The moonlight came in through the window and fell upon the floor, and there were no
sounds that came to disturb the stillness of the scene, nor any object that moved to cast a
shadow upon the floor. All was still and motionless, save the two victors, who were much
distressed and bruised.

"Well!" said Jack Pringle, with a hearty execration, as he wiped his face with the back of
his hand; "saving your presence, doctor, we are masters of the field, doctor; but it's plaguey
like capturing an empty bandbox after a hard fight."
"But we have got the picture, Jack -- we have got the picture, you see, and that is
something. I am sure we saved that."
"Well, that may be; and a pretty d -- d looking picture it is after all. Why, it's enough to
frighten a lady into the sulks. I think it would be a very good thing if it were burned."
"Well," said the doctor, "I would sooner see it burned than in the hands of that -- "
"What?" exclaimed Jack.
"I don't know," said Mr. Chillingworth; "but thief I should say, for it was somewhat thief-
like to break into another man's house and carry off the furniture."
"A pirate -- a regular land shark."
"Something that is not the same as an honest man, Jack; but, at all events, we have beaten
him back this time."
"Yes," said Jack, "the ship's cleared; no company is better than bad company, doctor."
"So it is, and yet it don't seem clear in terms. But, Jack, if you hadn't come in time, I
should have been but scurvily treated. He was too powerful for me; I was as nigh being
killed as ever I have been; but you were just in time to save me."
"Well, he was a large, ugly fellow, sure enough, and looked like an old tree."
"Did you see him?"
"Yes, to be sure I did."
"Well, I could not catch a glimpse of his features. In fact, I was too much employed to see
anything, and it was much too dark to notice anything particular, even if I had had leisure."
"Why, you had as much to do as you could well manage, I must say that, at all events. I
didn't see much of him myself; only he was a tall, out-of-the-way sort of chap -- a long-
legged shark. He gave me such a dig or two as I haven't had for a long while, nor don't want
to get again; though I don't care if I face the devil himself. A man can't do more than do his
best, doctor."
"No, Jack; but there are very few who do do their best, and that's the truth. You have, and
have done it to some purpose too. But I have had enough for one day; he was almost strong
enough to contend against us both."

"Yes, so he was."
"And, besides that, he almost carried away the picture -- that was a great hindrance to
him. Don't you think we could have held him if we had not been fighting over the picture?"
"Yes, to be sure we could; we could have gone at him boldly, and held him. He would not
have been able to use his hands. We could have hung on him, and I am sure if I came to
grapple yard-arm and yard-arm, he would have told a different tale; however, that is neither
here nor there. How long had you been here?"
"Not very long," replied the doctor, whose head was a little confused by the blows which
he had received. "I can't now tell how long, but only a short time, I think."
"Where did he come from?" inquired Jack.
"Come from, Jack?"
"Yes, doctor, where did he came from? -- the window, I suppose -- the same way he went
out, I dare say -- it's most likely."
"Oh, no, no; he come down from behind the picture. There's some mystery in that picture,
I'll swear to it; it's very strange he should make such a desperate attempt to carry it away."
"Yes; one would think," said Jack, there was more in it than we can see -- that it is worth
more than we can believe; perhaps somebody sets particular store by it."
"I don't know," said Mr. Chillingworth, shaking his head, "I don't know how that may be;
but certain it is, the picture was the object of his visit here -- that is very certain."
"It was; he was endeavouring to carry it off," said Jack; "it would be a very good
ornament to the black hole at Calcutta."
"The utility of putting it where it cannot be seen," remarked Mr. Chillingworth, "I cannot
very well see; though I dare say it might be all very well."
"Yes -- its ugly features would be no longer seen; so far, it would be a good job. But are
you going to remain here all night, and so make a long watch of it, doctor?"
"Why, Jack," said the doctor, "I did intend watching here; but now the game is disturbed,
it is of no use remaining here. We have secured the picture, and now there will be no need
of remaining in the house; in fact, there is no fear of robbery now."
"Not so long as we are here," said Jack Pringle; "the smugglers won't show a head while
the revenue cutter is on the look out."

"Certainly not, Jack," said Mr. Chillingworth; "I think we have scared them away -- the
picture is safe."
"Yes -- so long as we are here."
"And longer, too, I hope."
Jack shook his head, as much as to intimate that he had many doubts upon such a point,
and couldn't be hurried into any concession of opinion of the safety of such a picture as that
-- much as he disliked it, and as poor an opinion as he had of it.
"Don't you think it will be safe?"
"No," said Jack.
"And why not?" said Mr. Chillingworth, willing to hear what Jack could advance against
the opinion he had expressed, especially as he had disturbed the marauder in the very act of
robbery.
"Why, you'll be watched by this very man; and when you are gone, he will return in
safety, and take this plaguey picture away with him."
"Well, he might do so," said Mr. Chillingworth, after some thought; "he even endangered
his own escape for the purpose of carrying it off."
"He wants it," said Jack.
"What, the picture?"
"Aye, to be sure; do you think anybody would have tried so hard to get away with it? He
wants it; and the long and the short of it is, he will have it, despite all that can be done to
prevent it; that's my opinion."
"Well, there is much truth in that; but what to do I don't know."
"Take it to the cottage," suggested Jack. "The picture must be more than we think for;
suppose we carry it along."
"That is no bad plan of yours, Jack," said Mr. Chillingworth; "and, though a little
awkward, yet it is not the worst I have heard; but -- but -- what will they say, when they see
this frightful face in that quiet, yet contented house?"
"Why, they'll say you brought it," said Jack; "I don't see what else they can say, but that
you have done well; besides, when you come to explain, you will make the matter all right
to 'em."

"Yes, yes," said Chillingworth; "and, as the picture now seems to be the
incomprehensible object of attack, I will secure that, at all events."
"I'll help you."
"Thank you, Jack; your aid will be welcome; at least, it was so just now."
"All right, doctor," said Jack. "I may be under your hands some day."
"I'll physic you for nothing," said Mr. Chillingworth. "You saved my life. One good turn
deserves another; I'll not forget."
"Thank you," said Jack, as he made a wry face. "I hope you won't have occasion. I'd
sooner have a can of grog than any bottle of medicine you can give me; I ain't ungrateful,
neither."
"You needn't name it; I am getting my breath again. I suppose we had better leave this
place, as soon as we conveniently can."
"Exactly. The sooner the better; we can take it the more leisurely as we go."
The moon was up; there were no clouds now, but there was not a very strong light,
because the moon was on the wane. It was one of those nights during which an
imperceptible vapour arises, and renders the moon somewhat obscure, or, at least, it robs
the earth of her rays; and then there were shadows cast by the moon, yet they grew fainter,
and those cast upon the floor of the apartment were less distinct than at first.
There seemed scarce a breath of air stirring; everything was quiet and still; no motion --
no sound, save that of the breathing of the two who sat in that mysterious apartment, who
gazed alternately round the place, and then in each other's countenances. Suddenly, the
silence of the night was disturbed by a very slight, but distinct noise, which struck upon
them with peculiar distinctness; it was a gentle tap, tap, at the window, as if some one was
doing it with their fingernail.
They gazed on each other, for some moments, in amazement, and then at the window, but
they saw nothing; and yet, had there been anything, they must have seen it, but there was
not even a shadow.
"Well," said Mr. Chillingworth, after he had listened to the tap, tap, several times, without
being able to find out or imagine what it could arise from, "what on earth can it be?"
"Don't know," said Jack, very composedly, squinting up at the window. "Can't see
anything."
"Well, but it must be something," persisted Mr. Chillingworth; "it must be something."

"I dare say it is; but I don't see anything. I can't think what it can be, unless -- "
"Unless what? Speak out," said the doctor, impatiently.
"Why, unless it is Davy Jones himself, tapping with his long finger-nails, a-telling us how
we've been too long already here."
"Then, I presume, we may as well go; and yet I am more disposed to deem it some device
of the enemy to dislodge us from this place, for the purpose of enabling them to effect some
nefarious scheme or other they have afloat."
"It may be, and is, I dare say, a do of some sort or other," said Jack; "but what can it be?"
"There it is again," said the doctor; "don't you hear it? I can, as plain as I can hear
myself."
"Yes, said Jack; "I can hear it plain enough, and can see it, too; and that is more." Yes,
yes, I can tell all about it plain enough."
"You can? Well, then, shew me," said the doctor, as he strode up to the window, before
which Jack was standing gazing upon one particular spot of the shattered window with
much earnestness.
"Where is it?"
"Look there," said Jack, pointing with his finger to a particular spot, to which the doctor
directed his attention, expecting to see a long, skinny hand tapping against the glass; but he
saw nothing.
"Where is it?"
"Do you see that twig of ivy, or something of the sort?" inquired Jack.
"Yes, I do."
"Very well, watch that; and when the wind catches it -- and there is but very little -- it lifts
it up, and then, falling down again, it taps the glass."
Just as he spoke, there came a slight gust of wind; and it gave a practical illustration to his
words; for the tapping was heard as often as the plant was moved by the wind.
"Well," said Mr. Chillingworth, "however simple and unimportant the matter may be, yet
I cannot but say I am always well pleased to find a practical explanation of it, so that there
will be no part left in doubt."
"There is none about that," said Jack.

"None. Well, we are not beset, then. We may as well consider of the manner of our
getting clear of this place. What sort of burthen this picture may be I know not; but I will
make the attempt to carry it."
"Avast, there," said Jack; "I will carry it; at all events, I'll take the first spell, and, if I can't
go on, we'll turn and turn about."
"We can divide the weight from the first, and then neither of us will be tired at all."
"Just as you please, sir," said Jack Pringle. "I am willing to obey orders; and, if we are to
get in to-night before they are all a-bed, we had better go at once; and then we shall not
disturb them."
"Good, Jack," said Mr. Chillingworth; "very good: let us begin to beat our retreat at
once."
"Very good," said Jack.
They both rose and approached the picture, which stood up in one corner, half reclining
against the wall; the light, at least so much as there was, fell upon it, and gave it a ghastly
and deathly hue, which made Mr. Chillingworth feel an emotion he could not at all
understand; but, as soon as he could, he withdrew his eyes from off the picture, and they
proceeded to secure it with some cord, so that they might carry it between them the easier --
with less trouble and more safety.
These prepartions did not take long in making, and, when completed, they gave another
inquiring look round the chamber, and Mr. Chillingworth again approached the window,
and gazed out upon the garden below, but saw nothing to attract his attention.
Turning away, he came to the picture, with which Jack Pringle had been standing. They
proceeded towards the stairs, adopting every precaution they could take to prevent any
surprise and any attempt upon the object of their solicitude.
Then they came to the great hall, and, having opened the door, they carried it out; then
shutting the door, they both stood outside of Bannerworth Hall; and, before taking the
picture up in their hands, they once more looked suspiciously around them.
There was nothing to be seen, and so, shouldering the ominous portrait, they proceeded
along the garden till they conveyed it into the roadway.
"Now," said Jack, "we are off; we can scud along under press of sail, you know."
"I would rather not," said the doctor, "for two reasons; one of which is, I can't do it
myself, and the other is, we should run the risk of injuring the picture; besides this, there is
no reason for so doing."

"Very well," said Jack, "make it agreeable to yourself, doctor. See you, Jack's alive, and I
am willing to do all I can to help you."
"I am very glad of your aid," said Mr. Chillingworth; "so we will proceed slowly. I shall
be glad when we are there; for there are few things more awkward than this picture to
carry."
"It is not heavy," said Jack, giving it a hitch up, that first pulled the doctor back, and then
pushed him forward again.
"No; but stop, don't do that often, Jack, or else I shall be obliged to let go, to save myself
from falling," said the doctor.
"Very sorry," said Jack; "hope it didn't inconvenience you; but I could carry this by
myself."
"And so could I," returned Mr. Chillingworth; "but the probablility is there would be
some mischief done to it, and then we should be doing more harm than good."
"So we should," said Jack.
They proceeded along with much care and caution. It was growing late now, and no one
was about -- at least, they met none. People did not roam about much after dark, especially
since the reports of the vampyre became current, for, notwithstanding all their bravery and
violence while in a body, yet to meet and contend with him singly, and unseen, was not at
all a popular notion among them; indeed, they would sooner go a mile out of their way, or
remain in doors, which they usually did.
The evening was not precisely dark; there was moonlight enough to save it from that, but
there was a mist hanging about, that rendered objects, at a short distance, very indistinct.
There walk was uninterrupted by any one, and they had got through half the distance
without any disturbance of interruption whatever.
When they arrived at the precincts of the village, Jack Pringle said to Dr. Chillingworth.
"Do you intend going through the village, doctor?"
"Why, not? there will be nobody about, and if there should be, we shall be safe enough
from any molestation, seeing there are none here who would dare to harm us; it is the
shortest way, too."
"Very good," said Jack; "I am ageeable, and as for any one harming me, they know better;
but, at all events, there's company, and there's less danger, you know, doctor; though I'm
always company to myself, but haven't any objection to a messmate, now and then."

They pursued their way in silence, for some distance, the doctor not caring about
continuing the talk of Jack, which amounted to nothing; besides; he had too much to do,
for, notwithstanding the lightness of the picture, which Jack had endeavoured to persuade
the doctor of, he found it was heavy and ungainly; indeed, had he been by himself he would
have had some trouble to have got it away.
"We are nearly there," said Jack, putting down his end of the picture, which brought
Doctor Chillingworth to a stand still.
"Yes, we are; but what made you stop?"
"Why, you see," said Jack, giving his trowsers a hitch, "as I said before, we are nearly
there."
"Well, what of that? we intended to go there, did we not?" inquired Chillingworth.
"Yes, exactly; that is, you intended to do so, I know, but I didn't."
"What do you mean by that?" inquired Chillingworth; "you are a complete riddle to-night,
Jack; what is the matter with you?"
"Nothing; only, you see, I don't want to go into the cottage, 'cause, you see, the admiral
and I have had what you may call a bit of a growl, and I am in disgrace there a little, though
I don't know why, or wherefore; I always did my duty by him, as I did by my country. The
ould man, however, takes fits into his head; at the same time I shall take some too; Jack's as
good as his master, ashore, at all events."
"Well, then, you object to go in?" said Chillingworth.
"That is the state of the case; not that I'm afraid, or have any cause to be ashamed of
myself; but I don't want to make anybody else uncomfortable, by causing black looks."
"Very well, Jack," said the doctor. "I am much obliged to you, and, if you don't like to
come, I won't press you against your inclination."
"I understand, doctor. I will leave you here, if you can manage the rest of the way by
yourself; there are not two hundred yards now to go, so you are all safe; so good bye."
"Good bye, Jack," said Doctor Chillingworth, who stood wiping his forehead, whilst the
picture was standing up against the pales.
"Do you want a hand up first?"
"No, thank you; I can get it up very well without any trouble -- it's not so heavy."

"Good bye, then," said Jack; and, in a few moments more, Jack Pringle was out of sight,
and the doctor was alone with the ominous picture. He had not far to go, and was within
hail of the cottage; but it was late, and yet he believed he should find them up, for the
quietude and calmness of the evening hour was that which most chimed with their feelings.
At such a time they could look out upon the face of nature, and the freedom of thought
appeared the greater, because there was no human being to clash with the silence and
stillness of the scene.
"Well," muttered Chillingworth, "I'll go at once to the cottage with my burthen. How they
will look at me, and wonder what could induce me to bring this away. I can hardly help
smiling at the thought of how they will look at the apparition I shall make."
Thus filled with notions that appeared to please him, the doctor shouldered the picture,
and walked slowly along until he reached the dead wall that ran up to the entrance, or
nearly so, of the gardens.
There was a plantation of young trees that overhung the path, and cast a deep shadow
below -- a pleasant spot in hot weather.
The doctor had been carrying the picture, resting the side of it on the small of his arm,
and against his shoulder; but this was an inconvenient posture, because the weight of the
picture cut his arm so much, that he was compelled to pause, and shift it more on his
shoulder.
"There," he muttered, "that will do for the present, and last until I reach the cottage
garden."
He was proceeding along at a slow and steady pace, bestowing all his care and attention
to the manner of holding the picture, when he was suddenly paralysed by the sound of a
great shout of such a peculiar character, that he involuntarily stopped, and the next moment,
something heavy came against him with great force, just as if a man had jumped from the
wall on to him.
This was the truth, for, in another moment, and before he could recover himself, he found
that there was an attempt to deprive him of the picture.
This at once aroused him, and he made an instant and a vigorous defence; but he was
compelled to let go his hold of the picture, and turn to resist the infuriated attack that was
now commenced upon himself.
For some momemts it was doubtful who would be the victor; but the wind and strength of
the doctor were not enough to resist the powerful adversary against whom he had to
contend, and the heavy blows that were showered down upon him.
At first he was enabled to bear up against this attack; and then he returned many of the
blows with interest; but the stunning effect of the blows he received himself, was such that

he could not help himself, and felt his senses gradually failing, his strength becoming less
and less.
In a short time, he received such a blow, that he was laid senseless on the earth in an
instant.
How long he remained thus he could not say; but it could not have been long, for all
around him seemed just as it was before he was attacked.
The moon had scarely moved, and the shadows, such as they were, were falling in the
same direction as before.
"I have not been long here," he muttered, after a few moments' reflection; "but -- but -- "
He stopped short; for, on looking around him, he saw the object of his solicitude was
gone. The picture was nowhere to be seen. It had been carried off the instant he had been
vanquished.
"Gone!" he said, in a low, disconsolate tone; "and after all I have done!"
He wiped his hand across his brow, and finding it cut, he looked at the back of his hand,
and saw by the deep colour that it was blood; indeed, he could now feel it trickle down his
face.
What to do he hardly knew; he could stand, and after having got upon his feet, he
staggered back against the wall, against which he leaned for support, and afterwards he
crept along with the aid of its support, until he came to the door.
He was observed from the window, where Henry and Charles Holland, seeing him come
up with such an unsteady gait, rushed to the door to ascertain what was the matter.
"What, doctor!" exclaimed Henry Bannerworth; "what is the matter?"
"I am almost dead, I think," said Chillingworth. "Lend me your arm, Henry."
Henry and Charles Holland immediately stepped out, and took him between them into the
parlour, and placed him upon a couch.
"What on earth has happened, doctor? -- have you got into disgrace with the populace?"
"No, no; give me some drink -- some water. I am very faint -- very faint."
"Give him some wine, or, what's better, some grog," said the admiral. "Why, he's been
yard-arm with some pirate or other, and he's damaged about the figure-head. You ain't hurt
in your lower works, are you, doctor?" said the admiral.

But the doctor took no notice of the inquiry; but eagerly sipped the contents of a glass
that Charles Holland had poured out of a bottle containing some strong Hollands, and
which appeared to nerve him much.
"There!" said the admiral, "that will do you good. How did all this damage to your upper
works come about, eh?"
"Let him wash his face and hands first; he will be better able to talk afterwards."
"Oh, thank you," said Chillingworth. "I am much better; but I have had some hard
bruises."
"How did it happen?"
"I went by myself to watch in the room where the picture was in Bannerworth Hall."
"Where the picture was!" said Henry; "where it is, you mean, do you not, doctor?"
"No; where it was, and where it is not now."
"Gone!"
"Yes, gone away; I'll tell you all about it. I went there to watch, but found nobody or
nothing there; but suddenly a man stepped out from behind the picture, and we had a fight
over it; after which, just as I was getting the worst of it, Jack Pringle came in."
"The dog!" muttered the admiral.
"Yes, he came in just in time, I believe, to save my life; for the man, whoever he was,
would not have hesitated about it."
"Well, Jack is a good man," said the admiral; "there may be worse, at least."
"Well, we had a desperate encounter for some minutes, during which this fellow wanted
to carry off the picture."
"Carry off the picture?"
"Yes, we had a struggle for that; but we could not capture him; he was so violent that he
broke away and got clear off."
"With the picture?"
"No, he left the picture behind. Well, we were very tired and bruised, and we sat down to
recover ourselves from our fatigue, and to consider what was best to be done; but we were

some time before we could leave, and then we determined that we would take the picture
away with us, as it seemed to be coveted by the robber, for what object we cannot tell."
"Well, well -- where is the picture?"
"You shall hear all about it in a minute, if you'll let me take my time. I am tired and sore.
Well, we brought the picture out, and Jack helped me carry it till he came within a couple
of hundred yards of the cottage, and there left me."
"The lubber!" said the admiral, interjectionally.
"Well, I rested awhile, and then taking the picture on my shoulders, I proceeded along
with it until I came to the wall, when suddenly I heard a great shout, and then down came
something heavy upon me, just as if a man had jumped down upon me."
"And -- and -- "
"Yes," said the doctor, "it was -- "
"Was what?" inquired the admiral.
"Just what you all seemed to anticipate; you are all before me, but that was it."
"A man?"
"Yes; I had a struggle with him, and got nearly killed, for I am not equal to him in
strength. I was sadly knocked about, and finally all the senses were knocked out of me, and
I was, I suppose, left for dead."
"And what became of the picture?"
"I don't know; but I suppose it was taken away, as, when I came to myself, it was gone;
indeed, I have some faint recollection of seeing him seize the portrait as I was falling."
There was a pause of some moments, during which all the party appeared to be employed
with their own thoughts, and the whole were silent.
"Do you think it was the same man who attacked you in the house that obtained the
picture?" at last inquired Henry Bannerworth.
"I cannot say, but I think it most probable that it was the same; indeed, the general
appearance, as near as I could tell in the dark, was the same; but what I look upon as much
stronger is, the object appears to be the same in both cases."
"That is very true," said Henry Bannerworth -- "very true; and I think it more than
probable myself. But come, doctor, you will require rest and nursing after your dangers."

--
Chapter XCIII.
THE ALARM AT ANDERBURY. -- THE SUSPICIONS OF THE BANNERWORTH

FAMILY, AND THE MYSTERIOUS COMMUNICATION.
About twenty miles to the southward of Bannerworth Hall was a good-sized market-town,
called Anderbury. It was an extensive and flourishing place, and from the beauty of its
situation, and its contiguity to the southern coast of England, it was much admired; and, in
consequence, numerous mansions and villas of great pretension had sprang up in its
immediate neighbourhood.
Besides, there were some estates of great value, and one of these, called Anderbury-on-
the-Mount, in consequence of the mansion itself, which was of an immense extent, being
built upon an eminence, was to be let, or sold.
This town of Anderbury was remarkable not only for the beauty of its aspect, but likewise
for the quiet serenity of its inhabitants, who were a prosperous, thriving race, and depended
very much upon their own resources.
There were some peculiar circumstances why Anderbury-on-the-Mount was to let. It had
been for a great number of years in possession of a family of the name of Milltown, who
had resided there in great comfort and respectablity, until an epidemic disorder broke out,
first among the servants, and then spreading to the junior branches of the family, and from

them to their seniors, produced such devastation, that in the course of three weeks there was
but one young man left of the whole family, and he, by native vigour of constitution, had
baffled the disorder, and found himself alone in his ancestral halls, the last of his race.
Soon a settled melancholy took possession of him, and all that had formerly delighted
him now gave him pain, inasmuch as it brought to his mind a host of recollections of the
most agonising character.
In vain was it that the surrounding gentry paid him every possible attention, and
endeavoured to do all that was in their power to alleviate the unhappy circumstances in
which he was placed. If he smiled, it was in a sad sort, and that was very seldom; and at
length he announced his intention of leaving the neighbourhood, and seeking abroad, and in
change of scene, for that solace which he could not expect to find in his ancestral home,
after what had occurred within its ancient walls.
There was not a chamber but which reminded him of the past -- there was not a tree or a
plant of any kind or description but which spoke to him plainly of those who were now no
more, and whose merry laughter had within his own memory made that ancient place echo
with glee, filling the sunny air with the most gladsome shouts, such as come from the lips
of happy youth long before the world has robbed it of any of its romance or its beauty.
There was a general feeling of regret when this young man announced the fact of his
departure to a foreign land; for he was much respected, and the known calamities which he
had suffered, and the grief under which he laboured, invested his character with a great and
painful interest.
An entertainment was given to him upon the eve of his departure, and on the next day he
was many miles from the place, and the estate of Anderbury-on-the-Mount was understood
to be sold or let.
The old mansion had remained, then, for a year or two vacant, for it was a place of too
much magnitude, and required by far too expensive an establishment to keep it going, to
enable any person whose means were not very large to think of having anything to do with
it.
So, therefore, it remained unlet, and wearing that gloomy aspect which a large house,
untenanted, so very quickly assumes.
It was quite a melancholy thing to look upon it, and to think what it must have once been,
and what it might be still, compared to what it actually was; and the inhabitants of the
neighbourhood had made up their minds that Anderbury-on-the-Mount would remain
untenanted for many a year to come, and, perhaps, ultimately fall into ruin and decay.
But in this they were doomed to be disappointed, for, on the evening of a dull and gloomy
day, about one week after the events we have recorded as taking place at Bannerworth Hall
and its immediate neighbourhood, a travelling carriage, with four horses and an out-rider,

came dashing into the place, and drew up at the principal inn in the town, which was called
the Anderbury Arms.
The appearance of such an equipage, although not the most unusual thing in the world, in
consequence of the many aristocratic families who resided in the neighbourhood, caused, at
all events, some sensation, and, perhaps, the more so because it drove up to the inn instead
of to any of the mansions of the neighbourhood, thereby showing that the stranger, whoever
he was, came not as a visitor, but either merely baited in the town, being on his road
somewhere else, or had some special business in it which would soon be learned.
The out-rider, who was in handsome livery, had gallopped on in advance of the carriage a
short distance, for the purpose of ordering the best apartments in the inn to be immediately
prepared for the reception of his master.
"Who is he?" asked the landlord.
"It's the Baron Stolmuyer Saltsburgh."
"Bless my heart, I never heard of him before; where did he come from -- somewhere
abroad I suppose?"
"I can't tell you anything of him further than that he is immensely rich, and is looking for
a house. He has heard that there is one to let in this immediate neighbourhood, and that's
what has brought him from London, I suppose."
"Yes, there is one; and it is called Anderbury-on-the-Mount."
"Well, he will very likely speak to you about it himself, for here he comes."
By this time the carriage had halted at the door of the hotel, and, the door being opened,
and the steps lowered, there alighted from it a tall man attired in a kind of pelisse, or cloak,
trimmed with rich fur, the body of it being composed of velvet. Upon his head he wore a
travelling cap, and his fingers, as he grasped the cloak around him, were seen to be covered
with rings of great value.
Such a personage, coming in such style, was, of course, likely to be honoured in every
possible way by the landlord of the inn, and accordingly he was shown most obsequiously
to the handsomest apartment in the house, and the whole establishment was put upon the
alert to attend to any orders he might choose to give.
He had not been long in the place when he sent for the landlord, who, hastily scrambling
on his best coat, and getting his wife to arrange the tie of his neckcloth, proceeded to obey
the orders of his illustrious guest, whatever they might chance to be.
He found the Baron Stolmuyer reclining upon a sofa, and having thrown aside his velvet
cloak, trimmed with rich fur, he showed that underneath it he wore a costume of great

richness and beauty, although, certainly, the form of it covered was not calculated to set it
off to any great advantage, for the baron was merely skin and bone, and looked like a man
who had just emerged from a long illness, for his face was ghastly pale, and the landlord
could not help observing that there was a strange peculiarity about his eyes, the reason of
which he could not make out.
"You are the landlord of this inn, I presume," said the baron, "and, consequently, no
doubt well acquainted with the neighbourhood?"
"I have the honour to be all that, sir. I have been here about sixteen years, and in that time
I certainly ought to know something of the neighbourhood."
"'Tis well; some one told me there was a little cottage sort of place to let here, and as I am
simple and retired in my habits I thought that it might possibly suit me."
"A little cottage, sir! There are certainly little cottages to let, but not such as would suit
you; and if I might have presumed, sir, to think, I should have considered Anderbury-on-
the-Mount, which is now to let, would have been the place for you. It is a large place, sir,
and belonged to a good family, although they are now all dead and gone, except one, and
it's he who want's to let the old place."
"Anderbury-on-the-Mount," said the baron, "was the name of the place mentioned to me;
but I understood it was a little place."
"Oh! sir, that is quite a mistake; who told you so? It's the largest place about here; there
are a matter of twenty-seven rooms in it, and it stands altogether upon three hundred acres
of ground."
"And have you the assurance," said the baron, "to call that anything but a cottage, when
the castle of the Stolmuyers, at Saltzburgh, has one suite of reception rooms thirty in
number, opening into each other, and the total number of apartments in the and whole
building is two hundred and sixty, it is surrounded by eight miles of territory."
"The devil!" said the landlord. "I beg your pardon, sir, but when I am astonished, I
generally say the devil. They want eight hundred pounds a year for Anderbury-on-the-
Mount."
"A mere trifle. I will sleep here to-night, and in the morning I will go and look at the
place. It is near the sea?"
"Half a mile, sir, exactly, from the beach; and one of the most curious circumstances of
all connected with it is, that there is a subterranean passage from the grounds leading right
away down to the sea-coast. A most curious place, sir, partly put out of the cliff, with
cellars in it for wine, and other matters, that in the height of summer are kept as cool as in
the deep winter time. It's more for curiosity than use, such a place; and the old couple, that

now take care of the house, make a pretty penny, I'll be bound, though they won't own it, by
showing that part of the place."
"It may suit me, but I shall be able to give a decisive answer when I see it on the morrow.
You will let my attendants have what they require, and see that my horses be well looked
to."
"Certainly, oh! certainly sir, or course; you might go far, indeed, sir, before you found an
inn where everything would be done as things are done here. Is there anything in particular,
sir, you would like for dinner?"
"How can I tell that, idiot, until the dinner time arrives?"
"Well, but, sir, in that case, you know, we scarcely know what to do, because you see, sir,
you understand -- "
"It is very strange to me that you can neither see nor understand your duty. I am
accustomed to having the dinner tables spread with all that money can procure; then I
choose, but not before, what it suits me to partake of."
"Well, sir, that is a very good way, and perhaps we ain't quite so used to that sort of thing
as we ought to be in these parts; but another time, sir, we shall know better what we are
about, without a doubt, and I only hope, sir, that we shall have you in the neighbourhood
for a long time; and so, sir, putting one thing to another, and then drawing a conclusion
from both of them, you see, sir, you will be able to understand."
"Peace! begone! what is the use of all this bellowing to me -- I want it not -- I care not for
it."
The baron spoke these words so furiously, that the landlord was rather terrified than
otherwise, and left the room hastily, muttering to himself that he had never come across
such a tiger, and wondering where the baron could have possibly come from, and what
amount of wealth he could be possessed of that would enable him to live in such a princely
style as he mentioned.
If the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh had wished ever so much to impress upon the
minds of all persons in the neighbourhood the fact of his wealth and importance, he could
not have adopted a better plan to accomplish that object than by first of all impressing such
facts upon the mind of the landlord of the Anderbury Arms, for in the course of another
hour it was tolerably well spread all over the town, that never had there been such a guest at
the Anderbury Arms; and that he called Anderbury-on-the-Mount, with all its rooms -- all
its outbuildings, and its three hundred acres of ground, a cottage.
This news spread like wildfire, awaking no end of speculation, and giving rise to the most
exaggerated rumours, so that a number of persons came to the inn on purpose to endeavour
to get a look at the baron; but he did not stir from his apartments, so that these

wondermongers were disappointed, and even forced to go away as wise as they came; but
in the majority of cases they made up their minds that in the morning they should surely be
able to obtain a glimpse of him, which was considered a great treat, for a man with an
immense income is looked upon in England as a natural curiosity.
The landlord took his guest at his word as regards the dinner, and provided such a repast
as seldom, indeed, graced the board at the Anderbury Arms -- a repast sufficient for twenty
people, and certainly which was a monstrous thing to set before one individual.
The baron, however, made no remark, but selected a portion from some of the dishes, and
those dishes that he did select from, were of the simplest kind, and not such as the landlord
expected him to take, so that he really paid about one hundred times the amount he ought to
have done for what actually passed his lips.
And then what a fidget the landlord was in about his wines, for he doubted not but such a
guest would be extremely critical and hard to please; but, to his great relief, the baron
declined taking any wine, merely washing down his repast with a tumbler of cool water;
and then, although the hour was very early, he retired at once to rest.
The landlord was not disposed to disregard the injunction which the baron had given him
to attend carefully on his servants and horses, and after giving orders that nothing should be
stinted as regarded the latter, he himself looked to the creature comforts of the former, and
he did this with a double motive, for not only was he anxious to make the most he could out
of the baron in the way of charges, but he was positively panting with curiosity to know
more about so singular a personage, and he thought that surely the servants must be able to
furnish him with some particulars regarding their eccentric master.
In this, however, he was mistaken, for although they told him all they knew, that
amounted to so little as really not to be worth the learning.
They informed him that they had been engaged all in the last week, and that they knew
nothing of the baron whatever, or where he came from, or what he was, excepting that he
paid them most liberal wages, and was not very exacting in the service he required of them.
This was very unsatisfactory, and when the landlord started on a mission, which he
considered himself bound to perform, to a Mr. Leek, in the town, who had the letting of
Anderbury-on-the-Mount, he was quite vexed to think what a small amount of information
he was able to carry to him.
"I can tell him," he said to himself as he went quickly towards the agent's residence; "I
can tell him the baron's name, and that in the morning he wants to look at Anderbury-on-
the-Mount; but that's all I know of him, except that he is a most extraordinary man --
indeed, the most extraordinary that I ever came near."

Mr. Leek, the house agent, notwithstanding the deficiency of the facts contained in the
landlord's statement, was well enough satisfied to hear that any one of apparent wealth was
inquiring after the large premises to let, for, as he said truly to the landlord, --
"The commission on letting and receiving the rentals of such a property is no joke to me."
"Precisely," said the landlord. "I thought it was better to come and tell you at once, for
there can be no doubt that he is enormously rich."
"If that be satisfactorily proved, it's of no consequence what he is, or who he is, and you
may depend I shall be round to the inn early in the morning to attend upon him; and in that
case, perhaps, if you have any conversation with him, you will be so good as to mention
that I will show him over the premises at his own hour, and you shall not be forgotten, you
may depend, if any arrangement is actually come to. It will be just as well for you to tell
him what a nice property it is, and that it is to be let for eight hundred a year, or sold
outright for eight thousand pounds."
"I will, you may depend, Mr. Leek. A most extraordinary man you will find him; not the
handsomest in the world, I can tell you, but handsome is as handsome does, say I; and, if he
takes Anderbury-on-the-Mount, I have no doubt but he will spend a lot of money in the
neighbourhood, and we shall all be the better of that, of course, as you well know, sir."
This then was thoroughly agreed upon between these high contracting powers, and the
landlord returned home very well satisfied, indeed, with the position in which he had put
the affair, and resolved upon urging on the baron, as far as it lay within his power so to do,
to establish himself in the neighbourhood, and to allow him to be purveyor-in-general to his
household, which, if the baron continued in his liberal humour, would be unquestionably a
very pleasant post to occupy.
--

Chapter XCIV.
THE VISITOR, AND THE DEATH IN THE SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGE.
About an hour and a half after the baron had retired to rest, and while the landlord was still
creeping about enjoining silence on the part of the establishment, so that the slumbers of a
wealthy and, no doubt, illustrious personage should not be disturbed, there arrived a
horseman at the Anderbury Arms.
He was rather a singular-looking man, with a shifting, uneasy-looking glance, as if he

were afraid of being suddenly pounced upon and surprised by some one; and although his
apparel was plain, yet it was good in quality, and his whole appearance was such as to
induce respectful attention.
The only singular circumstance was, that such a traveller, so well mounted, should be
alone; but that might have been his own fancy, so that the absence of an attendant went for
nothing. Doubtless, if the whole inn had not been in such a commotion about the illustrious
and wealthy baron, this stranger would have received more consideration and attention than
he did.

Upon alighting, he walked at once into what is called the coffee-room of the hotel, and
after ordering some refreshments, of which he partook but sparingly, he said, in a mild but
solemn sort of tone, to the waiter who attended upon him, --
"Tell the Baron Stolmuyer, of Saltzburgh, that there is one here who wants to see him."
"I beg your pardon, sir," said the waiter, "but the baron is gone to bed."
"It matters not to me. If you nor no one else in this establishment will deliver the message
I charge you with, I must do so myself."
"I'll speak to my master, sir; but the baron is a very great gentleman indeed, and I don't
think my master would like to have him disturbed."
The stranger hesitated for a time, and then he said, --
"Show me the baron's apartment. Perhaps I ought not to ask any one person connected
with this establishment to disturb him, when I am quite willing to do so myself. Show me
the way."
"Well, but, sir, the baron may get in a rage, and say, very naturally, that we had no
business to let anybody walk up to his room and disturb him, because we wouldn't do so
ourselves. So that you see, sir, when you come to consider, it hardly seems the right sort of
thing."
"Since," said the stranger, rising, "I cannot procure even the common courtesy of being
shown to the apartment of the person whom I seek, I must find him myself."
As he spoke he walked out of the room and began ascending the staircase, despite the
remonstrances of the waiter, who called after him repeatedly, but could not induce him to
stop; and when he found that such was the case, he made his way to the landlord, to give
the alarm that, for all he knew to the contrary, some one had gone up stairs to murder the
baron.
This information threw the landlord into such a fix, that he knew not what to be at. At one
moment he was for rushing up stairs and endeavouring to interfere, and at another he
thought the best plan would be to pretend that he knew nothing about it.
While he was in this state of uncertainty, the stranger succeeded in making his way up
stairs to the floor from which proceeded the bedrooms, and, apparently, having no fear
whatever of the Baron Stolmuyer's indignation before his eyes , he opened door after door,
until he came to one which led him into the apartment occupied by that illustrious
individual.
The baron, half undressed only, lay in an uneasy slumber upon the bed, and the stranger
stood opposite to him for some minutes, as if considering what he should do.

"It would be easy," he said, "to kill him; but it will pay me better to spare him. I may be
wrong in supposing that he has the means which I hope he has; but that I shall soon
discover by his conversation."
Stretching out his hand, he tapped the baron lightly on the shoulder, who thereupon
opened his eyes and sprang to his feet instantly, glancing with fixed earnestness at the
intruder, upon whose face shone the light of a lamp which was burning in the apartment.
Then the baron shrank back, and the stranger, folding his arms, said, --
"You know me. Let our interview be as brief as possible. There needs no explanations
between us, for we both know all that could be said. By some accident you have become
rich, while I continue quite otherwise. It matters not how this has occurred, the fact is
everything. I don't know the amount of your possessions; but, from your style of living,
they must be great, and therefore it is that I make no hesitation in asking of you, as a price
for not exposing who and what you are, a moderate sum."
"I thought that you were dead."
"I know you did; but you behold me here, and, consequently, that delusion vanishes."
"What sum do you require, and what assurance can I have that, when you get it, the
demand will not be repeated on the first opportunity?"
"I can give you no such assurance, perhaps, that would satisfy you entirely; but, for more
reasons than I choose to enter into, I am extremely anxious to leave England at once and for
ever. Give me the power to do so that I require, and you will never hear of me again."
The baron hesitated for some few seconds, during which he looked scrutinizingly at his
companion, and then he said, in a tone of voice that seemed as if he were making the
remark to himself rather than to the other, --
"You look no older than you did when last we parted, and that was years ago."
"Why should I look older? You know as well as I that I need not. But, to be brief, I do not
wish to interfere with any plans or projects you may have on hand. I do not wish to be a
hindrance to you. Let me have five thousand pounds, and I am off at once and for ever, I
tell you."
"Five thousand! the man raves -- five thousand pounds! Say one thousand, and it is
yours."
"No; I have fixed my price; and if you do not consent, I now tell you that I will blazon
forth, even in this house, who and what you are; and, let your schemes of ambition or of
cupidity be what they may, you may be assured that I will blast them all."

"This is no place in which to argue such a point; come out into the open air; 'walls have
ears;' but come out, and I will give you such special reasons why you should not now press
your claim at all, that you shall feel much beholden to me for them, and not regret your
visit."
"If that we come to terms, I no more desire than you can do that any one should overhear
our conversation. I prefer the open air for any conference, be it whatever it may -- much
prefer it; and therefore most willingly embrace your proposition. Come out."
The baron put on his travelling cap, and the rich velvet cloak, edged with fur, that he
possessed, and leaving his chamber a few paces in advance of his strange visitor, he
descended the staircase, followed by him. In the hall of the hotel they found the landlord
and almost the whole of the establishment assembled, in deep consultation as to whether or
not any one was to go up stairs and a certain if the stranger who had sought the baron's
chamber was really a friend or an enemy.
But when they saw the two men coming down, at all events apparently amicably, it was a
great relief, and the landlord rushed forward and opened the door, for which piece of
service he got a very stately bow from the baron, and a slight inclination of the head from
his visitor, and then they both passed out.
"I have ascertained," said the man who came on horseback, "that for the last week in
London you have lived in a style of the most princely magnificence, and that you came
down here, attended as if you were one of the first nobles of the land."
"These things amuse the vulgar," said the baron. "I do not mind admitting to you that I
contemplate residing on this spot, and perhaps contracting a marriage."
"Another marriage?"
"And why not? If wives will die suddenly, and no one knows why, who is to help it. I do
not pretend to control the fates."
"This, between us, is idle talk indeed -- most idle; for we know there are certain
circumstances which account for the strangest phenomena; but what roaring sound is that
which comes so regularly and steadily upon the ear."
"It is the sea washing upon the coast. The tide is no doubt advancing, and, as the eddying
surges roll in upon the pebbly shore, they make what, to my mind, is this pleasant music."
"I did not think we were so near the ocean. The moon is rising; let us walk upon the
beach, and as that sound is such pleasant music, you shall hear it while I convince you what
unpleasant consequences will arise from a refusal of the modest and moderate terms I offer
you."

"We shall see, we shall see; but I must confess it does seem to me most extraordinary that
you ask of me a positive fortune, for fear you should deprive me of a portion of one; but
you cannot mean what you say."
While they were talking they reached a long strip of sand which was by the seashore, at
the base of some cliffs, through which was excavated the passage from the coast into the
grounds of Anderbury House, and which had been so expatiated upon by the landlord of the
inn, in his description of the advantages attendant upon that property.
There were some rude steps, leading to a narrow arched door-way, which constituted an
entrance to this subterraneous region; and as the moonlight streamed over the wide waste of
waters, and fell upon this little door-way in the face of the cliff, he became convinced that it
was the entrance to that excavation, and he eyed it curiously.
"What place is that?" said his companion.
"It is a private entrance to the grounds of a mansion in this neighbourhood."
"Private enough, I should presume; for if there be any other means of reaching the house,
surely no one would go through such a dismal hole as that towards it; but come, make up
your mind at once. There need be no quarrelling upon the subject of our conference, but let
it be a plain matter of yes or no. Is it worth your while to be left alone in peace, or is it
not?"
"It is worth my while, but not at such a price as that you mentioned; and I cannot help
thinking that some cheaper mode of accomplishing the same object will surely present itself
very shortly."
"I do not understand you; you talk ambiguously."
"But my acts," said the baron, "shall be clear and plain enough, as you shall see. Could
you believe it possible that I was the sort of person to submit timely to any amount of
extortion you chose to practise upon me. There was a time when I thought you possessed
great sense and judgment, when I thought that you were a man who weighed well the
chances of what you were about; but now I know to the contrary; and I think for less than a
thousand pounds I may succeed in ridding myself of you."
"I do not understand you; you had better beware how you tamper with me, for I am not
one who will be calmly disposed to put up with much. The sense, tact, and worldly
knowledge which you say you have before, from time to time, given me credit for, belongs
to me still, and I am not likely easily to commit myself."
"Indeed; do yo think you bear such a charmed life that nothing can shake it?"
"I think nothing of the sort; but I know what I can do -- I am armed."

"And I; and since it comes to this, take the reward of your villany; for it was you who
made me what I am, and would now seek to destroy my every hope of satisfaction."
As the baron spoke he drew from breast a small pistol, which, with the quickness of
thought, he held full in the face of his companion, and pulled the trigger.
There can be no doubt on earth but that his intention was to commit the murder, but the
pistol missed fire, and he was defeated in his intention at that moment. Then the stranger
laughed scornfully, and drawing a pistol from his pocket, he presented it at the baron's
head, saying, --
"Do I not bear a charmed life? If I had not, should I have escaped death from you now?
No, I could not; but you perceive that even a weapon that might not fail you upon another
occasion is harmless against me; and can you expect that I will hesitate now to take full and
ample revenge upon you for this dastardly attempt?"
These words were spoken with great volubility, so much so, indeed, that they only
occupied a few very brief seconds in delivering; and then, perhaps, the baron's career might
have ended, for it seemed to be fully the intention of the other to conclude what he said by
firing the pistol in his face; but the wily aspect of the baron's countenance was, after all, but
a fair index of the mind, and, just as the last words passed the lips of his irritated
companion, he suddenly dropped in a crouching position to the ground, and, seizing his
legs, threw him over his head in an instant.
The pistol was discharged, at the same moment, and then, with a shout of rage and
satisfaction, the baron sprang upon his foe, and, kneeling upon his breast, he held aloft in
his hand a glittering dagger, the highly-polished blade of which caught the moonbeams, and
reflected them into the dazzled eyes of the conquered man, whose fate now appeared to be
certain.
"Fool!" said the baron, "you must needs, then, try conclusions with me, and, not content
with the safety of insignificance, you must be absurd enough to think it possible you could
extort from me whatever sums your fancy dictated, or with any effect threaten me, if I
complied not with your desires."
"Have mercy upon me. I meant not to take your life; and, therefore, why should you take
mine?"
"You would have taken it, and, therefore, you shall die. Know, too, at this your last
moment, that, vampyre as you are, and as I, of all men, best know you to be, I will take
especial care that you shall be placed in some position after death where the revivifying
moonbeams may not touch you, so that this shall truly be your end, and you shall rot away,
leaving no trace behind of your existence, sufficient to contain the vital principle."
"No -- no! you cannot -- will not. You will have mercy."

"Ask the famished tiger for mercy, when you intrude upon his den."
As he spoke the baron ground his teeth together with rage, and, in an instant, buried the
poniard in the throat of his victim. The blade went through to the yellow sand beneath, and
the murderer still knelt upon the man's chest, while he who had thus received so fatal a
blow tossed his arms about with agony, and tried in vain to shriek.
The nature of the wound, however, prevented him from utttering anything but a low
gurgling sound, for he was nearly choked with his own blood, and soon his eyes became
fixed and of a glassy appearance; he stretched out his two arms, and dug his fingrs deep
into the sand.
The baron drew forth the poniard, and a gush of blood immediately followed it, and then
one deep groan testified to the fact, that the spirit, if there be a spirit, had left its mortal
habitation, and winged its flight to other realms, if there be other realms for it to wing its
flight to.
"He is dead," said the baron, and, at the same moment, a roll of the advancing tide swept
over the body, drenching the living, as well as the dead, with the brine of the ocean.
The baron stooped and rinced the dagger in the advancing tide from the clotted blood
which had clung to it, and then, wiping it carefully, he returned it to its sheath, which was
hidden within the folds of his dress; and, rising from his kneeling posture upon the body, he
stood by its side, with folded arms, gazing upon it, for some minutes, in silence, heedless of
the still advancing water, which was already considerably above his feet.
Then he spoke in his ordinary accents, and evidently caring nothing for the fact that he
had done such a deed.
"I must dispose of this carcase," he said, "which now seems so lifeless, for the moon is
up, and if its beams fall upon it, I know, from former experience, what will happen; it will
rise again, and walk the earth, seeking for vengeance upon me, and the thirst for that
vengeance upon me, and the thirst for that vengeance will become such a part of its very
nature, that it will surely accomplish something, if not all that it desires."
After a few momemts' consideration, he stooped, and, with more strength than one would
have thought it possible a man reduced almost, as he was, to a skeleton could have exerted,
he lifted the body, and carried it rapidly up the beach towards the cliffs. He threw it down
upon the stone steps that led to the small door of the excavation in the cliff, and it fell upon
them with a sickening sound, as if some of the bones were surely broken by the fall.
The object, then, of the baron seemed to be to get this door open, if he possibly could; but
that was an object easier to be desired than carried into effect, for, although he exerted his
utmost power, he did not succeed in moving it an inch, and he began evidently to think that
it would be impossible to do so.

But yet he did not give up the attempt at once, but looking about upon the beach, until he
found a large heavy stone, he raised it in his arms, and, approaching the door, he flung it
against it with such tremendous force, that it flew open instantly, disclosing within a dark
and narrow passage.
Apparently rejoiced that he had accomplished this much, he stepped cautiously within the
entrance, and then, taking from a concealed pocket that was in the velvet cloak which he
wore a little box, he produced from it some wax-lights and some chemical matches, which,
by the slightest effort, he succeeded in igniting, and then, with one of the lights in his hand
to guide him on his way, he went on exploring the passage, and treading with extreme
caution as he went, for fear of falling into any of the ice-wells which were reported to be in
that place.
After proceeding about twenty yards, and finding that there was no danger, he became
less cautious; but, in consequence of such less caution, he very nearly sacrificed his life, for
he came upon an ice-well which seemed a considerable depth, and into which he had nearly
plunged headlong.
He started back with some degree of horror; but that soon left him, and then, after a
moment's thought, he sought for some little nook in the wall, in which he might place the
candle, and soon finding one that answered the purpose well, he there left it, having all the
appearance of a little shrine, while he proceeded again to the mouth of that singular and
cavernous-looking place. He had, evidently, quite made up his mind what to do, for,
without a moment's hesitation, he lifted the body again, and carried it within the entrance,
walking boldly and firmly, now that he knew there was no danger between him and the
light, which shed a gleam through the darkness of the place of a very faint and flickering
character.
He reached it rapidly, and when he got to the side of the well, he, without a moment's
hesitation, flung it headlong down, and, listening attentively, he heard it fall with a slight
plash, as if there was some water at the bottom of the pit.
It was an annoyance, however, for him to find that the distance was not so deep as he had
anticipated, and when he took the light from the niche where he had placed it, and looked
earnestly down, he could see the livid, ghastly-looking face of the dead man, for the body
had accidentally fallen upon its back, which was a circumstance he had not counted upon,
and one which increased the chances greatly of its being seen, should any one be exploring,
from curiosity, that not very inviting place.
This was annoyance, but how could it be prevented, unless, indeed, he chose to descend,
and make an alteration in the disposition of the corpse? But this was evidently what he did
not choose to do; so, after muttering to himself a few words expressive of his intention to
leave it where it was, he replaced the candle, after extinguishing it, in the box from whence
he had taken it, and carefully walked out of the dismal place.
The moonbeams were shining very brightly and beautifully upon the face of the cliffs,
when he emerged from the subterranean passage, so that he could see the door, the steps,

and every object quite distinctly; and, to his gratification, he found that he had not
destroyed any fastening that was to the door, but that when it was slammed shut, it struck
so hard and fast, that the strength of one man could not possibly move it, even the smallest
fraction of an inch.
"I shall be shown all this to-morrow," he said; "and if I take this house I must have an
alteration made in this door, so that it may open with a lock, instead of by main violence, as
at present; but if, in the morning, when I view Anderbury House, I can avoid an entrance
into this region, I will do so, and at my leisure, if I become the possessor of the estate, I can
explore every nook and cranny of it.
He then folded his cloak about him, after pulling the door as closely as he could. He
walked slowly and thoughtfully back to the inn. It was quite evident that the idea of the
murder he had committed did not annoy him in the least, and that in his speculations upon
the subject he congratulated himself much upon having so far succeeded in getting rid of
certainly a most troublesome acquaintance.
"'Tis well, indeed," he said, "that just at this juncture he should throw himself in my way,
and enable me so easy to feel certain that I shall never more be troubled with him. Truly, I
ran some risk, and when my pistol missed fire, it seemed as if my evil star was in its
ascendant, and that I was doomed myself to become the victim of him whom I have laid in
so cold a grave. But I have been victorious, and I am willing to accept the circumstance as
an omen of the past -- that my fortunes are on the change. I think I shall be successful now,
and with the ample means which I now possess, surely, in this country, where gold is loved
so well, I shall be able to overcome all difficulties, and to unite myself to some one, who --
but no matter, her fate is an after consideration."
--

Chapter XCV.
THE MARRIAGE IN THE BANNERWORTH FAMILY ARRANGED.
After the adventure of the doctor with regard to the picture about which such an air of
mystery and interest has been thrown, the Bannerworth family began to give up all hopes of
ever finding a clue to those circumstances concerning which they would certainly have
liked to have known the truth, but of which it was not likely they would ever hear anything
more.
Dr. Chillingowrth now had no reserve, and when he had recovered sufficiently to feel that
he could converse without an effort, he took an opportunity, while the whole of the family
were present, to speak of what had been his hopes and his expectations.
"You are all aware," he said, "now, of the story of Marmaduke Bannerworth, and what an
excessively troublesome person he was, with all deference, to you, Henry; first of all, as to
spending all his money at the gaming-table, and leaving his family destitute; and then,
when he did get a lump of money which might have done some good to those he left behind
him -- hiding it somewhere where it could not be found at all, and so leaving you all in
great difficulty and distress, when you might have been independent."

"That's true enough, doctor," said Henry; "but you know the old proverb, -- that ill-gotten
wealth never thrives; so that I don't regret not finding this money, for I am sure we should
have been none the happier with it, and perhaps not so happy."
"Oh, bother the old proverb; thirty or forty thousand pounds is no trifle to be talked
lightly of, or the loss of which to be quietly put up with, on account of a musty proverb. It's
a large sum, and I should like to have placed it in your hands."
"But as you cannot, doctor, there can be no good possibly done by regretting it."
"No, certainly; I don't mean that; utter regret is always a very foolish thing; but it's
questionable whether something might not be done in the matter, after all, for you, as it
appears, by all the evidence we can collect, that it must have been Varney, after all, who
jumped down upon me from the garden-wall in so sudden a manner; and, if the picture be
valuable to him, it must be valuable to us."
"But how are we to get it, and, if we could, I do not see that it would be of much value to
anybody, for, after all, it is but a painting."
"There you go again," said the doctor, "depreciating what you know nothing about; now,
listen to me, Master Henry, and I will tell you. That picture evidently had some sort of
lining at the back, over the original canvas; and do you think I would have taken such pains
to bring it away with me if that lining had not made me suspect that between it and the
original picture the money, in bank notes, was deposited?"
"Had you any special reason for supposing such was the case?"
"Yes; most unquestionably I had; for when I got the picture fairly down, I found various
inequalities in the surface of the back, which led me to believe that rolls of notes were
deposited, and that the great mistake we had all along made was in looking behind the
picture, instead of at the picture itself. I meant immediately to have cut it to pieces when I
reached here with it; but now it has got into the hands of somebody else, who knows, I
suspect, as much I do."
"It is rather provoking."
"Rather provoking! is that the way to talk of the loss of Heaven knows how many
thousands of pounds! I am quite aggravated myself at the idea of the thing, and it puts me
in a perfect fever to think of it, I can assure you."
"But what can we do?"
"Oh! I propose an immediate crusade against Varney, the vampyre, for who but he could
have made such an attack upon me, and force me to deliver up such a valuable treasure?"

"Never heed it, doctor," said Flora; "let it go; we have never had or enjoyed that money,
so it cannot matter, and it is not to be considered as the loss of an actual possession,
because we never did actually possess it."
"Yes," chimed in the admiral; "bother the money! what do we care about it; and, besides,
Charley Holland is going to be very busy."
"Busy!" said the doctor; "how do you mean?"
"Why, isn't he going to be married directly to Flora, here, and am not I going to settle the
whole of my property upon him on condition that he takes the name of Bell instead of
Holland? for, you see, his mother was my sister, and of course her name was Bell. As for
his father Holland, it can't matter to him now what Charley is called; and if he don't take the
name of Bell I shall be the last in the family, for I am not likely to marry, and have any
little Bells about me."
"No," said the doctor; "I should say not; and that's the reason why you want to ring the
changes upon Charles Holland's name. Do you see the joke, admiral?"
"I can't say I do -- where is it? It's all very well to talk of jokes, but if I was like Charles,
going to be married, I shouldn't be in any joking humour, I can tell you, but quite the
reverse; and as for you and your picture, if you want it, doctor, just run after Varney
yourself for it; or, stay -- I have a better idea than that -- get your wife to go and ask him for
it, and if she makes half such a clamour about his ears that she did about ours, he will give
it her in a minute, to get rid of her."
"My wife! -- you don't mean to say she has been here?"
"Yes, but she has though. And now, doctor, I can tell you I have seen a good deal of
service in all parts of the world, and, of course, picked up a little experience; and, if I were
you, some of these days, when Mrs. Chillingworth ain't very well, I'd give her a composing
draught that would make her quiet enough."
"Ah! that's not my style of practice, admiral; but I am sorry to hear that Mrs.
Chillingworth has annoyed you so much."
"Pho, pho, man! -- pho, pho! do you think she could annoy me? Why, I have encountered
storms and squalls in all latitudes, and it isn't a woman's tongue now that can do anything of
an annoying character I can tell you; far from it -- very far from it; so don't distress yourself
upon that head. But come, doctor, we are going to have the wedding the day after to-
morrow."
"No, no," said Flora; "the week after next, you mean."
"Is it the week after next? I'll be hanged if I didn't think it was the day after tomorrow; but
of course you know best, as you have settled it all among you. I have nothing to do with it."

"Of course, I shall, with great pleasure," returned the doctor, "be present on the
interesting occasion; but do you intend taking possession of Bannerworth Hall again?"
"No, certainly not," said Henry; "we propose going to the Dearbrook estate, and there
remaining for a time to see how we all like it. We may, perchance, enjoy it very much, for I
have heard it spoken of as an attractive little property enough, and one that any one might
fancy, after being resident a short time upon it."
"Well," said the admiral; "that is, I believe, settled among us, but I am sure we sha'n't like
it, on account of the want of the sea. Why, I tell you, I have not seen a ship myself for this
eighteen months; there's a state of things, you see, that won't do to last, because one would
get dry-mouldy; it's a shocking thing to see nothing but land, land, wherever you go."
From the preceding conversation may be gathered what were the designs of the
Bannerworth family, and what progress had been made in carrying them out. From the
moment they had discovered the title-deeds of the Dearbrook property, they had ceased to
care about the large sum of money which Marmaduke Bannerworth had been supposed to
have hidden in some portion of Bannerworth Hall.
They had already passed through quite enough of the busy turmoils of existence to be
grateful for anything that promised ease and competence, and that serenity of mind which is
the dearest possession which any one can compass.
Consequently was it, that, with one accord, they got rid of all yearning after the large sum
which the doctor was so anxious to procure for them, and looked forward to a life of great
happiness and contentment. On the whole, too, when they came to talk the matter over
quietly among themselves, they were not sorry that Varney had taken himself off in the way
he had, for really it was a great release; and, as he had couched his farewell in words which
signified it was a final one, they were inclined to think that he must have left England, and
that it was not likely they should ever again encounter him, under any circumstances
whatever.
It was to be considered quite as a whim of the old admiral's, the changing of Charles
Holland's name to Bell; but, as Charles himself said when the subject was broached to him,
-- "I am so well content to be called whatever those to whom I feel affection think proper,
that I give up my name of Holland without a pang, willingly adopting in its stead one that
has always been hallowed in my remembrance with the best and kindest recollections."
And thus this affair was settled, much to the satisfaction of Flora, who was quite as well
content to be called Mrs. Bell as to be called Mrs. Holland, since the object of her
attachment remained the same. The wedding was really fixed for the week after that which
followed the conversation we have recorded; but the admiral was not at all disposed to
allow Flora and his nephew Charles to get through such an important period of their lives
without some greater demonstration and show than could be made from the little cottage
where they dwelt; and consequently he wished that they should leave that and proceed at
once to a larger mansion, which he had his eye upon a few miles off, and which was to be
had furnished for a time, at the pleasure of any one.

"And we won't shut ourselves up," said the admiral; "but we will find out all the
Christian-like people in the neighbourhood, and invite them to the wedding, and we will
have a jolly good breakfast together, and lots of music, and a famous lunch; and, after that,
a dinner, and then a dance, and all that sort of thing; so that there shall be no want of fun."
As may be well supposed, both Charles and Flora shrunk from so public an affair; but, as
the old man had evidently set his heart upon it, they did not like to say they positively
would not; so, after a vain attempt to dissuade him from removing at all from the cottage
until they removed for good, they gave up the point to him, and he had it all his own way.
He took the house, for one month, which had so taken his fancy, and certainly a pretty
enough place it was, although they found out afterwards, that why it was he was so
charmed with it consisted in the fact that it bore the name of a vessel which he had once
commanded; but this they did not know until a long time afterwards, when it slipped out by
mere accident.
They stipulated with the admiral that there should not be more than twenty guests at the
breakfast which was to succeed the marriage ceremony; and to that he acceded; but Henry
whispered to Charles Holland, --
"I know this public wedding to be distasteful to you, and most particularly do I know it is
distasteful to Flora; so, if you do not mind playing a trick upon the old man, I can very
easily put you in the way of cheating him entirely."
"Indeed; I should like to hear, and, what is more, I should like to practise, if you think it
will not so entirely offend him as to make him implacable."
"Not at all, not at all; he will laugh himself, when he comes to know it, as much as any of
us; the present difficulty will be to procure Flora's connivance; but that we must do the best
way we can by persuasion."
What this scheme was will ultimately appear; but, certain it is, that the old admiral had no
suspicion of what was going on and proceeded to make all his arrangements accordingly.
From his first arrival in the market town -- in the neighbourhood of which was
Bannerworth Hall -- it will be recollected that he had taken a great fancy to the lawyer, in
whose name a forged letter had been sent him, informing him of the fact that his nephew,
Charles Holland, intended marrying into a family of vampyres.
It was this letter, as the reader is aware, which brought the old admiral and Jack Pringle
into the neighbourhood of the Hall; and, although it was a manoeuvre to get rid of Charles
Holland, which failed most signally, there can be no doubt but that such a letter was the
production of Sir Francis Varney, and that he wrote it for the express purpose of getting rid
of Charles from the Hall, who had begun materially to interfere with his plans and projects
there.

After some conversaton with himself, the admiral thought that this lawyer would be just
the man to recommend the proper sort of people to be invited to the wedding of Charles and
Flora; so he wrote to him, inviting himself to dinner, and received back a very gracious
reply from the lawyer, who declared that the honour of entertaining a gentleman whom he
so much respected as Admiral Bell, was greater than he had a right to expect by a great
deal, and that he should feel most grateful for his company, and await his coming with the
greatest impatience.
"A devilish civil fellow, that attorney," said the admiral, as he put the letter in his pocket,
"and almost enough to put one in conceit of lawyers."
"Yes," said Jack Pringle, who had overheard the admiral read the letter. "Yes, we will
honour him; and I only hope he will have plenty of grog; because, you see, if he don't -- -D
-- n it! what's that! Can't you keep things to yourself?"
This latter exclamation arose from the fact that the admiral was so indignant at Jack for
listening to what he had been saying, as to throw a leaden inkstand, that happened to be
upon the table, at his head.
"You mutinous swab!" he said, "cannot a gentleman ask me to dinner, or cannot I ask
myself, without you putting your spoke in the windlass, you vagabond?"
"Oh! well," said Jack, "if you are out of temper about it, I had better send my mark to the
lawyer, and tell him that we won't come, as it has made some family differences."
"Family, you thief!" said the admiral. "What do you mean? What family do you think
would own you? D -- n me, if I don't think you came over in some strange ship. But, I tell
you what it is, if you interfere in this matter, I'll be hanged if I don't blow your brains out."
"And you'll be hanged if you do," said Jack, as he walked out of the room; "so it's all one
either way, old fizgig."
"What!" roared the admiral, as he sprang up and ran after Jack. "Have I lived all these
years to be called names in my own ship -- I mean my own house? What does the infernal
rascal mean by it?"
The admiral, no doubt, would have pursued Jack very closely, had not Flora intercepted
him, and, by gentle violence, got him back to the room. No one else could have ventured to
have stopped him, but the affection he had for her was so great that she could really
accomplish almost anything with him; and, by listening quietly to his complaints of Jack
Pringle -- which, however, involved a disclosure of the fact which he had intended to keep
to himself, that he had sought the lawyer's advice -- she succeeded in soothing him
completely, so that he forgot his anger in a very short time.

But the old man's anger, although easily aroused, never lasted very long; and, upon the
whole, it was really astonishing what he put up with from Jack Pringle, in the way of taunts
and sneers, of all sorts and descriptions, and now and then not a little real abuse.
And, probably, he thought likewise that Jack Pringle did not mean what he said, on the
same prnciple that he (the admiral), when he called Jack a mutinous swab and a marine,
certainly did not mean that Jack was those things, but merely used them as expletives to
express a great amount of indignation at the moment, because, as may be well supposed,
nothing in the world could be worse, in Admiral Bell's estimation, that to be a mutinous
swab or a marine.
It was rather a wonder, though, that, in his anger some day, he did not do Jack some
mischief; for, as we have had occasion to notice in one or two cases, the admiral was not
extremely particular as to what sorts of missiles he used when he considered it necessary to
throw something at Jack's head.
It would not have been a surprising thing if Jack had really made some communication to
the lawyer; but he did stop short at that amount of pleasantry, and, as he himself expressed
it, for once in a way he let the old man please himself.
The admiral soon forgot this little dispute, and then pleased himself with the idea that he
should pass a pleasant day with the attorney.
"Ah! well," he said; "who would have thought that ever I should have gone and taken
dinner with a lawyer -- and not only done that, but invited myself too! It shows us all that
there may be some good in all sorts of men, lawyers included; and I am sure, after this, I
ought to begin to think what I never thought before, and that is, that a marine may actually
be a useful person. It shows that, as one gets older, one gets wiser."
It was an immense piece of liberality for a man brought up, as Admiral Bell had been, in
decidedly one of the most prejudiced branches of the public service, to make any such
admissions as these. A very great thing it was, and showed a liberality of mind such as,
even at the present time, is not readily found.
It is astonishing, as well as amusing, to find how the mind assimilates itself to the
circumstances in which it is placed, and how society, being cut up into small sections,
imagines different things merely as a consequence of their peculiar application. We shall
find that even people, living at different ends of a city, will look with a sort of pity and
contempt upon each other; and it is much to be regretted that public writers are found who
use what little ability they may possess in pandering to their feelings.
It was as contemptible and silly as it was reprehensible for a late celebrated novelist to
pretend that he believed there was a place called Bloomsbury-square, but he really did not
know; because that was merely done for the purpose of raising a silly laugh among persons
who were neither respectable on account of their abilities or their conduct.

But to return from this digression. The admiral, attired in his best suit, which always
consisted of a blue coat, the exact colour of the navy uniform, an immense pale primrose
coloured waistcoat, and white kerseymere continuations, went to the lawyer's as had been
arranged.
If anything at all could flatter the old man's vanity successfully, it certainly would be the
manner in which he was received at the lawyer's house, where everything was done that
could give him satisfaction.
A very handsome repast was laid before him, and, when the cloth was removed, the
admiral broached the subject upon which he wished to ask the advice of his professional
friend. After telling him of the wedding that was to come off, he said, --
"Now, I have bargained to invite twenty people; and, of course, as that is exclusive of any
of the family, and as I don't know any people about this neighbourhood except yourself, I
want you and your family to come to start with, and then I want you to find me out some
more decent people to make up the party."
"I feel highly flattered," said the attorney, "that, in such a case as this, you should have
come to me, and my only great fear is, that I should not be able to give you satisfaction."
"Oh! you needn't be afraid of that; there is no fear on that head; so I shall leave it all to
you to invite the folks that you think proper."
"I will endeavour, certainly, admiral, to do my best. Of course, living in the town, as I
have for many years, I know some very nice people as well as some very queer ones."
"Oh! we don't want any of the queer ones; but let those who are invited be frank, hearty,
good-tempered people, such as one will be glad to meet over and over again without any
ceremony -- none of your simpering people, who are afraid to laugh for fear of opening
their mouths too wide, but who are so mightly genteel that they are afraid to enjoy anything
for fear it should be vulgar."
"I understand you, admiral, perfectly, and shall endeavour to obey your instructions to the
very letter; but, if I should unfortunately invite anybody you don't like, you must excuse me
for making such a mistake,"
"Oh, of course -- of course. Never mind that; and if any disagreeable fellow comes, we
will smother him in some way."
"It would serve him right, for no one ought to make himself diagreeable, after being
honoured with an invitation from you; but I will be most especially careful, and I hope that
such a circumstance will not occur."
"Never mind. If it should, I'll tell you what I'll do; I'll set Jack Pringle upon him, and if he
don't worry his life out it will be a strange thing to me."

"Oh," said the lawyer, "I am glad you have mentioned him, for it gives me an opportunity
of saying that I have done all in my power to make him comfortable."
"All in your power to make him comfortable! What do you mean?"
"I mean that I have placed such a dinner before him as will please him; I told him to ask
for just whatever he likes."
The admiral looked at the lawyer with amazement, for a few moments, in silence, and
then he said,
"D -- n it! why, you don't mean to tell me, that that rascal is here."
"Oh yes; he came about ten minutes before you arrived, and said you were coming, and
he has been down stairs feasting all the while since."
"Stop a bit. Do you happen to have any loaded fire arms in the house?"
"We have got an old blunderbuss; but what for, admiral?"
"To shoot that scoundrel, Pringle. I'll blow his brains out, as sure as fate. The impudence
of his coming here, directly against my orders, too."
"My dear sir, calm yourself, and think nothing of it; it's of no consequence whatever."
"No consequence; where is that blunderbuss of yours? Do you mean to tell me that
mutiny is of no consequence? Give me the blunderbuss."
"But, my dear sir, we only keep it in terrorem, and have no bullets."
"Never mind that, we can cram in a handful of nails, or brass buttons, or hammer up a
few halfpence -- anything of that sort will do to settle his business with."
"How do you get on, old Tarbarrel?" said Jack, putting his head in at the door. "Are you
making yourself comfortable? I'll be hanged if I don't think you have a drop too much
already, you look so precious red about the gills. I have been getting on famous, and I
thought I'd just hop up for a minute to make your mind easy about me, and tell you so."
It was quite evident that Jack had done justice to the good cheer of the lawyer, for he was
rather unsteady, and had to hold by the door-post to support himself, while there was such a
look of contentment upon his countenance as contrasted with the indignation that was
manifest upon the admiral's face, that, as the saying is, it would have made a cat laugh to
see them.
"Be off with ye, Jack," said the lawyer; "be off with ye. Go down stairs again and enjoy
yourself. Don't you see that the admiral is angry with you."

"Oh, he be bothered," said Jack; "I'll soon settle him if he comes any of his nonsense; and
mind, Mr. Lawyer, whatever you do, don't you give him too much to drink."
The lawyer ran to the door, and pushed Jack out, for he rightly enough suspected that the
quietness of the admiral was only that calm which precedes a storm of more than usual
amount and magnitude, so he was anxious to part them at once.
He then set about appeasing, as well as he could, the admiral's anger, by attributing the
perseverance of Jack, in following him wherever he went, to his great affection for him,
which, combined with his ignorance, might make him often troublesome when he had
really no intention of being so.
This was certainly the best way of appeasing the old man; and, indeed, the only way in
which it could be done successfully, and the proof that it was so, consisted in the fact, that
the admiral did consent, at the suggestion of the attorney, to forgive Jack once more for the
offence he had committed.
--
Chapter XCVI.
THE BARON TAKES ANDERBURY HOUSE, AND DECIDES UPON GIVING A

GRAND ENTERTAINMENT.
It was not considered anything extraordinary that, although the Baron Stolmuyer of
Saltzburgh went out with the mysterious stranger who had arrived at the Anderbury Arms
to see him, he should return without him, for certainly he was not bound to bring him back,
by any means whatever.
Moreover, he entered the inn so quietly, and with such an appearance of perfect
composure, that no one could have suspected for a moment that he had been guilty really of
the terrific crime which had been laid to his charge -- a crime which few men could have
committed in so entirely unmoved and passionless a manner as he had done it.
But he seemed to consider the taking of a human life as a thing not of the remotest
consequence, and not to be considered at all as a matter which was to put any one out of the
way, but as a thing to be done when necessity required, with all the ease in the world,
without arousing or awaking any of those feelings of remorse which one would suppose
ought to find a place in the heart of a man who had been guilty of such monstrous
behaviour.

He walked up to his own apartment again, and retired to rest with the same feeling,
apparently, of calmness, and the same ability to taste of the sweets of repose as had before
characterized him.
The stranger's horse, which was a valuable and beautiful animal, remained in the stable of
the inn, and as, of course, that was considered a guarantee for his return, the landlord, when
he himself retired to rest, left one of his establishment sitting up to let in the man who now
lay so motionless and so frightful in appearance in one of the ice-wells of the mysterious
passage leading from the base of the cliffs to the grounds of Anderbury House.
But the night wore on, and the man who had been left to let the stranger in, after making
many efforts to keep himself awake, dropped into sound repose, which he might just as
well have done in the first instance, inasmuch as, although he knew it not, he was engaged
in the vain task of waiting for the dead.
The morning was fresh and beautiful, and, at a far earlier hour than a person of his quality
was expected to make his appearance, the baron descended from his chamber; for,
somehow or other, by common consent, it seems to be agreed that great personages must be
late in rising, and equally late in going to bed.
But the baron was evidently not so disposed to turn night into day, and the landlord
congratulated himself not a little upon the fact that he was ready for his illustrious guest
when he descended so unexpectedly from his chamber as he did.
An ample breakfast was disposed of; that is to say, it was placed upon the table, and
charged to the baron, who selected from it what he pleased; and when the meal was over
the landlord ventured to enter the apartment, and said to him, with all due humility, --
"If you please, sir, Mr. Leek, who has the letting of Anderbury-on-the-Mount, that is,
Anderbury House, as it is usually called, is here, sir, and would be happy to take your
orders as to when you would be pleased to look at those premises?"
"I shall be ready to go in half an hour," said the baron; "and, as the distance is not great, I
will walk from here to the mansion."
This message was duly communicated to Mr. Leek, who thereupon determined upon
waiting until the baron should announce his readiness to depart upon the expedition; and he
was as good as his word, for, in about half-an-hour afterwards, he descended to the hall,
and then Mr. Leek was summoned, who came out of the bar with such a grand rush, that he
fell over a mat that was before him, and saluted the baron by digging his head into his
stomach, and then falling sprawling at his feet, and laying hold of his ancle.
This little incident was duly apologised for, and explained; after which Mr. Leek walked
on through the town, towards Anderbury-on-the-Mount, followed by the illustrious
personage whom he sincerely hoped he should be able to induce to take it.

It was a curious thing to see how they traversed the streets together; for while the baron
walked right on, and with a solemn and measured step, Mr. Leek managed to get along a
few paces in front of him, sideways, so that he could keep up a sort of conversation upon
the merits of Anderbury House, and the neighbourhood in general, without much effort; to
which remarks the baron made such suitable and dignified replies as a baron would be
supposed to make.
"You will find, sir," said Mr. Leek, "that everything about Anderbury is extremely select,
and amazingly correct; and I am sure a more delightful place to live in could not be found."
"Ah!" said the baron; "very likely."
"It's lively, too," continued Mr. Leek; very likely; and there are two chapels of ease,
besides the church."
"That's a drawback," said the baron.
"A drawback, sir! well, I am sorry I mentioned it; but perhaps you are a Roman Catholic,
sir, and, in that case, the chapels of ease have no interest for you."
"Not the slightest; but do not, sir, run away with any assumption concerning my religious
opinions, for I am not a Roman Catholic."
"No, sir, no, sir; nor more am I; and, as far as I think, and my opinion goes, I say, why
shouldn't a gentleman with a large fortune be what he likes, or nothing, if he likes that
better? but here we are, sir, close to one of the entrances of Anderbury House. There are
three principal entrances, you understand, sir, on three sides of the estate, and the fourth
side faces the sea, where there is that mysterious passage that leads down from the grounds
to the beach, which, perhaps, you have heard of, sir."
"The landlord of the inn mentioned it."
"We consider it a great curiosity, sir, I can assure you, in these parts -- a very great
curiosity; and it's an immense advantage to the house, because, you see, sir, in extremely
hot weather, all sorts of provisions can be taken down there, and kept at such a very low
temperature as to be quite delightful."
"That is an advantage."
Mr. Leek rang the bell that hung over one of the entrances, and his summons for
admission was speedily answered by the old couple who had charge of the premises, and
then, with a view of impressing them with a notion of the importance of the personage
whom he had brought to look at the place, he said, aloud, --
"The Baron Stoltmayor, of Saltsomething, has come to look at the premises."

This announcement was received with all due deference and respect, and the task of
showing the baron the premises at once fairly commenced.
"Here you have," said Mr. Leek, assuming an oratorical attitude -- "here you have the
umbrageous trees stooping down to dip their leaves in the purling waters; here you have the
sweet foliage lending a delicious perfume to the balmy air; here you have the murmuring
waterfalls playing music of the spheres to the listening birds, who sit responsive upon the
dancing boughs; here you have all the fragrance of the briny ocean, mingling with the scent
of a bank of violets, and wrapping the senses in Elysium; here you may never tire of an
existence that presents never-ending charms, and that, in the full enjoyment of which, you
may live far beyond the allotted span of man."
"Enough -- enough, said the baron.
"Here you have the choicest exotics taking kindly to a soil gifted by nature with the most
extraordinary powers of production; and all that can pamper the appetite, or yield delight to
the senses, is scattered around by nature with a liberal hand. It is quite impossible that
royalty should come near the favoured spot without visting it as a thing of course; and I
forgot to mention that a revenue is derived from some cottages, which, although small, is
yet sufficient to pay the tithe on the whole estate."
"There, there -- that will do."
"Here you have purling rills and cascades, and fish-ponds so redundant with the finny
tribe, that you have but to wish for sport, and it is yours; here you have in the mansion,
chambers that vie with the accomodation of a palace -- ample dormitories and halls of
ancient grandeur; here you have -- "
"Stop," said the baron, "stop; I cannot be pestered in this way with your description. I
have no patience to listen to such mere words -- show me the house at once, and let me
judge for myself."
"Certainly, sir; oh! certainly; only I thought it right to give you a slight description of the
place as it really was; and now, sir, that we have reached the house, I may remark that here
we have -- "
"Silence!" said the baron; "if you begin with here we have, I know not when you will
leave off. All I require of you is to show me the place, and to answer any question which I
may put to you concerning it. I will draw my own conclusions, and nothing you can say,
one way or another, will affect my imagination."
"Certainly, sir, certainly; I shall only be too happy to answer any questions that may be
put to me by a person of your lordship's great intelligence; and all I can remark is, that
when you reach the drawing-room floor, any person may truly say, here you have -- I really
beg your pardon, sir -- I had not the slightest intention of saying here you have, I assure
you; but the words came out quite unawares, I assure you."

"Peace -- peace!" cried again the baron; "you disturb me by this incessant clatter."
Thus admonished, Mr. Leek was now quiet, and allowed the baron in his own way to
make what investigation he pleased concerning Anderbury House."
The investigation was not one that could be gone over in ten minutes; for the house was
extremely extensive, and the estate altogether presented so many features of beauty and
interest, that it was impossible not to linger over it for a considerable period of time.
The grounds were most extensive, and planted with such a regard to order and regularity,
everything being in its proper place, that it was a pleasure to see an estate so well kept. And
although the baron was not a man who said much, it was quite evident, by what little he did
utter, that he was very well pleased with Anderbury-on-the-Mount.
"And now," said Mr. Leek, "I will do myself the pleasure, sir, of showing your grace the
subterranean passage."
At this moment a loud ring at one of the entrance gates was heard, and upon the man who
had charge of the house answering the summons for admission, he found that it was a
gentleman, who gave a card on which was the name of Sir John Westlake, and who desired
to see the premises.
"Sir John Westlake," said Mr. Leek; "oh! I recollect he did call at my office, and say that
he thought of taking Anderbury-on-the-Mount. A gentleman of great wealth and taste is Sir
John, but I must tell him, baron, that you have the preference if you choose to embrace it."
At this moment the stranger advanced, and when he saw the baron, he bowed courteously,
upon which Mr. Leek said, --
"I regret, Sir John, that if you should take a fancy to the place, I am compelled first of all
to give this gentleman the refusal of it."
"Certainly," said Sir John Westlake; "do not let me interfere with any one. I have nearly
made up my mind, and came to look over the property again; but of course, if this
gentleman is beforehand with me, I must be content. I wish particularly to go down to the
subterranean passage to the beach, if it is not too much trouble."
"Trouble! certainly not, sir. Here, Davis, get some links, and we can go at once; and as
this gentleman likewise has seen everything but that strange excavation, he will probably
descend with us."
"Certainly," said the baron; "I shall have great pleasure;" and he said it with so free and
unembarrassed an air, that no one could have believed for a moment in the possibility that
such a subject of fearful interest to him was there to be found.

The entrance from the grounds into this deep cavernous place was in a small but neat
building, that looked like a summer-house; and now, torches being procured, and one lit, a
door was opened, which conducted at once into the commencement of the excavation; and
Mr. Leek heading the way, the distinguished party, as that gentleman loved afterwards to
call it in his accounts of the transaction, proceeded into the very bowels of the earth, as it
were, and quickly lost all traces of the daylight.
The place did not descend by steps, but by a gentle slope, which it required some caution
to traverse, because, being cut in the chalk, which in some places was worn very smooth, it
was extremely slipperly; but this was a difficulty that a little practice soon overcame, and as
they went on the place became more interesting every minute.
Even the baron allowed Mr. Leek to make a speech upon the occasion, and that
gentleman said, --
"You will perceive that this excavation must have been made, at a great expense, out of
the solid cliff, and in making it some of the most curious specimens of petrifaction and
fossil remains were found. You see that the roof is vaulted, and that it is only now and then
a lump of chalk has fallen in, or a great piece of flint; and now we come to one of the ice-
wells."
The came to a deep excavation, down which they looked, and when the man held the
torch beneath its surface, they could dimly see the bottom of it, where there was a number
of large pieces of flint stone, and, apparently, likewise, the remains of broken bottles.
"There used to be a windlass at the top of this," said Mr. Leek, "and the things were let
down in a basket. They do say that ice will keep for two years in one of these places."
"And are there more of these excavations?" said the baron.
"Oh, dear, yes, sir; there are five or six of them for different purposes; for when the
family that used to live in Anderbury House had grand entertainments, which they
sometimes had in the summer season, they always had a lot of men down here, cooling
wines, and passing them up from hand to hand to the house."
From the gradual slope of this passage down to the cliffs, and the zigzag character of it, it
may be well supposed that it was of considerable extent. Indeed, Mr. Leek asserted that it
was half a mile in actual measured length.
The baron was not at all anxious to run any risk of a discovery of the dead body which he
had cast into that ice-well which was nearest to the opening on to the beach, so, as he went
on, he negatived the different proposals that were made to look down into the excavations,
and succeeded in putting a stop to that species of inquiry in the majority of instances, but he
could not wholly do so.

Perhaps it would have been better for his purpose if he had encouraged a look into every
one of the ice-wells; for, in that case, their similarity of appearance might have tired out Sir
John Westlake before they got to the last one; but as it was, when they reached the one
down which the body had been precipitated, he had the mortification to hear Mr. Leek say,
--
"And now, Sir John, and you, my lord baron, as we have looked at the first of these ice
wells and at none of the others, suppose we look at the last."
The baron was afraid to say anything; because, if the body were discovered, and
identified as that of the visitor at the inn, and who had been seen last with him, any
reluctance on his part to have that ice-well examined, might easily afterwards be construed
into a very powerful piece of circumstantial evidence against him.
He therefore merely bowed his assent, thinking that the examination would be but a
superficial one, and that, in consequence, he should escape easily from any disagreeable
consequences.
But this the fates ordained otherwise; and there seemed no hope of that ice-well in
particular escaping such an investigation as was sure to induce some uncomfortable results.
"Davis," said Mr. Leek, "these places are not deep, you see, and I was thinking that if you
went down one of them, it would be as well; for then you would be able to tell the
gentlemen what the bottom was fairly composed of, you understand."
"Oh, I don't mind, sir," said Davis. "I have been down one of them before today, I can tell
you, sir."
"I do not see the necessity," said Sir John Westlake, "exactly, of such a thing; but still if
you please, and this gentleman wishes -- "
"I have no wish upon the occasion," said the baron; "and, like yourself, cannot see the
necessity."
"Oh, there is no trouble," said Mr. Leek; "and it's better, now you are here, that you see
and understand all about it. How can you get down, Davis?"
"Why, sir, it ain't above fourteen feet altogether; so I sha'n't have any difficulty, for I can
hang by my hands about half the distance, and drop the remainder."
As he spoke he took off his coat, and then stuck the link he carried into a cleft of the rock,
that was beside the brink of the excavation.
The baron now saw that there would be no such thing as avoiding a discovery of the fact
of the dead body being in that place, and his only hope was, that in its descent it might have
become so injured as to defy identification.

But this was a faint hope, because he recollected that he had himself seen the face, which
was turned upwards, and the period after death was by far too short for him to have any
hope that decomposition could have taken place even to the most limited extent.
The light, which was stuck in a niche, shed but a few inefficient rays down into the pit,
and, as the baron sood, with folded arms, looking calmly on, he expected each moment a
scene of surprise and terror would ensue.
Nor was he wrong; for scarcely had the man plunged down into that deep place, than he
uttered a cry of alarm and terror, and shouted, --
"Murder! murder! Lift me out. There is a dead man down here, and I have jumped upon
him."
"A dead man!" cried Mr. Leek and Sir John Westlake in a breath.
"How very strange!" said the baron.
"Lend me a hand," cried Davis; "lend me a hand out; I cannot stand this, you know. Lend
me a hand out, I say, at once."
This was easier to speak of than to do, and Mr. Davis began to discover that it wa easier
by far to get into a deep pit, than to get out of one, notwithstanding that his assertion of
having been down into those places was perfectly true; but then he had met with nothing
alarming, and had been able perfectly at his leisure to scramble out the best way he could.
Now, however, his frantic efforts to release himself from a much more uncomfortable
situation than he had imagined it possible for him to get into, were of so frantic a nature,
that he only half buried himself in pieces of chalk, which he kept pulling down with
vehemence from the sides of the pit, and succeeded in accomplishing nothing towards his
rescue.
"Oh! the fellow is only joking," said the baron, "and amusing himself at our expense."
But the manner in which the man cried for help, and the marked terror which was in
every tone, was quite sufficient to prove that he was not acting; for if he were, a more
accomplished mimic could not have been found on the stage than he was.
"This is serious," said Sir John Westlake, "and cannot be allowed. Have you any ropes
here by which we can assist him from the pit? Don't be alarmed, my man, for if there be a
dead body in the pit, it can't harm you. Take your time quietly and easily, and you will
assuredly get out."
"Aye," said the baron, "the more haste, the worst speed, is an English proverb, and in this
case it will be fully exemplified. This man would easily leave the pit, if he would have the
patience, with care and quietness, to clamber up its side."

It would appear that Davis felt the truth of these exhortations, for although he trembled
excessively, he did begin to make some progress in his ascent, and get so high, that Mr.
Leek was enabled to get hold of his hand, and give him a little assistance, so that, in another
minute or so, he was rescued from his situation, which was not one of peril, although it was
certainly one of fright.
He trembled so excessively, and stuttered and stammered, that for some minutes no one
could understand very well what he said; but at length, upon making himself intelligible, he
exclaimed, --
"There has been a murder! there has been a murder committed, and the body thrown into
the ice pit. I felt that I jumped down upon something soft, and when I put down my hand to
feel what it was, it came across a dead man's face, and then, of course, I called out."
"You certainly did call out."
"Yes, and so would anybody, I think, under such circumstances. I suppose I shall be hung
now, because I had charge of the house?"
"That did not strike me until this moment," said the baron; "but if there be a dead body in
that pit, it certainly places this man in a very awkward position."
"What the deuce do you mean?" said Davis; "I don't know no more about it than the child
unborn. There is a dead man in the ice-well, and that is all I know about it; but whether he
has been there a long time, or a short time, I don't know any more than the moon, so it's no
use bothering me about it."
"My good man," said the baron, "it would be very wrong indeed to impute to you any
amount of criminality in this business, since you may be entirely innocent; and I, for one,
believe that you are so, for I cannot think that any guilty man would venture into the place
where he had put the body of his victim, in the way that you ventured into that pit. I say I
cannot believe it possible, and therefore I think you innocent, and will take care to see that
no injustice is done you; but at the same time I cannot help adding, that I think, of course,
you will find yourself suspected in some way."
"I am very much obliged to you, sir," said Davis; "but as I happen to be quite innocent, I
am very easy about it, and don't care one straw what people say. I have not been in this
excavaton for Heaven knows how long."
"But what's to be done?" said Mr. Leek. "I suppose it's our duty to do something, under
such circumstances."
"Unquestionably," said the baron; "and the first thing to be done, is to inform the police
of what has happened, so that the body may be got up; and as I have now seen enough of
the estate to satisfy me as regards its capabilities, I decide at once upon taking it, if I can

agree upon the conditions of the tenancy, and I will purchase it, if the price be such as I
think suitable."
"Well," said Mr. Leek, "if anything could reconcile me to the extraordinary circumstance
that has just occurred, it certainly is, baron, the having so desirble a tenant for Anderbury-
on-the-Mount as yourself. But we need not traverse all this passage again, for it is much
nearer now to get out upon the sea coast at once, as we are so close to the door opening
upon the beach. It seems to me that we ought to proceed at once to the town, and give
information to the authorities of the discovery which we have made."
"It is absolutely necessary," said the baron, "so to do; so come along at once. I shall
proceed to my inn, and as, of course, I have seen nothing more than yourselves, and
consequently could only repeat your evidence, I do not see that my presence is called for.
Nevertheless, of course, if the justices think it absolutely necessary that I should appear, I
can have no possible objection so to do."
This was as straightforward as anything that could be desired, and, moreover, it was
rather artfully put together, for it seemed to imply that he, Mr. Leek, would be slighted, if
his evidence was not considered sufficient.
"Of course," said Mr. Leek; "I don't see at all why, as you, sir, have only the same thing
to say as myself, I should not be sufficient."
"Don't call upon me on any account," said Sir John Westlake.
"Oh! no, no," cried Mr. Leek; "there is no occasion. I won't, you may depend, if it can be
helped."
Sir John, in rather a nervous and excited manner, bade them good day, before they got
quite into the town, and hurried off; while the baron, with a dignified bow, when he reached
the door of his hotel, said to Mr. Leek, --
"Of course I do not like the trouble of judicial investigations more than anybody else, and
therefore, unless it is imperatively necessary that I should appear, I shall take it as a favour
to be released from such a trouble."
"My lord baron," said Mr. Leek, "you may depend that I shall mention that to the
magistrates and the coroner, and all those sort of people;" and then Mr. Leek walked away,
but he muttered to himself, as he did so, "They will have him, as sure as fate, just because
he is a baron; and his name will look well in the 'County Chronicle.'"
Mr. Leek then repaired immediately to the house of one of the principal magistrates, and
related what had occurred, to the great surprise of that gentleman, who suggested
immediately the propriety of making the fact known to the coroner of the district, as it was
more his business, than a magistrate's, in the first instance, since nobody was accused of the
offence.

This suggestion was immediately followed, and that functionary directed that the body
should be removed from where it was to the nearest public-house, and immediately issued
his precept for an inquiry into the case.
By this time the matter had begun to get bruited about in the town, and of course it went
from mouth to mouth with many exaggerations; and although it by no means did follow
that a murder had been committed because a dead body had been found, yet, such was the
universal impression; and the matter began to be talked about as the murder in the
subterranean passage leading to Anderbury House, with all the gusto which the full
particulars of some deed of blood was calculated to inspire. And how it spread about was
thus: --
The fact was, that Mr. Leek was so anxious to let Anderbury-on-the-Mount to the rich
Baron Stolmuyer, of Saltzburgh, that he got a friend of his to come and personate Sir John
Westlake, while he, the baron, was looking at the premises, in order to drive him at once to
a conclusion upon the matter; so that what made Sir John so very anxious that he should not
be called forward in the matter; consisted in the simple fact that he was nothing else than
plain Mr. Brown, who kept a hatter's shop in the town; but he could not keep his own
counsel, and, instead of holding his tongue, as he ought to have done, about the matter, he
told it to every one he met, so that in a short time it was generally known that something
serious and startling had occurred in the subterranean passage to Anderbury House, and a
great mob of persons thronged the beach in anxious expectation of getting more
information on the matter.
The men, likewise, who had been ordered by the coroner to remove the body, soon
reached the spot, and they gave an increased impetus to the proceedings, by opening the
door of the subterranean passage, and then looking earnestly along the beach as if in
expectation of something or somebody of importance.
When eagerly questioned by the mob, for the throng of persons now assembled quite
amounted to a mob, to know what they waited for, one of them said, --
"A coffin was to have been brought down to take the body in."
This announcement at once removed anything doubtful that might be in the minds of any
of them upon the subject, and at once proclaimed the fact not only that there was a dead
body, but that if they looked out they would see it forthwith.
The throng thickened, and by the time two men were observed approaching with a coffin
on their shoulders, there was scarcely anybody left in the town, except a few rare persons,
indeed, who were not so curious as their neighbours.
It was not an agreeable job, even to those men who were not the most particular in the
world, to be removing so loathsome a spectacle as that which they were pretty sure to
encounter in the ice-well; but they did not shrink from it, and, by setting about it as a duty,
they got through it tolerably well.

They took with them several large torches, and then, one having descended into the pit,
fastened a rope under the arms of the dead man, and so he was hauled out, and placed in the
shell that was ready to receive him.
They were all surprised at the fresh and almost healthful appearance of the countenance,
and it was quite evident to everybody that if any one had known him in life, they could not
have the least possible difficulty in recognising him now that he was no more.
And the only appearance of injury which he exhibited was in that dreadful wound which
had certainly proved his death, and which was observable in his throat the moment they
looked upon him. 232, 78 = 132, 31, 43 #841f2b (352 76 51 HSV) [ 0, 1]
The crush to obtain a sight of the body was tremendous at the moment it was brought out,
and a vast concourse of persons followed it in procession to the town, where the greatest
excitement prevailed. It was easily discovered that no known person was missing; and some
who had caught a sight of the body, went so far as to assert that it must have been in the
ice-well for years, and that the extreme cold had preserved it in all its original freshness.
The news, of course, came round, although not through the baron, for he did not
condescend to say one word about it at the inn, and it was the landlord who first started the
suggestion of --
"What suppose it is the gentleman who left his horse here?"
This idea had no sooner got possession of his brain, than it each moment seemed to him
to assume a more reasonable and tangible form, and without saying any more to any one
else about it, he at once started off to where the body lay awaiting an inquest, to see if his
suspicions were correct.
When he arrived at the public-house and asked to see the body, he was at once permitted
to do so; for the landlord knew him, and was as curious as he could be upon the subject by
any possibility. One glance, of course, was sufficient, and the landlord at once said, --
"Yes, I have seen him before, though I don't know his name. He came to my house last
night, and left his horse there; and, although I only saw him for a moment as he passed
through the hall, I am certain I am not mistaken. I dare say all my waiters will recognise
him, as well as the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh, who is staying with me, and who no
doubt knows very well who he is, for he went out with him late and came home alone; and I
ordered one of my men to wait up all night in order to let in this very person who is now
lying dead before us."
"The deuce you did! But you don't suppose the baron murdered him, do you?"
"It's a mystery to me altogether -- quite a profound mystery. It's very unlikely, certainly;
and what's the most extraordinary part of the whole affair is, how the deuce could he come

into one of the ice-wells belonging to Anderbury House. That's what puzzles me
altogether."
"Well, it will all come out, I hope, at the inquest, which is to be held at four o'clock to-
day. There must have been foul play somewhere, but the mystery is where, and that Heaven
only knows, perhaps."
"I shall attend," said the landlord, "of course, to identify him; and I suppose, unless
anybody claims the horse, I may as well keep possession of it."
"Don't flatter yourself that you will get the horse out of the transaction. Don't you know
quite well that the government takes possesson of everything as don't belong to nobody?"
"Yes; but I have got him, and possession, you know, is nine points of the law."
"It may be; but their tenth point will get the better of you for all that. You take my word
for it, the horse will be claimed of you; but I don't mind, as an old acquaintance, putting
you up to a dodge."
"In what way?"
"Why, I'll tell you what happened with a friend of mine; but don't think it was me, for if it
was I would tell you at once, so don't think it. He kept a country public-house; and, one
day, an elderly gentleman came in, and appeared to be unwell. He just uttered a word or
two, and then dropped down dead. He happened to have in his fob a gold repeater, that was
worth, at least, a hundred guineas, and my friend, before anybody came, took it out, and
popped in, in its stead, an old watch that he had, which was not worth a couple of pounds."
"It was running a risk."
"It was; but it turned out very well, because the old gentleman happened to be a very
eccentric person, and was living alone, so that his friends really did not know what he had,
or what he had not, but took it for granted that any watch produced belonged to him. So, if I
were you in this case, when the gentleman's horse is claimed, I'd get the d -- -dest old screw
I could, and let them have that."
"You would?"
"Indeed would I, and glory in it, too, as the very best thing that could be done. Now, a
horse is of use to you?"
"I believe ye, it is."
"Exactly; but what's the use of it to government? and, what's more, if it went to the
government, there might be some excuse; but the government will know no more about it,
and make not so much as I shall. Some Jack-in-office will lay hold of it as a thing of course

and a perquisite, when you might just as well, and a great deal better, too, keep it yourself,
for it would do you some good, as you say, and none to them."
"I'll do it; it is a good and a happy thought. There is no reason on earth why I shouldn't do
it, and I will. I have made up my mind to it now."
"Well, I am glad you have. What do you think now the dead man's horse is worth?"
"Oh! fifty or sixty guineas value."
"Then very good. Then, when the affair is all settled, I will trouble you for twenty
pounds.
"You?"
"Yes, to be sure. Who else do you suppose is going to interfere with you? One is enough,
ain't it, at a time; and I think, after giving you such advice as I have, that I am entitled, at all
events, to something."
"I tell you what," said the landlord of the hotel, "taking all things into consideration, I
have altered my mind rather, and won't do it."
"Very good. You need not; only mind if you do, I am down upon you like a shot."
The excitement contingent upon the inquest was very great; indeed, the large room in the
public house, where it was held, was crowded to suffocation with persons who were
anxious to be present at the proceedings. When the landlord reached home, of course he
told his guest, the baron, of the discovery he had made, that the murdered man was the
strange visitor of the previous night; for now, from the frightful wound he had received in
his throat, the belief that he was murdered became too rational a one to admit of any
doubts, and was that which was universally adopted in preference to any other suggestion
upon the occasion; although, no doubt, people would be found who would not scruple to
aver that he had cut his own throat, after making his way into the well belonging to
Anderbury House.
The landlord had his own misgivings concerning his guest, the baron, now that something
had occurred of such an awful and mysterious a nature to one who was evidently known to
him. It did not seem to be a pleasant thing to have such an intimate friend of a man who had
been murdered in one's house, especially when it came to be considered that he was the last
person seen in his company, and that, consequently, he was peculiarly called upon to give
an explanation of how, and under what circumstances, he had parted with him.
The baron was sitting smoking in the most unconcerned manner in the world, when the
landlord came to bring him this intelligence, and, when he had heard him to an end, the
remark he made was, --

"Really, you very much surprise me; but, perhaps, as you are better acquainted with the
town than I am, you can tell me who he was?"
"Why, sir, that is what we hoped you would be able to tell us."
"How should I tell you? He introduced himself to me as a Mr. Mitchell, a surveyor, and
he said that, hearing I talked of purchasing or renting Anderbury-on-the-Mount, he came to
tell me that the principal side wall, that you could see from the beach, was off the
perpendicular."
"Indeed, sir!"
"Yes; and as this was a very interesting circumstance to me, considering that I really did
contemplate such a purchase or renting, and do so still, as it was a moonlight night, and he
said he could show me in a minute what he meant if I would accompany him, I did so; but
when we got there, and on the road, I heard quite enough of him to convince me that he was
a little out of his senses, and, consequently, I paid no more attention to what he said, but
walked home and left him on the beach."
"It's a most extraordinary circumstance, sir; there is no such person, I assure you, as
Mitchell, a surveyor, in the town; so I can't make it out in the least."
"But, I tell you, I consider the man out of his senses, and perhaps that may account for the
whole affair."
"Oh, yes, sir, that would, certainly; but still, it's a very odd thing, because we don't know
of such a person at all, and it does seem so extraordinary that he should have made his
appearance, all of a sudden, in this sort of way. I suppose, sir, that you will attend the
inquest, now, that's to be held upon him?"
"Oh, yes; I have no objection whatever to that; indeed, I feel myself bound to do so,
because I suppose mine is the the latest evidence that can be at all produced concerning
him."
"Unquestionably, sir; our coroner is a very clever man, and you will be glad to know him
-- very glad to know him, sir, and he will be glad to know you, so I am sure it will be a
mutual gratification. It's at four o'clock the inquest is to be, and I dare say, sir, if you are
there by half-past, it will be time enough."
"No doubt of that; but I will be punctual."
We have already said the room in which the inquest was to be held was crowded almost
to suffocation, and not only was that the case, but the lower part of the house was crammed
with people likewise; and there can be very little doubt but the baron would have shrunk
from such an investigation from a number of curious eyes, if he could have done so; while
the landlord of the house would have had no objection, as far as his profit was concerned in

the sale of a great quantity of beer and spirits, to have had such a an occurrence every day
in the week, if possible.
The body lay still in the shell where it had been originally placed. After it had been
viewed by the jury, and almost every one had remarked upon the extraordinary fresh
appearance it wore, they proceeded at once to the inquiry, and the first witness who
appeared was Mr. Leek, who deposed to have been in company with some gentlemen
viewing Anderbury House, and to have found the body in one of the ice-wells of that
establishment.
This evidence was corroborated by that of Davis, who had so unexpectedly jumped into
the well, without being aware that it contained already so disagreeable a visitor as it did in
the person of the murdered man, regarding the cause of whose death the present inquiry
was instituted.
Then the landlord identified the body as that of a gentleman who had come to his house
on horseback, and who had afterwards walked out with Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh,
who was one of his guests.
"Is that gentleman in attendance?" said the coroner.
"Yes, sir, he is; I told him about it, and he has kindly come forward to give all the
evidence in his power concerning it."
There was a general expression of interest and curiosity when the baron stepped forward,
attired in his magnificent coat, trimmed with fur, and tendered his evidence to the coroner,
which, of course, was precisely the same as the statement he had made to the landlord of
the house; for, as he had made up such a well connected story, he was not likely to
prevaricate or to depart from it in the smallest particular.
He was listened to with breathless attention, and, when he had concluded, the coroner,
with a preparatory hem! said to him,
"And you have reason to suppose, sir, that this person was out of his senses?"
"It seemed to me so; he talked wildly and incoherently, and in such a manner as to fully
induce such a belief."
"You left him on the beach?"
"I did. I found when I got there that it was only a very small portion, indeed, of
Anderbury House that was visible; and, although the moon shone brightly, I must confess I
did not see, myself, any signs of deviation from the perpendicular; and, such being the case,
I left the spot at once, because I could have no further motive in staying; and, moreover, it
was not pleasant to be out at night with a man whom I thought was deranged. I regretted,
after making this discovery, that I had come from home on such a fool's errand; but as,

when one is going to invest a consideralbe sum of money in any enterprise, one is naturally
anxious to know all about it, I went, little suspecting that the man was insane."
"Did you see him after that?"
"Certainly not, until to-day, when I recognised in the body that has been exhibited to me
the same individual."
"Gentlemen," said the coroner to the jury, "it appears to me that this is a most mysterious
affair; the deceased person has a wound in his throat, which, I have no doubt, you will hear
from a medical witness has been the cause of death; and the most singular part of the affair
is, how, if he inflicted it upon himself, he has managed to dispose of the weapon with
which he did the deed."
"The last person seen in his company," said one of the jury, "was the baron, and I think he
is bound to give some better explanation of the affair."
"I am yet to discover," said the baron, "that the last person who acknowledges to having
been in the company of a man afterwards murdered, must, of necessity, be the murderer?"
"Yes; but how do you account, sir, for there being no weapon found by which the man
could have done the deed himself?"
"I don't account for it at all -- how do you?"
"This is irregular," said the coroner; "call the next witness."
This was a medical man, who briefly stated that he had seen the deceased, and that the
wound in his throat was amply sufficient to account for his death; that it was inflicted with
a sharp instrument having an edge on each side.
This, then, seemed to conclude the case, and the coroner remarked, --
"Gentlemen of the jury, -- I think this is one of those peculiar cases in which an open
verdict is necessary, or else an adjournment without date, so that the matter can be resumed
at any time, if fresh evidence can be procured concerning it. There is no one accused of the
offence, although it appears to me impossible that the unhappy man could have committed
the act himself. We have no reason to throw the least shade of suspicion or doubt upon the
evidence of the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh; for as far as we know anything of the
matter, the murdered man may have been in the company of a dozen people after the baron
left him."
A desultory conversation ensued, which ended in an adjournment of the inquest, without

any future day being mentioned for its re-assembling, and so the Baron Stolmuyer entirely
escaped from what might have been a very serious affair to him.

It did not, however, appear to shake him in his resolution of taking Anderbury-on-the-
Mount, although Mr. Leek very much feared it would; but he announced to that gentleman
his intention fully of doing so, and told him to get the necessary papers drawn up forthwith.
"I hope," he said, "within a few weeks' time to be fairly installed in that mansion, and
then I will trouble you, Mr. Leek, to give me a list of the names of all the best families in
the neighbourhood; for I intend giving an entertainment on a grand scale in the mansion
and grounds."
"Sir," said Mr. Leek, "I shall, with the greatest pleasure, attend upon you in every
possible way in this affair. This is a very excellent neighbourhood, and you will have no
difficulty, I assure you, sir, in getting together an extremely capital and creditable
assemblage of persons. There could not be a better plan devised for at once introducing all
the people who are worth knowing, to you."
"I thank you," said the baron; "I think the place will suit me well; and, as the Baroness
Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh is dead, I have some idea of marrying again; and therefore it
becomes necessary and desirable that I should be well acquainted with the surrounding
families of distinction in this neighbourhood."
This was a hint not at all likely to be thrown away upon Mr. Leek, who was the grand
gossip-monger of the place, and he treasured it up in order to see if he could not make
something of it which would be advantageous to himself.
He knew quite enough of the select and fashionable families in that neighbourhood, to be
fully aware that neither the baron's age nor his ugliness would be any bar to his forming a
matrimonial alliance.
"There is not one of them," he said to himself, "who would not marry the very devil
himself and be called the Countess Lucifer, or any name of the kind, always provided there
was plenty of money; and that the baron has without doubt, so it is equally without doubt
he may pick and choose where he pleases."
This was quite correct of Mr. Leek, and showed his great knowledge of human nature;
and we entertain with him a candid opinion, that if the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh had
been ten times as ugly as he was, and Heaven knows that was needless, he might pick and
choose a wife almost when he pleased.
This is a general rule; and as, of course, to all general rules there are exceptions, this one
cannot be supposed to be free from them. Under all circumstances, and in all classes of
society, there are single-minded beings who consult the pure dictates of their own hearts,
and who, disdaining those things which make up the amount of the ambition of meaner
spirits, stand aloof as bright and memorable examples to the rest of human nature.
Such a being was Flora Bannerworth. She would never have been found to sacrifice
herself to the fancied advantages of wealth and station, but would have given her heart and

hand to the true object of her affection, although a sovereign prince had made the
endeavour to wean her from it.
--
Chapter XCVII.
THE ADMIRAL'S PREPARATIONS, AND THE VISIT TO DEARBROOK.
It was quite finally settled between the admiral and the Bannerworths that he was to have
the whole conducting of the marriage business, and he even succeeded in getting a
concession from Flora Bannerworth, that he might invite more than twenty guests as had at
first been stipulated. Indeed, she told him that he might ask forty if he pleased.
The admiral had asked for this enlargement of his of powers, because he had received
from the lawyer such a satisfactory list of people who were eligible to be invited, that he
found it extremely difficult to draw any invidious distinction; and, accordingly, he felt fully
inclined, as far as he was concerned, to invite them all, which was a piece of liberality he
scarcely expected Flora would accede to.
When, however, he got leave to double the number, he considered that he was all right,
and he said to Jack Pringle, to whom, as usual, he had got completely reconciled, --
"I say, Jack, my boy, we'll have the whole ship's crew, and no mistake; for, at a wedding,
the more the merrier, you know."
"Ay, ay, sir," said Jack, "that's true. I have not been married more than a dozen times
myself, at the outside, and I always took care to have lots of fun."
"A dozen times, Jack! you don't mean that?"

"I rather think I does. You know I was married at different ports of India twice; and then
wasn't I married in Jamaky; and then after that wasn't I married in the South Seas, in one of
the Friendly Islands?"
"A deuced deal too friendly, I should say. Why, confound you, Jack, you must have the
impudence of the very devil."
"Yes, I believe ye I have. I look upon it that it's our impudence has got us on in the
world."
"How dare you say our, you vagabond? But, however, I won't quarrel with you now, at
any rate, for I expect you to dance a hornpipe at the wedding. But mind me now, Jack, I am
serious -- I won't have any drunkenness."
"Well, it's rather a hard thing that a fellow can't get drunk at a wedding; but I suppose I
must put up with that deadly injury, and do the best I can. And now, admiral, as you have
looked over that little affair of mine, in going to the lawyer's when you didn't want me, I'll
make you a voluntary promise, and that is, that I'll only take two bottles all the day long."
"Two bottles of what?"
"Oh, rum, of course."
"Well, that's moderate; for as I have known you, I think, take about five, of course I can't
very well say anything to two; so you may take that much, Jack, for I really think you won't
be much the worse of it."
"The worse of it! I should think not, sir. It rather strikes me that two bottles of rum
wouldn't hurt a new-born baby. It's just for all the world like milk, you know; it has no
effect upon me; and as far as being fond of drink goes, I'd just as soon take pump water, if
it had a different taste, and was a d -- -d deal stronger."
"Well, well, Jack, that's a bargain, you know, so we need say nothing more about it."
"I suppose there will be a fiddle, and all that sort of thing?"
"Oh, don't doubt that there shall be lots of fun."
"Then I am your man. I'll show them a thing or two that will make them open their eyes a
bit; and if so be as they wants anything in the shape of a yarn, I'm the proper sort of
individual to give it them, I rather think, and no mistake. I'll tell them how you ran away
once, with a female savage after you, with a long thing like a skewer, that she called a
spear, and how you called to all the ship's crew to come and help you, as if the very devil
was at your heels."

Jack very prudently did not wait for an answer to this; for he was rather well aware that it
was not the sort of thing that was exactly pleasing to the admiral, who was just upon the
point, of course, of getting into one of his rages, which would have produced another
quarrel, only, as a matter of course, to end in another reconciliation.
The old man, however, was too well pleased with the unlimited commission he had to do
as he pleased regarding the marriage affair, to allow himself to be put much out of the way
in the matter, and he bent all his mind and energies towards the completion of that piece of
business which he had in hand, and which was certainly the most interesting to him that he
had ever been permitted to engage in.
Passing as he did almost the whole of his life upon the ocean, he had never married, and
his affection for Charles Holland, who was the only relative he had in the world, was of that
concentrated nature which is only to be found under such circumstances.
Charles's mother had always had a large portion of the admiral's regards, and when upon
returning home once from a cruise of three years' duration he found that she was dead, and
had left behind her an orphan child, he at once avowed his intention of filling the place of a
parent to it, and that he had both in the spirit and the letter kept his word, we know that
Charles Holland was always most ready to admit.
Perhaps the severest shock he ever experienced was when that letter purporting to be
from Charles, but which was really the production of Marchdale and Varney, was
produced, and which seemed at the first blush to imply a dishonourable breaking of his
contract with Flora; and if anything could have increased his admiration of her, it certainly
was the generous and noble manner in which she repudiated that attempt to injure Charles
in her esteem, and at once declared her belief that the letter was a forged document.
We may easily imagine, then, from these preceding circumstances, that the marriage of
Charles with one whom he so entirely approved of was one of the most gratifying affairs in
the old man's life, and that he viewed it with an extraordinary interest.
As we have before stated, he got possession for a month of the house on which he had
fixed his fancy, and an extremely handsome and commodious place it was.
It was arranged that after they had remained there for some time they should all move off
to Dearbrook together, and as it was only in early infancy that the Barnnerworths had seen
that estate, they purposed paying it a visit before the marriage ceremony took place.
This was an idea of the old admiral's, for he said truly enough, "You can't possibly know
what state it is in till you go there, and it may be necessary, for all we know, to do a great
deal to it before it is fit for occupation."
Apart from this consideration, too, it seemed likely enough that somebody might be in it;
for of late it had changed hands, and, for all they knew, the Bannerworth family might have
to institute a suit at law for its recovery.

The distance was sufficient to make it a whole day's journey; but it was a very pleasant
one, for they went in a travelling carriage, replete with every accommodation, and the road
passed through one of the most fertile and picturesque counties of England, being
interspersed with hill and dale most charmingly, and reminding the younger branches of the
Bannerworths of some of those delightful continental excursions which they once had the
means of making, but which, for a long time, they had not had an opportunity of enjoying.
It was towards the close of a day of great beauty, for the season, that they reached the
village of Dearbrook, close to where the estate was situated, and put up at the principal inn,
to which they were directed.
The circumstances under which the Dearbrook property had been left for a long time had
been such, that there was likely to be some difficulty concerning it.
In fact, it had been used by Marmaduke Bannerworth as a kind of security from time to
time for his gambling debts, so it was probable that hardly any one had had it long enough
to trouble himself about rentals.
"If we find any one," said Henry Bannerworth, "in possession, I shall not trouble them to
pay anything for the use of the house they have had, provided they quietly give up
possession, and leave the place in a decent state."
"Oh, that of course they will do," said Charles Holland, "and be too glad to escape arrears
of rent; but it would be no bad thing to ask the landlord of this house what is the state of the
property; no doubt he can not only let us know whether it be tenanted or not, but, if so,
what sort of people they are who occupy it."
This suggestion was agreed to, and when the landlord was summoned, and the question
put, he said, --
"Oh, yes, I know the Dearbrook estate quite well; it's a very handsome little property, and
is at present occupied by a Mr. Jeremiah Shepherd, a Quaker -- a very worthy gentleman
indeed, I believe; but I suppose all Quakers are worthy people, because, you see, sir, they
wear broad brimmed hats and no collars to their coats."
"An excellent reason," said the admiral; "but I had a friend who did know something
about Quakers, and he used to say that they had got such a reputation for honesty that they
could affort to be rogues for the rest of their existence."
"Well, well," said Henry, "we can but call upon him. Do you think that this would be a
reasonable hour?"
"Oh, yes, sir," said the landlord; "he is sure to be at home at this hour if you have any
business to transact with Mr. Shepherd. He is a very respectable man, sir, and as it is his
own property that he lives upon, he is quite a gentleman, and never wears anything but drab
breeches and gaiters."

Without waiting to enter into any further conversation with the landlord, who had such
extraordinary reasons for his opinions, Henry, and Charles, and the admiral, leaving the rest
of the party at the inn, proceeded to Dearbrook Lodge, as it was called, and found as they
approached it that it exceeded in appearance their warmest anticipations.
It was a substantial red brick house, of the Tudor style of architecture, and had that air of
dignified and quite repose about it which a magnificent lawn, of the greenest possible turf,
in the front always gives to a country mansion.
The grounds, too, seemed to be extensive, and, to take it for all in all, the Bannerworth
family had every reason to be well pleased with this first view that they got of their
acquired property.
"You will have some trouble," said the admiral, "with the Quaker, you may depend. They
are a race that cry hold fast to anything in the shape of pounds, shillings, and pence, and are
not very easy to be dealt with."
"Oh, the man will not be so absurd, I should think," said Charles. "It can be proved that
the estate was in the Bannerworth family for many years, and your possession, Henry, of
the title deeds will set the question at rest. But see what a stately looking servant is coming
in answer to the ring which I have just given to the bell."
A footman, most certainly having all the appearance of what is so frequently advertised
for as "a serious man servant," advanced to the gate, and, in answer to the inquiry if Mr.
Shepherd was within, he said, --
"Yes, truly is he; but he liketh not to be disturbed, for he is at prayers -- that is to say, at
dinner, and is not accustomed to be disturbed thereat."
"I regret that we must disturb him," said Henry, "for our business happens to be
important, and we must positively see him."
Upon this remonstrance the servant unlocked the gate, and conducted them up a path by
the side of the lawn which led to the house, and the more they saw of it the more pleased
they were with the many natural beauties with which it abounded, and Henry whispered to
Charles, --
"I am quite sure that Flora will be delighted with this place, for, if I know anything of her
taste, it will just suit it agreeably and comfortably, and I do sincerely hope that we shall be
able to get possession without the disagreeable necessity of a law suit."
They were ushered into a handsome apartment, and then told that Mr. Shepherd would be
with them very shortly; and they were not sorry to have a little leisure for studying the
place before its reputed owner made his appearance.

"I suppose," said Henry, "the best way will be at once to state that I am the owner of the
place, and upon what conditions I am willing to forego any claim that I might otherwise
succeed in setting up for arrears of rental during the time that he has been here."
"Oh, yes," said Charles; "you cannot be too explicit; but hush! here he comes, and you
will soon know what sort of an individual you have to deal with in this matter."
At this moment, the door opened, and Mr. Shepherd, the present ostensible possessor of
the Dearbrook estate, and whose appearance spoke to the truth of the landlord's word, make
his appearance. But as what he said was sufficiently important to deserve a new chapter, we
shall oblige him with one.
--
Chapter XCVIII.
THE INTERVIEW WITH THE QUAKER AT DEARBROOK.
The Quaker was a man of about middle age, and was duly attired in the garb of the
particular sect to which he belonged. There was about his countenance all that affectation
of calmness and abandonment of worldly thoughts and desires which is mistaken by so
many people for the reality of self-denial, when, really, those who know this sect well, are
perfectly aware that there is not a more money-loving, grasping people on the face of the
earth.
After gravely motioning his visitors to be seated, Mr. Shepherd cast his eyes up to the
ceiling, as if he were muttering some prayer, and then he said, --
"Verily, may I ask to what I am to attribute this visit from individuals who, in this vale of
unblessedness, are unknown to me."
"Certainly, sir," said Henry; "you are entitled, of course, at once, to such an explanation
of us. I have called upon you because I am the proprietor of this estate, to know how it is
that you became in possession of it, and under what pretence you hold that possession?"
Mr. Shepherd slightly changed colour, and staggered back a pace or two before he said, --
"The property is mine, but I naturally decline to produce my title to any body who may
ask for it. Thou mayest go, now; behind, thee is the door."

"Mr. Shepherd," said Henry, "I am fully in a conditon, as to means and evidence both, to
prove my title to the estate, and an action of ejectment will soon force you from it; but I am
unwilling, under any circumstances, to do what I fully may do if anything short of that will
answer my purpose. I therefore give you fair notice, that if, upon my convincing you that I
am the owner of the estate, you go out quietly within fourteen days, I will make no inquiry
as to how long you have been here, and will say nothing whatever upon the subject of rental
owing to me on account of such occupation."
"I defy thee, friend," said the Quaker; "and if thou givest me any trouble I shall put thee
in Chancery, from whence thou wilt not get out for the term of thy natural life; so I give
thee due notice, and thou mayest please thyself in the transaction; and again I tell thee the
door is exactly behind thee, out of which I beg to request thou shouldest at once walk."
"I tell you what, Mr. Quaker," said the admiral, who had with difficulty restrained himself
thus far, "I look upon you as one of the greatest humbugs ever I came across, and that's
saying a great deal, for in my time I have come across some thumpers; and if we don't make
you smart for this confounded obstinancy, you wolf in sheep's clothing, we will know the
reason why. If it costs me a thousand pounds I will make you suffer for it."
"Thou mayest be damned, friend," said the Quaker; "possession is a great number of
points of the law, and, as I have it, I mean to keep it. I have a friend who is in the law, and
who will put thee as comfortably in Chancery, and with as little expense to me as possible.
This is a very charming estate, and I have not the slighest intention of giving it up."
"But you must," said Charles, "give it up to the right owner. How can you be so foolish as
to run yourself to legal expenses for nothing?"
"Teach thy grandmother, young man, to suck eggs," said the Quaker. "I wish thee all a
remarkably good day, and thou mayest all return from whence thou camest, and hang
thyselves, if thou pleasest, for all I care; and having made up my mind to live and die on
this very pleasant property. I shall have to put thee all into Chancery."
"Why, you canting thief!" said the admiral.
"Thou mayest be damned," said the Quaker. "In speaking so to thee, I use the language
which I am perfectly well aware thou wilt best understand; so I say unto thee again, thou
mayest be damned. Obediah, show these sinners off the premises; and, should they refuse
to go with that quickness that shall seem to be fitting and proper, thou mayest urge them on
with divers kicks on their hinder persons, and thou mayst likewise call to thy aid, Towzer,
the large dog, to bite singularly great mouthfuls out of them."
The Quaker turned, and was walking in a very stately manner out of the room, when the
admiral stepped forward, and exhilarated his movements with such a kick, that away he
went as if he had been shot out of a gun.

"There, friend," said the admiral, "since you seem found of kicking, I think that is a very
good beginning. It strikes me you didn't know who you had to deal with; and now, Mr.
Obediah, it's your turn, and we'll manage Towzer when we get outside."
"I think thee all the same, friend," said Obediah, "but would rather be excused."
"Perhaps you would like your nose pulled instead, then?"
"No, friend, it is quite long enough already; and I shall take myself off to the lower
regions of these premises forthwith."
So saying, Obediah rushed from the room with great precipitancy, leaving, most
ceratinly, the admiral and his party masters of the field; and although both Henry and
Charles both disapproved of the assault which the admiral had committed, they could not
interfere for laughing, and, as they left the house, which they did now of their own accord,
Charles said, --
"Uncle, you may depend you will be pulled up to the quarter session."
"Damn the quarter session!" said the admiral. "Do you think I was going to sit still,
quietly, while that vagabond promised to kick me; but, as it is, it's all up with coming to
Dearbrook to live for one while to come; for, if he is really as good as his word, and puts
the matter into Chancery, there's an end of it. I have heard it's like ducking in head foremost
into a hollow tree, with a wasp's nest at the bottom of it; you may kick, but I'll be damned if
you can get out."
"Well," said Henry, "I believe that's rather an apt illustration; but we must do the best we
can in such a case, and, in the meantime, seek out some other place to reside in. Your
friend, the little lawyer in the town, shall have the case to conduct for us, and perhaps, after
all, we shall defeat the Quaker sooner than you imagine."
"I long to see the day come," said the admiral, "when that fellow will have to troop out of
the place; for, in all my life, I never did know such confounded impudence as he treated us
with."
"Never mind, never mind," said Charles; "the time must come, of course, when this
pleasant estate, to which we have taken such a fancy, will be ours; and, until then, we shall
have no difficulty whatever in finding some sweet verdant spot, full of exquisite and natural
beauties, which we can make a home of well and easily, caring nothing for being a short
time only kept from possession of that which, of right, shall, in a short time, belong to us;
and there is one thing that I am rejoiced at, which is, that Flora has not seen this place; so
that she can have no regret about it, because she don't know of its existence farther than by
name, and it can hold no place in her imagination which could make it a subject matter of
regret."

When they reached the inn, they informed Mrs. Bannerworth and Flora of the ill success
of their enterprise, and of the obstinacy of the tenant of the house; and on that evening they
had a good laugh with each other about the little scene that had occurred between the
admiral and the Quaker; so that, upon the whole, perhaps, they were quite as happy -- for
people can but laugh and be merry -- as if they had at once got possession of the Dearbrook
estate without any trouble or difficulty whatever.
They determined upon staying there for that night, although they might have got fresh
horses and gone back, if it had pleased them so to do; but there was much to tempt them in
the romantic scenery, around which they took a stroll, when it was lit up by the sweet
moonlight, and everything came out in silvery relief, looking so beautiful and serene, so
pensively quiet and so admirable, that it was calculated to draw the mind entirely from all
thought of earthly matters, and to completely rid them of even the shadow of an annoyance
connected with that Dearbrook property which was so wrongfully detained from them.
"It is at such seasons as this," said Flora, "that contentment steals into the heart, and we
really feel with how little we should be satisfied, provided it be sufficient to insure those
ordinary comforts of existence which we all look for."
"It is, indeed," said Charles; "and you and I, Flora, would not repine if our lot had been
much more humble than it is, provided Heaven had left us youth and love."
"Those, indeed," said Henry, "are dear possessions."
"Well, then," remarked the admiral, "you have got youth on your side, and I once knew a
worse looking fellow than even you are; so why don't you fall in love with somebody at
once?"
"Don't make so sure, uncle," said Flora archly, "that he has not."
The old admiral laughed -- for he liked Flora to call him uncle, and said, --
"You shall tell me all about it, Flora, some day when we are alone; but not now, while
these chaps are listening to every word we utter."
"I will," said Flora; "it's a grand secret of Henry's, which I am determined to tell."
"That's very unkind of you," said Henry, "to say the least of it."
"Not at all. If your had trusted me, Henry, it would be quite another thing; but as I found
it out from my own natural sagacity, I cannot see that I am bound in the slightest to bestow
upon you any consolation on acount of it, or to shew you any mercy on the subject."
"And she hopes," said Charles, "that that will be a lesson to you to tell her upon another
occasion everything whatever, without the slightest stint or hindrance."

"I stand convicted," said Henry; "and my only consolation is, that I don't mind a straw the
admiral knowing all about it, and I meant to tell him myself, as a matter of course."
"Did you?" said the admiral; "that's a very good attempt to get out of it; but it won't
answer exactly, Henry, with those who know better; so say no more."
In such light and pleasant conversation they passed some time, until the chill night air,
grateful and pleasant as it was to the senses, made them think it prudent to retire to the inn
again.
After they had partaken of the evening meal, and Flora and Mrs. Bannerworth had retired
to rest, the gentlemen sat up, at the express desire of the admiral, to talk over the affair
upon which they were all in common so deeply interested.
A general feeling of anxiety evidently pervaded all their minds to ascertain something of
the whereabouts or the fate of Varney, who had so very mysteriously taken himself off at a
time when they least of all expected he would have executed such a manoeuvre.
"You all see," said the admiral, "that what is bred in the bone, as I told you, will never be
out of the flesh; and this vampyre fellow could not possibly be quiet, you see, for long, but
he must be at his old tricks."
"I do not know," said Charles Holland, "but I am rather inclined to think that he has
somehow become aware that he had become rather a trouble to us, and so his pride, of
which I think we have had evidence enough that he has a large share of, took the alarm; and
he went off as quick as he could."
"It may be so," said Henry; "and, of course, in the absence of anything to the contrary, I
feel inclined to give even Varney, the Vampyre, credit for as much purity of motive as I
can."
"That's all very well, in its way," said the admiral; "but you must acknowledge that he did
not leave in the most polite manner in the world; and then I, for one, cannot exactly
approve of his jumping upon Dr. Chillingworth's back, from off a garden wall, as a cat
would upon a mouse."
"Be liberal, uncle," said Charles, "and recollect that we are not quite sure it was Varney,
for the doctor declines to be positive upon the subject, and he ought to know."
"Stuff," said the admiral; "the doctor knows well enough; but he is like the man that
threatened to kick the other for laughing at his wife -- he said he was sure he had done it,
but if he had been d -- -d sure, he would have kicked him into the middle of next week."
"Certainly," said Charles, "the doctor seems quite clearly of opinion, that whoever
committed that assault upon him, did so with a full knowledge of the worth of the picture,
which he believes contained within its extra lining, bank notes to a large amount."

"And which," said Henry, "after all, is but a supposition, and Varney, after such an
attempt to possess himself of such a treasure, if it was he that made it, may be actually now
a houseless wanderer; but I consider that such has been the notoriety of his proceedings,
that if he now attempts any vampyre tricks, he very soon will be discovered, and we shall
hear of him."
"From his own account," said Charles Holland, "he has not been the most scrupulous
person in the world with regard to the means by which he has, from time to time, recruited
an exhausted exchequer; and we can easily imagine that this vampyre business of his would
so terrify and paralyse people, that he would have little difficulty in robbing a house under
such circumstances."
"You may depend," added Charles, "that he has done one of two things. He has either
commenced a much more reckless career than ever he has yet attempted, or he has gone
away completely into obscurity, and will never be heard of again. I sincerely myself hope
that the latter is the case, for it will be better for him, and better for everybody connected
with him."
"Hang the fellow," said the admiral; "I should not like him to starve, although he has
given us so much trouble; and I hope that if anything very queer happens to him, he will not
scruple to let us know, and he shall not positively want. But come, is it to be another
tumbler a-piece, or to bed?"
Bed was voted, for such they knew was the admiral's wish, or he never would have
mentioned the alternative; and in the course of another half hour the whole of these persons,
in whose fate we profess to have so profound an interest, were wrapped in repose.
We will now turn to a consideration of what this singular and mysterious Baron
Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh was about, for that he has some ulterior objects in view, which, by
no means, at present, shew themselves, we cannot doubt; and, likewise, there can be no
question but that very shortly some of his views and projects will develop themselves.
--

Chapter XCIX.
THE BARON BECOMES MASTER OF ANDERBURY-ON-THE-MOUNT, AND

BEGINS TO CONGRATULATE HIMSELF. -- THE DREAM.
It was a wonderful relief to Mr. Leek to find that the fact of a dead body having been found
in the subterranean passage of Anderbury House, was really no bar to the baron possessing
himself of those premises.
Mr. Leek could not disguise from himself that, to many persons, it would have been a
serious impediment, and the very mystery in which that affair was still wrapped up, would
have made the impediment greater, because people don't so much think of a murder, which
is all found out, and for which the perpetrator suffers; but a murdered body found, and yet
no murderer, keeps public curiosity upon the stretch, and is almost certain destruction to
house property.
But now, whether the baron bought Anderbury House, or rented it, was much the same to
Mr. Leek; for, in the former case, he got his per centage all at once; and, in the latter, acting
as agent, he got more, but he got it by degrees.
He waited, therefore, with some degree of feverish impatience to know which way that
illustrious individual would make up his mind; and when he said, at length, in his strange
calm way, that he would give 10,000 pounds for Anderbury-on-the-Mount, Mr. Leek wrote
off, in violent haste, to the owner, advising him to accept the same without delay; and, as
the owner never intended again to set foot in Anderbury House, and, moreover, wanted
money, he wrote back again in as violent haste that he would take 10,000 pounds most

certainly, and wished the transaction concluded as quickly as it very well could be,
promising Mr. Leek, which was a very gratifying thing to that gentleman, not on account of
the money, as he himself said, "Oh, dear, no!" but as a matter of feeling, a handsome bonus,
in addition to his per centage, if he quickly got the matter completed.
Armed with this authority, the agent showed an amount of generalship which must, if he
had been placed in the situation of Field Marshal the Duke of Wellington, have won for
him all the continental battles.
He went at once to the baron, and told him that he had received a letter from the owner of
Anderbury-on-the-Mount, asking 10,500 pounds for the estate, but leaving it at his, Mr.
Leek's option to take 10,000 pounds if he chose.
"Now, my lord baron," said Mr. Leek, "business is business, and I may as well put 250
pounds in my pocket, and your lordship put 250 pounds in yours, as not."
"That is to say," said the baron, "that you are willing to sell your employer's interest to
me."
"Oh, why, it isn't exactly that, you know, my lord; only you know, in these transactions,
everybody does the best he can for himself; and I am sure I should be very sorry if you
thought that -- that -- -"
"Mr. Leek," interrupted the baron, "you need have no delicacy with me, whatever. I
believe you to be as great a rogue as ever stepped; so you need make no excuses, only, of
course, you cannot expect me to assist you in your villany -- that is quite out of the
question; so you will understand that I decline giving more than the 10,000 pounds for
Anderbury House; and, if that is not accepted in one hour from this time, I will not have it
at all."
"It's accepted now at once," groaned Mr. Leek, who found that the baron was too many
for him. "It's accepted at once, my lord; and I beg that you will bury the past in what do you
call it -- oblivion."
"Very good," said the baron. "I presume, if I give you a check for a thousand pounds as a
deposit, I may have possession at once, while the deeds are preparing."
"Certainly, my lord baron; oh! certainly."
The baron then gave Mr. Leek, and took his acknowledgment for the same, a check for a
thousand pounds on one of the most eminent banking-houses in London; and in two hours
from that time, such was the celerity and precision of his movements, he took possession of
Anderbury House, and engaged the man and woman who had been minding it to be his
temporary servants, until he could get up an establishment suitable to his rank, and the
place he inhabited.

It would have been a strange sight to Mr. Leek, and would have made him open his eyes a
little with wonder, if he could have seen the baron traversing the apartments of Anderbury
House alone.
"And am I at last settled?" he said to himself, as he stood in a large saloon. "Am I at last
settled in a home such as I can really call my own? -- and shall I not be hunted from it by
my enemies? Let me consider -- I will be quick in giving such an entertainment here, that it
shall be talked of for many a day to come. It shall be such an entertainment as shall present
to me all of youth, beauty, rank, and wealth, that can be found in the neighbourhood; and
out of them I will choose some one who shall be the baroness, and, for a time, pace the
stately halls as their mistress -- for a time; yes, I have said only for a time. I wonder if there
be a family vault to this property, because, if there be, I may want to use it."
In this purchase of Anderbury on-the-Mount, the ancient furniture of the place had been
all included; so that, in truth, the baron had but to walk in and to find himself, if he could
make himself so, quite at home.
A costly bed-chamber was prepared for him; the bed-linen and furniture of which was
sent by Mr. Leek from his own house; and, no doubt, he fully intended to be well paid for
the same.
The baron, after about two hours spent in the examination of his house, sat down in one
of the principal apartments, and partook of a very slight repast; and after that, folding his
arms upon his bosom, he seemed to give himself up to thought entirely; and from the smile
that occasionally showed itself on his remarkable physiognomy, it would seem that those
thoughts of his were of a pleasant and felicitous character.
Now and then, too, from a few and unsettled words that fell from his lips, it would seem
as if he were greatly felicitating himself upon something which he had achieved that was of
a character to give him intense satisfaction.
Perhaps it was the death of this singular man who called upon him, that gave him so
much pleasure; and we are inclined to think that was the case, for, after the commission of a
murder such as that, one of two feelings were pretty sure to possess him.
Remorse might take possession of him, and he might suffer much mental anguish in
consequence of the deed; or the object which he achieved by that death might be of such a
nature as to become quite a subject of congratulation, so as, whenever, he thought upon it,
to give him the pleasantest and most delightful feelings.
It looked very much as if this was the case as regarded the baron, because it was as clear
and evident as the sun at noon day, that he had felt no degree of remorse or regret for that
deed; and that, as regards his conscience, certainly the murder he had committed sat as easy
upon it as anything well could.

The evening was now drawing on, and the large apartments of the ancient house began to
be enveloped in gloom; but, unlike the generality of persons who have committed crimes,
and whose consciences are charged with injustice, the gathering gloom of night seemed to
have no terror whatever for the Baron Stolmuyer.
But at length, with something of a sense of weariness, he rose and rang for attendance,
desiring to be shown to the bedchamber which had been prepared for his reception.
It was a strange thing; but it seemed to be customary with him not to undress when he
retired to rest; but, as he had done at the hotel, he only took off a portion of his apparel, and
then cast himself upon the bed, and, in a few moments, it seemed as if a deep repose crept
over him.
We say seemed; but, in reality, it was a disturbed and anxious sleep which the baron had;
and soon he began to toss his arms to and fro restlessly, and to utter deep groans, indicative
of mental anguish.
Occasionally, likewise, a muttered word or two, scarcely articulately pronounced, would

come from his lips, such as -- "Save me, save me! Not yet, not yet -- my doom -- no -- no --
the moonlight -- the moonlight -- kill him -- strike him down!"
This state of mind continued for a considerable time, until with a shrill cry he sprung to
his feet, and stood in an attitude of horror, trembling in every limb, and exhibiting a most
horrible and frightful picture of mental distress.
Then there came a loud knocking at his chamber-door, and the voice of the man Davis,
who had been alarmed at the strange shriek that had come from the baron's lips fell upon
his ears. The sound of any human voice, at such a time, was like music to him.
"Are you ill, sir?" cried Davis; "are you ill?"
"No -- no -- it was nothing but a dream -- only a dream;" and then he added to himself,
"but it was a dream of such absolute horror, that I shall dread to close my eyes in rest again,
lest once more so fearful a vision should greet me. It was a dream of such frightful
significance, that it will live in my remembrance like a reality, and be dreamed of again as
such."
He sat down, and wiped the cold perspiration from his brow; then rising, he walked with
unsteady steps towards the window, and throwing aside the massive curtain which shut out
the night without by making a still deeper night within, a flood of beautiful and tender
moonlight fell into the apartment.
As the cold rays fell upon his face, he breathed more freely, and seemed more to revive
beneath their influence than as if he had suddenly found the bright sunshine beaming upon
him in all the refulgence of its mid-day glory.

"I am better now," he muttered; "I am much better now. What a fearful vision that was
which came across my heated fancy! Welcome, welcome, beautiful moonbeams, welcome;
for deep in my very heart I feel your cheering influence now."
The violent trembling which had seized him passed away, and once more he resumed his
wonted composure and calm hideousness of expression, if we may be allowed the word.
Now, for some time, he sat in silence, and then, in a low deep tone, he spoke.
"It was a strange dream! A dream made up of strange fancies and strange impulses! I
thought that I stood in a vaulted chamber, and that all around me depicted nothing but
gloom and desolation; but, as I there stood, the chamber filled with hideous forms, coming
from where I knew not, but still crowding, crowding in, until the shadow of the merest
shade could not have found a place.
"And so they crushed me into the smallest possible space; and there I stood, with a
hundred grinning faces close around me, and in such a mad paroxysm of terror, that I would
have given the world for escape from that dreadful thraldom.
"But they gibed at me, filling my ears with shrieking noises, and then at once there was a
proposition -- a proposition yelled out with shrieking vehemence by every voice. It was, to
place me in the tombs even as I was, a living man.
"'Heap mountains of earth upon him,' cried a voice. 'Endow him with the rare gift of
immortality, and then let him lie buried for thousands of years yet to come.'
"They seized upon me, those gaunt and terrific forms, and deep into the bowels of the
earth I was hurried -- a depth beyond all calculation; and when I thought my fate was
sealed, a change came over me, and I found myself in one of the ice-wells of this mansion,
cold and death-like, while a crowd of eager, curious faces, illumined by the light of torches,
gazed down upon me, but no one spoke; and then they began to cast large fragments of the
rocky cliff upon me.
"I called for aid, and asked for death; but still they proceeded to fill up the pit, while I lay,
incapable of anything but agonised thought, at the bottom of it.
"Then it was, I presume, that in my despair I shook off that fearful slumber and
awakened."
He was silent, and seemed again much to rejoice in the moonbeams, as they fell upon his
face; and, after a time, in order, it would appear, that he might feel more of their influence,
he opened the window, and stepped out upon a balcony which was immediately in front of
it.
The view that he now had was a beautiful one in the extreme, spreading far over, in one
direction, a beautiful tract of highly cultivated country; and on the other, as far as the eye

could reach, upon the boundless ocean, on which the moonbeams fell with such beauty and
power, that, still and placid as the waters were on that particular night, the sea looked like a
sheet of radiant silver, broken into gentle irregularities.
It was a scene upon which a poet or a painter -- but painters should all be poets, although
poets may not be painters -- might gaze with rapture and delight.
Not the slightest breath of air stirred the gentlest leaf upon a forest tree; but such a
calmness and such a serenity reigned over all things, that one might imagine oneself
looking upon some new and beautiful world, the harmony of which had never yet been
disturbed by the jarring sounds of elemental strife.
Strange thoughts and feelings seemed to come over the baron, as he then looked upon that
mild and placid scene without, and, after a time, he spoke, saying, --
"And what do I struggle for now?" What is it now but mere existence that is the end and
aim of all these anxious thoughts and feelings? Nothing more, nothing more, but the mere
liberty to breathe and to be anxious -- the capacity to endure pain. That is what I live for --
nothing else -- nothing else in the wide world; for when and how can I expect that calm
contentment of the soul which man takes such pains to cast from him, but which I know the
full value of, can ever be mine?"
Once more he cast his eyes around him, upon the great extent of cultivated country, and
although he felt he could call the most of it, that lay immediately beneath his observation,
his own, it yet gave him but little gratification to do so, and probably he looked with about
as much indifference upon his own possessions as any one possibly could.
"This is a new career," he said, "and something tells me that it is my last; so, while it
continues, I will not shrink from it, but, on the contrary, enjoy it; and I will endeavour to
lose the recollection of those stormy periods of my existence which have passed away in a
complete round and whirl of what the world calls enjoyments and delights. I will spend
large sums on brilliant entertainments, and this house, which they tell me has been so long
deserted by everything in the shape of festivity and hilarity, shall once again ring with
joyous laughter, and I will make an endeavour to forget what I am."
He evidently dreaded again to lie down to repose, for, after some time further spent in
thought, and in the expression of the feelings that lay uppermost in his mind, he put on
again that portion of his apparel which he had taken off.
"In this soft and pleasant moonlight," he said, "which is so grateful to my senses, I will
walk in the gardens of this mansion; and, should a sense of weariness oppress me, I shall be
able to find, no doubt, some pleasant spot where I can lie down to rest, and I shall not fear
horrifying or anxious dreams when I can repose beneath the beams of the moon, which cool
my fevered brow."

With a slow and stately step he moved across the long and beautiful corridor from which
his chamber opened, and then, descending the grand staircase, and in that house a grand
staircase it really was, he made his way across the hall, and, undoing the fastening of a
window which opened into a large and handsome conservatory, he passed through that
again, and soon found himself in the extensive gardens of Anderbury.
Certainly, if there be any sight more chaste and beautiful than another, it is a highly-
cultivated and well-wooded garden by moonlight, and we cannot but admire the taste of the
Baron Stolmuyer in prefering it even to the stately bed-chamber he had so recently left, and
which, notwithstanding all the advantages and beauties that art could bestow upon it, could
never hope to rival, or even to come near, the natural beauties of that highly-cultivated
piece of ground.
And there are some flowers, too, that give out their sweetest odours to the night air, and
some again that unfold their choicest beauties only when the sun has set, and the cold
moonbeams can but look down upon them.
When he got fairly into the garden, he found that there was a light, gentle breeze playing
among the shorter shrubs and flowers, but that it reached not high enough to stir the leaves
of the trees; but it is extremely doubtful if, completely taken up as this man was, no doubt,
with worldly pursuits, he did not, after the first few moments, completely forget the world
of natural beauties by which he was surrounded.
Folding his arms, he walked along the stately avenues with a solemn tread, and then, soon
banishing from his mind those feelings of melancholy sadness which had oppressed him, he
began evidently to indulge in dreams of felicity which, by the manner in which he spoke of
them, were evidently but dreams.
"What can I desire or want more than I have?" he said, "Immense wealth -- consequently,
immense power. Golden opinions may always be purchased with gold, and what is there
then really to hinder me pursuing to the full the career which I have marked out to myself?
Surely I can surround myself with all that is young, and delightful, and beautiful? Can I not
make these halls echo with such laughter, that surely it must awaken, even in my breast,
joyous emotions? Then there is the wine cup; why should not that flow with rich
abundance, gladdening the hearts of all, and adding even to genius, for the time, a new fire,
and a more delightful expression of its thoughts and feelings?
"And music, too: surely I can have abundance of music, to shed the witchery of its
charms about me; and, with these inducements and allurements, I must and will succeed in
banishing reflection, if I achieve no more."
As he now stood, and turned his eyes towards the east, he fancied he saw that the morning
light was beginning faintly to show itself in the far off horizon.
"Another day is coming," he said, "and how much, how very much might be done in a
day. I will, with the assistance of that man Leek, who, I can readily perceive, is quite
willing to bow down to any idol, provided it be of gold, to commence the career of

festivities that I have set my heart upon, and we shall soon see how striking an alteration
will take place in the halls of Anderbury."
He entered a small summer-house which was built in the garden, and through the stained
glass of which the moon shone with a variegated light, and there he sat down, and, after a
time, tasted of that repose which, upon the bed of down that he had left, and surrounded by
all the costly litter of his handsome bedchamber he had courted in vain.
--
CHAPTER C.
MR. LEEK SPECULATES UPON THE BARON'S MATRIMONIAL INTENTIONS.
Mr. Leek pondered deeply over what the baron had said to him regarding his intention to
take unto himself a wife, and viewed the resolution in all its bearing, with a view of
discovering in what way such a thing could be turned to account, and whether that account
might not be managed to his own advantage, which was a matter than Mr. Leek very often
considered of paramount importance to himself, as being the pivot upon which things
moved.
In Mr. Leek was certainly centered all those notions which usually arise from a desire to
benefit onesself, and causing, as far as in him lay, all events to circle around him when they
least appeared to do so.
"I must make this move of the baron's matrimonial alliance redound to my own advantage
in some way or other, though I cannot precisely say in what way; but, if I have any hand in
it, there must be a way, of that there can be no doubt; the only thing is to discover the way."
Mr. Leek set himself steadily to consider the subject in all its various bearings,
determined he would not give up the chase until he had discovered what was to be done.
"I have it -- I have it!" he muttered -- "I have it; who can suggest anything better? I must
have something to do in the suggestive style. I will persuade the baron to invite some one
with whom I can have a few words in private. I will have some few words in the way of a
bargain with them.

"Yes, yes; I will do my best to make somebody else's fortune; but at the same time they
must do something for me in return. I must have a quid for my quo, as the parsons say.
They cannot preach the gospel without they have a full stomach; for who can be pious and
hungry at the same moment? I can't, my thoughts would be diverted; but the case holds
good in every relation in life; even though whom I would benefit must benefit me, else I
lose the natural desire I have to benefit them. This reciprocity is the motto I like to apply in
cases of this kind, and very proper too."
Thus did Mr. Leek argue the matter within his own mind, and then, having thus made a
resolution, his next step was to consider how he should put it in practice -- how he should
be able to realize his hopes, and give life and being to the suggestions of his inventive
faculties, which were usually of a practical nature.
"Well, well," he muttered. "Let me see -- it's difficult to say who's who now-a-days; but
that must not cause me to lose a chance, and I think I can make pretty sure of my bargain. I
think, if I undertake anything, I can go through it and not fail. I will have so much of
security as will prove a bargain, and thus bring shame and disgrace upon them if they
refuse to make good the conditions."
Thus Mr. Leek had an eye to the future, and the contingencies that might, under different
circumstances, arise by any possibility.
Men like Mr. Leek do not often fail in their endeavours when they take a comprehensive
view of any affair in which they might engage, and thus, by contemplating it in all its
various phases, insure, as much as may be, success to all their schemes.
The next consideration that presented itself to Mr. Leek was the party. It was all very well
to chalk out a plan of action -- the mode in which a thing should be done; but it was another
to adapt the tools to the occasion, and make them subservient to the purpose he had in view.
He did not choose his tools first, and then adapt his work; no, he saw his object and
adapted the means to the end; and, in considering this part of the affair, he came to the
following resolution.
"I think I know who to pitch upon," muttered Mr. Leek to himself, in a thoughtful tone.
"Aye, she has several children, and is a widow, too. I know she is comparatively poor, and
not too much troubled with compunction, or any absurd notions of delicacy upon this
matter. I can tell her what I mean better than I could to a good many. Yes, I will go and
visit her. I can come to an understanding at once."
This was satisfactory, and he arose to quit the house, and proceeded to the residence of
Mrs. Williams, the lady whose accommodating disposition, and whose desire to see her
daughters well provided for, would cause her to bargain about matters that many would
think too serious and too much a matter of the affections to be permitted to be looked upon
in the light of a mere affair of pounds, shillings, and pence.

Now, Mrs. Williams was a lady who possessed something very much like a genteel
independence, which is a very mysterious matter, and one which puzzled many people to
divine. No one can understand what a genteel independence means.
It is one of those things that enables people to flit about, apparently comfortable in
circumstances, with genteel clothes, and fingers on which nor marks of toil are observable,
but which are white and soft, through often lean attenuated, in consequence of privations.
However, to return to Mrs. Williams. She was a widow, had several marriageable
daughters, and was most anxious that they should be settled out in life, so that she might be
sure of their future welfare. She was a sharp-sighted, clever woman in some respects; and,
in others, she was as women usually are, which is not saying much.
The house the widow occupied was on a pattern of neatness and gentility, and
ornamented with woman's work from one end to the other; the ladies were accomplished
and well educated, and possessed of some personal charms; and they were not altogether
unacquainted with the fact.
"Yes, yes," he muttered; "I will go to Mrs. Williams, and there we can come to an
immediate understanding. Helen Williams will, I think, stand a very good chance indeed. I
must go and have some conversation with her, and learn her sentiments before I break
ground with him; else she may try something without my aid on her own account."
This was a laudable object, and was but, as he said, merely putting another person in the
way of making a fortune, and putting something into his own pocket at the same time;
which was doing two good things at once, charitable acts of the first class, because charity
begins at home, and then it gives to one's neighbours when we have a surplus.
It did not take Mr. Leek very long to reach the widow's house; and it was not without
some degree of confidence that he rang the bell for admission; and, when a servant
appeared, he said, --
"Is Mrs. Williams at home?"
"Yes, sir, she is," answered the drudge; "do you want her?"
"I wish to see her, else I should not have come here," replied Mr. Leek. "Tell her Mr.
Leek desires to speak with her."
"Very well, sir," said the girl, who left the hall, and then walked to the parlour, in which
Mrs. Williams was seated, and overheard all that was said in the passage.
"Mr. Leek, ma'am," said the girl.

"Tell Mr. Leek to walk in," said the lady; and, in due form, Mr. Leek did walk in,
introduced by the servant, who soon departed, leaving the two worthies in each other's
presence.
"Good morning, Mrs. Williams."
"And good morning, Mr. Leek; this visit is unexpected, but valued. I am happy to see
you. Will you be seated?"
"Thank you," said Leek, "I will. Unexpected incidents give rise to other unexpected
incidents; so, you see, one event gives rise to another, and they follow each other in rapid
succession."
"So they do," said Mrs. Williams.
"Well," said Mr. Leek, as if greatly relieved in mind, giving sound to something very
much like a sigh, "and how so you find yourself this variable weather -- eh, Mrs.
Williams?"
"As well as can be expected, you know, at my time of life."
"Your time of life! Upon my word, you are a young woman; and, if I might hazard an
opinion, one with no small share of charms; indeed, you are decidedly a beautiful woman,
Mrs. Williams."
"Ah! Mr. Leek, I though you were too much a man of business to be given to flattery; but
I am afraid of you."
"There is no need, ma'am, I assure you. But how are your lovely daughters? -- in the
enjoyment of good health and spirits?"
"Yes, they are very well, I thank you, Mr. Leek -- very well indeed; they usually are; they
are considered to enjoy very good health."
"That is a good thing, I am sure -- a very good thing, upon my word; they usually are
well?"
"Yes; they have very little that ails them."
"It will be a blessing to you when they are comfortably provisioned off, under the
protection of some one who will seek their future happiness as he own," said Mr. Leek.
"Why, as to that," said Mrs. Williams, "I am not so anxious as many might be. I love to
see my children round about me; I love to be in their company, and to know that no one can
illuse them."

"That is very true," said Mr. Leek.
"And yet, I have, I must say, at times, a wish that I might, before I die, see them
comfortably settled in life, and their future happiness secured."
"Certainly; it is quite a mother's wish that it should be so; that her children might enter the
world, and that they might be provided for and subject to none of the disagreeable
contingencies of life."
"Those are my feelings."
"I thought as much, Mrs. Williams. Have you heard of the Kershaws lately?" inquired
Mr. Leek.
"Yes; I did hear there was a marriage in the family: pray is it true?"
"It is."
"A good marriage?"
"Yes, I believe a very good marriage; one in which a great deal of money is floating about
from one to the other; indeed, I hear the gentleman is very rich."
"How did they become acquainted with such a man? I did not think they had any friends
who could have brought them into contact with such a person."
"A friend," said Leek.
"Indeed! Why, as I said, I did not know they possessed such friends; but still, I suppose,
there was some drawback -- either low-bred contracted friendships, or some circumstances
or other, that caused him to settle there."
"I believe not," said Leek.
"And what is he then?" inquired Mrs. Williams.
"Why, he was a stronger in those parts; but he had an excellent fortune, and was,
according to all accounts, a very excellent match."
"How came they to find him out? who introduced them to him? I should like to know
such a person."
"Why, some friend."
"How very disinterested of that friend," said Mrs. Williams.

"Not quite. It was a mutual understanding, I believe."
"How?"
"Why, thus; the friend wanted money, and the lady wanted a husband for her daughter."
"Well, I dare say she did, and I should have thought she was like to have waited long
enough."
"And so she would; but an active man of business may have the means of pushing a
family's fortune, if they will but make it worth his while; it was in this manner the
Kershaws have made their fortune."
"And what did they do?"
"Why, they pushed a daughter into certain company into which she was introduced by the
man of business; not by himself, but he managed it so that she was introduced, in a manner
that made it appear as if they had no connection, and then he could exert himself in another
manner, and so contrived to serve them by spreading favourable reports."
"And that's how Mary Kershaw got her husband, is it?" inquired Mrs. Williams, with a
serious air.
"Yes, it is, indeed."
"How very immoral!"
"Eh?"
"How very immoral of a mother speculating in matrimonial matters for her daughter.
How could she expect that she could procure happiness for her, when she uses such
means?"
"What better could she use? You mistake the motive of the affair altogether, Mrs.
Williams; give me leave to say you do."
"Indeed."
"Yes, decidedly. Thus, you don't attempt to buy a daughter's happiness; you only pay an
agent; that is all. But it can be no crime that that agent is engaged upon matters connected
with the happiness of your daughter, which is the great object of a mother's care."
"Certainly -- certainly; how plain all that is," said Mrs. Williams; "but I can't think it is
exactly what I should do myself."
"Perhaps not. But I have exactly such a chance, at this very moment."

"You, Mr. Leek?"
"Yes, I. I have the means, I believe, of obtaining a good fortune for the daughter of a very
respectable person, of the first respectability, and with natural advantages in her favour.
Such a one, if it were worth my while to lose time in carrying such an affair -- "
"Why, then, the matter looks a little different to what it did, and certainly who could
object to do what was just and right?"
"Exactly. Now, if you were desirous of seeing your daughter Helen, for instance,
comfortably provided for, what would you give -- making it a suppositious case -- what
would you give to see your daughter happy and comfortable for life, with a good home over
her head?"
"A good deal."
"What?"
"I cannot say; but, of course, that would depend much upon the value of such a prize; but
I would not hesitate at a trifle in such a matter as that, come what may."
"Well -- well, that is really the best way to consider the affair in all its various branches;
you become more satisfied in the end. Now, do you really think you would be able to
tolerate such an attempt to benefit yourself and daughter?"
"I do."
"Will you enter into particulars?"
"Yes, Mr. Leek; whenever you please. I am willing to attend to your proposal, and will be
bound to anything I may say; for, in matters of this kind, I must consider anything one may
say or undertake, as a debt of honour."
"Exactly. But what we agree to now we must put in black and white, because, by-and-
bye, we may not think of it so well as we should when we see it drawn up before one."
"Agreed. But what of this person?"
"Why, I think, if we were to agree, you would find this gentleman very rich and
munificent, and living in a princely style; he is, in fact, a man of rank -- of title, in fact."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, it is, I assure you, because I know him, and have had business matters to do with
him; and, though a correct man, he is not at all nice about matters in which money is the

chief ingredient. He pays eight hundred a year for rent, so you may guess he is not at all
unlikely to give your daughter a handsome settlement."
"If he will have her."
"Exactly; if he have her; there is the contingency, of course, which, however, cannot
affect you."
"Yes, it must, since my daughter does not obtain her husband."
"And you pay no money. If the benefit is contingent to you, it is to me also. I do not wish
to bind you to anything that will cause you to be a loser under any circumstances."
"Very well," said Mrs. Williams. "Say what you please; there is pen, ink, and paper; make
it out, and I will sign any memorandum you may please, provided it be of the complexion
you have mentioned."
"I wish for no other."
Mr. Leek, accordingly, sat down near a table, and produced an agreement, which was, to
give him a certain sum of money, provided Helen Williams was married to the baron.
"And who is he, my dear Mr. Leek?" said the lady.
"There," said Leek, "read that, and you will see his name."
And, as he spoke, he pushed the memorandum towards her, and she took it up and read it
carefully over, and when she had so done, she signed it, and returned it, saying, --
"So he is a baron."
"Yes; I told you he was a man of rank and title."
"You did; and where will he live?"
"At Anderbury House."
"A fine place; I know it. A splendid and princely place it is, too. He must have a large
fortune there. It will be a splendid match for Helen. I wonder if there be any prospect of
success; it appears almost too great a catch."
"I should say there was every prospect of success."
"But we must not let Helen know anything of our compact. I know her feelings so well,
that I am fully persuaded that she would not acquiesce in the arrangement at all."

"Certainly; it may for ever remain our own secret, with which no human being need be
acquainted."
"That is precisely what I wish; but now how are we to manage the introduction?"
"That will be easy enough."
"I am glad of it; but how is it to be managed at all?"
"Thus: the baron will give grand entertainments, and as he knows I am very well
acquainted with the generality of the gentry about, he has asked me to point out those
whom he might safely invite to his splendid banquets."
"Then you will have the kindness to invite us," said Mrs. Williams. "I see through it now.
Ay, a very good plan. Then you can say everything that is necessary."
"To be sure I can, and will," said Leek.
"Well, I am glad you have called about this to-day, for we have had some little scheme in
view, but unknown to the principal party concerned; however, as this one is in view, I shall
prosecute no other."
"It would be dangerous to attempt two such speculations at once, else he would be
unlikely to fulfil a promise even after he had gone some way towards doing so."
"I would run no risk in landing such a prize," said Mrs. Williams, who began to have a
keen relish for the chance they had in view, such as they had not yet heard of from any
quarter.
"Then I may fully rely upon your putting Helen forward upon every occasion that may
present itself?"
"You may."
"And in the meantime keep as much to yourself as you can. You must profess to be
unbounded in your admiration for all he says or does, and then you will obtain a preference
for companionship, and every little is an aid in such matters."
"I shall be careful."
"And in the meantime I will bid you good day," said Mr. Leek.
--

CHAPTER CI.
THE GRAND ENTERTAINMENT GIVEN BY THE BARON AT ANDERBURY

HOUSE, AND HIS ANNOUNCEMENT.
The baron made quick work of it, for in five days after the one on which he took Anderbury
House, he gave his first entertainment. Money works wonders, and in the baron's hands it
seemed to have lost none of its magical power; for Anderbury House in that time was
furnished like a palace; rich and costly were the decorations -- the ornamental parts were
bold and florid.
The house and grounds were of a most magnificent character, though they had been
viewed as separate features; but when considered as one, as that which was part and parcel
of one great whole, it was truly princely.
Great care, labour, and expense had been exerted to make the mansion one befitting the
habitation of a prince; and the baron himself was looked upon as little less than a prince; his
disregard of money, his liberality, all concurred in making him looked upon as one of the
most popular men in that neighbourhood.
Indeed, none such as he had ever been seen or heard of in that quarter. He was safe to be
considered as one of the grandees of the day.
Anderbury House was now a theme of conversation with every one in the whole town.
His magnificence, liberality, and all things connected with him, were all well calculated to
cause a feeling of prejudice to be made in his favour.
When people saw the men that were at work, the loads of articles which were sent there,
they were amazed, and could hardly credit their senses. Then they all considered how very
rich he must be to be able to spend so much in furniture, in hangings, in beautifying, and in
ornamental work, which must have been very heavy.

The baron was fully determined to do all he had intended to do in the way of opening his
first grand entertainment with great eclat, and in a manner that would take the whole
country by surprise.
The day came; the house was furnished, decorated, filled with servants, and everything
that could make it appear as though it had been for years in that state.
It is surprising how soon a place can be made to lose all signs of its ever having been
uninhabited, and the fact of human beings being in a place soon wears away the look of
desolation by which it is otherwise enveloped; but how much easier must it have been, with
ample means, for a man like the baron to cause such a house as that of Anderbury House to
become what it was.
The great wonder being, not what was done with ample means, but the short time in
which it had all been collected together, which was done with such celerity and such small
signs of bustle and disturbance, that it appeared as if performed by the wand of a magician,
so sudden and so quiet was it done, comparatively.
At the end of five days there was a number of invitations fairly written out and directed,
by order of the baron, to the principal inhabitants and gentry of the place to visit Anderbury
House, and partake of a grand banquet given by the baron to them and his friends on that
occasion.
The day was named, and the information supplied by Mr. Leek to the baron, was of a
character that to that individual was extremely valuable, and of which he freely availed
himself.
It must not be imagined that the worthy Mr. Leek was in any way oblivious of the
promise or obligation into which he had entered with Mrs. Williams, whose name he had
taken very great care to insert in the list of invitations that the baron had sent out.
The evening arrived, and the carriages drove up to Anderbury House in rapid succession.
There were few or none who knew the baron; they were all, however, anxious, most
anxious to see who and what the baron was, who occupied the estate.
The title and name sounded well, and that was what dwelt upon people's minds, and made
an impression upon them, and they freely accepted the invitations, especially when they
inquired among themselves what was the extent of invitations that had been issued, and
they were confined wholly to the elite of the place.
What was thought or said upon the occasion, it would be difficult to say, because it was
so various, and there were none who could in any way form an opinion at all, that wore any
appearance of probability about it.
But there was a rumour spread about that he was a foreigner who had immense riches,
desirous of marrying an Englishwoman, and yet unable to obtain introductions in the usual

way, or else he was merely acting in accordance with the customs and habits of his own
country.
The carriage drive of Anderbury House was completely occupied by the strings of
carriages that had taken up and set down for two hours or more, as rapidly as they could.
The fine apartments that Anderbury House contained, that were destined to be used for
the occasion, were indeed a splendid suit of rooms; but they were now lit up with
chandeliers, and adorned with glasses, and mirrors, and pictures.
As for the ornamental part of the mansion, it was superb. Nothing had been spared in
expense, and by the way in which that was laid out, it was evident the baron was a man of
taste and judgment, and had converted a nobleman's residence into a palace.
****
The gentry came dashing up to the door. The place was crowded, and many were
announced, and met and welcomed by the baron, who gave them a cordial and
distinguished greeting.
There were many persons present; there were astonished at the display of magnificence
and wealth of the baron; they were delighted by his reception of them -- his conversation,
and general manners; and many, too, were much astonished by the splendid entertainment
which he had provided for them.
All that art or the season could produce was there -- superb wines and liqueurs -- fruits --
to an extent they had never before contemplated or thought of.
Anderbury House was without a rival.
The wines were good, and they warmed the blood; and courtesies and civilities of life
were by the aid of the alchemy of old port, splendid and sparkling champagne, sherries,
Burgundies, and other wines, soon turned into friendships and cordialities.
"Baron," said one of the guests, "you have a superb place, and you certainly are the
proper individual to own such a place."
"And why, my dear sir?" inquired the baron, blandly.
"Because you have the taste and heart to decorate and array the place in a manner
befitting its extent, and you have the hospitality of one of the ancients of the east."
"Ha! Ha! very good, my dear sir. You are kind, very kind; but I must admit I do like to
see neighbours act honestly, and in good faith with each other; besides, I am of opinion that
man is a social animal, and one who lives only in society. I cannot be a hermit."

"Right. If the world were all of your opinion -- and I believe they are, practice only is
opposed -- what a state of kindliness and comfort we should all be in -- I am sure of it."
"Ay, so am I. Do you like music?"
"I do," was the answer.
"Then you shall hear some. We shall have the dance presently, and then there will be no
heart that will not beat in unison with the harmonious strain."
"I think they deserve not to be here in the centre of happiness, if they did not."
"Ho! music, there!" said the baron, as he stamped on the floor of the grand saloon, in
which several hundred guests stood.
The call was answered by a loud crash of instrumental music, that came suddenly and
startlingly upon the ears of the guests; but then it was followed by a lighter strain, with a
pretty but marked melody, such a one, that it instantly communicated to those present, the
feeling of being participators, and even actors, in the scene that was about to be enacted
upon the floor.
It required but very little exertion to form the dance, where every one was willing and
anxious to take their places. There was a slight degree of excitement in the procuring of
partners.
Here for a moment the baron was at fault; but, by some means that were not at that
moment explained, or even thought of, Mrs. Williams led the beautiful Helen past the spot
at the moment. He had spoken to her before, and was well pleased with her. He perceived
she was beautiful and amiable. Her mother, too, was with her, and in another moment the
baron stepped forward, saying, --
"Madam, if the hand of your daughter is not already engaged, I beg respectfully to claim
it for the opening dance?"
Mrs. Williams curseyed with condescension, saying, in reply, --
"Yes, my lord. My daughter is disengaged."
"Miss Williams," said the baron, with much deference, "may I request the honour of your
hand?"
Helen Williams curseyed, and said she was not engaged, and accepted of his offer with a
smile, but with some diffidence.
The baron immediately led her to the top of the room, where, by this time, there was a
perfect lane for them to pass through, until they reached the top.

All had taken their places by an instinctive sort of feeling that was almost universal in the
ball-room.
The signal was given, and then the baron led Helen down the first dance, amidst the
admiration of all, and the envy of not a few. The giddy whirl of the dance, the throng of
beauty, and the sweet but gay notes of the bands, added to the coup-d'oeil of the scene -- a
scene of so much happiness and gaiety, that there were few who could have looked coldly
upon it.
The baron, himself, appeared in the highest spirits, and with the greatest hospitality he
sought to administer to the wants of his guests, every moment that he could abstract from
the present leadership of the dance.
He first visited one, and then the other, until he had made a fair round, and then he found
that the night was far advanced, and that, in but a short time, he was convinced that daylight
would come.
The guests were well pleased with the splendour of the entertainment, and the profusion
that was there. Nothing was wanting. All were well pleased with the arrangements. Great
care and great expense had been gone to to gratify and pleasure them, and it had succeeded
indeed; if it had not, they would have been captious and ungrateful to an extreme.
The guests, however well pleased with their entertainment, were still unable to bear up
against the excitement and fatigue of pleasure for hours, and the animal power fails.
Indeed, there is no one sense which may not be exhausted by an overindulgence; even
hearing will, as soon as any other, become invariably tired by listening too long to music;
ay, and even become unable to distinguish between the different melodies; and the guests
began to flag, and to pay more attention to the side tables, and then to look drowsy, and
some few of the younger spirits appeared to have the dance to themselves.
The baron now saw the proper moment had arrived for dismissing the company; and,
causing the music to cease, he advanced to the middle of the room, and, waving his hand,
said, --
"My honoured guests, the sun begins to peep over the hills, and the bright car of Phoebus
rapidly ascends the skies, telling us that another day has begun. The happiest mortals must
part, and so must we. Let me thank you all for this kindness, for thus honouring my banquet
with your presence, and let me hope it may often be thus.
"Often, I say. Yes, fair ladies, your presence will always be a distinguished honour. While
I am a bachelor, I shall continue these fetes once a fortnight regularly, until somebody takes
the arrangement of such matters out of my hands, by legally assuming the title of baroness."
There was a long pause after this announcement, and then a sudden buzz of admiration,
which was heard on all sides; and the ladies looked at each other, the baron, and the

magnificent place they were in. We cannot tell what passed in their minds, but a shrewd
guess might readily be formed, and to the performance of that task we leave the reader.
There were many courtesies before the separation was effected, and an hour had passed
before the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh found himself alone.
--
CHAPTER CII.
THE WEDDING FEAST. -- THE ADMIRAL'S DISAPPOINTMENT.
And now the day arrived, at length, when Charles Holland was to call Flora Bannerworth
his bride.
On this most auspicious event, as may be well imagined, the admiral was in his glory, and
he declared his intention of dancing, if any very handsome young lady should ask him to be
her partner at the ball, but not otherwise; for it had been agreed to have a ball in the
evening.
Jack Pringle, too, was restored completely to favour upon the occasion; indeed, as far as
the admiral was concerned, he seemed to have granted a general amnesty to all offenders,
because he was heard to say, --
"Well, I really should not mind if any poor devil of a Frenchman was to come; he should
know that good eating and drinking was for once in his life; or even that vagabond, old
Varney, the vampyre. What a fool he was to take himself off before the wedding, to be
sure."
Henry Bannerworth had undertaken to take off the old man's hand all the trouble
connected with the actual ceremony. That is to say, letting the clergyman know, and so on;
therefore he, the admiral, had nothing at all upon his mind but the festivities that were to be
gone into upon the occasion.
The numerous guests recommended by the lawyer were invited to a breakfast, which was
to be at one o'clock ; while a favoured few, which, together with the family party, made up,
altogether, about eighteen persons, were to come to the wedding itself, and to be actually
present at the ceremony.

The admiral was rather annoyed at Jack Pringle, about ten o'clock, looking very anxiously
at the sky, and shaking his head in a manner which seemed to indicate that he had
something of importance on his mind.
"What the deuce is in the wind, now?" said the admiral. "You are always looking for foul
weather, you are, and be hanged you!"
"Oh!" said Jack, "I was only a considering what they calls the blessed aspect of the sky,
and it seems to me there is a sort of kind of look about things as says that there won't be no
marriage at all to-day."
"No marriage!"
"No, not a bit of it; I'm tolerably sure there won't. I was a going on one of my numerous
occasions to be married, and there was just that there kind of look in the sky, and I wasn't."
"What kind of look, you lubber? I rather think, after living afloat a matter of forty years
and more, I ought to know the looks of the sky rather, and I don't see any thing unusual in
it."
"Don't you? Then I does; and there won't be no marriage."
"Why you infernal croaking swab, you are drunk or out of your senses, one of the two. I
would bet my head to a bottle of rum, that there will be a marriage."
"I don't mind," said Jack, "betting one bottle to twenty that there won't."
"Done, then -- done; and, Jack, for once in a way, you will find yourself regularly done, I
can tell you. I know you have got some crotchet or another in your head, by which you
think you will get the better of the old man; but it won't do: for I won't stand any quibbling
or lawyer-like sneaking out of it."
"Oh! I won't sneak out of it, you shall see. It shall be all plain sailing and above board, I
can tell you, admiral."
The old man rather puzzled himself to think what Jack could mean; but after a time he
gave it up, and forgot it; for his mind began to be too actively engaged upon what was
going on to pay much attention to what he considered was some joke of Jack's, which
would turn out to be a mere quibble of words after all.
The admiral was right when he said there was no appearance of anything in the weather
to indicate that any stop would be put to the festivity on that account; for a more pleasant,
and a more genial, delightful day for the occasion never shone out of the heavens.
Indeed, if anything could have been considered as a gratifying omen of the future felicity
which Charles Holland was likely to enjoy in the society of Flora Bannerworth, it was the

aspect of that day -- a day so replete with beauties that, had it been picked out specially for
that occasion, it could not have been more gratifying or delightful.
The house was a large and a handsome one which the admiral had taken, and, since, of
course, he considered it to be his own, he was from an early hour in the morning in a
perpetual fidget, and here, and there, and everywhere, for the purpose of seeing that all the
arrangements were complete for the day's proceedings.
As may be well supposed, he was a great hindrance to everybody, and most especially the
servants, whom he had temporarily engaged, wished him at the very devil for his
interference.
But, however, notwithstanding all these drawbacks, by ten o'clock everything was in a
tolerable state of readiness; and then the admiral vociferously congratulated the first of the
guests who arrived, for that was a great merit in the old man's eyes, and, although he did
not know the person a bit, he almost terrified him by the cordiality of his greeting.
"That's right," he said; "take old Time by the forelock, and always be too soon instead of
too late. I'll tell you some capital stories some of these days about the advantage of being a
little too soon -- But, hilloa! here comes somebody else. Egad! we shall have them all here
soon. Here, Jack Pringle! where are you?"
"Here!" cried Jack; "hard on to your larboard bow."
"Pipe all hands among the flunkies!"
"Aye, aye, sir," said Jack.
Producing then a boatswain's whistle, he blew a shrill call, which pleased the admiral, for,
as he said, that was the proper way to begin anything like an entertainment.
People know they must be punctual at weddings, and generally are tolerably so, with the
exception of those persons who are never punctual at anything; so that, in a short time,
nearly the whole of those who had been invited to be present at the ceremony had arrived,
and the hour was fast getting on towards that when the marriage was to take place.
The admiral would have been blind, indeed, if he had not perceived that there was a great
deal of whispering going on among the Bannerworth family, and he got rather indignant
and a little uneasy to know what it could all be about; but, most of all, he began to be
annoyed at Jack Pringle, for that individual's conduct was certainly of a peculiar and
extraordinary character.
Every now and then he would burst out into such an amazing roar of laughter, apparently
at nothing, that it became seriously annoying to the old man; and, finally, taking up a pair
of nut-crackers that were upon the table, he gave Jack a hard rap upon the top of the head,
as he said, --

"Are you out of your senses? what are you going on about?"
"Oh, nothing," said Jack; "I was only a thinking. Don't you recollect our wager?"
"Yes, I do; you have laid me one bottle of rum to twenty that Charles and Flora won't be
married today."
"Very good," said Jack, "that's quite correct, and mind, I hold you to it."
"Hold me to it -- I'll hold you to it. I know well enough it's some stupid joke you have got
hold of."
"Very good," said Jack; "we shall see."
The time crept on, and half-past eleven o'clock came, and the guests were assembled in
the drawing-room, where, by a special licence, the ceremony was to have been performed;
and on the mantle-shelf of which there was a time-piece, indicating the rapid arrival of the
hour named for the ceremony.
"You know, Henry," said the admiral, "I left everything to you. I hope it's all correct,
now, and that you have not made any blunders."
"None whatever, I assure you, admiral. I have arranged everything; but Flora has just told
me that she wants to speak to you."
"Speak to me! then why the deuce doesn't she speak? I suppose she can speak to me
without asking your leave?"
"Admiral," said Flora, "I am extremely anxious to ask you if you will forgive me for
something which may possibly annoy you a little, and which certainly I feel myself
answerable for."
"What is it?"
"You must promise to forgive me first."
"Well, well, of course -- of course I do; what is it?"
"Then, I must say, I would rather not be married to-day."
"What!" cried the admiral.
"I told you so," shouted Jack. "I saw it in the look of the clouds this morning. I never
knew anybody get married when there was a light breeze blowing from the nor'-east."

"You be quiet," said the admiral; "I'll be the death of you, presently. What is the meaning
of this, Flora? Is it not rather a cruel jest to say such a thing to me now?"
"It is no jest, sir, but a fact; I must beg to be excused."
"And I, uncle," said Charles Holland, advancing, "am of the same mind; and I join with
Flora in begging that you will look over the little disappointment this may occasion you."
"Little disappointment!" cried the admiral; "am I awake -- am I out of my senses? Jack,
you rascal, where am I?"
"Can't say," cried Jack; "but I think as how you are abut two points to the south'ard."
"Flora, speak again. You do not, cannot mean to tell me that any foolish quarrel has
interfered to prevent this union, upon which I have set my heart? If you are not jesting,
there must be some very special reason for this alteration of intention."
"There is," said Flora, as she looked the old man kindly in the face; "there is a very
special reason, sir, and one which I will mention to you at once; a reason which makes it
next to impossible that the ceremony should proceed. The real fact is -- "
"Well, go on -- go on."
"That Charles and I were married a fortnight ago."
"D -- n me," said the admiral, "if ever I was so taken in my life. A fortnight ago! shiver
my timbers -- "
"Go on, old pepper-castor," said Jack; "only remember you owe me twenty bottles of
rum."
"I won't look over it," said the admiral; "I won't and I can't; it's treating me ill, Flora -- I
tell you, it is treating me ill."
"But you know you have looked over it, admiral," said Flora, "and I have your positive
promise to forgive me."
"Besides," said Jack, "she won't do so no more; and, as far as I sees of these ere things,
it's a deuced good thing as we ain't bothered with any parson coming here this morning,
casting up his eyes like a dying dolphin if you outs with so much as a natural d -- n or two.
I can't stand such rubbish, not I; and its my out and out opinion that we shall be all the
merrier; and as for the old man -- "
Jack's oratory was put a stop to by the admiral seizing a piece of confectionary that was
upon the table, and throwing it with such a dab in his face that he was half choked and

covered with currant jam; and he made such a spluttering that the guests could keep their
countenances no longer, but burst into a roar of laughter consequent upon that proceeding.
"And you, too, Henry," said the admiral, "I suppose you were in the plot?"
"Why yes," said Henry, "I rather think I was. The fact is, that Flora disliked the public
marriage, although she looked forward with pleasure to the meeting with this pleasant party
on the present occasion; so, among us, we all cast about for some means for securing the
agreeable without the disagreeable, and so, a fortnight ago, they were married quietly and
privately, and I plead guilty."
"I thought as much," said the admiral, "I'll be hanged if I didn't; but now just answer me
one question, Charles."
"A hundred, if you please, uncle."
"No, one will suffice. I want to know whether you were married in the name of Bell, or in
the name of Holland?"
"I took legal advice, uncle, as to the validity of my marriage in the name of Bell; and as I
found that a man's marriage was quite legal, let him call himself whatever he pleases, and
as I knew that it was your wish I should take the name of Bell, I was married in that name,
and Flora now calls herself Mrs. Bell."
"Then I'll say no more about it," said the admiral, "but let it pass so -- let's be as merry as
possible; and first of all, we will have a bumper all round to the bride."
This affair, upon which Charles really had had some misgivings, being thus agreeably
settled, there was certainly nothing to interfere with the hilarity of the meeting, and as there
was an abundance of good cheer, and the guests had been selected judiciously, and were
persons who could and would enjoy themselves, an extremely pleasant day was passed.
For about an hour, perhaps, only the admiral now and then exhibited some symptoms of
indignation, and shook his head occasionally at Flora; but a smile from her soon restored
him, and he did actually contrive to get through a quadrille in some extraordinary manner,
by almost knocking every lady down, and ending by falling sprawling himself.
The only great interruption -- and that lasted for nearly half an hour -- to the proceedings
arose from that incorrigible Jack Pringle, who, as usual, did not get a glass too much, but a
whole bottle too much; and then an obscure idea seized him that it was absolutely
impossible for him to avoid kissing all the ladies, as it was a wedding, or ought to have
been a wedding.
Blaming himself, therefore, very much for not having thought of it before, he made a wild
rush into the drawing-room, and commenced operations.

A scene of confusion ensued which quite baffles description, and Jack had to be carried
out at last by main force, thinking himself a very ill used person, when he was only doing
what was right and proper.
The admiral apologized to the ladies for Jack, calling their attention to the fact that he
wasn't such a fool as he looked, and that, after all, it wasn't a bad notion of Jack's, only that
he had not set about it in the right way.
"Howsomedever," said the admiral, "I don't mind showing you how he ought to have
done it."
This, however, was universally declined, and that with so much decision, too, that the
admiral was forced to forego the generous intention; but long before the parties separated
for the night, he admitted that it was just as well the marriage business had been all settled
before; and it was shrewdly suspected that, from the fact of the admiral singing "Rule
Britannia," after he had gone to bed, he had just slightly exceeded the bounds of that
moderation which he was always preaching to Jack.
--

CHAPTER CIII.
DR. CHILLINGWORTH MAKES URGENT INQUIRIES FOR THE VAMPYRE; AND

THE LAWYER GIVES SOME ADVICE CONCERNING THE QUAKER.
If the Bannerworth family and the admiral were inclined to put up quietly with the loss of
the large sum of money which Dr. Chillingworth fully believed that Varney, the vampyre,
had gone off with, he could not fully divest himself of the idea that it was recoverable.
When he went home, he succeeded in silencing the clamours of his wife, by assuring her
that his practice for half-a-dozen years would not at all be equal to what he should gain if
he could successfully carry out what he was aiming at; and as everything, to Mrs.
Chillingworth, resolved itself into a question of pounds shillings, and pence, she was
tolerable well satisfied, and consented to remain quiet, more especially as he gave her
sufficient to keep the household comfortably for some time while again left home.
So thoroughly had he made up his mind not to let the matter rest, that he carefully
resolved the best means of setting about, systematically, to inquire for Varney.
He thought it impossible that he could have left the cottage home of the Bannerworths
with such great secrecy that no one had observed him.
He was too remarkable a man, too, in personal appearance to escape notice; and if any
one saw him, with a grain of curiosity in their composition, they would be sure to look after
him with speculative eyes as to who and what he was.
The cottage had not many dwellings near it, and the doctor thought it highly possible that
if he visited them all, and made proper inquiries, some one among their inhabitants might
be able to tell him that such a man as Varney had been seen.

Accordingly he commenced his tour, and, as luck would have it, at the very second
cottage he went to, a woman stated that a tall, dark, singular-looking man had asked leave
to sit down for a few minutes, and to be accommodated with a glass of water.
"Had he any parcel or bundle with him?" asked Mr. Chillingworth.
"No," was the reply; "he certainly had nothing of the kind that I could see, and only
seemed very weary and exhausted indeed."
"Do you know which direction he went in?"
"I watched him from my cottage door, and after looking about him for some few minutes,
he walked away slowly in the direction of the London road."
This was all the information that Dr. Chillingworth could obtain in that quarter; but it
strengthened him in his own opinion, that Varney had left that part of the country, and
proceeded to London; but with what motives or intentions could not be guessed even,
although probably it was with an intention of finding a wider sphere of action.
"If," thought the doctor, "he has gone on the London road, and walked, he must have
stopped, in the very weak state that he was, within a very few miles for rest and
refreshment; in which case I shall hear tidings of him, if I take myself the same path."
He pursued this plan, and walked on, inquiring at the different inns that he passed, but all
in vain, for such a man.
No one had seen anybody resembling Varney; and the doctor, with a sense of great
disappointment, was compelled, himself, to stop for rest at a roadside inn, where the mails
and stage coaches stopped to change horses.
The landlord of the inn was a good-tempered, conversable man, and was listening, with
quiet complacency, to the rather long description of the personal appearance of the
individual he sought, that was given by Dr. Chillingworth, when the mail coach from
London, which was proceeding to a very distant part of the country, stopped to change
horses, and the coachman came to the bar to take his usual glass of refreshment.
While so engaged, he heard something of what Mr. Chillingworth was saying, and he
remarked to that gentleman, --
"Do you mean, sir, a long fellow, that looked as if he had been buried a month and dug up
again?"
"Well," said the doctor, "he certainly had something of that appearance; but the man I am
inquiring about disappeared last Thursday."

"The very day, sir; I was going up with the mail, when he hailed it, and got up on the
outside. It's the very man, you many depend; I remember well enough his getting up, but
somehow or another when we got to London he wasn't to be found; and so he had his ride
as far as it went, and I have not the least idea of how far that was, for nothing."
"I thank you for your information, and I have no doubt that it was the man I seek for.
Although he had a large sum of money with him, I think, yet it was not in an available
shape to use, and I dare say he would not be very scrupulous about the means he adopted to
avoid the inconvenience of any detention."
"Not he, sir, he wasn't very particular. I dare say he got down somewhere in London,
most probably at Piccadilly, where there is always a crowd, and I draw up for about five
minutes. I don't look to see who gets down, or who stays up, so, as regards that, he might
take himself off easy enough, if he liked."
"But you missed him?"
"Yes, I did, when it was too late. Can you tell me who, or what he is, sir?"
"Yes," said Dr. Chillingworth; "it was Varney, the vampyre, of whom, no doubt, you
have all heard so much, and who has made such a commotion in the countryside."
"The deuce it was!" said the coachman; "and I have actually had one of these creatures
upon my coach, have I! I only wish I had known it, that's all; I would have pretty soon got
rid of such a customer, I can tell him. They don't suit me, those sort of gentry; but I'm off,
now; good day, sir. I hope you may catch him."
The coachman got upon his box, and drove away; and Dr. Chillingworth began to think
that unless he took a journey to London, which he was scarcely prepared to do, he must
give up, for a time, the pursuit of Varney.
Besides, he thought, and justly enough too, that even if he went to the metropolis in
search of him, its extent would baffle all inquiry, and make it almost impossible that it
could be set about with any prospect of success; so he resolved, before he went any further
in the matter, to urge the admiral and the Bannerworths once more upon the subject.
He was firmly, himself, of opinion that something more, and that, perhaps, too, of a very
uncomfortable character regarding Varney, would soon be heard, unless they could
communicate to him in some manner, and persuade him either to retire from England
altogether, or to lead a quiet life with a portion of the wealth he had acquired.
It will be seen with what great pertinacity the doctor clung to that idea which to the
Bannerworths appeared such a very doubtful one, namely, that Varney had really got
possession of all the money which had been hidden by Marmaduke Bannerworth; but we
must leave the doctor for the present inactive, because he felt that, at the period of Flora's

marriage, they would be too much occupied to give him the attention he required, and,
therefore, he determined to wait until that ceremony, at all events, was completely over.
And now we may as well state at this juncture that the admiral was quite as good as his
word, as regarded taking the advice of his friend, the lawyer, concerning the Quaker who
still held possession of the Dearbrook estate.
With all the indignation that he felt upon the matter, he laid it before the man of law,
explaining how liberally Henry had dealt with him, and what a very uncourteous reception
they had met with.
"I am afraid," said the lawyer, "that he may keep you out of it for a year or two, unless
you compromise with him."
"What do you mean by compromise?"
"Just this; he knows very well, of course, that he cannot hold possession, and he wants to
be paid out, that's the whole of the affair. He considers that you may take friendly advice,
and that then you will be told how much shorter, cheaper, and less vexatious a course it is,
to put up with almost any amount of imposition, then to get involved in a law suit."
"That's all very fine," said the admiral; "but do you think I'd let that rascally Quaker have
a farthing of my money? No, indeed; I should think not. If he expects us to compromise he
will be disappointed."
"Well, then, if your determination is to proceed, I will, if you like, take the necessary
steps in the name or Mr. Henry Bannerworth. Do you know if he administered to his
father's estate?"
"No; I know very little about it. But you had better see him."
"Certainly," said the lawyer; "that will be the best plan. I had better see him, as you say,
and I dare say," added the lawyer to himself, "I shall find him more reasonable that you are
by a great deal."
The lawyer did see Henry; for he called upon him and so strongly advised him to
compromise the matter with the Quaker, that Henry gave him full instructions to do as he
pleased.
"Your title is so clear," said the lawyer, "that it cannot prejudice you to make the offer, or,
rather, to allow me to make it for you; besides, I will take care it shall be made without
prejudice, and I dare say you will get possession pretty quickly of the Dearbrook estate."
The lawyer wrote to the Quaker, asking for the name of some solicitor who would act in
his behalf, and at once received an answer, referring him to a Quaker attorney, who was

tolerably notorious for sharp practice, and who was about as great a rogue as could be
found in a profession somewhat notorious for such characters.
The shortest plan and the best was that which was at once adopted by the admiral's friend,
the attorney; for he went to town and saw the Quaker upon the subject.
The result of their conference was, that Mr. Shepherd wanted a sum equivalent to two
years' rental of the premises he occupied, before giving up possession of them; and in reply
one year was offered, and there the matter rested for mutual consideration of the principals.
Henry did not feel exactly disposed to do anything in the affair, in actual defiance of the
admiral, so he resolved upon trying, at all events, to persuade him into the compromise, if
possible; and the principal argument he intended using was, that Flora had heard sufficient
of the Dearbrook property, and that it would be a thousand pities, consequently, to keep her
out of possession of it, since, from what they had all seen of it, they felt that it would be a
very desirable residence indeed.
The admiral's anger, however, had been so roused by the insolent conduct of the Quaker,
that it required great care and tact to introduce the subject to him in such a shape, and
Henry set about it not without some fear of the result.
"I have seen, admiral," he said, "your friend, the lawyer, about the Dearbrook property,
and we shall not have possession in our lifetimes."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Oh, our ghosts may perhaps haunt its verdant shades; but we shall be all dead long
before the Court of Chancery decides in our favour; for, owning to the manner of my
father's death, some difficulties may be thrown in the way to protract time."
"What! does he tell you so?"
"Yes, indeed he does, admiral; and then, you see, Heaven knows how many claimants
may arise for the estate, if it was known how recently we came by the title-deeds."
"The deuce they would! I can't say but there is some reason in that, after all; but what is
to be done? You can't say that the Quaker, Shepherd, is to be allowed to retain possession
of the Dearbrook estate, just because there are some difficulties in the way of getting it out
of his clutches?"
"Certainly not; but the whole question resolves itself into what is the best means of
accomplishing that object, and the great difficultly seems to be this; that he actually has
possession, which you have heard, of course, is nine points of the law, and puts a man in
such a position that he can give a deal of trouble to any one who is not so fortunately
situated."

"Can he; then I tell you what I'll do, Henry; I'll pretty soon alter that state of things."
"But how can you, admiral?"
"By going and taking possession, to be sure; and if possession be indeed nine points of
the law, I don't see why we shouldn't have them. I have taken a ship or two from an enemy
when they have been under their own batteries, and it ain't the most likely thing in the
world that a Quaker, who, in the navy, we call a wooden gun, should stop me taking
possession of the house."
"I am quite sure," said Henry, "that if you were to set about it, you would do it, -- there
can be no doubt whatever upon that head; but it's a very difficult thing to treat the law in
that sort of way, and you may depend there would be an amazing fuss made about it, so
much so, indeed, that some serious consequences might ensue, and we should perhaps lose
the estate altogether."
"Hang the estate! it's the Quaker I want to serve out."
"But you have served him out. Don't you recollect the kick you gave him?"
"Why, yes; I certainly did give him a kick."
"And a good one too."
"You think it was a good one, do you, Henry? Well, I must say, I am very glad of that --
very glad of it. It's some consolation, that's quite clear."
"And I think then, after that, admiral -- after feeling that you have served him out in that
kind of manner, and that he has put up with the degradation of having been kicked by you,
you might just as well forego a little of your resentment, and allow me to ascertain if I
cannot make something like terms with him."
"Terms with a vagabond like that!"
"Yes. What say you to giving him a trifle, and then let him go; provided he clears out of
the estate at once, and gives us no further trouble?"
"I'd ten times rather kick him again."
"Why, yes; and I must confess he deserves kicking most certainly. I admit all that, that a
greater scamp you could not find; but, after all, you see, admiral, it comes to a question of
pounds, shillings, and pence. Nothing in the world makes a man like that suffer but
touching his pocket."
"Very likely; but you propose to put something into his pocket."

"Yes, at first; but it is to save the more, as would easily be found; and, besides, you see
how he has been afraid to take any notice of your kicking him."
"To be sure he has; such fellows are always afraid. You didn't expect he would take any
notice, did you? and, if you did, I knew better. Afraid, indeed! Ah! to be sure; that's just
what he was likely to be -- afraid, as a matter of course."
"If you please, sir," said a servant, coming in to the admiral, "here is a gentleman wants to
speak to you."
"To me? Who the deuce can that be, I wonder?"
"He says it's on particular business, sir."
"Well, well; show him in here."
A mere youth was shown into the apartment, who, addressing the admiral, said,
"Pray, sir, is your name Bell?"
"To be sure it is; and what of that?"
"Nothing particular, sir; only I have the honour of serving this upon you."
"And what the devil is it?"
Before this question was well out of the admiral's lips the lad had disappeared, and when
the old man unfolded the paper, he found that it was a notice of action from Shepherd, the
Quaker, on account of the assault which Admiral Bell had committed upon him.
"And this is the fellow," cried the admiral, "that you want me to compromise with. No,
Master Henry, that won't do; and, since he has had the imprudence now to commence war
with me, he shall not find that I am backward in taking up the cudgels in my own defence,
I'll pretty soon let him know that he has got rather an obstinate foe to deal with, and we will
see how long he will find it worth his while to persevere."
Henry felt at once that this imprudent act of the Quaker, which, no doubt, was intended to
hasten and facilitate a compromise, placed it further off than ever, and that, in the admiral's
present state of mind, it was quite absurd to think of talking to him in anything like a
peaceable strain, for such could not be done.
The utmost that could be hoped was that he would not actually give way to some act of
violence, and that he would, at all events, do nothing more than what the law allowed him
to do in the matter.
This was what Henry did not feel quite sure of, and he only hoped it.

--
CHAPTER CIV.
THE BONE-HOUSE OF THE CHURCHYARD OF ANDERBURY. -- THE

RESUSCITATION. -- THE FIGHT, AND THE ESCAPE OF THE DEAD. -- THE BOAT,
AND THE VAIN PURSUIT.
The coroner, after the inquest was over, issued his precept for the interment of the body
of the man who was found in the ice-well of Anderbury House, and whose body was
deposited at the bone-house in Anderbury churchyard.
There was an end now to these proceedings, though it was much too fresh in people's
minds to enable them to forget it; yet, once the coroner's inquiry over, it usually happens
that a feeling of satiety, arising from excitement, in the first place, or following that
excitement, and induced by the knowledge that all is done that can be towards unravelling
the mystery that had caused such a sensation, takes place.
The town of Anderbury was first subsiding to its original quietude, and the only
indication of any excitement was that among a few old topers, who met in the early part of
the evening, to discuss anything that there might be stirring to talk about, and to do that
required but little inducement, to talk being their principal, not to say only, amusement;
indeed, to have deprived them of that would have been to have deprived them of nearly
their only inducement to work and to live, that they may indulge in their evening
conversations at the alehouse.
There was a very general belief among such people that, as the whole affair was
unexplained, that it was mysterious, and the nods and winks were numerous; indeed, it was
thought that there was more than the usual amount of mystery. However, this has its limit,
and when all is said that can be said, there must be an end to the discussion, which is
usually dropped for want of fuel to feed it. * * * *

That night the baron sat alone in his apartment, apparently buried in deep thought; but,
now and then, he might have been seen to lift up his eyes towards the east, as if watching
for something, and then he would cast them towards a magnificent timepiece on the
mantelpiece, and then he would again relapse into thoughfulness.
There were several such fits as these, that were broken in the same manner as before, and,
at length, the arose and took a small book off one of the tables, and examined a certain page
and a certain column, and then he half-muttered to himself,
"Yes -- yes; it is as I thought -- the moon will rise in about an hour and a half; that will
do. I will now go to the bone-house, and there watch the body, and ascertain if my fears are
correct; if not, I shall be well repaid for my trouble; and should they be, why, I must
endeavour to make the affair take the best turn I can. I must try and prevent the completion
of my own deed from being disturbed in its integrity. The dead must remain so; and, if not,
to that condition he must return, and lie where no moon's ray will reach him."
He arose, and, wrapping his cloak around him, went to the door of his apartment, and
paused, as if listening.
"No one is stirring," he muttered; "no one is about."
He stole softly out of the apartment, and descended the stairs, making his way towards a
small private door, which opened into the garden, which he secured behind him.
Then he walked rapidly but softly through the garden, which he quitted by another private
door, and which he also secured after him; and then proceeded quickly and silently towards
the church yard of Anderbury church, which was but ill-qualified to keep intruders out of it,
seeing that there was but a low wall and a hedge for the purpose of a fence, which could at
various places be easily scaled; indeed, there are few country churchyards that cannot be so
entered; and it does not appear usually the practice to endeavour to keep out human beings,
but rather to keep the yard clear of all brute intruders, for it was open to all who should
choose to come.
The scene was not very distinct; the moon was not yet risen, and darkness reigned upon
the earth; he could see but a short way, and he cared but little for that.
"If darkness prevents my seeing, it also prevents others seeing me; therefore, it is
welcome. The moon will rise soon enough to aid me in my watch, and if it rise not at all, it
would be agreeably satifactory, seeing that there would be no probability of what I suspect
happening without her rays."
He hurried onwards towards the churchyard. The sea was close by, and the night breeze,
as if swept across the face of the ocean, gave the indistinct roar, which never ceases, but
only increases and abates as a storm or calm prevails at the time, and as the wind increases
or diminishes, thus increasing or diminishing the intensity of the roar; but it never entirely
ceases at any time.

The baron made his way towards the churchyard by an unfrequented path that was well
know to him; but as he was about to get over a stile into a field, he thought he heard a voice
speaking on the other side of the hedge.
He paused a moment, and crept along the hedge, until he came to the spot where the voice
seemed to come from, and then he paused, until he heard them speak again.
"I tell you what it is, Jack; it's a very strange affair -- a very strange thing, indeed."
"So it is."
"And one I can't understand at all, though I have endeavoured to do all I can that way. I
have thought the matter over very often; but it always comes to this -- that it is a very
strange affair."
"What can be the cause of it?"
"I don't know."
"Have you seen it?"
"I thought I did once," said the second; "but it was misty and dark; but I think I couldn't
be mistaken."
"Nor I."
"You have see it oftener than I; have you not?"
"Yes -- yes -- I have, several times."
"How did you see it?"
"Why, thus: I was looking out for the lugger, and there away in the east I saw something
white coming across the sea. It came very steady and slow, and looked small at first."
"Yes -- yes."
"Well, then, after that it came closer and closer, until I saw it changed its shape to a
gigantic woman."
"A woman!" exclaimed the other.
"Yes, or may be a man in a winding-sheet; that is most likely though, after all."
"I think so, too," he replied; "as sure as there are dead bodies in Anderbury churchyard, it
forebodes some great evil -- of that I am very well persuaded."

"What great evil do you think will happen?"
"How can I tell? I am no prophet. I cannot imagine in what shape it should come; but
come it will depend upon it; if it comes not now, when it does come, remember my words."
"I will."
"And you will find them all true some day or other, if it don't come too soon to be
pleasant; but I think something may happen to the lugger."
"She has not been seen these two days; and it is now past the time when she ought to have
been in. Thus it was with the other lugger that the revenue cutter took."
"Did you see the apparition?"
"No; but there was a token, I believe; but I was not in those parts at that time."
"Well; but how did it happen that they let the lugger be taken by the king's men?"
"Oh! they couldn't well help it, you may depend upon that. She was coming from
Cherbourg, laden with brandy and with lace, a good cargo, and worth something, I assure
you."
"She must have been worth something."
"She was. Well, she had a very good run for a part of the way, when a fog came on. Well,
it wasn't well understand what they were to do. Some were for putting back; others for
standing where they were, and some few for running in shore.
"I shall run in shore," said the captain. "I know every hole upon the coast; and I know the
exact spot where we are, and how to steer. I can run the vessel to an inch."
"And that inch may do the business for us all," said one of the crew; "but I'm ready."
"And I, too," said the captain; "and I will run her where there will be no chance of any
meeting with the preventive people; but the fact is, we can neither see nor be seen; we are
safe, boys. A good run on shore, and a swift voyage home."
"Huzza!" shouted the men; and the vessel was run towards the shore, and, at the same
time, they were going under an easy sail safe and secure, and had no thought of any evil.
There was a look-out, at the same time we could not see two yards beyond the vessel. The
watch was alert, but he could see nothing; but suddenly he called out, --
"Ship a-head! Port your helm!"

"What ship's that?" inquired a voice, and, in another moment, they found themselves
alongside the revenue cutter, from whom they had so long and so often escaped.
"Board!" shouted the officer on board, and then he called upon our people to surrender;
but the captain drew his sword, and called out to the crew to do as he did, and defend the
ship; and as he spoke, he cut one man down, but was immediately met by a pistol-shot,
which laid him dead on the deck.
After that there was no resistance; the men didn't want to endanger their lives by resisting
men who were doing their duty, and protected by law; they were, moreover, out-numbered
by the revenue people, and if they resisted, they would be liable to hanging, whereas they
could but imprison them.
"They were all taken, and they were all imprisoned for different crimes -- all, however,
getting free after a term."
"Did that ruin the owners?"
"Oh! no; they calculated upon a loss now and then, and can well afford it too."
"Well, what do you think of the baron at Anderbury House?"
"Think! Why, think he's a trump. What a glorious haul there would be there, if we could
get hold of it."
"How do you mean?"
"Why, the plate and other things that are valuable. Look you now, if we could load the
lugger with the contents of the house, what would they not fetch in Paris?"
"We should not get it if we were to take it there."
"We should obtain a heavier profit than ever we should under any other circumstances;
and I think it will be a very good plan, indeed, to take Anderbury House by storm. There's
some thousands of pounds' worth of plate and jewellery there."
"So there is."
"Well, what do you say to make the attempt? Attempt, I say; but I shall not call it an
attempt, for there will be no attempt at resistance -- we shall have only to walk in and
frighten a few servants; there will be nothing but to carry away what we can lay our hands
on."
"That will do -- anything that will pay."

The baron had been an attentive listener. He had, moreover, had some thoughts in his
own mind of jumping over the hedge, and seizing the two men; but, upon second thoughts,
he belived [sic] that this was the worst that could be done.
"I will frighten them, and thus prevent them from putting their designs into practice to my
damage."
The baron silently collected several large stones and clods of earth into one space, and
then he peeped through the hedge. He saw where they lay, and took up two clods, pitched
one on each of their heads, and then he said, when they started up, --
"Miserable sinners! the eye of Heaven is upon you; go your ways and repent while there
is time."
The men were for a moment horrified, and stood still, chained to the spot; but suddenly
they were released, and in a moment they rushed from the spot with the fleetness of deer.
The baron watched them out of sight, and then he muttered to himself, --
"'Tis well; they are now out of sight; they are gone, and they will make no attempt upon
Anderbury House, I'll warrant them they think their design will be penetrated by others, and
they will suffer for it should they attempt it. I trust I can make a very good resistance;
however, it is worth thinking off."
He paused a few moments longer, and then turned towards the churchyard.
He pursued his way, however, thoughtfully; every now and then, however, he looked
around to ascertain if any one were present, but he was satisfied there was none, and thus
he was quite and entirely alone in his walk.
There was now light enough to enable him to distinguish objects at a short distance, and
he quickened his pace, as he thought of the moon's rising; but a few minutes brought him
into view of the church of Anderbury.
The old church was seen to advantage at such an hour, for as the sky was cloudless, and
the stars were out, the tapering spire looked like some great and gigantic indication raised
there for some purpose pointing heavenward.
There was a deep gloom surrounding the whole place, for there was not a shadow cast by
any one object, neither had the church one side that was lighter than the other.
In a very short time the baron reached the charnel-house, or the bone-house, as it was
more usually called. It was a small place, attached to the church itself. The wants of the
population were not great; and, therefore, all these public places were built with the view
only of a limited use.

It was large enough for all purposes, and as large as it is usual for them to be in such
places; and the baron, before he attempted to enter the place, took a walk all the way round,
to ascertain if there was any one lurking about; but finding none, he returned to the door of
the charnel-house with the full intention of going in.
However, there was no key, and he could not, therefore, enter it by the usual way, and he
must find some other.
"There is sure to be something or other," he muttered, "to cause a temporary stop to one's
career in some place or other; but I will not be deterred by such a trifle -- there is a place in
the roof somewhere here, I think, where I can get in with but little trouble."
The baron looked about for a place that would enable him to climb up, but he suddenly
withdrew his hand, exclaiming, --
"Hilloa! what have we here?"
It was soon settled, and the baron held up between him and the light the key of the
charnel-house, which he had found as he put his fingers into a niche to assist him in lifting
himself up to the roof.
"This is lucky, and will save me much trouble; but I have not much time to spare."
He put the key into the lock, and found it fitted the lock, and he in another moment
opened the door of the charnel-house, and entered its unwholesome precincts.
There were but few who would have entered that place at that hour, knowing, too, that a
man was lying dead that had died a violent death; few, indeed, would have done so, but the
baron was himself above such considerations; and besides, he had an object in view, which
was of some importance.
He desired to watch the body of the murdered man -- he desired to stay there, and watch
the effects of the moon's rays upon it. He now smelt where he was, for there was that fetid
smell of death, which always hangs about the bone-house, which is a receptacle of all the
mortal remains of man, which have been once cast into the grave, for which their friends
have paid large fees -- as well for the ceremony, as for the quiet enjoyment of the home of
death; but which bargain must be continually violated, and the bones of a man's ancestor,
instead of ornamenting some museum, or his carcass doing some good by way of
instruction, lie rotting in the grave-yard, till the sexton digs up the same ground and takes
fresh his fees, but burning the bones of the former.
The baron entered the receptacle of the remains of mortality. One after the other have
men's bones been thrown in here, or, perhaps they have been mixed together, so that it
would have puzzled an angel to have separated them from each other.

What more could mortals expect? their bones, at least, will form a fuel to be sure; but
very indifferent fuel, too.
Here, however, the baron entered, and stepped lightly into the place. It was an
uncomfortable place at best -- cold, cheerless, very bare, save of such things as would
remind one of the sexton's duty, and of the nature of the place in which he was.
The first thing the baron did, was to look towards the place where the window was
placed, but no light came in. He advanced to it, and gazed out upon the night.
"Well, well," he muttered, "the moon is just rising; there will be time enough, and I can
remain in this place as long as any of its rays penetrate the windows."
He paused a few moments, during which he looked out upon the country; but all was
wrapped up in gloom and darkness, save where some of the moon's beams fell, and then
there could be seen some dark spots more prominent than the rest; and then, after awhile, he
could distinguish between the different objects, though he could not always tell their
different parts.
"Well," he muttered, "I am here now, and am housed. Faugh! how the place smells. I
shall never be able to remain here. I shall never get the scent from my nostrils."
He turned from the window, and examined the place. It was a square room, with bare
walls. A few shelves, and some odd lumber thrown into one corner, a ladder, some tools,
trestles, and a lot of rubbish in the shape of old pieces of coffins, bones, and other matters
that belonged to a churchyard. There was very little in all this, to make the place at all
likely to become popular with anybody.
The shell in which the man had been placed was, form some cause or other, upset from
off the trestles, and the body had rolled out. It lay in all its ghastly proportions at full length
upon the ground, somewhat on one side, and looking towards the window. The posture
shewed the body was deprived of life. It was still and motionless -- not a sound or motion
escaped the lips of the baron, as he gazed upon the victim of the ice-well.
Well did the baron mark the position of the body, and marvel at the singularity of the
accident which had exposed the body in the way in which it laid.
"I wonder what could have been the cause of such an accident? Who could have thought
it would have happened? I am sure I never could have expected it should have happened."
He took one of the trestles that lay near the body, and placed it so that he could gaze upon
the corpse, and out at the window, alternately, without any disturbance to himself.
"Here I can watch the progress of the moon," he thought, "and the body, too; and if I find
my conjectures are right, I will soon prevent his quitting this place, and put him in such a
position as shall preclude the possibilty of the revivifying powers of the moon ever

reaching him again. He shall lie till corruption visits his body, and then a return to life be
impossible."
Thus muttered the baron, as he gazed fixedly at the body of the man, who had met his
death in the manner related, and of whom the baron entertained some singular suspicions.
The moon was rising above the horizon, and shed a soft light over the fields and woods. It
was strange and silent, save when the church clock struck out the hours as they fled.
It was a strange sound, and almost startled the baron to hear the hour come booming
through the building, and gave such a sound, that it broke the awful stillness of the night
which reigned; the moon all the while rising higher and higher in the heavens, until its
beams came very near the window.
The baron's patience became somewhat impaired; he saw that the time would soon arrive,
when his curiosity must be satisfied, and when the truth would at once break in upon him.
"Can it be," he muttered, "that the dead should ever again rise to communicate with the
world, and live to lead a loathsome life? Impossible! and yet 'tis said so by many, who
assert they speak but the evidence of their own senses; if it is to be depended upon at all, it
will be as well for me as they.
"Why should I not be satisfied as well as they are? I have, moreover, more than ordinary
motives for satisfaction. The human bloodsucker shall not live. I am resolved upon that."
The moonbeams now entered the window of the charnel-house. At first it was but a pencil
ray, so small and minute, that the baron himself could scarce perceive it; but he did see it,
and kept his eye intently fixed upon it, watching its increase in size and change of position
with intense excitement.
There was the moon rising high in the heaven, with all its myriads of stars, and black
canopy, studding the vault with innumerable gems; and as it rose, so it gave a far greater
change to the aspect of the landscape than would have been expected.
The whole side of the charnel-house was illuminated by the moon's rays, but they fell
aslant and only entered the window in one direction, which cast them on one side, near
where the baron sat.
He could now see how the place was furnished; the significant appurtenances of the
charnel-house were easily discernible, and would have given a melancholy turn to the
thoughts of anybody who might have examined them; but not so the baron -- he was by far
too excited to heed them, though he honoured them with a passing glance.
They are used by the sexton in the prosecution of his business, in the performance of his
duties; therefore, there need be but little attention paid to them; they cannot harm any one,
but are the means of frightening fools.

To frighten the baron was, however, something more than a mere matter of course; his
nerves were strung to the purpose with which he visited the place, and they were not to be
disturbed by any insignia whatever. There were plenty of ghastly objects about; bones, legs,
hands, arms, and even sculls, were lying about in profusion, or rather they were heaped up
in one corner of the place, and there was an attempt to hide them by heaping up old boards
in front of them, as if it were done on purpose to prevent the prying eye of man from
peeping and seeing the secrets of the charnel-house.
It is strange, but true, being accustomed to such scenes as these causes a diminution of the
awe and fear in which such things are usually held. Soldiers and sailors care not much for
death; they are used to exposure, and the loss of life does not seem to them so terrible as to
those who have never faced danger.
So with the sexton: he turns up the remains of mortality, as if they were so much rubbish,
and never had been endowed with life; indeed, it is only necessary to become familiar with
the remains of man, and then much of the awe and mystery attending them dies away.
What cares the grave-digger whether the burial service has been read over the remains or
not? What cares he if the ground in which they have been placed is consecrated ground? He
can't tell the difference, and it matters not to him; he is above such consideration, and so is
he and his patrons, as to whether the spot in which the remains lie, has been bought and
paid for long ago.
He has no objection to sell again that which has been sold, and that which has been used
as the resting-place of some one or other. No matter, they say; the mystery, the
freemasonry, and all, have been instituted for the multitude, and not for those who are
behind the curtain, and pocket the fees; that is the great object of the conspirators.
However, here they were, all lumped up together, on one side, or rather in one corner,
with a few boards thrown over them, as if to prevent their being seen by any incidental
intruder.
Here the baron sat, watching the moonlight in its slow progress towards the dead body;
and, as it crept towards the object, he felt more and more excited, but yet remained
perfectly immoveable. He turned his eyes sometimes from the body to the streak of
moonlight that passed through the small window, and then to the small window itself, from
which he could see the moon himself, but that was fast rising too high, and was becoming
invisible by changing its position, so that the baron could not see it.
"The moon travels fast," he muttered, "and a few more minutes will tell me what I am to
expect."
As he spoke these words, he felt in his pocket, and appeared satisfied with what he found
there -- possibly some weapon. The moon's rays were now within an inch or so of the body,
an all was as still and silent as the grave; no sound, no motion, not even a breath of air
stirred to interrupt the silence and stillness of the scene; even the breathing of the baron
himself was suppressed, and he strove to watch without motion.

The moonlight appeared to grow more brilliant, more beautifully white, and cast, as he
thought, a stronger and more sickly light than usual into the charnel-house. There was
nothing that he had ever before seen like it, and he looked around him more than once to
assure himself that he was where he was, and that he was alone with the body in the bone-
house.
At such moments the fancy is apt to play us strange freaks, and, if not a strong and
nervous man -- capable of throwing off any extraneous influence, why he would soon be
bowed down by the weight of mental terror and agony -- that is, nothing short of temporary
madness, and which probably would make a permanent impression, and leave the seeds of
mental disease for ever.
But the baron was not easily moved; he had not been brought up in schools where the
mind is bound, enchained from infancy by artificial means, which seem to bind the powers
of the mind in after years, and, in moments of doubt and difficulty, to render it dependent
upon any extraneous circumstance, rather than itself.
However, there were few things thought of then by the baron, who sat intently watching
the progress of the moon's beams towards the body, which was now touched by them.
The light fell strong, it edged the white garments that were thrown around the body; the
baron watched more and more intently, and each moment lessened the space of time when
the truth would come out -- when he would be assured of the truth of his conjectures.
There was no ray on the body yet, but it slowly and slowly let the light approach the
body; the edge was illumined, and then the moonbeams fell more and more upon it;
gradually did they enlarge its surface till the whole body was in the light of the moon.
The baron's excitement and expectation were now at the highest, for the whole body was
illuminated.
"Now!" he exclaimed, in a muttered whisper; "now is the moment."
No sooner was the whole of the body, the breast, and the face illumined, than there was a
perceptible quiver through that form.
"Ha!" exclaimed the baron, with a start.
The features presented a ghastly spectacle; there was a peculiar sickly and horrible
expression in the countenance, much of which was caused by the peculiar position in which
it was placed; the peculiar colour of the moon's rays and the additional horrors of the place,
all seemed to give an effect to an object peculiarly ghastly and horrible.
The body, after a few moments, as if awakening to life and recollection, lifted up its head,
and turned over upon one side towards the moonlight; and then, after a moment, it looked

up in the moon's rays, which seem to pour down upon the countenance that lifted up
towards it.
The baron rose softly and stealthily.
"You shall feel that this is your last hour. The newly awakened life which feeds upon the
blood of others, shall never exist to carry on its disgusting career."
As he muttered these thoughts to himself, he drew a short dagger from his pocket; at the
same moment the figure turned its face towards him.
It gave a half unearthly scream, as its eyes met those of the baron's, who exclaimed,
"Now -- now's the time -- death to the monster."
As he spoke, he threw himself headlong on the prostrate form of the vampyre, for such it
was; which, as he did so, endeavoured to rise up and escape. The baron, who had aimed a
deadly blow at him, as he threw himself upon him, caused him to fall back again; but the
fearful being had contrived to ward off the blow, either with its arms, or by means of
shifting its position, or something of the sort; the baron missed the blow, and was now in a
deadly struggle with the vampyre.
The struggle was fierce; no signs of shrinking on the part of the baron, who carried it on
with the full intention of its ending fatally to his opponent, while he was exerting himself to
escape the muscular grasp of the baron.
The baron, however, was not a match for the more than superhuman strength of the
vampyre, who, endued with all the energy of love of a newly-acquired life, struggled with a
desperation scarely to be conceived.
Had any one looked in, from without, upon the struggle that was going on within, they
would have believed that some demons of the dead had suddenly become endued with the
power of appearing upon earth, and had chosen that spot upon which they could exercise
their malignity in combat with each other.
Suddenly, however, the baron was thrown with great force upon the ground, and he lay
for a moment half stunned; then the vampyre, disengaged as he was, stopped to cast a
magnificent look of triumph upon his fallen foe, and dashed out of the bone-house by the
same entrance as that which afforded ingress to the place to the baron.
In another moment the baron rose up and rushed after the flying vampyre; his defeat by
no means extinguishing his courage or ardour.
He soon caught sight of the vampyre as he was flying from the bone-house; indeed, the
moonlight was now so strong, that it seemed almost day.

Every object, far or near, appeared distinct and observable; while the waves of the ocean
appeared every now and then to throw off the silvery light, like a thousand moving mirrors.
Beautiful as the scene was, there was none there who stood to look upon it. The only
living and breathing persons present, were those who were engaged in the chase. Not a
soul, save these two, were about -- none saw them -- none witnessed the fearful efforts of
the two.
The place looke like some spot of earth spoken of by the enchanters; all was motionless
and still, save these two, and the ceaseless motion of the ocean waves.
The vampyre made for the shore, with the baron a short distance behind him. They
strained every nerve; and the baron thought he should succeed in securing him on the
beach.
There were some boats that were secured on the beach, and towards these the vampyre
sped with the fleetness of the wind; and, no sooner did he reach one, than seizing its head,
he caused it to run through the sand by the impetus he had acquired in running, and it was
afloat in a moment.
There was no time to lose, for just as he had pushed into deep water, the baron had rushed
down almost in time to seize the boat but missed it.
He then made for the boats, and succeeded in reaching one that was afloat, secured only
by a rope.
In this he pushed out on the waves in pursuit of the object of his search. Away they both
went; the sea was comparatively smooth; they both rowed with velocity, that promised
much as regarded their capability as rowers.
The spray of the water was thrown up by their oars and by the boats' heads. The baron,
however, had the worst of it; he rowed to disadvantage; because, every now and then, he
had to turn his head to see which way the object of his pursuit was rowing; and, therefore, a
loss of speed occurred; but yet he kept up well in the wake of the vampyre.
There was, however, no attention paid as to where he was going; as long as it was straight
in the wake of the flying, he was satisfied. But he saw nothing else, nor looked at aught
else; indeed, the world might have been there, and he would not have been aware of the
fact. His whole faculties were bound up in the object before him, to reach which, he exerted
his whole strength. However, upon looking up again, he could nowhere see the vampyre.
He looked long and steadily in all quarters, but saw him not. He had eluded him.
--

CHAPTER CV.
THE BARON PROPOSES FOR HELEN WILLIAMS, AND IS DULY ACCEPTED,

WITH A COMPLIMENT ON HIS BEAUTY.
The baron had put out to sea in chase of the vampyre, without considering that there was
really great danger in so doing, inasmuch as that the elements were not quite in a kindly
disposed condition, and there was a heavy sea.
Where he had obtained his skill as a seaman, Heaven only knows; but certain it is he had
obtained such knowledge somewhere, for he commenced navigating the boat with the
greatest skill, and soon succeeded in getting close in shore.
The moment the keel grated upon the beach, a man rushed into the water, and laid hold of
the boat with one hand, and the baron with the other, exclaiming, --
"You are my prisoner! You took my boat, and I don't care who or what you are, I will
have justice."
"How much money do you require?"
"More than you will like to pay. I sha'n't let you off under a pound."
"Here are five pounds."
"Lor! Excuse me, your honour; I didn't mean what I said; if so be as your honour is such a
gentleman as I now sees as your honour is, it don't make any matter in the world. I hopes as
how your honour will always take my boat when you wants one, and no mistake."

The baron made no reply to all these compliments, but walked away at once towards his
own house on the cliffs.
"I have missed him," he muttered, "and all my labour has been in vain. I thought that at
least I had got rid of that affliction; I thought that he at least would have rotted in the tomb.
Curse on the tardiness that left him unburied until the moonbeams had rested upon him.
After that all was in vain, unless some new death had come over him."
There was a flush of anger upon the baron's face as he reached his own house, and let
himself into it by a garden-gate that he always kept the key of, which would have
effectually prevented any of his servants from taking any notice of him, had they met him.
But at such an hour, it was not likely he should meet any one, nor did he do so.
He at once sought his own chamber, where he remained for some time immersed in deep
thought. This thought was not wholly devoted to a consideration of his annoyance at the
escape of the vampyre; but he took into his most serious thoughts the circumstances
attending upon his entertainment.
The question of to marry, or not to marry, was not one that had to be settled by the baron.
No, that he had done already; and he had not made the announcement he had to Mr. Leek,
of his matrimonial intention, unadvisedly.
What the baron now considered was, whether he should propose to Miss Helen Williams
or not.
He certainly had been somewhat struck by the quiet beauty of the young girl; and
probably he was aware that he was not just the sort of person to win a young maiden's
heart, and that if he achieved such a honour at all, it would most probably be in
consequence of acting upon the cupidity of her relations.
As he was determined, therefore, to marry, it became necessary that he should select

some one for his victim who, in addition to the personal charms which appeared to him to
be a desideratum, should be of so pliant and amiable a disposition as to give way to those
solicitations and incessant remonstrances which she was likely to be assailed with if she
resisted.
It was fortunate for Mr. Leek that the baron did fix his regards upon Helen Williams;
because, from what we know of Mrs. Williams, we can well perceive that it is quite evident
she will not let any considerations of her daughter's happiness stand in the way of an
equitable arrangement with that gentleman.
And although there might have been, and indeed were, persons at the baron's
entertainment whom he would more gladly have called by the name of bride than Helen
Williams, yet he was not slow to perceive that those parties had wills of their own, and, if

their relatives had pleased to do so, they would not themselves have admitted that they were
up for sale to the highest bidder.
The result of the baron's considerations, therefore, was, that Helen Williams would suit
him very well, and that the poverty of her family was just the circumstance of all others
which insured his success.
"I will wed her," he said, "although I cannot win her. She will be mine, because I shall
purchase her; which, to my mind, is a much more admirable mode of embarking in a
matrimonial career than the trouble of a tedious courtship, with all its frivolities and
follies."
Whether or not the baron was used to matrimonial affairs, we cannot say; but certain it is
he did not seem to consider that the proposing for a young lady and marrying her was a
matter of very grave or serious moment; but really, by the style in which he considered it,
anybody would have thought it one of the most ordinary concerns of life.
During his short stay at Anderbury, he had managed, by the magic power of wealth, to
procure everything he required in the shape of servants, carriages, and horses; and now, on
the morning after his most strange and mysterious adventure with the corpse of the
murdered man, he ordered his carriage, and went out to pay a number of visits to the parties
who had been present at his entertainment.
Among those visits he included one to the Williams's family, and by about twelve o'clock
in the day reached their residence, and was received with such an extraordinary amount of
bustle, that it was quite ludicrous to see it; but still it suited him, because it showed how
they worshipped wealth, with the exception of Helen, and she did not make her appearance
at all.
Mrs. Williams was all smiles and sweetness, paying so many compliments to the baron,
that, although he knew nothing of the diplomatic arrangement of Mr. Leek, he yet felt quite
certain that he had her with him most completely, and that none of her exertions would be
wanting for the purpose of securing his victim.
After these compliments had somewhat subsided, the baron said, --
"Madam, I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing your daughter Helen, who did me the
honour of being at my poor entertainment the other evening, and attracted while there the
eyes of all beholders."
"Oh, certainly, my lord baron. I have not the slightest doubt in my own mind but that
Helen is quite -- quite panting, in a manner of speaking, for the honour of seeing you
again."

"You are very obliging, madam; and I can assure you that one of the most gratifying
circumstances that have occurred to me during my short residence in this neighborhood,
had consisted in the fact of my making the acquaintance of you and your amiable family."
"Will you excuse me for one moment?" said Mrs. Williams; and, after a courteous bow
from the baron, she left the apartment, and proceeded to the room of her daughter Helen,
whom she addressed, saying, --
"Helen, are you aware that the baron is here -- the great baron, the Baron Stolmuyer of
Saltzburgh? Good God! how can you be so foolish? He has actually asked for you, and you
are not there; when you know as well as I do, Helen, that such a man as that, to whom the
expense is no object, might pop in a moment."
"He might what, mother?"
"Pop the question -- propose, of course. Don't tell me that you don't know what I mean. I
have no patience with such nonsense. Only think how rich he is. You know as well as I that
it would be the making of you and the whole family; and I can tell you, Helen, that, if you
are not a positive fool, in my opinion, he will pop, for there was quite a particular
expresssion upon his face when he asked for you."
"But I fancy, mother, there is always a particular expression upon his face -- a particularly
ugly one, I mean; for, beyond all question, he is the most ordinary man I ever saw in my
life."
"Now, really, Helen, you are enough to vex a saint. What can a man's looks have to do
with his property?"
"But what's his property to me, mother?"
"Oh! good gracious! Have I lived to hear a child of mine ask what a man's property is to
her, when he begins to be attentive! I did not expect it -- I will confess, I did not expect it. I
did think there would be a little consideration on the part of a child of my own, when she
knows I have to strive, and strive, and stretch our means like a thin piece of Indian rubber,
to make both ends meet."
"But, mother, if I cannot love this man, wherefore should I for one moment entertain the
thought of making him my husband?"
"Self, self!" exclaimed Mrs. Williams, lifting up her hands; "nothing but self."
"I cannot suppose, mother, that it is an extraordinary act to decline sacrificing one's whole
existence for the sake of marrying a man with money, who can not only not love, but who
is an object of positive aversion as this man is to me."

"Yes," exclaimed Mrs. Williams; "that's right. See me dragged to prison, and see us all
without shoes to our feet. That's what you would do, rather than give up your nonsensical
notion about people's looks."
"But, why," said Helen, "should these calamities, which have never yet appeared, all
suddenly come over us, bcause I do not feel inclined to marry the Baron Stolmuyer of
Saltzburgh?"
"And as for the man's looks," added Mrs. Williams, rather adroitly shifting the argument,
and declining to answer the rather home question put by Helen -- "as for the man's looks, I
am quite ashamed of any daughter of mine talking about men's looks -- it's indelicate,
positively indelicate."
"I cannot see your argument, mother, and I implore you not to persecute me about this
man, whom I really cannot love."
"Persecute, indeed! but I tell you what it is, Helen, you don't seem to be at all aware, first
of all, that I am drowned in debt; secondly, that I shall have to bring your brother Charles
home from college to make him a tailor, or a shoemaker, or something of that sort, and you
will have to go out as a daily governess, while I rot away by slow degrees in a prison."
"But, mother, if these evils are all about to fall upon us, cannot some fair means be
adopted of extrication from them. Your income, I always understood, was a certain one,
and surely it almost amounts to criminalty to live far beyond it."
"Not at all, when you expect your daughter to be a reasonable Christian, and to marry
decently and respectably. Really, my dear, I must say that I little expected such remarks as
you make, from a child of mine, I can tell you."
Mrs. Williams was right enough there, for it was a wonder that such remarks should come
from a child of her's, who could not be supposed to have heard any such sentiments, but
who must have, from the mere force of a just and admirable disposition, given utterance to
them.
"Mother," she said, after a pause, "do not fancy that I would not do much to relieve you
from any burthens you may have; and, if difficulties have arisen, they are to be remedied in
the best way we can, as well as regretted. But I pray you not to ask me to wed this man,
whom I cannot love."
"Well, well. I'm sure you make a terrible fuss, and I don't know what about, for my part.
It's nothing, I rather suppose; and, after all, the baron may not be going to propose at all for
you, and I may be wrong."
As Mrs. Williams thus admitted the possibilty that she might be wrong, she looked with
an expression of countenance, as much as to say, "Did you ever, in all your life, hear of
such virtue as that, or such self-denial?"

"Then what do you wish for me to do, mother?"
"To see him. You cannot put such a slight -- indeed, I might almost say, an insult upon
him, as not to see him when he actually calls and asks for you. He is, you know, after all, a
gentleman."
Helen found it difficult to say that she would not see the baron, so, although it was done
with great reluctance, she followed her mother to the room in which that lady had left him,
and where he did most anxiously expect her. He felt that his cause was not quite so good as
it had been, and that the non-appearance of Helen got up some serious doubts as to the
complying disposition he thought she had.
When, however, he at length saw her, some of those fears were dispelled, and he began to
imagine that his suit did not look quite so desperate.
There was certainly about the baron a rather courtly air and manner, which, as Mrs.
Williams said, shewed that he lived in the best society; and Helen would not allow her
aversion to the man to carry her so far as not to behave to him with politeness, so that for
some moments that the conversation proceeded, any one would have thought that those
three persons were upon the most amicable of terms with each other.
But Mrs. Williams, like some skilful old general, was well versed in matrimonial tactics,
and, after making a few remarks, she deliberately left the room, to poor Helen's great
chagrin; for, although she had consented out of ordinary civility to see the baron, she had
by no means intended to have a tete-a-tete with him.
That was quite another affair, and one may well suppose what a degree of indignation she
felt at being forced into such circumstances, and by her mother, too, who, of all persons in
the world, ought to have protected her, and to whom she ought to have looked certainly for
very different things indeed.
It was a very awkward situation to be placed in for poor Helen, inasmuch as she now
really could not leave the baron completely alone without great rudeness; and yet she much
dreaded, in consequence of the hints that her mother had thrown out, what the interview
would be that was about to ensue.
How devoutly and particularly she hoped that, after all, the supposition of her mother that
the baron had any matrimonial intentions towards her was a mistake, and she felt that the
first words he might utter would be the means of chance letting her know if such really was
the case, or if she was to be what she could not help styling, the victim of his addresses.
Of course the baron knew perfectly well that Mrs. Williams had taken her departure for
the express purpose of giving him an opportunity of pressing his suit to her daughter, if he
felt so disposed, and as he did feel so disposed, he was not at all likely to neglect the
opportunity.

None but a man of great tact and discretion, however, could have made so good use of
such an opportunity as the baron; for although he certainly did not succeed in removing
from the mind of Helen Williams a strong feeling that he was an uncommonly disagreeable
man, he did not add to that impression.
"Miss Williams," he said, "I have not until now had an opportunity of thanking you for
the very great favour you did me, by making one at the party at Anderbury House."
"The obligation," said Helen, "was on my side, sir, and I beg that you will not pay me so
empty a compliment as to endeavour to make it otherwise."
"You do yourself a great injustice. The grace which you lent to my entertainment was to
my mind its greatest charm. I feel, I assure you, compelled to say so much, because it is the
genuine truth, and not for the purpose of paying to you an empty compliment, which I have
too much respect for you to do."
Helen was silent, for she knew not very well what to reply to this speech, inasmuch as it
was one of those general ones that require no reply, unless the persons to whom they are
uttered choose to enter at length into a civil complimentary kind of warfare, for the express
purpose of so doing.
The baron waited for some reply to be made, and then, as none came, he spoke himself,
saying, after at least two minutes' pause, --
"Miss Williams, you may, or you may not, have heard that my principal intention in
settling in this neighbourhood -- which I was informed, and I find correctly so, is celebrated
for the respectability of its inhabitants -- was to marry."
"Sir," said Helen, "I know nothing of that matter, nor do I think it is one with which I
ought to be in any way troubled."
"Without explanation, certainly not, Miss Williams; but will you allow me to add, that
unless my speech had contained certainly something more than a mere compliment, or a
mere desire to give you a piece of gossipping information, I should not have uttered it on
any account; but I have something to add to it, which does concern your private ear most
particularly, and which I do hope will meet with your favourable consideration."
He paused again, and, as Helen returned no answer, he after a time continued, saying, in a
still lower tone, --
"May I venture to hope that no preconceived prejudice will have the effect of diminishing
any expectations and hopes with which I have pleased myself?"
It is said, and said most truly too, that there are none so blind as those who won't see, and
the same rule may be most unquestionably applied to those who won't hear or understand;
and although it was, of course, impossible that Helen Williams could have any doubt as to

what the baron meant, she was resolved tht he should speak out plainly, in order that she
might, without giving room for any ambiguity, likewise speak as plainly to him, in answer
to the proposition that was upon his lips.
Perhaps the baron was wise enough to see that much, for he proceeded now with much
more clearness to declare what he meant, when he said, --
"I told you, Miss Williams, that my object in coming here was to contract a matrimonial
alliance, being tired of the solitary life I had been leading for some years. I should not have
troubled you with such a communication, had it not been in my power to add to it another,
that will explain why I did so."
Helen merely inclined her head, to signify that she heard him.
"That other communication," he continued, "is to the effect that I have found the person
on whom I feel convinced that I can fix my affections, without the possibility of their ever
wandering again from the dear object. Amid all the rank, beauty, and intelligence that
graced my halls on that occasion which will ever be hallowed in my imagination, I had eyes
but for one form, and ears but for one voice."
Still Helen was silent.
"There may be many who, in the possession of much attraction and much virtue, may
make many happy homes; but the heart culls its own flower, and will think that it presents
the most delicate and most beautiful tints to the eye. That flower, from amidst all the galaxy
of beauty, I think -- nay, I know, that I have selected. Can you not now guess the purport of
my simple words, Helen?"
It was tolerably familiar to call her Helen upon so short an acquaintance, and she drew
back, looking some astonishment, which he perceiving, and divining the cause -- for no one
could accuse the baron of want of tact -- replied to.
"Forgive me, if, in conversing with you, my heart seems to forget the distance that is
between us, and I think of you by that name which, certainly, is is presumptuous on my part
to call you by; but there are persons in whose thoughts and feelings we so deeply
sympathize, and who, from the first moment that we see them, become bound to us by so
many mysterious links of feeling, that we seem as if we had known them for ages, and as if,
from that moment, we could be as familiar -- ay, much more so -- than with many whom
we may have met often in the great world."
This was true, and, what is more, it happened to be a truth that touched a right chord in
the breast of Helen Williams; for she felt what he said recall recollections of the past, when
there was one whom she had seen, and, from the first moment that she had seen him, had
felt that time and circumstances could effect no change in those first dear and delightful
impressions which had swept across her heart.

The baron saw the contemplative aspect of her face, and he added, --
"You feel the truth of what I utter?"
She started, for she had indeed felt the truth of the sentiment, although her heart was far
away, and for a moment she had completely forgotten the existence of the baron, or that it
was from his lips she had heard the sentiment expressed.
It was a mortification to him to see this -- for he did see it -- and he said, --
"Miss Williams, I hope I have said enough, at all events, to convince you that I am not
one of those cold, worldly-minded spirits who have none of what may be truly called the
higher and the nobler feelings of humanity; but who can, and who do feel and think that
there is much of beauty and much of innocence in life, and that both are the dearest and
best gifts of Heaven."
"I have nothing to say in contradiction to what you have uttered," said Helen; "but you
will, I trust, now excuse me, sir, from continuing a conversation which can have no good
result, and which, between persons who are nearly perfect strangers, is scarcely desirable."
This was a speech which, if anything would, was calculated to bring the baron to the
point at once; and, as she rose while she uttered it; as with an intention of leaving the room,
he at once said, --
"Nay, as I am here, allow me to utter that which I came to speak, and do not, I pray you,
hastily decide upon a question of more importance to yourself and to me than any which
can be ordinarily asked. Let me beg of you, Miss Williams, to be seated, and to believe that,
in my manner of putting this question to you, there shall be nothing which can, in the
slightest degree, prove offensive to you."
Thus urged, it would have been something savouring of ill-manners, if Helen Williams
had refused to accede to his request; and, although there was nothing she so devoutly
wished as that that interview should be over, and over quickly, she felt that perhaps the
surest way of accomplishing that object, was to listen quietly to what he had to say; and
accordingly she did so, reseating herself again on the chair she had so recently occupied,
and determined in her own mind to give him a decisve answer. He then seemed rather in
doubt as to how he should commence, and, as he spoke, there was an air of hesitation and
doubt about him such as he, indeed, very seldom wore.
Probably, he felt that it was rather a climax that he had arrived at, and that if he was to
accomplish anything in the matrimonial way, it was a very doubtful case as regarded his
present application.
"I cannot but feel," he said, "that what I am about to say sounds hasty and premature,
considering that we have known each other for so short a space of time. It is not for me to
enlarge upon circumstances which, I fear, will have but little weight with you; but still it is

my duty to mention that I have a large fortune, and consequently can afford to place the
object of my affections in such a position in life as that she shall feel surrounded with
everything that can make her existence pleasant and desirable."
"Go on, sir," said Helen; "I am staying to hear you, in order that I might clearly and
distinctly answer you."
This was by no means encouraging; but still the baron proceeded: --
"I wish to make you an offer of my hand and heart; and, as the Baroness Stolmuyer of
Saltzburgh, I am quite certain that you will add a dignity to that title, instead of receiving
one from it."
"Sir," said Helen, "an offer of this kind from any gentleman is a compliment which ought
always to be appreciated, and I assure you it is one which I feel highly; but as one's future
happiness in a marriage is by far too important an affair to be trifled with, I must beg to
decline the honour you intend me."
"Decline!" said the baron.
"Yes, sir, I said decline; and I trust that the justice of the Baron Stolmuyer will effectually
preserve me from anything in the shape of a persecution for so declining."
At this moment, and before the baron could make any answer to what was said to him by
Helen in this firm and determined manner, the door was flung open, and Mrs. Williams
rushed into the room.
"My dear sir," she cried to the baron, "of course you understand these matters perfectly
well. Girls, you know, are always so very unreasonable, that you can't expect anything from
them but a refusal at first, although they may really mean quite the reverse."
"Mother, is this just or fair?" said Helen, reproachfully.
"Oh, stuff -- stuff! don't speak to me about justice and fairness, indeed, when you are so
absurd as to behave in this dreadful manner towards the baron."
"But, madam," said the baron, "I fear -- -"
"Fear nothing, my lord; but if you will have the kindness to step into the next apartment
for a few minutes, I will join you, and we can talk this matter over."
Mrs. Williams did not think it at all necesary to make any excuse for having listened to
the baron's overtures; and perhaps, indeed, she thought that it was not necessary to do so,
and that her interest in the affair was a sufficient extenuation of what certainly was a most
abominable proceeding.

Shame and disgust at her mother's conduct now kept Helen silent; and as the baron was
perfectly willing to give himself all the chances he could, he made a low bow, and left the
apartment, in conformity with the desires of Mrs. Williams, wondering much in his own
mind by what miracle she purposed influencing her daughter's decision after the extremely
positive negative she had given to his proposal.
He waited with much impatience, as well as curiosity, and as our readers may, as well as
the baron, be a little curious to know what arguments Mrs. Williams used, we shall proceed
to give them a brief outline of what she said.
"Are you mad?" was the first ejaculation. "Are you thoroughly and entirely out of your
senses, that you behave yourself in this extraordinary manner?"
"In what extraordinary manner? A man asks me if I can wed him and love him, and, as he
asks me politely, I tell him as politely that I cannot, which is the whole of the affair. Is there
anything so very extraordinary in such behaviour as that?"
"Indeed, I think there is something very extraordinary in it. I tell you what it is, Helen,
Mr. Leek is firmly of opinion that the baron's income must be at least ten thousand pounds
a-year."
"I do not think I shall marry a man for his income, if it were ten times that amount."
"This is insanity -- positive insanity. Have you really the least idea of what you are
talking about? But I know what it is well enough; I know very well what it is; of course it's
that fellow, James Anderson, that comes between you and your wits. That's the scamp that
prevents you from exercising a proper control over yourself, and you know it is; but he is
gone to sea, and it is to be hoped we shall never look upon him again. I don't wish to see
him, and I am quite sure you need not, so you had better make up your mind to marry the
baron at once."
"This is too cruel -- much too cruel; and but that I see it with my own eyes, I would not
have believed it possible."
She burst into tears as she spoke, and then for a brief moment -- but it was only for a
moment -- the heart of the mother was a little touched. The love of money again assumed
its sway, and the happiness of her child sunk into insignificance compared with that worst
of passions.
"Listen to me, Helen," she said: "it's all very well to make choice of who you like, and to
refuse who you like, when it can be done; but I tell you that, in this case, it cannot be done,
for we are all of us on the brink of ruin, and, if you will not by this marriage rescue us from
that state, destruction must come upon us all. You can save me, you can save your sisters,
and you can save your brother, if you will. If [sic] course, if you will not, I cannot make
you; and you will have the consolation of knowing that, although you had it in your power
to save us all from destruction, you did not do it."

"But why should I be placed in so cruel a situation as to be called upon to sacrifice myself
completely for my family? Would it not be nobler to meet difficulties, if they have arisen,
with a good spirit?"
"As you please -- as you please; I can say no more."
Mrs. Williams moved towards the door; but Helen called to her, saying, --
"Give me time to think -- I only ask you to give me time to think."
This was a grand concession, and Mrs. Williams at once acceded to the proposition, that
it was prudent to leave well enough alone in such a case, and that, having once seen that
persecution would do something, it was highly desirable to leave it to work its way.
She accordingly at once left the room, and proceeded into the adjoining apartment, to
which the baron had retired; and where, from his attitude, it seemed highly probable that he
had taken example by Mrs. Williams; and, as she had listened to his conversation with her
daughter, he had, in like manner, listened to her.
"I have the pleasure to inform you, baron," she said, "that my daughter, although at first
taken a little by surprise as regards your offer, now accepts it; and I can only add, for my
own part, that it is with great pleasure I contemplate having so handsome and distinguished
a son-in-law."
"Madam, I highly esteem your compliment; and I must beg of you as a favour, that you
will fix the wedding-day as quickly as you please or can; and that, as it must put you to
some expense as well as your other daughters, and as it would be very unjust that, on my
account, you should expend one penny piece, you will do me the favour of accepting from
me a 500 pound note to cover those expenses."
Mrs. Willams quite instinctively held out her hand, but the baron added, with a bow that
damped her expectations a little --
"A sum which I shall have the pleasure of handing to you as soon as the wedding-day is
fixed."
It would be doing great injustice to the acuteness of Mrs. Williams, if we did not say she
quite understood this to be a bribe for expediting proceedings; and if anything was likely to
clench the matter, and to place the marriage of the baron with Helen beyond the shadow of
a doubt, it certainly was this fact, that 500 pounds was offered to the mother for what we
cannot help calling the sale of her child.
But these kind of things are much more common in society than people are at all aware;
and one half the marriages that take place at all, are most unquestionably matters of barter.
When the highest bidder obtains the prize, if prize that can be called, which generally

consists of a shallow, conceited heart, nurtured in all kinds of selfishness, and full of
feelings, not one of which can be considered great or estimable.
It is sad, indeed, when, as in the case of Helen Williams, the victim is made a victim on
account of her better and nobler feelings, and where it is not her own selfishness, but the
selfishness of others, which she is condemned to be victimized to. Whether she will or will
not consent, under the circumstances we have narrated, to become the bride of the Baron
Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh, we shall shortly discover; but certain it is that he entertained a
strong notion she would, and that Mrs. Williams thoroughly made up her mind that she
should.
Nothing can save Helen but a determination of character, which we fear we cannot say
she possesses.
Her correct reason makes her say things which, if she could carry them out, would be as
proper and as decisive as possible; but the great fault of her character consists in a
weakness of purpose, which effecutally prevents her from carrying out the suggestion
presented to her by her own superior intellect.
--

CHAPTER CVI.
THE PREPARATIONS FOR THE BARON'S MARRIAGE. -- THE YOUNG LOVER,

AND THE REMONSTRANCE
So it appeared that the baron was right, and that with all his disqualifications he had
succeeded in obtaining the promise of a wife, because he had the one great qualification
which outshone everything to his disadvantage, namely, wealth.
And he was not so blind, or so foolish, as not fully to understand, and to know, that it was
to the relatives of the bride, and not to the bride herself, that he was indebted for an answer
in the affirmative to his proposition.
Well he knew that although he had dazzled their eyes and awakened their cupidity, he had
produced no such an effect upon the young and beautiful being who was about thus to be
sacrificed upon the altar of Mammon; and probably if anything could have added to his
earnest desire to make her his, it was that he saw she was untouched by the power of his
gold, and therefore he could not but respect, as well as admire her; and he much preferred
taking to his arms one for whom he entertained a supreme and sovereign contempt.
She felt that she was a victim, and that if she consented to become his, she must look
upon herself as blighted and sacrificed for ever.
But he was too selfish to hesitate on such a ground as that. His feelings were far from
being so human as to stop short, because he knew the alliance was viewed by her with
hatred and horror. And that she did view it with those feelings, spared him, at all events, as
he told himself, some trouble, for it took away from the necessity of keeping up the
constant shew and glitter of wealth, for that shew and glitter affected her not, and therefore
would have been presented to her imagination in vain.
But far different was it regarded her friends and connections, who had arrogated to
themselves the power of deciding upon this matter of life and death to her.
To them he felt that he must shew all the glitter of display that belonged to his extensive
means, or they would be disappointed, for they not only wanted riches themselves, but they
wanted the worldly reputation contingent upon having so rich a relative.

Therefore was it that he determined that nothing should be wanting at his approaching
nuptials to make them most magnificent, and he racked his imagination to discover a mode
by which he could spend a large sum of money, so as to get for it the greatest amount of
display. This was a matter which a man such as he was eminently calculated to achieve;
and, as he succeeded in fixing his nuptials to take place in a fortnight from that time, he had
ample time to make all such preparations as he might consider requisite.
It so happened that on the following evening to that on which he had obtained so strange
a consent, through another party, to his matrimonial speculation, that the sun sunk upon the
coast with every appearance of approaching stormy weather.
Scarcely had its disc sunk below the western horizon, when a furious gale arose, and, for
the first time since his residence at Anderbury Hall, he felt what it was to hold an estate so
near to the sea-coast.
The sea rose tempestuously, appearing to shake the mansion to its very foundation, and
more than one half of the excavation leading from the grounds to the sea-coast was filled
with water. The gale blew off the sea, and one or two trees upon the Anderbury estate were
torn up by their roots, spreading destruction around them among the numerous shrubs and
flowers.
Some of the windows of the mansion were dashed in, and the wind came roaring into the
house, whistling up the staircases, opening and shutting doors, and altogether producing a
scene of devastation and uproar which would have terrified most persons.
The baron, however, on the contrary, notwithstanding whatever damage was done was of
course done to his property, took the matter with the greatest ease and composure in the
world; and, in fact, rather seemed to enjoy the fury of the elements than to be awed by
them.
He remained out of doors the whole time and although the rain now and then fell in
torrents, and drenched him to the skin, he seemed scarcely conscious of that circumstance,
or, if he were, he evidently thought it too trivial to take any notice of.
The servants looked at him in amazement, scarcely believing it possible that any one in
his senses could be so indifferent to the rage of the elements that was proceeding; but they
little knew the real character of the man whom they had for a master, or they would have
wondered at nothing, and been surprised at nothing that they saw of him or heard of him.
The storm continued until the night completely set in, and still it showed no signs
whatever of anything in the shape of an end; and it seemed but too evident that it was likely
to continue in all its wild and ungovernable fury for many an hour to come.
He got as close as he could to the beach, so as not to leave his own estate, and from there
he listened attentively to the howling of the blast, seeming rather pleased with the idea than
otherwise, that much mischief was being done by that most terrific storm.

A servant brought him a telescope, so that he could look out upon the waste of waters,
and see some of the struggling vessels that, with might and main, were endeavouring to
keep off the shore, but which, despite all their efforts, were being hurried to destruction -- a
destruction which they could not avoid, and which must present itself in the most serious
aspect, because it appears inevitable, and is invested with all the misery of a protracted
execution.
And in particular he remarked one vessel which was drifting onward to certain and
inevitable destruction.
He could see the rockets and the blue lights that they burnt now and then through the
storm; while, ever and anon, with a booming strange sound over the waste of waters there
would come the signal gun of distress, with its awful reverberations, awakening feelings of
sympathy in the breast of every one but the baron, and he seemed impenetrable to all
human feeling, for he looked on with a strange calmness, a calmness that one might
suppose would set upon some man who had nothing to do with human hopes, human
thoughts, or human feelings, but not by any means that calmness of a pure spirit looking
upon things which it would aid, if it could, but which are beyond its power of action.
He saw the anxious throng of persons on the beach precisely below his own estate.
He saw them launch a boat, and, with a grim smile, he saw it swamped in the surge, and
the brave bold men, who had made the gallant endeavour to save their fellows, met
themselves, with but one exception, a watery grave.
And then even the baron smiled, and muttered to himself, --
"What is all this to me? what have I to do with human hopes and feelings? What is it to
me whether they live or die, or whether yon ship, that I now see struggling through the
waste of waters, reaches its destination, or is engulfed for ever in the foaming surge? What
is it to me, I repeat, whether these bold brave men live or die? Will they not be the very
persons to hunt me from the face of society? Will they not be the very persons who would
declare that I was unfit to live? And shall I trouble myself with one thought as to whether
they live or die? Ah! they come nearer, nearer, nearer still, and I shall see such a sight as
may not often be observed by one such as I am, and on such a coast as this."
There was a strange, wild, wailing cry, and the ship, which was a large one, struck
heavily upon a rock about a mile distant from the shore, and very close, indeed, to where
the Anderbury estates commenced.
Now, as if seized with a sudden impulse, although we cannot and do not think it was one
of humanity, the baron descended by a large fissure in the rock to the beach. This took him
some time to accomplish, for he had to walk completely through the grounds of Anderbury
Hall, and half-a-mile beyond, before he reached it, and then it took him some time to walk
down, because he had to do so with extreme caution, inasmuch as the heavy rain that had
fallen had made the ground so slippery that it was with great difficulty he could at all keep
his feet.

When he arrived in sight of the beach, the ship was gone, but a life boat was being
launched, amid the hurras of the multitude, for the purpose of picking up some of the
survivors of the wreck who were noticed drifting upon portions of its hulk.
The baron had brought his telescope with him, and he placed it to his eye, and took a long
and steady look at the boat.
A muttered malediction came from his lips, and, having shut the telescope, he turned, and
hastily pusued his path again to Anderbury House. * * * * *
After the wedding, Jack Pringle really felt himself so upset by the quantity of healths he
had drunk, and the general manner in which he had disposed of a quantity of rum, that he
told the admiral he found himself not quite so well as he ought to be, and that he thought it
was all owing to having been out of sight of water for so many months.
This was a plea which sounded very reasonable to the admiral, and when Jack said, --
"You know it ain't possible to live very long without a glimpse, at least, of an arm of the
sea, or something of that sort."
The old man assented to the proposition at once, and replied, --
"Why, that's true enough, Jack, and I shall have to go somewhere myself soon, or else get
musty; for, you may depend, it never was intended that human beings should live all their
lives on land."
"I should think not," said Jack, and I what I was going to say was, that you must try and
take care of yourself, you old baby, for a day or two, while I take a run to the coast. It ain't
above twenty-five miles; and mind you don't get into any mischief till I come back."
"Confound your impudence! It's a very odd thing that you can't come into my presence
without a lie in your mouth. You know you have been as much trouble to me as a cargo of
monkeys in a storm. Be off with ye, and if I never see your face again, it will be a good
job."
Jack considered that he had quite sufficiently announced his departure, so he set off at
once, and made his way towards the coast, not a little pleased, as he neared it, to fancy that,
every now and then, he kept snuffing the sea air; and when the coach in which he went put
him down within about four miles of a little village inhabited by fishermen, he walked that
distance, although, sailor-like, it was an exercise he was by no means fond of, and, to his
great joy, once more stood upon a sandy beach, and heard the murmur of the ocean, and
saw the waves curling at his feet.
He was quite delighted, and really felt, or fancied that he felt, which was the same thing,
wonderfully invigorated by the change, and quite another thing to what he had been.

Under such circumstances, Jack was sure not to be long in picking up a companion, so, in
one of the cottages into which, with all the free and easy manner of a sailor, he strolled, he
found an old man-of-war's man, retired there to spend the remainder of his days along with
his son and daughter.
We feel that it would be quite impossible for us to do justice to the meeting between those
two worthies, for they soon found out the capabilities of each.
Some grog, which Jack thought the sweetest he had tasted for a long time, because it was
drunk within sight of the ocean, was produced, and then the tales they set to telling each
other of their adventures afloat, would have been enough to stun any one.
We have rather a fear, likewise, that in some cases, they were not so strictly particular as
they might have been had they been upon their oaths, as regards truth; but they seemed to
be upon the principle of mutual forbearance, and the implied understanding of "You believe
me, and I'll believe you."
Whenever this kind of rivalry, however, commences between inveterate story-tellers,

there is no saying to what length they will go, and Jack certainly related some extraordinary
things.
They happened both to have been to the same latitude, but, of course, they had not both
seen the same sights exactly, or enjoyed the same adventures; so what one did not know or
could not invent, the other pretty soon did; so that between them they made up a most
entertaining conversation, and one which really would, to any one who was willing to be
amused and not very particular about veracity, have had great charms.
"Ah," said the old sailor, "when I was on the coast of Ingee, the hair melted off my head."
"Did it," said Jack. "Oh! that's nothing at all; we had a couple of men roasted at the wheel
with the heat, and they didn't know it, till they were both done brown."
"You don't say so?"
"Yes, I does, and, what's more, we always had our meat cooked over again upon one of
the gun slides; and, after that, when we were a long way southward, it was so cold not one
of the crew shut his eyes for a week."
"Indeed! But you spoke of a man as you called Safety Jack; who was he? I should like all
for to know."
"When I was on board the Fame, our captain was a know-nothing sort of shore-going
lubber, who had been guved a pair of swabs over better men's heads, and uncommon
afeared he was of getting into any danger. He'd always come on deck on a morning, and
guving a kind of a hurry skurry skeared look all round him, he'd say, if so be as he seed no
land, --

"'Where are we? Is there any danger?'
"Then our first luff he'd say, --
"'No danger, sir; only a little fear.'
"Then the captain he'd say, all the while looking as skeared as a marine in a squall, --
"'Let us be safe -- let us be safe, that's all.'
"So we called him Safety Jack, in consekense o' that peculiarity. Well, you must know as
we were running for the Cape, and Safety Jack he wouldn't be persuaded, but insisted upon
hugging the coast of Africa all the way, cos, as he said, it looked safer to see the land. So,
as it happened, when we neared the Cape, we got into a regular north-westerly current, that
set clear away south-east, or it might be a few points more southerly. The wind, too, blew
in the same direction, and it seemed a bad job altogether. Our luff then says, says he to the
captain -- that's Safety Jack, you must understand, --
"'It will take us some time to work into the bay with this wind and current, but we can do
it.'
"'Is it safe?' said Safety Jack.
"'Oh, yes,' said 'tother; 'though I have known a vessel of small draught to be capsised
hereaway.'
"Safety Jack at this turns very pale, and he says, --
"'Well, run before the wind a few leagues to the south; it's safer -- and -- and the gale may
go down, and we may get out of the current -- and -- and -- besides, it's safer.'
"Well, everybody grumbled, but Safety Jack would have his own way, and we went
spanking along with the wind and current nearly due south.
"But instead of getting out of the current we got further into it, and the gale increased to a
hurricane. We went through the water at such a rate that the men who stood facing the wind
could not button their jackets, or shut their eyes, and there was the mate and five able-
bodied men holding the captain's hair on his head. The men's teeth, too, were all blown out
of their mouths, and kept rattling among the rigging like half-a-dozen old shot in a locker.
On we went, faster and faster, till all of a sudden we saw the sails flapping against the
masts, and the ship was evidently turning round in spite of the helm.
"'We're out of it now,' mumbles Safety Jack.
"'I think we're in for it,' cried the mate. 'This is a whirpool!'

"And so it was; round and round we flew like lightning, coming nearer to one point at
each turn. The men all fell down on the deck as giddy as geese, and Safety Jack he begins
screaming. Just to give you an idea of how we went round, there was two of the crew as
had a squabble about a bottle of rum, and one on 'em says -- 'If I can't have it you sha'n't,
and there it goes,' shicing it behind him. Well, you'll hardly believe it -- but the ship was
going round so fast in a circle of about a mile, that afore the bottle could drop the man as
threw it was brought round to it again, and it knocked his eye out. Well, presently the ship
gives a kind of shivering and stops for half a moment, and Safety Jack he screams again.
Then the water opened like a well-hole, and just for a moment we could see it bubbling and
lashing like a boiling cauldron. Then down we went into the foaming surge like a lump of
lead."
"You don't mean to swear to that?"
"Yes, I do; at any time and any day; I should think so, and rather think I ought to know,
as I was there."
"And how did you get saved? That's the question, my boy."
"You ought to be satisfied about that, I should think," said Jack, "by seeing me here. If I
had not escaped, I rather suppose I shouldn't have been here to have told you about it."
"That's all very well; but I ask you how you escaped?"
"Oh, that's quite another thing. I floated about for eight weeks upon an empty tar barrel."
"Eight weeks, did you say?"
"Yes; eight weeks, two days, four hours, and three-quarters."
"The deuce you did! How came you to be so mighty particular as to the three-quarters?"
"Because I thought some fool would be sure to ask me.
"Oh, that indeed; but the most odd thing that happened to me, I will say, was when I was
once wrecked on an island that we called Flee Island."
"Flee Island; what a rum name! What made you call it that, I should like to know?"
"Oh, a trifling circumstance -- there was nothing in it but flees, and they were as big as
elephants."
"Very good," said Jack; "I can believe that, because there is nothing outrageous about it. I
don't consider myself at all difficult to please, and so long as you stick to such things as that
nobody can doubt you will find it all right with me."

"I am very much obliged -- but should you happen ever to come across that captain of
yours again -- "
"Yes, but it were a good while afterwards I was on boad [sic] a whaler, and I saw
something floating that looked like a great lump of chalk, and when we picked it up, who
should it turn out to be but Safety Jack, what they call putrified, and turned to something
like white coral."
"You don't mean that."
"Yes, I do; we keep him out of curiosity for about a week lashed up to the mainmast, but
the men of the night watch were scared at him, and threw him overboard, because they said,
when the moonlight fell upon him, he for all the world looked like a ghost, and they
couldn't keep their eyes off him, which I dare say was somewhere about the truth."
"You certainly have seen a little service; but mix yourself another glass of grog, and I
shall do the same, for I don't mean to turn into hammock to-night."
"What for?"
"Because there is going to be a storm. I have not been looking at the weather for so many
years without being able to tell that before it comes. There will be a storm before twenty-
four hours are over, and I think it will blow off the sea, so that there will be no end of
mischief."
Jack Pringle went to the door of the fisherman's hut, and, although the evening had set in,
he cast a scrutinizing glance at the heavens, looked earnestly in the direction from whence
the wind proceeded, and when he came back again and sat down by the side of the old
sailor, he said, --
"You are right; there will not only be a storm, but such a one too as they hav'n't seen for
some time; so I shall no more think of turning in than you do. Who knows but that some
vessel may be drifted in shore, and then we who are seamen will be able to do more good
than a score of your shore-going fellows, who are afraid if the saltwater gets above their
ankles."
"That's true enough; when the wind does rise in this way, and blows a strong gale, it is
pretty clear that there will be something in the shape of wreck to look at."
The prognostications of Jack and the old sailor turned out, as we know, to be tolerably
correct, for the storm which they anticipated was precisely that severe one which roused the
Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh from his lethargy, and induced him to go down to the
beach, to see what was likely to be the fate of the vessel from which the signals of distress
had proceeded.

So soon as the wind began to howl, and the waves to dash upon the shore, Jack Pringle
and the old sailor left the cottage, and stood with great anxiety upon the beach, anxious to
render what assistance they could to those who were suffering from the fury of the storm.
We have before mentioned that a boat that the Baron Stolmuyer saw swamped, had
ventured out to the assistance of the crew.
In that boat had been Jack Pringle; and he had refused to allow the old sailor to
accompany him, on account of his age.
"No, no," said Jack: "this is a work for youngsters, and they and they only ought to set
about it. You remain where you are. We know well enough that your will is good, and let
that be sufficient; and now, my lads, who will go with me?"
Jack soon got a few good volunteers, and started out on his chivalrous expedition, to see
what could be done towards rescuing some of the crew of the distressed ship.
But, alas! what the baron had said about the fate of that boat was true, although he was
incorrect as regarded the consequences of its swamping to all on board; for Jack Pringle, in
consequence of being a first-rate swimmer, and possessed likewise as he was of great
coolness and presence of mind, contrived to reach shore again, although he was the only
one of the ill-fated crew who really did so.
But, as Jack himself said, they died in a noble cause, and as everybody must die some
time in some sort of way, he didn't see that they had anything very particular to complain of
in that respect.
It was on the second occasion, however, that Jack was going out with a life-boat, that the
baron reached the beach, and then, as if indignant that such daring attempts should be made
to save what he evidently thought so little of, namely, human life, he retired in indignation
again to his home.
But not all the barons in the world would have stopped Jack in his chivalrous enterprize,
and so he proceeded at once to carry it out to the best of his ability; and he did pick up a
man who was nearly exhausted, and clinging, with but a faint hope of deliverance, to a
portion of wreck.
--

CHAPTER CVII.
THE YOUNG SAILOR SAVED BY JACK PRINGLE TURNS OUT TO BE AN

IMPORTANT PERSONAGE.
It was not the least gratifying part by any means of Jack Pringle's, going to the sea-side,
that, in consequence of that occurence, he had been instrumental in saving the life of a
fellow-creature; and when he returned to the cottage of the fisherman, bearing in his arms
the apparently lifeless remains of a young man, who had been clinging to a portion of the
wreck, the cheer that greeted him from the bystanders was certainly the most grateful music
that had ever greeted his ears.
He had a strong impression on his own mind, that the young man whom he had removed
from the wreck would recover, and that impression he was wonderfully well pleased to find
verified by the fact.
The care and assiduity of the family, upon whose hospitality the young stranger was thus
by the fury of the elements thrown, succeeded shortly in restoring him to perfect
consciousness.
He showed a disposition, then, to arise, but this Jack Pringle and the old fisherman would
not permit, for they both knew from experience in such cases, how essential rest was; so
they darkened the room in which he lay, and left him to himself.
"Well," said Jack, as they sat together; "what do you think of that young fellow? I cannot,
for my own part, make out very well what he is, although I can say what he is not, and
that's a seaman."
"No, he is no sailor, certainly; and he is more likely to have been a passenger on board the
merchantman, than anything else; and if so, it's an odd thing that he should have been the
only one saved out of the ship's crew, when there much have been men used to such
disasters, and one would think capable of taking care of themselves."
"It is an odd thing; but there is no accounting for it; we shall hear all about it, though,
when he recovers sufficiently to speak to us without doing himself any mischief."
"Certainly; and that will be after he has had a sleep, for then he will be all right; for, mind
you, I don't think he was insensible on account of having been in the water so much, as
because he was so thoroughly tired out, that he didn't know what he was about."
The stranger slept for about four hours; and then he awakened, greatly refreshed by the
slumber, and quite able to give some account of himself without fatigue.

After expressing his most grateful thanks for the service that had been rendered to him, to
which Jack listened with great impatience, because he really did not consider it a service at
all, but one of the most natural things in the world for a man to do, who saw another in
distress, he said, --
"I was captain's clerk on board a king's ship called the Undine, and we had a smart affair
with a nest of pirates on the African coast. We were absolutely attacked by four or five of
their vessels at once, and, having sunk three and captured the remainder, during which,
however, we lost some officers and a number of men, our captain determined upon sending
home a dispatch of the transaction, which he entrusted to my care."
"Hang pirates!" said Jack. "They ought all to be hung up at the yard-arm, without judge or
jury; but, I suppose, they are by this time pretty well settled."
"I have no doubt of it, for it was the captain's intention to steer to the nearest port, and
there be evidence against them, and get them in due course executed. He put me on board a
merchant vessel with my dispatches, and a more prosperous and pleasant voyage we could
not have, until the storm which arose off the coast here, and proved the destruction of our
vessel."
"Ah!" said Jack, "it's always the case, if anything happens, it's within sight almost of the
port you are bound to."
"So it is," said the old fisherman. "All is safe out in the blue waters; but, when you least
expect it, and things are looking quite pleasant, and people a-brushing themselves up to go
on shore, then, all of a sudden, something will occur, and you will find yourselves a
wreck."
"It would seem so," said the young stranger; "and, at all events, that was our evil fortune,
whatever it may be any one else's, for we were, indeed, just congratulating ourselves upon
being at home, or nearly so, when this terrific storm arose, and, I suppose, I am the only
survivor out a crew of twenty-eight men."
"The only one," said Jack, "I am sorry to say. All had sunk before the life-boat had
reached you, and, what's more, several brave fellows lost their lives in the first attempt to
pick up some of the crew; so it has been a most disastrous matter altogether."
"But cheer up," said the fisherman; "it might have been worse, for I have known cases
when a ship has gone down, and not left one survivor to say who or what she was; or tell
the tale of her destruction."
"And I too," said Jack.
"On what part of the coast," said the stranger, "am I? for, during the night, we have
drifted so far, and been so beaten about by the gale, that whether we came twenty miles or a
hundred I cannot tell."

"Why, the town close at hand here is called Anderbury."
"Anderbury!" exclaimed the young man. "Is it possible that my faculties have been so
confused by the danger I have been in, as not to know this coast. This is the very place to
which I should have proceeded post-haste, directly I concluded my business in London at
the Admiralty."
"Indeed. Then you had better stay here at once, and go to the Admiralty afterwards; for, I
dare say, that will answer the purpose just as well, at all events. And, I suppose, you have
lost your dispatches."
"I have, indeed; but yet it is my duty to report myself, as soon as possible. But, now that I
am in Anderbury, I cannot resist the opportunity of calling upon a dear friend, who resides
in this town. Do you happen to know a family of the name of Williams?"
"No," said Jack; "I never heard of them, except you mean a Bill Williams, that was once
on board the Ocean frigate, as cook."
"No, no. I mean a family residing here, one of the members of which is dearer to me than
life itself."
"Well," said Jack, "it's good fortune that has cast you here, since that is the case. It is not
likely that I should know anything of the people you speak of, because I am a stranger in
the place myself, and have come a distance of twenty-five miles, just to have a look at the
sea, and nothing else, and good fortune brought me here in time, it appears, to save your
life, and I only hope you will find your sweetheart true to you."
"I can have no doubt of that."
"Well, it is a good thing to be confident; but, for my part, I always had very serious
doubts, and, when I came off a voyage, I frequently found that my sweetheart had picked
up with somebody else, in the course of about a week after I was gone."
"But, in this case," said the young stranger, "I would stake my life upon the fidelity of her
whom I wish so much now to see."
"Well," said Jack, "of course you please yourself; but, before you make a fool of yourself,
by calling upon her, just satisfy yourself upon the subject, that's all, and get some friend to
make an inquiry for you, or else, perhaps, you will be served as I was once."
"How was that?"
"Why, the fact is, when I was younger than I am now, I took a fancy to a nice little
creature, of the name of Jemima West, whom I fully intended to marry, and so I told her,
before I started upon one voyage that I meant to be my last; for, you see, I had a pretty good
stock of prize money, and I meant to set up a public-house at Liverpool."

"And did she prove false to you?"
"A little. When I came home, of course I walked off straight to where she lived. Her
father and mother were very respectable people, and amused themselves with selling coals
and potatoes. So, in I walked, as I used to do, into the shop, and so on, bang into the
parlour, and there sat Jemima, much as usual, neither very clean, and neither very dirty.
Well, on the other side of the fire-place was a fellow smoking a pipe, and, when I caught
hold of her, and gave her half-a-dozen regular kisses, he takes his pipe out of his mouth,
and opens his eyes like an old crocodile.
"'Well, my girl,' I said; 'how are you?'
"'Oh, I don't know,' she said; 'I didn't expect to see you any more.'
"'No,' said the fellow, with the pipe, 'and I'm d -- d if ever I expected to see you at all.
Who the devil are you?'
"'Who the devil are you?' says I; 'but, however, that don't much matter, for be you whom
you may, if you don't pretty quick take yourself off, I'll kick you out.'
"'That's a good joke,' says he, 'to talk of kicking a man out of his own house, after coming
in and kissing his wife like a steam-engine. A very good joke.'
"'Wife!' says I. 'Do you say you are this fellow's wife?'
"'Yes,' says she, and she pretended to wipe something out of the corner of her eye with
her apron. 'Yes,' says she; 'I thought you were drowned long ago, and so I thought I might
as well be Mrs. Juggles.'
"Now you may guess, messmate, what a d -- d fool I looked after that, and how glad I was
to back out; so, you see, I advise you to make some inquiries just before you take upon
yourself to be so positive about your sweetheart."
The young man laughed, as he said, --
"I think I'll chance it; and, notwithstanding your misadventure, I have some reason to
believe that I shall not be so unfortunate; but at all events I will take your advice and make
some previous inquiries. It shall not be said that I fell into any misadventure of that nature
for want of ordinary caution."
"That's right, don't be above taking advice; and, do you know, I sha'n't be at all surprised,
that you will find your sweetheart going to be Mrs. Somebody else; but come, here's dinner
will be ready directly."

"Yes," said the old man; "it will as soon as my son returns from Anderbury, where he has
gone to buy a bit of fresh meat for you, for I thought you would be tired of fish, and we had
nothing else in the house."
"I regret much giving you so much trouble; but I shall have my pay to receive when I
reach London, and will take care that you are amply recompensed."
"Oh, don't mention that; and, by-the-bye, here he comes. Well, Tom, what have you
brought?"
"A leg of mutton," said Tom; "I ain't a judge of nothing else, but I thought I might venture
upon that, at all events. I think somebody told me it was very good with shrimp sauce."
"Rather an odd mixture, that, Tom, and not quite usual I should say."
"Well, the fellow was on the grin that told me, on account of an old woman that had been
to them to ask for some more credit for a month or two, because her daughter was going to
be married to a baron somebody, who they say has taken Anderbury-on-the-Mount, and is
immensely rich."
"Did you hear her name, Tom?"
"Oh, yes; I have seen her before in the town. It's old Mother Williams, and it's her
daughter Helen as is going to be married."
"Well, I never!" cried Jack; "I say, messmate, didn't I tell you? The murder is out, now;
that's your sweetheart, ain't it?"
The young man turned very pale, and for a few moments he did not speak; but when he
did so, he said, --
"There must be some mistake; I could stake my life upon her constancy."
"Then a precious goose you would be," said Jack, "to do any such thing, for I wouldn't
stake my little finger upon any woman. Why, man, it's just what you ought to have
expected. It's the way with them all, out of sight out of mind, and I am only surprised at a
fellow of your sense not knowing that, for you seem to be up to a thing or two."
"It cannot be -- it cannot be -- I must go myself to seek Helen, and at once put a stop to
these rumours, which, I am convinced, arise from some misconstruction, and probably a
confusion of names. I know that Mrs. Williams is a selfish woman, and it is possible that
she might not hesitate in sacrificing one of her daughters to gold, but that one cannot be
Helen, who has pledged her faith to me."
"Well," said Jack, "take advantage of any doubt you can, but it would be very absurd for
you to go interfering in the matter yourself. You leave it to me to make the necessary

inquiries, whilst you remain here snug and unknown, and I promise you, on the word of a
British seaman, that I'll bring you exact news all about it."
"I accept your offer gratefully, for if she be faithless to me, I wish never to encounter her
again, but to leave her to enjoy what happiness she can with that other for whom she has
broken her faith with me."
"Good," said Jack; "that's the wisest plan, for, after all, you see, in these affairs who's to
blame but the girl herself? and you can't very well give her a thrashing, you know; for, as
regards the fellow, of course, she don't say anything to him about you, and he can't tell but
what she is a regular free trader."
"True -- true -- and the best thing, therefore, I can do, to make certain of controlling my
temper in the transaction, is not to see her, unless I can make certain that she is faithful to
the vows she has plighted to me; but let me beg of you, as quickly as possible, to end my
state of suspense and doubt."
"I believe you," said Jack; "I'll go at once to find it all out. You sha'n't be in doubt much
longer, and, of course, I hope that things will turn out to your satisfaction; although I can't
say I expect they will."
"The hope that they will, is life itself to me, and I shall wait here with an impatience
bordering upon positive agony for your report."
--

CHAPTER CVIII.
THE DECISION AGAINST THE DOCTOR, AND MORE NEWS OF VARNEY, THE
VAMPYRE.
It will be remembered that Dr. Chillingworth, although he had, without doubt, ascertained
that Varney had proceeded to London, hesitated about following him there without the full
connivance and consent of the Bannerworths; and now, at the very first opportunity he had,
when he found the admiral and Henry together, he introduced the subject.
He detailed what he had already done in the way of tracing Varney from place to place,
and ended by declaring his conviction the he was to be found in London.
"It is not only of importance," he said, "to discover Varney on account of the property
which I think he has taken with him, but it really amounts almost to a public duty to do so,
when we consider the evil he has succeeded in bringing upon us, and that some other
family may be soon suffering from similar machinations."
"But, doctor," said Henry, "I presume you have no disinclination to admit that the
principal view you take of this subject, is as regards its connexion with the supposed sum of
money which Varney has taken with him?"
"I freely own," said the doctor, "that I should like to place that money in your hands,
because I think you are entitled to it; and, perhaps, that is my principal motive, but it
certainly is not my only one; for, as I consider Varney quite a curiosity in a medical point
of view, I certainly wish to follow him up, and should be extremely sorry to lose sight of
him altogether."
"But you must be aware, doctor," said Henry, "that there really is something like positive
danger in following such a man up; and, although he feels himself under such great
obligations to you, that I do not think he would willingly do you an injury, yet there is no
knowing what so strange and irascible a temper might not be goaded to."
"I have no dread of danger."
"I dare say you have not," said the admiral; "but I give my vote against having anything
further to do with Varney."
"And," said Henry, "although I cannot withhold an expression of admiration for the
doctor's perseverance, I beg him to think that we oppose his pilgrimage in search of the
vampyre, because we fell more for his personal safety than we fear any of the machinations
of Varney."

"Well, gentlemen," said the doctor, "since I am in a minority, of course I must give in,
and say no more about it. I should certainly have liked to find the fellow; for it is my
impression that he certainly has a good many thousands of your money in his possession.
But, as it is, I will say no more about it; although I shall retain my opinion that you are ill-
advised in not following him up."
"Oh," said the admiral, "it wouldn't do to follow people up always."
"I don't know that. There's that Quaker, for instance, who has got possession of
Dearbrook."
"The Quaker!" shouted the admiral. "D -- n the Quaker! I'll follow him up while I have a
guinea left, or a leg to stand on. What the deuce made you mention him? for you know the
very sound of his name is enough to put me in a fever. The Quaker be hanged, an infernal
thief as he is!"
It was well known to both Henry and the doctor, and, in fact, to all the family now, that
the mention of the Quaker was always enough to drive the admiral nearly frantic; so that we
are inclined to think Dr. Chillingworth was actuated by a little spirit of vengeance when he
made that remark, and that, on the whole, he was so vexed at the non-participation of the
Bannerworths and the admiral in his views concerning Sir Francis Varney, that, on the
irritation of the moment, he did not scruple to say something which he thought would be
annoying; but his downright good feeling so got the better of anything of that sort, that,
turning to the admiral, he said, --
"I do apologise -- I ought to apologise for my calling to your attention anything of a

disagreeable character; for I have no right whatever to do so; and it was only upon the
impulse of a moment, I assure you, that I uttered the words."
"Doctor," said the admiral, "I know all that as well as you can tell me; so just say no more
about it, if you please, for I don't want to hear one word upon such a subject."
"Well, then," said the doctor, "now that I stand acquitted of doing or saying anything of a
doubtful or disagreeable character, I can only tell you that I shall persevere in my opinion,
and that it is just possible, though not very likely, that I may, upon my own account, do
something in the matter."
"All of which," said Henry, "I am very sorry to hear you say, doctor."
"But why are you sorry?"
"Because I cannot help anticipating danger. I feel almost certain that it will ensue, and, in
that case, no one will more bitterly regret that you mixed yourself up in the affair than I
shall."

"Oh, do not presume any such thing," said the doctor, jestingly. "You may depend Varney
and I understand each other too well for there to be much danger in my intercourse with
him. There is something about the fellow yet that will not permit him to do any deliberate
wrong to me; and, strange as the feeling may appear, I cannot help acknowledging that I
like him in some things, and that, having been the means of restoring him to life, I feel,
somehow or another, as if I were bound to look after him."
"Well, that is rather absurd," said the admiral, "I must confess. But, however, doctor, if
you have any such feeling, by all means carry it out -- I won't say nay; but by any means
find him out, if you like, and if you can make him a decent member of society, in Heaven's
name do so."
"I do not expect that," said the doctor; "and if I only keep him out of mischief, I shall be
sufficiently satisfied, for that would be accomplishing a great deal with such a man."
"Promise me one thing," said Henry, "in connection with this affair."
"What may that be?"
"It is that you will not take any step in the matter without letting us know. Of course, you
are a free-agent in the transaction, and have as much right as anybody to say or to do
anything as regards Varney, the vampyre; but still, knowing so much of him as we do, I, for
one, certainly would be glad to be made aware of anything you were attempting concerning
him."
"That I will promise you, so you need be under no possible apprehension on such a score,
but feel completely at your ease that nothing is being done unless you know of it."
At this juncture, a servant entered the room with a letter, which was addressed to Henry
Bannerworth, and, upon opening it, he uttered a sudden exclamation of suprise.
"What is it?" said the admiral; "you seem astonished, Henry."
"I am, indeed, astonished, and I may be. Who do you suppose, admiral, this letter is
from?"
"I can't possibly take upon myself to say."
"Why, from no other person than Varney, the vampyre."
"Indeed!" cried Dr. Chillingworth; "and does he offer restitution? -- does he offer to
return the money he so wrongfully has got possession of? -- tell me that."
"I cannot answer you, for I have not read one word of the epistle; I only see by the
signature that it is his; but as it is impossible that there can be any secrets between myself

and Varney, I shall read it to you aloud, and you shall both of you be able to judge
concerning it."
The admiral and the doctor assumed attitudes of attention, while Henry, after glancing his
eyes slightly down the contents of the letter, commenced reading it as follows: --
"To Henry Bannerworth.
"Sir, -- Probably the last person in the world from whom you might expect to receive a
communication, is he who now pens this epistle; but as it is penned with a good feeling
towards you and yours, I hope and trust it will be received in a kindly spirit.
"Admitting that the circumstances under which I left the protection of your house were
such as to require some explanation from me, it is that explanation which I now proceed to
give.
"Circumstances made it imperatively necessary that I should adopt a course of conduct

that should no longer make me a burden to those who had more cause to wish me dead,
than to assist me in maintaining existence.
"Without, then, the least sinister motive towards you or any one belonging to you, I left
your home secretly, and at once, not being willing to listen to remonstrances that I knew
would be spoken kindly, but which I knew at the same time could not be very serious,
inasmuch as my presence cannot possibly be otherwise than a severe tax upon your
kindness and your patience.
"I cannot be so besotted as to think for a moment, that you can forget, although a
generosity of temper, for which I give you full credit, might enable you to forgive, the
injuries you have received from me; but I could not make up my mind to reside under your
roof on such terms; and since my recovery from the violence of a lawless mob, the question
in my mind has been, not whether I should leave you or not, but how I should leave you,
and where I should betake myself to.
"At length, finding it impossible to come to any rational conclusion upon these points,
and that time was rapidly wearing, so that it became necessary, if I came to a conclusion at
all, I should come to it quickly, I resolved to leave without giving you any notice of the
fact, and set up my staff, as it were, in the wilderness, and proceed in whatever direction
chance might point out to me.
"This, I say, was my resolve, and I have carried it into execution. All I ask of you is, to
forget me, and not to waste any thought upon the man who will never do any injury to you,
or to any one belonging to you, and who hopes you will make no inquiry for him; but,
should you meet him ever, you will pass him by as if you knew him not.
"These few words come from him who was

"VARNEY, THE VAMPYRE."
There was a dead silence when this epistle was concluded, and all seemed busy with their
own opinions as regarded this communication, which certainly was one of a singular
nature, and highly calculated to excite their surprise.
Upon the whole, though, there was one extremely evident conclusion to be drawn from it,
and that was, that Varney was extremely anxious not to be interfered with.
"Can anything be more transparent?" exclaimed the doctor; "it is just as I say, Varney
wants to try some new scheme, and is very much afraid that he may come across us in some
way, and be baulked in it, by our exposing what his real character is; and, if anything could
give me a stronger impulse than another to follow him and see what he is about, it would
certainly be that letter."
"I do not think you need be afraid," said Henry; "for the letter, bearing as it does that
signification, is such a one as induces me to believe he is fearful that some circumstances
may throw him in our way, and in that case, that we may spoil his sport; and of the
likelihood of such a thing occurring, he is, of course, a much better judge than we can be.
So I should say, let him alone, and see if anything really turns up concerning him; if it does,
we have a fair principle action before us, for we have no occasion, merely because he has
asked us, to be quiet and peaceable, if we find himi playing any pranks, or attempting to
play any pranks."
"That's my opinion, too," said the admiral; "be quiet and take no notice, and it will be an
odd thing to me, then, if you don't soon hear something of Master Varney, and that may be
a something, too, that may astonish us."
"It that all the letter?" said Dr. Chillingworth.
"Yes, with the exception of these words in a postscript, --
"Any communication addressed to V. V., General Post-office, London, will reach my

hands promptly."
"Ah! then there's the gist of the matter," said the doctor; "the vagabond wants to be
assured that we shall not interfere with him; and then he has got some rascality in hand, you
may depend, which he would set to work about in real earnest."
"I shall not write to him," said Henry, "but shall pursue quite a different course of policy,
and wait patiently for what may happen, for I am convinced that is the only plan to pursue
with any chance of benefit or success."
"And you will bear in mind, doctor," said the admiral, "that the fellow in this letter talks
of giving us an explanation, and yet not one word does he say about jumping upon your
back from the garden-wall. The deuce a bit does he explain that."

"No," said the doctor; "nor did I expect he would. Such a man as Varney is not likely to
criminate himself; and, while there is a doubt about whether he is that person or not, you
may depend he will not be the man to take any pains to dispel it."
"Of course not -- of course not."
"Well," said the doctor, "I can only tell you all one thing, and that is, that, whatever you
may think or flatter yourselves, this affair is very far indeed from being over, and sooner or
later, something yet very serious will occur in connection with Varney, the vampyre. Do
not fancy that you have got rid of him, for, most certainly, you have not."
The doctor spoke these words so oracularly, that they sounded extremely like one of those
predictions founded upon such a firm basis, that they are sure to be carried out by future
facts, and both Henry and the admiral felt as if they had heard truth from some one who
knew well what he was uttering, and was not likely to be mistaken.
--

CHAPTER CIX.
THE PREPARATIONS FOR THE WEDDING OF THE BARON STOLMUYER OF

SALTZBURGH.
There is a common adage which inculcates the necessity of striking while the iron is hot,
and this was an adage which, to judge from her conduct, seemed to have made a great
impression upon the mind of Mrs. Williams, and she thought that, as regarded her
daughter's feelings, the iron was hot, and that, if she struck now, she might be able to wring
from her a consent, no matter how reluctant, to call the Baron Stolmuyer her husband.
The objects which Mrs. Williams felt certain she should succeed in achieving by such an
union in her family, were far too weighty to be easily dispensed with. They not only
comprehended the five hundred pounds which the baron had so judiciously promised her
upon the wedding day being fixed, but she had an eye to after circumstances, and
considered that the son-in-law who could spare five hundred pounds, as a mere bribe to her,
would be an endless source, from whence she could draw her pecuniary supplies.
"And then," thought Mrs. Williams, "there are the other girls to get off, too, and what a
famous opportunity it will be to do that, when they can be at all the grand parties the baron
will give at Anderbury House."
To an intriguing woman, such as Mrs. Williams was in reality, all these advantages
appeared in full force; and, if ever she made up her mind thoroughly and entirely about
anything in the world, she certainly did that her daughter Helen should be the Baroness
Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh.
She certainly wished, in her own heart, that the baron had chosen one of her other
daughters, because then she knew that she would not have had to encounter the opposition
she had done, and, perhaps, had still to encounter, in the case of Helen; but, as it was, that
part of the business could not be helped, and she, Helen, was to be sacrificed.
If the baron had thought for twelve-months over the matter, he could not have come to a
better conclusion, as to the best means of making Mrs. Williams a zealous partisian of his,
than by distinctly naming a sum of money that she should have, and when she should have
it, for now she considered that each moment's delay was a piece of actual criminality on the
part of Helen, inasmuch as it was keeping her, Mrs. Williams, out of a large sum of money.
There was one thing, however, which she did at once; and that was to go to the different
tradespeople who had had the awful insolence to stop the supplies, and tell them that her

daughter Helen was about to become the Baroness Stolmuyer, and that, if they continued to
execute orders, and to wait with patience, they would all get paid within one month.
This positive announcement staggered some of them, for they would hardly have thought
it possible that she would have made it, if there had not been some great foundation for
truth in it, of some sort, and it was one of these announcements which, as the reader is
aware, had been overheard by Tom, the son of the old sailor, and which, when reported,
had created so much consternation in the mind of the young man who had been saved by
Jack Pringle from the wreck.
On the following morning, the lady received a laconic note from the baron, in which were
the words: --
"Madam, -- Have you settled with your daughter the day and hour of my nuptials with
her? I have drawn a cheque in your favour, and only wait your further proceeding in the
affair to sign it, and send it to you.
"I have the honour to be, madam, yours truly, "STOLMUYER.
"Mrs. Williams."
This note put Mrs. Williams into a perfect fury of impatience. The idea, that actually a
cheque for five hundred pounds should be drawn in her favour, and only awaiting the
signature of the baron, and that, by one word, her daughter Helen could procure that
signature, was absolutely maddening.
She rushed, at once, to Helen's room. * * * *
Poor Helen knew enough of her mother to feel convinced, from the first, that no possible
exertion would be spared for the purpose of forcing her into that marriage, which had no
charms, alas, for her, but which, on the contrary, presented itself to her in the most hideous
of all possible aspects.
From the first moment that her mother had broached it, it had seemed in its remembrance
to lie at her heart like a lump of lead. She seemed already to feel that, after an unavailing
resistance, she would have to yield, and then that her future existence would involve in it all
the pangs of despair and regret.
"Alas -- alas!" she said; "under what fatal planet was I born, that I should be so unhappy
as I now am? What will become of me, and how shall I gather resolution enough either to
bear with seeming patience the fate that afflicts me, or to resist the machinations of my
mother, who would force me to wed this man whom I cannot love."
The long absence of her lover was so perplexing a source of woe and reflection to her,
that already it had sapped much of the joy of her young existence.

"He surely ought," she said, "and might have found some means of communicating to me
long ere this. He might well know, and must know, that suspense is, of all feelings, the
worst to bear. Oh! why am I thus deserted by all, and left to the mercy of the worst of
circumstances?"
With her sisters, poor Helen could have no sympathies in common; either of them would
have been delighted to change places with her, as regarded the fact of becoming the
Baroness of Saltzburgh, and they had towards her a tolerably cordial ill-will, on account of
her superior charms, which made her so much admired, while they were left to "pine in
maiden meditation fancy free."
But to Helen Williams, this gift of beauty was what it truly has often been described -- a
most dangerous one, and she would have given the world to have been able to wear an
appearance that would have repelled, instead of attracted, the Baron Stolmuyer.
She was in this desponding state of mind, revolving in her mind her dismal prospects, if
she should consent to wed the baron, and her equally dismal ones if she should refuse -- for
well she knew how painful a position with her family such a refusal would place her in --
when her mother entered the room.
Mrs. Williams had so thoroughly determined that this marriage should take place, that she
could not be said to have now sought her daughter to persuade her to it; but, on the
contrary, to insist upon it. The sisters, too, with whom this unnatural mother -- or rather,
perhaps, we ought to say, too natural, but too common mother -- had held a conversation
upon the subject, were anxious, despite their jealousy upon the occasion, that the affair
should proceed, because certainly the next best thing to themselves making such an alliance
was to succeed in getting it made by some other of the family, and they fully intended
making Anderbury-on-the-Mount their home.
"What, Helen!" exclaimed Mrs. Williams -- "in tears as usual!"
"Have I not cause for weeping, mother?"
"Well, well; I cannot say much to you beyond the few words I have come to say. I have, I
fear, as regarded this affair of the offer that was made to you by the Baron Stolmuyer,
behaved precipitately."
"Oh, mother," cried Helen, with renewed hope, "I am rejoiced to hear you say so. Then
you will not now ask me to sacrifice myself to a man whom I can never love? Say no more
of the past. It is sufficient that you have awakened to better resolves now, dear mother, and
I shall be happy."
Such words as these ought to have softened the mother's heart; but such a woman had no
heart to soften; and, after a pause, she proceeded in her plan of operations.
"Well my dear, perhaps it is all for the best."

"It must be for the best, mother, because it never can be for good that I should have
consented to plight my vows to one whom, of all others, I cannont look upon with the least
affectionate regard. Indeed, mother, so much as I can absolutely dislike any one, I dislike
that man."
"There's no occasion to say anything more about it, my dear. I have come to bid you
farewell, and Heaven only knows when we may meet again."
"What do you mean, mother?"
"I mean, my dear, just what I say; I am going now at once to a prison."
"A prison?"
"Yes. It certainly is not an agreeable idea; but, as I told you, I was too sanguine, and built
too much upon your consenting to marry the baron, so I borrowed a sum of money to pay
some pressing debts; but as I have not been able to repay it, I am arrested, and have now
only persuaded the man to go away upon giving him my solemn promise that I will, in half-
an-hour's time, be at the gates of the town gaol."
Helen heard this declaration with a feeling of perfect horror. She was too little acquainted
with the usages of society to see what a transparent lie it really was, and, to her mind, it did
not appear improbable that a man who came to arrest anybody should take their word to
come to the gaol in half-an-hour.
"Oh! mother, mother," she sobbed, "can this be?"
"I don't know," said Mrs. Williams, "if it can be or not. All I know is, that it is so, and that
I am perfectly willing to pass the reaminder of my days in a dungeon."
Helen's ideas of prisons were all procured from romances, and she was not at all
surprised, consequently, to hear her mother talk of a dungeon; and if she had added
something about chains, and bread and water, and a heap of straw merely for a bed, it
would have found a ready credence with poor Helen.
No wonder, therefore, that the idea of such a catastrophe presented itself to her in the
most terrific colours; and she saw at once all her recent congratulations upon an escape
from a marriage with the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh scattered to the winds of Heaven.
She was so petrified with astonishment and grief, that for some moments she could not
speak, and Mrs. Williams took care to improve upon that silence by adding, --
"I am sure I should be the last person in the world to ask any daughter of mine to make a
sacrifice; but as I have been so foolish, because I took a pride in my family, as to go into
expenses I cannot stand, why, of course, I must take the consequences."

"Oh! no, no."
"Oh! it's all very well to say, 'Oh! no, no,' but it's oh! yes, yes; and all I have to ask of you
now is, to say that business has compelled me to leave this part of the country, and after
that, the best way will be to say that I am dead."
"Heaven help me!"
"And then, of course," continued Mrs. Williams, in the most martyr-like and self-denying
tone in all the world; "and then, of course, people will leave off making any inquiries about
me, and you may all of you in time manange to forget me likewise."
"Mother, mother, is not this cruel?"
"My dear, I really cannot say that I think it is. I am, and have been, mistaken, and perhaps
I did push the affair of your marriage with the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh a little too
far, and too much counted upon it. I know I am apt to be too sanguine -- I am well aware of
that. It's a little peculiarity of mine, but I cannot help it; and when we have those little
peculiarities, all we can do, is to put up with it as best we may."
"But, mother -- -- ."
"Oh! it's no use talking."
"Is the creditor so very inexorable?"
"Yes, and only on one account; he thinks I have deceived him, that't the fact; and having
asked me to give a decided answer if the wedding-day was fixed between you and the
baron, for nothing else would satisfy him, and as of course I could not say that, he got quite
furious, and at once threatened me with law proceedings, which I did not think he really
meant; but it appears he did, for here I am arrested."
"But can nothing be done?"
"Not that I see. The baron, when he made the proposal, was anxious for an immediate
reply, and then he would have made some very handsome settlement, which would have
been soon known, and anybody would have trusted me. But as it is, the only thing that can
save you all, will be for me to go to prison at once, and so disappear."
Helen wept bitterly.
"And therefore, my dear, I beg you won't think anything of it. I am quite willing to go at
once, without any more fuss about it. But I have not yet said anything to your sisters,
because I thought that the first explanation was due to you in the affair, since you were the
most mixed up with it."

"Oh! this is too dreadful -- much too dreadful!"
"Farewell -- farewell. We may meet again, or we may not. I wish you all manner of
happiness."
Mrs. Williams moved towards the door, but before she reached it, Helen sprung after her,
and detaining her, cried, --
"No, no. It must not be. If there is an imperative necessity for some victim, let me be it.
Oh! let me be it."
"What do you mean, Helen?" asked Mrs. Williams, in pretended surprise.
"I -- I mean, mother, that -- that I will, to save you, give up all hopes of happiness in this
world, and that although I would far rather go at once to my grave, I will, since my destiny
seems to point out that it must be so, consent."
"Consent to become the Baroness Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh, &., &. Do I hear aright?"
"Yes, yes. Heaven help me! I feel that I have no other hope. The dreadful alternative that
is presented to me, leaves me no other course to pursue. I must, and I do consent, if it will
at once save you from the prison."
"It will, my dear, if I can succeed in convincing my importunate creditor that you have
really consented, and that it is not a scheme of mine merely to escape a prison. But if you
write a few words signifying your consent, that will be quite sufficient."
This was an artful proceeding on the part of Mrs. Williams, for although she by no means
intended to put the baron in possession of such a document, yet she considered that by
having it, she completely protected herself from any reproaches which he might otherwise
cast upon her, should any hitch arise in the proceedings, or anything go wrong with the
affair, even at the last moment.
The few words in writing, which sufficed, as Mrs. Williams thought, fully to commit poor
Helen to the marriage, were freely written, for there was no duplicity in the character of
Helen, and what she said she would consent to, she was quite willing to write.
"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Williams, "although you don't feel happy just now about the
marriage, you may depend upon it you will enjoy your existence very much; for when you
get a little older, you will find that it is, after all, the possession of ample means that is the
most important thing to look to."
Helen shook her head, but she made no reply. She did not at all agree with what her
mother said, but she felt by far too much depressed to argue the point with her just then.

"You will all your life," added Mrs. Williams, as she left the room, "have the great
consolation of knowing that you saved me from a prision, and in so doing, absolutely saved
my life, for although I did not say before, I am quite sure I should have died."
--

CHAPTER CX.
JACK PRINGLE CALLS UPON MRS. WILLIAMS, AND TELLS HER A PIECE OF
HIS MIND UPON AFFAIRS IN GENERAL.
Jack Pringle never promised anything without an intention of performing it, whether he
could succeed or not; and accordingly, when he promised that he would make due and
dilligent inquiry, for the purpose of ascertaining if Helen Williams was indeed faithless, he
proceeded at once to do so in the most direct manner in the world, viz. by calling upon no
less a personage than Mrs. Williams herself, and popping the question to her in a manner
which almost precluded the possibility of her returning anything but a direct answer.
This was a measure which few persons would have attempted; but having, as it had, all
the characteristcs of boldness about it, it was not one that he was likely to fail in, but, upon
the contrary, calculated in every respect to be eminently successful.
He proceeded to the town in perfect ignorance of its locality, or even of the abode of Mrs.
Williams, except so far as a very involved description had been given to him of the route to
her house by the old sailor's son, Tom, who certainly was not the best hand in the world at a
direction.
But Jack was never at a loss, for, some how or another, by the force of a good-tempered
manner that he had, he contrived to make friends wherever he went, and among them he
soon found one who was willing in every respect to take pains with him, and to walk with
him to the door of Mrs. Williams.
"Thank ye, messmate," said Jack; "and if ever I meet you again you may make up your
mind that you have met a friend. And so this is Mrs. Williams's is it?"
"Yes," said the man; "this is Mrs. Williams's."
"And what sort of a creature is she?"
"Oh, why, as to that, she is not the sort of woman I like; but there is no accounting for
tastes, you know, and other people might like her very well."
"You are a sensible fellow," said Jack; "and I should say you have quite wit enough about
you, that if you fell into the fire you would get out again as soon as you could."

The man hardly knew whether to take this as a compliment or not; but at all events he
bade Jack good-day civilly enough, and took no notice of it.
Jack then boldly knocked at the door, and when the one miserable servant of the
Williamses made her appearance, and asked him what he wanted, he replied, --
"Why, I have principally called to tell you what a remarkably fine girl you are, and after
that I should like to see mother Williams."
"Go along with ye," said the girl; "you are only joking, and I can tell you that missis
would just as soon give you to a constable as look at you."
"Oh, no, she wouldn't," said Jack; "for good-looking fellows are scarce, and I dare say she
knows that as well as possible, and she would much rather keep me herself than give me to
anybody."
"Well, I'm sure!" said the girl. "You are like all the rest of the men, and have a pretty
good opinion of yourself; but, if you really want to see missis, I may as well tell her at
once."
"To be sure," said Jack.
Mrs. Williams, from a room on the ground floor, had heard that some sort of conversation
was going on at the street door, and she called out --
"Susan, Susan; how dare you be talking there to anybody! Who is that, I say -- tell me
who that is immediately?"
"It is me, ma'am," cried Jack.
"And who is me?"
"Why, ma'am, I have come on a delicate mission; I have got something to say to you as is
rather particular."
Mrs. Williams's curiosity was excited, and perhaps some of her fears, for when she had
told Helen that she was drowned in debt, she had, hyperbolically speaking, not far exceeded
the truth, and therefore she dreaded refusing seeing any one who came to ask for her, lest,
smarting under the aggravation of such a proceeding, the party, be he whom he might,
should leave some message that it would not be quite pleasant to her for Susan to hear.
This was the respect, then, which placed Mrs. Williams positively at the mercy of any one
who chose to call upon her, and which induced her to give an audience even to Jack
Pringle, who, under ordinary circumstances, she would, as Susan had correctly observed,
have not scrupled to place in the hands of some guardian of the public peace as an intruder
into her house.

When Jack was shown into the apartment where the lady waited to receive him, he made
what he considered a highly fashionable and elegant bow, which consisted in laying hold of
a lock of his hair in front, and giving it a jerking pull at the same moment that he kicked out
his foot behind and upset a chair.
"How do you do, ma'am?" said Jack.
"You have the advantage of me," said Mrs. Williams.
"I rather think I have," said Jack, "and I mean to keep it, and an-out and out thing it would
be if I hadn't, seeing the many voyages I have had, when I dare say you was never out of
sight of land in all your life."
"I certainly never was," said Mrs. Williams; "and I hope I am speaking to some officer,
and not to anybody common."
"Oh, yes, ma'am," said Jack; "I'm a rear-admiral of the green, and what I come to ask you,
is, if there is going to be a marriage in your family?"
"Rather an eccentric character," thought Mrs. Williams; "but anybody may see in a
moment he is a gentleman, or else he would not be an admiral of the green; I know there
are admirals of all sorts of colours -- and so I have no doubt he is quite correct. Yes, sir,
there is going to be a marriage in my family, I am proud to say, for my daughter Helen is
going to marry what might be called quite a foreign potentate."
"A foreign potato. None of your gammon -- don't be poking your fun at me."
"A foreign potentate, I said, sir -- a kind of monarch -- a potentate, you know."
"Oh, I understands; I dare say them fellows lives on potatoes, and that's why they calls
them such. But are you sure it's your daughter Helen, because I was thinking of proposing
for her myself?"
"Really, then, Admiral Green, I am very sorry, but she is going to be married to the Baron
Stolmuyer, of Saltzburgh."
"The baron what? did you say? Stonemason and Saltpot? What a d -- -d odd name, to be
sure."
"Dear me, what an eccentric character!" thought Mrs. Williams; "but quite the gentleman.
Admiral Green, it's Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh is the baron's name."
"Oh, I knew it was something about salt; but, however, it don't matter; and when is the
ceremony to come off, ma'am?"

"It is left to me, sir, to fix the day, and I shall do so, of course, at my convenience; and I
can only express my great regret, Admiral Green, that you should have been too late; but,
you see, the baron's offer was so unexceptionable, and he is really quite a wealthy
individual -- which his offering me a cheque for five hundred pounds, is a convincing proof
-- that I really could not think of refusing him."
"What! five hundred pounds?"
"Yes; I assure you, Admiral Green, that he had pressed upon my acceptance five hundred
pounds."
"The stingy devil."
"Stingy!"
"Rather. Why, I meant to have asked you to accept of a couple of thousands, and a large
estate that I have got, which brings in as much every year, and that I really don't want."
"Two thousand pounds and a estate! Gracious Providence! I don't know what to say to
that; really Admiral Green, you are so very liberal, that, upon my word, I am quite puzzled.
Two thousand pounds, and an estate worth two thousand pounds a year! -- did you really
mean that, Admiral Green?"
"To be sure I did. What else could I mean? but I don't want to interfere with a foreign
potato and a Baron Saltbox."
"Well, but, my dear sir, stop a moment -- let me think."
"No, ma'am," said Jack, "I ain't quite such a humbug as you takes me for. I say nothing,
but it's very likely that your baron will turn out to be some half-starved swindler who is
going to wind up his affairs by doing you, and sarves you right, too -- I wishes you good
morning, ma'am"
So saying, Jack, despite the remonstrances of Mrs. Williams, whose cupidity was so
strongly excited by what he had said, that she would gladly have thrown overboard the
baron, and who now began to look with something like contempt upon the five hundred
pounds which she had before thought was quite a large sum.
"How odd it is," she exclaimed, when she was alone; "how odd it is, that after I have been
looking about, I don't know how long, for a decent match for some of the girls, all the men
should come at once, and want Helen -- it's an extraordinary thing to me, very
extraordinary. Dear me, if I could but have secured Admiral Green for Juliana, and so got
her married on the same day with Helen, there would have been two thousand five hundred
pounds for me at once. What a capital thing! I would not have spoken of it to anybody, but
I would have paid all the tradespeople about here eightpence in the pound as a composition,
and then I could have gone and lived in London quite comfortably.

Thus is it ever with such schemers as Mrs. Williams -- success brings with it quite as
many evils and distressful feelings as failure, and now the agony of what she thought she
had lost, much more than counterbalanced any satisfaction she might have had in procuring
her daughter's consent to the marriage with the baron.
This consent, although we know how it was wrung from Helen, we certainly much blame
her for giving, because no human power could really force her to marry any one who was
not her choice, and the mere fact that her mother represented how deeply she was in debt,
ought not to have been sufficient to induce Helen to consent.
She might and ought to have taken a much higher view of the subject -- a view which
should have excluded a consideration of James Anderson: that view should have been a
refusal to commit the perjury of solemny vowing before Heaven to love and honour a man
for whom she entertained such opposite feelings.
But Helen was not a close reasoner, and although all the argument was upon her side, and
all the propriety, and all the justice, we grieve to say that she did not avail herself of either
to the extent she ought to have done; but, on the contrary, gave up those moments to regret
which should have been far better employed in resistance.
When the consent which we have recorded had been wrung from her, she gave herself up
to the most melancholy reflections, weeping incessantly, and calling upon Heaven to help
her from the pressure of circumstances which she was quite competent to relieve herself
from, if she could have persuaded herself to make the necessary efforts.
At last it seemed to her that she had hit upon a plan which might afford her some relief,
but in projecting it, she little knew the real character of the man she had to deal with.
This scheme was to tell the baron candidly that she loved another, and, whether that other
was living of dead, his remembrance would so cling to her, that she could never love
another, and that, in making her his wife, he, the baron, would be laying up for himself a
source of regret and disquietude, in the feeling that he possessed one whose affections he
could never hope to obtain.
"Surely," thought Helen, "if he be at all human, and if he have any of the natural pride of
manhood about him, he will shrink from attempting to continue a suit that must be
mortifying in every one of its stages, and which cannot confer upon him even the shadow
of happiness."
--

CHAPTER CXI.
THE WEDDING-DAY FIXED, AND THE GUESTS INVITED.
When she was to receive so handsome a reward for the intelligence that she had wrung a
reluctant consent from Helen to be the baron's bride, it was not likely that Mrs. Williams
would let a long time elapse before she communicated that fact to him, and, accordingly,
she started to do so personally.
It would appear that the baron fully expected her, for he made no remark at all expressive
of surprise, but received her with that courtly grace which Mrs. Williams attributed to his
intercourse with the highest and the noblest.
He did not seem so impatient as any one would have supposed a very ardent lover would
have been, and, before he would allow Mrs. Williams at all to enter into the object of her
visit, he requested her to be seated, and would insist upon placing before her some of the
very choicest refreshment.
Indeed, as often as she then attempted to enter into the subject-matter which had brought
her there, he interrupted her with some remark of a different nature, so that she found it
very difficult to say anything regarding it.
At length, however, when he had satisfied the claims of hospitality, he said, --
"I presume that I shall have the pleasure of listening to something particularly pleasant
and delightful to me, inasmuch as it will convey to me the realization of my dearest hopes."
"Why, my lord baron, I must confess," said Mrs. Williams, "that notwithstanding the
extremely liberal offers of Admiral Green -- "
"Admiral Green, madam? This is the first moment I have heard of such a personage."
"No doubt -- no doubt; but for all that, since we have had the honour of your offer for the
hand of Helen, Admiral Green has made one, and such a liberal one that it's quite
distressing to refuse him."
"Then allow me to say, madam, that I hope you won't distress yourself about it, but accept
of Admiral Green at once. I should be very sorry indeed to stand in the way of any
advantageous arrangement, and, therefore, I beg you will close with Admiral Green."

The adage about coming to the ground between two stools forcibly presented itself to the
memory of Mrs. Williams, and she replied, in a great hurry, --
"Oh, no, baron, certainly not -- certainly not. I have refused the admiral on your account.
I told him, most distinctly, I could not think of entertaining his offer for a moment, and I
refused him at once."
"Then why trouble me about him, madam?"
"Oh, I thought I would only merely mention it, because the admiral said he would have
great pleasure -- which, of course, was a very liberal thing of him -- in handing me a cheque
for two thousand pounds."
"Oh, now I understand," said the baron. "I give you credit, madam, for having a good
reason for making this report to me. You think that I may be induced to emulate the
munificence of Admiral Green; but when I assure you that I have not the remotest intention
of so doing, probably you will think that it would have been just as well if the matter had
never been mentioned."
The baron was right; for Mrs. Williams did think so; and she felt all that bitterness of
disappointment which wonderfully clever people do feel when they find that some pet
scheme has most signally failed, leaving behind it all the consequences of a failure: and,
whatever people may say to the contrary, failures do always have bad consequences, and
never leave the circumstances exactly where they were.
There was rather an awkward pause of some moments' duration, and then Mrs. Williams
thought she would get over the baron completely, for she put on the most amiable smile she
could, and said, --
"My dear baron, I am sure we shall all be the most happy and united family that can
possibly be imagined; and it is the greatest pleasure to me to be able to give you the
intelligence that my daughter has consented to become yours."
"Madam, I am much obliged."
"And, although Admiral Green did say that if I would bring him similar intelligence he
would there and then, on the spot, without any further delay, hand me two thousand
pounds, I said to him, -- 'Admiral Green, I am only to get five hundred pounds from the
Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh, and that five hundred pounds he has likewise promised to
pay me down.' Down -- you understand, baron?"
"Madam, I am not deaf."
"But you understand -- down?"

"Oh, I begin to see; you want the money. Why could you not say so at once? It's of no use
hinting things to me; but if you had said to me at once, -- 'Baron, I have brought you the
consent to the marriage, and now I expect at once the five hundred pounds that I am to
receive for so doing,' I should have understood you, and said at once, -- 'Oh, certainly,
madam; here is the money,' -- as I do now. You will find that check drawn for the amount."
"What a charming thing it is," said Mrs. Williams; "what a charming thing it is to do
business in such a real business sort of way; but there are so few people, baron, with your
habits, and upon whom one can so thoroughly depend, as one can upon you."
"Madam, you do me too much honour. Of course, having promised you this insignificant
sum of money, it was not likely that I should but keep my word; and now let me ask, when
is to be the happy day?"
"If this day week will suit you, baron."
"Wonderfully well, madam -- wonderfully well."
"Then, we will consider that as settled. I suppose you will have a public marriage?"
"No -- no, strictly private. I am resolved, madam, not to have more than one hundred and
fifty people, and to keep the expenses within in a thousand pounds; so you see, I am going
to do it in the plainest possible manner, and make no fuss at all about it."
"Gracious Providence!" thought Mrs. Williams; "what would he call a public marriage, if
he considers a thousand pounds expense, and one hundred and fifty guests, a private one,
and making no fuss about it."
"On one of my former marriages -- " said the baron, with an air of abstraction.
"One of them?" said Mrs. Williams; "may I presume to ask how often you have been
married, my lord?"
"Oh, certainly. Let me see; I think eleven times."
"Eleven! and pray, sir, what became of your wives?"
"Why, really, madam, I cannot say. I hope the majority of them went to Heaven; but there
were one or two I most heartily wished at the other place."
"My gracious!" thought Mrs. Williams, "he is quite a bluebeard; but, however, things
have gone too far now; and I am not going to give up my cheque if he had twenty wives;
and, after all, it shows he must be a man of great experience, and of great wealth, too, or so
many women would not have had him; but, if that little fact about all his wives should
come to the ears of Helen, I am really afraid she wouldn't have him, so I must caution him
about it."

"My lord baron."
"Yes, madam."
"I think, between you and I, my lord baron, that it would be quite as well to say nothing to
my daughter about her being the twelfth wife; but just let her quietly think she is the first,
because, you know, my lord, young people have prejudices upon those subjects, and she
might not exactly like the idea."
"Oh, certainly, madam, I shall not mention the little affairs that have preceded her's. I
assure you I am quite aware that it is likely there should be a prejudice against a man who
has had eleven wives; and people will think that he smothered a few of them."
"Good gracious!" said Mrs. Williams; "you don't mean that, my lord baron. I hope that
nobody ever accused you of such a thing."
"Nay," said the baron; "how are the best of us to escape censure? You know as well as I,
Mrs. Williams, what a bad world it is we live in; and how dreadfully selfish people are."
"Yes," said Mrs. Williams, "that's remarkably true; but it ain't often, my lord baron, that
one man has eleven wives."
"No; and it ain't often that such a man would exactly like to venture upon a twelfth."
"Well, no, there is something in that; but I will now, my lord, take my leave, entertaining
no doubt whatever, but that this will be an extremely happy marriage, and in every respect
just what we might all of us desire."
Mrs. Williams left the baron with these words; but, to say that she believed them, would
be to make by far too powerful an experiment upon the credulity of our readers.
When he was alone, the baron smiled a strange and ghastly smile.
"That woman," he said, "is so fond of gold, that she sells her child without hesitation to
me. If, upon hearing of my pretended marriages, she had given me back my money, I
should have thought some good of her; but no, that she could not do. Money is her idol, and
when once in her possession, she could not dream of parting with it. But what is it to me?
Have I not made up my mind to this affair, let the consequences be what they may? Have I
not resolved upon it in every possible shape? Henceforward I will cast aside all feelings of
regret, and live for myself alone; for what have I now to hope, and what have I now to fear,
from mankind?"
"Hope! did I say I had nothing to hope? I was wrong; I have something to hope; and it is a
something I will have -- it is revenge. Yes, it is revenge -- revenge! which I must and will
have against society, that has made me what I am; and the time shall yet come when my

name shall be a greater terror than it is, and that to some were needless, for it is such a
terror already, that but to mention it, would cause a commotion of frightful inquietude."
He looked from one of the windows of his house, and he saw Mrs. Williams, as she
proceeded down one of the garden walks, take his cheque from out her reticule, where she
had placed it, and look at it attentively.
"Ah!" he said, "now she is worshipping her divinity, gold. She knows that that piece of
paper carries weight with it, and that, flimsy as it looks, it is sufficient to purchase her.
Fool! fool! and she thinks she is buying contentment."
--

CHAPTER CXII.
THE SINGULAR INVITATION TO THE BARON'S WEDDING.
About three days after the transactions which we have just recorded, the admiral received
a call from his friend, the attorney, and that call had a double object.
In the first place, the man of law wanted to tell him how he was proceeding, as regarded
the Quaker, and there they had a great tussel about what was to be done, for, when the
attorney said to him,
"Now, admiral, as regards this assault upon Mr. Shepperd, all that can be done is to let
him prove his case, and then come up for judgment, and move in the court in mitigation. I
dare say, you will dragged up to Westminster Hall for judgment, and I should not at all
wonder, but you will get off with a fine of six-and-eightpence."
"What do you mean," said the admiral, "by letting him do what he likes?"
"In effect, it is the same thing as pleading guilty, you know, to a charge brought against
you, and, by so doing, you, to a great extent, disarm justice."
"Guilty!" roared the admiral; "guilty! You will be a long time, indeed, in convincing me
that there is any guilt in kicking a Quaker, and especially such a Quaker as Mr. Shepperd.
Why, I'll do it again, and think it, as I do now, a meritorious action."
"Yes; but you misunderstand me. It's called guilt, you know, in law, to do anything
contrary to law; and, by pleading guilty, you do no more than just admit the fact that you
have kicked the Quaker."
"That's quite another thing. I have no objection to the fact, whatever, but don't call it
being guilty, for that's all moonshine, and I won't have it, at any price. Guilty be hanged! I
think I see it. Guilty of kicking a Quaker, indeed; I have half a mind to go and kick him
again, just on purpose; and I don't know but what I may do it yet."
"Well, well, admiral, now that we have settled that knotty point, I have got something
else to tell you, of a more agreeable nature."
"Out with it -- out with it."
"It is this. You recollect that, upon the marriage of Miss Flora Bannerworth with your
nephew, Mr. Charles Holland -- "

"The marriage feast, you mean, for, as far as the marriage was concerned, they all got the
better of the old man."
"Yes; the marriage feast. You recollect that, upon that occasion, you gave me leave to
invite a number of persons, all of whom were very grateful, and thought very highly of you
and the honour of coming into your company."
"A devil of a sensible fellow this lawyer is," thought the admiral. "It's enough to make
one take to lawyers, I'll be hanged if it ain't. Go on -- go on; what of all that? I am sure I
was as well pleased to see them all as they were to see me."
"Well, sir, it appears that some of these persons, and especially a family of the name of
Clark, have been exceedingly anxious to bestow some civility upon you in return; and, as
they have been invited to a wedding, they wish to prevail upon you to go with them, as it
will be a very stylish affair."
"Well, I don't mind," said the admiral. "Where is it?"
"It's as far as twenty miles off, at a place called Anderbury, and it is wished that you
should bring anybody you like with you, upon the occasion."
"Well, it's civil, at all events, and I don't mind, if Henry and Charles and Flora like it,
going. But, when you mention Anderbury, I'll be hanged if I don't think it's the very place
that Jack Pringle has gone to, to get a sight of the salt water, for the benefit of his health."
"Well, sir, it will have none the less recommendation to you, I dare say, that it is close to
the sea."
"You are right there, and, I can tell you, I was thinking of going myself, because you
know, what suits Jack, in those respects, is pretty well sure to suit me; and I thought, as that
vagabound was enjoying himself down by the sea coast, I might as well go and do so
likewise."
"Well, sir, then I may consider I have your full consent to the arrangement, and I am sure
it will be received by the parties with a great deal of satisfaction, indeed."
"Well, well, somehow or another, you talk me over to things, so I'll go, without making
any more fuss about it; and I will take Henry with me, and Charles, and Flora, and I'd take
old Varney, the Vampyre, too, if we had him here. It would be a good bit of fun to take
such a fellow as that to a wedding."
"He would not be the most welcome guest in the world."
"No; I should think not. But who are our invitations to come from?"

"They will come from the bride's mother, as the people I have told you are so anxious to
take you with them are friends of hers."
"Very good -- very good; so, as it's all right, I will speak to Henry about it, and Flora,
and, I dare say, we shall all manage to get there comfortably enough. Let me see; it's just
two stages for post-horses. Well, well, lawyer, you may look upon it as decided; it is to be,
and there is an end of it."
In due course, on the following day, there came a note to Admiral Bell, enclosing a card,
on which was said,
"Mrs. Williams requests the honour of Admiral Bell's company, with his party, to
breakfast, on the 10th instant, at two o'clock, on the occasion of the celebration of the
nuptials of Miss Helen Fedora Williams with the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh, �., �.,
at Anderbury-on-the-Mount."
"The devil!" said the admiral. "This is an odd affair -- something slashing, and out of the
way, I should say. Breafast [sic] at two o'clock! that's the d -- dest piece of humbug in the
whole affair. Who the devil is to wait for their breakfast till two o'clock? I never heard
anything better than that; but I suppose there will be something to eat, so I shall take the
liberty of having my breakfast at seven in the morning, and calling that my dinner, and my
lunch I will manage to get at some inn on the road."
With this card of invitation in his hand, the admiral went to Flora, and laid it before her,
saying, --
"Here will be fine fun, Flora, for you. This is the invitation I spoke to you of, and they are
going to have breakfast at two o'clock, lunch, I suppose, at five, dinner at nine, a cup of
coffee at about twelve, supper at four o'clock in the morning, and I suppose they will get to
bed at about daybreak."
Flora laughed as she perused the card, and then she said, --
"It certainly promises to be quite a fine affair, uncle; and, at all events, as we are only
guests, we shall be able fully to enter into the amusement of the affair, if there be any, and I
am inclined to think there will be, by the rather pompous reading of the card of invitation
which has been so civilly sent to us."
"If they are ridiculous people," said the admiral, "we will laugh at them, and they cannot
expect but that we should; and if they should turn out to be otherwise, they may become
very pleasant acquaintances, you know."
"Assuredly; and it will not do to judge of people always by such a trivial piece of
evidence as a card of invitation can afford to one; so I will endeavour to go to the wedding
with an impression that they are agreeable people -- an impression which, considering the
complimentary manner in which they have invited us, we ought to cultivate."

"Very good; and do you speak to Charles about it, for I have not had an opportunity of so
doing; and as the people have invited us handsomely, I think we ought to go in a manner so
as to do them as much credit as possible; and, therefore, I should say that a coach and four,
with postilions, will be the plan, and look rather stylish."
"Oh, uncle, you will be mistaken for the bridegroom."
"Shall I? Very well, I am quite willing that I should be, always provided I may chance to
admire the bride; but if I do not, you may be sure that I shall take pretty good care to
explain the error."
--

CHAPTER CXIII.
JAMES ANDERSON SEEKS AND OBTAINS AN INTERVIEW WITH MRS.

WILLIAMS.
The report which, in accordance with what he had heard from Mrs. Williams, Jack
Pringle felt himself compelled to make to the young man whom he had saved from the
wreck, but too surely convinced him that all his hopes were dashed to the ground, and that
it was indeed but too true that Helen had consented to become the wife of another.
There could be no mistake in the affair, or the slightest loophole for escaping an entire
and complete conviction of the faithlessness of her in whom he had so deeply confided for
his future happiness.
The blow appeared to fall upon him with a stunning effect, and for some time he seemed
to be quite incapable of thought or action. But Jack Pringle rallied him upon this state of
things, and tried hard to induce him to view the matter with the same kind of philosophy
that he would have brought to bear upon it.
"Come, come," he said, "don't be downhearted about a woman. Cheer up, my lad; there's
many a better fish in the sea than has ever yet been got out of it, you may depend upon
that."
"I could have staked my life upon her good faith."
"Likely enough, and so can we all upon the good faith of the woman we happen to love
and admire; but what is there in the whole world so common as being jilted by a wench,
and when it does happen, a man should whistle her down the wind, and forget her all at
once, and for ever."
"I have no doubt," said James Anderson, "that such is good philosophy; but it's a hard
thing to tear away from the heart at once an image that has lain enshrined in its inmost
recesses for many a month."
"Perhaps it is. But the best remedy in all the world, is to look about for another, I know
that from experience in these matters. You do so, and you will soon be able to forget the
girl who has jilted you."
James Anderson shook his head, and smiled faintly, as he said, --
"I fear I should never love another as I have loved her. The heart, when once it has loved
as I have loved, can never know another feeling. I cannot with any hopes of success
undertake such a mode of cure as that which you point out to me."

"Oh! you will think differently in a little while, I can tell you. Time does wonders in these
cases, and before you are a month older, you will be in quite a different frame of mind to
what you are now."
"I must confess I should not like to be all my life the subject of never-ending regret; but at
the same time I do feel, that let what chances may befall me, I shall never feel another
disappointment so bitter as this."
James Anderson, upon making these few remarks, shewed a disposition to drop the
subject, and as it was one which certainly concerned himself more than any one else, Jack
Pringle and the fisherman both agreed to say no more about it, and it rested.
But although he said nothing, the matter was far indeed from being absent from the mind
of James Anderson, for it occupied him wholly, and engaged his attention to that extent,
that all other thoughts were excluded therefrom most entirely and completely.
Those who had afforded him so kindly a shelter, were not unobservant spectators of this
state of his mind, and Jack Pringle strove to move him from it, by calling his attention to
his obligations and duties in other respects.
"Come, messmate," he said, "ain't it time you should think of going to London to make
your report of how you lost the dispatches that your captain committed to your care?"
"It is so," said James Anderson, "and I shall start this evening."
"That's right, and the best thing you can possibly do, I can tell you. You will get some
new appointment, and in the bustle of life you will soon forget all disappointments
whatever. If you go regularly into the service, you are young enough yet to rise in it, and
you may yet live to have a pair of swabs upon your shoulders, I can tell you."
"At all events," said Anderson, "I can have the comfort of knowing that I have, by being
wrecked here, made some acquaintance, which I hope I may always have the pleasure to
retain. I feel myself now quite well enough to walk, and I will go into the town and make
some preparations for getting on to London, which I am, by your liberality, Mr. Pringle,
enabled to do."
Jack made a wry face, as he said, --
"Whatever you do, messmate, don't call me Mr. Pringle -- my name's Jack Pringle. It
always has been Jack Pringle, and it always will be. I begin to think as something must be
the matter when anybody calls me Mr. Pringle, and I don't like it a bit."
"I won't again then offend you by calling you Mr., but you shall be Jack Pringle, if you
like, to me; and I can only say that a more esteemed friend than yourself, it is not likely I
shall ever encounter in this world."

Jack was always much more easy under censure, let it come from where it might, than
under praise, and consequently he fidgetted about in a most alarming manner, while James
Anderson was professing to him his grateful feeling, and at length he said, --
"Belay there, belay there, old fellow -- that will do. I don't want any more of that, I can
tell you. It's a d -- d hard thing that a man cannot save a fellow man's life, without it being
at all sorts of odd times thrown in his teeth in this way. Don't say any more about it, I ain't
used to being parsecuted."
This was no affectation in Jack Pringle. On the contrary, it really was to him a positive
persecution to be praised; and, as James Anderson now felt fully convinced that such was
the case, he determined upon avoiding such for the future.
Towards the dusk of the evening, having attired himself as respectably as the wardrobe of
the old seaman and his son would permit him, for his own clothing had been completely
spoiled by the salt water, he proceeded to the town of Anderbury.
By so proceeding, Jack Pringle considered that his principal business would be to get
some means of quick conveyance to London; but James Anderson had another motive in
his walk to the town, which he communicated to no one.
That motive was a strong desire to see Helen Williams, if he possibly could, before he
left, in order that he might hear from her own lips what it was that prevented her continuing
her plighted faith towards him; for he could not, from all he knew of her character, bring
himself to believe that it was the wealth of her new suitor that had had any effect upon her.
"No, no," he said; "I know her far better than for one half instant to do her such an
injustice; she must have been imposed upon with some account of my death; or some artful
and well-arranged tale of, perhaps, faithlessness upon my part has hurried her into the
acceptance of the first offer that has been made to her. If I could but obtain an interview
with her for a few brief moments, I should know all, and either be able to take her to my
heart again, or to find ample reason for forgetting her."
He knew the way well to that house where he had frequently watched Helen enter and
emerge from; but how to send any message to her was a matter which required great
consideration.
He had been absent long enough, no doubt, for some changes to have been made in Mrs.
Williams's household; so that, although there had been in old times a servant who was
favourable to him, and who would not only have taken his message to Helen, but would
have told him all the news of the family, she, no doubt, had long since left.
After thinking over the matter for some time, so as to come to a conclusion that the
difficulty about getting any message or note delivered to Helen almost amounted to an
impossibility, he saw a boy come out of the house, apparently to go on some errand, and
with a feeling more of desperation than reflection, he spoke to him, saying, --

"I think you came out of Mrs. Williams's house, my lad."
"Yes, I did," said the boy; "what of that -- hit one of your own size; I haven't done
nothing to you."
"You mistake altogether, my boy; I am not going to touch you, you may depend; but, on
the contrary, I will reward you if you will answer me what questions I shall propose to you,
and I assure you they are all such as you may honestly answer."
"Well, I don't know. How much?"
"One shilling for every question."
"That's a rum way of doing business, but it ain't so bad either. Ask away, and you'll soon
see how I'll earn the shillings."
"Is Miss Helen going to be married?"
"Yes -- a shilling."
"Who to?"
"To the Baron Stollandmare and a Salt Bug -- two shillings."
"Will you take a note from me to her if I reward you extra for so doing."
"Oh, I begin to smell a rat. Yes, I will. You is some other lover, you is -- three shillings."
"I am -- one shilling."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, my young friend, if I pay you a shilling a question, I don't see why I should not
charge you at the same rate; so don't ask me anything, and then you will get all the shillings
to yourself, you understand."
"Oh, I doesn't see any joke in that; I don't want to ask any questions -- not I. -- What will
you give me for taking the note? I think I ought to have half-a-crown, between you and me
and the post; because, you see, if old Mother Williams was to cotch [sic] me, she would
serve me out pretty tidy."
"You shall have your own price of half-a-crown, and here is the note, which I charge you
mind to deliver into no hands but those of Helen herself."
"Oh, I'll do it; and what shall I get if I bring you an answer back?"

"Another half-crown; so, you see, you will make a very good evening's work of it, indeed,
if you are clever and faithful."
"Give me the note; I'll do it. You may always trust me, when there's anything to be got by
it. My father brought me up to get my living, and he used to say to me, 'Caleb,' says he,
'always do your duty, Caleb, to those who employ you when you go out to service in a
family, unless somebody offers you something more not to do it.'"
"Quite a philosophical maxim," said James Anderson; "I suppose you are in the service of
Mrs. Williams?"
"Yes, I am page of all work, I am; I do a little of everything, and make myself generally
useful. Where will you wait for me?"
"At this corner; and, with a due regard to performing your part well, be as quick as you
can on your mission, for I am rather impatient to see its results."
Caleb, the page of all work, duly promised to be quick, and after completing an errand
that he had been sent upon by Mrs. Williams, he returned to that lady's house.
We cannot help thinking that after the principles in which Caleb had announced he had
been brought up, it was rather an indiscreet thing of Anderson to trust him with the note
that he had already prepared for Helen, in case an opportunity should present itself of
getting it delivered to her; but he was desperate, and, perhaps, did not so accurately weigh
the pros and cons of the affair, as he undoubtedly ought to have done.
As it was, however, he had a faith in his messenger, which we are sorry to say was most
decidedly misplaced, for Caleb did shew that he had not forgotten the lessons of his
paternal relative, but that, on the contrary, he was disposed to carry them out with great
tack and perseverance.
Whether or not he would, of his own accord, have set about scheming in the matter we
cannot say, but, at all events he was spared that trouble, for Mrs. Williams had seen, from
one of the windows of her own house, his interview with one who was a stranger to her;
for, although she had once, before he went to sea, seen James Anderson, he was much
altered, and she did not recognize him; and when Caleb came in she called him into the
parlour and shut the door.
"Caleb," she said, "I insist upon knowing immediately who you were talking to just now
in the street, and who gave you a note."
Caleb was rather staggered at this home question, for he did not think that Mrs. Williams
had seen him, and, after a moment's pause, he said, --
"What will you give, missus, to know?"

"Give -- give! How dare you ask me such a question?"
"It's no use, missus, getting in a passion about it. I've got an opportunity of earning eight
shillings snugly and comfortably. If you will give me sixteen shillings I will tell you all
about it; and I don't mind saying, beforehand, that I know, missus, as you won't think it
dear at that price; no, nor at three times as much, if you could only guess what it was."
"Sixteen shillings! It must be something wonderful, in the way of news, that I would give
you such a sum for."
"That's just what it is, missus. Come, now, is it a bargain? because I'm in a hurry, and
have got never such a load of things to do."
"Well, well, Caleb; tell me what it is, and give me the note."
"Not till I haves the money, missus. Oh, no; I knows better than that. I've got a hold on
the fellow as you saw me with, but I haven't on you. Oh, no; the deuce a bit. I must have the
cash first, and then you shall have the information; and, I tell you again, that it ain't dear at
the price, as you will own yourself."
The curiosity, as well as the suspicions, of Mrs. Williams were strongly excited; for she
began to suspect that something or another was going on in which her interests were
involved; inasmuch as, upon mature consideration, she had come to a conclusion, that there
was more in the visit of Admiral Green than quite met the eye.
"Well, well," she said, "I have only gold in my purse; but you shall have the amount, you
may depend, Caleb, if I promise you."
"I haven't a doubt in the world," said Caleb; "but there is nothing like ready money,
missus; so just hand us a sovereign, and here is four shillings change; which will be right,
you know, all the world over."
This was vexatious; but, as it was quite clear that Caleb had thoroughly made up his mind
not to part with his information without the cash, Mrs. Williams was compelled to hand the
amount to him, which she did not do with the best grace in the world, and then she said, --
"Now, I expect you to tell me all."
"So I means, missus. You don't suppose I'd take sixteen shillings of you, and not tell you
all as I have to tell you. No, missus; I'd scorn the action."
"Well, well, don't keep me in suspense; but go on at once."
"I will. There's a chap at the corner of the street, as wants me to give this here letter to
Miss Helen, and bring him back an answer."

"A letter to Helen! This is news, indeed. And who was he?"
"That I don't know. I was going to ask him, but, somehow or another, I found out it was a
great deal better left alone. But I should not wonder, missus, but you will find out who he
his, if you read the note. People, you know, usually put their blessed names at the end of
their letters, unless they sends what is called a synonymous one."
This was a good suggestion of Caleb's, and Mrs. Williams, without the smallest scruple as
to the fact of opening a letter addressed to another person, tore asunder the envelope that
covered young Anderson's epistle, and read as follows, in a sufficiently audible tone to
enable Caleb to hear every word of it; for, in her intense eagerness, she forgot the fact of his
presence: --
"Dearest Helen, -- I can still address you as such, because I have not yet heard from your
own lips, although I have from the lips of others, that you have forgotten me. Can it be true,
that you are about, in the face of Heaven, to plight those vows to another which were to be
mine, and mine only?
"I ask of you but to meet me, and tell me yourself that such is the case, and you will meet
with neither persecutions or reproaches from me. Tell me that you are oppressed, and you
know well that in me you have a defender. Name your own time and place of meeting me;
and by the boy who will deliver this to you, let me beg of you, by the memory of our old
affection, to send me an answer. "Yours ever, "JAMES ANDERSON."
"I say, missus, that's pitching it rather strong," said Caleb.
--

CHAPTER CXIV.
MRS. WILLIAMS'S MANOEUVRE TO GET RID OF ANDERSON.
This exclamation from Caleb informed Mrs. Williams of the fact of his presence; and
duly indignant was she at that circumstance; for, in her anger, she immediately rose to
execute upon him some vengeance; and, had he not adroitly eluded her, by leaving the
room, there is no doubt she would have well made him remember indulging in such a piece
of impertinent curiosity.
"That wretch," she exclaimed, "has overheard me; and who knows, now, that he may
actually go and tell the other. If he would betray him, he would betray me; and what redress
should I get for such a circumstance?"
This was a mental suggestion which made it necessary Mrs. Williams should not only
look over the fact of Caleb having stayed to listen to the letter, but likewise see him, and
hold out some other inducements to him to be faithful to her, however he might chose to
behave himself to other persons.
"Caleb," she said, when she had summoned him again into her presence; "Caleb, you may
depend I will make it well worth your while to attend to me in this affair, and to no one
else. I can, and will, pay you well; and, when the baron marries Miss Helen, I dare say, if
you would like it, I should be able to get you some great place at Anderbury House."
"Well, missus," said Caleb, "I looks upon myself as put up to auction, and the highest
bidder always has me. I don't mean to say but what you have done the right thing, as
regards the sixteen shillings; so what would you like me to do next, missus?"
"I want you to take a note back, in answer to that which you have brought me; but, of
course, the young man who gave it must suppose that it came from my daughter Helen."
"How much?"
"What do you mean by how much?"
"How much am I to get, I mean."
"Oh, I understand you. How much do you expect for such a piece of service?"
"Something handsome, I should say. What do you think of ten shillings and sixpence,
missus?"
"I think it rather high, Caleb; but, nevertheless, I shall not stop at a trifle in rewarding
you, provided always I may depend upon you."

"Money down," said Caleb; "you know, short reckonings make long friends, missus;
besides, it's always better not to let these things accumulate; for, if we goes on doing
business in this here sort of way, it would come to a good bit in a short time, and then you
would think it was too much, and wouldn't like to pay it."
With a bad grace -- for Mrs. Williams never liked parting with her money -- she produced
the sum which Caleb required for this new service, remarking, as she did, --
"Well, Caleb, you will soon grow rich, if you go on this way."
"Likely enough, ma'am," said Caleb; "I likes to be paid, and I don't see why I shouldn't."
Mrs. Williams soon handed him the note, which merely contained the words,
"Come at eight o'clock, and ring the door bell."
These words she wrote as much as possible in her daughter Helen's hand, and, having
sealed up this extremely laconic epistle, she handed it to Caleb, directing him to go at once
and deliver it to the party who was expecting him, and we must say, that this lad appeared
to be one of the most thoroughly selfish rascals the world had ever produced, for he was
now quite willing for money to betray Mrs. Williams to James Anderson, if there was any
likelihood of his accomplishing such a purpose with safety.
But here some difficulties presented themselves, which Caleb's natural acuteness enabled
him very well to see. In the first place, James Anderson, he shrewdly suspected, was not the
sort of individual to be trafficked with, as Mrs. Williams was, and, considering that he had
already committed an immense breach of trust, in giving the letter to Mrs. Williams, instead
of to Helen, he thought, and, we are inclined to think, correctly enough, that it would be
rather a hazardous thing to say anything to him about it.
"No, no," he said; "I'll just give him missus's letter, and then back out of the whole affair,
for I don't half begin to like it. That young fellow looks a chap that wouldn't mind wringing
one's neck for one -- for half a pin; so I'll just leave him alone, and say nothing more about
it."
James Anderson waited round the corner with considerable impatience, for, in
consequence of the proceedings that had taken place at Mrs. Williams's, Caleb had been
considerably delayed.
When, however, he saw him coming, hope again sprung up in his bosom, and he felt all
the agitation of extreme pleasure, as he saw that Caleb had in his hand what was
undoubtedly a letter.
When the boy reached him, he advanced to meet him, eagerly exclaiming, as he did so, --
"You have the letter -- you have seen her, and you have her answer?"

Now, as Caleb had made up his mind to commit himself but as little as he possibly could
with the young stranger, he went upon the good old adage of the least said being the
soonest mended, and, accordingly, instead of making any remark which might, at a future
occasion, be thrown at his teeth, he satisfied himself by placing his finger by the side of his
nose and nodding his head sagaciously.
He then handed to James Anderson the letter, in the contents of which that individual
became too much absorbed, short as they were, to pay any further attention to the
messenger.
Caleb thought this a good opportunity of being off at once, before any troublesome
questions should be asked him, so he made a retreat, with all the expedition that was in his
power.
James Andeson, when he looked up from the perusal of the one sentence which the letter
contained, was astonished to find his messenger gone, considering how very eager he had
before been on the subject of the reward which he was to get for that service.
"What can have become of the boy?" he said; "I had a hundred questions to ask him."
So well had Mrs. Williams succeeded in imitating the handwriting of her daughter Helen,
that James Anderson was fully convinced the letter was written by the chosen object of his
heart.
He certainly did think that it was cold and distant, and that there might have been a word
or two of affection, at all events, in it, especially considering how long he had been absent,
and with what an untiring affection he had ever thought of her.
"She might have told me that her heart was the same," he murmured to himself, "or else
she should have let me known at once that it was so altered I should not know it for the
same. But still it is something to look forward to an interview with her. She may not have
had the time to write more, or, perhaps, she may have doubted the messenger, and thought
it unsafe to utter anything concerning her real feelings in this epistle."
Thus hoping, and trying to persuade himself of the best, did James Anderson anxiously
expect the hour when, by the note that had been sent him, he expected once again to look
upon the face of her, the remembrance of whom had cheered him in many a solitary hour,
and enabled him to bear up against evils and misfortunes which otherwise had been
insurmountable.
It wanted but a very short time to eight o'clock, and, at five minutes before that hour,
James Anderson walked, with trembling eagerness, up the steps of Mrs. Williams's house
door. His hand shook, as he placed it upon the bell-handle, and told himself that the time
was come when all his doubts would be resolved, and he should really know what he had to
hope, or expect, or to fear.

There was certainly a something weighing heavily upon his heart, an undefined dread that
all was not well, and, during the interval between his ringing and the opening of the door,
he felt all that sickening sensation which is ever the accompaniment of intense anxiety, and
which renders it so fearfully painful a feeling.
The door was opened by a female servant, who had received her instructions from Mrs.
Williams, so that she knew exactly what to say, and, without waiting for the visitor to
announce himself, she said,
"Are you Mr. Anderson, sir?"
"Yes -- yes," he said.
"Then I am ordered to ask you to step into the back parlour."
"All is right," thought James Anderson; "she expects me, and has prepared for my
reception."
He followed his guide implicitly, for he fully believed, as who would not, under the
circumstances, that she was in Helen's confidence, and so could be safely trusted.
She led him into the back parlour, where there was no one, and then she said, --
"If you will be seated for a few minutes, sir, my mistress will come to you."
"Her young mistress, she means," thought James; and he prepared himself to wait, with
what patience he could assume, and that, under the circumstances, was by no means a large
amount; for he had been kept in such a constant worry by what had occurred, that suspense
became one of the most agonizing feelings that he could possibly endure, now that his fate
was about so nearly to be decided.
It was no part of Mrs. Williams's plan to keep him waiting, for she certainly had no fancy
for retaining such a customer in the house as James Anderson; for, playing the double part
that she was, she knew not what sudden accident might happen to derange her plans, and,
probably, render them completely abortive.
For all she could tell, Helen herself might actually descend the stairs, and enter that very
room where she hoped a short conference would suffice to get rid of the troublesome
claims of James Anderson for ever.
She was in the front parlour when he was shown into the back, for they communicated by
folding doors. She had but to open these doors, and at once show herself to the astonished
Anderson, who little expected on that occasion to behold the mother instead of the
daughter.

He gave a sudden and violent start of surprise; but, as Mrs. Williams had determined to
do the dignified, and to call herself quite an injured person, she took no notice of the
evident agitation of his manner, but said, with an assurance that only she could have aspired
to, --
"May I ask, sir, under what pretence you write notes to my daughter, at such a time as
this? -- notes which appear to me to be highly calculated to do her some serious injury, and,
consequently, which I cannot but think are intended for that precise purpose."
"Mrs. Williams," said James Anderson, "since it appears that I have been betrayed, and
that the messenger I perhaps foolishly trusted, has delivered to you, instead of your
daughter, the note I addressed to her, I have only to say, -- "
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Mrs. Williams, interrupting him; "but as it was from my
daughter I received your note, you may spare yourself the trouble of blaming the lad whom
you had to seduce from his duty by bribes and corruption."
"From your daughter?"
"Yes, sir; from my daughter; and I flatter myself that there is too good an understanding
between my daughter and me, for her to keep as a secret such a circumstance."
This was a very unexpected blow to James Anderson -- a blow, indeed, which he was
totally unprepared for; and yet, although he doubted, he had no means of disproving what
Mrs. Williams chose to assert in the matter; and she quickly saw the victory she had gained
over him, and the difficulty in which he found himself.
"Sir, " she said, "if you have anything more to add to what you have already said, my
daughter desires that you should inform me of it, and if it consists of such matter as she can
properly take notice of, she will reply to it by letter; but she most unhesitatingly declines an
interview, which she considers cannot be productive of anything but unpleasantness to all
parties, and most of all to her, considering her peculiar situation, and that she is so soon
about to alter her condition, and become the wife of the Baron Stolmuyer, of Saltzburgh."
"I'll not believe it," said James Anderson, "unless I hear it from her own lips."
"I suppose, sir, when you see it announced in the 'County Chronicle,' you will believe it?"
"That," said James Anderson, "it never will be; for I cannot, will not, dare not think that
one whom I have loved so well could be so false."
"False, sir! What do you mean by that? I shall really have to speak to the baron, if you use
such expressions towards his intended wife."
"I'll speak to the baron," said James, "and that in a language he shall understand, too, if I
come across him."

"If you threaten, it will be my duty to inform the baron, so that he may take such legal
steps as he may be advised."
"I repeat to you, Mrs. Williams, that I will not believe it; and since you force me to such a
declaration, I have no hesitation in saying that I think you are quite capable of selling your
daughter to the highest bidder, and that the baron you mention probably occupies that
unenviable position -- a position which no gentleman would, for a moment, wish to occupy,
and which he perhaps is not fully aware of. I will see him, and explain to him that there are
prior claims to the hand as well as to the affections of your daughter."
This threat rather alarmed Mrs. Williams; for she thought it possible that, if the baron
really found there had been a former lover in the case, probably much encouraged by the
lady, he might think his chances of happiness rather slender, and decline keeping the
engagement which she considered was so suspiciously commenced.
This might or might not be the result; but at all events it was worth consideration, and
placed the matter in rather a serious light.
Therefore was it, then, that Mrs. Williams determined to have recourse to her last
expedient, and that was the production of the written promise to marry the baron, which it
will be recollected, in the excitement and impulse of the moment, she had succeeded in
procuring from Helen.
"Well, sir," she said, "since you will not be convinced by any ordinary arguments, and
since you doubt my word in this matter, I shall be under the necessity of adopting some
means of explaining to you the matter fully, and of showing you that there is abundance of
proof of what I have asserted."
"Proof, madam! Nothing but an assurance from Helen herself can come to me in the
character of proof in such an affair as this. Let me see her; for the mere fact that you
sedulously keep her from me, involves the affair in a general aspect of suspicion."
"Read that, sir, and if you know anything of the handwriting of her whom you affect so
much to admire, it ought to resolve your doubts."
James Anderson took the paper in his hand, and glanced upon it, and by the sudden
change that came across his countenance as he did so, Mrs. Williams saw that it was having
all its effect.
He could not doubt it. He knew that signature too well. He had it to some affectionate
documents, which he felt would remain by him to the latest day of his existence.
It was indeed a horrible confirmation of all that had been told him -- such a confirmation
as he had never expected to see, and which, at one blow, dashed all doubt to the ground.

"Now, sir," said Mrs. Williams, with a triumphant air, "I trust that you are satisfied -- at
all events, of one fact, and that is, that my daughter had consented to become the Baroness
Stolmuyer, of Saltzburgh; and without at all entering into the question of anything which
may have passed between you and her upon other occasions, I think you ought, as a
gentleman, to perceive that the sooner you go away the better."
"It is enough," said James Anderson. "Falsehood, thy name is woman."
"I really can't see, sir, what you have got to complain of, for people have a right to alter
their minds upon the little affairs of life, and I don't see, then, wherefore they should not
have a similar privilege as regards things of more importance."
"Enough, madam -- enough. What steps I may hereafter take, upon a due consideration of
these affairs, I know not; but now I bid you farewell."
Mrs. Williams was very glad to hear these words, or rather the last of them, because she
was in perpetual dread, during the whole of the interview, that something would occur by
which a meeting would take place between James Anderson and Helen herself, at which
some very disagreeable explanation might take place.
It was a wonderful relief to her when he had left the house, and she heard the streetdoor
close behind him, and she drew a long breath when such was the case, as she said to
herself, --
"Well, thank the fates, that job is over, and a good thing it is. There is no knowing what
mischief might have been the end of it, if it hadn't been stopped as it has. He is not a bad-
looking young man, and if he had had a few thousands a year, I certainly should not have
made any objections to his being my son-in-law; but I possibly cannot, and will not, have
poor people in the family. There is no end of trouble and bother with them; and instead of
getting your daughters off hand, it's just taking on hand, in addition, some man for their
amusement."
James Anderson went sorrowfully enough back to the fisherman's cottage, where he
related to the sympathising old seaman what had occurred; for Jack Pringle was not there,
and if he had been, James Anderson knew very well he would have got no sympathy from
him on account of the circumstance; for the frailties of the softer sex did not seem to have
any material effect upon Jack Pringle or his sympathies, since, by his own account, he had
been jilted so often, that he now thought nothing at all of it.
--

CHAPTER CXV.
THE RETURN OF THE RESUSCITATED MAN, AND THE ROBBERY AT

ANDERBURY HOUSE.
The morning after the occurrences that took place in the bone-house of Anderbury, broke
dimly and obscurely over the ocean in the neighbourhood of that town. For leagues away,
as far as the eye could reach, there was a haziness in the atmosphere which the fresh wind
that blew did not dissipate.
There was a white light rising in the horizon, which did not cast the warm glow over the
bosom of the ocean as it sometimes does; it was dull, cold, and cheerless; there was nothing
that could be called beautiful.
The waves dashed about, and came tumbling over each other, their crests now and then
covered with foam, which was swept off by the fresh breeze that blew over the ocean. It
was just daylight.
There was nought in the landscape save the water and the sky -- nothing else to be seen
for miles. Yes, there was one object, and that was a boat washed to and fro by the waves as
it sat on the bosom of the sea, wafted hither and thither, as the waves impelled the boat,
which appeared to be empty, for no oar was used, and no human form was visible.
But that boat, so lonely, and left to its own guidance, or rather that of the waves,
contained a living being; it was he who had striven so hard to escape from the baron on the
preceding evening.
He sat alone in the bottom of the boat; he was fatigued -- he was shivering from the cold.
The great exertions he had undergone were followed by a reaction; but he knew not where
he was, or in which direction to pull, or where the shore lay.
How long he lay in this helpless condition it is not known; but he occasionally lifted his
eyes upwards and across the sea, to watch which way the vessels sailed, and if any should
come in sight.
The scene was one of singular desolation and dreariness, in which nothing could be seen
that could cheer the eye or gladden the mind of man. Now and then, to be sure, a gleam of
sunlight would cross the dreary water, but it seemed to enliven only a small spot, and that
but for a very short time, for it soon again became obscure.
There was the dreary ocean with its leaden-coloured sky, and then the boat at the mercy
and direction of the wind and waves, both of which seemed in no placid humour, though
not absolutely squally. ****

A vessel from Cherbourg, with brandies, for the port of London, was sailing direct for the
mouth of the Thames, making for the Foreland, where it would have to round the point, and
then enter the mouth of the river.
There were three or four men and a couple of boys on board; when they came near the
boat, --
"Boat, ahoy!" shouted the man on the look out; "boat ahoy!"
No answer was returned to the shout, and the men on board shouted too, and crowded to
the side of the vessel to see what was going on, and who was in the boat. The captain came
up; he had been in the cabin, but hearing the shout, he came on deck to see what was the
matter.
"What is the matter?" inquired the captain, looking around.
"Boat on the starboard," said one of the men; "nobody in it, I think; she seems to be
drifting."
The captain looked at the boat for some minutes attentively, when one of the men said, --
"Perhaps some wreck, and the boat has been swept away by the waves, or the crew hadn't
time to get into her, or something of the sort."
"No," said the captain, "she's not a ship's boat -- a shore boat, that's what it is, lads. She's
got washed out, or somebody's drowned, upset, or rolled out."
"Something of the sort, I dare say, sir."
"Well, we needn't heave to for her -- she's no service to us, and we can't spare time."
"I think there's some one in her."
"But the boat's drifting," said the captain; "but she's coming this way, and that will be the
easiest way to ascertain the truth of our conjectures."
They steered the vessel so as to meet the boat, which the sea was beating towards them;
and in about twenty minutes or half an hour, they came within a couple of score yards of
the boat, when they could plainly perceive that some one was sitting in the bottom of the
boat.
"Hilloa!" shouted the captain; "boat ahoy! -- ahoy!"
The man who was in the boat looked up, and seeing the vessel, he answered the cheer.
"Throw him a rope," said the captain to one of the men who were standing by.

A rope was made fast to the vessel, and then it was thrown by a strong arm to the boat,
and came right athwart it, and was immediately made fast by the man who was in it.
He then began immediately to haul up the rope, and so draw his boat up alongside of the
vessel, and then he came on deck.
"How now, shipmate, what do you do out at sea in such a cockle-shell as that?"
"Nothing." replied the other.
"Nothing! Well, you have come a long way to do that. What induced you to come to sea,
or were you driven out, or how was it you came here?"
"I was driven out against my will," replied the man; "I was rowing about shore, when I
fell asleep, thinking myself safe, having secured the boat, as I believed, safely enough."
"Ay, ay," said the captain; "and so you found out, when you awoke, your mistake?"
"I did. My moorings had broken away, which was only a boat-hook and a rope; the tide
coming up, lifted the boat hook out, and I have been out to sea ever since, and don't know
where I am."
"Why that must have been last night," said the captain.
"Last night it was," said the stranger.
"You have been to sea all night then?" added the captain, taking a long gaze at the
stranger.
"Indeed, I have, and I am quite cold and hungry. I had nothing with me. I rowed some
time in hopes of getting in shore again, but unfortunately didn't succeed. I suppose I got
further out to sea, rather than nearer in shore."
"Well, that is about the fact; you must be about fifteen miles out at sea," said the captain;
"you are a long pull away from shore, I can tell you, and how you will get get [sic] back
again, I don't know; but, at all events, you are a very queer-looking fish, and I suppose your
being out at sea all night, and no stores, makes you look as you do; though, upon my soul, I
don't know what to make of you; but you mustn't starve. Here, lad, bring up some coffee
and boiled pork. Can you eat any?"
"Thank you," said the unfortunate being, "I can. I have been out for many hours."
"Well, sit down, or rather go below, and eat; when you have done, come up, and we will
tell you where the land lies, though I don't know how you will keep it in sight for the life of
me."

The man then went below, where there was some coffee royal made for him -- that is,
coffee and brandy -- and some salt pork was given to him, of which he partook most
plentifully, apparently, while the captain muttered to himself, --
"Well, of all the odd-complexioned shore-going sharks as ever I saw, you are the oddest!
D -- d if I should think he was wholesome -- there's a great deal of the churchyard about
him."
"There isn't a very agreeable look about him," said one of the men; "but I suppose he has
been so much frightened, that he looks more like a vampyre than anything else."
"Aye; or a revivified corpse."
"Yes, sir."
"But that arises from his being so terrified and starved, as well as fatigued; exposure all
night, all added together, has almost changed the current of his blood."
The man came up now, having had sufficient provisions below, and had expressed
himself much gratified with the coffee-royal to the cook, who, in his own mind, thereupon
declared that he must be a Christian after all, though he had obtained by some means the
complexion of a white negro.
"And now," said the captain, "if you like to go with us to London, you shall go with us,
for, as I said before, we cannot run into any port before we get there, for the wind is
favourable and strong."
"I would sooner get back by means of my boat," replied the man, "if I were sure of
making land."
"You might, if you could keep in a straight course, but there is the difficulty; you cannot
do so very well without a compass, and that you have not got."
"No, indeed, I have not -- though with it I have no doubt of being able to reach the land."
"I have," said the captain, "a small one below, a pocket compass; you shall have that, and
see what can be done; and if you get ashore, it will have done some service at all events."
"I shall be greatly obliged to you for your kindness," said the stranger; "but I am wholly
at a loss to know how I shall ever be able to repay your kindness."
"Say nothing about that; we who get our bread upon the sea, know well the risks we all
run, and therefore do not mind lending a hand to each other when in distress and trouble."
"I will endeavour to save some one else in your line of life, if I cannot you," replied the
stranger, "and so, if it be possible, make some return."

"Aye, that will do mate; do a Christian's charity to any one whom you may cross, and I
shall be well paid for my trouble."
The boat was now brought up alongside the vessel, and, before the stranger embarked, the
captain said to him, as he held the compass in his hand, --
"You must place this compass on one of the thwarts of your boat, shipmate."
"I will."
"A precious vessel she is, for a voyage out of sight of land; but, never mind, you are safe
enough, unless a sea was to come and roll over you -- but that's neither here nor there. Mind
you keep your boat's head to the north-west, and, by so doing, you'll make land at the
nearest point from where we are now."
"Thank you," said the man.
"Moreover, you must pull so as to keep her head in the direction I tell you. It will be too
long a pull for you to get there by rowing -- you would get too tired to keep your seat, and
you are unused to it, too,"
"I am obliged to you," said the man; "if I get to shore safe, I shall be under great
obligations to you. You will have saved my life."
"I have ordered enough biscuit, and grog, and cold beef, to last you till night -- you will
get to shore before that time, I have every reason to believe. In five or six hours you ought
to get there; but, in case of accidents, there is enough to last till night."
"You have loaded me with obligations."
"Say no more; be off with you and pull away from the vessel as quickly as you can; for
we have slackened our speed for you."
"Farewell; a pleasant voyage to you," said the man.
"Good bye, and good luck go with you," replied the captain. "Keep to the northwest, and
all will be well; push off, and keep your eye on the compass."
The man did as he was desired; laid the compass on one of the thwarts; took the oars in
his hands, and began to row away with good will.
The crew of the vessel crowded to the side and witnessed the departure of the boat, and
when she was a few hundred yards off, the sails were spread, and the vessel ploughed
through the waves, leaving the boat behind, a mere speck on the sea, diminishing each
moment.

But yet while the boat was within hailing distance, the captain said to the crew, --
"Give him a cheer -- he may meet with a score of accidents before he reaches shore, any
one of which will be sufficient to destroy him."
The crew obeyed, and gave a loud shout to the boat, and the captain added his own voice;
the cheering huzza reached the boat, for the occupant elevated his oar, and returned it. The
solitary cheer was borne to the vessel faintly but distinctly; however, they gave him one
cheer more, and then pursued their way over the trackless waters. *****
The boat pursued its course for some distance, until it was too far from the vessel to be
seen, and then, slackening his pace, he contented himself with merely keeping the boat's
head in the direction which he had been told, and in which he knew the land lay.
There was no hurry and desire to reach the land, but merely to keep where he was; and
when any vessel hove in sight, he pulled so as to keep clear of her and out of hail; and there
were a great many who passed near him, and would have aided him had he required any;
but that did not seem to be his object.
Midday was passed, and the sun began to decline towards the west, when the boat was
gradually brought nearer and nearer in shore.
Not only was the shore visible, but the very houses might be counted, and yet he would
not come ashore, but appeared to be awaiting the sinking of the sun before the boat chose to
seek the protection of the land.
It was about sun-set that the provisions, which were given by the captain of the vessel,
were now consumed, and that while they were being eaten, the occupant of the boat sat still
with his eyes fixed upon the town, which was every moment becoming hidden in the
approaching denseness of the night; and, at length, could not be distinguished, save by the
existence of numerous lights, that shewed the precise position in which it lay.
Darkness now came on, and nothing was to be seen on the ocean whatever, and he
remained yet longer at sea; but at length there was no danger of being noticed; he gradually
rowed his boat in shore and secured it.
Then jumping ashore, he wandered about the town from one place to another, and,
finally, he determined to make his way to Anderbury House.
"There is, at least, plenty of everything there," he muttered; "and, though there are plenty
of servants, yet, in so large a place, there is ample room to secret oneself, and plenty to be
had for the trouble of taking it."
He came to a small public-house, which he entered, with the view of resting a short time,
and of ascertaining what was going on in the town.

There were several people seated in the public-room, and he now seated himself up in one
corner of the room, unobserved by anybody.
"Well, well," said one; "there is more than one strange thing of late that has happened.
The baron has given some very handsome entertainments."
"Aye, so he has," said one.
"And more than that, they say he's going to keep 'em up till he gets a wife; though I
cannot tell why he should leave them off then, because women like that sort of thing too
well to make any objection to its being carried on after marriage."
"The baron is very right; if he carried it on then, he would be watched by his wife, who
would take good care to rate him for any attention he might pay to any of the ladies; and,
therefore, it would only be keeping up the means for being scolded to keep up the balls."
"Ay, it would only be getting into hot water, and keeping the kettle boiling on purpose."
"He would," said another man, "merely be keeping the entertainments on for the purpose
of showing off his wife and her self-will, as well as her power over him, and showing them
all how she could rule a man -- a very favourite pastime with married women, who, when
they have a partner who don't like fighting and quarrelling, and who does love peace and
quietness, know how to give it him."
"I think better of the baron, who, I think, is a man who wouldn't stand much of that."
"Ah, you don't know what an upas-tree a woman can become, when she pleases."
"Well," said another, "the strangest thing that I know of is the loss of Bill Wright's boat."
"Oh! what was that? I have heard something about it, though I can't say I have heard the
rights of it yet. What was it all about, eh?"
"Why, he says, when he went to bed, he left his boat safe enough moored to other boats
and afloat. Bill says he'll swear she couldn't get clear without help; but she did get clear,
and there is nothing to be seen of it now, at all events, and poor Bill is in a devil of a way
about it, too, I can tell you, and good reason enough."
"Yes. Bill will scarce be able to get another boat, unless some good friend should give
him one, and that is scarce likely, I think as times go."
"There's no ball at Anderbury House, to-night, I believe," said one of the visitors.
"None, that I know of."

"No, there is none," said another, "because I know of several who have got leave of
absence; so they are short-handed there, and they would not be so if they had anything
particular going on, for the baron does the thing handsomely."
"So he does."
The stranger listened to all this conversation very quietly, for some time, muttering to
himself, --
"That is well. It will suit my purpose very well. I will go and see how the land lies in that
quarter. I have objects in view, and some of the valuables to be found there, at all events,
will aid my projects, and assist in my comfort, and I may as well have them from there as
anywhere else; besides, I know more of that place. It suits my taste to do so, and will be
somewhat in the shape of revenge." *****
Calling for his reckoning, which he paid, he left the house, and proceeded towards
Anderbury House.
It was now nine o'clock or a little later. No one was about, or scarcely any, and those few
the moving figure endeavoured to avoid. He turned out of the usual paths, and walked over
the fields and unfrequented ways, keeping near the hedgerows, until he came to the bounds
of the grounds of Anderbury House.
Here he paused, and bethought himself of the best means of entering the house unseen
and unsuspected by any one, else his object would be defeated.
However, after a few moments' thought, he determined to proceed, and, for that purpose,
he made for a spot where the fence was low, and ran by some trees that had been cut down
and grew bushy.
Having reached there, he, by aid of the branches, contrived to get over into the grounds,
and then made his way swiftly towards a plantation that ran up close to the house, and by
means of which he hoped to reach the house, and perhaps to enter it.
Silently he made his way into the plantation, and just as he reached it, he saw the moon
rise in the east; it was just rising above the horizon.
"Thanks," he muttered, looking towards the luminary, "thanks you did not appear before;
but now you are welcome, for I can keep under cover of the trees, and the deeper the
shadow, the safer I am from observation."
This was right enough.
The moon rose full, but not bright, for some clouds seemed to intervene, or rather some
thin vapours, which gave her a strange colour, and, at the same time, increased her apparent

size; but she rose rapidly, and as she rose that would wear off, and she would resume her
silvery appearance and usual diameter.
He was now safe in the plantation, but, at the same time, it would require some caution
not to be discovered, for, at times, even the plantations formed beautiful evening walks, in
which many of the inhabitants of Anderbury House had indulged at various times, and
especially when there was what was termed a family party.
On a moonlight night, when there were several members of the family who knew the
grounds well, then they would find ample amusement in wandering about.
However, there was no such parties on this evening, and as it followed, he ran no danger.
Lightly, therefore, he crept forward, making no sounds save such as it was impossible to
avoid.
The foot-fall upon dried leaves -- the cracking of sticks, and the rustling of the smaller
under-growth, when he came in contact with it.
"How I shall be able to pass the open spaces, I know not," he muttered; "but I have passed
worse spots than this, and I may be pretty confident I shall succeed in escaping detection on
this occasion; however, it shall be tried. There are few who are about -- all is quiet and still
-- the very watch dogs are quiet and asleep."
He crept onward now until he came within some hundred and fifty yards of the house
itself, when he paused and listened, but hearing nothing, he again came forward and
approached to within a few score yards of the house, when he was suddenly arrested by the
sound of voices.
He paused and listened; it was a female voice spoke near; she was evidently speaking to a
man.
"Now, William," she said, "do you really believe you can get in without making any
noise?"
"I am sure of it, providing you leave the window open, and the rope there."
"Yes, yes, I will. Well, that room is empty; pull off your shoes, and creep out of the door;
don't let it bang together, or it may alarm some one."
"Yes, yes; I'll take care."
"Well, then, remain in the passage or room until I come to you; but should you be
disturbed, you can hide yourself in any of the closets, or go up stairs, which will bring you
to the floor on which is my room."
"I'll take care; but don't forget the rope, and to leave the window open."

"I'll not forget. I'll throw the rope on one side, so as to hang among the vine leaves, so
that it will not be detected by any one accidentally coming this way, though that is very
unlike, indeed."
"I understand; for the matter of that, I think the vine is strong enough to bear me without
the rope."
"I would not have you make the attempt lest you fall, and are killed, William; be sure you
do not make the trial; what a thing it would be if you were discovered, and all were to come
out -- I should be ruined."
"Never fear that; I will take care, both for your sake as well as my own."
"Then good bye."
Some words were then uttered in a whisper, the import of which he did not hear, but it
continued for a minute or two, and then the female said, --
"Wait here a few minutes, and you will see me come to yon window, and let down the
rope; and then begone as quickly as you can."
"Never fear for me; I will wait here until I see you at the window, and then I will leave."
The female figure he saw glide quickly away, and he watched it until she was out of sight,
and then he watched for the signal also. He could see the form of the male figure, who
stood within about three or four yards from the spot where he was concealed.
Then, after a time, he saw the female figure come to the window indicated by her, and
then throw the rope out of it, and cause it to hang down by the side, or among the leaves of
the vine, so that it could not be seen, except it were looked for.
When this was done, and the figure saw the female had withdrawn, he turned from the
spot, and walked hastily away further in the plantation, and when he was quite out of
hearing, and the stranger could no longer hear his footsteps among the dried rubbish in the
wood, he walked cautiously forward to the edge of the grounds, and then gazed up at the
house, and listened carefully to ascertain if there was any sound at all indicative of the
vicinity of any human being.
Hearing none, he assumed another attitude, and prepared to make a dart forward to the
window, as he muttered, --
"The coast is clear, and it will be hard, indeed, if I do not now succeed. Once in the
house, I will soon secure myself, and the contents of some of the baron's drawers -- some of
his gold will be mine."

Again taking a cautious survey, and, being perfectly satisfied that he was unobserved, he
dashed across towards the root of the vine, and, in a moment more, he had seized the end of
the rope; but he heard the sound of footsteps. What to do he could not tell, but sprang up a
few feet, and buried himself among the leaves of the vine, which were very luxuriant.
The footsteps were heard closer and closer, until he could perceive the very female who
had thrown the rope out of the window stop within a few inches of him, and then seize hold
of the very rope he had been about to seize.
Her object was to ascertain if the rope was low enough to be reached; and, when she had
adjusted it to her mind, she exclaimed, in a low voice, to herself, --
"Ah! that will do; he will easily find it, I dare say; and it will be all right. Nobody will see
it."
Having satisfied herself of that, she left the spot, and returned the same way she came. It
was an awkward situation as anyone could well indulge in without discovery.
"It was a very narrow escape," he muttered. "I had no idea of her coming back in that
way; I never dreamed of such a thing. But no matter; I believe I am quite safe now; if not, I
shall have some other escape. She must have been next to blind not to see me."
However, he got down, and then pulled down the rope straight; and, by the help of that
and the vine, he then pulled himself up to the window, into which he speedily got, and
found himself in an empty room.
Here he paused, to ascertain if he could hear any one moving about; but he heard nothing,
and at once proceeded to feel his way, cautiously, along to the door, which he approached
with a cat-like step.
Opening the door, he paused to listen, before he ventured into the landing to which it
opened; but, finding the coast clear, he went through that, and then into the next room,
which was apparently a store room, being filled with a variety of things of a miscellaneous
character, and which were only of occasional use in the house.
This he closed, and went up stairs, where he came to a suite of servants' bed-rooms, and
thence he walked about from room to room, until he came to a portion of the house he
recognised, and then he made direct for the baron's own room.
"There," he muttered, "I am likely to meet with what I want; and the carpets are soft, and
give no noise. I can sleep for a short time, if I will."
He made at once for the baron's sleeping room, which he opened and entered. It was
empty, and he at once closed the door; then he made an instant search about for a place of
concealment; and, having found one, he began to make a search for some other matters, that
were not of the same, but a more valuable character in the market.

However, he found out the drawers and depositories; but he was unable to open them,
because they were locked; and he must wait until the baron had gone to sleep, and then,
taking his keys, he would be able to help himself, without any difficulty, to what he most
desired.
He had scarcely made this determination, before he was alarmed by the footsteps of the
baron, as he ascended the stairs. This produced a necessity for instant concealment; and he
immediately flew to the spot which he had chosen; and, scarcely had he done so, before the
room-door was opened, and in walked the baron himself, who brought in a light with him.
He remained walking about some time, examining a variety of matters, but appeared as
though he never intended to go to sleep. There was every probability of his discovering the
place of concealment; which was easily done, had he but turned his head, or moved his
hand, under certain circumstances; but, as fortune willed it, the baron did not.
It was near an hour before the baron sought the repose he might have taken, but for the
dominion of the spirit of restlessness; and it was even then some time before he fell into a
sound slumber, apparently being engaged in deep thought.
However, he did fall asleep, and the tongue of Morpheus spoke loudly -- like some
human beings, through the nose; and then it was the hero of Anderbury church-yard stole
from his concealment, and began to examine the chamber.
"Where are his keys, I wonder?" he thought. "He must carry them about him; but he must
have left them somewhere in his clothes; and if I can obtain, and use them, without making
any noise, it will be fortunate."
He found the keys, though not without making a slight jingle with them, but that caused
no motion on the part of the baron, who lay snoring in his bed.
He stole to the drawers, and the key fitted; he quietly unlocked it and drew it open.
"Fortune befriends me," he muttered.
At that moment the baron turned in his bed and heaved a deep sigh, and appeared for a
minute or two restless, and as if on the point of waking up.
The intruder, however, stopped short in his depredations, and paused, and then crouched
down, lest the sleeper might open his eyes, and, by a momentary glance, detect him.
Suddenly he spoke, but indistinctly -- very indistinctly, and yet loudly enough. The
stranger started -- he thought himself detected; but he found that the baron was only
dreaming. He drew nearer to him, and listened to what he said.
"Ha!" sighed the baron; "she is very beautiful -- very beautiful. Ha! her form and face are
perfection!"

He paused, and again went on, but too indistinctly. A word or two was heard plain
enough now and then, but it was impossible to form any sense of them -- they had no
connection with one another.
"She is a very beautiful," again muttered the baron in his sleep. "She is lovely -- amiable -
- what a wife!"
Then he again fell into a train of half-mumblings, from which nothing could be gathered.
"Heavens, what a prize!" exclaimed the baron, and again he relapsed, but appeared more
composed and quiet.
"I would he were nine fathoms deep below the level of the sea," muttered the robber; "and
then I should not be bothered by him. Sleep, or let it alone," he exclaimed, between his
teeth. "It would almost be safest to kill -- -and yet, one cry might bring the whole household
upon me."
Turning to the door, he ascertained that it was locked. He turned the key, and, in doing so,
made a noise with the lock which had the effect of causing the baron to start in his sleep.
"What was that?" he muttered, in sleepy accents. "I thought I heard the door go; but it
can't. I locked it -- I remember very well I locked it."
After this speech he fell fast asleep.
"Another escape," muttered the intruder, who rose from his crouching posture, and setting
the door open, so that he could, in case of an accident, make his escape from the room.
Then he again turned towards the drawers, and began to help himself to the contents,
when he accidentally struck the keys, which fell with a clash to the floor. In an instant the
baron started up on his elbow, and pulled aside the curtain, to see what was the cause of the
disturbance.
In a moment the light was put out, and the intruder had assumed a motionless posture; but
it was too late to escape the quick eye of the baron, who instantly jumped up, exclaiming,
as he laid his hand upon a pistol, which he had under his pillow, and cocked it, --
"Ah! robber -- assassin! Stand, or I fire!"
The sound of the cocking of the pistol was quite enough. It came distinctly to the ear, and
suggested the idea of more than ordinary danger with it; and he dashed past, heedless of the
command of the baron, who called upon him to stand.
The baron fired, and in an instant the house was filled with a stunning report, which
echoed and re-echoed from room to room, filling the inmates with wonder and alarm.

The sensation produced by the sound was of that description that can hardly be described.
To be awaked from a sound sleep by such a dreadful, stunning report, which carried such a
sense of danger with it, that they remained in an alarming stupor for nearly the space of a
minute, until, indeed, they were aroused by the shouts of the baron, was rather terrifying.
Hardly had the stunning and deafening report died away, when the baron leaped from his
bed to ascertain if his shot had taken effect.
The intruder heeded not the commands or the shot of the baron, for he dashed out of the
room at his utmost speed, making his way towards the lower portion of the house, that
offering greater facilities for escape.
The baron, as soon as he had recovered from his first surprise, jumped out, and seizing a
heavy cane that was lying across one of the chairs, he rushed after the flying figure,
shouting and calling to his people to get up.
"Robbers! thieves!" he shouted. "Here, help -- help to secure the robbers who are in the
house."
The intruder made for the lower stairs, but was closely followed by the baron, who could
just see the dusky form of the object of his pursuit before him; but now, in the lower rooms,
where there was no light at all, the shutters being up, he missed him.
The robber had taken advantage of the darkness, and doubled upon his pursuer, and
hastened up stairs with the view of reaching the place where he entered.
In doing this, however, he was met by one of the men who was coming down. There was
no time for deliberation, and he dashed up, regardless of the blow the man aimed at him,
who said, --
"Here you are. Here goes for one on 'em."
As, however, the battle is said not always to be with the strong, so in this instance he was
unable to accomplish his object, for the blow, by the agility of the robber, was evaded, and
the result was, that the serving man was suddenly whirled down the stairs, and being once
on the descent, he did not stop until he got to the bottom.
"Murder! murder!" shouted the unhappy individual, as he rolled down stair after stair,
until his cries were stilled by a violent concussion of the head.
In the meantime the stranger rushed up stairs at a headlong speed, until he attained the
landing which led to the room at the window of which he entered. Securing the door behind
him, and then getting out of the window, and seizing the rope, he began to descend very
rapidly, fearing he would be intercepted by those below.

He slipped down the rope rather than let himself down, and before he had got half way
down, he met with an impediment, which, however, quickly gave way, and they both came
down plump to the earth together.
"My God! my God!" exclaimed a man's voice, in great terror and tribulation. "What's
that? what's that? Mercy -- mercy! I didn't mean to do any wrong."
The stranger heeded not the words of the terrified swain, who, it would appear, had begun
to ascend to reach the dormitory of his fair but frail one, when his flame was so
unceremoniously quenched in the way we have related, but dashed away from the spot, and
was speedily lost in the plantation, whither the unfortunate individual when he had
sufficiently recovered his senses, and released his head from the inprisonment of his hat,
soon after betook himself, thankful the affair was no worse.
--

CHAPTER CXVI.
JACK PRINGLE FALLS IN LOVE, AND HAS RATHER AN UNHAPPY

ADVENTURE WITH A BOLD DRAGOON.
Jack Pringle, like other men, was subject to the vicissitudes of the passions, which placed
him under a certain string of circumstances that produce results quite at variance with those
which are usually anticipated when an individual enters upon the pursuits of the tender
passion.
Indeed, Jack could see nothing at all unhappy, or in the least degree unfortunate, in the
black eyes and rosy lips of Susan, who was most certainly the "maid of the inn," though not
in precisely the same rank as the one alluded to by the song.
He had taken up his residence at the inn, had Jack. Indeed, he was partial to inns in
general -- there was usually a greater latitude permitted there than elsewhere; not only each
one being allowed to accomodate himself as he pleased, but he could have what 'baccy and
grog he chose to order, as long as there was a shot in the locker.
This being the state of affairs, Jack found another inducement to stay where he was, and
that was the existence of the before-mentioned Susan, who appeared to be as kind as she
was good-natured.
She never refused to answer Jack's call; and when she came, she always said, --
"What did you please to want, Mr. Pringle?"
"Mr. Pringle," thought Jack. "Well, that sounds pretty from such a pair of lips."
Jack scratched his head, and turning his quid in his mouth, was often lost in admiration,
and forgot all his wants at that moment, and it was not until the question was more than
once repeated, that Jack was aware that he really did not want anything, especially as his
grog was not all gone.
"Well," exclaimed Jack, looking at the glass, "I forgot; but never mind, Susan, I'll have
another can while this is going -- so I sha'nt hurry you. I woundn't hurry you, Susan -- no,
that I wouldn't."
The course of true love never did run smooth -- that is, we know, a rule that is as old as
the hills -- but then it is of constant recurrence, and one that it may fairly be presumed
always will, to the end of the world, and possibly after.
However that may be, Jack was not without a rival, and one of a very formidable
character; not that Jack valued him a piece of rotten yarn. No; he never did think anything
of a landsman, especially a soldier, for it was to that class this rival belonged.

"Susan," said Jack, as he sat in the kitchen, watching the various evolutions to which the
hands of Susan were applied, in the performance of her multitudinous duties.
"Well, Mr. Pringle," said Susan.
"Ah!" said Jack; and then there was a pause, during which Jack forgot even to chaw his
quid, and was quite abstracted in manner and thought. He had intended to say something,
but it had quite escaped him; and it was difficult for Jack to hold his thoughts, as it is for
countrymen to hold a pig by the tail when this latter member was well greased, and when it
was of that description usually denominated a "bob-tail," a common occurrence.
"What did you say, Mr. Pringle?" said Susan, bustling about. "I am sure you were about
to say something."
"Well, I suppose I was," said Jack; "but I don't know what it was now; but perhaps you
do."
"How should I know? I can't tell what you are thinking about. What made you think
that?"
"Because your black eyes seems to go through me, Susan, like a forty-two pounder. I tell
you what, you ought to know what I want to say, because I'm always thinking of you."
"Are you, though?"
"Yes, I am," said Jack; "you're a light craft -- a rare pretty figure-head you'd make."
"Lor! Mr. Pringle," said Susan.
"Well, you would, though; and I'll take three dozen and never wink, if there's one to be
found half as handsome in the whole British navy, or in any other."
"To think," said Susan, "that I should be called a figure-head! Well, I declare, I never
heard the like. Why, what will you not say next? I never thought that of you."
"Why," said Jack, who was very much bewildered, and didn't know precisely what to say
-- the turn the compliment had taken was one he couldn't understand -- "why, you see,
Susan, the figure-head is the beautifulest part of the ship, except may be her rigging, her
port-holes, her sides, and her trim; but then, you see, them things ain't no manner of
likeness to anything human, especially you, Susan."
"Ain't they, Mr. Pringle? Well, you know best; but I dare say it's all right, for you must
know best. But my cousin says I am more like the Venus day Meditchy, than anything
else."
Jack stared.

"Who?" he inquired, with his eyes opening very wide.
"The Venus day Meditchy," said Susan, speaking in a very slow, emphatic manner, for
Jack's behoof.
"Don't know her," said Jack. "I'll go bail there ain't such a ship in the navy. There never
was such a thing heard of, unless some of them d -- d French craft; but your cousin ought to
be well cobbed for saying you were like anything French. Why, you are true blue, and no
French about you -- is there, Susan?"
"I don't know; but I never heard there was, and I don't know if there is; but that's what he
said, and he's been a long way."
"Who is he?" said Jack, laying emphasis upon the last word, to indicate that the sound
was displeasing.
"Oh! my cousin."
"Well, but who is your cousin?" inquired Jack. "Have you see him very lately?"
"Yes, I saw him this morning; his regiment is quartered only a few miles from this place."
"Oh!" said Jack, "he's a soldier, then?"
"Yes, he is -- a horse-soldier," added Susan.
"A horse-marine. Ah! I know 'em afore to-day; they are a rare lot to lie and gallop away.
But lord bless you, they never lay alongside an enemy till you've beaten him. No -- no --
they can't do that."
"He'll be here to-night," said Susan. "You shall see him, Mr. Pringle; he's coming all this
way to see me."
"To see you!" said Jack Pringle, who was much displeased with this piece of particular
attention in the cousin, and he could not help saying so.
"But he is my cousin," said Susan; "and you know one cannot refuse to see one's friends
and relations; besides, he has been at all times very kind and good-natured to me, so that I
cannot do otherwise than receive him kindly."
"Oh, to be sure," said Jack; "by all manner of means; only we must understand each
other, Susan; there can't be more than one captain aboard at a time."
"How very odd you do talk, Mr. Pringle. My cousin will ask you what you mean."

"Will he now?" said Jack. "Well, he may do so, if he like; but my lingo will be as good as
his, I am sure; but we shall see him, however; but, Susan, you don't care anything about
him, you know."
"Not a bit, Mr. Pringle; only as a cousin, you know."
"Oh! very well," said Jack; "I don't care about that a bit; but if so be you're going to carry
on any games, you know, why, I won't stand it."
"Oh, honour," said Susan, looking tenderly at Jack; "honour, you know. Do you think I
could be capable of doing so? No, I never do anything unbeknown to a person. No, I say,
let all be fair and no preference."
"Well," said Jack, "but I want all fair, but I should have no objection to a little preference,
too. Don't you give no preference to me over a soldier, Susan?"
"Don't know," said Susan; but she gave a look towards Jack that made him suspend the
libation he was about to pour down his throat.
"Oh! I see how it is with you, Susy," said Jack, becoming more familiar and pleased, for
Susan's black eye had a magical effect upon Jack, and he felt as if Susan must love him as
much as he loved Susan; her eyes told him more than her tongue; Jack was quite sure of
that.
"When is he coming?" said Jack.
"To-night," said Susan; "and you must promise me you will be very quiet and civil, and
then you shall see him; only you won't take any notice of what he says or does."
"No, no," said Jack; "it's all right; I understand. I won't quarrel with him; no, not even if
he were to -- but splinter my mainmast, if I could stand that!"
"Stand what?" inquired Susan, demurely.
"Kissing of you," said Jack, striking the table with his fist, so as to make the glasses that
happened to be there tremble; "I couldn't; I could stand the cat first."
"Lor, Mr. Pringle! who asked you to do so? I am sure, I would not do such a thing."
"What?" said Jack.
"Why to let him kiss me, to be sure."
Jack looked, perhaps felt, electrified, and, after a moment's pause, took his quid out of his
mouth, hitched up his trowsers, and then seized Susan by the waist, and gave her a kiss. It

was a kiss; such a one only as a man-of-war's man could give; it went off like the report of
a pistol.
"Lor, Mr. Pringle!" said Susan, "I thought you were quite another sort of a man. What
would my cousin, the dragoon, have said, if he had seen you? Dear me! you must have
alarmed the whole house; I didn't think you were going to make so much noise, though."
A footstep approached, and the landlady thrust her head in; but Susan was busy, and Jack
was chewing his quid as grand as an admiral.
"Susan."
"Yes, ma'am," replied Susan.
"What's the matter?"
"Don't know, ma'am. Didn't know there was anything wrong at all, ma'am."
"I thought I heard a plate smash just now. Are you sure you haven't broken anything."
"Yes; quite, ma'am."
"Oh!" said the landlady. "I certainly thought I heard a smash; but, I suppose, it was a
mistake altogether, However I am glad of it."
"There!" said Susan, when she had gone; "I told you how you had alarmed the place."
"Well," said Jack, who felt much abashed at what had happened, "I didn't make so much
noise, either. But never mind; I'll take more care another time." *****
The evening came round, and with it came the dragoon, as fine a specimen of military
dress, discipline, and riotism as can well be let loose upon a decent community, and Susan
met him in the passage.
"Ah! my pretty Susan," said the son of Mars, "the star of my destiny, and the hope of my
heart. While I wear spurs, I will love you, ever dearest."
"Oh! come, none of that nonsense, you know, Robert; it won't do; you say too many fine
things, you know."
"Of course I do; but can I say them without occasion. No; as well might you want day
without daylight -- the moon without moonlight. You inspire me, you see, and without you
I couldn't say anything."
"I dare say not," replied Susan; "you are such a man, that you make one believe what you
say."

"You ought, since I speak the truth, and nothing else; but, come, come, we'll go in. I want
to talk to you, Susan; I came on purpose to see you. There's the barmaid at the Plough and
Gooseberry-bush, quite sulky because I didn't stop there; but I know I promised you I
would come, and so I would be as good as my word."
"Are you sure she was sulky?"
"Certain, because she did would not say good bye."
"Well, but now I want to speak to you about something I want to explain."
"Explain, my dear. I'll explain anything that can be explained -- I don't mind what it is.
You'll never find me backward in coming forward with any amount of explanation that you
can by any possibility require."
"That is not what I want. I have a cousin here."
"Aye; I'm not particular. I will pay her every kind of attention. I am sure you will
acknowledge I am not wanting in any attentions to you."
"Oh! dear, no; but it is not a female cousin that I want to speak to you about."
"Indeed! I can't tolerate another."
"Yes, but you must. He's just come from sea, and is a very odd man, but an uncommonly
good-hearted man, so don't take any particular notice of what he says or does."
"I don't mind him a bit -- not the value of a pinch of snuff."
"Yes, but you must do that, only don't do anything to vex him. You can be pleasant
company when you please, I know."
"And so I will."
"To please me you will; for though I don't care anything for him more than if he were my
brother, yet he's very fond of me."
"That's no recommendation to me," said the dragoon; "a spoony anchor buttons, I
suppose."
"You must be civil to him, or I will never see you any more."
"Well, then, my charmer, I will say anything you like to this salt-water fish of yours; but
he mustn't lay hands upon you; if he should do so, why, I should be obliged to chastise
him."

"But he's a man-of-war's man."
"And I am a man of war myself, my dear."
"Lor!" said Susan.
Upon which she turned her eyes and face towards the dragoon, who could not let such an
opportunity slip, and he immediately saluted her in true military style, but he did not
commit the same offence that Jack Pringle did, for the former told no tale by the report -- it
was all quiet; and he followed Susan until they came to the room in which Jack was sitting.
"This is Mr. John Pringle," she said.
"Aye, aye," said Jack; "here am I -- Jack Pringle -- afloat or on shore, all the same."
"And this," continued Susan, "is Mr. Robert Swabbem."
"How d'ye do," said Jack, "Mr. Swabbem? I dare say it is so; but since we are to be
shipmates, we may as well be friends -- how d'ye do?"
"Pretty well, I thank you, Mr. Pringle -- very well, indeed. Hope I see you quite well, and
at home?"
"Yes, quite so -- both ways; well, and at home."
"The devil!"
"Yes, we call him Davy Jones; but, then, I suppose, you have one on purpose, in your
line?"
"Why, there's a little of the devil in us -- that is pretty well admitted on all hands; and
that's as much as we have any wish to have in the way of connection with the gentleman
whom you name."
"Aye, aye; maybe you'll know more on him afore you are done; but no matter -- sit down,
messmate, we can discuss a can of grog, I reckon."
"Yes, easily. I can do my duty in any point, friend, you may best please. Facing an
enemy, drinking a can, or kissing a lass. What more can you say?"
"I can do the same myself as some I know can testify, if they chose to speak," said Jack,
who gave a sly look at Susan; but at the same time she nearly fell a laughing, when
reminded of Jack's tremendous smack, which the landlady mistook for a smashing of
crockery; "but, howsomever," cried Jack, who had relapsed into a grim smile, "we'll have a
can together."

"Very well; Susan, will you do what is needful for us? If the landlady would allow me, I'd
wait upon you and do all your work."
"And a pretty bobbery," said Susan, "she would make of it; you would soon get
discharged for tasting the grog on its way from the bar to the parlour."
"Ah! well, I might get into trouble if I did that. What do you say, friend Jingle?"
"Pringle," said Jack.
"Oh, ah! Ringle. I have it now distinctly."
"Why, you swab," said Jack in a rage, "I ain't got no such kickshaw names as them --
mine's quite different altogether, so say what you like."
"My name," said the soldier, "ain't Swab -- but Swabbem, at your service."
"Ah," said Jack, "whether Swab or Swabbem, it don't much matter -- we all must fill our
place -- some are luckier than other's, though they might be cousins."
"Cousins! curse cousins, say I."
"Same here," said Jack; and then they both stared at each other, believing each other
cousins to Susan, though not to each other.
"I am glad you are here," said Susan; "I have the grog for you; it is extra strong. I know,
because I put some more into it; I turned the tap on into each, and she didn't see me do it."
"Ah, Susan, I see you have a great regard for me; but it is not more than you ought, when
you come to consider how I respect you," said the soldier.
"The same here," said Jack, who thought this pretty good for a cousin; "I admire Susan --
she's got such eyes, and such cheeks -- "
"So she has -- they are like diamonds set in roses; that they are."
"Yes," said Jack, "and as soft as velvet."
"Damme," said the soldier, "you beat me hollow. I say, messmate, where did you learn to
fire your great guns off in that manner, eh?"
"Where!" said Jack, putting the can down; "why, where there were men to fire into us
again. I'll warrant you it was none of your field days, where people are tearing their hearts
out to look fine -- no, no; the lee scuppers ran with blood, and every heart was a true British
sailor's"

"Well, that was good; but when I served on foreign service, there was no getting out of
the way of danger, behind a wall, stone, brick, or wooden."
"No, nor even laying on the ground -- we had not even that; for as we fought, we
destroyed the very building which supported us, and we had the spirits of the sea to contend
against, as well as the dangers of the fight."
"Oh, it's all very well," said the soldier, "but danger's danger, and there's an end of the
matter; only I wish there was no such thing as bad grog."
"That's a great evil. Why, what d'ye think we did at Portsmouth the day after we landed?
The landlord gave us bad grog, and how do you think we served him? Why, we made him
drink till he was so drunk he couldn't lay down without being afraid of falling, and then we
cut his hair all off."
"Well, I recollect a place in Portugal where they brought us some wine which we couldn't
drink. It was horribly thin and sour. We had in vain asked for better, but none was to be had
at our bidding; indeed, we felt sure there was better, and we determined to have it.
"We called our landlord and told him we were resolved to ruin him if he didn't bring it up
-- we would have better wine; but he protested he had not got any.
"Now, we were resolved to search, and accordingly we did search until we came upon
some beautiful wine -- some of the best port ever I tasted, and we made free with it. At all
events, we drank as much as we could drink, and then fell fast asleep, and forgot to punish
our landlord for the rascality; but I suppose he was well aware of what he deserved, for he
endeavoured to excite some of the peasantry about to murder us while we slept, and when
we awoke, we found ourselves surrounded by a dozen men.
"There was but three of us, but we were armed, and the peasants had nothing but a
miscellaneous description of weapons -- old guns, swords, and clubs; but they were not the
men we were.
"Well, it came to a hard fight; more blows were struck, however, than did any mischief,
because we could make use of our tools, and fought so hard, that they were glad to leave us
victors."
"Lor!" said Susan; "you don't mean that -- do you?"
"I do, indeed; but that was nothing. I frightened a whole regiment of the enemy."
"Eh?" said Jack; "what, a whole ship's compliment, eh? Well, that will do; go a-head; you
beat all the cousins as ever I heard of, if you don't never mind me, that is all about it; a good
yarn, well spun, is worth a glass of grog at any time."

"Well, I'll tell you all about it; it's sooner told than done, I can tell you; but never mind,
Susan, don't be frightened; it's all past now, though it was true; but the best things must
have an end some time or other, and this had one too.
"I was serving in Spain. I fought against the French then; and though I say so, you may
depend upon it I took my chance as well as another man. However, I had many inclinations
to go a step or two beyond my strict duty, and do more than I was obliged; but what of it? If
you succeed, you are sure to be rewarded; and I wanted, if I could, to capture a pair of
colours, which would give me a step in my regiment.
"'Charge, my brave boys!' shouted the colonel, as the enemy appeared coming down upon
us.
"They were three or four to one, besides a reserve at a short distance. But we thought
nothing of that; we had every reason to believe we were outnumbered; but that was all; and
we drove hard at them.
"It was a glorious sight to see us full tear at the heavy-armed cavalry, in squadrons; but
they had the advantage of weight and number of men; yet our shock was so great, that
many of the enemy were thrown out of their saddles, and many more were killed; we
hewed and hacked at each other for some time, until, in fact, the enemy began to give way.
"As soon as we began to find out that, we urged our horses on, and ourselves to strain our
utmost, and we forced them back, and they began to turn about in right earnest, and show
us their heels.
"Unfortunately for us there were no other troops at hand to support us. I say
unfortunately, for while we were engaged in beating a larger force than our own, and which
even then outnumbered us, we were taken in the rear by the reserve, and many men were
cut down before our men could be called off.
"Among those who were taken prisoners was myself. I had received one or two severe
wounds, which were, indeed, considered mortal; but which were not so dangerous as they
were believed.
"However, as I kept my saddle, I was taken prisoner; indeed, I was unable to offer any
resistance; my eyes were filled with blood -- "
"Lor! how dreadful," said Susan.
"It was dreadful to think of it, then; but I did not; I was too much occupied with my desire
to do my duty, so heated and excited, to think anything about it. I was dragged away.
"Then what became of me, I don't know; but I have some recollection of having a cloak
thrown over me; and I rode away in company with them. I know we went away very fast,

for they dreaded another charge of our men; and they had succeeded in escaping and
reforming, and they were hovering, reinforced, upon our march.
"Well, that night, as I was deemed too badly wounded to give them any trouble, or
attempting to make an escape, they let me lie in a stable.
"I fainted away; and, after several attempts to restore me, they left me as a hopeless case;
but it was no matter to them, they didn't grieve. I wondered in my own mind, as to the
reason of their doing so much; but I suppose it was that prisoners were at a premium with
them at that time; and they were anxious to return as large a number of prisoners as
possible; and, upon the principle which induced the elderly dame to attempt emptying the
sea with a tea-spoon, that every little was a help, they thought that if I lived I should be one
more, and where the numbers were small, one was of importance.
"They gave me up as a bad job altogether, and after they had racked up their horses, they
sat down for the evening to their meat and their wine. They had been all conversing
together, but they were about to lie down and have some sleep, when suddenly I awoke
from my trance, and walked out without at all knowing what I did.
"The men stared at me, and shook like so many aspens, but did not stir, till one of them
said, --
"'A ghost -- a ghost!"
"This had the effect of clearing the place, for they all jumped up and ran away from the
spot, leaving me master of the place; and judging that I was alone, I very soon made my
way back to the quarters of the English, and got to the quarters of my old regiment, where I
was kindly received, my comrades having given me up as lost."
"Well," said Jack Pringle, "you were very nearly gone certainly, though you warn't quite a
ghost; but that ain't half so bad as a fire-ship -- especially in towing a fire-ship among the
enemy. I was once on an expedition of that sort when I was in the Mediterranean."
"Lor, a fire-ship! What's that?" inquired Susan.
"A ship-load of fire, with lots of combustibles," said Jack. "It's a thing that won't do for a
plaything.
"Well, the enemy had several, and, as we came up to them, we found they had the wind in
their favour, and the first thing they did was to put out several of these fire-ships. But the
wind was not direct for them, it was shifting. Well, we were ordered to man the boats, and
tow the fire-ships back again amongst the enemy.
"Well, you may be sure they didn't like that, especially when the fire-ships blew up. They
did so with a dreadful explosion, setting fire to friend and enemy, and blowing them out of
the water.

"This we did, and, as we towed the vessels along, we were fired at at a pretty smart rate, I
can tell you; why, the very sea seemed to boil around us."
"Lor!" said Susan, "how dreadful! Why it's horrible here when the pot boils, and Heaven
knows what it must have been there. Why, I am sure, I wonder how you escaped being
scalded to death."
"Why, some on 'em did get killed," said Jack. "My starboard man was shot through the
head, and one or two more went on an errand to Davy Jones."
"It was lucky for them," said Susan, "that they were sent out of the way when there was
so much danger going on around you. I am sure I should have been glad."
"May be so," said Jack, turning his quid; "but I know this, them as was sent upon that
errand never came back any more; they stayed away altogether; many of them becoming
food for the sharks. However, we towed awayed, and, the breeze shifting, we got pretty
well among them, and then we left the fire-ships where they ought to be, among the enemy.
"Well, we had a hard pull to get back, there being five or six ships firing broadside after
broadside at us; but they never hit the boat. The other boat they did hit, and a shot went
clean through her, and she went down in deep water."
"And what became of the poor men that were in it?" inquired Susan, horrified at the
detail.
"Some on 'em were drowned, and some we saved," said Jack; "but we had scarcely
reached our own vessel, when the fire-ships blew up, setting fire to and damaging several
of the enemy, who were near at hand, and covering the sea with bits of burning timber, and
many fell into the ships, setting fire to their rigging, and knocking men on the head, and
doing a world of mischief besides."
"Goodness me!" said Susan, "what a dreadful thing, to be sure. I should not like to be
near a fire-ship. At all events, missus is quite a fire-ship here."
There were but few observations to make. Jack thought he had quieted the dragoon, and
had given him a dose of salt water; and, moreover, Jack ogled the "maid of the inn" in such
a way that speedily brought the military hero to a sense of his danger, so, curling his
moustache with his finger, he said, --
"Well, it's all very well talking of the dangers of the sea, but it's nothing to a storming
party."
"A storming party! what's that?" inquired Susan.
"Why, I'll tell you, my dear, and then you'll know all about it. You see, we were at the
siege of Bangpowder."

"Never heard of such a place," interposed Jack; "what's the bearing of that outlandish
place?"
"Oh, never there, eh?" said the dragoon, contemptuously; "then you don't know it. Talk of
danger, you should have been there, and you would have known what danger was.
However, I'll enlighten your ignorance.
"You must see, Susan, my dear, that at Bangpowder we were very little use in the way of
assisting the siege, except that we acted as outposts -- foraging parties -- and kept off the
light troops of the enemy when they shewed themselves, while the infantry set to work in
the trenches to work the guns.
"They did work them above a bit, too. For weeks together there was firing day and night,
on our side and on theirs, so the air was never without a strong smell of gunpowder, which
you might smell for twelve leagues quite strong."
"Lor!" said Susan.
"Smash my timbers," said Jack Pringle, "if you ain't a coming it strong this time."
"Well," continued the dragoon, taking no notice of what was said; "well, that was nothing
-- that was a mere trifle. After some weeks' firing, we made a hole in the wall, which
increased day after day until big enough for a man to enter.
"After that, a storming party was ordered; but, after more than one attempt, our men gave
it up as a bad job. Our captain, being a dare-devil sort of fellow, and not liking to see men
beaten back, said the breach was practicable, and could be entered.
"This was denied by the officers and men who had been defeated, and he said if his own
troop would volunteer, he would undertake to enter the place.
"This was told us, and we all at once volunteered to follow him to the devil, if he chose to
go.
"He at once informed the commander-in-chief, and we were ordered to mount the breech.
To do this we of course dismounted, and went on foot.
"There was some little excitement upon this matter, but we were cheered as we passed,
and when we arrived within a few yards of the walls, we were met by a tremendous fire of
all arms.
"This, however, did not daunt us, though it thinned our ranks, and we were less in
number; but up the breech we went, one man at a time. Six of them, one after another, were
knocked over dead as herrings. Well, the men began to look blue over this; they wouldn't
have minded rushing on in a body, and giving and taking till they all died; but to get on the

top of a brick wall, one at a time, to be shot at, why it was more than they liked, especially
as they had not struck one blow, or fired a single shot in return.
"'Hurrah, lads!' said I; 'I'll have a shy, now; come on, and follow me quick.
"I jumped up and cleared the wall, though a thousand bullets were fired, and got over
clear without a shot, save one, that shaved some of my whisker off.
"We all got over, and soon after we were followed by some of the other regiments, and
the place was our own; but we were nearly stripped naked."
"Oh, lor! how was that?" inquired Susan, interested.
"Why, we had so many narrow escapes, that our clothes were all shot to shreds."
"Goodness!"
"Oh, but it is true," said the dragoon rising, and going out of the kitchen.
In a few moments afterwards Susan left it also, and Jack, after turning his quid, and
squirting the tobacco juice on the floor, rose and hitching up his trowsers with a preliminary
"damme!" left the kitchen also; but he hadn't got far, when, oh, horror! he perceived Susan
in the arms of the dragoon, whose moustachoed lips more than once met hers.
"Sink the ship," muttered Jack, "here's a pretty go -- the black-looking piratical thief."
But Jack's peace was soon held, and he listened to an assignation which Jack was
determined he would keep himself, to the discomfiture of the dragoon.
Having made up his mind upon this point, he returned to the kitchen, and Susan also in a
very few moments; but Jack pretended to be asleep, and wouldn't speak to her, because he
thought she hadn't behaved well in this affair of the dragoon; he was resolved, however, in
substituting himself for the soldier, or, at all events, of making a row.
The time came and Jack stationed himself upon a position where he could with ease lift
the dragoon into the water-butt below, in case he offered any opposition to the substitution
before named.
The moment came round, and the dragoon was seen slowly and cautiously mounting the
way to the window of Susan. It was a kind of leads just above the water-butt, accessible by
means of some wooden steps.
"Avast, there," said Jack, when he got up to the level with the top. "What do you do
there?"
"What is that to you?" inquired the dragoon.

"A great deal," replied Jack; "but you don't come here -- I heard all about it; but I tell you
what, you ain't a coming here, at all events."
"But I am."
"Don't attempt, or I'll sink you. I will, by all that's good -- so keep back, and go away."
"I'll see you d -- d first," said the dragoon. "I have mounted a worse breach than this
before to-day; but I suspect there isn't much danger here."
He ran up, and soon faced Jack, who seized him round the waist, would have lifted him
up in his arms, and could have thrown him into the water-butt, only Jack's foot suddenly
slipped, and he fell down, the soldier upon him, who in an instant regained his feet, and
rolled Jack over and over, until he came to the water-butt.
Into this Jack went, head first, and kicked and floundered about; and if the water-butt had
not been very rotten, and gave way, letting all the water escape, it is very doubtful if Jack
would not have found a watery grave in the confined space of a water-butt.
As it was, he was more than blind and breathless, and sat down in the midst of the water
on the stones, to recover himself from the immersion he had undergone.
--

CHAPTER CXVII.
THE PROPOSAL OF JACK PRINGLE TO TAKE ANDERSON TO THE WEDDING.
A circumstance now occurred which soon enabled Jack Pringle to console himself for the
misadventure he had had, which he was delighted to think was not known to any of those
persons with whom he came ordinarily into contact.
The pleasant circumstance to which we allude, was the reception of a letter from the
admiral, and by the mere fact of his writing such an epistle to Jack, it would seem to be
perfectly true that he really felt unhappy without the companionship of that worthy.
The letter was to the following effect: --
"Jack, you mutinous rascal, your leave of absence has expired, and you know you ought
to have a round dozen when you come back to your ship; but as it turns out you may stay
where you are, for a reason that I am going to tell you.
"There is to be a wedding at the very place where you are staying, between some odd
fish, a Baron Something, I don't know who; but as we have been all invited, we are coming
down the whole lot of us, and shall arrive on Thursday, so that you may look out from the
mast-head as soon as you like, and you will see us coming with all sails set.
"No more at present from, you vagabond, you know who."
"What an affectionate letter," said Jack; "I know the old fellow couldn't do without me
long -- he is quite an old baby, that's what he is; and if I wasn't to take a little notice of him,
he would be as miserable as possible. Hilloa! What cheer? have you come back?"
These last words were addressed to James Anderson, who at that moment made his
appearance in the cottage of the old seaman, he having just left the house of the Williamses,
after the painful interview which we have recorded took place between him and Mrs.
Williams, during which she had succeeded in convincing him that all his hopes, as regarded
Helen, were crushed completely.
The appearance of deep dejection that was upon his countenance was such, as to convince
Jack Pringle the nature of the business he had been upon, and he cried, --
"Come, come -- cheer up, man. I guess, now, you have been looking after that sweetheart
of yours, who is no better than she should be."
"I have, indeed," said James Anderson, "been to extinguish all hope -- nothing now lives
in my breast but despair. I shall proceed to London at once, to make my report to the
Admiralty, as it is my duty to do so; and, after that, I care not what becomes of me."

"Stuff, stuff," said Jack; "I have got some news for you. My old admiral, that I take care
of, has had an invitation to the very wedding, as I take it to be, of your old sweetheart."
"What! is it possible -- do you mean an invitation to Helen Williams's wedding with the
Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh?"
"Yes, I do; that's just what I do mean, and no mistake. Here is his letter which he has
written to me to go, and I think I shall let the old fellow, for it will amuse him. Just read
that."
Jack handed the admiral's letter to James Anderson, which he read with a great deal of
interest, and when he had concluded, he said, --
"Mr. Pringle, a sudden thought strikes me, -- "
"About ship," said Jack, "and begin again. I told you before not to call me Mr. Pringle -- I
cannot stand it. Call me Jack, and then go on telling me what your sudden thought is."
"Well, then, Jack, my sudden thought is this, that your friend the admiral might be
induced, upon your representation, to let me join his party, and I would take care to conceal
my features and general appearance so that I should not be known, while I had the
mournful satisfaction of taking a last look upon that occasion of her who I have loved,
before she becomes irrecoverably the wife of another."
"If you wish it," said Jack, "it shall be done. I'll undertake there shall be no objection on
the part of the admrial; and as for the Bannerworths, they are good sort of people, and
would do all they can for anybody, I am sure."
"I should take it as a peculiar favour; for although I feel now that my hopes are blasted,
and I can have no possible expectation of beholding her with eyes of pleasure, I still wish to
look upon her, that I may see if anything of regret is upon her countenance, of if she has
quite forgotten the past."
"Say no more," said Jack, "but consider it as done. I'd take care though, if I were you, that
she did not find me out; for I wouldn't let the finest woman that ever breathed -- no, not if
she was seven feet high, and as big as a hogshead -- fancy that I cared so much for her as to
go to her wedding after she had jilted me."
"She shall not see me," said James Anderson; "she shall not see me, you may depend; for,
without doubt, the guests will be very numerous, so that I can easily keep myself in the
back-ground, and look upon her face without her being at all aware of the presence of such
a person at the ceremony."
"Yes, you can manage that; and, if I were you, just as I was going away, I'd give the
baron a jolly good kick, and tell him you wished him joy of his bargain. I wouldn't do

anything violent, you know, but a little quiet thing like that would just show them all what
you thought of the business."
"A sense of my wrongs," said James Anderson, "should not extinguish a sense of justice;
and I have no means of knowing that the baron is at all in fault in this matter."
"Oh, you are too nice by one half. If a fellow takes away my sweetheart, hang me if [I]
care who is at fault."
"Oh, but it is necessary that we should be just at all events; but still, Jack, accept my
sincerest thanks for placing me in the way of looking upon Helen. I'd rather see that she
was happy and contented with her lot, than I would observe evidences upon her face of any
passionate regret. The former would reconcile me, by making me think I had made a great
mistake in the object of my attachment; while the latter would leave in my heart a never
ceasing pain."
"Gammon," said Jack.
"I fear I tax your patience, Jack Pringle, when I talk in such a strain as this."
"I'll be hanged if you don't. What do you mean by it? There is lots of women in the world.
I have no patience with a fellow that, because one girl uses him ill, goes snivelling and
crying about his feelings, and his agony, and his chest, and all that sort of thing. I should
recommend a bottle of rum."
"Well, well, Jack, it may happen some day with even you, and then you may feel some of
the mental agony of knowing that another has possessed himself of her whom you thought
all your own."
This was hitting Jack rather hard, although James Anderson did not know it; so he said, --
"Ah, well, to be sure, there is something in that, after all, and I don't mean to say there
ain't; but, however, keep up your heart, my boy, and there is no saying what may happen
yet."
"Alas! there can nothing happen that can give me pleasure; all is lost now, and the only
hope I can have, is to forget."
Jack would have written a letter back to the admiral in reply to the one which he had
received, only that somehow or other he was not a first-rate penman; and as he said it was
such a bother to know where to begin, and when you did begin, it was such a bother to
know where to leave off, that, taking all things into consideration, he rather on the whole
declined writing at all; and, as the appointed day was near at hand, on which the wedding
was to take place, he thought it would do quite as well if he kept the look out which the
admiral had suggested for the arrival of the Bannerworths.

As for the scheme of James Anderson to be present at the wedding, the more Jack thought
of it, the more he liked it, because he considered that it afforded a chance, at all events, if
not a good prospect, of as general a disturbance as any that had ever existed.
"Lor! what fun," he said, "if he would but kick the baron, and then if the baron would but
fall foul of him, and the girl scream, and old mother Williams go into hysterics. That would
be a lark, and no doubt about it; shouldn't I enjoy it above a bit. I'd give them a helping
hand somehow or another; and then, who knows but the girl may have been regularly
badgered by the old cat of a mother into the match, and may wish for all the world to get
out of it."
There can be no doubt but that if Helen Williams, even at that last moment, chose to
make any appeal, it would not be made in vain to Jack Pringle, who, with all his faults, and
they were numerous enough, had in his heart a chivalrous love of right, and a hatred of
anything in the shape of oppression, which nothing could subdue; and such qualities as
these surely are amply sufficient to atone for a multitude of minor errors, which were more
those of habit and defective education, than anything else.
It very much delighted him to think that the admiral and the Bannerworths were coming
down to Anderbury, because such a fact not only prolonged his stay there, which he was
pleased it should do, because he was really very much delighted with the place, but it at the
same time threw him again into the company he so much liked; and his attachment to the
Bannerworth family had really become quite a strong feeling.
He waited quite with impatience until the Thursday came on which the admiral had
announced his arrival; and instead of being in the town, or on the outskirts, to watch for
him, which would have been but a tiresome operation, Jack walked boldly on to meet them
by the high road, which he knew they must traverse.
After he had gone about four miles, he had the satisfaction of seeing, in the distance, a
travelling-carriage, manned, as he called it, with four horses, rapidly approaching, and Jack
immediately produced a large silk handkerchief that he had purchased, which was a
representation of the national flag of Great Britain. This he fastened to the end of a stick,
and commenced waving it about as a signal to the admiral of his presence in the road.
At this moment, too, it happened, fortunately for Jack Pringle, as he considered, that a
man came across a stile in the immediate vicinity where he was with a gun in his hand.
"Hilloa, friend," said Jack Pringle, "just let me look at that gun a minute."
"I'll see you further first," said the man; "you seem to me as if you were out of your
mind."
So saying, he levelled the piece at some birds which were flying over-head, and fired first
one barrel adn then the other in rapid succession.

"Thank ye," said Jack, "that was all I wanted; and it will answer my purpose exactly;
there is nothing like, when you display your flag, firing a gun or two. It's all right -- he sees
me, he sees me."
The admiral had actually been looking from the window of the carriage, although he had
not expected to see Jack quite so soon; but the appearance of the handkerchief, which was
made so much to resemble a flag, convinced him of the fact that Jack had come that
distance to meet them; and when he heard the gun fired twice, he was quite delighted, and
leaning back in the carriage, he cried, --
"Ah, Flora, my dear, it is a great pity that Jack is so given to rum, for he is a remarkably
clever fellow. You would hardly believe it, now, but he has contrived to hoist a flag just
because he sees me coming."
"Indeed, uncle."
"Yes, my dear, he has; and didn't you hear that he actually managed to fire a couple of
guns, some way or another?"
"I certainly did hear the report, but had no idea that we were indebted to Jack Pringle's
management for them."
"Oh, yes, I can see him a short distance ahead. He is lying to, now; and, if the wind wasn't
against us, we should be up to him in a few minutes, but don't you feel it blowing in your
face?"
Nothwithstanding the admiral considered, which he certainly did, that the wind was a real
impediment to the progress of the carriage, they did in a few moments reach to where Jack
Pringle was waiting, when the admiral called out from the window in a loud voice, --
"Hilloa! what ship, and where are you bound to?"
"The Jack Pringle," was the reply, "from Anderbury, and to fall in with the Admiral Bell,
convoy of the pretty Flora."
"There now," said the admiral; "didn't I tell you what a clever fellow Jack was? What
shore-going humbug, who had never been to sea, would have thought of such a thing?"
"Well," said Jack, as he walked up to the coach window, for the postilions had been
ordered to halt, or, as the admiral had expressed it, "to heave to," "well, here you are, all of
you."
"Yes, Jack," said the admiral; "and I was just saying I thought you a very clever fellow."
"I am sorry I can't return the compliment, you poor old creature," said Jack; "I hope you
haven't got yourself into any trouble since I have been away from you. What a miserable

old hulk you do look, to be sure. There you go, again; now you are getting into a passion, as
usual; what a dreadful thing temper is, to be sure, when you can't manage it."
Jack scrambled up behind into the rumble before the admiral could make any reply to
him, for indignation stopped his utterance a moment or two; and, when he did speak, it was
to Flora he addressed himself more particularly, saying, --
"Now, did you ever know a more ungrateful son-of-a-gun than that? After I had just told
him that I thought him a clever fellow, for him to burst out abusing me at that rate! Now I
have done with him."
"Oh, you may depend, Admiral Bell," said Flora, "that he don't at all mean what he says;
and I am convinced that he entertains for you the highest possible respect, and that he is
only jesting when he uses those expressions which would seem as if it were otherwise."
"Let's just wait," said the admiral, "till the wedding is over, and then I'll let him know
whether a boatswain is to make a joke of an admiral of the fleet.
--

CHAPTER CXVIII.
THE BARON'S PREPARATIONS FOR THE MARRIAGE, AND THE WEDDING

MORNING.
During this time neither Mrs. Williams nor the Baron Stolmuyer were idle spectators of
the progress of the hours; but, on the contrary, they made the best possible use of the week
which was to elapse before the marrige [sic] ceremony took place after Helen had given her
consent to it.
Five hundred pounds in the hands of such a person as Mrs. Williams, will go a long way,
and produce an amazing amount of show and glitter; so that she managed, before the day
on which the ceremony was to be performed arrived, to make quite certain that herself and
her daughters would present a most dazzling appearance; and she thought it not at all
improbable that even at the very church some meritorious individual might be dazzled into
thinking of matrimony with one of her other daughters, upon seeing what a brilliant
appearance they managed to present upon the marriage of Helen.
"I am quite sure that no harm can come of it," she said, "if no good does; and, at all
events if no good is done at the church, the baron will soon be giving parties enough to
bring out the dear girls to perfection, particularly as I fully intend we shall all live at
Anderbury House."
Mrs. Williams considered this as a settled point, whether the baron liked it or not; and,
knowing as she did the gentle and quiet disposition of Helen, she did not doubt for a
moment of being permitted to rule completely over the domestic affairs of her
establishment. All this was amazingly satisfactory to such a lady as Mrs. Williams, and the
very thing of all others she would have liked, had she been looking out for what would
please her in the marriage of her daughter.
We shall shortly see how these views and opinions were verified by the fact.
All the other preparations were left to the baron; and when he wrote a letter to Mrs.
Williams, saying, that he would be ready by ten o'clock on the morning which had been
named for the nuptials, and would send one of his carriages for the bride, Mrs. Williams
was perfectly satisfied that all was quite correct.
There was no very good excuse for calling at Anderbury House; but, if she had then
called, she certainly would have been astonished at the preparations which the baron was
making for that day which was so near at hand.
It was quite terrific the expense he went to; and the gorgeous manner in which he fitted
up one of the largest apartments in the house for a dance looked really like expenditure of
the most reckless character, and such as indeed it must have required an immense fortune to
withstand.

The walls of that apartment were hung with crimson draperies of a rich texture, and such
beauty of design that they were the admiration of the very workmen themselves who were
employed upon the premises.
Then the magnificent order he gave for a feast upon the occasion, and the wines he laid
in, really almost exceeded belief; and such proceedings were indeed highly calculated to
give people most exaggerated versions regarding his wealth.
He had indeed mentioned to Mrs. Williams, that he had silver mines on some of his
estates abroad; and that fact to her mind was quite sufficient to account for any amount of
money he might possess, because, to her ideas of geology and mineralogy, the discovery of
a silver mine meant, finding a hole of immense width and depth, crammed with the
precious metal.
But be this as it may, and whether the Baron Stolmuyer, of Saltzburgh, owed his wealth
to silver mines, or to other sources, one thing was quite clear, and that was, that he had it.
And that was the grand point; for in a highly civilized and evangelical country like this,
the question of how a man got his money is not near so often asked, as, has he got it; and it
is quite amazing what liberality of feeling and sentiment is immediately infused into people
by the fact of successful speculation of any kind; while failure immediately incurs the
greatest of opprobium and contempt.
And now the day was so close at hand, that Mrs. Williams got into a terrible flutter of
spirits, and began really to wish it over; for she was completely ready, and each minute
became an hour of impatience to her.
She was continually bothering the baron with notes and messages upon different subjects,
and he had the urbanity to answer two or three of them; but he soon left that off, and the
last half dozen, at the least, were, to Mrs. Williams's great mortification, taken no notice of
at all.
Some of these notes were upon the most nonsensical points, and several of them,
although they did not actually ask it, pretty strongly hinted that more money would be a
very desirable thing.
The baron would not understand any hint, however, upon the subject; so Mrs. Williams
became fully convinced that she must make the best of it she could, and put up for the
present with the five hundred pounds she had already received.
But when the day had actually dawned on when the suspicious event was to come off,
and, upon looking around her, she found herself surrounded by gay apparel and jewellery,
she almost dreaded that even yet it would turn out to be some delusion, or a dream, for she
could scarcely believe in the reality of such glory and magnificence belonging to her.

But facts are stubborn things, and, whether for good or for evil, are not likely to be got
over; so, when she looked out of the windows and saw that a bright morning's sun was
shining, and that the life, animation, and bustle of the day was commencing, she told
herself that it was, indeed, real, and that she had reached very nearly the summit of her
desires and expectations.
"Yes," she exclaimed; "I shall be mother-in-law to a baron; and I dare say I shall have at
least twenty servants in Anderbury House to command and control continually."
A more gratifying reflection than this could not possibly have presented itself to Mrs.
Williams; for if any one thing could be more delightful than another, it certainly was that
kind of petty power which gives an individual a control over a large establishment.
After she had arisen on that eventful morning, she did not allow her establishment many
minutes' repose; but, in the course of half-an-hour, all was bustle, excitement, and no small
share of confusion.
And while she was thus energetically pushing on her preparations, let us see what the
Bannerworths are about, now that they have fairly arrived at Anderbury, and are in
readiness, probably, to be present at the ceremony.
By Flora's intercession, a peace was established between Jack and the admiral; and the
former took the latter down to the old seaman's cottage, in order to introduce him to James
Anderson; and on the road he made him acquainted with the particulars of the young man's
story; at the same time informing him of the wish that Anderson had expressed to be
permitted to join their party.
"Oh, certainly," said the admiral," certainly; let him come by all means, although I must
say that he ought to leave for London, at once, with his despatches, or at all events with the
news that he had lost them. However, I am not on active service; and, therefore, have no
right to do anything more than advise him in the matter."
"Oh, he will go," said Jack, "as soon as he has seen his sweetheart, and perhaps kicked
the baron; for though he said he wouldn't, I live in hopes yet that he will be aggravated
enough to do it."
The admiral liked James Anderson so much, that he not only promised him he should go
to the wedding under cover of the general invitation which he, the admiral, had received,
but he proposed, likewise, that he should come home with him at once and be introduced to
the Bannerworths; and by home he meant the inn at Anderbury, where they were staying.
The young man expressed himself highly gratified at this invitation, and at once accepted
it, so that they walked towards the inn together, and began to make preparations for their
appearance at Anderbury House.

Flora and the Bannerworths, as well as Charles, received young Anderson very
graciously, and they each expressed to him their sympathy for the painful situation in which
the baron's marriage was placing him.
Flora and Charles Holland, as may be well supposed, could both feel, and feel acutely too
for any one crossed in his affection, as poor James Anderson was; and it certainly much
damped the satisfaction they had in going to what everybody told them would certainly be
the most brilliant wedding that had taken place in that part of the country for many a year.
"Let us hope," said Henry Bannerworth, "that you will find some other, Mr. Anderson,
who will be more worthy of your esteem, then [sic] she who has treated so lightly your
affection and her own faith."
"I know not," said Anderson, "whether to accuse her not; for who knows but after all she
may be the victim of treachery, notwithstanding the apparent powerful evidence that has
been given to me by her mother?"
The Bannerworth family were determined, and so was the admiral, that they would
bestow what credit they could upon those who had so kindly invited them; and,
accordingly, when they started for the Hall in the handsome carriage which had brought
them down to Anderbury, they certainly presented a rather showy and attractive
appearance.
But still when they reached the entrance to Anderbury House, they found that their's was
by no means the only equipage of the kind that was there to be seen; for although both the
entrances were open for the reception of guests, they had to wait a considerable time before
they could get up to either of them.
One hundred and fifty guests, sixty or eighty of whom kept equipages, were calculated to
make some little degree of confusion; but when the Bannerworth family fairly got within
the house, everything else was forgotten in their admiration of the brilliant arrangements
within.
The richest carpets were laid down that money could purchase, and servants in gorgeous
liveries ushered the guests into an immense hall, in which the marriage ceremony was to
take place, and which was decorated with a splendour that was perfectly regal.
And here a new set of domestics glided noiselessly about with various refreshments upon
silver salvers, and the place began rapidly to fill with such an assemblage of wealth, and
beauty, and rank, as perhaps scarcely ever had been congregated in one place before.
But among those whose beauty attracted much attention, we may need well reckon our
friend, Flora Bell, as she was now properly called, and whose sweet countenance was the
cause of many a passing obersvation, couched in the most flattering terms.

It wanted yet an hour to the time of the ceremony being performed, and the
Bannerworths, as they saw that their companion, young Anderson, was in a painful state of
excitement, all sat down in the deep recess of a large window to wait the coming of the
bride and bridegroom.
"I don't think, Mr. Anderson," said Henry, "that your coming here at all was a well
advised step; but since you are here, you should muster up resolution enough not to betray
any feeling."
"I will not betray it, although I feel it," said Anderson. "Rely upon it, that I shall look
much firmer, and act much firmer when she whom I wish to see is actually here, than I do
at present -- I am enduring suspense now, and that is the worst of all."
"I do wish," interposed Flora, "that you had seen her whom you love before this
ceremony, for in that case, although you might have endured the pang of finding that she
was willing to call herself another's, you would have been spared the pain of this day's
proceeding."
"I wish to Heaven I had seen her; but I knew not how to arrange such a meeting; and
when I was shewn, in her own handwriting -- which I knew too well to doubt -- a consent
to be the wife of another, I no longer had the spirit and the perseverance to ask to see her;
and it was an afterthought that made me wish to look upon her face once more before I left
her for ever."
"What," said Jack Pringle, suddenly making his appearance, "is he gammoning you with
his feelings?"
"Oh! so you have got in, have you?" said the admiral.
"So I have got in -- why, what do you mean by that? Of course I have got in; wasn't I
invited? I do think you get a little stupider every day; and, in course of time, you won't
know what you are about. I should not be surprised to see you take out your handkerchief to
blow your eye instead of your nose."
Latterly, Jack, when he made one of these speeches, always walked away very quickly,
leaving the admiral's anger to evaporate as best it might; so that he escaped the retort which
otherwise he might have received.
--

CHAPTER CXIX.
A RATHER STRANGE CIRCUMSTANCE AT THE BARON'S WEDDING.
At length, the hour came, so anxiously looked for and expected by all the Baron
Stolmuyer's guests; and the great clock which was in one of the turrets of Anderbury House
proclaimed that the minute had arrived when all was presumed to be ready for the union.
All eyes were directed to a large table that was placed at one extremity of the hall, and
covered with crimson velvet, and at which the ceremony was to be performed.
The Bannerworths were a little forward, so that they commanded a good view of
everything, and James Anderson was completely hidden from observation behind the bulky
form of the admiral. Now, a small door opened, and an archdeacon somebody -- who had
been engaged, as you would engage a celebrated performer, at some theatre, to perform the
ceremony -- made his appearance, accompanied by several ladies and gentlemen, whom he
had brought with him to partake of some of the baron's good things.
In a few moments, from another doorway, came the bride, accompanied by six
bridesmaids, but she was covered with such a massive lace veil from her head to her feet,
that not the slightest vestige of her countenance was visible.
But, still, Flora thought that, as the bride first came in, she heard from beneath that veil a
deep and agonized sob; and she re[marked] the circumstance to Charles, who confirmed her
opinion by at once saying, --
"It was so, and I don't think it at all likely that we should both be mistaken."
There was a slight murmur of applause and admiration among the assembled guests as the
bride took her seat by the table; for although there were many there who had never seen her
face, there were likewise many who had; and even those who had not, could not but
perceive, by her graceful movements and the delicate outline of her figure, that they were
looking upon a creature of rare beauty and worth.
It was astonishing that the bridegroom should be late, and the audience who were present
began to be indignant at such a fact, and whispered together concerning it in language not
very flattering to the baronet, who, had he heard it, would have found that he must mind
what he was about, or his rapidly-acquired popularity would soon be at a discount.
Minute after minute thus passed, and Mrs. Williams, who was attired in a richly-flowing
garment of white silk, embroidered with flowers, began to be in a most particular fidget.
"Where could be the baron -- good God! where is the baron?" and some one or two said,
"D -- n the baron!" When suddenly the door at which the bride had entered was again flung
open, and two servants in rich liveries made their appearance, one standing on each side of
it. Then there was heard approaching a slow and measured footstep, and presently, attired

in a court suit of rich velvet, the Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh appeared in the hall, and
marched up to the table.
He had but just time to execute half a bow to the assembled multitude, when Admiral Bell
called out in a voice that awakened every echo in the place, --
"It's Varney, the vampyre, by G-d!" * * * *
Yes, it was Varney -- the bold, reckless, audacious Varney, who had thus come out in a
new character, and, with vast pecuniary resources, acquired Heavens knows how or where,
was seeking to ally himself to one so young and beautiful as Helen Williams.
We do absolutely and positively despair of giving an adequate idea to the reader of the
scene that followed.
Ladies shrieked -- the bride fainted -- Mrs. Williams went into strong hysterics, and
kicked everybody -- Jack Pringle shouted until he was hoarse; while Varney turned and
made a dash to escape through the door at which he had just entered.
James Anderson, however, by springing over a table, succeeded in clutching him by the
collar behind; but Varney turned on the instant, and lifting him from the ground as if he had
been a child, he flung him among a tray of confectionary and wine, and from thence he
rolled into Mrs. Williams's lap.
Following close, however, upon the footsteps of Anderson in pursuit of Varney had been
Henry Bannerworth; but he accomplished nothing, except to strike his head violently
against the door through which Varney escaped, and which was dashed in his face, and
immediately bolted on the other side.
"He is a vampyre," shouted the admiral -- "I tell you all he is a vampyre -- Varney, the
vampyre, and no more a baron than I am a broomstick. Stop that d -- d old woman from
making such a noise."
"It's the bride's mother," said somebody.
"What's that to me?" roared the admiral; "it don't make her a bit less of a nuisance. I offer
a hundred pounds reward for Varney, the vampyre; and there must be some people here that
know the house well enough to catch him."
"Do you mean a hundred pounds for master, sir?" said a great footman, with yellow plush
breeches.
"Yes, I do, you hog in armour," said the admiral.
The footman rushed through another doorway in a moment, and then Jack Pringle jumped
upon a chair, and, waving his hat, cried, --

"Hurra, hurra, hurra! Three cheers for old Varney! I'll tell you what it is, messmates, he is
the meanest fellow as ever you see; and as for you ladies who have been disappointed of
the marriage, I'll come and kiss you all in a minute, and we'll drink up old Varney's wine,
and eat up his dinner like bricks. My eye, what a game we will have, to be sure. I am
coming -- -"
At this moment the admiral gave such a kick to one of the hind legs of the chair, that
down came Jack as quickly as if he had disappeared through some trap-door.
"Hold your noise, will you," said the admiral, "you great brawling brute!"
"I'll settle him," said Mrs. Williams, who had suddenly recovered; and had not Jack
suddenly made his escape, it is highly probable she would have make him a regular scape-
goat in the affair, and that he alone -- for Anderson had pretty quickly escaped her -- would
have felt the consequences of her deep disappointment.
The confusion now became, if anything, worse than at first, for many of the guests who
had looked on apparently quite stunned and paralyzed at what had taken place, now
recovered, and joined their voices to the general clamour.
Some, to rush out of the place, took the opportunity of going through the different rooms;
while a number, who had heard of the wide-spread fame of Varney, the vampyre, and who
were utterly astonished to find him and the baron one and the same person, joined in the
pursuit, with the hope of taking prisoner so alarming a personage.
No one knew for some time what had become of the clergyman, until Jack Pringle saw a
human foot sticking out from under the table, upon which he took hold of it, and with a pull
dragged the archdeacon somebody fairly out, to the great horror of some very religious old
ladies who were present, who considered that an arch-deacon must be somebody very
wonderful indeed.
"Hilloa! Mr. Parson," said Jack; I suppose you thought it was your old friend the devil
come for you before your time; but cheer up, I know him; it's only a vampyre, and that's
nothing when you're used to it."
Jack did not seem at all to think that it was necessary he should assist in the capture of
Varney, and probably the real fact was, he did not care whether Varney was captured or
not, so he walked to one of the tables which were loaded with refreshments, and knocking
the neck off a bottle of champagne, he gave a nod to Mrs. Williams, saying, --
"Come, old girl, take something to drink. That red nose of yours looks as if you knew
something of the bottle. It's only me, so you needn't be shy. Ah, it's devilish good wine,
though. I do give old Varney credit for getting up the thing decently, which he certainly
has, and no mistake."

"Who has seen my daughter? Where is my daughter?" cried Mrs. Williams, as she looked
about her in vain for Helen.
"You needn't trouble yourself, ma'am," said the admiral; "she has just walked off with a
little fellow of the name of Anderson, who, although he was no match for Varney, the
vampyre, I think will turn out to be one for your daughter."
Mrs. Williams was thoroughly thunder-stricken, and she sat down in a chair, and
commenced wringing her hands, muttering as she did so, --
"Oh, that I should have lived to see this day. Oh, that I should have existed to be so -- so -
- -"
"Jolly well humbugged, ma'am," said Jack Pringle, "with a vampyre, instead of a baron;
why, lord bless you, ma'am, nobody in their senses would have taken old Varney for a
baron; why, he is a regular old blood-sucker, he is, and a nice family you would have had;
but, however, if you are fond of him, you can marry him yourself, you know, now; and I
shouldn't at all wonder, but he will consent, for a man will put up with any d -- d old cat,
when he finds he can't get a better."
"Good God," said Mrs. Williams, "I think I know your voice now; ain't you Admiral
Green?"
"Avast, there," said Jack; "I ain't anything of the kind; they calls me Colonel Bluebottle,
of the horse-marines."
"The what?"
"The horse-marines. Didn't you never hear of them, ma'am?"
"I certainly never did. But don't try to deceive me, sir; you are Admiral Green and if you
will, my dear sir, spare me a few minutes of your valuable time, I shall be able to explain to
you -- -"
"What?" said Jack.
"Why, that really -- you will scarcely believe it -- but really, Admiral Green, my daughter
Julia is, although I say it, one of the best of girls."
"Oh, I dare say she is, ma'am; but I don't know as that much matters to me."
"Excuse me, Admiral Green, but it really does, and you must know -- of course it's quite
between ourselves this -- that she happened to see you when you did me the honour of
calling upon me."
"Did she really?"

"Yes, my dear admiral; and, do you know, ever since then she has been positively raving
about you; and as you were good enough to say, the baron should not stand in the way of
your affections, allow me to recommend Julia to you."
"Oh, that's it, is it!" said Jack. "Well, ma'am, I should not have said no, only that you ain't
half particular enough for me!"
"Not particular! Oh, good God."
"No, ma'am, you ain't. Here you would have married one of your daughters to a vampyre,
and how do I know waht other sort of odd fish you might bring into the family."
"But, my dear Admiral -- "
"Oh! gammon. I tell you what, now, I will do -- I don't mind standing something devilish
handsome, if you will marry old Varney yourself."
"What! the baron that was, and the vampyre that is? I marry him! Oh, dear, no, I really
could not -- that is to say, how much would you give, Admiral Green?"
"Ah!" said Jack, "I knew it. Who says, after this, that women won't marry the very devil
himself, if they only have the chance. And now, Mother Williams, I'll just tell you what you
have done. The fact is, I took a fancy to you myself, and that's why I came here at all to-
day. I meant to have proposed to you, and if you had only said you would not have the
Baron Vampyre for any money, d -- n it, I would have had you myself, and settled a matter
of £15,000 a year upon you."
"Oh, gracious Providence! what do I hear?"
"Just what I says. I'm a man of my word, ma'am, and would have done it."
"Mrs. Williams was so affected at the chance she had lost, that she quite forgot to look
after Helen, but was actually compelled to indulge herself with a glass or two of something
strong and powerful, which she said was sherry, but which somebody else said was brandy,
in order to recover from the faint feeling that would come over her.
After this, Jack thought he had had about the bitterest revenge upon Mrs. Williams that it
was possible to achieve, and he was quite right as far as that went. The old admiral, too,
who overheard some part of the colloquy, was quite delighted with it, and again told
himself what a clever fellow Jack was, and quite a wonderful character in his way.
"Ah!" he said, " one would have to sail a tolerable lot of voyages before finding anybody
as was exactly Jack's equal; and I'll be hanged if I don't forgive him for the next piece of
mutinous conduct he is guilty of, on account of the way he has served out that horrid old
Mother Williams; for in all my life I never saw a woman I disliked more. Stop, what am I
saying? Did I really forget Mrs. Chillingworth, the doctor's wife? That was too bad."

--

CHAPTER CXX.
THE HUNT FOR THE VAMPYRE IN THE SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGE.
The information that had been given to Mrs. Willams respecting her daughter and James
Anderson having together left the great hall of Anderbury House, was perfectly correct.
The voice of Anderson, whispering words of affection in the ear of Helen, was sufficient
to arouse her from the state of syncope into which she had fallen; and when she recovered
and looked in his face, the expression of joy which her countenance wore, at once dispelled
all his doubts.
"Helen, dear Helen!" he whispered; "are you, indeed, still, in heart, mine?"
"Still, as ever," she replied.
"Come with me; I have much to tell you; and we need not heed the thoughts and feelings
of the throng that is here. If you can walk, place your arm in mine, and lean upon me, and
we will get out of all this trouble and confusion."
Helen was but too glad to avail herself of such an offer, and she accordingly at once did
so; and leaning for support upon that arm, which, of all others, she most loved to bear upon,
they together passed out of the great hall, through one of the numerous doorways leading
from it.
Being both of them quite ignorant of what may be called the topography of Anderbury
House, they went on till they came to a small but very elegant apartment, in which a table
was laid with wines, and some costly refreshments, which, from the fact of an extremely
clerical-looking shovel hat being upon one of the chairs, there was no great difficulty in
coming to the conclusion that this had been a reception-room, got up purposely for the
reverend gentleman who was to perform the ceremony of marriage between the baron and
Miss Williams, and in which he had refreshed himself prior to the performance of that
dreadfully arduous task, for which, no doubt, as all persons are, he was so very
insufficiently paid.
A glass of wine, which James Anderson poured out for Helen, tended much to recover
her; and then he said to her in accents of the greatest affection, --
"Helen -- Helen! is it possible that you really so far forgot me, as to promise your hand to
another?"
She burst into tears as she clung to his arm, saying, --
"I know you cannot, you ought not to forgive me. I did promise; but I did not forget you;
and if you know the cruel persecution to which I have been subjected, you would pity,
perhaps, as much as you condemn me."

"You did not know that some days since I wrote you a note."
"Me a note? Oh, heavens! no -- no. What became of it? To whom did you entrust it? Oh!
James, had I but thought you were near me, do you think that for one moment I would have
yielded, even to the representations which were made to me?"
"I see it all," he said. "Your mother has carried on this matter with more tact than candour
and honesty of purpose. I do not condemn you, dear Helen; and no one shall ever disturb
you in your possession of a heart which is wholly yours."
"And can you forget -- "
"All but that I love you I can and will forget, Helen."
"I do not deserve this noble generosity, for I ought not to have yielded, James. I feel that I
ought to have clung to the remembrance of your affection, and found in that an abundant
consolation, as well as abundant strength, to resist the whole world."
"Say no more, dearest, upon that head; but let us, to the full, enjoy the happiness of this
meeting, without the drawback of a single doubt."
"We will never part again."
"Never -- never."
"But, James, what was the meaning of that sudden exclamation, from one of the guests, as
regarded the baron?"
"You allude to Admiral Bell proclaiming him to be a vampyre; and, I must say, it fills me
with quite as much astonishment as it can you. I did hear a strange story of that sort from a
sailor a short time ago, but I looked upon it as a mere superstition and paid no attention to
it. You know what it means, I presume, and that a vampyre is supposed to be a half-
supernatural creature who supports a spurious and horrible existence, by feeding upon the
blood of any one whom he can make his victim."
"If this horrible superstition," said Helen, with a shudder, "be true, what a dreadful fate
have I escaped!"
"It surely must be some error of judgement; but still, dear one, you have escaped a
dreadful fate, a fate worse than any vampyre would have inflicted upon you -- the fate of
being united to one whom you cannot love."
"Yes," said Helen; "that is, indeed, an escape; but how came you, of all persons in the
world, a guest here?"

"I came, Helen, under cover of a general invitation, with a most worthy family, to whose
kindness I feel myself much indebted, and which empowered them to bring with them
whom they pleased. My wish and object was to take one last look at the face I had loved so
well before I left you for ever."
"Oh, Heavens!" said Helen, "and I was so near being sacrificed while you were by. Even
now I shudder at the dreadful chasm; I feel that you ought not to forgive me."
"Say no more -- say no more; all that, Helen, is now past and forgotten, and I can well
imagine how your mother would torture you with supplications, because she believed this
man to be rich, and consequently the sort of person, above all others, as most desirable for
her to have as a son-in-law. We will only consider that a great anxiety and a great danger
has passed away, and we will not stop to ask ourselves what it was."
"Ever good, and ever generous," resumed Helen, as her head reposed upon her lover's
breast.
"Oh," said Jack Pringle, as he popped his head in at the door; "I beg your pardon, you are
better engaged; but we are going to have a grand vampyre hunt through the house, and I
thought you would like to join in it, perhaps."
"Stay a moment, stay," cried Anderson. "Do you mean to tell me, really, that this is the
person who gave your friends, the Bannerworths, so much trouble and inconvenience?"
"Yes, I do," said Jack; "lor bless you, he is quite an old acquaintance of ours, is old
Varney; sometimes he hunts us, sometimes we hunt him. He is rather a troublesome
acquaintance, notwithstanding, and I think there are a good many people in the world, a
jolly right worse vampyres than Varney."
"I have no cause to hunt him," said Anderson, "and so, therefore, I feel certainly more
inclined to decline, than otherwise, engaging in such a transaction."
"Don't mention it," said Jack; "you are a deuced deal better engaged, and there needs no
excuses."
Jack was quite correct as regarded the projected hunt for the unfortunate Varney in
Anderbury House; for the liberal offer of reward which the admiral had made to any one
who would secure him, was calculated to stimulate every possible exertion that people
could make upon the occasion; so much so, indeed, that the Bannerworths, after a brief
consultation among themselves, thought that for the protection of Varney it would be much
better that they should find him, than now leave him with the character that had been given
him as such a dangerous member of society.
The servants, and some of the guests, even, had gone very systematically to work for the
purpose of taking Varney prisoner; for, in the first instance, they had secured all the outlets

from the house, so that, as the footman with the yellow plush continuations remarked, he
must jump over the cliff if he wanted to get away.
The admiral and Henry agreed with each other that they would be foremost in the search,
in order to protect Varney from any violence; for although this conduct of his might be
considered as very bad, and an outrage upon society in passing himself off as a baron, and
endeavouring to effect an alliance with a young and innocent girl, yet they, the
Bannerworths, had nothing to complain of in the transaction whatever.
Consequently was it that they felt an inclination to defend Varney from personal violence.
And this was, to a certain extent, to be dreaded, because Anderbury being so short a
distance from Bannerworth, it was not to be supposed but that some news of the mysterious
appearance of the vampyre had reached the ears of almost every one who happened to be
present at the baron's wedding.
And although these persons might be supposed to belong to a class of society not likely to
commit acts of violence, yet there was no knowing what, in the excitement of the moment,
might be done.
While the search went on, Flora was introduced to Helen Williams, and remained with
her, commencing a friendship which lasted afterwards, to the great advantage of Helen, for
many a year.
The Bannerworths would have been pleased and interested at going over Anderbury
House, under any other circumstances than the present one, for truly the baron had made it
a most magnificent abode.
By judicious additions to the antique furniture which had belonged to it when he took it,
he had made some of the apartments look gorgeous in the extreme; and while he had not
disturbed the character of the decorations, he had certainly shown a very fine taste in
adding to them.
But their minds were by far too much occupied with considerations connected with
Varney to pay much attention to his house; and, as they traversed room after room in search
of him without finding him, they began to think that, with his usual good fortune, he had
contrived entirely to escape.
The servants, who knew the place well, perhaps better than Varney did himself, searched
for him in almost impossible places, until it began to be the general opinion that he must
have escaped.
They were standing by a large bay window, which commanded a view of the gardens,
when one of the servants suddenly exclaimed, --

"I see him -- I see him; there he goes," and pointed into the garden, where, for one instant,
Henry Bannerworth, as well as the admiral, saw Varney, in his rich suit of wedding apparel,
dart from among the bushes, towards a summer-house that was in the garden near at hand.
"Tis he, indeed," said Henry. "Let us get down instantly, or he may yet effect his escape."
"No, no," cried one of the servants, "he cannot do that; the garden wall is too high, and
the men are stationed at the gate. It's quite clear to me what he is about. Look at him; he is
going towards the old passage that leads to the sea shore."
"Then he will escape, of course," said Henry, "for no one can hope to overtake him."
"Don't you be afraid of that, sir," cried the servant; "one of my mates has gone round to
the beach to watch, and he won't let the door be opened that leads out on to the sands, so he
cannot get away by that mode."
"In that case, then, we have him completely entrapped, and, as you say, he cannot escape.
It must be the madness of positive desperation that induces him to go to that place."
"Let us be off at once after him," said the admiral; "that is our only plan. Come on at
once. The sooner we get hold of him the better, for his own sake as well as for ours."
Thus urged, they all proceeded towards the garden, in which was the mysterious, well-
like entrance to the subterraneous passage, which formed so great a feature in the estate of
Anderbury, on the moment, and which, at the time that Varney had taken the mansion, had
evidently formed to him one of its principal attractions.
To the admiral and his party, as well as to several of the guests, who joined from motives
of curiosity in the pursuit for Varney, this place was perfectly new, and it certainly, to look
down it, did not present by any means an inviting prospect; for although it sloped
sufficiently to take off the absolute appearance of being a downright hole in the earth, yet,
beyond a few feet in depth, the gloom had something positively terrific about it.
"Well," said the admiral, "I've been into the hold of many a ship, but never one that
looked half so gloomy as this, I can say. What do you say to it, Jack?"
"It's no use saying anything to such places," said Jack. "The only way, if we want to catch
old Varney, which I suppose we do, is to pop down it at once and done with it; so come
along, I won't flinch if it was ten times worse. Come on, admiral, let's go down after the
enemy."
"I cannot say it's exactly the kind of place I admire," said the admiral; "but,
howsomedever, if one must go down it, who shall say that Admiral Bell flinched from it?
Come on, all of you. Let all who will follow."

The passage did not look a very inviting one; and it was found that the courage of the
guests began to cool down wonderfully when, instead of rushing from apartment to
apartment, in search of Varney, the vampyre, they found that they had to encounter the
gloom and darkness of that underground abode.
Out of the positive throng which had been pursuing Varney, only four, in addition to the
admiral and the male portion of his party, ventured to descend into that black-looking place.
"What!" cried Jack, "have we got such a lot of skulkers whenever we come to close
quarters with the enemy? Well, shiver my timbers, if I didn't expect as much from a lot of
land lubbers, who don't know what they are about any more than a marine in a squall. But
who cares? Come along, admiral; and, if we do have all the fighting, we shall, at all events,
have all the glory."
"I hope there will be nothing of the one, at all events," said Henry; "for my intention is
rather to save Varney from injury than to injure him.
"We must have lights," said the admiral. "I don't mind going down into a queer place to
look for Varney, but I must have the means of seeing what I am about when I get there."
"They will be here, sir, directly," said the big footman, who from the first had made
himself conspicuous in the pursuit of Varney; that is to say, ever since the reward of £100
had been offered by the admiral to any one who would take him prisoner.
And in a few moments, some of the links, which were always kept in the kitchen of
Anderbury House, for the express purpose of descending into the subterraneous passages
with, were produced and lighted. By this time, too, the four guests had decreased to three,
and two of those seemed to hang back rather a little; while one of them seemed disposed to
make up as much as possible for any deficiency of courage on the part of the others, by
declaring his intention of ferretting out Varney, let him be hidden where he might.
"I am with you, sir," he said to the admiral, "let this place lead where it may; for I have
heard so much about vampyres, and really am so curious to know more about them."
"You don't believe in them, do you?"
"I cannot say that I do, sir. But, at the same time, when we hear such well authenticated
cases brought forward about them, it is very difficult, indeed, to say at once, that one has no
belief in such things."
"Well, you are right enough there; and if you knew as much about Varney, the vampyre,
as we do, I think you would be a little puzzled to know what to say about him; for I'll be
hanged if he don't puzzle me above a bit, and I don't know now what to think of him."

CHAPTER CXXI.
THE DEATH OF THE INQUISITIVE GUEST. -- THE ESCAPE OF SIR FRANCIS

VARNEY
The guest who was so valorous, and so very impatient for the capture of Varney, would
have preceded everybody in descending to the passage cut in the cliff, but Henry
Bannerworth thought not only was it more particularly his concern to do so, but that as he
knew Varney better, it was desirable that he should go first.
He thought there would less likelihood of any mischief by adopting such a kind of
procedure, for he did not anticipate that Varney would willingly do him any injury; while,
as regarded what he might do if any stranger should attempt to seize him, that was quite
another affair.
"You do not know him as we know him," said Henry, to the guest. "He is a dangerous
man, and in all respects such an one as your prudence might well induce you to keep clear
of. Allow me to precede you, therefore, for the sake of preventing the probability of the
most unpleasant consequences."
This argument appeared to have its effect and to damp a little the ardour of this
individual, which it might well enough do, without casting any imputation upon his courage
whatever; for, after all, he could have no strong motive in the pursuit of Varney, since he
was in a line of life which would have prevented him, even if he had been the sole captor of
Varney, from taking the reward which the admiral had offered for his apprehension.
The sudden change from the daylight, and all the noise and bustle which had animated the
scene above, to the silence, the darkness, and the strange atmosphere which reigned in the
underground region, could not fail of having some effect upon the imagination of every one
present.
This effect would, of course, vary in different individuals, being the greatest in those of a
highly excitable and imaginative turn of mind, and the less in those who were of a more
matter-of-fact kind of intellect. Probably, Henry Bannerworth felt more acutely than any
one else the full effect which such a scene was likely to produce, and he was profoundly
silent upon the occasion for some time.
Under even the most extraordinary circumstances, the descent into such a place must
have affected the mind to some extent, for it seems like leaving the world altogether for a
time, and bidding farewell to everything which we have been in the habit of enjoying and
thinking beautiful.
No one ever thought of accusing Admiral Bell of being very imaginative; but, upon this
occasion, although he was the first to speak, what he did say, showed that he had felt some
of those sensations to which we have alluded.

"How do you feel, Henry?" he said. "I'll be hanged if I don't seem as if I were going into
my grave before my time."
"And I, too," said Henry; "but I rather like the solemn feeling which such a place as this
inspires."
"Gentlemen," said the tall footman with the yellow plush what-do-you-call-em's,
"gentlemen, I think, after all, that I somehow will go back again. I don't seem, actually, in a
manner of speaking, to care to catch the baron, somehow; so, if you please, gentlemen, I
rather think I'll go back."
"Why don't you say you are afraid, at once, John?" said the admiral.
"Who, me, sir? I afraid? Oh, dear, no, sir. It would take a trifle, indeed, to frighten me, I
rather think. Oh! no, no, sir you mistake me. It's my feelings -- it's my feelings, sir."
"Why, what the deuce have your feelings to do with it?"
"Everything in the world, sir. Haven't I drank his beer, sir, and haven't I eat his beef, and
his bread, and his tatoes, sir, and shall I now hunt him up among his own ice-wells? No;
perish the thought -- perish the blessed idea. Perish the -- the -- the -- good bye,
gentlemen."
With these words, the chivalrous footman gave up all idea of continuing the chase for
Varney, the vampyre, and turning quickly, so as to stop the possibility of his hearing any
further remonstrance, he went from the place with great speed.
Still, however, with the departure of this individual, whose courage from the first had had
about it a very suspicious colour, they were in quite sufficient strength to have
accomplished the capture of the vampyre, if they could get hold of him, and always
provided he was not sufficiently armed with powers of mischief to their number, by taking
perchance the life of some one of them.
There was one circumstance connected with a search for anybody in that strange region,
which spoke much in favour of a successful result, and that was that the passage was
narrow, and that there were no hiding-places except the ice-wells, to explore which, at all
events, could not be a very difficult task; and as they proceeded, they felt certain that they
must be driving Varney before them.
Before they had got very far, Henry Bannerworth thought it would be advisable to
announce to Varney the precise intentions of himself and the admiral, always provided he
were equally peaceably inclined, and within hearing of what was said to him.
He accordingly raised his voice, inquiring, --

"Sir Francis Varney, you no doubt recognise, by my tones, that it is Henry Bannerworth
who speaks to you; and therefore you may feel convinced that no harm is intended you; but
you are implored to come forth and meet your friends, who, from former circumstances,
you ought to know you can trust."
There was no reply whatever to this appeal, and when the echoes of Henry's voice had
died away, the same death-like stillness reigned in the place that had before characterised it.
"He will not answer," said the admiral; "and yet, if the other end of this passage be
guarded as it is said to be, he must be here. Let us come on at once -- I have no wish of my
own to stay in this damp, chalky hole a moment longer than may be absolutely necessary."
Nor I," remarked Henry; "so let us proceed, and it will be necessary that we keep an
accurate watch upon our progress, for I am told that there are ice-wells here of great depth,
down which you may fall and come by an awful death when you least expect, unless you
are very cautious in looking where you tread."
"There's no doubt of that, sir," said one of his guests. "This place is considered to be one
of the most curious that Anderbury can boast of, and I have been told that there are ice-
houses, in which all kinds of provisions may be kept with ease and safety in the most
violent heat of the summer months."
After a few moments they came upon one of the ice-wells, which yawned terrifically
before them, and had they not been very careful and watchful upon the occasion, one or
more of them might have been precipitated down the well, and the loss of life must have
been the result.
"I scarcely think," said Henry, "that ordinary caution has been used in the construction of
these places, or they never would have been left in such a state as they are now in. The ice-
well, you perceive, lies directly in the very pathway?"
"Yes," said the admiral, "it does seem so, Master Henry; but if you look a little closer you
will perceive that at one time there has been a wooden bridge exactly over this chasm."
"Ah, I do, indeed, now perceive such has been the case."
"Yes, and that made the place both safe and convenient; for no doubt there was a means
of lowering down any baskets of wine or other matters that required a low temperature."
The admiral was perfectly right in his supposition, for that was just the way in which the
ice-wells of Anderbury House were constructed; and now, since the bridge had been broken
down, there was but a very narrow pathway, indeed, by which the well could be passed,
unless it was jumped over, which might be done by any active person.

They would not pass this ice-well without an examination of it, and that was
accomplished by lying down upon the rough pathway of the passage, and holding a light at
arm's-length down it, when the bottom was clearly visible.
"He is not there," said Henry, who was the person who made the experiment; "he is not
there, so we must pass on."
They accordingly did so, until they came to another such ice-well, and then the guest
which had shown such eagerness in the chase, and accompanied them so far, went through
the process of stooping down the chasm to ascertain if it contained anything unusual
beyond the debris of broken bottles, old flint-stones, &, which might fairly be expected to
be there.
"Do you see anything?" inquired Henry, as the guest seemed to be looking very intently
over the precipice.
He was about to reply something, for some sound came from his lips, when he suddenly,
as if he had been impelled to do by some unseen power, toppled over the edge and
disappeared, torch and all, into the abyss below.
"Good God!" cried Henry, "he has fallen."
"Good night," said the admiral, with characteristic coolness; "I suspect, my friend, that
your career is at an end."
"Listen! for God's sake, listen!" cried Henry; "does he speak?"
There was a strange scuffling noise, and then a low deep groan from the bottom of the
ice-pit, and then all was still; and from the character of the sound, Henry was of opinion
that this well was of much greater depth than the former one, which he had so successfully
examined.
"He has met with his death," said Henry.
"Don't be too sure," said the admiral; "we must have a good stout rope, and somebody
must go down; if nobody likes the job, I will go myself."
"If ropes are wanted," said one of the other two persons who were present, "I can show
you where they may be found, for I was at the inquest on the body of the man who was
found dead in this place some time ago, and I marked that the ropes by which his body had
been got out of one of the ice-wells were left where they had been used."
"That, then, said the other, "is further on, and nearer the beach."

"Yes; lend me the light, and I will get the rope as quickly as I can; for I don't think, as
well as I can remember, that there is another well between this one and that which is nearer
the beach entrance."
This was done, and for a few moments Henry and the admiral were left in darkness while
the ropes were being searched for. It was a darkness so total and complete, that it did
indeed seem like that darkness which it requires but a little stretch of the imagination to
fancy it can be felt.
"Henry," said the admiral -- "Henry!"
"Yes; I am here."
"Were you ever in such a confounded dark hole in all your life?"
"Scarcely, I think, ever. It is certainly tremendous, and it is a grievous thing to think that a
life had been sacrificed, as no doubt it has, in this adventure."
"Ah, well! we must all go to Davy Jones's locker some day, you -- But -- but don't lay
hold of me so!"
"I lay hold of you! I am not near you, sir."
"D -- n it! who is it, then? Somebody has got hold of me as if I were in a vice. Stand off, I
say! Who are you?"
"Varney, the vampyre," said a deep sepulchral voice; "who warns you, and all others, that
there is abundance of danger in visiting here, and nothing to be gained."
Almost as these words were spoken, Henry suddenly found himself whirled round with
such force, that it was only by a great effort that he succeeded in keeping his feet, and he
felt convinced that some one had passed him. Who could that one be but Sir Francis
Varney, the much dreaded vampyre?
In the next moment the light glanced again upon the walls of the subterranean passage,
and the admiral cried, --
"He has escaped, unless some one stops him above. But let us think of nothing else at
present, but to find out if the poor fellow who fell down here be alive or dead."
Henry descended by the assistance of the ropes, and found the adventurous guest quite
dead. They raised the body from the well, and conveying it, as best they could, among
them, they arrived, after some troubles on account of their burden, in the gardens, and,
finally, in the great hall of Anderbury House, on a table in which they laid the corpse.

It was quite evident now to the admiral and to the Bannerworths that Varney had escaped,
so they could have no desire to remain at the house, over which Mr. Leek was running like
a madman, wondering what he should do. Flora had invited Helen Williams to accompany
her to the inn, so that the whole party of the Bannerworths went away together, with the
one addition to it of that poor girl who had so narrow an escape of becoming the vampyre's
bride. Horrible destiny!
--

CHAPTER CXXII.
MRS. WILLIAMS VISITS THE BANNERWORTHS AT THE INN. -- THE

MARRIAGE OF JAMES ANDERSON WITH HELEN.
Let us fancy now, after all these singular circumstances had taken place, the Bannerworth
family, with James Anderson and Helen Williams, seated in a comfortable room at the inn
at Anderbury, where they had put up when they came to that place, in pursuance of the
invitation they had received from Mrs. Williams.
And that lady, probably could she have foreseen what was about to occur, would have
taken most especial pains to prevent such an invitation from ever reaching such a
destination; but she had fallen a victim to her own love of display, and not being content
with inviting people whom she did know, she must, forsooth, give them a carte blanche to
bring with them people whom she did not know at all.
And this it was that she had been horrified by what had taken place, and had had all her
brightest visions of the future levelled with the dust.
When Jack Pringle told Mrs. Williams that he believed she would quite willingly have
sold her daughter to a vampyre, he was right; for she would have done so, always provided
that the vampyre, as aforesaid, had a good property, and was able to convince her of that
most important fact. The only person of all the little party that was assembled at the inn,
who looked pale and anxious, was poor Helen, and she certainly did look so; for when we
come to consider her novel position we shall not wonder at it.
She had thrown herself completely upon the consideration of strangers, and was severed
from all those natural ties which ought to have for ever held her in their gentle bondage.
But this conduct, or rather the conduct of that one who ought to have protected her though
all trouble and anxieties -- her mother -- had been such as to deprive her of the feeling that
she had a home at all.
Flora saw that her guest, as indeed she considered Helen, looked sad and dejected, and
she made every effort within her power to rescue her from such a state of things.
"Do not despair of much happiness," she whispered to her; "but rather thank good
fortune, which, at the last moment, rescued you from one whom you could not love. Be
assured that now you will enjoy the protection of those who will soon be able to prevail
upon your mother to look with a favourable eye upon any new arrangement."
"I am much beholden to you," said Helen -- "very much beholden to you, and I feel that I
ought to congratulate myself upon my escape. But my heart does feel sad, because the state
of things, to avoid which I made myself a sacrifice, may now ensue in all their terrors."
"My dear," said the admiral, who overheard her, "don't you believe any such rubbish as
all that. I have no doubt you have been regularly persecuted into the match with the

supposed baron, and you would, perhaps, have found out afterwards that one-half of the
things you were told, to induce you to consent, had no foundation but in somebody's active
imagination."
"Do you think so, sir?"
"Do I think so! To be sure I do. Now, I dare say you were told how, if you married the
Baron What's-his-name, you would be doing something wonderful for all your family."
"Yes -- yes."
"Oh, of course; I can see through all that clearly enough; and I tell you, my lass, that you
have had a most fortunate escape, and that there is, and shall be, no reason on the face of
the earth why you should not be married to the man of your choice. He has been to sea, and
so, of course, he has finished what may be called his education. If he had been on shore all
his life, you might have doubted about the prudence of having him; but, as it is, it's quite
another matter."
"Sir, I thank you for your kind advocacy of my cause," said James Anderson; "and I shall
ever consider, as one of the most fortunate accidents of my life, the meeting with Admiral
Bell."
"Oh, don't say anything about that. I know some of the people at the Admiralty, and when
you go to make the report of how you have been shipwrecked, and how you lost your
despatches, I will give you a letter of introduction, which, I dare say, won't do you any
harm."
"Indeed, sir, this is more kindness than I ought to expect."
"Not at all, my boy -- not at all. Don't put yourself out of the way about that. Only I tell
you what I would do. You need not take my advice unless you like; but, if I were you, I'd
be hanged if I moved an inch anywhere till I had made Helen Williams my wife."
"Can you suppose," cried James Anderson, while his eyes sparkled with delight -- "can
you suppose, my dear sir, that such advice could be other than most welcome to me?"
"And what do you say, Helen, to it?" whispered Flora.
"What can I say?"
"You can say yes, I suppose?" said the admiral.
Helen was silent.

"Very good," added the admiral. "When a girl don't say no, of course she means yes; and
you can make sure of your prize now you have got her, Master Anderson. Let's see; you
manage these affairs with what you call a special license, don't you?"
"Yes, uncle," said Flora; "that is the way. You seem to know all about it, and I almost
suspect you really must have had some experience in those matters."
"I experience, you little gipsy! -- what do you mean? I never was married in all my life,
and I don't intend to be."
"Don't make too sure, uncle. But, despite all that, no one could more warmly second your
advice to Mr. Anderson than myself."
"Very good. For that speech I forgive you. And now, Mr. Anderson, just come along with
me, for I want to say a few words to you which nobody else has anything to do with."
When the admiral got James Anderson alone, he said to him, --
"Of course you are without funds, so it's no use making any fuss of delicacy about it. I
have no doubt but that, with my interest, I shall be able to get you into an appointment of
some sort; but, in the meantime, I beg that you will not cross me in my desire to serve you;
and mind, I take your word of honour to repay me, so, you see, there is no obligation."
"Sir, this noble generosity -- -"
"There, there -- that's quite enough; for the fact is, it ain't noble generosity at all, so hold
your tongue about it, and be so good as to let me consider that as settled. Here are fifty
pounds for you, which will enable you to go to London like a gentleman, and to conduct
your marriage either here or there, as you may yourself think proper, and as your bride may
consent."
"Sir, I would fain make Helen my own here."
"Very good. I don't pretend to understand how to manage these things: but set about it as
quickly as you can, and don't be deterred by anybody."
This short but, to James Anderson, deeply interesting conversation, because it relieved his
mind from a load of anxiety, took place a few paces from the inn door only, so that they
returned at once; but scarcely had they joined the rest of the party, and were considering
what they should order for dinner, when one of the waiters of the establishment came to
say, --
"If you please, there's a lady who wants to come in. I asked her her name, but she won't
give it; but she says she must see everybody."
"The deuce she must!" cried the admiral. "What sort of a craft is she?"

"Sort of a what, sir?"
"My fears tell me," sobbed Helen, "that it is my mother."
The admiral whistled, and then he said, --
"I suppose we shall have a breeze; but the sooner it's over the better. Let the lady come in;
and don't you be afraid of anything, my lass. Why, you look as pale as if you expected --
here she is."
The door was flung open, and Mrs. Williams made her appearance. Anger was upon her
face, and it required but a small amount of penetration to perceive that she came fully
charged with all sorts of reproaches. Helen trembled and shrunk back for she had an
habitual fear of her mother, which the imperious conduct of that individual had induced in
the mind of so gentle a creature as Helen from her very childhood.
"Well, madam," said Henry, stepping forward; "to what are we indebted for the honour of
this visit from one who has not the courtesy to wait for an invitation?"
"Oh! I expected this," said Mrs. Williams, with a shivering toss of her head; "I quite
expected this, I can assure you -- of course. But I'll pretty soon let you know, sir, what I
came about. I have come for my daughter, sir. What have you got to say against that?"
"Nothing, madam; if your daughter chooses to comply with your request."
"Helen!" screamed Mrs. Williams. "Helen! I command you to come home this moment!"
"Mother, hear me!" said Helen. "Consent to my happiness with one whom I can love,
with the same readiness that you would have seen me the bride of one for whom I never
could hope to feel anything in the shape of affection, and I will accompany you home at
once."
"Oh, dear, yes -- of course. Consent to ruin -- consent to nonsense! Consent to your
marrying a scapegrace who cannot even keep himself -- far less a wife! No, Helen; you
cannot expect that I should ever consent to your marrying such a poor wretch."
"But don't you think," said Henry, "that any poor wretch is better than a vampyre?"
"No; I do not."
"Oh! very good, then," said the admiral; "if that's the lady's opinion, what can we say to
her? And, as for commanding Miss Helen, here, to go home, I command her to stay."
"You command her?"

"Yes, to be sure. Ain't I an admiral? What have you got to say against that, I should like
to know? I shall take good care that James Anderson is no poor wretch by getting him some
good appointment; and, as your daughter is of age, old girl, and so can choose for herself,
you may as well weigh anchor, and be off at once, for nobody wants to be bothered with
you."
"Do you mean to say you are a real admiral, and have nothing to do with the horse-
marines?"
"Nothing whatever, ma'am. Good day to you -- we are all waiting for our dinners, and
don't feel disposed to talk any more; so be off with you."
Mrs. Williams seemed to be considering for a moment, and then she said, --
"Oh, gracious! a mother's feelings must always be excused. I almost think that -- just to
please you, admiral -- I will consent."
"You will, mother?" exclaimed Helen.
"Why, in a manner of speaking," said Mrs. Williams, "I should not mind; but it's quite,
you see, a dreadful thing to think of, when we consider what an expense I have gone to in
all these matters, and that I have not had so much as one farthing from the baron, although
he did say he would pay all the cost I might be put to."
"From resources which, in course of time, industry may procure me," said James
Anderson, eagerly, "you shall be repaid all that you can possibly say has been expended for
Helen."
"Ah! well, then, if Admiral Bell, here, will say that he will see me paid, I consent."
"Very well," said the admiral; "I'll see you paid. If you had acted generously in the
matter, you should have been a gainer; but, as it is, you shall be paid, and we decline your
acquaintance."
Mrs. Williams began, from the tone and manner of her daughter's new friends, to suspect
that it would have been more prudent on her part if she had behaved in a very different
manner towards them, and complied with a good grace with their wishes; for, as regarded
the baron, anything in the shape of a more extended connexion with him was clearly out of
the question.
But she had gone almost too far for reconciliation, and, although there was no such thing
as denying the genius of the lady, she was, for a few minutes, puzzled to know what to do.
At length, however, she thought it would not be a bad plan to be suddenly quite overcome
with her feelings, and make a desperate scene.

Accordingly, to the surprise of every one, and the consternation of the admiral, she
suddenly uttered a piercing scream, and commenced a good exhibition of hysterics.
"D -- n it!" cried the admiral; "what does she mean by that? Come, come, I say, Mother
Williams, we cannot stand all that noise, you know; it is quite out of the question!"
"Let us all leave the room," said Henry, "and send Jack Pringle to her. I have heard him
say that he has some mode of recovering ladies from hysterics by throwing a pail-full of
salt water over them, and then biting their thumb-nails off."
"The wretch!" exclaimed Mrs. Williams, suddenly recovering. "The wretch! I'd let him
know soon enough what it was to interfere with my nails!"
"Oh! you are better, are you?" said the admiral.
"What's that to you?" shrieked Mrs. Williams. "I'll go at once to a lawyer, and see what
can be done with you. I look upon you all with odium and contempt!"
"Ah! words easily spoken," said the admiral; "and just like young chickens they
commonly go home to roost."
Mrs. Williams darted an angry look at the whole party, which she intended should be
expressive at once of the immense contempt in which she held them, and of her
determination to have vengeance upon their heads, which double-dealing look, however,
had no effect upon them of an intimidating character, and then she bounced from the room.
"My dear," said the admiral, turning to Helen, who he saw was affected at the proceeding.
"My dear, don't you fret yourself. Your mother cannot make us angry; and, as far as regards
her own anger, it will all subside, and then we will forget that she has said anything at all
uncivil to us. So don't you fret yourself about what is of no consequence at all."
"You may depend," said Henry, "that such will be the fact, and that in a very short time
you will find that your mother has completely recovered from her anger, and will be as
pleasant with us all as possible. I grieve to say so to you, but the fact is, what you must
perceive, namely, that, as regards your mother, your marriage is merely a matter of pounds,
shillings, and pence, and when she finds that the baron's fortune cannot be had, she will
content herself with reflecting upon the prospects of Mr. James Anderson, who, if he do
well, will soon be quite a favourite."
It was humiliating to poor Helen to be forced to confess that this was the correct view to
take of the question, but she could not help doing so at all: and, after a time, she did not
regret having sufficient moral courage to resist the command of her mother to return home.
In the society of him whom she loved, and upheld and encouraged, too, as she was by
Flora, who was just about the best and kindest companion such a person as Helen could
have had, the minutes began to fly past upon rosy pinions, and the remainder of that day

she confessed, even to the admiral, was the happiest she had known for many a weary
month.
The Bannerworths and James Anderson fully expected another visit from Mrs. Williams
on the morrow, but she did not come; and, although they had expected her to do so, her not
coming was no disappointment, but, on the contrary, a matter for some congratulation.
But no time was lost; and, as James Anderson was really most anxious to get to London
to report himself at the Admiralty, and as that was an anxiety in which the admiral much
encouraged him, so that as it was quite an understood thing among them all that the
marriage of the fair Helen should take place before he again left her, a special license was
procured, and the ceremony arranged to take place at nine o'clock in the morning, on the
second morning after the strange and exciting occurrences at Anderbury House.
This marriage was conducted in the most private manner possible; because, as it had been
so well known throughout the whole of Anderbury that Helen Williams was the chosen of
the great and rich Baron Stolmuyer of Saltzburgh, who had tuned out to be such an
equivocal character, the news of her marriage with any one else would have been sure to
have created a vast amount of pubic curiosity.
All this they escaped by fixing the hour at which the ceremony was to be performed at an
early hour in the morning, and trusting no one out of their own party with the secret.
Of course, from what the reader knows of the gentle and timid disposition of Helen
Williams, he may well suppose how glad she would have been to have had the countenance
of her mother at her marriage, notwithstanding the conduct of that mother was certainly not
what should have entitled her to the esteem of any one whatever, not excepting her own
child.
But this was a feeling which, when she came to consider the new tie she was forming,
was likely soon to wear away; and, although, while she pronounced those words which
were irrevocably to make her another's, the tears gushed to her eyes, they were far different
from those bitter drops she had shed when she considered that, beyond all hope of
redemption, she was condemned to become the bride of the baron.
When the ceremony was over, they all went back very quietly and comfortably to the inn,
and, after a good breakfast, and many healths had been drank to the bride, James Anderson,
according to arrangement, took his departure for London, leaving Helen in the care of the
Bannerworths until he should come back to claim her, as he now could do, despite all the
plots and machinations of Mrs. Williams, who, as yet, was in a state of blessed ignorance as
to the fact of her daughter's wedding, and who had not quite made up her mind as to what
she should do next in so delicate and troublesome a transaction.
--


CHAPTER CXXIII.
MRS. WILLIAMS TAKES THE INITIATIVE, AND NEARLY CATCHES AN

ADMIRAL.
Mrs. Williams, when she reached home after what must be called her very unsuccessful
attempt to make a disturbance, and to do the grand at the inn where the Bannerworths were,
set herself seriously to think what would be the best course for her to adopt in the rather
perplexing aspect of her affairs.
The few words she had used at the inn, indicative of her censure of all the proceedings,
had been of rather a strong and energetic character, so that she had a very uncomfortable
suspicion upon her mind that she would find it rather a difficult task to pacify her
daughter's new friends.
The offer which the admiral had made to repay to her any expense she had been at,
impressed her with a belief that he surely must be in possession of what, to her, was the
most delightful thing in the world, and comprehended all sorts of virtue, namely, money;
and of course her feelings became instantly most wonderfully ameliorated.
"I'm very much afraid I have been too precipitate," she said. "I really am afraid I have,
and that ain't a pleasant reflection by any means. What can I do to get good friends with
them all, and particularly the dear old gentleman who promised to pay me?"
This was the problem which Mrs. Williams presented to her mind, for the captivating idea
of actually having been paid 500 [pounds] by the baron, and thus sending in a bill of the
same amount to the admiral, took wonderful and complete possession of her.
This was, indeed, she considered, a masterstroke of policy, and all she had now to
consider was, the means of getting on such good terms with the admiral that he should
neither question items nor amount of the account she intended to send him in.
"If he only pays the 500 [pounds] as well as the baron has paid his, I shall not come out of
the transaction so badly," said Mrs. Williams.
While she was in this state of perplexity, she was sitting by the window of her dining-
room, which commanded a view of the street, and, as she sat there, she was much surprised
to see Jack Pringle, who she still had a lingering suspicion might, notwithstanding his
disclaimer of the title, be Admiral Green, on the other side of the way, making various
significant movements of his hands and head, as if he had something of an exceedingly
secret and strange mysterious nature to communicate to her, Mrs. Williams.
This was quite sufficient to call for that lady's most serious attention, and accordingly she
walked graciously so close to the window that her aristocratic nose touched the glass, and
nodded to Jack, after which she beckoned him across the way, after the manner of the ghost
in Hamlet, upon which Jack, with a nod, came across the way forthwith.

In another moment Mrs. Williams opened the street-door herself, and said, --
"Mr. What's-your-name, have you got anything to say to me?"
"Rather," said Jack.
"What is it, then -- pray what is it, Mr. What's-your-name?"
"Don't call me What's-your-name, ma'am, any longer; my name is Jack Pringle."
"Mr. John Pringle, I suppose?"
"No such thing; nothing but plain Jack, ma'am; so you see you are mistaken. But I have
got something to say to you, ma'am, as you ought to know."
Any one who had known Jack would have seen, by a certain mischievous twinkling of the
eyes, that he had on hand what he considered one of the most excellent of jokes in all the
world, and was about to perpetrate what he thought some famous piece of jollity. What it
was, we shall quickly perceive, from his communication with Mrs. Williams.
"Well, ma'am," he added, "you know Admiral Bell, I believe?"'
"Oh, yes -- yes; certainly, I do."
"Well, I don't know as I ought to tell you, Mrs. W., what I'm going to tell you; but, first of
all, the old admiral, what with prize money, pay, and one thing and another, is so
immensely rich, that he really don't know what to do with his money."
"How dreadful!" said Mrs. Williams; "I think I could really suggest to him some few
things to do."
"Oh, he is so desperately obstinate, he will listen to nobody; and, you see, as he never
married, who as he got to leave it to? At least that's what we have been all wondering, for I
don't know how long; but now what do you think we have found out, Mrs. Williams?"
"Well, that's very difficult, of course, for me to say. Perhaps you will be so good as to tell
me."
"You ought to know. He has fallen in love, ma'am -- actually in love, for the first time in
his life. Yes, he has actually fallen in love, Mrs. Williams; there's a go."
"And with one of my daughters! It's with Julia -- I did mention her to him, and I thought I
saw a curious expression come across his face. Of course, I'm quite delighted to hear it; for,
with the feelings of a mother, I like to get my girls off hand as well as I can; and, as
Admiral Bell is so very respectable a person, I can have no sort of objection in the world."

"There you go, again," said Jack; "you are quite mistaken, I can tell you. You never made
a greater blunder than that in all your life, Mother Williams -- excuse me, ma'am, but that's
my way."
"Oh, don't mention it -- but where's the mistake, my dear sir?"
"Why, just here, ma'am -- just here. The admiral is not so young as he was twenty-five
years ago, and he ain't quite such a fool as to think that a young girl can care anything for
him. But he is in love, for all that. Only you see, ma'am, it happens to be with somebody
else."
"Good gracious! Who is it? -- and why do you come to me about it?"
"Because it's you."
"Me! me! oh, gracious Providence, you don't mean that! In love with me! The rich old
admiral -- he cannot live long. How much money, take it altogether, do you really think he
has got? I declare you have taken me so by surprise, that I don't know what I am saying. Of
course he will propose a very handsome settlement."
"You may depend upon all that," said Jack; "but the odd thing is, you see, ma'am, that
although he is quite over head and ears in love, he won't own it, but walks about like a bear
with a bad place on his back, doing nothing but growl, growl, from morning till night."
"Then how can you tell," said Mrs. Williams, "if he never said so?"
"Oh, he does say so. He mumbles it out to himself, and we have heard him say, --
" 'Damn it all! that Mrs. Williams is the craft for my money; but what's the use of me
bothering her about it? -- she wouldn't have an old hulk like me, so I won't say anything
about it to anybody.' "
"What an amiable idea!"
"Very, ma'am, very; and what I have come to you for now is to say, that if you have no
objection to the match, you might as well make the old man happy, by letting him know, in
some sort of way, that you wouldn't be so hard-hearted as he thinks, but would have him if
he would say the word."
"How can I express how much obliged I am to you, Mr. Wingle!"
"Pringle, if you please, ma'am, is my name; and as to being obliged to me, you ain't at all,
and I'll tell you how: you see, I and the admiral have sailed with each other many a voyage,
and I have a sort of feeling for the old man that makes me, when I see that he has a fancy,
try my best to gratify him; and, without thinking of anybody but him, I've come to you just
to tell you what I know about the affair, and I must leave it to you to do what you like."

"Still I am very much obliged to you. What if I were to call and ask for a private
interview with the old man?"
"A good idea," said Jack. "It was only the other day I heard him say you was his pearl,
and the main chain of his heart, I can tell you, and ever such a load more. He will be taking
his dinner at four to-day, and after that he usually takes a sleep in an arm chair, in a room
by himself, and if you like to come then, you will catch him."
"Be assured, my dear sir, I shall be there punctually to the minute. You will be so good as
to receive me, and introduce me to him, and, perhaps, it would remove some of his timidity
if I were to let him know that I was aware that he had called me his pearl, and the main
chain of his heart."
"Of course it would," said Jack. "You put him in mind of it, ma'am, and if you find him
back'erd a little, don't you mind about giving him a little encouragement, because you know
all the while he really means it, so you need not care about it."
"Well, Mr. -- a -- a -- Bingle, all I can say is, that I feel very much obliged to you indeed,
for letting me know this matter; and my great respect for you and for the old admiral will, I
assure you, induce me to consent to what you propose. -- A-hem! of course I have many
offers, as you may well suppose, Mr. Cringle."
"Damn it," said Jack, "I've told you before that my name is Pringle, and if you can't
recollect that, just call me Jack, and have done with it -- you won't forget Jack, I'll be
bound. Call me that, and I sha'n't quarrel with you about it, ma'am; but don't be inventing
all sorts of odd names for me."
"Pray excuse me, my dear sir, I certainly will do no such thing; and at three o'clock, I
hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you. I believe it's the Red Lion where you are
staying?"
"Yes, the Red Lion Inn; and at three I shall be on the look out for you, ma'am, you may
depend; and I only hope you won't mistake the admiral's bashfulness for anything else,
because, I assure you, he is mad in love with you, but don't like to own it, ma'am; so just
you bring him out a little, and don't you mind what he says."
Mrs. Williams duly promised she would not mind what the old man said, and, from what
we know of that lady, we are quite inclined, for once in a way, to give her credit for
sincerity in that matter, and the greatest possible amount of candour.
As for Jack, when he left her house, and had got fairly round the corner and out of sight,
he laughed to that excess that several passers-by stopped to look at him in wonder, and had
he not ceased, he certainly would have had a crowd round him in a very few minutes
longer, that would have perhaps thought him out of his senses.

But after a few minutes, the explosion of his bottled-up mirth had subsided, and after
giving a boy, who was the nearest to him of the admiring spectators, a good rap on the
head, he walked to the inn.
Jack would have been glad to have told some one of the capital joke he was playing off at
the admiral's expense, but he was afraid of being betrayed; so he wisely kept the secret of
the forthcoming jest all to himself; although Henry Bannerworth and Charles Holland
might both, after such a thing happened, or even during its progress, have a good laugh at
it, it is not to be supposed, entertaining as they did so great a respect for the old admiral,
that they would have lent themselves to the perpetration of such a joke.
As may be supposed, Mrs. Williams was all flutter and expectation, and the idea of at
length mending her decayed fortune by an union with the old man, who was reported to be
immensely rich, and who had already reached an age when his life could not be depended
upon one week from another, was one of the most gratifying circumstances on record to
her.
No possible plan could have been devised which was so likely to chime in with her
humour as this, and if she had been asked in which way she would like to make money, it
would have been that which she would have undoubtedly chosen.
"Now," she thought, "I shall, after all, make an admirable thing of this affair, there can be
no doubt. I shall, of course, soon be a widow again, for the old sea monster cannot live
long. I shall insist upon a very liberal settlement indeed, and then I suppose, while he does
live, I must keep him in a good humour, so that he may leave me, at all events, the bulk of
his property when he dies, and then I can live in the style I like, and make everybody die of
envy."
To excite an extraordinary amount of envy was the very height of felicity to Mrs.
Williams, as, indeed, it is to many people of far greater pretensions than that lady; and we
cannot help thinking, when we see gaudy equipages and all the glittering and costly
paraphernalia of parvenu wealth, that the great object of it is to excite envy far more than
admiration and pleasure.
"There are the Narrowidges, and the Staples, and the Jenkinses," thought Mrs. Williams.
"Oh! I know they will all be ready to eat their very heads off, when they hear that I am
married, and that, too, so well. Oh! they will die of spite, and particularly Mrs. Jenkins. I
am quite sure she will have a serious illness."
These were the kind of triumphs upon which Mrs. Williams felicitated herself, and
pictured to her imagination as the result of her marriage with the admiral, which she now
looked upon as quite a settled thing; because, if he were willing, she felt perfectly sure that
she was; and, therefore, what was to prevent the union from taking place?
What pleasant anticipations these were! Really, we can almost consider them, while they
lasted, as sufficient to counterbalance any disappointment which was likely afterwards to
take place; and the hour or two which Mrs. Williams devoted to the gorgeous dream of

wealth she so fully expected to enjoy, were probably the most delightful she had ever
passed. And certainly so far she had to thank Jack Pringle for giving her so much
satisfaction, although, as will be seen, she did not feel towards him any great amount of
gratitude on the momentous occasion.
Mrs. Williams, no doubt, still thought herself quite a fascinating woman; and when she
had failed in guessing that it was to herself that the admiral was, according to Jack's
account, devoted, it was not that she entertained a modest and quiet opinion of her own
attractions, but from the force of habit, seeing that so long a period had elapsed without her
having an admirer, that she could not believe she had one then, until actually assured in
plain language of the fact.
And now, about half an hour before the appointed time, the lady arrayed herself in what
she considered an extremely becoming and fashionable costume, and started to keep her
appointment with Jack Pringle, who, in her affections, now held quite a pleasant place, and
towards whom she considered herself so much indebted for the kind information she had
received at his hands.
The distance from any house in Anderbury to any other, was but short, so that Mrs.
Williams was within the time mentioned, when she reached the door of the Red Lion; but
she was gratified to find that Jack Pringle was there, apparently on the look out for her,
because it showed that nothing had happened to alter the aspect of affairs, but that the
chances of her becoming Mrs. Admiral Bell were as strong as ever.
"I'm glad you have come," said Jack. "They got over their dinner rather quick, and that's a
fact; and the old man is fast asleep as usual, so you can commence operations at once."
"A thousand thanks -- a thousand thanks, my good friend, and you may depend upon my
gratitude."
"Hush! never mind that," said Jack; "I don't want nothing. This way -- this way, ma'am, if
you please."
--

CHAPTER CXXVI.
THE ADMIRAL IN A BREEZE. -- A GENERAL COMMOTION, AND JACK

PRINGLE MUCH WANTED, BUT NOT TO BE FOUND.
To say that Mrs. Williams was on the tiptoe of expectation, is to say very little that can
convey a good idea of what was her real condition, nervously speaking, as she followed
Jack Pringle up, not the principal, but a back staircase of the inn, toward the room where
the admiral took his nap, which was
"His custom always of an afternoon." The fact is, that Jack had a great dread of Mrs.
Williams being seen by any of the Bannerworth family, because they all knew her; and the
nice little plot he had got up for the purpose of holding out the admiral to ridicule, while at
the same time he enjoyed the immense satisfaction of having some revenge upon Mrs.
Williams.
Hence was it, that, like many a great politician, he went up the back staircase instead of
the front, in order to avoid unnecessary observation and remark.
By good fortune, as well as good management, Jack met nobody, but succeeded in
reaching the room door, within which the admiral was sleeping, in perfect safety.
"Now, ma'am," said Jack, "don't you be backerd in going forerd, cos, as I tell you, the old
man is dying by inches for you, and I don't see why you shouldn't have his half a million of
money, as well as anybody else. Ah! and a good deal better, too, when one comes to
consider all things."
"Thank you, Mr. Pringle, thank you. I really don't know how to express my obligations to
you, upon my word. You are so very kind and considerate in all you say."
"Oh! don't mention it, ma'am. Walk in, and there you will find the old baby. I shouldn't
wonder but he's disturbing his old brains by dreaming of you now."
Jack opened the door, and Mrs. Williams glided noiselessly into an apartment, where,
seated, sure enough, in an easy chair, with a silk handkerchief over his face, sat the admiral,
fast asleep, enjoying that comfortable siesta, which he never for one moment imagined
would be disturbed in the manner it was about to be.
"Well," said Mrs. Williams, "there he is, to be sure, just as Jack Pringle said, -- asleep,
and no doubt dreaming of me. I must make sure of the old fool in one interview, or he may
slip through my fingers, and that would not be at all pleasant after counting upon him, and
taking some trouble in the matter."
But although she made up her mind that nothing should be wanting, upon her part, to
make sure of him, yet she debated whether she ought to awaken him or not; for she well
knew that many old people, especially men, were very irascible if they are awakened

suddenly, and from what she had already seen of the admiral, she could very well imagine
that such might be the case with him.
This was getting rather a quondary, out of which Mrs. Williams did not exactly see her
way; and yet the proposition that the admiral was to be, and must be, awakened in some
way, remained as firmly as ever fixed in her mind. And then, too, the idea -- a very natural
one under the circumstances -- came across her that each minute was fraught with danger,
and that, for all she knew, the yea or nay of the whole affair might depend upon the
promptitude with which it was concluded.
What, if, she asked herself, some of the odious Bannerworth people were to come in and
find her there -- of course they would awaken the admiral at once, and in consequence of
their presence, she would lose all opportunity of exercising those little blandishments which
she meant to bring to bear upon him.
This was positively alarming. The idea of all being lost, prompted her at all events to
attempt something; so Mrs. Williams thought that the mildest way of awakening the
admiral was by a loud sneeze, which she executed without producing the least effect, as
might have been expected; for the man who had many a time slept soundly in the wildest
fury of the elements, was not likely to awaken because somebody sneezed.
"Dear me, how sound he sleeps. A -- hem! -- hem! A -- chew! -- a -- a -- hem! -- A

chewaway!"
The admiral was proof against all this, and Mrs. Williams might just as well have spared
herself the trouble of exciting such an amount of artificial sneezes, for the admiral slept on,
and it was quite clear that something much more sonorous would be required for the
purpose of awaking him.
"How vexatious," she thought; "how very vexatious. But there's no help for it. Awakened
he must be, that's quite clear; and if fair means won't do it, why, foul must."
Acting upon this resolve, Mrs. Williams hesitated no longer, but, approaching the
sleeping admiral, she dragged the handkerchief off his face, and its passage over his nose,
no doubt, produced the tickling sensation that induced him to give that organ a very hard
rub, indeed, and start wide awake with an exclamation that was much more forcible than
elegant, and that consequently we need not transfer to our pages at all.
"Oh! admiral," said Mrs. Williams, assuming a look that ought at once to have melted a
heart of stone; "oh! admiral, can you, indeed, forgive me?"
"The devil!" said the admiral.
"Can you, indeed, look over the fact, that in my anxiety to see that face, I took from
before it the envious, and yet fortunate handkerchief that covered it? It was my act, and
upon my head fall all the censure, my dear, good, kind admiral."

The old man rubbed his eyes very hard with his knuckles, as he said, --
"I suppose I'm awake."
"You are awake, my dear sir. It is, indeed, no dream, let me assure you, that disturbs you,
but a living reality. You are awake, my dear sir."
"Why -- why, what do you mean? I begin to think I am awake, with a vengeance; but who
are you? Hang me if I don't think you are old Mother Williams!"
"Oh! my dear admiral, you are so facetious -- so very facetious; but can you for one
moment fancy, my dear sir, that I am insensible to your merit? Can you fancy that I could
look with other than indulgent eyes upon a Bell?"
"Upon a what?"
"A Bell -- an Admiral Bell. Indeed, I may say -- with a slight but pardonable alteration of
a word -- an admirable Bell. My dear sir, your pearl speaks to you."
The admiral was so amazed at this address, accompanied as it was by most languishing
looks, that, with his mouth wide open, and his eyes preternaturally distended, he gazed
upon Mrs. Williams without saying a word; from which she inferred that he was beginning
to see that she was aware of his attachment to her, and was thinking of how he could best
express his gratitude for her taking the initiative in the matter.
Thus encouraged, then, she spoke again, saying, as she advanced close to him, --
"Oh, my dear sir, what a thing the human heart is. Only to think now, that from the first
moment I saw you, I should whisper to myself -- there -- yes, there is the only human being
for whose sake I could again enter into that holy state from which the death of Mr.
Williams released me."
"Why, good God!" said the admiral, "the woman's mad!"
"Oh! no -- no. The world -- the horrid, low, work-a-day world, may make invidious
remarks about us, but your pearl will recompense you for all that, and in the sweet concord
of domestic life, we shall never sigh for more than we shall have, which will be, of course,
if I understand rightly, a large income -- I don't know how much a year, and if I ask, it is
only out of curiosity, my dear sir, and nothing else. Love -- absolute and beautiful love, is
all I ask."
"Hilloa!" roared the admiral; "Charles! Henry! Jack! Where the devil are you all? D -- n
it, you are all ready enough when I don't want you; but now, when I am going to be boarded
by a mad woman, you can't come one of you. Hilloa! help! Charles! Jack, you lubber,
where the deuce have you taken yourself to, and why don't you tumble up when you are
sent for?"

"But, my dear sir, why need you trouble yourself to call so many witnesses to our
happiness? Let us be privately married in some rural church."
"Privately d -- d first, I'd be," said the old admiral.
"Oh, then, it shall be a public alliance, if you wish it," exclaimed Mrs. Williams, as she
made up her mind to clinch the affair at once by a coup de main; and advancing to the
admiral, she flung her arms around his neck just as a door at the other end of the apartment
opened, and Charles and Henry, with Flora, made their appearance, and looked with the
most intense astonishment at the scene before them.
"Well, uncle," said Charles, "I certainly should not have expected this of you. I am
astonished, I must confess."
"Nor I," said Henry; "why, admiral, I had no idea you were so dangerous a personage."
Mrs. Williams, when she saw what arrivals had taken place, gave a faint scream, and
released the admiral, and then she added, --
"Oh, admiral, how could you hold me so when you hear somebody coming? How shall I
ever survive such a scene as this? My character will be gone for ever, unless I am
immediately married to you, and I have no doubt but that all your friends will at once see
the propriety of such a step."
"I do," said Charles.
"And I," said Henry.
"And I," of course, said Flora.
Mrs. Williams burst into tears when she saw this unanimity of opinion; but the admiral's
face got the colour of a piece of beet-root, and he was only silent for a moment or two,
while he was made the subject of these cruel remarks, until he could sufficiently recover to
speak with the energy that did characterise him when he really began.
We are not exactly in the vein to transfer to our pages the violent expletives with which
he garnished his outburst of passion, and our readers, if they recall to their minds a large
amount of nautical oaths, can have no difficulty in supposing that the admiral uttered every
one of them with a volubility that was perfectly alarming.
"D -- n it! do you mean to kill me, all of you, or to drive me mad? (Five oaths in a string
came in here.) Do you want to cut me up, you -- -? (Three horrible epithets.) What do you
mean by setting this old woman upon me? Whose precious idea was this, I should like to
know, to put an elderly she-dragon upon me, whom I hate and be -- (ten oaths at least)
when I was enjoying a comfortable nap?"

"Hate!" exclaimed Mrs. Williams; "did you say hate, you old seducing villain! when you
knew you said I was your pearl, you hoary-headed ruffian!"
"That's a thundering crammer," cried the admiral; "you said it yourself; and as for hating
you, d -- n it, if I don't do that with all my heart."
"And is this the way I'm to be treated before people? Oh! you wicked old sinner, I
understand you now. Your intentions were not honourable, and now you find that my virtue
is proof against your horrid old fascinations, you want to pretend that it's all a mistake."
"Really," said Charles, "we must confess, uncle, that we found Mrs. Williams and you --
ahem! -- rather loving, you know; and the gentleman on these occasions is usually asked to
account for such things, I take it."
"Of course," said Mrs. Williams; "I'll bring an action against the admiral, and I shall call
upon you all to be witnesses for me. Oh! you old sinner, I'll make you pay for this!"
"We certainly can all be witnesses," said Flora, "that the admiral called for help; and
when we came we found Mrs. Williams holding him fast round the neck, to which he
seemed to have the greatest possible repugnance."
"That's right! hurrah! That's the truth, Flora, my dear. That's just how it was. This horrid
old woman come all of a sudden and laid hold of me after awakening me, and then I called
for help. That's how it was."
"But these gentlemen," said Mrs. Williams, appealing to Henry and Charles, "will swear
quite different."
"Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Williams," said Charles; "if we are brought forward to
swear anything, we must be correct; and, therefore, we shall have to say just what this lady
has stated; and perhaps your best plan will be to go away and say no more about it; but
consider that you have made a mistake."
"A mistake!" screamed Mrs. Williams; "how could I make a mistake, when Mr. John
Pringle, who knows the admiral so well, told me that he was dying to see me, and in love
with me to never such an extent, only that he was afraid I would not have anything to say to
him on such a subject."
The admiral drew a long breath and sat down. Then, clenching his hand, he shook it
above his head, saying, in a voice of deep and concentrated anger, --
"I thought as much. D -- n it, if I did not. It's all that infernal scoundrel Jack Pringle's
doings, I find. It's one of that lubberly, mutinous thief's tricks, and it's the last one he shall
ever play me."

"A trick!" screamed Mrs. Williams; "a trick! You don't mean that! Ah, me! what
compensation shall I get for the dreadful circumstance which has made me confess the
secret of my heart! What shall I do -- oh, what shall I do? When shall I hope for
consolation! What sum of money, even if you, my dear admiral, were to offer it to me,
would be a sufficient balm now to my wounded heart?"
"Madam," said Henry, "it seems that you have been imposed upon, and made the victim
of a practical joke, which we nor the admiral can have nothing to do with; and the only
consolation we can offer to your wounded heart, is, that we will keep the secret of your
attachment most inviolate."
"What compensation is that to me? I'll bring my action for breach of promise of marriage,
if I don't get something, and that something very handsome too. It's all very fine to talk to
me about your mistakes; I'll be paid -- ah, and paid well, too, or I'll make the whole country
ring again with the matter."
"Madam," said Charles, "I dare say the admiral don't care one straw whether the country
rings again or not, and you can do just as you please; but since you have commenced
threatening, you will, I hope, see the obvious propriety of at once leaving his place."
"I will leave this place, but it shall be to go direct to my solicitor, and see what he will say
to a lone woman being treated in this way. I'll swear that he called me his pearl -- and if that
don't get me a verdict and most exemplary damages, I don't know what will. We shall see
what we shall see, and, in the meantime, you wretches, I leave you all to contempt. Yes,
contempt."
"Stop a bit, ma'am," said the admiral. "It's quite plain to me that you don't mind how you
earn a trifle, so that you do get it; and now I'll tell you, that if you find out that rascal, Jack
Pringle, and give him a good trouncing for his share in the business, you may come to me
for a reward."
Mrs. Williams, whatever might have been her personal feelings on this head, did not
deign to make the least reply to this intimation, but suddenly cried --
"I want to see my daughter."
"She is not here at present," said Flora; "and, if she were, she is Mrs. Anderson now, and
therefore would of course decline accompanying you to your home -- and she is only
waiting some arrangements of her husband's, prior, most probably, to going to London with
him."
This speech brought to the recollection of Mrs. Williams, that the admiral had promised
her all the expenses that she had been at contingent upon the broken-off marriage of her
daughter with the baron, and she began to consider that her action for breach of promise of
marriage against him might fail, and that, if it succeeded, it might not bring in half so much
as the amount of the bill she could by fair means get out of him.

These considerations were of great pith and amount, and they had their full effect upon
Mrs. Williams; so, instead of bursting out with any further reproaches, she sat down and
commenced a softening process by a copious flood of tears which she had always at
command.
"Oh," said the old admiral, "you may well cry over it, old girl. I suppose you really
thought you had hooked the old man at last, eh? But never do you mind, you may make a
good thing of it yet, if you get hold of that scoundrel, Pringle, and serve him out well. I'll
pay for that job more willingly than for anything else I know of just at present."
"Don't speak to me of that brute, my dear sir," sobbed Mrs. Williams. "It's a very cruel
thing, of course, to be used in this way, and, as it's all a mistake on my part, I hope you will
excuse and look over what has happened. I am sure I should be the last person in the world
to trouble anybody with visits who did not want to see me; and so, I dare say, we shall only
meet once again in this world."
"Once again, madam! What is the use of our ever meeting again?"
"It would look decidedly disrespectful on my part, if I were not to hand you the bill
myself for the little matters that you were kind enough to say you would pay for on account
of what I had expended on Helen's projected marriage with the vampyre baron, you know,
admiral."
"Oh, ah! I recollect now. Well, well; I don't want to go back from my word, and as I did
promise you, why, I will pay you; but as I don't want, on any account, the pleasure of your
company again, you will be so kind, ma'am, as to take this twenty-pounds note, and keep
the change."
This the admiral thought liberal enough; for his idea of matrimonial preparations
consisted of a new dress or two, or so, and which twenty pounds ought fairly enough to
cover; and he thought he would do well enough by overpaying Mrs. Williams, as he
believed, with that amount.
When Mrs. Williams recovered from her surprise, not unmingled with indignation, into
which this most audacious and, to her, extraordinary offer threw her, she spoke with a kind
of scream, that made the old admiral jump again, as she shouted in his ears, --
"What! twenty pounds? Are you in your senses? Twenty pounds! Why, my bill will be, at
least, five hundred pounds."
"What?" roared the admiral. "Are you in your senses? D -- n it, ma'am! you may swallow
your bill; and you had better do so, for all the good it is likely to do you; for, if I pay a
farthing more, may I be hung up at my own yard-arm. Why, you must think that a British
admiral is another name for a fool."

"Then I tell you what," said Mrs. Williams -- "I tell you what, you stupid, old, atrocious
sinner -- I tell you, I will bring my action against you for breach of promise of marriage;
and I'll swear that, before your gang of people here came in -- who, of course, will swear
black is white, and white is crimson for you, because, I believe, you are the father of them
all -- that you first asked me to live with you, and when I refused, you said you would
marry me by special licence to-morrow."
"Madam," said Charles, "now that you think proper entirely to forget that you are a lady,
allow me to beg of you to retire; because it is quite impossible, after what has happened,
that I should hold any further conversation with you."
"Yes, Mrs. Williams," said Henry, "I hope you will perceive the propriety of at once
leaving."
At this moment a note was handed to Henry, who, upon opening it, read aloud, --
"The Baron Stolmuyer, of Salzburgh, presents his compliments to Mr. Bannerworth, and
begs to state that Mrs. Williams has received from him the sum of five hundred pounds for
expenses to be incurred on account of the wedding of her daughter; and he hereby fully
empowers Mr. Bannerworth to demand of Mrs. Williams that sum, and to devote it to the
service and uses of Mr. James Anderson, of whose existence the baron was not aware when
he made his proposal to Mrs. Williams for her daughter, whom she sold to him, the baron,
for that sum."
"Hilloa!" cried the admiral; "what do you think of that, Mrs. Williams? I don't know what
you will say to it; but I know very well that I should consider it a shot between wind and
water."
"I trust," said Henry, "that you will now still further see the propriety of leaving here, and
of letting this matter completely rest; because it strikes me that the more you investigate it,
madam, the more it will turn out greatly to your disadvantage."
"I don't care a pin's head for any of you, nor half a farthing," cried Mrs. Williams. "The
baron gave me the money, and he has no power to get it back again, as you know well
enough. I'll bring my action, and my principal witness shall be Mr. Pringle, who came to
my house, and who, if put upon his oath, will be obliged to swear -- "
"That it was all a lark," said Jack, popping his head just within the amazingly short
distance that he opened the door, and then he disappeared before a word could be said to
him.
Mrs. Williams who, notwithstanding all her threats, seemed to have a lingering
impression that she was victimised in the transaction, had all the ire of her nature aroused at
once by the sight of Jack, and she at once rushed after him, leaving the admiral and the
Bannerworths not at all lamenting her loss.

Jack had no idea that he would be followed by anybody but the admiral, and to distance
him he knew there was no occasion to run; so, when he had got down to the hall of the
hotel, he subsided into a walk, until he heard a tremendous scuffling of feet behind him,
and, upon looking round, saw Mrs. Williams in full chase, and with an expression upon her
countenance which plainly enough indicated that her intentions were not at all of a jocular
character.
"The devil!" said Jack; "if here ain't Mother Williams coming full sail, and at fourteen
knots an hour, too, with a fair wind, I'll be bound. Never mind -- a stern chase is a long
chase, so here goes."
As Jack uttered these remarks, he dashed onwards at tremendous speed; but the sight of
him again, had inflamed Mrs. Williams's wrath to madness, and she made the most
incredible exertion to come up with him, so that it was really wonderful to see her.
But Jack, being less encumbered by apparel than the lady, would have distanced her, but
for an unlucky accident, that gave her a temporary mastery. The fates would have it, that a
baker with a tray upon his head, containing sundry pies, was coming up the street, and as
people do sometimes, when they are mutually anxious to pass each other without coming in
contact, they dodged from side to side for a few seconds, and then, of course, ran against
each other as if they really meant it, with such force, that down came Jack, and baker, and
pies, in one grand smash.
In another moment the enraged Mrs. Williams reached the spot.
To snatch up the only whole pie there was left, was to the lady the work of a moment, and
to reverse it upon Jack's face, was the work of another moment; and then, in the
vindictiveness of her rage, she stamped upon the bottom of the dish until his head was
embedded in damsons, and he was nearly smothered.
From the window of the inn the Bannerworths and the admiral saw all this take place, and
the delight of the old man was of the most extravagant character, exceeding all bounds,
while the Bannerworths, for the life of them, could not help laughing most heartily.
"Now, you wretch!" said Mrs. Williams, "I hope this will be a lesson to you. Take that --
and that -- and that, you sea-snake! you odious tar-barrel!"
As she spoke, she hammered on the dish till it broke, and that was for Jack the best thing
that could have happened, for it gave him a little air, and by a frantic effort he scrambled to
a sitting posture, and commenced dragging the damsons out of his eyes and mouth. Mrs.
Williams then thought it was high time to leave, and so muttering threats, to the immense
amusement of a crowd of persons who had assembled, she walked away, leaving Jack by
no means delighted with the end of the adventure, and to settle with the infuriated baker as
best he might.

It was no small additional mortification to Jack to look up and see the admiral and the
Bannerworths at the window of the hotel, enjoying his discomfiture, and laughing most
heartily at his expense.
--

CHAPTER CXXVII.
A CHANGE OF SCENE AND CIRCUMSTANCES. -- AN EVENT IN LONDON.
The recent events which followed each other so rapidly, were strangely concluded by the
sudden and mysterious disappearance of Sir Francis Varney. That he should thus have
eluded all, was aggravating to a very large class of people, who seemed to insist that he
should have come to some notable catastrophe.
"Had he only been killed," they argued, "we should have known the last of him."
Of the truth of this there could be no doubt. When a man is dead and buried, you do, as
far as human nature serves, know the end of him; but this great fact does not always come
within the knowledge of men, who sometimes, contrary to expectation, drop off
themselves, and instead of knowing the end of somebody else, why, somebody else knows
the end of them.
It is a well known fact, that as some die before others, that it does sometimes happen that
those who wish to see another out, may be seen out themselves; besides, taking the question
of longevity aside, it does not follow, because we so wish to come to the conclusion of an
affair, that its author may but change the scene, and transport it elsewhere, and the good
and curious lieges become defrauded of their self-satisfying knowledge, viz., the end of the
affair.
Of course it was an aggravation, to know that there was an interesting and highly exciting
affair gone off, and they were not allowed to peep into that mystery, the future; but so it
was -- they were not gratified.
Some were of the opinion that he had departed this life in a mysterious and
unsatisfactory, because secret manner, and that was why nobody could tell anything about
it.
But there were other opinions afloat, and among others, that of the admiral, which was
pretty general, which was, that he had very likely disappeared from that part of the world to
seek in some other place the renovation his system required, by means that were natural to
him, but hideous in others to contemplate or think of.
This was generally the received opinion, for it was universally admitted by the wise
people thereabouts, that he must at certain times recruit himself.
The opinion thus entertained by all who lived thereabouts, became less and less
absorbing; other matters began to be thought of, things began to flow into their usual
channel, and a subsidence took place in the turmoil and excitement consequent upon the
presence of the vampyre.

About this period, while these parts were regaining their original serenity and calmness,
and while the vampyre was looked upon as an awful and fearful episode in the life of those
who lived there, there happened in London a circumstance that it is necessary to relate to
the reader, inasmuch as it is very important, and bears strongly on our story.
Not far from Bloomsbury-square, which, at the period of our story, was a very
fashionable place, and in one of the first streets thereabout, was the house of a widow,
whose name was Meredith. She had been the wife of a man in good circumstances, but at
his death she was left with a house filled with furniture, some little loose cash, and several
daughters, marriageable and unmarriageable, this being all Mr. Meredith had to leave.
There could be but one way of obtaining a living -- at least, but one that suggested itself
to her, which was to turn lodging-house keeper of the better sort. Her children had been
well educated, that is, sufficiently so, to pass off in life, in decent society, without any
particular remark.
As she was well calculated for the object she had in view, it was no wonder that she
succeeded in her undertaking, and appeared to do very well.
About this time an arrival occurred at an hotel not very far from this spot, which caused a
communication to pass to Mrs. Meredith, who had been recommended lodgers from the
hotel, when any of the inmates desired to be accommodated, and wished for a place with all
the comforts of a home, and domestic attention.
"Mrs. Meredith," said the head waiter of the hotel, "I wish to have a word in private with
you."
"With greatest pleasure, Mr. Jones," said Mrs. Meredith, who was extremely civil to the
waiter; "will you be pleased to sit down."
"I have not the time, I thank you -- I have not time; but I have run over to you to inform
you we have an old invalid colonel at our place, who seems as if he did not know what he
wanted; he wants some kind of lodging -- he don't like the hotel -- whether there is some
genteel family, whose kind attentions would soothe his disorders, and, I suppose, his
temper."
"Oh, poor gentleman," said Mrs. Meredith; "how unfortunate he should suffer -- is he
rich?"
"Yes, I believe so -- very rich, he's a colonel in the India service; he's been a fine man, but
he has had some hard knocks. I have seen more ricketty matters than he before to-day, and
he will do very well. I told him I knew where there was a lady who occasionally admitted
an inmate to her house, which was a large one, but she must be satisfied that her lodger is a
gentleman.

"'Has she any family?' he inquired; 'because I hate to go where there's nobody but the lady
of the house, because she can't always attend upon me, read to me, and the like of that.'"
"Goodness me, what an odd man!"
"Yes, but he pays well; a retired colonel -- large fortune. You know that these East
Indians expect I don't know what; they are even fed by beautiful young black virgins."
"The wretch!"
"Oh, dear, no; it's the custom of the country; so, you see, he's been humoured, and it will
be necessary yet to humour him, if you mean to have him for your lodger. I expect he'll
only be troublesome; but, when they pay for trouble, why, it's all profit."
"Very true," replied Mrs. Meredith; "is he a single man?"
"Yes, oh, yes; I believe he has never been married; has had so much to do in India, that he
had nothing to do with marriages."
"Where does he come from?"
"India. I believe he had a very fine palace of his own, at Puttytherapore, so I'm told. Lord,
he seems to think nothing of these parts -- but he's an odd man; however, as he pays well,
he'll make a good lodger anywhere."
"Well, you may tell him, Mr. Jones, that we have a fine suite of rooms for his
accommodation on the first floor, and bed rooms -- every attention he can wish. You know
our terms, Mr. Jones, I think -- but I may as well tell you -- five guineas a-week."
"Five guineas a-week, eh?"
"Yes; that is moderate, when you come to consider what a trouble and an expense it will
be to get such things as will please the palate of an Indian."
"It is a trouble, certainly."
"And, besides that, he will have such a place and furniture as he seldom meets with in
London; besides, from what you say, there will be little trouble in attending to him by
myself and daughters, and you know I have several."
"Exactly -- exactly; that is the thing he seems to desire; you will, therefore, have a
preference over any one else who may have anything that he wants -- a kind of domestic
hearth; he has none of his own, you see."
"Has he no friends?"

"None living, I dare say; besides, he would hardly like to trust himself along with
relations, who would poison him for the sake of his money; and, if he have any living, he
may know nothing of them, where they are, or anything else, and they would be as
strangers to him, for he would not be able to recognize them -- but I must go now. Five
guineas -- that includes all?"
"Yes; all, except wines and liquors, you know."
"Very well, I'll let him know; and, perhaps, you'll be in the way, in case he should come
round this evening to examine the place."
"Do you think there is any chance of his coming in to-night."
"Really, I cannot tell; he may, or may not, just as he pleases -- he is an odd fish; but, good
Mrs. Meredith, I will talk to him."
The waiter left; and Mrs. Meredith sat in her parlour, which was her own private
apartment, which she and her daughters usually retired to and received their own friends.
Here they remained, in some degree kept in continual expectation; nothing was said, for
some time, by either mother or daughter, for there was but one at home at that time.
"Do you know, Margaret," she said, "we are likely to have a new lodger?"
"Indeed, ma?"
"Yes, my dear; he is a fidgetty old man, a colonel from India; he is vastly rich, I am given
to understand, and will require all the attentions of a relative. He will pay very handsomely;
in fact, my dear, he will keep us all with a little care and management."
"Well, ma, the men ought to do so, the creatures! -- what are they for, if they don't. I'm
sure, if ever I come to marry, which I am sure I sha'n't, and if I found that he didn't find me
in all I wanted, wouldn't I lead him a life! -- I rather think I would," said the amiable child;
"I'd never let him know peace night nor day. It would be useless for him to tell me
misfortune had deprived him of means; that would do for me. Oh, dear, no; a married man
has no right to meet misfortunes; indeed, he deserves to be punished for having a wife at all
under such circumstances."
"A very proper spirit, my dear; but you must never let such a thing as that pass your lips,
because it would be very likely to cause you to lose a chance; the men are so fastidious now
a-days, and they think they win us, when we angle for, and catch them."
And this lodger, ma?"
"Oh, he's, as I told you, a rich old East Indian."

At this moment, a coach drove up to the door, and a tremendous double rap was played
off upon the door, as if it had been committed by a steam-engine; so loud and so long was
the application for the admittance, that both mother and daughter started.
"Dear me, that must be him," said the mother; "yes, a coach and all -- there -- there, I
declare."
"What, ma?"
"Why, look at that girl next door out in the balcony; there's Miss Smith -- that girl is
always trying to attract some person or other; and the men affect to believe that she is
beautiful; for my part, I think a girl of seventeen ought to have more modesty."
"The hussy!" said the young lady, contemptuously.
The servant now entered to inform her that a gentleman had called about the apartments.
"Ask him up stairs," said Mrs. Meredith; and she prepared to follow the colonel so soon
as she heard he was ascending the stairs, which was a slow job to him, as he walked lame,
with a gold headed cane.
When Mrs. Meredith came to the room, she saw a tall gentleman; his height was lost, on
account of him stooping; he wore a green shade over one eye, and he had one arm in a
sling; besides which, as we have before related, he was rather lame.
"Not so bad as I thought for," muttered Mrs. Meredith, to herself, as she curtseyed to his
salute.
"I have been recommended to seek here a lodging, ma'am. I do not know if I am correct
in believing you have such as I want."
"This, sir, is the sitting-room; it is a very handsome one, and above what is visually
offered at a lodging-house. The fact is, sir, the house was never furnished for letting, but for
our own private occupation; therefore, it has all of the comforts of a private residence."
"That is what I chiefly want. You see, I do not care to undertake the trouble of setting up
an establishment myself. I am alone, I may say; therefore it is I seek such a lodging as
comes nearest to what I should myself choose if I were to make a home of my own."
"Precisely, sir. There is the back drawing-room, and a bed room up-stairs."
"Oh, very good; I need, I presume, make no inquiry as to what kind of table you keep; the
best, I dare say. I was informed of the price you asked."
"Yes; we consider that quite moderate, sir."

"I dare say," said the Indian, looking about the place with an air of curiosity; "I dare say."
"Yes, sir; you see the advantages we offer are much above the usual run. Besides, you are
an invalid, and will require extra attention."
"Yes; there is much truth in that; I have used to it, and therefore you will see that I
bargain for it; but, at the same time, you will not find me difficult to please, I flatter myself;
but we shall know more of each other the longer we are together."
"Certainly, sir. I can assure you, that should you take the apartments, nothing on my part,
or my daughters', will be wanting to make your stay agreeable."
The stranger examined the appearance of the room, and the others, and then, after much
conversation with them, he agreed to take the lodgings, and to come into them on the
morrow, as he was extremely particular as to well-aired beds, and should require them all to
be re-aired.
"And now, madam, before I finally agree to come in, will you show me the means of
escape, if any, in case of fire. I am anxious about that; I have read so many calamities
arising from that cause of late in London that I am somewhat nervous about it, though I am
so much of an invalid that I should hardly be able to avail myself of it."
"You shall see, sir," said Mrs. Meredith; "we have ample and safe accommodation in that
respect. You see, here is a pair of broad steps that lead up to that door -- a trap-door; and
here is another, that opens upon the leads at the top of the house."
The colonel made shift to walk up, and to look over the house-tops; there was a sea of
chimneys and pantiles, at the same time they were all easy of access on this side of the
street; so there was no danger from fire, and each house there was similarly provided.
"Well, madam, I think I may say that this affair is concluded. I will leave you my card,
and, if you think proper, you can obtain what information you desire of me at the hotel."
"I am quite satisfied, sir," said the landlady, as she took the card that was proffered her,
and also a bank-note which he offered her, in token of his taking possession of the
lodgings.
Mrs. Meredith curtseyed, and the colonel left the apartment, and descended the staircase
with great deliberation, for he could not go very swiftly; he was lame, and one arm was up
in a sling, and therefore he had not the free use of his limbs.
As he came down the stairs, and when near the mat, Margaret, the eldest daughter, came
out and passed into the back parlour, for no other ostensible purpose than that of seeing the
stranger, whose eye was instantly, but only momentarily, fixed upon her; but it was enough;
they both saw each other, and had a glance at the features, and Margaret disappeared.

The stranger stepped into the coach, and, as the door was being shut, he looked up to the
windows of the next house, where the young lady, nothing daunted, still sat at the window;
and so little was she interested with her neighbour's affairs, that she barely bestowed a
momentary glance upon the coach or its occupant, whose solitary optic took notice of her,
and then the Jehu drove away with his rumbling vehicle.
"Well, I never saw such impudence, in my life!" said Mrs. Meredith, as she came to the
parlour-windows, which happened to bow outwards, and gave her a better opportunity of
watching her neighbours to the right and left of her.
"What is the matter, ma'?" inquired her daughter.
"Why, there's that minx still up yonder. I declare if she didn't stare at the colonel; he saw
her, and noticed her, too. Well, I wouldn't have had her there to-day for a trifle; he will
think he has got into a bad neighbourhood, seeing her so bold. Really, now, she lays herself
open to all kinds of imputations. I do not mean to say any evil of her; but, really, if she will
do that now, what will she not do by-and-bye? I am sorry she has no one to advise her
better."
"I am sure she is old enough to know better," rejoined the daughter. "I am quite sure she's
no beauty, and, if she wants to catch any of the men, she won't be successful in that
manner; unless, indeed, she doesn't care whom she picks up with."
"Oh, that is, I fear, too often the case with young girls with weak intellects. But did you
see our new lodger, my dear?"
"Yes, ma'."
"And what did you think of him?" inquired Mrs. Meredith, with an amiable whine, and a
gentle rubbing of hands.
"Think, ma', think -- what can I think of a man whom I have hardly seen, ma'? He only
passed me; I could not recollect him again if I tried."
"Ah, well, my dear, you know best. I can always recollect people whom I have once
seen? He is a very fine man -- at least, he has been; he has lost much of his height, for he is
lame, and stoops much; but still he has been a handsome man."
"One eye, only, ma', I think."
"Yes, my dear, one eye, as you say; but I think a remarkably keen one, too. He's quite the
gentleman, too; he's been used to command, you can see that. These military men have an
air about them that you cannot mistake; and even this gentleman, though, you see, wounded
and lame, yet he has the air of an officer about him."

"He may have, ma'; but, you know, if he have the air of a general, with nothing else, it
would buy a very poor dinner."
"So it would, my dear. You certainly are an extraordinary girl, Margaret, a very
extraordinary girl, and will be the making of your family. Only suppose you should marry
this rich colonel, what then, eh? I only say, suppose you were to marry him? -- because it
isn't certain, yet -- well, wouldn't that minx next door think you were lucky? She would bite
her nails in anger."
"Yes, she would, ma'; but it may never happen. But, if she thinks to get a beau that way,
she's much mistaken. I am sure she will get insulted."
"No wonder. But, Margaret, my dear, you must do your best to please this gentleman; he
wants to have people about him just as if he had his own home. He has no friends or
relatives; who knows what may happen yet?"
"No, ma'; we don't know what may happen, and I will do my best to please him; but I
sha'n't court him, you know, ma'; he must do that."
"Yes, certainly, my child, he must. No; you mustn't appear anxious about it; but merely
say you are pleased to have his good opinion, and you must be a little coy of everything
else; for there are times when such old gentlemen are easily entrapped. But I must set about
having things aired and put into order for his arrival to-morrow."
--

CHAPTER CXXVIII.
THE NEW LODGER. -- A NIGHT ALARM. -- A MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCE.
It was not until late the next day that Mrs. Meredith heard anything of her new lodger. All
she had heard was that he would be there during the day, but whether to breakfast, dinner,
or tea, she could not tell which, and now she was waiting with expectation, if not anxiety;
but, at the same time, she knew she was quite sure of her lodger, because she held his bank-
note.
It had been a dull day; there are many such in London, and therefore that was no singular
circumstance. It was one of those dull, leaden-coloured days of which you can predict
nothing with certainty, or even a chance of being right; it was rather squally at times, and at
others a west wind blew; not cold -- at least, not particularly so; but, yet, notwithstanding
the heavy appearance of the sky, there was a clear white light that made every object look
more disagreeable than ordinary.
The landlady and her daughter were both on the qui vive, as it is called, looking out for
their new lodger, whom they expected the more immediately as the evening drew on, for
there was less likelihood of his coming in the middle of the day than towards the evening,
and less after evening had set in than before, for he was an invalid.
It was, they thought, just about the time when he must arrive, when there could only be
the uncertainty of a few minutes. The whole house was in order; nothing was left to chance;
Mrs. Meredith herself had gone over the whole place, and took especial pains to find all
sorts of fault with the unfortunate drudge who did the work, of course, aided by the mother
and daughter; but such aid was distressing, because she had to wait upon both, and do her
own work as well.
However, all was in readiness, and they were looking out at every coach from between
the blinds. The sound of wheels was enough to cause them to start, when suddenly a coach
drove up to the door, upon which had been carefully packed several leather boxes and
portmanteaus.
"Here he is," said the daughter; "here he is."
"Yes; and, as I am alive," said Mrs. Meredith, as she cast her eye upwards towards the
next house, "as I am alive, there is that girl again. I do believe that she does it on purpose. It
is done to aggravate me, and to attract attention from the men. The hussy!"
There was now no time to lose, the knocker at the door giving pretty clear indication that
instant attention upon their part was requisite, and up jumped Mrs. Meredith and her
daughter Margaret. Immediately the servant opened the door into the passage, the coach
door was opened, the steps let clattering down, and Colonel Deverill entered the house.

"Will you walk into the parlour, colonel," inquired Mrs. Meredith, "until your boxes are
all in, and you see they are all correct? There is a good fire."
"Thank you, madam," said the colonel, with some difficulty walking along. "I am
scarcely so well able to walk as I was yesterday."
"Ah! colonel, you must have suffered much. But I am glad the parlour is so handy -- it
will save you the walk up stairs at present, until you are quite recovered from your fatigue.
Pray be seated, colonel, by the fire. The man shall bring them in, and lay them before the
door."
"Thank you," said the colonel, and he sat down in a large easy chair, having first dropped
his cloak, which was a large blue military cloak, lined with white, with a fur collar, and
looked extremely rich and handsome; beneath which he wore an officer's undress frock,
covered over with a profusion of braid.
The boxes and portmanteaus were brought in and laid down so that the colonel could see
them; and, when that was done, the coachman made his demand, which excited an
exclamation of horror from Mrs. Meredith, and a declaration that she thought hackney
coachmen were the greatest impostors and extortioners under the sun. There never was such
a set as hackney coachmen -- never!
"Saving lodging-house keepers, ma'am -- axing your pardon for saying so. Not that I
means any offence, only I lived in one once, and ought to know summat."
The colonel, however, made no remark, but, pulling out an embroidered purse, which
appeared to full of gold, he paid the man his demand.
"Thank you, your honour; you are one of the right sort, and no mistake." So saying, the
coachman walked away, jinking the money as he walked along the passage, until he came
to the door where the girl was standing, and then, giving her a knowing wink, and jerking
his head backwards, he said, --
"They are a scaley lot here, ain't they, Mary?"
"Mary!" screamed Margaret.
"Yes, miss."
"Shut the door, and come away form that insolent fellow."
Slam went the door, and then the servant went down stairs, and the parlour-door was
immediately closed, and the colonel was given into the tender mercies of the lodging-house
heeper; for, though she pretended that she merely offered a genteel and presentable house
for such as desired it, and could afford to pay for it, she was, in every sense of the word, a
lodging-house keeper.

The colonel, however, sat very composedly in his chair, and gazed at the fire in silence;
and from time to time he gazed at the mother and daughter with his one eye; he had not lost
the entire use of the other, but had a green silk shade over it. He watched what went on, and
replied cautiously to what was said to him, but appeared inclined to silence, and
occasionally abrupt in his coversation; but this they attributed to the habit he must have
been in, when abroad, of commanding.
"Will you take tea at once, colonel, or at what hour do you choose to have it?"
"I will take it at once. I am tired."
"What will you take, sir?" inquired Margaret, at one end of the table; and, placing herself
in an enticing posture, she awaited the answer, expecting to be looked at.
"Coffee," said the colonel, abruptly.
There was a pause; but Margaret said nothing more, and set about doing such little
matters as appeared to be an employment. But it was a mere deception -- it was all done;
nothing had been left undone; they had taken care of that, as the servant knew full well.
However, there was little that passed of any peculiar character on that occasion, for the
evening passed off very calmly and comfortable, the colonel giving his opinion somewhat
dogmatically; but that, of course was submitted to, as he was a military man and had much
experience, and, moreover, he was a rich man -- quite a nabob.
It is astonishing, as a general rule, what people will submit to when it comes from those
who have riches at command. That fact alone seems to stamp all that is foolish and absurd,
coming from such a quarter, with sense and worth.
It is in vain for any one not blessed with property to talk; his talking is nothing in
comparison with what falls from the lips of the man who has property. You are talked
down, and if you are obstinate, and won't be talked down, why, you are a disagreeable
fellow, a dissatisfied man, and your neighbours ought to set their faces against you.
Thus, through life, he who does not submit to the wealthy, is always run down, and there
is every disposition, if possible, of running him off the road altogether, no matter how great
the injustice against him, and the enormity of the conduct of others; they are, as they think,
justified, because he is not a genteel person; in fact, he is not evangelical.
The evening passed over, as we have said, in calmness and quiet, and Mrs. Meredith
appeared to be well pleased with her lodger; and, at a moderately early hour, they separated
and went to bed. The colonel retired, after taking leave of them, to his own room,
complaining he was in great pain, and scarce able to walk, and so cold, he was nearly
benumbed.

"This climate," he said, "is so cold, so moist, and altogether so uncomfortable, that I
cannot understand how it is people ever endure it. Indeed," he continued to Mrs. Meredith,
"there must be some great difference between rich and poor in their conformation, else they
couldn't stand it."
Of course, Mrs. Meredith assented to the proposition, as she would have done to any
other, no matter what proposition, that had been so urged by such a person.
Thus it was with the colonel, who appeared very well satisfied with his lodgings; and all
parties, for so short a time, were well pleased with each other. * * * * *
The night was dark, that is to say, it was one of those nights in which neither moon nor
stars showed themselves; no sound was heard through the streets, save the heavy step of the
guardian of the night, or the midnight reveller, who might be finding his way homeward
boisterously, and with scarce enough sense to enable him to take the right path.
There were clouds enough to have intercepted the moon, but there was a kind of light that
was spread through them that you saw when you looked up, but which aided not the
traveller below; but, then, there were countless lamps that illumined the streets.
At that time there was a man creeping over the house-tops. He had gained the housetop of
Mr. Smith, the house in which resided Miss Smith, who had given so much offence to Mrs.
Meredith by sitting so much out in the balcony. He stooped in the gutter, and looked
cautiously around; no human being was within sight; he was alone, and no soul saw him.
Cautiously he crept towards the trap-door -- it was bolted; but that was soon obviated --
no sound, however, could be heard. The soft, but rotten, wood gave way under the steady
pressure exerted upon the door, which at length opened.
He paused a moment or two, and listened carefully for several minutes. Then he entered
the loft slowly and noiselessly, keeping as low as possible, so that he might run no risk of
being observed by any one who might be passing the house, or who might be up by
accident in any of the opposite houses, in consequence of illness, or any other cause.
There was a lower trap-door through which the figure passed. There could be no
difficulty in passing, because that was always kept open, as it was considered to assist in
ventilating the house; and then the intruder stood within the house.
He then drew himself up to his full height, and paused for some moments, as if
considering the next step he would take; but then he descended to the second floor, on
which were placed what are called the best bedrooms. He paused at one, gently tried the
handle, and finding it turn, and the door open, he gave one look towards the stairs that he
had just descended, and then he entered the apartment.
All was yet still; no sound met his ear, save the breathing of the sleeper within, who lay in
a sweet sleep, and was as calm and unconscious as the blessed; perfect rest and

forgetfulness had steeped the senses of the young girl, who lay in ambrosial sleep. One arm
was thrown outside the clothes, and revealed, in all its symmetry, a snow-white bosom,
heaving gently to the throbbing of the heart.
The intruder gazed at the young girl for some moments, and clasped his hands with
trembling eagerness, and a ghastly smile played upon his terrible features, while a fearful
fire shot from the eyes of one who thus disturbed the slumbers of the living.
He approached the bed, and took the hand within his own, and then the sleeper awoke. It
would be impossible to describe the look of terror and horror that sat on the young girl's
face.
She could not scream, she could not utter a sound; her whole faculties appeared to have
been bound up for a short time. She could not even shrink from the horrible being who
approached her, she was so perfectly horror-stricken with that truly horrible countenance,
the glance of which seemed as if it would destroy the power of speech for ever. She shrank
now, but could not move.
The creature crept closer. It seized her hand, and held it within its own; but even that
could not awake her from the trance she was in. She felt a horrible sinking feeling, as
though she must sink through the very flooring of the house, and yet she could not stir.
It appeared as though, so long as the hideous face was opposed to her's, so long she was
unable to move; it was a species of fascination; however great the horror felt, yet there was
no help for it. She could not ever shut her eyes; that boon was denied her.
What she saw cannot be described. It is by far too horrible for pen to describe. The wild
horrible insanity that appeared in the eyes of the creature, with their peculiar cast, was
indescribable; the only light that entered the room, at that moment, came from a lamp
below, and illumined only the upper part of the room above the window sills.
The creature then stood in relief against this light, a horrible dark object, whose glaring
eyeballs were too terrible ever to be forgotten.
Then, again, while he with one hand held her's, he passed his other hand up her arm, and
then felt along the soft, white flesh with its cold, clammy fingers, as if it were feeling for
something, or greedy of the velvet-like substance.
Still keeping the eyes fixed upon the hapless and helpless girl, he drew the arm towards
him, and, leaning upon the bed, suddenly plunged his face on the arm, and held and seized
it near the middle with its teeth, and then it made an attempt to suck the wound.
This, however, broke the charm, horrible and complete as it was; for the creature's
hideous countenance was lost to her sight, as he plunged his face to her arm.

Shriek followed shriek in quick and rapid succession. The whole house was alarmed by
the terrible shrieks that came from the apartment. She struggled, and by a sudden effort, she
disengaged herself from the grasp of the fiend, and rolled, wrapped up in the bed-clothes, to
the other side of the floor.
The monster still pursued her with greedy thirst for blood, and had picked her up, and
again placed her on the bed, with more than mere human strength, and again sought the arm
he had been deprived of by the sudden effort of the young girl.
"Help! help! Mother! father! help! help!"
The shouts rang through the house, awaking the affrighted sleepers from their repose, in a
manner that may be called distressing.
It is distressing in the midst of a large city to be awoke, in the dead of the night, by loud
and urgent cries of distress. It is such a contrast to the dead stillness that reigns around, and
when the first cries are heard, it creates a terror and surprise that takes away all power of
action.
It was not till the cries had been heard a second time that the inmates aroused themselves;
the fact was, they were fearful of fire. The moment that idea floated across their minds,
then, indeed, they started up, and the father of the young girl, hearing the fall, at once
rushed to the room of his daughter. He arrived but in time; the hideous monster, being
affrighted by the footsteps approaching him, turned from his blood-stained feast, and hid
himself beneath the drapery, as the father entered the room.
"Mary," he said, "Mary! Mary! what means this -- what can be the matter -- are you hurt -
- how come you in this disorder?"
"Oh, God! that thing from the grave has been sucking my blood from my veins. See -- see
yonder -- he moves! Watch him -- note him, father!"
Believing she raved, her father paid no attention to what she did say, but continued to
regard her with sorrow and regret, for he believed it to be a sudden attack of mania; but
seeing the curtains move, he turned his head, and at once divined it to be the cause of his
daughter's alarm.
The glance was but momentary; but he saw the figure of a man who was escaping from
the apartment by the door by which he had at that moment entered.
"Help!" he shouted -- "help -- thieves -- murder!"
And as he shouted, he rushed after the figure that was flying towards the top of the house.
By this time the house was filled up with people, and the noise up stairs had caused the
servants below to rise confused and thoroughly terrifed by the sounds they heard, and the
cries of their master.

At that moment, one of those watchful guardians of the night passed by the house, and
was immediately hailed by the unfortunate people below, who were afraid to go up stairs to
offer any assistance, lest they might be knocked back again, which fear stopped all aid from
below.
"Hilloa! what's the matter now?" inquired the worthy guardian of the night.
"Oh, I don't know -- goodness knows. You had better go up and see. I'll come up after
you. Don't be afraid; I'll come up after you, if you'll go first."
"Stop a moment while I spring my rattle," said the worthy functionary; who thereupon
gave an alarming peal upon his instrument, and then he entered the house, with instructions
to the servant to run down stairs and let any of his party in that might come up.
Then the guardian of the night hastened up stairs with all the haste he could, and came up
just in time to pick Mr. Smith up, who was lying stunned at the foot of the stairs.
The fact was, Mr. Smith had pursued his adversay too quickly, and finding he could not
get off, he turned round and felled him to the earth, like an ox. It was just at this juncture
when the charley came up stairs, and in another moment Mr. Smith recovered.
"What's the matter?" inquired the watchman; "is the house on fire."
"No, no; the vampyre -- the vampyre!"
"Eh -- what? Never heard on 'im afore -- never seed him."
"Quick -- quick! he has gone up stairs. Quick -- after him!" said Mr. Smith, as he ran up
the stairs, and was quickly followed by the watchman and some others who now crowded
about, having had time to dress themselves and come to Mr. Smith's aid; and they now
crowded to the house-top, for they saw the trap-door was unfastened, though it had been
hastily pushed to. This they opened, and then looked on the house-top, first one way, and
then another.
"He ain't here," said the watchman, "and we mustn't expect to find him here; he wouldn't
wait for us, you may depend upon that. We had better search along the house-tops till we
see him, or find some of the other traps open, and then you may guess where he has gone."
"The difficulty is, which way did he go?" said Mr. Smith.
"Oh, I saw him go that way," said another watchman, who came up stairs, having been
first attracted by the sounds of the rattle, and then, looking up at the house, he saw the
figure of a man stealing, with great rapidity of motion, across the house-tops.
"There I lost him, then," he said. "I didn't see him after that spot; but he may have gone
further, for all I can say to the contrary. But we shall soon see."

"This trap-door is open," said the other watchman, as he pulled aside Mrs. Meredith's
trap-door, which had only been pushed to. "We had better go in here, and see if he isn't
gone somewhere into the house, and hiding himself until all is quiet, and then he will make
off if left alone."
--

CHAPTER CXXIX.
THE UNSUCCESSFUL PURSUIT. -- MR. SMITH'S DISAPPOINTMENT, AND THE

TESTIMONY OF MRS. MEREDITH.
Mrs. Meredith and her daughters had long sunk into deep sleep before the events just
narrated took place in her neighbour's house. There was a perfect stillness; the whole house
appeared as though there were no living soul within it, all was so still and quiet.
Presently, however, there was a terrific sound; it was like that of a human being falling
and bumping down stairs, and then there was a great deal of shouting and calling, and Mrs.
Meredith opened her eyes and trembled in her bed, while her daughter Margaret, who upon
the occasion slept with her, was likewise as frightened.
"What is th -- that?" she stammered, with some difficulty.
"Oh, hear, I cannot think. Thieves -- murderers, I dare say. Oh, merciful Heaven! what
shall we do -- where shall I go? We shall be murdered!"
Both females trembled in their beds, and were quite unable to move, breaking out in a
profuse sweat from fear; and yet the noise came nearer and nearer, and there were many
persons evidently in the house; their numbers were so numerous that they evidently didn't
care to conceal themselves.
The fact was this: when Mr. Smith and his party found the trap-door open, they
descended into the house, the watchman leading the way; but in going down the ladder, his
foot slipped, and he came with a dreadful thump on the landing, and fortunately he rolled
up against the servant girl's door, instead of down stairs. The door flew open, and the girl
was too terrified to speak for some moments.
At length the watchman having got up, he made for the bed, upon which the girl jumped
up, and began to scream out for help in piteous tones.
"Come, come -- don't be frightened," said the watchman; "get up and show us over the
house."
"Well, I'm sure!" said the girl, who had recovered some of her assurance, for the coat,
stick, and lantern of the watchman at once assured her that she was in no immediate danger
whatever. "Well, I'm sure! to think of coming in a female's room in this manner. You ought
to be ashamed of yourself, you old wretch, you ought!"
"No names. If you don't get up and show us over, and call your master -- "
"I ain't got a master."

"Well, your mistress, then -- we will go ourselves, and we'll soon make short work of it.
Come, come, no nonsense. We will dress you ourselves."
"You monster! Go out of the room, can't you? Have you no decency left you? I'll get up;
but I'll lay a complaint before the lord mayor, and he shall tell you a different tale to this.
I'm ashamed of you, and so you ought to be of yourselves."
However, during this energetic remonstrance, she contrived to shuffle on some things,
and when she was ready, she came down to her mistress's door, and then began to hammer
and kick at it, saying, --
"Oh, Mrs. Meredith, here's sich a lot of men in the house. Do come out, mem. I don't
know what's the matter; but they'll break into your room, as they broke into mine."
"What do they want, Mary?"
"Don't know, mem."
"There is some one escaped into your house that has broken into the next house, and your
trap-doors on the roof were open."
"Gracious me!" said Mrs. Meredith -- "gracious me! Show them over the place, Mary. We
will get up in a few moments, and come to you. Margaret, my dear, get up; some
housebreakers have got into the house, and we shall all be murdered in our sleep if we don't
find them. Oh, dear, dear! what will become of us? What will our new lodger say to this
disturbance?"
Margaret made no reply, but began to dress herself, while the party began their search;
and Mr. Smith hastened back to his daughter, to understand the nature of the attack that had
been made upon her, and whether she were any better than she was when he left her.
However, when he came to hear what was the real cause of her terror, to find the marks
on her arm, and the certainty that nothing had been lost or moved, he was perfectly
staggered, and hastened back after the party he had left, to make some further attempt to
follow the miscreant, and to discover, if possible, his retreat, and bring him to justice for the
vile attack he had made.
When he returned, he met Mrs. Meredith coming out of her room, she having hastily
dressed herself, followed by her daughter.
"Oh! Mr. Smith -- Mr. Smith, what is the meaning of all this disturbance? Here are a
number of strange men, who have forced themselves into my house, and whether their
object is our property or our lives, we cannot tell. What can I do, Mr. Smith?"
"You have nothing to fear, ma'am."

"Nothing to fear, sir! Why, is not such an occurrence something to be feared for its own
sake alone?"
"Yes, ma'am, it is very disagreeable, I am willing to admit; but I presume you would not
give refuge to a vampyre?"
"A what, sir?"
"A vampyre, madam. I know not how to explain it to you, but I have to assure you my
daughter has been attacked in her sleep by the midnight blood-sucker from the graves. Oh!
God, that such a thing should happen in my family. I would not have believed it, had the
same been related to me from anybody else."
"It must have been the night mare," suggested Mrs. Meredith.
"Would to Heaven it had been so; but I came to her assistance, and saw him as he fled
from my daughter's bedside, and I followed him to the roof, and he was lost on your house,
and your trap-door was open, and we presumed he went in here."
"The door was bolted when we went to bed last night," said Margaret.
"Yes," responded her mother; "we always have that bolted every night, for it is our only
protection from that side of the house; but no one can be here; we have no man in the house
save our lodger, and invalid and quite a gentleman."
"Can we see him?"
"I should think not, because he is an invalid; he's a colonel in the East India service, and
will, no doubt, be very angry at such a disturbance, and much more so when he finds he is
wanted. I am really much shocked at this disturbance, which is the more unfortunate as it is
the first night he has slept here."
"I must see him."
"Must, Mr. Smith -- must! I cannot permit anything of the kind to be said in my house. I
give you permission to look for him over the house, but I can't give any such permission
with what my lodgers possess -- it is not in my power to do so if I had the inclination."
While this was going on, the house had ben rummaged over and over, and then a party of
them, with Mr. Smith, came to the colonel's bedroom; a close travelling cap and a dressing-
gown were found on the mat before the door.
"Oh!" said Mr. Smith, as he picked it up, "this appears very much like what I saw the
figure was dressed up in -- something like robes, and this would serve the purpose."
"Ah!" said the watchman, "we shall have him now."

"But the gentleman is an invalid; he can hardly walk up stairs, much less can he be
scrambling over house-tops," said Mrs. Meredith. "You must surely all have been
dreaming. Something has disagreed with you, and the result has been visions of which you
can of course find no trace."
"Not quite that, either," said one of the watchmen, "for we saw him getting away, and he
made for your trap-door, where I missed him. I could not see any more of him among the
chimneys, or something of that sort, but I thought he came in here, and found your door
open."
"And you saw him come in?" said Mrs. Meredith.
"I can't say I saw him come in," said the man; "I couldn't see through a brick-wall and a
stack of chimneys which were in the way, but I felt certain he must have come in here."
"Well, this is very strange -- very singular."
"The dressing-gown, too," said Mr. Smith, "is dusty and dirty all over -- at least in places
where it appears to have come in contact with anything dirty -- possibly the roof of the
house; certainly something of that sort has happened. It looks very much like it."
"And the cap sits close to the head; that is dirty."
"But it is dry dirt," said Mr. Smith, "and of the same character; we had better see this
lodger of yours, Mrs. Meredith, and with your permission I will knock."
As Mr. Smith spoke he gave two or three loud knocks at the door, which were not
answered for some time. But they were speedily repeated, and then a peremptory voice
exclaimed, --
"In the name of goodness, what is the meaning of all this disturbance? Is the house
broken into, or is it a resort for thieves? Be it as it may, if I am disturbed in this way, and
you don't instantly get out of the way and make less noise, I'll fire through the door. I have
loaded pistols by my side, and I will not submit to this shameful disturbance."
A the sound of these words, the two watchmen were much disturbed, and immediately
stepped back so hastily as nearly to overthrow Mrs. Meredith and her daughter; but Mr.
Smith, after a step or two backwards, resumed his place by the door, and exlaimed, --
"I have not come here, sir, to be frightened; some strange circumstances have just
happened, and I must beg you'll open your door to explain them."
"And who the devil are you?"

"My name is Smith, sir. I live next door, and my daughter has been attacked by a
vampyre. I know not what nature the creature must possess, but it has shocking propensities
-- there are evidences at your door which make it appear he has got into your room."
"It would be very foolish in him to so anything of the sort," said the colonel, "for, in the
first place, I will not suffer annoyance in any shape; and besides, I have loaded pistols for
his reception. Wait till I am dressed, and then I will come out to you."
"I am sure the colonel will be very much offended by this conduct, which is very
shameful; people's houses broken open and entered in this manner, and peoples's rest
broken so. I am quite ashamed of my neighbours -- quite."
"Really we have strong suspicions -- strong grounds of suspicion, too, against that lodger
of yours; look at that dressing-gown and cap, the open trap-door, and all -- really I can't
help thinking there is something very suspicious in all this."
"Yes, said the watchman; "I know there's nobody else in the house. I've been all over it,
and it's very strange to me if he ain't the man."
"Well," said Margaret Meredith, "it seems as if you are most willing to accuse those who
are quite incapable of doing what you accuse them of. This gentleman was barely able to
get up stairs without assistance; besides, he could not have gone up stairs without some one
being awoke by the noise. It's my opinion that it is a piece of impertinence altogether."
"So I think, my dear," said Mrs. Meredith.
"I am a father, Mrs. Meredith," said Mr. Smith, "and I have my daughter's safety and
happiness at heart. I am sure there's much, too, very suspicious. You wouldn't like your
daughter's blood sucked out of her arms. I amd sure I don't, nor does she."
"Oh, botheration!" said Margaret; "who ever heard of such stuff? I'm sure I never did,
except in some book of improbabilities, and nothing more; but here is Colonel Deverill."
At that moment Colonel Deverill opened the door, and then retired a little into his room,
saying as he did so, in a very angry voice, but, at the same time, endeavouring to be
courteous, --
"You can come in, now; but I am quite at a loss to understand the nature of this
disturbance; the house don't appear to be on fire; and that is the only contingency in my
mind that will justify such a disturbance. What is the matter, Mrs. Meredith?"
"I can hardly tell you, sir. I have been disturbed by finding a party of people in my house;
it is most amazing to me how they came in."

"I will tell you, sir," said Mr. Smith. "My daughter has been terrified by the appearance of
some one in her bed-room, who attempted to suck her blood from the veins of her arm. I
don't know what to say about it."
"I am sure I don't," said Colonel Deverill; "but I must say it's a most unpleasant affair for
those who have nothing to do with it. It is a pity your domestic afflictions should call you
out in this manner; take my advice, sir; go home, else you'll catch cold."
"You may repent making a jest of this -- -"
"I never repent anything, sir. I regret I am so unnecessarily disturbed; and it appears to
me, your intrusion here is most unwarrantable."
"Is this your dressing-gown, sir?"
"Yes, it is."
"Well, then, how did it come here, and in this state?" inquired Mr. Smith, triumphantly.
"I don't know -- I didn't put it there; but I suppose it must have fallen accidentally; it
would not have been thrown there willingly," said the colonel, deliberately.
"Well, I don't know," said Mr. Smith, "but it strikes me you've been on the tiles this
evening."
"My good sir, if you don't leave my apartment, it may happen I may forget my pains and
lameness, and fling you out of the window. If this had happened in India instead of here,
you would have had a particularly sharp knife inserted between your ribs, or have been
thrown into a well. But I know nothing, of this matter, which appears so strange, as to be
beyond all reason; neither experience nor common sense at all throw any light upon the
matter; be advised, sir, and retire, and allow honest people and invalids to sleep the night
out."
Mr. Smith looked very blank, and, unable to comprehend all that had passed, he could not
tell what to think; he could not urge the matter further, for he was met by real contempt and
perfect self-assurance on the part of the colonel, who moved about the room very lame,
while his hand was in a sling, and a green shade was placed over his eyes.
"You see," said Mrs. Meredith, "you must be very entirely mistaken. Colonel Deverill, we
are sure, is quite unable to run about over house-tops, even had he the inclination to do so,
which is really absurd. It must be at least a great mistake on your part."
"Yes, I am sure, too, Colonel Deverill could not have left the house without our knowing
it; indeed, it is a very silly affair, and has been a great nuisance, to say the least of it. I
wonder Mr. Smith doesn't know better than to break into peaceable people's houses."

"But I did not do so."
"How came you here, then?"
"I followed some one else; the place was open; and yet you say it was shut at night, and
you usually kept it so. How do you account for that?"
"I cannot do so, unless some neglect took place, or else you must have forced it open."
"Oh, no, ma'am," said the watchman; "I can swear Muster Smith didn't do that; it was
open, and I found it so, so there's that to be accounted for; and then there's the togs a lying
outside here, that's to be accounted for; so, you see, it's a werry suspicious case."
"You are a very stupid fellow," said the colonel, "a very idiot, if you imagine people are
to be held responsible because a dressing-gown happens to fall down. I do not know but I
shall proceed with this matter myself; it seems to me you have committed a trespass, to say
the least of it. I can pledge my word, as a man of honour and a soldier, I have not left my
room; indeed, these ladies know I could not do so; and their testimony would be ample in a
court of justice, and to a gentleman."
"Yes, that is no more than the truth," said Mrs. Meredith, who was by no means pleased
with the disturbance; and because she had no sympathy for the young lady who sat in the
balcony to the annoyance of herself and daughter.
"And I can bear witness to the same," said Miss Meredith. "I think it is quite time Mr.
Smith returned to his own place, and see what is the matter there; perhaps the person he
saw may have passed him, and gone back again into his own house."
Mr. Smith lingered, looked wistfully, as if his doubts were not cleared off; but yet the
testimony was so clear and so strong, that he could not dispute it; and, however unwillingly
he was compelled to acknowledge, there were some matters that he could not dispute,
though he was unable to solve them; and he and those with him returned from their
unsatisfactory search.
--

CHAPTER CXXX.
A BREAKFAST SCENE. -- A MATCH-MAKING MOTHER.
The next day there was some anxiety on the part of Mrs. Meredith, to ascertain how far
her new lodger might have been disturbed by this event; and in what temper of mind he felt
upon the occasion. It is usual in all lodgings, to have some little regard to the lodger's
comforts for some days, perhaps a week or two, and then things are allowed to take their
chance; and if the lodger complains, he gets for an answer, that they take a vast deal of
pains to oblige him, and intimate that he is a peculiarly lucky man for having become a
lodger at that place; and you would have been worse off if you had gone elsewhere, which,
of course, you don't believe, though they tell you so.
It is an old and favourite saying, that a new broom sweeps clean; and, in time, an old one
becomes very nearly useless. So it is with lodging-house keepers; the longer you remain,
the more inattentive they become, until you get wearied, and are compelled to leave, and
then you get some scurvy insolence, and your landlady eventually believes she is an ill-
used woman.
But, in the present instance, Mrs. Meredith had other hopes and fears than those of a mere
lodging-house keeper. Not that she had formed any plan in her own mind; but she had some
floating idea that there was seldom such a chance turned up, because the colonel had
evidently no relations; and who could tell what, in the chapter of accidents, might happen?
"I am quite grieved," she said to her daughter, "it should have happened this night. What
could be the meaning of the disturbance, I can't think. Now, it's very tiresome things will
happen so cross as this, that I don't know what to think of it."
"It really appears as if it was done on purpose."
"It does; but I am sorry for it, because it would seem as though we were liable to some
kind of interruption at all times, for they generally expect attention at the first, if at no other
time; and he may think this is a bad beginning, at all events."
"But we shall convince him that we shall not treat him neglectfully, ma'."
"No, my dear; but these Indians are strange-tempered people, and when they once take a
fancy, there is no knowing what they may do; and there is no knowing what a dislike taken
at such an occurence might produce, and likes and dislikes are taken without rhyme or
reason."
"Yes, ma', so they are; and that is the reason why you took such a dislike to young Willis,
for he was as nice a young man as I have seen."
"Nice, my dear -- nice! I don't see why he was nice, unless it was because he was
presumptuous, and had no money," said the amiable parent.

"He was not rich, ma' -- -"
"He was positively poor, Margaret," interrupted the mother, "and therefore it was
absolutely necessary to discourage such persons; for, if they do no good, they are sure to be
productive of mischief; for their hanging about, you know, deters others from coming
forward who have means."
"He was very handsome."
"'Handsome is as handsome does,' my dear. You'll find that is a motto through life, that
will carry weight at any time. All the good looks in the world would never put a gown on
your back, or a sixpence in your purse, recollect; besides, he was not handsome."
"You are prejudiced against the young man. Not that I care anything about him, though
he was a very agreeable and nice young man; so it's no use in saying that he wasn't."
"Well, my dear, it doesn't much matter; this is a matter of opinion. What do you think of
our colonel? He is a fine man, and a rich one besides."
"He is tall, I admit, but stoops a great deal; is very lame; one eye much worse than the
other, and one arm in a sling. Well, I can't see much beauty in all that; much out of repair,
you must admit, ma'."
"Yes; Colonel Deverill has seen some service, and his misfortunes are so many points of
honour; they are like so many medals which speak of his worth. Besides that, he is a most
gentlemanly and pleasant man. I don't know that I ever spoke to a more fascinating man."
"That might be at times; but then that was evidently a constraint upon his natural temper,
because he every now and then broke out abruptly about something or other, which proves
that he has an abrupt and imperious temper, not to say savage and snappish."
"There you are clearly unjustifiable, my dear Margaret. The colonel, you see, is a military
man, and used to command, and therefore it is a very usual occurrence, and not a matter of
disposition at all; but what can that matter when you come to consider his wealth?"
"There is certainly room for congratulation there," said Margaret.
"Indeed, my child, there is room for congratulation; and I am convinced there is

happiness where there is a fortune, for that will obtain all you want, and, when you obtain
all you want, what can you be otherwise than entirely happy? -- therefore, riches are
happiness."
"Yes; there is much truth in all that, ma'," said Margaret; "and all I hope is, that I might
obtain a fortune; then I would make you comfortable, ma'."

"I am sure you would, Margaret. My whole life has been spent in shifts to maintain you
and bring you up in a manner that would enable you to become a fortune; which, thanks to
my care, example, and precept, you are fully equal to at any moment it may become your
lot."
"Yes, ma'; I feel that I was born to command, and the lady of a colonel would not be a bit
too high in rank for my ambition or deserts."
"Indeed, it would not, my dear; but now listen to me. You know, my dear, I never plan
anything but what is for your benefit. Now, I am given to understand that Colonel Deverill
has no relatives at all, and I think hardly any friends, and we can make ourselves quite
necessary to him -- in fact, perfect friends to him. He will look upon us as his nearest
relatives, and he may take a fancy to you, as you may easily induce him. Old men like
flattery, there is no doubt, and that kind of flattery which is called attention. Wait upon him
most assiduously, and read to him, and all that kind of thing, my dear."
"Yes; I know, ma'."
"And then, dear, if you mind what you are about, the colonel and all his wealth may be
yours before six months are over, or I am no witch."
"Hush! I hear him stirring."
"He's coming down stairs; there he is in the drawing-room; I hear him over head. Go up
stairs, my dear, and inquire when he will choose to have his breakfast."
"Yes, ma'," said the young lady, who betrayed an extraordinary desire to obey her parent,
a matter not equally to be said of all young ladies, nor of this one upon many occasions;
but, then, this was one that was quite agreeable to her own feelings, which explains the
secret.
Colonel Deverill had, indeed, descended, and was seated in the drawing-room, with his
feet on the fender and his head leaning on his hand, and his elbow on the table, when
Margaret entered. He appeared to be thoughtful and unwell; he had, perhaps, passed a bad
night, or the interruption had robbed him of his sleep, which to an invalid was the more
severely felt.
Good morning, colonel," said Margaret, advancing. "I hope the disturbance that so
inopportunely took place, did not have the effect of destroying your night's rest."
"Indeed, it did do so to a very great extent," replied the colonel, "though not entirely; but
still it makes one very poorly, gives one the headache, and causes a sense of lassitude and
fatigue to oppress the body, which, added to the weariness incident to such cases, makes
one very uncomfortable."

"I am sorry you have been so discomposed, and so is my ma'. She really is grieved; but
you see, sir, it was a matter so entirely beyond any control, that she cannot be blamed for it,
though it happened, most unfortunately, at a time when it was least wanted, or most to be
avoided."
"True -- very true. I can imagine all that. I am not unjust enough to blame you for it. I
could no more help it than you could, and I dare say you were none the better for such a
disagreeable disturbance; I am not, I am very certain.
"No, sir, I am not. When would you please to breakfast?"
"As soon as I can have it," replied the colonel.
"You can have it at once."
"Then be pleased to let me have it. I have the use of but one arm entirely; may I beg your
aid in making tea for me?"
"With pleasure, sir."
Margaret immediately left the room, and informed her mother of what had passed upon
the occasion; and when the breakfast was laid, and all things ready, Margaret Meredith sat
down with Colonel Deverill to breakfast. Before, however, they had gone far, he inquired if
she had breakfasted.
"No, I have not."
"And your mother -- has she breakfasted?"
"No, sir, she has not."
"Then give her my compliments, and I shall be glad to take breakfast in her company too;
for I am very poorly this morning, and company is agreeable."
This was soon effected, and in a few minutes more they all sat down, the colonel being
duly waited upon by Margaret and her mother; the latter being employed in aiding the
former to pay great attention to their host; for they breakfasted at his expense, as a matter of
course.
"It was really a most unfortunate occurrence, that of last night," said Mrs. Meredith; "very
unfortunate; because some people have a difficulty in sleeping in a strange bed; and when
once awake, they cannot easily, if at all, get asleep again, and that I had great fears might
have been your case."
"Not precisely," said the colonel; "but the fact is, I have seen so much hard service, that I
can sleep anywhere without any effort of mine; but when one has suffered from wounds,

the heats of climate, and the terrors of imprisonments in Indian prisons, one's health
becomes so shattered, that one's rest is not so good as it ought to be -- but that is no one's
fault."
"It is a grievous misfortune," said Mrs. Meredith.
"Yes," added Margaret; "and I think there is not enough gratitude in the country towards
those who so nobly defend us in our homes; to do which they must not only brave danger
and death in the field of battle, but all the evils that spring from climate, insidious diseases,
brought on by the expousures and hardships of a soldier's life; and then when they see them
return to their own country, with wounds that ought to bring honour, glory, and sure profit,
they are omitted and neglected."
The colonel sighed deeply, but said nothing.
"My dear Miss Meredith, will you fetch me my keys? -- I left them in the bureau."
"Yes, sir," said the amiable young lady, who arose, and left the room.
"Your daughter is an amiable girl, Mrs. Meredith," said Colonel Deverill. "She reminds
me of one who is now dead, and at whose decease I left England for India; the country
became insupportable to me at that time, but she now recalls all the feelings and aspirations
of youth."
"Ah! she is an amiable and good girl -- though I am her mother; yet I must not do her less
than justice, because it it is usual to consider it partial or silly of a parent praising her own
child; but she does deserve all that can be said of her."
"It is a blessing. There was the same class of beauty, and the same amiable and sensible
deportment. Oh, dear! those days are gone by, indeed!"
"Who knows but they may return?"
"It is doubtful; more than doubtful -- certain. I am an old man, now, Mrs. Meredith, -- an
old man. Yes; I have deserved some thanks at the hands of my country; and I am rich --
yes, Mrs. Meredith, I am rich -- very rich, I believe I may say."
"That is some reward."
"It is. But I cannot recall the past -- I am no longer young -- I have no young wife by my
side -- to soothe my pillow -- to attend to my wants. No; I am an old man, as I said before,
and cannot expect the attention of the young and beautiful."
"But, Colonel Deverill, you are not an old man; and as for your wounds, they are
honourable."

"But my shattered constitution -- -"
"May be mended by care and attention, doubtless; and I am sure, while you are here, you
shall want no attention we can possibly bestow."
"I thank you, Mrs. Meredith -- I thank you," said the colonel.
"I only regret the disturbance you suffered last night," said Mrs. Meredith. "I am afraid
want of proper rest has made you melancholy. I knew not of such a thing, neither was I at
all aware of the fact of the trap-door being open -- indeed, I can't understand it."
"Nor I, ma'am. I do not clearly understand what they said; they talked of some young lady
being strangled or assaulted in in [sic] her sleep."
"Yes, colonel. It was in her sleep, and I cannot help thinking it must have been a dream;
however, if it were not, I do not know what to think of it."
"Nor I," said the colonel, thoughtfully.
"They talked about a vampyre, and said Miss Smith had been seized by the arm; and the
creature had attempted to suck the blood from the veins."
"Dear me, what a strange affair."
"Very, sir; but I never heard of such things only in books; but, goodness help us from
such strange unearthly beings -- have you seen any in your travels, Colonel Deverill? You
have travelled in hot countries, and have seen them, I should imagine."
"Not I, Mrs. Meredith; I have seen strange things, but I never saw a vampyre, though I
have heard of such things; indeed, there are many disgusting things in creation, and that is
one of them. But what could be the reason they should come to that young lady above any
other, I cannot conceive."
"Nor I, sir."
At this moment Margaret returned, having recovered the keys, which were not wanted;
only the watchful mamma thought there was an opportunity for a little tender gag relative
to the amiability of the young lady, and, therefore, it ought not to be omitted.
Moreover, she saw there was no necessity for leaving them alone yet; there would be
plenty of time yet for that, and she felt assured there would be ample opportunity for the
progress of the suit she now confidently anticipated must take place; for she saw, however
prompt and ready the colonel might be from habit, yet there was a good deal of the willing
mood about him.

"His health and weakness," she thought, "causes that; and now, while his health lasts this
way, he may be secured; or, at least, the foundation laid upon which we may build our
hopes. He shall want no aid of mine to help him on that way."
"Have you been long in England, colonel?" she inquired.
"Not very long."
"The voyage homeward must have been very tedious."
"It would have been, but I did not come that way. I crossed into Egypt, and came to the
Mediterranean, and thence to Italy; so I varied the scene, and travelled at leisure, and got
here a month before the vessel I was to have come by."
"Oh, that was much more pleasant."
"Decidedly so; and then I came to the hotel; not that I had not all proper attention paid me
-- but then there is no sociality there; men only surround you with whom you can hold no
converse whatever."
"Certainly not, they are menials."
"And of the lowest class. However, I sought out such a place as this, where I wished to
have some of the domestic comforts around me, that I might have had, had I a home of my
own; some one to whom I could speak more seriously; for I am debarred the affectionate
regard of near and dear female relatives."
"You must look upon us in that light, Colonel Deverill; as persons who are anxious and
desirous of causing you to forget these wants by our assiduity and attention. I can speak for
my daughter as myself; she will do all in her power to render your stay comfortable."
"She is young and beautiful."
"Ahem!"
"And doubtless will change such occupations to those of a more endearing character.
Well, it is as it should be, and I am selfish to feel jealous. I wish I was young myself -- but,
enough of this. I have to express my obligation to you for the ready manner in which you
came forward to speak of my being in my room last night, when that man was here and the
watchmen."
"Mr. Smith?"
"Yes, that was the man; they would not have taken my word for it; however, I hope to be
able to remain here until I find myself sinking to the grave; and those who act as you have
began to act for me, I must and will remember at my death and afterwards."

"I do not act with such a motive, Colonel Deverill."
"No, no; I am well aware of that; but that renders it a duty in me. However, we will say
no more now; I am even wearied out."
--

CHAPTER CXXXI.
MRS. MEREDITH'S FRIEND. -- EXCHANGE OF SERVICES, AND COMPACT.
There could be no doubt in the minds of both mother and daughter that there was
something much resembling a moral certainty concerning the fate of the reitred colonel.
That he must marry was evident -- he was to all intents and purposes resolved to do so. He
talked of a home and domestic comfort, and all that kind of thing; therefore it would be
easy to entangle him in the meshes of love; the snares of passion might be sucessfully set,
and they would be sure to be productive of some sport, and even a stray colonel might be
caught, one who, having had enough of the wars of man, might now be considered to
become a fair object of attack in those of Venus.
However, there appeared much in the colonel's circumstances and disposition that laid
him open to the attacks of designing matrons and maidens. He seemed to appreciate female
company -- was particularly well pleased with female attentions; perhaps his health
required their aid more than that of any other; and he had evidently been in love, and lost
the object of his earliest affections.
One great thing in Margaret Meredith's favour was, the colonel had taken it into his head
that she much resembled this lady, whoever she was; and this fact, no doubt, had opened
his heart towards her; and he felt a kindly, and perhaps a warmer feeling, towards her. This,
they calculated, would greatly assist them in their efforts to circumvent the colonel, and
cause him to capitulate upon matrimonial conditions.
"There never was so good a chance," said Mrs. Meredith, in the course of a day or two
after the above scene; "there never was such a chance as the one you now have."
"What, with the colonel, ma'?"
"Yes, my love, you may depend upon it, that is a very safe speculation. Why, he must be
immensely rich. I am sure that some of the jewels I have seen on his fingers must be worth
thousands of pounds. He is a very rich man, there can be no doubt."
"Yes, ma', he is very rich."
"And you will have many fine things that you have never dreamed of. Why, you will have
a carriage; I should think he would never refuse you that trifle."
"He has not one now."
"Yes, that is true; he would never use it himself; and that accounts for it. But when he has
a wife it is quite another matter; and one which you can easily manage when you are a wife;
you can do more then than you can now. Besides, you'll see how the money is spent; and it
must all go through your hands, you know; that can't be helped."

"No, I dare say not; but, ma' don't you think, when he dies, there will be a loss of the
pension? and that would be a serious loss."
"It would; but then you will have a pension as an officer's widow, besides all his vast
property, without any trouble whatever -- with nobody to contradict you; that is, if he were
to die; but I think he will not do that; he does not, at times, appear so old as one would
think; and yet, he is very pale; but that, I suppose, is caused by his long residence abroad in
hot climates, and being exposed to the weather of all kinds, attended by wounds and
sickness.' [sic]
"No doubt he has suffered much; but he has obtained a handsome fortune, which pays for
a great deal, you know, said Margaret.
"Undoubtedly, by dear; by-the-bye, have you heard how that affair of Miss Smith was
ended, and why they came in here in such a manner?"
"Oh, it was a very shocking affair; there were some marks in her arm, which I cannot
understand; it does seem very extraordinary to me, but she says she was awoke in the night
by some monster sucking her blood."
"Dear me! who ever heard of such nonsense?"
"I cannot but think there must have been something in it; and, yet, what could have been
the reason for them all to utter a falsehood, I don't know. There was, you know, the father,
then the watchmen, all of whom said they saw it; at all events, they appeared to have some
idea that it must have been done by some one in our house; the dressing gown and that
appeared to bewilder them."
"Did they say they thought so still." [sic]
"No; they did not do that, we spoke spoke [sic] so positive; and I saw when I went in to
see her, she was much terrified at what had occurred, and could not get up; she had a
physician to attend her, who will not hear of anything that she says."
"Well, I think he is right."
"But the whole family appear to side with her, and insist that it was no robber who made
the attempt; for nothing was gone, nothing was attempted in the shape of robbery; nothing
was touched nor moved; therefore, there could be no common motive, they said. Well, at
all events, they have made somebody very disagreeable in the family, and they had better
have been quiet, but they are a disagreeable set, and I shall not go in again."
"You are right; my dear; they would be glad to push that minx of theirs in here, and get an
acquaintance with the colonel. No, it will be safest to keep them apart; we will have as few
female visitors, my dear, as possible; not that I think you run any chance of rivalry, but, you
know, men are such uncertain things."

"To be sure they are, ma'." replied Margaret.
"Well, then, if we have no female acquiantances, you see we cannot possibly run any risk,
and the matter will not be so protracted, because everything depends upon things being
smooth and uninterrupted; he will be the more ready to propose and push the matter to a
point."
"Do you think him a likely man, ma', to marry?"
"Certain of it, my dear, quite certain of it. I know a marrying man as soon as I see him;
the colonel is decidedly a marrying man, he talks of home, domestic comfort, and all that
kind of thing; and when men do that, you may be sure, if you are cautious, to catch such an
one."
"Well, I will try."
"Do, my dear; it will be worth your while, it will make all our fortunes. I wonder what his
money is invested in."
"I should like to know that," said Margaret.
"And so should I. Do you know, I have been thinking of that myself more than once. It
will be necessary to find it out, and yet it is so delicate a matter, that I think you had better
make no attempt to work it out of him. Let the affair take its own course at present."
"But I can hear all."
"Then you will act wisely, my dear, very wisely, prudently; but do no more -- hear and
see all, and say nothing -- of course, I mean upon that subject alone. Now, if we proceed
cautiously, we shall be sure to gain our object; I will take some method of obtaining the
information I want at some future time, because it will be well to have him caught before
we begin to pull tight the line; or, at least, before we begin to make any inquiries respecting
his means he must give us some caue to do so."
"I dare say we shall know something by accident some of these days; perhaps, at the hotel
where he comes from, something may be learned by inquiry."
"Possibly there may, my dear; but I do not like to go there. At all events, they can know
but little, for he has not been long in England, and would hold but little communication
with such people. We must have some better plan than that to go upon, else we shall never
be successful, except at the cost of some cross in our hopes we would rather have avoided."
"Well, ma', you shall do as you like in this affair. I am sure you will do what is right and
best for the occasion; besides, one plan is better than two."
"You are right, my dear. I am, however, resolved to have a visitor."

"A visitor, ma'?"
"Yes, my dear; only Mr. Twissel, the attorney."
"Oh, I know who you mean now; but why do you have him? He is a very funny sort of an
acquaintance, especially if he is to meet the colonel."
"I wish him to meet him, my dear, for that reason. He will be able to get out of him, by
some means, what he has got his money locked up in. A hint will serve him, and he can
make inquiries, and learn it all, and then he will, if we are successful, have a good thing of
marriage settlements, and so forth. Besides, I will make an agreeement with him that he
shall have a sum of money for his trouble."
"That will be a very good plan, certainly."
"Exactly, and you needn't be seen in it at all; so I think we shall be all very fairly put in
the way of doing well. I shall go out this morning, and call upon Mr. Twissel, and have
some conversation with him. He used to have some business of your father's to do, and has
had much of his money, as well as a good word now and then."
"Dear me, who is that? There is a double knock at the door, ma'. How vexing it will be to
have any one come here. I shall hate the sight of any one coming in now."
"Can't you see from the window who it is, my dear?"
"No, ma'."
"Then we must wait until the servant comes in."
The words had hardly been uttered, before the servant entered, and said that Mr. Twissel
wanted to speak to Mrs. Meredith, if she was at home.
"God bless me! -- send him in," said Mrs. Meredity, after the first surprise was over; and
then, turning to her daughter, she said, "Talk of what's-his-name, and you are sure to see
some of his friends. If I had wanted him to come, he would not have been here."
"Very likely, ma'; and yet you do, and he is here."
At this moment Mr. Twissel made his appearance, and entered the parlour. Having
saluted the ladies, he proceeded to lay his hat and cane on the table, saying, --
"Mrs. Meredith, I dare say you are surprised to see me, after so long an absence."
"My surprise is not greater than my pleasure, Mr. Twissel. I am very glad to see an old
friend of my husband's. Pray sit down, sir."

"Thank you, I will. I am glad to see you look so well. I need not ask how you are, and
your amiable daughter too; she appears charming."
"Yes, Mr. Twissel, we are in tolerable good health; not often better."
"Do not let me disturb you, Miss Margaret," said Mr. Twissel, as she rose to leave the
room.
"Oh, no, sir, not at all. I have something to attend to, if you will excuse me."
"Certainly, certainly. I hope I shall not be any cause of putting you to any constraint and
inconvenience; at the same time, I shall ot detain Mrs. Meredith long."
"Oh, we don't intend to lose you suddenly," said Mrs. Meredith. "Anything I can oblige
you in I shall be very happy to do so, if you point out the how."
"Then I will proceed to do so at once," said Mr. Twissel; "I will do so at once. You see,
when your late husband died, or before, he gave me several debts to collect."
"So I understood," said Mrs. Meredith.
"Exactly; I see you understand me. Now, those debts I was to collect myself for my own
benefit, he having, when he died, owed me a considerable sum of money. He assigned them
to me, and I accepted them as payment of his debt due to me."
"I understood such to be the case, and at that point the matter was considered as settled;
was it not, Mr. Twissel?" said Mrs. Meredith.
"It was so, and is so now, as far as I know now; but I want some few papers which it is
possible may be somewhere in your possession, to enable me to secure the payment of
them; and without those papers I shall not be able to enforce attention. Now, I want to
know if you will oblige me with them if you have them by you?"
"I will certainly look and make any search I can for them, and if I find them you shall
have them, certainly. But, now I have disposed of that, will you do me a favour?"
"Certainly, with pleasure."
"Well, then, Mr. Twissel, you see, there is a certain rich lodger of mine who pays certain
attentions to my daughter Margaret," said Mrs. Meredith.
"I see," said Mr. Twissel.
"Well, then, he had made no positive offer yet; but we have certain expectations, you see,
and in case those expectations become realized, I want to be in such a situation as to know
at once what I shall do in such a case -- what ought to be done."

"Very good, my dear madam; very good."
"Now, we only know from report, and from appearances, that he is rich; we feel quite
convinced of that -- he could not well be otherwise," said Mrs. Meredith; "but we are
anxious to know in what kind of stock or property he is likely to have invested it."
"Yes, I see. Well, then, all you have to do is to learn what you can from himself or his
friends, and then make inquiries respecting the truth of what you hear. I should be very
happy in assisting to make such inquiries, or in any way you may point out."
"I am very much obliged to you; but, Mr. Twissel, it is a very delicate subject for females
to touch upon, and, moreover, it is worse, considering how my daughter is likely to be in
connection with him."
"It is a delicate matter, certainly."
"Well, now, what I wanted was this; if you would on some occasion -- I would let you
know beforehand, -- call in and take some tea, or whatever meal happened to be at hand,
and get into conversation with the colonel, and get this matter from him -- "
"Oh, he is a colonel in the army, then?"
"Yes; but returned, in bad health, from the Indies. He has come only recently."
"Aye, aye, I see; you have a nabob, I see. That will be a very handsome settlement for
your daughter, my dear madam; a very handsome settlement."
"Yes, it will."
"Well, it is handsome; but there are drawbacks, you see."
"Oh, age, and ill health."
"Exactly; they are drawbacks, you see, that are not always to a young female's taste."
"No, no; but, then, my daughter is a reasonable young woman, Mr. Twissel, and would
not object to a good fortune because there was a kind, though, perhaps, elderly, gentleman
for a husband. Oh, dear, no, sir, I have no apprehensions of that character; she will be good
and obedient, especially when she knows that it is all for her good; besides that, you see,
the colonel, though an invalid, is not so very old, and is a most pleasant, and, I might say,
fascinating gentleman to converse with; so that she can have no personal objection; and,
besides, from what I can observe, I have reason to believe that the colonel is by no means
disagreeable to her."
"Then I am sure it is a very handsome prospect for her, and one that might have been long
in happening to one who had a better fortune to aid her."

"Yes, indeed, it might."
"Well, then, if I can aid you, command my services."
"In this respect you may do me much good, but I do not, as it will be some little loss of
time to you, desire you should do so for nothing. If we succeed, and all is comfortable, you
shall have a hundred pounds soon after the marriage -- say three months."
"Very well. I am quite willing to accept the terms, and should I be wanted at any time,
perhaps you will let me know as long before as possible."
"I will do so."
"And then, when I next come, perhaps you'll be able to hand me the papers, and be ready
to sign some agreement which I will get ready for the purpose."
"Very well, I will do it."
"I am much obliged to you," said Mr. Twissel; "however, I suppose, when I am
introduced to the colonel, I am only to come in as an old friend of the family?"
"Exactly so; that will be by far the best character to assume, because you may be
anything; besides which, when matters come to a point proper for interference, you can do
so the more easily, and with more effect, and he also will be less inclined to quarrel; and at
the same time he can have less objection to do so, which, you see, is a little better."
"I see," said the attorney, rising; "and now, as we have settled this business so far, I will
bid you good afternoon, as I have some business elsewhere this evening, which I must get
finished."
After exchanging greetings, the attorney quitted the house of Mrs. Meredith without
further remark.

CHAPTER CXXXII.
THE EXPLANATION, AND THE PROPOSAL. -- A TETE-A-TETE.
A week or more had passed away since the visit of the attorney to Mrs. Meredith, and yet
the latter saw not a sufficient reason why she should send for her friend. Things were not
ripe yet; the colonel had, it was true, been melting gradually; but then to progress ever so
little, was a great point in anything -- no matter what it is -- something gained.
Mrs. Meredith, however, by no means lost sight of her object; she had that steadily in
view, and worked for it every day; and her daughter was no less assiduous -- she was
attentive and humble, waited upon Colonel Deverill with the affectionate assiduity of a
daughter; while, on his part, he sighed and said, what a happy man he must be, who should
have her for a wife.
It was arranged one day, when he appeared to be more than usually tender, that the
mother should be out that evening, and see some of her friends, and break the news a little
to some of them; a pardonable vanity in the lady, for it was not in accordance with her
position in society that her daughter could expect such an offer as the one she daily
expected.
The lady did as she had agreed, and left the house, while Margaret went to the colonel's
sitting-room when his bell rang, and hoped he'd excuse the absence of her mother, as she
had gone out to see some friends whom she had not seen for some time.
"I am happy i having you attend to me, Miss Margaret. I cannot be attended to better. I
am afraid, as it is, I am a terrible annoyance to you."
"Annoyance, colonel! far from it -- very far from it; and I do hope you do not mean what
you say, else I shall fear I have unwillingly given you some cause for your opinion, which I
shall the more regret, as you are yourself so kind. I assure you it gives me great pleasure
when I know I can do aught to alleviate the misfortunes, or satisfy the wishes of any of my
friends."
"And do you reckon me one, Miss Margaret?"
"I hope Colonel Deverill will not consider me too presumptuous in looking upon him as
something more than a mere casual friend or acquaintance."
"Casual acquaintance, Miss Margaret -- casual acquaintance!"
"Well, friendship, if you allow me to say so."
"Friendship!" repeated the colonel, with a deep drawn sigh; "I would I could claim a yet
warmer title than a friend. I could then hope for some of those pleasures which are denied a
solitary man like me -- I should then have those whom I loved to soothe my death-bed, and

whom I could benefit by worldly wealth, could I, Margaret, think I could claim a feeling
stronger than that of friendship."
"Oh! Colonel Deverill, how can you talk in this strain? Indeed, you -- you are too good --
dear me, I do not know what I was about to say."
"Miss Meredith," said the colonel, taking her hand with gentleness, and tenderly pressing
it, "I am seen to a great disadvantage; I have been many years fighting for my country, and
I have not had time to cultivate those sweet and tender emotions such as I feel at this
moment."
"Yes, you must have suffered much," said Margaret.
"And now, when I return again, I am somewhat the worse in appearance; but my heart is
as warm as ever it was, and I am more than ever alive to the charm of female society. It is
that unreserved interchange of thought and good offices which attaches me to life, and
makes me live even with hope. Do not dispel this day-dream of mine, Margaret."
The colonel paused and pressed her hand to his lips, while she appeared confused and
irresolute, and was unable to withdraw her hand from his, but at length she sank tremblng
into a chair.
"My charming creature, may I suppose this emotion is caused by excess of feeling -- that
-- that -- in short, I am not wholly indifferent to you?"
"Oh, colonel! I'm really unable to speak!"
"My beloved girl, I am loved; yes, I see it -- oh, happiness!"
Midst these broken sentences,the colonel contried to slip his hand round the young lady's
waist, and he pressed her close to him. For a moment she forgot his proximity, and
remained passive; but suddenly and quietly disengaging herself, she said, --
"Pardon, me, Colonel Deverill; I had forgotton -- I was unconscious -- a weakness came
over me, and -- "
"You love me!"
"If you have become acquainted with that which was a secret, sir, you must use it as such;
but you must not talk in this strain to me; promise me, colonel, and -- and -- I will see about
the tea immediately."
"May I speak to your mother?"
"Colonel Deverill can do as he pleases. I have no secrets from my dear mamma."

"I will -- I will, and Heaven bless you for saying so much. I may say you ar not averse to
me, and that, with her consent, I shall not despair."
"We will say no more, Colonel Deverill," said the cautious maiden.
"You shall command me -- you are the arbitress of my fate," said the colonel, who had
become warmer and eulogistic to a degree.
Much more, however, passed between them; the ice was broken, and they conversed
more freely; for when they began the tea, much was said that did not partake of so warm a
character as that which had already passed; but it, nevertheless, partook of the same
purpose.
"When I am married," said the colonel, "I should like a carriage. I have no use for one
now, as I could but very seldom ride; but when I had a wife, then I should wish for her
accommodation as well as my own; but which do you prefer, country or town life?"
"There is much of comfort and quiet in a country life,: said Margaret; "and yet I am not
entirely wedded to country life -- there is much of pleasure in London."
"So there is; and where you have no resources of your own, or in your own house, it is
preferable; but when such is the case, London loses all its charms, or a great part of them."
"So it does," said Margaret.
"However, I am partial to both. I should like a partial town and country life."
"That, indeed, would be the very greatest delight one could experience; to live sometimes
in one place, and sometimes in another."
"So it would."
"By the way, if we kept a carriage, which I would do," said the colonel, after a pause, "it
would be a very excellent thing to enable us to travel about in."
"Perhaps you have been to some parts, and like them better than others."
"Yes, I have been to a good many parts; but I cannot at this moment speak of them; but
we would look out for some place that would be more agreeable than others."
"Perhaps you have some place of your own you would like to live in?"
"No, -- not exactly; these things are not of one's own choice, and not empty; and,
therefore, are useless as residences."
"Certainly. Besides, you must be near enough to come to town for business purposes."

"Yes, I must, but that needn't be often," replied the colonel; "but where there is plenty of
means, there is no fear of not getting what we want."
"No, indeed, there is not."
"And one thing alone would repay me for the hardships I have endured, the misery I have
suffered, and the misfortunes I have experienced in all my marchings and counter-
marchings; my sleeping in the open air by night, and scorched by the sun by day."
"And what may that be, colonel?"
"Why, the power it gives me of conferring happiness and wealth upon you; for, in the
natural course of events, you will outlive me."
"Oh, for mercy's sake, don't talk of that, sir."
"But it is a matter that I can think of calmly enough; and, as a soldier, I have ample
occasion, I can assure you."
"Indeed! I dare say you must have."
"I can remember, on one occasion, especially, which I will relate to you, if I do not
weary," said Colonel Deverill.
"On, no -- no! I cannot be weary," said Margaret.
"Then I will tell you. I was ordered to march some troops to attack the stockade of
Puttythempoor, a very strong place."
"Was it a town?"
"No, merely a place of strength, where the enemy had gathered together in great numbers;
and here we were determined to attack them. The stockade was a very strong place; and
there were strong and high timber fences, with large mounds of earth and bags of sand, all
tending to make the place one of great strength," said the colonel.
"What a place it must have been!"
"Yes; it was very strong. Well, my party did not amount to more than fifteen hundred
men strong, while the enemy, with the advantages of the defence, were more than three
thousand, giving them a vast superiority over us; but we were not to be daunted by that; we
were determined to make a dash, and, from the character of the men I commanded, I had no
fear of the result. We were sure to make our way among them, and then we were sure of the
result."
"How dreadful!"

"Well, the men were divided into three bodies -- five hundred each -- and these into
divisions of one hundred each, the one to support the other. We had no guns, and were
therefore compelled to depend entirely upon our luck in the assault."
"Goodness me! I wonder how you could think of it with anything like case or comfort. It
would make me all of a freeze!"
"Oh, Margaret! when the soldier is in the field of battle, he must get the better of all
feelings, save those of honour."
"It is too true!" said Margaret, with a sigh.
"And then," said Colonel Deverill, "we, having arranged our plans, and settled who was
to take the command, if I had the mischance to fall -- "
"Good Heavens!"
"Well, I say, having done all this, we were resolved to make a dash at the point, and take
the place by assault. To do this the more effectually, we were resolved to make the attempt
in three different places at once, so as to divert the enemy's attention, and to place them in a
cross fire, and thus take them the more easily.
"This plan was carried out to the letter, and we made the attack; but the enemy defended
their stockade so vigorously, and what with the strength of the place, and the determination
of the enemy, we were for some time repulsed -- at least, held at bay.
"This would never do, I thought. I must mount the breach myself; for, if my division was
held at bay, I had fears of the rest; they might meet repulses also, which would occasion the
loss of our whole party, which would have been sure destruction; not defeat alone, but
imprisionment, and possibly death from ill-usage, or from malignant disorders."
"What fearful scenes!"
"I ordered my men to keep close and follow me. We made a dash at the stockade three
abreast, and up we went. By Jove, it was fine work -- a brave sight -- a sight I can never
forget while I have remembrance left me. We got up the stockade Heaven knows how, and
were over it in the space of a minute; but the impetuosity of those who came first was not
seconded by those who came after; it was easy enough to get down among the Indians, but
it was very hard to get up; and while our friends were getting up, we were exposed to the
strength of hundreds -- only four men to as many hundreds for several minutes."
"Goodness, how dreadful! Were you not all killed?"
"Except for myself, they were all killed. Each received a dozen wounds, and I should
have met with the same fate, but for an Indian officer, who, seeing me surrounded and

thrown down, saved my life from the fury of his men; but, in a minute after, I was free --
my own men came down by dozens, and the blacks wre swept off by the hundred.
"At that moment, too, there were our other parties just appearing over the other parts of
the stockade, so we had now plenty of assistance.
"The blacks now on all sides fell in numbers before the fire, and the place was our own;
and a hearty cheer was given that made the woods re-echo again."
"Were you not glad the danger was over?"
"The danger was not over, though we thought it was; for suddenly the earth heaved up
with a tremendous explosion, and many of our poor fellows were blown up into the air, and
I myself was completely knocked over and smothered in dirt; however, it was dry, and we
were soon put to rights again. I was picked up, and nothing more happened."
"What was the cause of your disaster?"
"Oh, a mine the scamps had sprung as they were retiring, hoping to do us more mischief
than they did; however, we beat them off, and they lost many men on that occasion, and did
not show themselves again, but made the best of their way through the woods and jungle by
some paths that we did not know, and hence we did not follow them further."
"It must have been dreadfully dangerous."
"Yes, life was the game we played for, and it was won and lost often enough, during that
war; but we must expect it should be so.["]
"But you are now safe."
"Yes, I am now safe, and, I may say, happy. I have had some knocks, and am none the
better for them bodily; but then I have had them well paid for, so I must not complain. I
have now but one object to attain before I die."
"And what may that be, colonel, if it be no secret?"
"It is not to you, Miss Meredith," said the colonel; "it is an early day -- a day on which I
may claim you as my own; then, indeed, I shall have lived and accomplished something; an
object worth living for, and, may I say so, worth dying for."
"Ah, I hope you may live many years yet, colonel -- many years of life and happiness, to
enjoy the fortune you have so gallantly won. Indeed, I think no fortune ought to give so
much joy as the soldier's."
"And why, Miss Meredith?"

"Because there is none so arduously won; won often with bloodshed, and even life; it
ought, indeed, to give great and lasting happiness."
"If I obtain my wishes, I shall be the happiest man in the universe; and I would go
through all I have gone through over -- aye, twice over, and that is no little -- to have such a
reward as the one I now seek -- it is the crowning happiness of my life."
"You are very kind to say all this -- "
"Aye, but I mean it. It is no common compliment," said the colonel; "I mean what I say,
most earnestly. Do you believe what I say? I am not used to the pretty speeches of young
men who make love -- perhaps I ought; but I am an old soldier, and am but little used to
these ways; however, I have spoken my mind, and I hope you will not allow any one else to
injure my cause."
"Anything you have said, Colonel Deverill, has been of too serious a nature for me to
think of anything save the object itself. Your conduct has been that of a gentleman, and I
should be wanting in respect to myself, and courtesy to you, to think otherwise than
seriously of it," was the wily reply of Margaret.
"You have my own thoughts," said the colonel.
"There is my ma'," said Margaret, as the knocker and bell sounded.
"You will do your utmost with Mrs. Meredith for me, and I will beseech her myself," said
the colonel; "I hope she will take things in a favourable light."
--

CHAPTER CXXXIII.
MRS. MEREDITH'S CONSULTATION WITH MR. TWISSEL, AND HER RESOLVE.
Mrs. Meredith's arrival was very opportune, for it broke off the interview; and Margaret
descended to the parlour, where her mother she knew would repair the moment she had
freed herself from her dress. Margaret was now left alone for a few moments. She felt all
the exultation of success in a strategy, and all the exhilaration of spirits that such a prospect
of wealth and riches floating before her eyes, and all the natural consequents upon such
possessions would give rise to.
"I shall be rich," she thought. "Aye, I shall not only be rich, but very rich -- I know I
shall. Well, he is old -- no matter; better be an old man's darling, than a young man's slave.
Yes; I shall know how to use wealth. I shall be able to spend a little of his countless hoards,
and he will not thwart me, I am sure. He will be too fond -- too doating, by far. I shall be
indulged like a spoiled child, I am sure."
Margaret smiled at the thought of what length the colonel might not be induced to carry
his fondness for her.
"He will not set any value upon what will give me pleasure. I am sure he will give me all
I ask. I have but to ask him for what I want, and he must comply. I am sure he is too easy --
too quiet and generous to make a moment's hesitation."
The colonel, too, was left to his reflections, but as to what they were we know not. He sat
long, silently gazing at the fire.
Mrs. Meredith now entered the apartment, and, looking at her daughter, she said, --
"Eh! something been said, Margaret? I can see by your eye that the colonel has said
something to you. Am I not right, my dear?"
"Yes, ma'; you are right."
"Well, my love, and what did he say? I am dying with curiosity."
"It will be quite impossible to do that; but he has been quite explicit enough, without any
hesitation at all, or any reserve -- quite candid and open."
"He has offered?"
"Yes; he wishes for your consent; for I told him I could not possibly decide without your
consent and countenance. He did not disapprove of that, only he wished to propitiate you in
his favour, and begged me to let him have the satisfaction of knowing that he had my good
wishes, and that I could look upon him in a warmer light than a mere friend."

"Which I hope you did?"
"Yes, ma'. I let him imagine that I was not indifferent to his good opinion; but, at the
same time, I would not commit myself, but left him to infer a good deal. I think I know,
ma', how to manage such an affair well -- I may say, very well."
"Exactly, my love. I was sure you would."
"Yes, ma'; I should think I did. For when I found he had proceeded a certain distance, I
was resolved that he should speak out plump at once; and when I found he paused, I paused
too, and he was compelled to explain; but he betrayed no unwillingness, or anything like
hesitation at all, but he has fairly proposed himself to me."
"And you have not committed yourself?"
"Not in the least."
"Very well. I must be cautious, too not to do so; because I must have some conversation
with Mr. Twissel, so that we may proceed in a safe manner, and not commit ourselves in
any way as we shall repent of afterwards."
"How do you mean?"
"Why, child, you would not marry the colonel if he was not a rich man."
"Not exactly; though I must admit, ma', he is a very nice man -- a very nice man, and I
should be entitled to a widow's pension, if nothing more, and that I might not have under
some circumstances; even you yourself have been left worse off, you see."
"Yes, my child; but circumstances alter cases. I had a better prospect when I first married,
else I would not have done so, you may depend upon it. However, we can always retrace
our steps, and he cannot. But I will get Mr. Twissel to come and see into matters a bit for
us."
"Well, ma', you shall do as you think fit -- only, take care not to throw away a good
chance because you have greater hopes."
"Has he said anything about his property?"
"Not a word, except it was to intimate it was large, and he had won it very hardly, with
great danger; but he did not say what it consisted of. Of course I could not ask."
"Oh, dear, no."
"But he intimated he would keep a carriage, and a country house, as well as a town house,
besides several other matters, which makes it plain enough he has been used to plenty;

besides, as he spoke to me in describing some scenes in India, he appeared so much

animated that I am sure he must be what he appears to be, and what he says he is."
"Ah, well, I think myself it is all quite right, and that we shall have nothing to repent
there; but we will let all go on but the naming of the day -- that must not be named, for, if
we do, we shall not be able to retract."
"Oh, no, we shall not have any occasion to do that, I think; but I dare say he will speak to
you to-night, as there is time at supper especially."
"No doubt. You may as well retire early, so that you may be absent, and that will give us
greater liberty to talk than if you were presnt, my dear. I wish Mr. Twissel were here; but it
can't be helped; and when he does come, I must have some conversation with him, and I
must, in the meantime, learn what I can for him to inquire about afterwards."
Thus resolved, Margaret went to bed early, leaving her mother to attend upon the colonel,
who sat looking at the fire without any change of posture since the last time he was seen by
the girl; but Mrs. Meredith caused him to break the steady gaze and deep thought he was
indulging in.
"I hope you have been quite well, colonel, since I left?"
"Yes, quite well, Mrs. Meredith."
"What would you choose for supper?"
"Margaret -- "
"Eh?" said Mrs. Meredith, amazed.
"I beg your pardon; I did not know you were near -- at least, I did not know I spoke at the
moment; but, pray, what did you desire to know?"
"What you would have for supper, sir?"
"Oh, whatever you have at hand; some of what we had for dinner -- I think I should like it
as soon as you feel disposed to have it. I am ready -- quite ready."
"Then it shall be had at once, sir," said Mrs. Meredith; "I will order it up immediately, for
it is later than I intended to have stopped out; but the hours so soon ran away, and there
were so many motives to forget the time that was flying so fast."
The supper was soon laid, and the colonel and Mrs. Meredith alone sat down to it, at his
earnest request. Indeed, they used to have meals much in common; for the colonel
professed to be very fond of female company, and was desirous of their company, which
they translated into a desire for the presence of Margaret herself.

The supper was laid and over before the colonel said anything; but appeared to be
absorbed in deep thought, from which it was difficult to arouse himself. But at length, after
looking around once or twice, and not seeing Margaret at table, he said to Mrs. Meredith, --
"I hope I have not driven your daughter away."
"Oh, no, sir; she complains of headache, and has gone to bed somewhat earlier than
usual."
"I fear I must lay the blame on myself."
"She did not say you were the cause," replied Mrs. Meredith, "of her ailment; and,
therefore, I think you must be free from blame; for she would have said so, if it had so
happened. She generally speaks the truth in such matters, at least, and, I believe, in every
other."
"No doubt; but I have been speaking upon a subject that concerns my own happiness to
her, and perhaps the excitement may have caused her some evil of that sort. She would not,
perhaps, name it to you, Mrs. Meredith; but I will. You have been a wife yourself, and
know that a few candid words are better, and more to the purpose, than a long desultory
courtship."
"Yes, sir; it certainly is so."
"There is some difference, too, in our ages," said the colonel. "I have not overlooked that
matter, at all events; but I hope that will be no cause of impediment or objection."
"It cannot be, sir, in such a case as your own, for instance."
"Well, then, I have proposed for her husband. I wish to make her my wife. I am yet hale
and hearty, and have some few years yet which I could wish to pass in happiness, and
which I will use to make her happy. And if I die early, I have ample means of providing for
her -- of leaving her a most handsome and ample fortune. Not more than she deserves; but
possibly more than she might have thought of seeking."
"Certainly, sir."
"Then I wish for your consent to our future happiness."
"You may have my good wishes," said Mrs. Meredith.
"You are very good," said the colonel; "and I trust your daughter will live long to make
you happy by making her own apparent to you."

"Of course," said Mrs. Meredith, "this is rather a sudden affair; you will not think of
hurrying it to a conclusion, but permit her to become acquainted with you, and to know her
own mind."
"Certainly, I do wish it pushed on to a conclusion; but not so much so as to cause any

dissatisfaction. I am anxious to call he wife. My feelings are those of an ardent lover."
"I do not dispute it."
"Still you and she must be the best judges of all this. You will not, I hope, punish me by
compelling me to a longer probation than you are compelled to put me to. I am not like a
young man who has a fortune, or rather a living to earn; but I have one ready, a handsome
one, and my wife will be a lady of fortune when I die."
"Do not think of dying at such a moment, sir."
"Why, it is not desirable," said the colonel, who did not deem it necessary to carry the
conversation on any further that night; thinking, possibly, enough had been said for the first
occasion of revealing his passion, and he, no doubt, considered his success signal.
The supper then passed off in the usual style, and Mrs. Meredith left the colonel, and
wished him good night, wiht feelings somewhat akin to triumph, and returned to her own
daughter's room, there to cogitate and sleep upon what had that evening taken place. * * * *
*
The next day she determined to send to Mr. Twissel, and arrange the meeting she desired;
and, at the same time, she resolved that she would not push matters to the extremity, of
making a point of knowing what his property were, for she might lose all; she was
convinced that the colonel must be a man of large property; how could such a man live if he
were not.
That was a speculation she could not help indulging in. She knew that a man in Colonel
Deverill's line of life was quite able to support himself; besides, the jewels he had about
him were worth a large sum of money; putting all things together, she considered it was not
worth while to lose so good, so excellent an opportunity as the present for making a
brilliant, at least, an excellent settlement for her daughter, and a home for herself.
"There can be no fear," she muttered; "there can be no fear; her widow's pension will be a
better support to her than the livelihood of some."
Mr. Twissel was sent for; and, the papers she desired to find for him, she was fortunate
enough to discover, and laid them by at once. The attorney came willingly enough, and was
well pleased when he was informed of the success of the search after the papers, and
produced the bond, by which she agreed to give him one hundred pounds for his assistance
in the marriage affair.

However, he did not seem to agree with her, that she should not be over particular about
the colonel's property; he thought that there must be some inquiries made respecting it, to
ascertain if there were any or none.
"But," suggested Mrs. Meredith, "the colonel is a kind, but a proud man, and he would,
probably, take great and deep offence at any inquiry being made into his pecuniary affairs."
"Hardly, my dear madam; don't you see, love would be strong enough to counter-balance
that; he would make some allowance for paternal anxiety and love."
"There is much reason in all that; yet I have heard so much of these nabobs, that one is
afraid to lose a good chance by inadvertently touching their weak points; for, the kind of
society and company they have, their's is so different to what they find here."
"Yes, that is very true; but we should like to know that it is true. What service has he been
in -- I think, though, you said in the East India Service?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, I will make some inquiries at the house; they will answer my inquiries, and
no one will even be the wiser for it; they will, at least, tell me if there is such a person in the
service, and, perhaps, I can learn something more."
"Very well, that may be done. Will you come round with me to tea this evening, as I will
contrive to bring you in the presence of Colonel Deverill, whom you will then see and
converse with? I am not sure of it, but I will try to do so."
"I will be here," said the attorney; and, in the mean time, I will make the necessary
inquiries."
They parted upon this mutual good understanding; and the attorney, in high spirits, for the
papers were of great value to him, and the promised reward was a stimulous to a greater
exertion on behalf of Mrs. Meredith and her daughter, for he thought he could do business
for the Colonel, after this affair was settled -- such an opportunity of increasing his
connection did not offer every day.
Mrs. Meredith redoubled her assiduity about the person of Colonel Deverill; and, at the
same time, lost no opportunity of putting her daughter forward; nor was that daughter a bit
disinclined to take such opportunity as was offered her, of making the most of herself on
this occasion, to appear amiable, and in some new and languishing position, or to perform
some new service for the colonel.
--

CHAPTER CXXIV. [Chapter 134]
THE INTRODUCTION. -- THE ATTORNEY'S FIRST FEELER.
When the attorney had left the house he proceeded upon some business of his own, and
then he proceeded to the India House for the purpose of making inquiries after the colonel,
for his friend Mrs. Meredith. In the course of the day he did go to the India House, and,
upon making some inquiries, he was sent to a particular department of the house where he
saw two gentlemen.
"Pray, sir," said one, "what do you want?"
"I wish to make some inquiries concerning a Colonel Deverill, who is employed, or was
serving, in the Honourable East India service."
"In what part was he serving?"
"In India," said the attorney.
"But, to what presidency did he belong?"
"That I do not even know. He has been many years away from England, I understand, and
some of his friends have not heard from him for many years, and they are desirious of
finding out whether he is dead or alive; and if so, where he is."
"There is a Colonel Deverill returned this year from India."
"Indeed! Do you know anything of him?"
"Nothing more than he has retired from the service on his half pay, some time before he
came home, on account of his wounds."
"Is he rich?"
"I can answer no such question."
"I am a solicitor, and do not ask the question from an improper motive."
"You may not, sir, but we cannot answer such a a question. We have no inquisitorial
knowledge of the private circumstances of those gentlemen who have served in the
company's army; but, you put it to your won sagacity to consider how far it would be
probable for a man so placed, as regards rank and opportunity, in India, without making
money."
"I see; certainly -- he must."

"And yet, you know, there are means of getting rid of money."
"To be sure. I see."
"Not that I have any idea that such can be the case; indeed, I should be disposed to
believe the contrary, seeing the colonel must have been wounded long since, for the last
engagement must have been some few years since."
"Thank you. I will report what I have learned. You do not know where he can be found at
this time?"
"No, indeed; we have no information."
This being all he could learn, he left the India House, and as it was now about time to
return to Mrs. Meredith, he at once went back, and having seen all his business transacted,
he had now leisure to go there, and in a short time he arrived, and at once related to her all
that he had heard respecting the colonel, from the first to the last word of it.
"Well," said Mrs. Meredith, "that, at all events, is very satisfactory."
"Yes, it is something," said the attorney, "to know your man; but, as the clerk said, he
might have spent it, that is to say, dissipated it."
"Oh, it's impossible; he's been an invalid a long while now."
"Ah! there's no knowing what might be done in these cases. Who knows what he may
have done -- gambled and diced it away, and entered into extravagant speculations, which
may have turned out ruinous bubbles."
"Well, well, Mr. Twissell, we won't say much about what might be," said Mrs. Meredith;
"we won't care about them; but I am very much obliged to you for this trouble. It is,
however, a very satisfactory thing to know he is what he represented himself to be."
"Yes, that is a very great point gained."
"His veracity having been found unimpeachable in one point, may be presumed to be so
in another," said Margaret. "It appeared to me to be extremely probable, if not quite certain,
he is what he appears to be, I am glad that all is so far good."
"Be that as it may, it will be more satisfactory to know what his property really consists
of, and how much there is about it."
"No doubt; but it would not be worth while to risk anything on that account; he might
imagine we were mercenary, and that would disgust him altogether."
"That's what I am fearful of," said the mother.

"We may not yet have occasion to ask him any question, or to make any inquiries of him
at all, for we may be able to worm it all out of him."
"That is true," said Mrs. Meredith. "Dear me, there is the bell. Go, Margaret, and say we
have an old friend come to to tea; perhaps he will excuse you -- he may give the invitation
we desire.["]
Margaret at once departed, and proceeded to the colonel's room, and began to wait upon
him as usual; but he saw there was but one cup placed.
"Are you not going to take tea with me, Margaret?" he said. Am I to be a prisoner, and
put in solitary confinement for the evening?"
"Why, colonel, Mr. Twissel has called to take tea with my mother, and as he was a very
old and particular acquiaintance of my father's, I do not like to put a slight upon him."
"He is a gentleman, I presume?"
"Oh, yes, colonel, he is a member of the profession of the law."
"Oh! Well, will you ask him to tea with me? As we shall be both united, I hope your
friends will soon be mine; there can be no great objection to our acquaintance beginning
earlier. I am not fond of being entirely alone," [.]
"If we shall not be intruding upon you, sir," said Margaret, "I dare say my mother will. I
will tell her of your kindness immediately," [.]
In a few moments Margaret returned to her mother and the attorney, to whom she related
the invitation she had received from the colonel, and instantly clutched at the idea of going
to the colonel to tea, the thing, of all others, she most desired to do, and, at the same time,
she had calculated upon it; for the colonel appeared to be wholly dependant upon them for
society, which he appeared to be passionately fond of there, especially Margaret.
"That is just fortunate. Now, Mr. Twissel," said Mrs. Meredith, "you will be cautious, and
do not make any open attempt to discover what may be the peculiar species of property he
holds; it may do much mischief, you know."
"I am at your mercy," said the lawyer; "if you say so, I will not make any attempt, though
I must tell you, Mrs. Meredith, that you will be to blame if you allow your daughter to
marry without some inquiry being made; and if he mean well, he will take no offence."
"You may do what you can without broaching the subject to him. Still I think we have
heard enough to set all doubts at rest."

"I'm a professional man, my dear madam, and know what the world is, and have had
much experience in these matters; however, as I think there is much probability in all he
says, why, you shall see I will not do anything that will offend the nicest delicacy."
"That will be all we want, Mr. Twissel; and now come up stairs."
"Mr. Twissel, Colonel Deverill -- Colonel Deverill, Mr. Twissel, an old and dear friend of
my late husband, sir, who has called to visit us."
"I am very happy to see the gentleman," said the colonel, but with the air of a man who is
conscious of his own superiority, and that he is committing a condescending act. "Will you
please to be seated. Excuse my rising, sir; I am an invalid, and am lame; but you are
welcome."
"I am much obliged," returned the attorney, bowing. "My good friend Mrs. Meredith has
made me intrude upon you, else I had not done so."
"You are welcome, sir," again repeated Colonel Deverill. "Pray be seated; I have seen but
little company, and am glad now and then to converse with any one. Will you oblige me,
Mrs. Meredith, with making tea for us? Your services are really invaluable."
"Ah, Colonel! you are really too good."
"Not at all. I'm afraid I'm too much in the rear of the march of courtesy since I left
England, as our habits and manners in the East are very different to what they are here."
"Ah! I dare say they live in a style of regal magnificence and splendor," said the attorney.
"Yes; more so than you may at first imagine, and more so than in appearance; so much so
that it is difficult for the law at all times to take its course. It becomes a mere dead letter,
and the matter usually ends in some indignity being offered to its servants.["]
"Indeed, sir! that was dangerous."
"Not at all. It was an attorney, who having deputed some one to serve a process, and
finding that he could not, imagined that it was the fault of the process server, and he
determined to make the attempt himself, being well assured that he could succeed.
However, he found himself mistaken, for, after several disasters, that he was led into
purposely, he was well pumped upon by some slaves, and thought himself lucky in
escaping with life."
"That would never have been permitted here," said the attorney.
"No, possibly not; but there are not the distinctions between classes here that there are
there, and things are not on the same scale, either living or attendance."

"And yet, people who have passed their lives there, come to this country at last, they do
not like it well enough to remain there. They come back to the land of their birth, where
none of these things exist to fascinate them."
"Yes; they many live and die there -- very many; but, at the same time, those who do
return, do so because it is the land of their birth -- because they love the country, and
because they go there merely to make fortunes to come here and spend them."
["]They don't like the kind of investments, perhaps?"
"They usually do so, and it fetches a high price -- a very high price, and is considered
equal to the stocks of the Bank of England."
"That is first-rate stock, and on dividend days the place is usually surrounded with
strangers, who come to town for the purpose of receiving their incomes; indeed, it is quite
an interesting sight to strangers. Have you ever witnessed it? It is well worth the while to
go and see it."
"I never trouble myself anything about it," said the colonel; "but I must be going there, by
the way, to-morrow. I must have a coach."
"Do you know the routine of the banking business? It is confusing to one not used to it."
"I know enough for my own purpose."
"Didn't you find London much altered," inquired Margaret, anxious to give a turn to the
conversation, as she thought this attorney's conversation would appear as if it were much
too pointed -- "when you fisrt returned to England, and came to live here again?"
"I cannot say much about that," said the colonel; "because I was not in a condition to
twist about like many men; I am lame."
"Exactly; that must have deprived you of much of the pleasure one feels in surveying old
places and well remembered spots."
"It was," replied the colonel; "but in a place like London, alterations and additions are not
so extensive as to cause any alteration in general features, so as to make it perceivable at
once. It is only when you come to examine localities that you notice it. You improve and
alter parts, but the town is the same, and there is no doubt this appears th work of steady
growth, and not any one of sudden effort; indeed, the very additions to it have a character
which stamp it as being London."
"There is much truth about that," said the attorney.

"It is the same all over the world, and only in those places where the extent is but small,
than any great alteration makes a conspicuous and general change, and gives a new
character to the place."
As this conversation passed between them, the attorney making one or two delicate
allusions to property, and asking his advice respecting some purchases he wished to make.
To all which the colonel made but short and direct answers, and of such character, that it
was difficult to carry on the conversation upon that topic, at least, and both mother and
daughter looked beseechingly at him, so that he was compelled to resist, and found himself
completely baffled by what appeared the colonel's pride. * * * * *
"Well, Mrs. Meredith," said Mr. Twissel; "I have done my utmost with this Colonel
Deverill, and I can make nothing of him -- nothing at all, I assure you."
"You cannot form a bad opinion of him?"
"No -- no. He is at one moment one of the most agreeable men to converse with, and the
next moment he is frigid and severe; perhaps pain, or perhaps contempt for any one else,
may induce the alteration in his manner, and no allusion to himself does he make."
"Don't you think he is quite the gentleman, and a man used to good society?"
"Yes, I cannot doubt -- he has the air of all that he says; but he is going to the bank to-
morrow; now, I wonder if it is to receive dividends."
"I dare say it is," said Mrs. Meredith; "I have very little doubt of that, and yet I should
very much like to know; it would settle one's mind -- not that I would run any risk about the
matter. I would not have him offended for the world; it would be wilfully destroying a
chance that is so good, that we never can expect it to again occur, therefore we must not
lose it."
"Certainly not; I will undertake the matter myself," said the attorney, "so that there shall
not be any risk in a miscarriage, whatever. I will take care that nothing shall be done that
will be at all likely to reach his ears, or that will be displeasing to him."
"We will trust to your prudence, Mr. Twissel.["]
"You may do so safely, and depend upon my caution in this matter. Now I will be at hand
in the morning. If I am not here before he goes out, send for me, and let me know the hour;
if there is not time to reach here send me the number of the coach; I will post off to the
bank and there await until I see him come there."
"I will send to you, then," said Mrs. Meredith; "I think that a very good plan."

"But what will it do for you if you do see him enter the bank, that will tell you nothing,
and I cannot see the utility of it," said Margaret; "many people go into the Bank of England,
who do not go there to receive any money for themselves; so that would be inconclusive."
"It would," said the attorney; "but you must remember, I can enter too, and ascertain to
what portion of the building he goes, and I can learn how much he received, if any -- but I
must bid you good-by; for the present; do not forget to send to me at the first blush of the
affair, and then much subsequent trouble may be saved.
--

CHAPTER CXXV. [Chapter 135]
MR. TWISSEL'S MISADVENTURES. -- THE CONSEQUENCES OF BEING FOUND

IN THE BANK WITHOUT GIVING A SATISFACTORY ACCOUNT OF YOUR
BUSINESS THERE. -- AN UNPLEASANT DILEMMA.
The peculiar position of Mrs. Meredith and her daughter Margaret, in some measure, and
to a great degree, tied their hands, and caused a corresponding desire to know more than
was told them; at the same time, they were fearful of giving any offence to their new and
wealthy lodger. They were both avaricious and designing. To make a good settlement was
the grand object of their lives, and to that object they would sacrifice themselves -- at least,
sacrifice Margaret, who, by-the-bye, would consider it no sacrifice at all, but a great stroke
of good luck.
However, they could do nothing of themselves; they saw there was a great, and glorious
chance for the future; they felt they had entangled the colonel; they felt he had become a
victim to their snares, and they were unwilling that they should run any risk of a failure of
their plans.
"If we offend him, he may consider us avaricious and designing," they argued; "and that
might prove too strong an antidote to even an old man's love, and the prize might be
snatched out of our hands, and we might not only lose a rich husband, but a good lodger
also."
These considerations induced them to act more warily and cautious than the attorney, Mr.
Twissel, who was anxious at once to seize the bull by the horns, and come to an
explanation, and thus save himself much labour and time, for the sooner there was an
explanation the better; and he did not apprehend the result that they did; he believed it
would only appear proper caution on the part of a mother.
They had different opinions; and, between the two, there was an indecisive policy
adopted, which occasioned delay and uncertainty.
There was no doubt but the colonel meant matrimony; his infirmities were of no
consequence. It was not the man, but the money, that was wanted, and which was sought
with perseverance and constancy. They appeared negligent of money matters before the
colonel; and, when he paid them, which he did regularly, he alwasys appeared to have
money about him, which, of course, increased their respect, and gave them increased
confidence in him.
"It is all very well, ma," said Margaret, "but Mr. Twissel must not offend Colonel
Deverill; he is evidently a man much above him; his actions and manner are such, that at
once stamp him immeasurably his superior; now, as regards this property, there can be no
doubt but he must have enough."

"I think so, too, my dear; but it would be a dreadful thing if it should turn out otherwise in
the end; it would really be very dreadful; I should never survive it."
"Nor I mother."
"What is to be done? -- I declare I am at my wits' end."
"There is no fear, ma; do you not remember that Mr. Twissel himself has found out that
he is Colonel Deverill, and that he has retired from the army of the Company?"
"Indeed, my dear, that is correct; I had forgotten that -- quite forgotten it; but it may so
happen he has no money at all; he may have spent it."
"He does not appear to be extravagant," said Margaret; "he has retired upon his half-pay,
which you know must be a very good living, and I am sure of a widow's pension, if nothing
more; and, besides, I am sure, from what he has said, there must be money."
"Well, I think so, too, my dear," said Mrs. Meredith; "and I think it will be better that
things should go on as the colonel desires; to lose him him [sic] would be horribly
aggravating."
"So it will, ma, because I am sure he will do justice. It is not like as if we had money, too,
and were as willing to have our affairs investigated, as we are to investigate his."
"That is very true, my dear, very true; and Mr. Twissel does not seem to know that; that I
will tell him when I see him; by the way, I must send to him, to tell him the colonel is going
out in about an hour. If he can find out anything, without compromising us in the affair,
why, he may do so, and welcome; for, you must acknowledge, it will be all the more
satifactory."
"Yes, yes, I admit that; but I would not wilfully lose a good opportunity."
"I must now send off to him. Mary must go, and that, too, as quickly as she can; for I
shall want her back again very soon, so she must run."
"Then, the sooner she goes the better," said Margaret.
Mary was sent to Mr. Twissel, who happened to be at home at the time, and judging that
Mary had been a good time on the road, that there would be no time to go to Mrs.
Meredith's house, and then follow the coach, so he determined to go to the bank at once, so
that he would be there in time to see the colonel descend and enter the bank, into which he
would follow him.
He sent word back to Mrs. Meredith that he would go on, and see her as soon after as he
could; and then he made the best of his way towards the bank, where he arrived in good
time -- indeed, half-an-hour before the colonel, who did not set out so soon as he intended.

"Now," thought Twissel, "if he were to turn out all right, why, I shall be in good fortune;
but if bad, it would be laid upon my shoulders. They shall not say that I have not given
them attention enough for their money; and if I don't do something, they will say I haven't
earned my money; and though I can enforce payment of the bond, yet it may hurt my future
prospects with regard to my future connection with the family, which I hope to make a
profitable one in the long run."
Filled with these thoughts, he determined to watch with due caution for the arrival of the
colonel, on the other side of the way.
It was some time before the coach drove up, which it did after a considerable lapse of
time, and then Mr. Twissel crossed over, and placed himself in a position by the lamp-post
where he could obtain a good view of any one passing in and out of the coach.
"'Tis he," he muttered, as he saw the colonel step out of the carriage, and walk into the
bank very leisurely and quietly, leaning upon his stick, and walking lame. He watched him
into the bank -- he saw him go some distance down the passage, and then he muttered, --
"Now, I will follow him up closely."
And, after a moment's pause to permit some one to pass him, he then darted down the
passage into a kind of yard; but no, he could not see him; he was not there; and yet he was
so lame, he could not have got out of sight so soon as all that.
"He's gone to the dividend-office," he muttered; "I shall find him there," and away he
posted to that department; but he could not find him, he was -- he was not there. Then what
could have become of him? That was a point he could not solve.
"Well, this is very odd," he muttered; "very odd."
He paused to think over the matter; but that did not aid him. He was in the dark but
thought it was no use in waiting in any one place, so wandered about from office to office,
until he came to the body of the place, when he waited until some one came up to him, and
touched him on the shoulder. He turned round, and at once perceived it was an officer.
"What do you want with me?" inquired Twissel.
"What is your business here?" returned the officer, by way of reply.
"I am here upon my own business. I am at a loss to understand what you mean by asking
me such a question in a public place. What can you mean by it? I was never asked such a
question before, and cannot see why you should do so now."
"Excuse me, sir, I have ample warrant for what I am doing."
"Have you? Then state it."

"Easily. I have followed you about this last half-hour, and you have been wandering
about the place for some time, and looking about you in a manner that has excited a good
deal of suspicion, to say the least of it; and I must have some satifactory explanation."
"You can have that," replied Mr. Twissel, very much annoyed; "you can have any
explanation you can require. I am very sure I came here on my own affairs; what other
explanation can you require?"
"Your affairs may be ours also, and the explanation you have given will be just enough to
justify my taking you into custody -- so if you have no more to say, I must request the
favour of your company; that's my card of invitation; do you hear, sir?"
"Yes, I do; I am an attorney-at-law, and you may depend upon it I will not be content
without punishing you for this indignity -- I came in here because I saw a friend call, to
whom I wanted to speak."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know," said Twissel; "I have missed him."
"Very likely, and your friend will miss you for a short time; for you must come with me; -
- you have been found here without being able to give any account of yourself."
"I tell you I came in here to see Colonel Deverill."
"Well, what do we know of Colonel Deverill? We don't know anything about him, nor
you either; you must come with me. We are obligated to be very particular when we see
strangers walking about with no object whatever in view -- it is very suspicious."
"But I tell you I am a respectable attorney -- a professional man. I had no bad object in
view."
"That may be as you say; but you must come with me."
Seeing there no help for it, Mr. Twissel resigned himself into the officer's hands, and
followed him to the station-house, where he was examined byt the inspector, at the place
where he was taken.
"Well, sir," said the inspector, "this may be all very true, but we must have some proof of
what you assert; then we can let you go."
"I'll have a complaint against you."
"You may; but you must prove not only that what you say is true, but that there was no
cause for suspicion, and that you were not loitering about the bank, as the officer asserts
you were."

The attorney thought that it would be quite unnecessary to get into the public prints,
because it would not do for him to make use of Colonel Deverill's name; and that he had
already done. What was he do do? he had got into a very disagreeable scrape, out of which
he must now get in the best manner possible, and which he could not see his way clear to
do.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Give us some proof that you are the person whom you represent yourself to be," he
replied, "and then we can let you go at once."
"Then I will give you my card," said Twissel, producing his card-case.
"That is no proof," said the constable. "A man might have robbed you of your card-case,
and you would have some one passing himself off for yourself."
"What shall I do, then?" inquired Twissel.
"Send for some one who knows you, or send for your own clerk -- that will do."
"That I can do at once," replied Twissel; and he at once wrote a note to his clerk, and
gave it unsealed into the hands of the constable, and asked if there was any one who would
go with it.
"You can send a messenger; there are many who will do that if you pay them for it,"
replied the constable; and in another minute, for the sum of half-a-crown, a messenger
agreed to take the letter to his office, and deliver it to his clerk, and wait for him.
This was done, and until that time he was locked up in a cell, where he had a light
certainly, but in which he had no other comfort at all; but in about an hour and a half there
was the prospect of a relief; for he saw his clerk come into the station-house, and with him
the messenger, who came to the constable and said that was Mr. Twissel's clerk.
"Do you know Mr. Twissel?" inquired the constable.
"Yes, I do; he is my employer."
"Then point him out," said the constable.
At that moment, Mr. Twissel was brought in, and he at once pointed him out to the
satisfaction of the constable, who, with an admonition, consented to the enlargement of Mr.
Twissel, and in answer to his threat of future investigation, said to him, --
"You see, sir, the bank is such a place, that we are compelled to keep all persons out who
have no business there, and it must not be a place where people meet who have no

particular bank business to transact; do not wait about, then, for the future, sir, else you may
run the same danger."
Mr. Twissel left the station-house with a feeling very much akin to anger, and he walked
home with a very disagreeable feeling. He felt that he had been baffled, and had been also
much ill-used, and very much affronted.
"Where could he have got to?" he murmured. "He must have turned in some of the offices
-- confound him! I wish he had taken it into his head to tumble. I am sure he ain't no good;
if he were, I should not have been placed in such an unpleasant position."
Suddenly he recollected that there was no necessity for his going home, unless there had
been anything happened since his departure; and upon being informed that such was not the
case, he determined to alter his course, and proceed to Mrs. Meredith, and relate the
misfortunes that had befallen him.
"And if that don't satify her I have her interest at heart, why, nothing will."
And he left his clerk, after giving him some directions, and then turned off towards
Bloomsbury-square, where he arrived just before tea time.
--

CHAPTER CXXVI. [ Chapter 136]
AN EVENING WITH COLONEL DEVERILL. -- THE STRATAGEM OF MRS.

MEREDITH.
Mr. Twissel seated himself by Mrs. Meredith's fire, not at all pleased with what he had
anticipated and expected on that day, and yet well pleased that there was an end to it; but, at
the same time, he had conceived a dislike for the colonel, of which the reader can easily
guess the reason. The colonel had received him rather haughtily, and he was annoyed at it,
and he was resolved that he would do him no service; and now, the indignity he had
received was so vexing, that he knew not on whom to wreak his anger -- at all events, it
gave him a great dislike to the colonel, which would require a considerable time to
overcome.
He sat there, waiting for Mrs. Meredith, who was then engaged somewhere else; but it
was not long before she entered the apartment in which Mr. Twissel sat meditating upon his
misadventure, and considering in his own mind what would be the best course to pursue.
"Oh, Mr. Twissel!" she said, "I hope you have not been waiting long for me."
"Not long, ma'am."
"And how have you got on to-day, Mr. Twissel?"
"Rather indifferently indeed," said Twissel, with a groan; "I may say very indifferently
indeed. I have had plenty of incident -- I may say of adventure -- I ought to say
misadventure, which appears to have dogged me step by step in this affair."
"Indeed! I am amazed at that," said Mrs. Meredith.
"You would be more so if you knew all."
"Tell me what has happened, Mr. Twissel," said Mrs. Meredith. "I am anxious to hear to
hear what can have happened to you of this character. I hope it did not happen in
consequence of your doing anything in this affair of Colonel Deverill's."
"Indeed it did, Mrs. Meredith," said the attorney, solemnly. "I have been sedulously
engaged in this affair, and I have been seriously inconvenienced by it."
"I regret it very much."
"But you could not have helped it, Mrs. Meredith," said Twissel. "You could not have
helped it at all. I know that very well, there fore there is no blame attached to you. You are
free; but I have suffered, nevertheless. I have suffered."
"Dear me, how sorry I am, to be sure."

"Yes, ma'am, but it can't be helped. I was taken into custody as a suspicious person, and
had some difficulty in getting my release from custody."
Mrs. Meredith lifted her hands and her eyes to express the amount of astonishment she
felt.
"Yes, Mrs. Meredith. I followed the colonel into the Bank of England, and there I saw
him enter, but by some wonderful means he suddenly disappeared. I missed him, and could
not again obtain the slightest clue to him. I did not again set eye upon him, and while
endeavouring to regain the track, I was taken into custody for loitering about."
"Indeed. Then you have learned nothing about the colonel?"
"Nothing at all. I missed him. I saw him going into the bank, and that was all."
"Well, he has come back, and appears to have received money. I should think there could
be doubt as to where he got it from."
"It is a mystery."
"Indeed. I should hardly think it possible, as you saw him go in. What would he go there
for but for money matters? It seems clear enough to me. I have no doubt in my own mind --
everything appears to be straightforward and plain."
"Indeed," muttered the attorney; "there is much truth in that. I have had a straightforward
intimation that I have been considered a suspicious person."
"I regret it very much; but here's Margaret."
At that moment Margaret entered the apartment in which her mother and Mr. Twissel
were seated. There was an air of triumph in her eye when she entered, and her mother at
once divined the cause; but she said nothing, and waited until Margaret spoke.
"Ma," she said, "it is tea-time, and the colonel expects you up stairs; and if you had any
friends, he hoped you would not deprive him of your company on that account, but bring
them up stairs to tea. He is particularly good-humoured to night."
"Curse him," involuntarily exclaimed the attorney, as he heard of the good-humour the
colonel was in, and he had so much cause to be vexed himself.
"Will you come with us, Mr. Twissel?"
"I will, thank you, ma'am. I am very tired," said Twissel, as he thought it would afford
him some opportunity of discovering something that would enable him to be revenged, and
at the same time do a seeming service to the other party.

"At all events," he muttered, "it will give me a change of making a more intimate and
useful acquaintance with him. I must do something or other, and I may as well make a good
thing of it as well as a bad one. That wouldn't be bad policy."
"Then you had better come up at once," said Margaret, "for the tea is waiting."
Thus urged, Mrs. Meredith and Mr. Twissel followed Margaret, and walked up to the
drawing-room, where the colonel was, as before, seated in an easy chair, with the green
shade still over one eye, and his arm carried in a sling, though he did not appear to have lost
the entire use of it, and by his side was his stick, a valuable Malacca cane, with which he
walked, and his lame foot was supported by an ottoman.
"Well, sir," said the colonel, "I have the extreme felicity of meeting you again; be seated.
It is a very charming day, the most comfortable that I recollect since I have returned to
England."
"It is remarkably fine,:" said the attorney, shrugging his shoulders, and giving a
suspicious glance towards the colonel, as if he thought there was a latent smile lurking upon
the colonel's countenance; but he could not detect it, and yet he felt very much aggravated.
"There is, even in this climate," continued the colonel, "some decent weather; but then,
when matters go on happily and cheerfully, then the climate appears more genial and kind."
"Strange that it should be so," said Mr. Twissel; "but I can't help thinking he looks more
provoking than ever I saw in my life."
As he muttered, the colonel said, --
"What did you say, sir?"
"I merely said that we, who are used to it, look upon it in some other light than that of a
merely negative character; that is, we look upon some of it as positively good -- nay, we are
apt to call it beautiful, especially when it continues fine."
"Continues fine!" said the colonel; "does it really continue fine in this climate?"
"Why, one would think, colonel, you have never been in this country before, to hear you
talk; and yet you are a native of this country."
"Yes, I am; that is, I believe so; but I have spent so many years in Asia, that I am more a
native of India than this country. However, I believe what you say to be correct; but, you
see, the slightest change of weather affects my wounds, when you could not believe any
change that had taken place; or, at all events, the change would be so slight as to cause no
difference to you, and yet, even before that comes, I feel the approaching change."
"I day say you do, sir; but it must be unpleasant in the extreme."

"It certainly is; and I have found it so. Mrs. Meredith, I hope you enjoyed your walk; did
you go far?"
"No, Colonel, I did not; else I had not been back so soon. By the way, how do you feel
after your walk, or, rather, ride? I had not time to ask you before."
"Oh, I am very well; I enjoyed it much; but I must take another the day after tomorrow,"
said the colonel. "That is, another ride; for I cannot walk far."
"Do you intend going far?"
"To the South Sea House," replied the colonel.
"To the South Sea house," repeated the attorney to himself, as he sipped his tea; "he has
some of the stock on his hands. Well, I dare say that is likely; people belonging to these
companies generally prefer them to any other stock. However, I will follow him there, and
see if I can't do better. I will tread upon his heels but what I will find out something this
time, at all events."
"Are you acquainted with that stock?" he inquired, after a pause.
"What the South Sea Stock"? inquired the colonel.
"Yes."
"Not much; but I believe it to be a good, steady stock -- a very good investment; it will
pay you a better interest than the funds."
"But is it as secure?"
"Well, that is a very difficult thing to answer," said the colonel; "but I think is safe
enough. I have that opinion of it that I do not object to hold it."
"That, of course, is the best answer one can have to its presumed security."
"Yes, I have a good opinion of it, and do not object holding it, as I said before; and that is
the best opinion that can well be offered. Have you any?"
"None, sir; but I have a friend, who wanted to purchase stock of some kind, or to place
money out to advantage, and I wished to learn a little more concerning it."
"I do not mean to say there is no better; but when you have once invested your money,
you do not like to change the stock."
"Certainly not; it is unadvisable," said the attorney, "unless you have some specific
reason for so doing at the best of times. You are the loser by the expenses."

"Well," said Mrs. Meredith, "I am very glad to see you are so well after your journey."
"Journey, do you call it? Why ma'am, I cannot call anything less than some few hundred
miles a journey; anything less is a mere bagatelle."
"Dear me, colonel; what journeys you must have travelled."
"Indeed I have, madam; some of hem beautiful and romantic, and some of them dreary,
and some terrible, from the obstacles that opposed us, and others, from the nature of the
ground that we had to go over, and the dangers attendant from fatigue, climate, and the
enemy."
"It must be a terrible thing; females in those parts are out of the question."
"Oh! dear, no; there are ladies, and English ladies, too, who live there for years, and who
follow their husbands; movements with the camp, and who undergo all the dangers and
fatigues merrily and cheerfully, and even put some of the best of us to the blush for
fortitude."
"Well, I am glad we have a good character, even so far off as India."
"It cannot but be expected but the mothers of such men can bear fatigue and hardship,
else; their sons could never be what they are. However, we have many examples of heroism
in India, not of men only, but women also."
"Then there are many interesting points for us to hear explanation about India," said
Margaret; "I love to hear such things, especially from those who have been there, and
mixed up among the people who live here, and who have had much experience with them."
"I hope we shall have ample time to talk over many such matters,"returned the colonel,
"for to me it is pleasant to speak of the past, and relate all I have seen, known, and taken
part in, in a place so distant from us all, as our Eastern empire."
"Indeed, I love to hear them," said Margaret.
"I am afraid she will keep you pretty constantly employed in relating all that you have
ever seen, colonel," said Mrs. Meredith; "she's a strange girl, and has many fancies that
way; she fond of the wild, irregular life that you describe; she would have made an
excellent soldier's wife, I am sure; she's so fond of that kind of thing."
"I hope she will do so now, madam: and that she will have less of the fatigue and danger
that fall to the lot of a good many, for I candidly tell you it is one thing to hear these things
talked of, and another to bear with them. Plains of burning sand, and want of water,
mountainous regions covered with snow, and no means to obtain warmth and shelter, --
these are things exciting enough in a narrative, and yet heartbreaking to experience."

'Oh!" said the attorney; "there can be no doubt it's much better in perspective, than it is to
experience. I can easily imagine when you hear of battles and sieges, how they wish they
had been there; and how much would have been done by our individual exertions. But, dear
me, that's as different from being shot in the beginning, and so seeing none of the fun that
was to follow. Lord bless my heart, being put out of the way in that manner, positively
makes me nervous, I do believe. I could be hanged before I marched up to the breach."
"Fortunately, all men are not of that opinion, else we might all of us be murdered in our
beds, and no one to protect us," said Margaret, contemptuously.
"It is necessary," said the colonel, "that some men should be born for one purpose, and
some another. Some are poltroons from their birth, and require better men to take care of
them, while others win honour and profit on the field of death and danger, and snatch
triumph from the hands of death."
'Exactly," said the attorney; "half a loaf is better than no bread; and half a man is better
than no man at all; and I believe that many of them leave the field of battle, leave it in a
very little better state. Now, I should not care for life upon such terms; it must be such as is
worth living for, and such I do not consider life, when one is rendered a cripple all one's
life."
"Well," said the colonel, "we all have out different ideas upon that subject; but I rather
think the state would be nothing without the profession of arms, and the lawyers would
grace the lamp-posts, if I might judge from popular opinion."
"Popular opinion is nothing in this country upon such matters," said Twissel,
contemptuously.
"It amounts to something," retorted the colonel; "and you would say so, I imagine, if you
felt it clinging to your throat in the shape of a halter, administered by the canaille."
"Why," said Mrs. Meredith, "I dare say it isn't always expressed so forcibly, and Mr.
Twissel does not hold it of any importance, so long as it is not expressed so loudly as that."
"Certainly, Mrs. Meredith; that is my meaning; for an illegal act committed by a

contemptible portion of the population becomes of importance."
"So it does," said the colonel; "that is easily verified."
"But still we may be thankful to those who bravely fight and die, that we may be here in
ease and quiet, and free from danger, and able to enjoy our lives and homes in peace."
"That is true," said the attorney; "the one part of a nation cannot do without another; all
are necessary, and produce a powerful kingdom, and not only powerful, but rich and
intelligent."

"No doubt of that," said the colonel.
Tea was now cleared away, and some wine was placed upon the table, and the colonel
took a few glasses of some rare wine, of which he offered the attorney to drink, and the
latter willingly accepted, and found it some of the best he had tasted; and he continued to
taste it until he got quite talkative, and, to the pain and mortification of Mrs. Meredith,
began to talk in a strain that would in a short time have done them much discredit and
mischief.
Mrs. Meredith, however, always full of expedient, soon devised on that had the effect of
putting an end to a scene she feared would come to an unpleasant act, if continued in; and
therefore, left the room for a few minutes, and then when she returned, she said, --
"Mr. Twissel, you have been sent for; you are wanted immediately."
"I -- I sent for?"
"Yes, sir, you are wanted."
"Nobody knew I was here. Oh, yes, I told my clerk as I came along, confound him! Just
as I was so comfortable, too."
"We can finish this another time," said the colonel, pointing to the bottle.
"Yes, thank you. Good night, Colonel Deverill."
"Good evening, Mr. Twissel."
Mr. Twissel quitted the drawing-room, vowing vengeance to himself against the brute of
a clerk of his, who should dare to come and interrupt such an agreeable evening. It was
most horribly provoking. He could have called down the vengeance of the universe upon
the head of the offending mortal who had come for him, and in this mood of mind he
entered the parlour.
"Where is he -- where is he?"
"Where is who?" inquired Mrs. Meredith.
"My clerk -- the man who came for me."
"Listen, Mr. Twissel," said Mrs. Meredith; "I have called you out. No one has been for
you; but I had no other means of calling you out, as I wanted to speak to you."
"Well," said Mr. Twissel, half surprised and half vexed, "what do you want to say to me
now I am here."

"I want to impress upon you the fact, that the habits of the colonel lead him to retire
about this time, and I feared you, not knowing this, might stop beyond the proper moment,
and so took this method of telling you what I am sure you would like to know."
Mr. Twissel could not object; there was something reasonable in it, and yet he was at
heart vexed, and could not help saying, --
"I should have thought the colonel would not have been so pleasant and so talkative; if
he had not been comfortable, he would have said so."
"Oh, dear, no, he would not have done that, even if you had remained till daylight; he has
too much courtesy towards a stranger to do so."
"Very well," said Twissel, "I will be gone. However, I will take care and not forget the
South Sea House the day after to-morrow. You must make the best of it you can, and let me
know when he is likely to go, so that I may not lose any chance."
"Certainly not. I'll do as I did before," said the lady.
"Do so."
"And I hope you will meet with better luck than you met with before."
"I hope so too," said the attorney, gravely. "However, here I am, and I'll do all that I can
do for you. Good by, Mrs. Meredith -- good day -- good night."
"Good night," said Mrs. Meredith, and the attorney left the house, to their inexpressible
relief, for he was growing very talkative and very troublesome too, for the misfortune was,
he more than once touched upon forbidden topics.
--

CHAPTER CXXVII. [Chapter 137]
THE DIFFICULTIES TO BE ENCOUNTERED IN THE CHOICE OF A

BRIDESMAID.
"Well, Margaret," said Mrs. Meredith, when they were alone in their own apartment --
"well, and how have you got on with the colonel?"
"Oh, very well indeed, ma'."
"I am glad of it. Has he proposed anything new to you, my dear, or has he said anything
more to you of a particular character? Has he said anything respecting property? That is
what we want to know pretty well, and that is the only point that can be more than usually
interesting to us."
"No, ma', nothing about property. I could not expect he would say anything to me, and I
hardly expect he would to any one at all. You see, he is no doubt a rich man."
"Well, and he would not consider it at all necessary to say anything about it to any one;
that it is so peculiarly private, and has nothing to do with any one; and he does not imagine
that we require anything of the kind. I am sure if the thought entered his mind, he would at
once satisfy us upon the subject. I cannot speak to him about it, because, having none, I am
really not entitled to do so. That's my opinion upon the subject, though Mr. Twissel, I dare
say, has a different one to me; indeed, he generally has one of his own."
"Yes, you may depend upon that; but I have been thinking the matter over, and I am sure
he is what he says he is. But what did he say, my dear?"
"Why, he insists that I shall name an early day."
"Insists! my child. What does he mean?"
"Merely in a good-natured, though urgent manner. Indeed, he wishes me to make up my

mind and have him at once. If I'll consent to have him, he'll obtain a special licence to
solemnize the marriage here in this house, or at church, which I like best. Which shall I
consent to, ma'?"
"Well, my dear, I think you may as well be married at home; it will be so much more
fashionable than going to church."
"It will be much more trouble, and will hardly seem like a marriage, I think, if it is not
done at a church. What do you think?"
"It will make more noise," said Mrs. Meredith, "if it is done at home; and yet nobody can
say a word about it if it takes place at church."

"So I think, now; so I think."
"Well, what did you decide?"
"I did not decide upon anything," said Margaret; "I declined to do so upon the moment,
but said I would think about it, and after a few words, I promised I would let him know the
next time he spoke to me about it, which should not be before tomorrow afternoon."
"Very well, my dear. A becoming reluctance will never hurt your cause; you have done
quite right, and I have no doubt but he will feel more pleased with you than if you had at
once consented upon his first asking."
"So I thought, ma," sad Margaret.
"But you must not carry that too far, or it may defeat its own object, when next he asked
you, you must affect a great deal of emotion -- trembling and blushing, and all that kind of
thing, which you can do very well; or if you should distrust yourself, you can practice it a
bit before a glass. I did it when I was your age, and I did it well."
"Yes, ma', I can manage all that well enough; but what time shall I name?"
"Well, that must in some measure depend upon the humour you find him in. If he be very
pressing, you may shorten the period; if he appear distant, lengthen it; but if there is any
danger, take him at his word at once, and have no delay. It will not do to lose a chance; he
must not be allowed to get off in that manner; and you must declare your confusion to be so
great that you hardly know what you say, but, as he is so very pressing, you will give in to
his wishes, and you may name any day you like best; and then he is caught, you see."
"I understand that clearly; but what time would you, as a medium time, give, which I out
to lengthen or shorten as occasion may seem to require?"
"Well, my dear, about a fortnight."
"Ah, that was on my own tongue, too. Well, then, I should not have done wrong in
naming three weeks or a month, which I felt disposed to say at first."
"No, no, but you need not make it more than three weeks, unless you see any fitting
occasion, or any necessity for so doing," said Mrs. Meredith. * * * *
After an amiable council the mother and daughter held, having for its object the
entanglement and speedy marrying of the unfortunate East Indian colonel, they both
indulged in balmy sleep, and slept till morn. The colonel himself said no more about the
object of the previous day's conversation, when the amiable mother left the daughter alone
with the colonel, who appeared as if actuated by clock-work; when the hour of his
forbearance had passed, he again spoke of the matter.

"Miss Meredith," he said, "my impatience will, I hope, be excused, on the score that my
love is ardent; and I have already waited as long as I promised. You know to what I allude."
"I am afraid I must say I do, Colonel Deverill," said Margaret; "but will you not grant me
more time to consider this matter over? Remember, it is a serious matter."
"Of that there is no doubt," said the colonel; "but I do not feel the same doubts you do, for
I only feel how much I can do for your happiness, and how willingly I will do it."
"Of that I can have no fear."
"Then why not consent at once? Consent to have the man who loves you who dotes upon
you, and who will do all that an ample fortune can enable him to do for your welfare, and
your future prosperity and comfort. Consider all that."
"I have considered much; I don't know that I need consider more than my present
happiness; the future will take care of itself; at all events, we can do no more than to
deserve to do well, and to succeed in all our undertakings -- to deserve to be happy."
"And do more you cannot; and who is there that can do as much?"
"We all endeavour to do so."
"I hope we do so, though I am sure there are many who might do better; but, to return to
my hopes, when will you consent to become mine -- say the day on which I am to be made
happy; and, if you really love me, make it as short as you can."
Margaret appeared to hesitate, and hung her head, trembled, and the blushes mounted her
cheek; the colonel caught her in his arms -- and pressing her to his bosom, he said, --
"Come, come, my own Margaret say when shall I be made happy."
"Oh! Deverill," she sighed, as she hid her face; "what shall I say -- you are so urgent;
shall I say a -- a fortnight; and yet that is, -- too -- too, soon."
"No -- no, not at all -- not at all; thank you, dear Margaret, thank you."
"I -- I -- I fear I have said too much; forgive me -- -"
"Nay, nay, no more about it; I will be content; to-morrow I will go to the city, and then I
will purchase the wedding-ring. I will obtain a licence, and then we shall be ready against
any contingencies; and on our wedding morning, I will have some jewels ready for you. I
have given them some orders, but they take a long while in getting ready."
"Oh, you are too good."

"Not a bit -- only just," said the colonel; and he appeared as though he were quite
satisfied with his conquest, and looked very well pleased with the success he had met with
in the prosecution of his suit. It was a settled thing now, and he was, or professed to be in
extacies. * * * *
"Mother," said Margaret as she entered the room, "it is all settled at last; I have given my
consent, and the day is named."
"Indeed! I am glad of it. When will the day arrive -- what day is it?"
"This day fortnight."
"This day fortnight! well -- well, that will be a very good time -- very good time, indeed;
we shall have a very busy time of it, for we must make the most of our arrangements
between this and then; for we must get you in a fit out; but if you have a dress to appear in,
that is as much as I shall be able to afford you, for my means are so short."
"I know all that; but he has promised me jewels, which he has ordered, but which will
take some time in making; but he expects them to be ready by our wedding-day. Come,
now, this seems to me to be a very handsome provision."
"Very, my dear; very fortunate, too, because you see the furniture was becoming
somewhat less new and fine that it was; that would have compelled me to lessen my terms;
so we should have gone gradually back, and, perhaps, been obliged to seek some other
mode of living."
"But you have some money by you?"
"That was reserved in case of extreme misfortunes, and I cannot realize that immediately;
however, it would only put off the evil day; but we are saved that, now -- we have caught a
rare good fish -- we have only to land him, that is, get some little to be done before we pull
him ashore. We must keep up the farce; but, I tell you, we must not be guided by Mr.
Twissel, though he is of great use."
"No, ma', we must not; I have thought on that."
"And yet I do not like to give up the idea of finding out first what he may have in the
shape of property, though I am sure it would do no good; yet, to have one's curiosity
satisfied is something gained. Still, I am not so curious that I must be satisfied at the
expense of our prospects."
"No, ma'; I am sure I want badly enough to know all about it, but I will restrain my
curiosity until I find out by means and at a time when no offence can be taken; or, if it be,
why it's of no consequence, and I don't care anything about it, because I shall have a right
to speak for myself."

"Certainly, my dear, that is a very proper spirit -- a very proper spirt, indeed; but then he
won't interfere with you much, except it is to want you to be always at his elbow."
"Ah, I won't mind that, because, you see, he may make a will; but I'll take pretty good
care that nobody comes in between him and me."
"Exactly; you have no relatives on his side to tease you, or give you any trouble; therefore
you have all plain sailing before you."
"I have; and now, I suppose, it will not be too much to speak to one's bridesmaids?"
"Ah! my dear," said Mrs. Meredith, with a shake of the head.
"What's the matter, ma'?"
"Ah! my dear, there is the difficulty; you know how easy the colonel has fallen in love
with you; how sudden that has all come about, and how short a time the courtship has
continued."
"So much the better, ma'."
"Certainly, my love; but it should make you cautious -- very cautious, how you act with
bridesmaids, because you don't know what may happen with such old people as the colonel
-- they are dreadful, sometimes and you don't know what they will do. They will fall in love
with anybody; it is quite shocking to think of it; but it don't so much matter, only you see he
may take a violent fancy to some one, and then you may lose by the whole affair."
"How so, ma'?"
"Why, suppose he takes a fancy to one of the bridesmaids? -- you don't know what may
pass between them."
"Certainly not."
"Very well; then he may make a will to reward her, as he would call it, and then you lose
so much, which is a clear robbery, as I call it."
"So it would be, ma'; and yet, after all's said and done, I cannot tell what else we are to
do; some female friends we must have; and the only precaution we can take will be to get
some one as ugly as I can, and then keep her away as much as possible."
"The latter is the only effectual method, for ugliness is not always a safeguard, for men
have got such tastes, and what we think extremely plain, they, by a perversity of taste, will
persist in believing to be interesting, at least, if not pretty. I have known so many instances;
besides, I do know that even ugliness itself is no safeguard."

"Indeed, ma'!"
"No; I had an instance of that -- I may say two -- even with your father, who took a fancy
to two of the servants, one after the other. I am sure there was nothing in the hussies to
attract any attention; but then men will be men, and you can't help it."
"We must get rid of them."
"Yes, that is all you can do; but whom did you think of having?"
"There are the two Miss Stewards -- -"
"They are called pretty. I heard a gentleman say so at the last party we went to, so that I
think decidedly bad policy. I know the men's taste very well, my dear, but it is different to
what we call taste; I don't know why, but it is so."
"Well, ma', if the Misses Steward won't do, what do you say to the Misses Brown? They
are anything but even passable; besides, they are pitted with the small-pox, and very light
hair, almost carroty -- they are anything but fascinating."
"That may be all very true, my dear, but you know the Misses Brown sing, they are called
good figures, and dashing young women, and they are very bold, which might tempt many
people, especially when they are looking about for sweethearts."
"Yes, that is very true; then there are the Misses Smith -- they are very young -- much too
young to be at all likely to cause men to have any fancy for them."
"There, my dear innocent girl, you are entirely wrong -- most entirely wrong."
"Indeed, ma'?"
"Yes, my dear, you are innocence itself, because you have been brought up at home; but,
look here, men are the nastiest creatures alive -- why, some of them would fall in love with
a girl sixteen or seventeen years old. Aye, more than that, -- I have seen some of them
married at that age."
"Oh! I am shocked," said Margaret, as she lifted up her hands in amazement at this
description of the vices of men. "Ah! well they may say at church, 'And there is no good in
us.'"
"Indeed, my dear, you are quite right, and so is the Prayer-book -- but it is as I tell you;
beside, men never forget these things; they will remember faces they have seen for a year
or two, and then they will begin their games."
"Dear me, ma', what shall I do?"

"That is the difficulty, my dear. I would not have unfolded this book of vice before you,
had it not been necessary for your happiness."
"Oh! fiddle de dee ma' -- it's the money that I care for; it ain't the colonel, poor old
cripple. He may do as he pleases, as long as I get the gold."
"Well, my dear," said the careful mother, who felt the sedative effects of this speech,
"well, my dear, but you know they do waste their means in these affairs, and that most
outrageously, sometimes, to cause a ruinous effect upon their home."
"Oh! but he's too much of an invalid."
"Do you know, Margaret, I think the colonel is more of an invalid from habit than reality.
Sometimes, when nobody's looking, he can walk and use both feet alike, and even use his
left hand without any trouble at all."
"Do you really think so?"
"Yes, but I don't mean to say it is all sham. Oh, dear, no, but long habit, and the laziness
of these rich Indians is so great, that there is no knowing its extent. I don't believe they
would eat, if it wasn't for their being hungry."
"What is to be done?"
"I will tell you, my dear. Have Miss Twissel and her friend."
"Miss Twissel and Martha Briggs," exclaimed Miss Meredith with a giggle. "What a
fright!"
"So much the better, my dear -- so much the better. It is just what you want -- the very
thing above all others. Have a fool and a fright, and you can drop their acquaintance
whenever you like, and I think there can be no danger of the colonel's falling in love with
them. At least," added Mrs. Meredith, with emphasis, -- "at least, upon such an occasion."
"Very well, ma'. Let it be Miss Twissel and Martha Briggs. Goodness me, how I shall be
attended upon this occasion -- it will be quite laughable. I mustn't let the colonel see them
before the morning arrives, else he will be sure to laugh at them."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed both mother and daughter at the idea of the two frights, as they
called them, being bridesmaids; and in high good humour they both retired to rest for the
night, to dream of the forthcoming occasion.
--

CHAPTER CXXVIII. [Chapter 138]
MR. TWISSEL'S MISFORTUNES, AND HIS RESOLUTION NEVER TO GIVE IN.
The next day after that on which the conversation respecting the choice of a bridesmaid
took place, was the day on wihch the colonel was to visit the South Sea House.
Early that morning he ordered a coach to be in attendance, and left the house, saying that
he would be back in time for tea; that he had to make several purchases, and transact some
necessary business that would occupy him until that time. He kissed Margaret, and
whispered in her ear that he should call and see about the jewels, and urge the jeweller to
get them ready.
"These people are so dilatory," he said, "that, unless I worry them, they will disappoint
me of them; and I would not be without them on the occasion of our marriage for a trifle."
"We must not set our happiness upon such things," said Margaret.
"Ah, what self-denial you can exert!" said the colonel, playfully.
"No; my happiness is not fixed upon such objects as those, and, therefore, it is no trouble
to renounce them when it is necessary to do so."
"I hope there will be no need. I believe there will be none; but good bye till teatime, and
then we shall pass a pleasant evening together."
The colonel left the house, and no sooner had he done so, than Mrs. Meredith wrote a
short note to Mr. Twissel, informing him of the colonel's departure at a much eariler hour
than she had anticipated.
"Here, Mary," she said to the drudge.
"Yes, ma'am," replied the domestic.
"Just run as fast as you can to Mr. Twissel with this note, and don't let the grass grow
under your feet. Do you hear?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Away went the drudge as fast as she could to the man of law, and arrived there out of
breath; and having gone there fast, according to orders, she thought herself at liberty to take
her own time in going back, which she performed to perfection.
Mr. Twissel cursed himself for this unexpected departure; but there was no time for
deliberation. He crushed on his hat, took a coach, and drove as hard as the mysteriously-

kept-up cattle cold carry it, and was fortunate enough to see the colonel go by in another.
He jumped out, paid the jarvey, and then made a rush after the colonel, whom he saw going
up the steps.
Determined that he would not be outdone this time, he rushed through a crowd of men
who were near at hand, and jostled them so, that they gave him more oaths than was
consistent with courtesy, and one of them desired to know if he were running after himself
or anybody else.
Heedless of this, he pushed on, and trod upon a bricklayer's foot so hard, that the man
gave a great shout, and, by way of retaliation, brought his heavy hand down so hard upon
the attorney's hat, that the article of wearing apparel was forced below his chin, much to the
detriment of his vision, which was totally eclipsed.
In an instant he was struggling with his hat, and yet was unable to release himself from
the durance in which his head was held; but he found this was not all he had to contend
with, for he felt himself pushed and hustled about in a strange manner, till he was thrown
on a door step, and then he was suddenly left to himself, with no soul near him.
"Upon my word, this must be done on purpose, I do verily believe," said Mr. Twissel, as
he at length succeeded in wrenching his hat off his head, after many violent efforts; but
even then it was at the expense of the lining and skin off his nose, which was a very
disagreeable affair, after all.
Mr. Twissel, for a moment or two, stared round him, and wondered where he was, until,
at length, upon some examination, he found himself round the corner.
"Oh, I must have got hustled round the corner -- yes, yes, I see how it is; it's a down-right
conspiracy of theirs -- there can't be two minds."
But then, again, he thought what conspiracy could there be necessary to marry a girl
without money? If she had money, he could have understood it, but not as the matter stood
-- that was quite impossible. It was an impenetrable mystery.
As these thoughts passed through his mind, he was sitting on the step of a door, and,
seeing the blood trickle off his nose in vermillion drops upon the pavement, he felt for his
handkerchief to wipe the injured feature, and stop the bleeding.
But, alas! it was not in this pocket, nor in that; it was not in his hat -- he never carried it
there; if he had, his head would never have reached the crown of his hat -- that was quite
certain; it would have been better had he done so.
But, as it was not about him, where could it be? He knew that he had had it before he left
home on this errand; the truth, however, was not long before it came across his mind like a
flash of light. He had got among a gang of London thieves, who had hustled and robbed
him of his handkerchief.

This was suggestive of other matters, and he, in consequence, put his hand to his watch-
fob, but also that was gone, too. He gasped -- felt his breeches pocket, and then he sank
back, for he found his garments had been slit open by some sharp instrument, and his purse
had fled.
"D -- -n!" said the attorney, in a fury; but this subsided in a moment. The loss he had felt,
and the pushing about he had experienced, was too much; he felt weakened and
disheartened, and paused to think upon what he should do, and which way he should go.
"It's no use giving in," he muttered; "no use at all. I must go on. And yet, I had better go
and see if the coach is gone, for if it is still there -- and it can't have gone away yet -- I'll yet
go in and see if I can find him."
He walked round the corner, much shaken with what he had received in the way of
knocks and kicks, but when he did get round, he saw the coach was gone. There was,
however, a ticket-porter at hand, and he determined to go and ask him a few questions.
"My friend," he said, feeling in his pocket; "do you know a Colonel Deverill?"
"No," said the man; "never heard of him -- where does he live?"
"He came in here just now."
"Ah, did he?" replied the man, kicking a piece of orange peel off the pavement; "I don't
know him."
"Do you recollect a hackney-coach coming up to the door just now, with a lame
gentleman, who got out?"
"Yes; with a green shade over his eye."
"Yes -- that was the man."
"Oh, well, I never seed him afore -- I don't know him -- he didn't stop a minute."
"Oh!" said Mr. Twissel, and then he turned away, and walked towards his own house.
However, he felt in his pocket for some money; a small sum in silver was loose in his
pockets, and this he had saved, and he determined to treat himself to some brandy-and-
water, for he was really much knocked about, and terrified and nervous, so he went into the
first public-house he came to.
This was a low house, the parlour of which was situated a long way back, and he walked
in and threw himself into a seat.
"Well, well; here I am. This is disaster the second. Well, who would have believed I
should have met with such misadventures as those I have just gone through? There's a fate

in it. I am sure this is an unlucky business altogether -- of that I am certain. I got into the
watchhouse on the first occasion, but now I am worse than that; I have been knocked about
and robbed of money and goods -- fifteen pounds in my purse -- confound Colonel
Deverill, I say."
"What will you take, sir?"
"Eh?" inquired the bewildered attorney, who forgot that he had entered a public-house,
and the waiter was desiring to know what he wished to have.
"What will you like to take, sir?" inquired the waiter, again.
"A glass of brandy-and-water, and a biscuit."
The man left the room, and Twissel retired within himself to contemplate the evils he had
suffered, and those he was likely to endure.
"Well, I never thought I was in such a thing as this. Who would ever have believed it?
None, I am sure -- no one could. Confound them! I'll give it up as a bad job, and a bad job it
has been for me, I am quite confident of that."
"Brandy-and-water, and a biscuit," said the waiter, laying down the articles enumerated,
and Twissel gave the necessary cash, accompanied by the customary gratuity, which ranges
from ten to twenty-five per cent upon the money paid for the articles purchased.
We have often thought this a most exorbitant tax upon those who require accomodation.
If people cannot pay their own servants, they ought not to keep them; to be sure, you are
told you need not pay anything -- it is entirely voluntary, and that they do not wish it; but
you only obtain a flippant answer, so as to attract every one's eyes in the place, and the end
of it is, if there is much business, you don't get any attention at all.
"Well, I won't give in," said Mr. Twissel, with a thump on the table; but he had drank
nearly two-thirds of the brandy-and-water.
"No, I won't give in."
He swallowed down the remainder, finished the biscuit, and leaned back in his seat, and
then he began to talk to himself.
"I will not give in; after all that has passed, it would be a shame to be done, robbed,
beaten, and kicked; and then give in -- nonsense! I will go through the whole affair, and
that shall repay me in the end. I'll lay it on the thicker for this."
This was a comfortable resolution on the part of Mr. Twissel, and which appeared to
please him well, for he smiled quietly, and then rose much refreshed and left the house.

This last allusion of Twissel's was consolatory, and had an intimate connection with
certain imaginary charges he would make to the Deverill family when he got the business;
but as that was a matter buried in the womb of futurity, we will not follow him in his
speculations.
"I won't give in," he said, as he walked on, and thrust his hand into the slit that had been
cut in his trousers to extract his purse; but this only confirmed him in his resolution, and he
uttered again and again, "I won't give in."
"I won't give in," he murmured, as he sought the knocker of Mrs. Meredith's door. "I
won't give in -- I'm not a man whose resolution is easily shaken. Oh, dear, no; I'll tell my
good friend, Mrs. Meredith, all my troubles, and then ask her what she thinks of me -- if I
ain't an indefatigable friend, one who will never sink under difficulties.
--

CHAPTER CXXIX. [Chapter 139]
MRS. MEREDITH HAS A CONVERSATION WITH MR. TWISSEL. -- THE

ANNOUNCEMENT, AND THE INVITATION.
When the servant answered the knock, Mr. Twissel learned, to his severe disappointment,
that Mrs. Meredith was from home; and he was about to turn from the door, after leaving
his name, when the girl said that her mistress had left a message, the purport of which was,
that if he, Mr. Twissel, was to call, she would feel obliged by his awaiting her return, as her
absence would be but short, and the subject upon which she wished to see him was one of
particular importance.
Mr. Twissel was shown into the parlour much about the same as usual; but he himself
was somewhat of a different state. He himself was considerably disgusted with his share of
the business; but, as we have before stated, he was resolved never to give in; no, he was
resolved to carry it on to the end.
"It must come to a wind-up somehow or other, and at some time or other; but, at the same
time, as I have taken so much interest in that I am resolved to see it out, I won't lose all I
have lost for nothing; it shall be with me a neck or nothing affair; and, however aggravating
it may be, you will have a greater chance in the long run of coming off victorious."
Several minutes passed away, and still Mrs. Meredith came not. At length the attorney
began to grow somewhat impatient, and he looke around the apartment, as if to find some
object to pass away the time until her arrival. On a table in the centre of the room lay
several books, and he opened one or two of them for the purpose of ascertaining the nature
of the contents. The title of one of them attracted his attention; it consisted of a collection of
tales of the supernatural, and he opened it upon a legend called "The Dead Not Dead." It
possessed considerable interest, and Twissel was soon lost in its details. It ran as follows: --
The moon, with her train of glittering satellites following with silent grandeur in her
wake, is sailing, in lustrous glory, through the heavens, and shedding such a flood of light
over the face of nature, that the mountains and trees look as if some mighty hand had tinted
them with silver.
Our scene is a rocky pass amidst the stupendous Appenines -- one of the wildest, and yet
most beautiful of that romantic region.
At the foot of a tree, and on a spot on which the rays of the moon fall with all their power,
sits a young man, who is evidently watching over what appears to be a dead body that lies
prostrate at his feet. His head is resting on his hand, and he is regarding the form before him
with mingled fear and determination.
Hark! he speaks! What are his words?

"For full an hour have the rays of yonder luminary poured their radiance upon the ghastly
features of my dead master, and yet there is no effect visible. Surely he must have been
labouring under some fearful delusion of mind, and the dreadful compact of which he has
spoken had existence but in his imagination. I certainly had some little faith in the existence
of those scourges to mankind -- vampyres, but now, I am inclined to think, my faith will be
terribly shaken. In God's name, I hope it may."
The moon rose higher and higher, until, as she reached her zenith, everything was so
bathed in her gentle light, that scarcely a shadow was thrown around, save by the tall pines
that were scattered here and there upon the face of the rocks.
Suddenly there was a movement in the form of the dead man -- a spasmodic jerk of the
whole muscles of the frame, as if a galvanic battery had been applied to it; and then the
eyes slowly opened, though at first there was but little or no expression in them.
The young man started to his feet with an exclamation of horror, and stood glaring upon
the form with fixed and protruding eyes, his limbs trembling, and every feature distorted
with mental agony.
"Holy mother of God!" he murmured, in a low tone, "he moves! he moves! The terrible
compact is too true."
At this moment, though there was not the slightest appearance of a cloud in the whole
heavens, mutterings of thunder were heard, and the lightning was seen playing around the
tree-tops with a pale and sickly glare. The young man, so intensely was his attention fixed
upon the corpse at the foot of the tree, did not notice this phenomena; and he was at length
horrified at beholding a ball of blue fire dart from the air, and glide inot the ground
immediately at the head of him whom he had named as his master. Then there was a loud
explosion, and a glare of light so broad and strong that the watcher of the dead was obliged
to veil his eyes with his hands, and he could scarcely tell for some moments whether he
were deprived of his sight or not.
When he opened his eyes again, it was with a start of surprise, for, before him, with his
arms folded on his breast, and regarding him with a calm and untroubled countenance,
stood his master; while the moonlight streamed out upon the landscape, and as great a
silence as when he lay in death upon the ground reigned around.
"Oh, signor," he at length stammered, in broken tones -- "my vigil has been one of the
most terrible -- "
"Silence, Spalatro," said the resuscitated one, in a deep and hollow voice -- "silence. Not
a word, now or henceforth, must pass your lips respecting what you have seen to night.
Breathe but a syllable of what I am to a human being, and naught on earth shall hide you
from my vengeance."

Spalatro bowed before his master in obedience, while his frame gave a shudder of horror,
as he regarded the deathly appearance that still lingered in the signor's features.
"Spalatro," resumed the signor, after a slight pause, "you have rendered me great and
faithful service, and your reward has been proportionate; but there is yet another service
which I would seek at your hands. The Lady Oriana, for the possession of whom the Signor
Fracati and I have fought, and for whose sake I received the wound which deprived me for
a time of life, is at Florence, and at present ignorant of the mishap that befel me. The Signor
Fracati and yourself are the only persons who are aware of it. He will carry to Florence the
news of my death; and, on my re-appearance before the Lady Oriana, what tale can I invent
to satisfy her? No, no -- he must not reach Florence -- he must never look upon the Lady
Oriana again. You, Spalatro, wear a poniard, you have a powerful hand -- and you know
well where to strike. Rid me of this hated rival, and wealth shall be yours."
Spalatro stood rooted to the spot while the signor spoke, and an expression of mingled
horror and disgust crossed his countenance as the latter proceeded. When the signor had
concluded, he stepped a pace or two back, and in a tone full of indignation, said, --
"Signor Waldeberg, I am no assassin; my poniard is yet guiltless of shedding human

blood. I saw you receive what was thought to be a mortal wound in honourable combat
with the Signor Fracati, and in these arms I beheld you sink in death. You had extorted
from me a promise that after a certain lapse of time I would convey your body to this vast
solitude, and lay it where the moonbeams should fall upon it; for that then life should once
more revisit you. All this I have done, and faithfully; I feared to fail in my promise, for I
knew the penalty you would pay if you failed to fulfil the conditions of your compact. But,
signor, I am now no longer bound to you; you have commenced a fresh existence, which
you would baptise with blood; you have passed the portals of death, and I will no longer
serve you. I will seek another service and another master, who will require less at my
hands, though his pay may be lighter. Farewell, signor, and better thoughts to you."
Spalatro turned upon his heel as he spoke, and with a hasty wave of his hand was leaving
the spot, when the signor drew a pistol from a belt that was fastened round his waist, and,
exclaiming, "He knows too much respecting me to be suffered to live," fired it full at the
head of the young man. The latter uttered a yell of agony which echoed loudly amid the
awful silence, and fell lifeless on the earth. When the smoke from the pistol had cleared
away, that lonely spot was deserted save by the body of Spalatro, whose blood, streaming
upon the ground, reflected the moonbeams with a dull red glare. * * * *
When the morning sun broke over the mountain tops, its rays fell upon the form of the
still insensible Spalatro. It was but seldom that any footsteps, save those of the wolf or the
goat, left their impress on those rocks, and it was almost a miracle that the body of the
unfortunate man was not left a prey to the former.
About an hour after daybreak, the bells of a string of mules were heard in the distance,
accompanied by the cheerful song of the muleteer. A short time sufficed to bring the
cavalcade to the spot, where lay the body of Spalatro, and the muleteer, with a cry of alarm,
brought his train to a stop. Finding that life still remained, the humane mountaineer raised

him from the ground, placed him across one of the mules, and then hastened foward to the
next inn, which, however, was at some miles distance.
On arriving there, he found that the only apartment was occupied by a signor and his
daughter, who, however, when the condition of the wounded man was made known to
them, instantly relinquished it to him, and, after seeing his wounds looked to, ascertained
that no mortal result was to be feared, and giving orders that he should want for no attention
that money could procure, they pursued their journey.
It was many weeks before Spalatro recovered, and when he did regain his strength, he
learned, with a feeling of deep gratitude, that the lady who had been so instrumental in his
recovery was no other than the Signora Oriana. In an instant a vow was upon his lips that
he would save her from the power of the fearful monster, whose only mission now on earth,
seemed but to destroy the most beautiful of nature's creation. With this purpose fixed in his
mind, he one morning bid adieu to the residents of the little inn, and set off on his self-
imposed errand. * * * * *
Some days after the scene we have described as occurring on that lonely mountain pass, a
report reached Florence, where the Signora Oriana was then staying with her father, that the
Signor Fracati had met his death at the hands of a bravo, and that his body had been
discovered stabbed in innumerable places. The grief of Oriana was intense, for she held the
signor in great estimation, and she would have had but little hesitation in bestowing upon
him her hand, if her father's consent could but have been gained to the union. Signor
Vivaldi, however, had been captivated by the great wealth, personal appearance, and
captivating manners of the Signor Waldeberg, and he had fixed his mind upon him
becoming the husband of his daughter.
Weeks passed away, and the memory of the murdered Fracati was gradually fading from
the mind of Oriana. The respectful yet warm attentions of Waldeberg won upon a young
and innocent heart that had always felt a slight esteem for him, and as she knew that her
father's happiness in a great measure depended upon her consent to the union, it was at
length given with a freedom that brought joy to the old man's heart.
It was arranged that the ceremony should take place at a chateau belonging to Waldeberg,
in the neighbourhood of Lucca, whither it was resolved at once to proceed; and for this
purpose Signor Vivaldi and his daughter, accompanied by Waldeberg, left Florence for that
city.
As they were passing through the gates, a monk, with his cowl drawing carefully over his
face, stepped hastily up to the carriage window, and, thrusting a letter into the hands of
Oriana, as hastily disappeared.
With some surprise, she opened it and read it, and then a paleness overspread her
countenance, and she sank back in her seat almost insensible. Her father snatched the paper
from her trembling hand, and hastily glancing over its contents, with a look of anger,
handed it to the Signor Waldeberg.

"See, signor, what some meddling fool, envious of your happiness, has done to alarm my
daughter's fears. Does he deem us so grossly superstitious as to believe in such children's
tales?"
The signor took the paper, which he found to run thus: --
"SIGNORA, -- A grateful heart warns you. Wed not the murderer of Fracati -- wed not
him who, once returned from death to life, seeks but your hand to provide a victim for the
purpose of prolonging a hateful existence. If you despise this warning, at any rate, postone
the ceremony but for seven days from hence, and then his power of injuring you will have
departed from him."
"Do you know the writer, signor?" asked Vivaldi.
"It is evidently the handwriting of a servant of mine, whom I dismissed for insolence
some few weeks since," returned Waldeberg, a shade of vexation evidently passing across
his brow; "and he now takes this means of endeavouring to obtain his revenge. But I will
take means of having him punished."
They now endeavoured to soothe the agitation of Oriana, but the incident seemed to have
taken a firm hold upon her imagination, and, in spite of all their efforts, she found it
impossible to shake off the effect it had upon her.
The chateau, the place of their destination, was at length reached; preparations were
instantly commenced for the celebration of the marriage, which was to take place, by the
Signor Waldeberg's express desire, on the sixth day from that on which they had left
Florence. As the day drew near, the spirits of Oriana grew gradually depressed, and a slight
feeling of dread seemed to steal over her, whenever she found herself in the presence of her
lover. Her father questioned her as to its cause, and then she confessed that the mysterious
warning she had received preyed deeply on her mind. It might be a superstitious weakness,
but she could not repress it; and she requested her father, however reluctant he might be, to
consent to put it off for at least another day.
The entreaties of his daughter, though he laughed at her fears, prevailed upon the old
man, and he gave his consent to her request; but when he mentioned the alteration in the
time to Waldeberg, the countenance of the latter underwent a complete change to the hue of
death. No prayer, however, could prevail upon the old man to recal [sic] his consent to his
daughter's wish, and the signor departed evidently in a state of the greatest despair.
That night the Signora Oriana was missing from her chamber, and though the strictest
search was made for her, not the least trace of her presence could be found. The grief of the
father and the lover knew no bounds, and there seemed to be no hope of consolation for
them. * * * *
It is the night of the sixth day -- that day against which Oriana had been so mysteriously
warned. In a large vault, far beneath the chateau, and lighted by innumerable torches, that

threw a red and smoky glare around, stood the beautiful Oriana and the Signor Waldeberg.
The former was pale as marble, and an expression of the most intense despair was upon her
countenance.
The signor, resolved that she should become his wife before the expiration of the six
days, had torn her from her chamber, and immured her in that fearful place, with the hope
of forcing her to become his bride; but Oriana revolted at such usage, and feeling more
convinced than ever that the warning she had received had its foundation in truth, had
resisted alike his persuasions and his threats.
The hour of midnight was fast approaching, and before an altar that stood at one end of
the vault, was an old and venerable priest, with an open book in his hand. Waldeberg drew
Oriana towards him, and forced her to kneel at the foot of the altar. She entreated -- she
supplicated -- she appealed to the priest; his only answer was a solemn shake of the head,
and then he proceeded to read the marriage ceremony. Waldeberg took her hand -- but she
suddenly flung it from her, and uttered the most piercing screams that echoed fearfully
amidst those cavernous places. Still the priest read on, and despite her emotion and her
agony of terror, Waldeberg regarded her with a cold and determined gaze.
"Faster! faster!" he muttered to the priest, "or all will be lost!" and he glanced anxiously
around the vault.
At the moment, stiking fearfully on the silence, came the sound of the turret clock telling
the hour of midnight. On the first stroke, the most fearful sounds the human ear ever
listened to filled the place -- strange indefinite shadows flitted around, filling the air with a
rushing sound, as if of mighty wings -- the altar changed to a heap of human bones -- the
priest to a ghastly skeleton. Then came darkness, terrible and distinct; and Oriana swooned
upon the damp floor.
When she recovered, she found the day had broken, and the sunlight was streaming upon
her face; while her father and the young man whom she had seen wounded at the inn on the
mountains were stooping over her in alarm.
The inhabitants of the chateau had been alarmed in the dead of the night by a terrific
storm, which had thrown into ruins a part of the castle, and a vast chasm had been made in
the foundations, disclosing the vaults, the existence of which had been until then unknown.
Beneath the rich vestments of Waldeberg, and lying in a heap on the ground, were the
remains of a human skeleton -- all that was now left of the guilty being who had thus paid
the penalty for failing in complying with the conditions of the fearful compact into which
he had entered with the unholy powers of darkness.
It was many months before the mind of Oriana recovered its strength, and when it did,
she entered a convent of Ursuline nuns, and endeavoured to forget, in the consolations fo
religion, the fearful trial she had undergone. * * * *

Twissel laid down the book which he had been reading, and fell into a strange kind of
musing, in which the vampyre, Waldeberg, and the East India colonel were strangely mixed
up together. From this reverie he was awakened by a rap at the street-door, and then, in a
few minutes afterwards, Mrs. Meredith entered the room, exclaiming, --
"Well, Mr. Twissel, you always come in luck's way."
"Indeed!" said Mr. Twissel, involuntarily thinking of what he had that morning
undergone, as well as what he went through a day or two before; and, for the life of him, he
saw not what might be called luck, unless it was that species known as ill-luck.
"Yes, Mr. Twissel, you are; you've just come in time to hear the news."
"What news, ma'am -- what news? If you'll be pleased to enlighten me upon that subject,
I shall be better able to understand what you allude to."
"Why, you see, the colonel has been so pressing, that my daughter has been induced to
name the day. Yes, Mr. Twissel, she has named the day -- not a distant day either. He
begged and entreated you don't know how hard, which, at least, shows how much he meant
it."
"Well, truly, it is news, Mrs. Meredith," said the attorney; "but, at the same time, it is
what I expected, though not just at this juncture. The fact is, there is but little can be said
against Colonel Deverill; but, at the same time, there will be but little said for him. I am by
no means sure that there will be any property found. If he were a man of money, he would
not hesitate to lay his circumstances open."
"He is too proud a man for that."
"Well, it may be all very well to attribute it to that cause. However that may be, there can
be no doubt you have a right to do as you please, and I bow to you decision; but, still, I do
so, having expressed my opinion to the contrary, being very suspicious of him. But, as I
said before, you are entitled to do what you please in the affair; I have no right to do more."
"My daughter and I have been considering the matter over and over again, and we have
come to the conclusion that it should take place, and she has consented that it should take
place in about ten days' time, when we shall expect to have your company, Mr. Twissel."
"I am obliged to you, and assure you my opinions upon this matter are not at all personal.
I will meet the colonel, and I will be present with you all on that happy occasion with much
pleasure; and I hope it will be a fortunate and happy marriage."
"I hope so, too," said Mrs. Meredith; "and I have every reason to believe so."
"That is good," said the attorney.

"And now, Mr. Twissel," said Mrs. Meredith, "what did you do this morning at the South
Sea House? I could not send to you so early as I could have wished, as I did not know he
ws going till the coach was ordered, and he went away almost immediately. I then sent
Mary to you; I don't know at what time she came to you, but at all events she was not back
here until late."
"She must have got to my place in good time, if she only started after the colonel had left
this house," said the attorney.
"I am very glad of that, at all events; but what success did you have?"
"Success, indeed," said Mr. Twissel, with a shrug of mortification. "I have only
succeeded in getting myself into a very serious difficulty, and the colonel has eluded me
again. I can't understand it all. I don't know what to think; but I am sure of this, that I have
been in a series of disasters ever since I undertook to follow him about, and I have
discovered nothing concerning him."
"What has happened to you to-day, then?" inquired Mrs. Meredith.
"Oh! as for that, what seems to be but natural in itself; and, therefore, it may be said not
to be connected with him; indeed, though that were really the case, yet there is so much
concurrent action, I cannot divest myself of the idea that it is a fatal affair, as far as regards
looking after him."
"Then don't do so any more, Mr. Twissel."
"I'll never give in," said Twissel.
"Well, but what need you trouble yourself more about the affair? I assure you we're all
well satisfied that Colonel Deverill is Colonel Deverill, and that he had property; that being
the case, I am sure you have nothing to trouble yourself about, or to blame yourself for."
"I am conscious of that," said the attorney, rubbbing his knee. "I have done all I can; and I
have given my advice -- I hope I have done my part."
"Yes, you have," said Mrs. Meredith. "I am quite satisfied; but what has happened to
you?"
"I will tell you, my dear madam -- I will tell you. I have been assaulted, knocked about,
robbed, and my faculties all confused, and no use to me. I have lost my handerkerchief,
watch, and purse; and I have had my trowsers ripped open; and I can't tell what besides. I
am safe, however."
"Well, that is right, at all events; but it is most annoying to me that you should be subject
to those terrible accidents. I can't understand the meaning of it."

"I can't," said the attorney.
"But why should you, more than any one else, be subject to these misfortunes? I can't
understand it at all, Mr. Twissel. Perhaps you do something or other unusual on such
occassions, which had been the cause of such terrible trouble."
"Not that I am aware of," said Twissel; "but the fact is, I don't know of anything peculiar
in my appearance or behaviour, that should cause this disaster. But I am sure of this, that
there is nothing more singular about me, than what there usually is; and why it should only
attract notice on these occasions and no other, I cannot tell."
"Nor I. Well, I suppose it must have been there was some other circumstance,
independent alike of him and you, that had caused this diagreeable affair."
"Perhaps there might be."
"Well, now, Mr. Twissel, there's another affair I wish to speak to you about; or, rather, it's
a thing my daughter Margaret should speak to your daughter Elizabeth and Miss Martha
about. You see, as they are not very often together, I thought it right to speak to you first."
"Yes, ma'am -- go on, pray."
"Well, my Margaret is to be married in a few days. Now, we don't want relatives at all;
and I was advising her to beg your permission to have the two young ladies whom I have
named, as bridesmaids, and who will be of essential service to my daughter."
"I have no doubt but they will feel very much gratified with the proposal; and one could
not have been better devised than this one to please them."
"Then, will you invite them to come here, and spend the evening with Margaret and
yourself, Mr. Twissel, the first evening you find leisure and inclination?"
"Well, I have destroyed to-day, so far as a business day, by drinking brandy-and-water

early, and I may as well finish it in an agreeable manner."
"That is very good; we shall expect you to tea this evening."
"You may," said Mr. Twissel; "if you are not otherwise engaged. I may as well do all that
is necessary, so as to have as little to do, by-and-bye, as possible. Has the colonel come
home?"
"No, not yet; I did not expect him to come home so soon as this, but he will be back in a
very short time, now, I dare say."
"Then I will bid you good bye, for it will be unnecessary to meet him in this plight;
indeed, he might think I paid him no respect to do so; and besides it will be better,

altogether, that he should not see me so soon, lest he should have caught sight of me in the
city; which, indeed, I think wholly impossible, for I only had a distant glimpse of him."
"Then, good bye, sir; I shall see you and the young ladies."
"Both -- my daughter, and her young friend, Martha."
Mr. Twissel arose, and left the house to return to his own house, and get his daughter
prepared for the visit, and her friend also, while Mrs. Meredith and her daughter, Margaret,
consulted together, as to what would be the best method of doing honour to the occasion of
the forthcoming marriage.
"You see, my dear," said Mrs. Meredith, "we cannot very well invite our own friends,
because they are such a greedy, rapacious set; they would sooner spoil a good chance for us
than let us have it unmolested; they are by far too greedy -- no, no, they must not come --
they will think themselves injured if they cannot share the harvest."
"And all will be lost."
"To be sure; and, moreover, we could not shake them off when we wanted, and which we
must do very soon, for the colonel will never abide them."
"No, ma' I think not, indeed -- they are decidedly low people, who are genteel only of a
Sunday; it will never do to have such people about us."
"Oh, dear, no."
"Here is the colonel come back; see if that girl has got the water hot, he will like his tea
early; I am quite sure she hasn't got it ready -- what a provoking girl that is, to be sure. She
does nothing all day; I must get rid of her."
"Yes; but she is very ugly."
"That is one great recommendation in her favour," said Mrs. Meredith; "one very great
recommendation; it ensures domestic peace, to say the least of it, and there's not so many
followers usually. Now, however, we must do the best until we have mone; but here he is."
At that moment the colonel entered the house, and proceeded at once to the drawing-
room, having first divested himself of his hat and cloak in the passage. Up stairs was a good
fire and an easy chair, with ottomans for his feet, and a comfortable well furnished
apartment it was.
Mrs. Meredith followed him up and entered the room after him, to inquire what he would
like done next; and with her assistance, he took his boots off and put on a pair of splendid
slippers, and reposed with a groan of satisfaction on the chair.

"I think, Mrs. Meredith," he said, "that the best thing I can have will be some tea. Where
is Margaret? when she is at liberty, I wish to see and speak to her."
"She will be here in a few moments, colonel," said Mrs. Meredith; "I will send her to
you."
"No hurry for a few moments," said the colonel.
"Something about the jewels, I'll be sworn," said Mrs. Meredith, to herself; "I wonder
what he has in that parcel; a present, I dare say."
Mrs. Meredith sought Margaret, and related what the colonel said, with his desire to see
her, and that young lady at once proceeded to the drawing-room.
"Oh, my dear Margaret," said Colonel Deverill, "I see you are pleased to see I have
returned; your very eyes tell me so. Come here to me, dearest."
"Ah, my looks, I am afraid, say too much."
"Not at all -- not at all," said the colonel; "I love to see them, especially when I know they
are sincere, wehen they come from the heart, you know; I love to see innocent and heartfelt
satisfaction beaming from such a face as yours."
"Oh, colonel, you are really too complimentary; not that I think you don't mean what you
say, but your partiality is too great to allow you to judge as a stranger would."
"I do not desire to judge as a stranger would; it does not give me any satisfaction. To look
upon you with the eyes of a lover, is a privilege I most desire, and very soon with those of a
husband; then my happiness will be complete. How I long for the days and the hours to fly
by -- they cannot go too fast now; by and bye they may pass as slowly as you please -- that
done, then I am quite content, because I shall pass them happily, rapturously."
"Ah, you are so kind-hearted, so good, that I can never repay you."
"Do not seek to do so, you will only make me the heavier in debt; but come, there is a
small parcel, with a few trinkets I have purchased; the jewels I spoke of are in hand, and
they will be ready in time for our marriage."
"Nay, do not think about them -- not to disturb yourself, colonel; I am quite content if I
am dressed as befits the occasion; but I am really obliged to you for your present, whatever
it may be; and I may as well tell you I have thought -- indeed, I have said as much -- I
should like to have a couple of female friends to visit me on that occasion."
"Yes, my dear, you may depend upon it, I shall be the more happy when I know you are
so too; but no matter, ask whom you please; as far as I am able, I will make them welcome
and happy. I suppose, however, you are alluding to your bridesmaids."

"I am," said Margaret.
"I shall be most happy to see them, or any friend you may desire," added the colonel.
"And will you have no one on the occasion?" inquired Margaret; "won't you have
somebody to keep you in countenance upon the occasion?"
"No," said the colonel, "I shall not; I have no friends with whom I am intimate enough,
that I know of, at this present moment; there may be people in London, with whom I have
been, in India, intimate with, but I do not know for certain; but time and accident will turn
up old friends, and I have not the desire to seek for them; but if we must have some one, I
do not know whether Mr. Twissel would not do quite as well, if he would come, and your
mother had no objection."
"I am sure she would not. Mr. Twissel was an old friend of my father's, and,
consequently, he would be no stranger at all to the family; besides, it is daughter, and her
friend, Martha, that I have invited upon this occasion; have I done wrong?"
"Not at all, it could not have happened better; I am sure they must be very worthy people,
and any one whom you please, or they know, that you feel disposed to invite, do so, with
the confidence that whatever pleases you on the occasion, will please me."
At that moment there was an alarming rapping at the door, which caused them to pause a
few moments; then they continued their conversation until the servant announced to Miss
Meredith, that Miss Twissel, her papa, and her friend, Martha, were come.
--

CHAPTER CXXX. [Chapter 140]
A PLEASANT EVENING. -- THE BRIDESMAIDS.
"I know how that is," said Margaret, before she left the drawing-room; "that was through
my ma'. I dare say she has invited them to take tea with her to-night. I should not at all
wonder about that. I have not seen them for some time. They keep a great deal at home, and
visit but little. They are playful, homely girls, but good-hearted, and that is why I prefer
them to more fashionable friends, whose goodness of heart I cannot rely upon. They are
insincere."
"You are very right; but you will, I hope, let me see your friends, and unless you have
family matters to speak of, perhaps you will take tea up here with me. I shall be all alone if
you do not; so, you see, I am speaking from selfish motives; but do not think I shall be at
all hurt if you do not see fit to accept the invitation for them."
"I will accept it for them cheerfully, and shall be much surprised if they do not do so too,"
said Margaret, as she walked towards the door, and then left the apartment, to proceed first
to her own room, and there to examine her present, before she sought the visitors to give
them their invitation.
The parcel contained some handsome laces and other matters, beautiful and expensive,
such things as she could wear, and excite the envy of others; which was, of all things, and
usually is of women in general, the most enchanting thing in all the world, and gives
intense gratification.
After admiring for a moment or two the beauties of the laces, she could not help
involuntarily exclaiming, --
"This will be beautiful, so very becoming, and so much above anything else that can be
brought by my bridesmaids. I shall be a queen amongst them; indeed, they will but set me
off to the utmost advantage. I shall be the glory of the occasion."
Having secured her new acquisition from inquisitive eyes, by locking it up in her drawers,
she returned down stairs, and then entered the parlour, where, truly enough, as she had
imagined, there was Mr. Twissel, Miss Twissel, and Miss Martha, all of whom were
dressed out for the occasion.
There was some truth in what Margaret had said to her mother, that the two intended
bridesmaids were not likely to induce any one to fall in love with them. They were oddities
of the first water. Miss Twissel had light brown hair, bushy eyebrows, a straight masculine
nose, a mouth that turned up on one side, and one of her eyes had a gentle inclination to
gaze at her nose, while her complexion was increased by a vast quantity of sun freckles.
Then, as for Miss Martha, she was another beauty of a similar class; hooked nose, with
one eye paying undue attention to the auricular organ, while the other was somewhat

injured by a blank appearance; her hair was red, and she was pitted by the small-pox to a
fearful extent.
Such were the two friends whom Miss Meredith had chosen for bridesmaids, with the
laudable view of putting no temptation in the way of the colonel, which Mrs. Meredith, her
mother, most strenuously advised, as she had experience of the men.
"My dear Miss Twissel, and you, Martha!"
"Ah! Margaret, God bless me, who could have imagined, above all things, what I have
come about. What can you be thinking and doing? here you've no friends to help you. I see
you have done it all yourself. What can you think of people? you have no mercy."
"Aye," said Martha, "there's no doing anything while you are about. No one else has a
chance, but you must tell us all about it."
"Yes, yes, I will tell you all about it; and more than that, you shall see the colonel if you
please."
"That is what we should like, above all things."
"Oh! it is a colonel, then -- a rich Indian colonel. Upon my word, you will have to be
presented at court next."
"He! he! you are joking me now. Well, never mind, I shall joke you some of these days.
You may depend upon that; my turn will come next, and then I won't forget you. But
seriously, there are more unlikely things may come to pass than that."
"Well, now; I dare say. Who would have thought of that, now? But then you are so lucky,
you see; only think what might have been the case if the colonel had been a young man!
why he might become as great a man as the Marquis of Granby. Why, you'd have been a
marchioness then. Well, bless my heart, how things do come about!"
"Well, you had better come up to the drawing-room," said Margaret, "and see the colonel,
who is waiting tea for us all. Come, ma'."
"Yes, my dear, I am ready. Mr. Twissel, will you come?"
"If you please," said Mr. Twissel, "if you please. We shall now soon have the pleasure of
seeing an end to this affair; for, as it is to come off, why, when it is over, it will be all the
better. Expectation is always a time of uncertainty and anxiety -- at least, to most people."
"So it is, Mr. Twissel, so it is; and I am not without my share of it; for, in the first place,
human life is short, and circumstances may alter cases; so I am anxious to see it over, and
offer no impediment in the way of the completion of the marriage."

"Certainly, you are quite right; having made up your mind to permit the marriage to take
place, why, the sooner the better."
They were all now introduced to the colonel, who was very polite and courtly, which in
some degree embarassed the young ladies, who were compelled to put on, as they
expressed it, their best behaviour, and so did not become quite so familiar. However, that
did not spoil the harmony of the meeting, for the young ladies considered there was more
respect paid to them, and the less they were able to appreciate the politeness with which
they were treated, the more they believed themselves honoured.
They were well enough pleased, and the conversation turned upon various matters, while
Mr. Twissel was uncommonly attentive to the colonel; indeed, he watched him most
narrowly, every turn and every expression, as if he were resolved to ascertain, by constant
surveillance, whether there was any foundation for his half-inspired doubts respecting him;
and also as to whether it were possible that he could have had any hand in the disasters
which he had on two several occasions suffered.
But yet he could see nothing -- nothing at all that gave him the slightest pretext for
persisting in his suspicion. He appeared the same easy, careless individual, who would not
trouble himself to consider whether he was watched or not, or whether his actions were the
subject of other people's thoughts, or whether they were unnoticed, it mattered nothing to
him.
"It is singular," he muttered to himself, "very singular, how it could all happen by
accident, and only at moments when I was watching him. I can't tell; and yet the
occurrences were of that character, to another they would seem wholly unconnected, and I
am unable to connect them, save by fancy; but he looks not a very old man, but rather like
one who has the full use of his faculties. He is singularly pale, to be sure, and yet, at times,
he does not appear so old, nor does his arm and leg seem quite so bad at others; perhaps it
varies, according to circumstance, weather, the moon, or unforeseen changes."
He remained cogitating very quietly by himself; he was thoughtful, and could by no

means divest himself of th idea that there was something more than common about the
colonel.
"He don't seem so blind with that eye as he might be," he muttered; "but there is no use
calculating about an Indian; they have got such luxurious habits and fancies, that if he
fancies one of his eyes is in any degree weak, he will wear a shade for its preservation.
Well, he is entitled to do so, but he ain't so old as they imagine. And that will be no
detriment to him or to them; so much the better, unless they reckon upon the colonel's
death, which would hardly be an object to them, seeing that it could bring them no more;
indeed, it would diminish their income. But he is a tall man now, and, if he did not stoop so
much, would yet be a fine man."
These thoughts passed through his mind, time after time, during the whole evening; while
the colonel himself was at times conversing in the most refined and courtly language, and

doing much towards amusing them with anecdotes of the places he had seen, and the battles
he had fought.
"You would be surprised," he said, "to hear that, in India, there are places so cold that
they more resemble the Polar regions than central Asia, of which we only used to think of
as being one of the hottest regions in the world, filled with wild animals and numerous
serpents."
"Certainly, we hear more of that than anything else -- the yellow fever, the cholera, and
all these kinds of things, caused by exposure to the heat."
"So they are; but it is only in the plains, and not on the high table lands and mountains,
where you gradually meet with more temperate climates, many of which equal northern
Europe for salubrity; and, further up, you come to frozen regions."
"Indeed! that is a phenomenon."
"Oh, dear, no; the altitude of the plain, and the exposure, make the sole difference. I
remember once, I was sent with some other regiments to chastise some of the hill tribes."
"Under whom was that?" inquired the attorney.
"General Walker," returned the colonel; "he was a very able general, and we performed
some extraordinary marches under him, as well as some service."
"Oh, indeed!" said the attorney; "what might have taken place?"
"I will tell you an incident that did take place; and not relate more scenes of carnage that
we passed through in the execution of our duty than shall be actually necessary. We had, on
one occasion, to storm a city; on another, a fortified town; it was strong, and well protected
by nature and art.
Well, we arrived there, and the gates were closed against us; guns were brought to bear,
and men appeared on the walls. We expected, of course, a sharp time of it, and being only
the advance guard, we halted for the main body to come up with us; and, after having
summoned the garrison to surrender, we put posts and watchers for the night, not expecting
to do anything upon that occasion; nor did we expect the main body up with us till the
middle of the next day, they having sent word on to me that they would not be up in
cosequence of some accident to some part of the train, which would have to be repaired;
but a portion of the troops would advance a stage nearer to me, in case of an accident, upon
which I could retire for support, or send to them to come up as the exigencies of the
moment should most require; but they did not anticipate any movement at all. Nor did we;
the fact was, we had made a forced march of it; and had got over more ground than we had
expected, and our main body did not think we should have been so near the scene of action
as we were.

However, a counsel of war was held amongst the officers; and it was resolved that we
should attempt nothing without the assistance of our comrades, as the place was very
strong, as I have before told you.
Well, sir, half the night was over, and we lay fast asleep, having had a hard -- very hard
day's work of it, -- so hard that we could sleep sound on the bare earth; we were all
suddenly awakened by a loud explosion, which shook the very earth under us; and, upon
starting up, and rushing out of our tents, we saw the earth and air illumined by the
explosion of, as we afterwards learned, and guessed at the moment, one of the enemy's
powder magazines.
In another minute we found there were plenty of falling missiles, with the debris of the
magazine, and the mangled corpses of the men who were near it.
There was an instant order to muster the men; everybody knew what was meant. They
were all ready in a few moments -- indeed, we slept by our arms -- fully accoutred, so it did
not take long to be ready for action.
We were ordered to form in divisions and bodies, and as there was ample breach made by
the explosion there, I was ordered to mount the breach, and enter the town for the purpose
of assault.
We did this. We marched down upon the breach after some difficulties, and were fairly in
it; but had our commanding officer known any of the difficulties; he would not have
incurred the responsibility of ordering us to advance, for the ruins we had to scramble over
were dreadful, and, had there been light, we could every one have been picked off by the
enemy.
Darkness was our friend, and we got into the town with a comparatively trifling loss, and
when our men got together they began to tell a tale, for their volleys were well directed
upon the enemy, who were drawn up in masses, and whose fire directed ours. We were not
completely exposed to their fire, for the same objects that exposed our men, as they were
surmounted before reaching the enemy, protected them from immense volleys of musketry.
However, we carried the point, and at that moment another explosion took place in some
other part of the town, which illumined all around for a moment or two, and then came
masses of bricks, and stones, and timber, killing friend and foe. For a while we were
staggered; we did not know what to think of this affair. We knew not whether we had an
enemy to fight, or even where he was. We were completely at a standstill.
But this did not last long. The defenders fled, and left us masters of the field. We
remained under arms all that night, till daylight.
Glad were we, indeed, when daylight came; we were fatigued, so much so that our men
could scarcely stand in the ranks. Then parties were sent out to look after the wounded, who

had been left in all imaginable situations. It was at such a moment that I was discovered;
my leg was shattered by a musket bullet."
"And you lay bleeding all night?"
"Yes. Not exactly bleeding, for I had sense left me to bind a ligature over the wound to
stop the effusion of blood, which would have killed me in a very short time. However, there
was no necessity to lose my leg, but it has made me permanently lame."
"I see you are so, sir," said Twissel; "but do you never feel it worse at some times than at
others?"
"Yes, I do. There are times when I do not know that I have received a hurt at all; but
sometimes I suffer a little, and am a little more lame in consequence."
"It was fortunate," said Twissel, "it was your leg, for it might have been your head, you
know, and that would have been a death-blow to your fortune."
"Yes," said the colonel, mildly; "I might have been killed, as you observe; but at the same
time I should have done my duty, which in these cases is all we looked to. I might have
saved a better man, who had a wife and family -- I had none."
Conversation now ran on the forthcoming event, and Mr. Twissel was invited by the
colonel, and the whole party were well satisfied with each other, and parted very good
friends, with the promise of meeting again before the propitious morning which was to
unite the fates of Margaret Meredith and Colonel Deverill.
--

CHAPTER CXXXI. [Chapter 141]
A NEW CHARACTER. -- MISS TWISSEL'S VISITOR. -- THE INVITATIONS.
Nothing could exceed the smoothness and easiness of the course of things in the wooing
of Margaret Meredith; all things appeared so well ordered. People were all of one mind;
and it is needless to say that the young lady was elated. She was elated, and we might not
be out of the way in saying she was elated overmuch, and knew not how to keep the
exhibition of her joy within proper bounds; she could not help showing she was to be the
lady of a colonel.
Mrs. Meredith, too, was well pleased. What could she do but feel proud at the change that
was about to take place? She would go to watering places in the summer, and remain in
town during the winter; they would lead a very fashionable life -- they would be of the elite,
and all their acquaintances they would be compelled to cut, or, at the most, only speak to
them when they were unseen by any others.
It is astonishing how a change of circumstances produces a change in our habits and

feelings; how it happens that those who were considered respectable acquaintances
suddenly become the objects of our aversion, and we begin to devise all sorts of methods
for evading recognition, or of speaking to them when we can avoid it.
This arises merely from the change in one's circumstances, which causes us to look for
something much beyond what we have been used to; but, unfortunately, it brings
ingratitude often in the train of its consequents.
"My dear," said Mrs. Meredith to her daughter Margaret, "we really cannot know the
people at the corner house over the way, who invited us to their parties."
"Oh, dear, no, we cannot think of it; but we must get rid of them the best way we can.
You see they will not be quite the thing for us when we come to have our change of
circumstances, you may depend upon it; it will become necessary to weed one's
acquaintance."
"Yes, that must be done." said Mrs. Meredith.
"And the sooner we set about it the better; for the more intimate we continue now, the
more trouble will there be of getting rid of them afterwards."
"Certainly; we need not accept of their invitation for to-night."
"Oh, dear, no; I have dismissed the whole affair from my mind, and there is no need even
of thinking of it any more. I shall not even think of sending them an answer; the
consequence will be, they will be angry, and expect we shall go and apologise, and when
they find we don't, but that we try to get rid of them, they will be baffled, and the whole
affair is settled."

"That is a very good plan, my dear. Then, you know, there are the Morgans; we must
positively get rid of them. It will never do to have those young men hanging about; the
colonel would do something dreadful, to say the least of it. Why, he would shoot them, and
perhaps have a separation, who knows?"
"But then I should be entitled to a maintenance."
"You would, my dear; but unfortunately you well know you have no property, an that,
added to an early separation, would put it in his power to offer you and compel your
acceptance of a very small sum, which he may pay as he pleases -- weekly, monthly, or
quarterly."
"I see, ma; but we will run no risk of that kind of thing. Moreover, there would be those
girls, they would be a nuisance hanging about the colonel."
"No doubt, and the cause of unhappiness in the extreme. Better to leave all such people;
you are a great deal better without them. Why, I tell you what, you will be at no loss of
company or acquaintances, you will find they will be sure to spring up; property is sure to
enable you to choose those whom you will have, and whom you will not -- the reason is
obvious enough. Moreover, like loves like, you know, and people with means soon find out
people who have none."
"Yes, ma, and those who have plenty; besides, a colonel, and a man of rank and standing
-- and everybody knows that a colonel in the India service is a rich man -- and that would
bring us all into the best of society. Only think of my going to Bath, Bristol, and Brighton,
in their seasons. Of course we couldn't keep company with people who can't afford to go to
some fashionable place at least once in a year."
"Oh, dear, no; certainly not, my dear; but there is no need of our troubling ourselves
about that matter; we shall only go when the colonel goes, and we shan't be seen without
him, and he'll be a constraint upon them; and, therefore, where they find themselves
uncomfortable, they will not come again."
"That will be a very good plan, for it will appear as their own faults; but, at the same time,
I do not trust to that upon all occasions; it might fail, and then we should have to take some
unpleasant steps to get rid of them, which is certainly easily done, but unpleasant."
Yes, yes, certainly," replied the mother; and then suddenly, as a knock and ring came
upon the door, Margaret said, "Dear me, who is that? -- I hope none of these people whom I
have been speaking about -- it will be a dreadful nuisance to all; especially when I am to be
married in three days more."
"You needn't be seen, Margaret; I'll see them."
"Do, ma; and I'll go up stairs. But let's hear who it is first, who comes today."

At that moment she heard the door open, and her own name pronounced, and at once
knew the speaker, and she said to her mother, --
"Oh, ma, 'tis Miss Twissel, my bridesmaid; what an infliction! but, then, I must see her.
She has come, I suppose, to consult me about some new gown, or the way in which she and
her friend will have their hair done up on the occasion -- nothing more important, I dare
say."
"Very well, my dear; they had better come in -- send them in pray," she added to the
servant. "Oh, Miss Twissel, how glad we are to see you."
"Now, really," said Miss Twissel; "how kind you are, for I am sure you speak the truth.
Oh, Margaret, don't you feel all of a flutter?"
"I don't, indeed; I am very comfortable. I hope you are all quite well -- don't put yourself
out of the way on this occasion; you need not, I assure you."
"Oh, I have got my pa to give us new gowns, and some lace; but I did not mean to tell
you that -- I and Martha had agreed that that should be a secret between us; that we should
not say anything about it to any one; but surprise you on your wedding morning."
"Ah, you have been at a great deal of trouble and expense about this affair, I am sure.
You really must not think I wish you to do all this; I really don't know how to scold you
enough, for I shall be dressed very plainly indeed."
"Oh, but then you are the bride -- we ain't, you know, and that makes the difference;
besides which, we have a visitor come up to London to see us."
"Indeed! some young gentleman, I suppose, whose heart you want to run away with, and
so have another wedding, and upon your own account this time; and, perhaps, you are
helping Miss Martha to a husband. What is he -- a physician or a divine?"
"Neither -- but, I will tell you, he is only an old man."
"An old man! What a sweetheart you have chosen, to be sure! but, I dare say you have
your reason as well as other people. But have you know him long?"
"No, we haven't done so; but, the fact is, pa' and he have had some business together, and
they are very much in each others company. He's a man, however, of great rank, though a
very odd man to talk to, I assure you, but a man of rank and property."
"Indeed! Oh, tell me what he is -- a lord?"
"Well, he is not much short of it; and he is higher than a great many lords, I assure you.
Why, he's no less than an admiral -- only, I wasn't to say anything about it."

"Oh, will he be with you when my marriage takes place?"
"Yes, he will; and I wanted to know, as he will be much with my father, and as a visitor,
shall we be intruding to bring him here to grace your wedding?"
"Oh, yes; by all means," said Margaret, who thought he presence of an old man could in
no way interfere with any of her schemes; besides, a man of rank, such as an admiral,
would greatly increase the noise of her marriage. Indeed, here was probably a new
acquaintance with whom she could be intimate; besides, it was some one of consequence
on her side that the great man was to come, and would, she thought, add some lustre to
herself.
"Well, then, I would not ask him until I had seen you, because it might turn out you
would be displeased; and, as I have not done so, I cannot tell you whether he will come or
not. He's a strange man, and I won't ask him until the night before."
"Very well; we shall be quite happy to see him. I dare say he'll come, if you tell him
who's going to be married. Indeed, if he's likely to come, I'll invite a few friends to meet
him; but I won't say anything to anybody about it."
"No; let it be a surprise to them all; and let nobody know whom they are going to meet."
"That will be delightful, certainly -- very delightful. What a surprise it will be to them to
be introduced to colonel this and admrial that. I declare I long for the day on account of the
confusion that some persons will be in."
"I must now bid your good bye; for I've got to call upon my dressmaker, to give her some
orders."
"You will stop and take tea with us? Surely you won't run away."
"Oh, but I must," said Miss Twissel, and so said Miss Martha, and after much pressing
and refusing, they parted, and left Margaret filled by other thoughts than those she had so
recently held.
"Ma',["] said she, after a long pause, "do you know what I have been thinking of?"
"No, my dear, I do not."
"Well, then, it is this, that after all, we may as well make a bit of a figure for the last time.
That we will have some friends who will figure upon that occasion and no other."
"What makes you think so, my dear Margaret?"
"Why, you see, ma', we are likely to have a distinguished visitor, and we may as well
have as many as we can; their number and dresses will look well, and as we shall leave

town immediately, I don't see that we shall be at any future time annoyed by their visits.
Indeed, it will be retiring from their society after giving them a feast."
"Well, to be sure, I never thought of that," said her mother -- "I never thought of it. What
shall we do now -- how can we provide for so many?"
"Send an order to a pastry cook to provide breakfast for so many, whether they come or
not, and then we need trouble ourselves very little about giving them time. If we tell them
about the day before, they will have all in readiness for us."
"Well, well -- and as for the expense, it will be of no consequence."
"None," said Margaret. "I shall be able to pay that and others, if we owe any. But now
comes the job of inviting visitors, and we must only invite those who will make up a show,
dress well, and pass off on the occasion for fashionable people."
"Oh, as for that, there are many people who never had a penny in their lives to call their
own, may be very fashionable-looking people, and pass for men of a thousand a year, to say
nothing of a lord looking like a workman, and the like, which is common enough."
"Then we'll settle it at that point, ma', and you had better superintend the invitations and
the other affair -- the breakfast, I mean."
"Very well, my dear; you know that I have no objection. I have seen such occasions
before, and I well know what they ought to be; therefore you may safely rely upon my
judgment in such an affair as that at least.["]
"And about the selection of friends -- visitors, I mean."
"That you may also leave to me," said Mrs. Meredith; "and, depend upon it, I will not
invite one party whom we shall have cause to say we are sorry they came; though, you
know, every allowance would be made for them by the colonel or admiral, if he come. By
the way, I would not tell the colonel a word about it, for sometimes the land service hates
the sea service, and the latter often laugh at the former; so it will be safest to say nothing."
"No, ma, I won't -- I didn't intend to do so."
Thus both mother and daughter had suddenly changed their views of what was to take
place on the day of the intended marriage. They were now resolved they would have as
many of their old friends as they could get together upon the occasion, to cause the affair to
go off with all the eclat that it was possible; it would be the last ball of the season -- that is,
it would be the last she ever intended to give them, and that would be the last occasion
upon which they would meet.
Her respect for Miss Twissel was augmented by the knowledge that she had an admiral
for a friend or a visitor, it didn't matter which. Who could tell what might happen? Mightn't

Miss Twissel marry an admiral, as ugly as she was, as well as she should a colonel? but
there were many reasons why she should. She, too, might have had some means of
entangling his heart; perhaps, after all, she only came there with him for the purpose of
showing him off.
"At all events," said Margaret, to herself; "at all events, he is one that we can keep on
terms with; and it will look well to be acquainted with some person of rank. I am, at all
events, well pleased it has happened as it has." Mrs. Meredith, on the other hand, appeared
to think her daughter's marriage with a colonel, ought to be celebrated by no common
rejoicings; that, indeed, the marriage ought to go off with as much disturbance to the whole
neighbourhood, as it was possible to make.
This could not bet better effected than in the manner we have referred to; namely, inviting
a number of persons to come and be present at the ceremony, and to take a late breakfast,
and to wish the bride joy, to see her depart, and then to lose sight of her, as she hoped, for
ever.
This purpose Mrs. Meredith ably carried out, and she succeeded in inviting about two or
three-and-twenty persons together; and any person who had a carriage and would come in
it, was sure of an invitation -- that was a passport to the marriage feast.
"Well," she muttered to herself, as she reckoned up the number of persons whom she
expected to be present upon the occasion -- "well, I don't think I have omitted any one who
ought to be present, nor have I invited any one who ought not to be here. I shall have a busy
day of it -- very busy day; but the result is everything; so long as the marriage takes place,
and we are really married to an East Indian colonel, why we shall do, there can be no doubt
of it."
This was a consolatory reflection. There was but little else, indeed, that could be done --
little, indeed. The cook had the orders for the entertainment the next day; they had but little
to do in the household with that; indeed, they had extra hands, lest there should be any need
of them, as she would not have anything go wrong upon such an occasion, for worlds.
But there was one thing that gave her some satisfaction, and that was, Mr. Twissel had
not been to them lately to give any doubtful counsels; ever since she had announced her
intention of permitting the marriage to take place, he had not been to express any doubts
about the matter; but had been a mere spectator, doing all that was necessary. He had
forgotten all objection, and never made one. He was perfectly quiescent; but would now
and then look very hard at the colonel, but that was all; he never discovered anything, and
all was smooth and pleasant.
--

CHAPTER CXXXII. [Chapter 142]
THE WEDDING MORNING. -- DISRUPTION OF HARMONY, AND THE NEW

ACQUAINTANCE. -- THE CONCLUSION.
Accident, strange to say, had taken our old acquaintance, Admiral Bell, to the house of a
lawyer, there to transact some business, as well as to lodge at his house. The fact was, the
old admiral hearing that a brother officer was in trouble -- one who had shared with him the
dangers of the sea and the fight -- he came to town to see, himself, what could be done; and
finding the affair beyond his comprehension, or, at least beyond his power of personal
interference; that, in fact, it required the aid of a third party, and that third person must, of
necessity, be a lawyer, he determined to employ the man who happened to be conversant
with the circumstances of the case, and this was no other than Mrs. Meredith's friend,
Twissel.
However, the admiral's good will towards the race who follow the law, not being so great
as his philanthropy, he determined to watch every stage of the proceedings, and to permit
nothing to be done without his knowledge, and to see that nothing was neglected.
Hearing from Mr. Twissel the affair that was to take place, a sudden crotchet entered his
head, that he should like to be present at the ceremony, and he broached it to Mr. Twissel,
who turned to his daughter to ascertain if it were at all possible.
That young lady was desirous of shining among her acquaintances, as one who could
introduce an admiral, and who did not like the idea of Margaret Meredith being so find a
lady as she now attempted to make herself appear; indeed, she would have been willing to
have assisted in raising her some species of mortification; she felt more than true pleasure
in the disaster that would be the cause of such feelings. There was a very general dislke to
Miss Margaret Meredith, and the truth was, she was much more than usually arrogant and
proud, and took all imaginable methods of vexing and mortifying those around her.
But there is little to be said about that; the consent was brought back to the attorney, who
felt somewhat elated at it, and communicated it to the admiral, with some remarks upon the
kindness and condescension of the persons who had done him so much honour.
This, however, only had the effect of drawing from the admiral, the word, swab, and then
he became silent and did not appear to be at all taken aback by the knowledge that an East
India colonel was the bridegroom on the occasion, and one of very large property and
singular behaviour.
The evening before the marriage was a busy one. The young ladies had to arrange and to
re-arrange all their finery; and the bride herself had the task of seeing how she became her
bridal dress, to do an infinity of other little matters, and to contemplate the change that was
about to take place in so short a period. A few hours more, and she would become a wife.

The colonel, himself, did not in the least fall off in his ardour; he was particularly anxious
it should, on no account, be delayed after the day fixed. A later day he appeared to have the
utmost objection to; indeed, he declared he would do anything if it came but a day or two
earlier.
However, this was considered impossible, and the young lady was permitted to have her
way, though it was expressly stipulated that it should not be an hour after the appointed
time, for he declared himself dying with impatience to call her his own.
"Now, ma," said Margaret, as she sat talking to her mother the night before; "now, ma, I
hope you will not give any of these people countenance when I am gone, and throw off
their acquaintance; you will be firm on this point for my sake."
"I will, my dear," said Mrs. Meredith, "I will."
"Then, when I come back, I shall know more of the colonel's mind about where we shall
live, and how we shall live. He must let me have something handsome; I have no doubt but
what he will; he does not appear to be a close-handed man, quite the reverse; and, all things
considered, we shall be able to make a very agreeable living out of it."
"Why, yes, my dear, I cannot doubt it; he is, no doubt, a man of property and can well
afford us enough, and some sum as pin-money; indeed, he is too liberal now to be
otherwise by and bye; perhaps he will keep on this house, and pay for proper domestics,
and keep a carriage. What a change it will be for us all, and how the neighbourhood will
stare!"
"Yes, ma, they will; but suppose we were to reside out of town, we should have our
carriage driving into town, as a matter of course, and now and then sleep in town when we
made up a party, or went to the theatre."
"Yes, my dear. What time shall you see the colonel in the morning?"
"Not before I am ready to go."
"To church? Well, but you will have some breakfast with him?"
"No, he will be in his own room, I dare say, till late; he will scarce present himself before
the time has come to start; you know his habits, he does not get up very early, and I do not
expect to see much alteration. At eleven o'clock we are to be at church. We breakfast at
nine, you know, so we shall have time."
"Oh, he is sure to be down to breakfast, ther can be no doubt about that; indeed, he must
be called for the purpose; of course, there must be some deviation form a regular rule upon
extraordinary occasions like the present."

"Well, well, there may be; but have you given all the invitations you intended to give? --
and have you got any answers to them so as to ensure their attendance?"
"Oh, yes, that is all safe and fixed; we shall have a good many here by half-past eight in
the morning, at the latest; but you must contrive to let me have money very soon, or to send
me some up, as I am getting very short, for I have laid out a great deal of money lately, and
much more than I could, under other circumstances, spare or afford."
"Of course, ma, you will not lose anything by this; I shall take care of you; not a penny
that you have laid out but what shall be repaid, and with a handsome return; but do not
think about this, it grows late and I must to sleep."
"Do, my dear, and I'll wake you in time in the morning." * * * * *
The morning came, and some of them were about early. Mrs. Meredith was up, and so
was Margaret. She could not lie so late as usual. She had done much, and yet she had so
much to do still. It was really astonishing to see what there was to do -- no one would have
believed it, and even Margaret became surprised.
The morning was now fairly come; the servants were about in the house, and the
neighbours were up and about; she could hear her mother chiding and scolding; she could
hear the sound of her voice, and she began to believe there was now no time to lose.
The hour of nine was now gone. The knocker and the guests had been heard for the last
half hour at the door, and she could hear the voices of the guests below, some of whom
spoke audibly enough; then they soon after descended to th breakfastroom, which, by the
way, was the drawingroom, as there was not enough room below.
The colonel, at the same moment, entered the room, and a vast number of congratulations
were given and received, form side to side, with the utmost urbanity and good will. The
colonel, for the first time, had thrown on one side the green shade which he usually wore,
but he looked remarkably pale, though he had still the looks of a hearty and healthy man.
The paleness, which seemed to be constitutional, was very extraordinary; but that was
explained by the colonel saying, that he had been so ever since he had the yellow fever,
which had had that effect upon his complexion.
There was much rejoicing at the occurrences that were now in progress; everybody
praised the viands; everything was of the best and first-rate quality, and there were many
attendants, which made it so much the better and the more comfortable, as everybody had
an abundance of everything.
Mrs. Meredith now shone in the greatest triumph; there was none so great and grand. She
patronized everybody, and appeared remarkably condescending, considering she was the
mother of a daughter who was about to marry a retired East India service colonel. There

were few who did not understand fully the nature of the condescension of the lady herself;
besides, she was the presiding goddess of the feast.
Among those who had been invited was the Miss Smith and Mr. Smith. This was the
young lady who had been so terrifed at the attack that had been made upon her the first
night that Colonel Deverill lodged there, and on that night he was so terribly vexed and
disturbed.
Mrs. Meredith had invited them, because they were people of means, and Miss Smith
could not now do any mischief, because the colonel was pledged to Margaret too far to
retract; and as there were several young females, why, the more the better, because it would
divert his attention.
Miss Smith, however, came out of curiosity, and because it was a wedding party, which is
the delight and admiration of all young females, and Miss Smith was no exception. Mr.
Smith was civil and polite, and hid his internal dislke to the colonel, which he felt and
could not account for it; neither did his daughter -- she had a great aversion to him, but at
the same time suppressed it.
The colonel was courtly and complimentary, and made civil speeches to such as spoke to
him; indeed, he never for a moment lost his self-possession; he stood in a less stooping
posture than usual, and he was considered a tall, handsome man -- a fine man.
"Mr. Twissel," said the colonel, "I am happy to see you -- especially gratified to see you -
- you will be witness of my happiness to-day -- you will mark my progress in this affair,
and learn what lesson it may teach. That is the way we should pass through life, Mr.
Twissel, is it not? Gain knowledge by experience, and become, in old age, a wise man."
"Why, yes; oh, yes," said Twissel, who felt there was something in the remark that
touched him to the quick, and he winced under the smart; but he thought it might have been
accidentally given, and the colonel was quite ignorant of his disasters; and yet it was a very
home thrust, without any previous introduction to it, that made it all the more
uncomfortable, and he merely replied, --
"I am happy to see you, Colonel Deverill, and to see you so happy, and the young lady,
who, I am sure, deserves to be happy; in fact, I think you both deserve happiness; I am sure,
I wish you every imaginable joy, and it gives me great pleasure in seeing it."
"I am sure you do, sir; but you do not seem to eat and enjoy yourself."
"I am so occupied in witnessing the felicity of others, that I had forgotten it; moreover, I
expect a friend to be present who happens to be late; he is quite a stranger to all present,
and therefore I wished to countenance him as much as I could on that account."
"Then I will not press you now; perhaps you'll do me the favour of introducing your
friend to me when he comes, yourself, and I shall be most happy to receive him."

"Thank you, colonel, you do me much honour; I will accept of your great kindness, and
do myself the pleasure of presenting him to you, and to Miss Meredith, whom I hope to see
soon changed in name."
"I hope the time will now be very short. What hour is it?"
"Half-past nine," said the attorney, consulting his watch.
"At eleven we must be at the church. Well, if we leave at half-past ten, then we shall be
there in ample time; I would it were over and that we were on our journey."
"Ah! you are impatient, colonel," said Margaret, as she came up to him.
"My dear angel!" replied Deverill, bowing, "how could I be otherwise when you are the
object of my affections? It is not impatience to leave this good company -- quite the
reverse. But it is because the change of scene, travelling, and change of air will do you
much good, and is, I can see, quite necessary for you."
"I think it will do me no harm," said Margaret; "but here comes ma, who really looks
tired."
"Well, my dear, I am a little fatigued, but you know I shall have ample time to recover
myself. I shall have nothing to disturb my repose."
"Indeed, Mrs. Meredith!" said the colonel; "I am sure we must alter that; we must find
some other kind of employment for you, and not suffer you to remain hidden at home. You
have catered so well for us this morning, that I am sure you are a most valuable acquisition
to a household; with such a superintendence as yours, we should have everything in the
utmost plenty, and at the proper moment."
"Ah, colonel! you are flattering -- you are."
"We shall soon show that we are not flattering, I hope," said the colonel. "My dear
madam, you are the life and soul of the whole company. What should we have done
without you? I hope all our friends here are happy and comfortable. I do not know them
well enough to pay them all that attention and respect they deserve."
"Exactly, colonel; they all know that well enough, and are fully alive to the honour you
do them in being present in the midst of them."
"Who is that young lady who was looking here just now?" inquired the colonel.
"Who? the young lady with the elderly gentleman by her side?"
"Yes; I should like to be introduced to her," said the colonel.

"Oh! certainly," said Mrs. Meredith, vexed in her own heart that she had invited her and
her father, now, for she had no wish that any one present should be future acquaintances;
but there was no help for it; she must introduce them, and accordingly she went up, with the
best grace she could put on, to them both, to request they would be introduced to the
colonel, who desired the honour of their acquaintance.
There was no hesitation, of course, and they at once advance to meet him, and were
introduced to the colonel as Miss and Mr. Smith.
"I am most happy to see you, sir," said the colonel; "and the young lady here is your
daughter, I can see, by the family likeness she bears to you."
Miss Smith, however, could not repress a convulsive shudder as she looked upon the
colonel. It might have been his complexion, or it might have been that his features brought
some terrible recollections to her mind; but she could not, for a moment or so, speak.
"The young lady is ill!" said the colonel, who noticed the emotion.
"What is the matter, Clara, my dear?" said Mr. Smith; "what's the matter -- you are ill?"
"No, no," said Miss Smith; "it was a -- a -- sudden -- sudden dizziness that came across
me. I dare say I shall be better by and bye. I am sorry it should have come upon me now."
"Ah! my dear young lady," said Colonel Deverill, drawing himself up to his full height,
and looking gravely, but speaking with the utmost courtesy, "you have nothing to regret
respecting the occasion; the illness itself is a matter of regret to us all, I am sure; however,
let us hope it will be but temporary, and that you will be able to wish me joy, and my
beautiful bride."
"You see, Colonel Deverill, ever since the night she was disturbed by the strange attack
of what she believes to have been a vampyre, or something that had the form of a man, and
a taste for blood, she has been affected thus."
"Dear me!" said the colonel; "what a shocking thing -- a very shocking affair! I think
perhaps, the young lady is subject to illness," and he touched his forehead, as much as to
intimate an insinuation that the young lady might be somewhat affected in her intellects.
"No, sir; quite the reverse," said her father. "I myself saw a tall, gaunt figure gliding
away, which felled me in an instant, and I lay half a minute stunned."
"God bless me!" said the colonel; "this affair is quite romantic! If a German writer had
such material by him, what would he not make of it?"
There had been a loud knocking at the door, and some one announced; but nobody took
any notice of it. Colonel Deverill did not hear it, but stood talking to Mr. Smith; while

Admiral Bell was introduced by Mr. Twissel, who led him towards the group, explaining
what had happened.
"By G-d!" said the admiral; "d'ye see how they are crowding about the poor girl? Why,
they'd extinguish a fire -- if there was one! Why don't you give young woman air? If you
don't stand on one side, I'll put a whole broadside into you, as I would into a Frenchman!"
This singular address produced an immediate sensation, and many moved away.
"Colonel Deverill," said Mr. Twissel, "allow me to introduce my friend Admiral Bell to
you. Admiral Bell, this is Colonel Deverill. -- Eh? -- oh! -- eh?"
These latter exclamations were uttered in consequence of the extreme surprise depicted
on the countenances of both parties. Admiral Bell's surprise was nothing out of the way; but
that of Colonel Deverill was a matter of consternation to many of them. He stepped back a
pace or two, and then his lips parted, as though he would speak, but he could not; he panted
-- his eye glared, and his nostrils dilated.
"Shatter my mainmast -- upset the cabouse -- turn my state-cabin into a cockpit, and the
quarter-deck to a gambling-booth to the whole ship's company!"
"What's all this about?" exclaimed Mrs. Meredith.
"Oh, that odious man! -- who is he? -- what is -- "
"Why, ma'am, I'm old Admiral Bell; very well known for having beaten the French, and
the terror of all vampyres. Why, look at the swab -- but you ain't going to get off this time!"
"What is the matter, dear colonel?" said Margaret. "You are ill -- speak -- what is the
matter?"
"Ah!" said the admiral; "let him speak, and he'll tell you he's no colonel, and his name
ain't Deverill, or, if it be, it ain't his only name; he is Varney the vampyre!"
"A vampyre!" said Miss Smith, starting up with a shriek; "a vampyre! Good heavens! I
was not mistaken, then; that must be the man!" and she sank back in her father's arms.
"What! has he been at any of his tricks again!" exclaimed the admiral, and he made a
stride towards him; but Varney -- for it was he -- avoided him by stepping aside, and
placing some other person between himself and the admiral, and then he said, --
"What this madman will say you will not listen to -- you -- -- ."
"Madman! well, I'm hanged; call me man!" said the admiral. "I wish I had my sword by
my side, and I would teach you how a madman can fight; but you are not going; I have
something to say to you first. If he's going to marry that young lady, all I can say is, she

will be food for him -- she'll never live till to-morrow; her blood will made [sic] his pale
face ruddy!"
Varney stood no longer; but seeing many around him who appeared to have an inclination
to stop his passage, he suddenly made to the door, which he secured for a moment on the
outside, and then in another he was clear of the house.
This was no sooner done, than all present, who were staring at each other in mute
amazment, and unable to account for what had happened, looked at the new comer, the
admiral, who immediately began to relate enough of Varney that made it apparent to all
present that he was not what he represented himself to be. * * * * *
Amid the commiserations of their friends, and their jeers, Mrs. Meredith sold all her
furniture, and, with her daughter, retired to some little place, where they opened a small
shop, to eke out a living by such means. They were unable even to pay many debts they had
contracted on account of this marriage, and they were, moreover, ashamed to be seen by
their former acquaintance.
--

CHAPTER CXXXIII. [Chapter 143]
A SCENE IN WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL. -- THE CATHEDRAL ROBBERS. -- A

STORM. -- THE VAULTS BENEATH THE AISLE. -- THE FLIGHT OF THE
ROBBERS, AND THE RESUSCITATED CORPSE.
The sun had long deserted the horizon, and the good city of Winchester had been buried
in darkness many hours; while the moon, though high in her course, was obscured by the
hazy clouds that drifted from the south-west. The gusty winds whistled round the walls of
the cathedral church, producing an unpleasant sensation, with a forboding of a coming
storm.
The inhabitants of the quiet, orderly town, were steeped in repose, and a stranger who
might by chance have wandered at such an untoward hour abroad, would not have found
one single ray from any window; save, perhaps, at one or two hotels, which merely keep
open till the London mail passed through, lest any passengers should make their stay at
Winchester.
Save at these places, all were reposing peaceably in their beds; and the tower of the
cathedral frowned majestically upon the tombstones below, and upon the surrounding
buildings, which appeared to peep upon the limits of the grave-yard; while the fir trees that
were yet standing bent beneath the blast, as it swept across the low walls, by which the
cathedral on one side is bounded.
But the solitary churchyard was not without its occupants, living or dead; for its sanctity
is invaded by the presence of three men, who emerge from the narrow streets and courts
situated between it and the cross, and then crossing beneath the shade of some object, they
stood beneath the low wall which surrounded the churchyard.
They paused for several moments, and gazed around them in every direction, and up at
the houses that were nearest to them; but there was no sign of light or anything stirring in
any of the houses adjacent.
"I think all is right to-night," said one of the men to his companions.
"Ay, right enough; there will be nobody near us to-night."
"No," replied a third; "and if the signs of the weather are good for anything, why, we shall
have a rough night; and though that is unpleasant, yet it makes interruptions less likely, and
success more certain."
"You are right, Josh; we shall have a good job this time."
"There, then, that will do until we are safe; it's no use talking here; if the old watchman
comes round, we may have to book it, and then we may not have a chance."

"Ha, ha, ha! as for the old watchman, he is not the fool you take him to be, if you imagine
him at all likely to disturb himself on such a night as this; he'll sleep in his box till he wakes
and finds it is fine."
"Well, be that as it may, " said the other, impatiently, "it is all right now."
"Yes, all right."
"Then just help me over, and I'll get down on the other side, while one of you can get up
on the wall and hand the tools down to me."
"Can't you throw them over?"
"I could, but it is not worth while to make any noise, even though we felt sure that it will
not be heard. There have been most strange things done in our time, you know, and there is
no telling what may happen."
"Ah, the dead may come to life, Josh."
"So they might; and a pig might fly, but, as they say, it is a very unlikely bird."
"Well, then, up with you."
As he spoke, one of the men gave one of his companions a lift up, and with this aid he got
on the wall, and then quietly slipping down into the burial-ground, he awaited his
companions, one of whom immediately mounted the wall in the same manner, and who
received a bag, which he handed down to his comrade, who was in the graveyard belonging
to the cathedral.
"Well, is all right?" he said.
"Yes, all right; don't stay up there like a cat on a wall; come down, or you may by chance
be seen."
The other two men immediately came over the wall, and they all three collected round a
monument that stood up, and here a short consultation took place.
"Now, how shall we proceed?"
"We must get into the vaults somehow or other, if we dig our way in, which I think is
much the most easily done."
"What! undermine the building?"
"Scarcely so much as that."

"Well, but we can get into the body of the cathedral, and then into the vaults that way.
There is a door."
"Yes, there is a door, but it is so close to the verger's door, that you are sure to awake
him."
"I have opened more than one door in my time, and yet I never awoke anybody in doing
so; he must sleep wonderfully light."
"Ay, so he may; but in this case the door is so strong that there is no chance of breaking it
open, without great inconvenience and noise; there is no room to work in, and, moreover,
the verger keeps a little cur always sleeping on the mat close to his door, so that no one can
approach without his giving alarm."
"What a brute!"
"Yes; but there is a means of entering besides that."
"Where -- and how?"
"In the back of the cathedral there is a large marble slab, on which is carved some letters,
that I never could make out; but I'm told it says that somebody lies buried underneath that
stone, but I know immediately below are the vaults."
"Well, but the marble you speak of would weigh fourteen or fifteen hundred weight,
which would be no joke."
"No, by Jove," said his companion; "we had better by far dig our way in, since we shall
have so much difficulty in getting in; we can soon dig out soil enought to let us get down
into the vaults."
"Well, we had better set to work at once, lest we lose all chance. If we have a long job,
we had better set to work early, as well as stop here, for if we are surprised we shall have to
run."
"And the yard will be watched ever afterwards, as sure as we shall have a storm
presently."
"So we shall. Work away, Josh; where are the tools?"
"Here they are," said the man, throwing the bag down and opening it; and then he pulled
out some tools, consisting of pickaxe and shovels, and a crowbar or two, and several other
little materials, which were useful upon such occasions.
"Well, now, where shall we commence?"

"Just at the side here; we are safe to get in somewhere where the wall is weakest, for I
believe the vaults are all walled in."
"They must be, to have a secure foundation for such a weight as there must be about it;
and, to my mind, we have got a decent job. It's very much like a fortress, and if it was easy
to get in this way, we should hear of such things being done much oftener than they are,
that is my opinion."
"And a very good opinion it is, too, until another is heard; but it is no use being faint-
hearted; the harder the job, the harder we ought to set at it, that's all; but there are some few
things not thought of by others, you know, and it is sometimes the hardest thing in the
world to think of the most simple."
"There's some truth in that."
The men having found the spot they most desired, they set about digging and picking it
up in good earnest; but it was difficult work, and the soil about the cathedral was very hard,
owing to the quantity of rubbish that had been driven or trodden into the earth for centuries,
either through accident or design, to harden and secure the permanency of the work around.
There were many heavy and large stones, as well as small broken stones; also, flint in no
samll quantity, that every now and then resisted the blows of the pick.
"Well, I'm thinking we have all three worked half an hour, and have not got a foot deep
yet."
"We have not got much deeper, certainly."
"Do you think we shall get in to-night?"
"To-night or never," said the third man.
"You are right, comrade; shoulder your picks and then we shall see what way we can
make in another half hour. Who can tell? we may come to a softer soil below; this is only
the filling up."
The men again set to work heartily, but they seemed to have no success -- they could not
make anything of it; it appeared to resist all their efforts; and the sparks often flew from the
blows they made with their tools.
The perspiration ran down their faces, and as they paused to wipe their foreheads, they
gazed upwards at the clouds. It was heavy, and the wind was blowing fresh, and now and
then a heavy spot of rain.
"By St. Peter," said one of them, "I expect we shall have a storm presently. I already feel
the heavy drops that fall occasionally; and if one may judge by them of what we may
expect, we shall have it heavily."

"So much the better; we shall have less interruption."
"Well, I don't know what you call interruption, but this is a complete stopper; I can't make
any impression with the pick, it is as hard as rock; and then comes some of those old walls
that are rather harder than granite -- you may as well pick at a cart-load of pig iron."
As this was said, the clouds suddenly appeared to open, and such a deluge of rain
descended, that the earth seemed to smoke. The drops appeared to be continuous small
spouts of water -- a shower is too mild a word -- it was a deluging, as if some waterspout
had burst.
The men stood a moment or two, but it was useless to work; they could not do it, and they
rushed to a part of the wall which sheltered them from the fury of the storm that was raging.
"Well, I never saw anything like this before."
"Nor I. Hark at the thunder! There's a flash! Who would have expected that at this season
of the year?"
"Not I."
"Nor any one else; but it seems to me as if we were to be defeated to-night. I am sorry we
made the attempt, since we are sure to find the yard watched after this, for they will see
what we have been up to."
"Yes, it is vexing, but we cannot help this; it is quite impossible to do anything in such
weather as this. I do not care about a wet jacket, but I cannot see, and hardly breathe, with
so much falling water about me."
"Nor I; but yet I am loth to give it up; Consider the jewellery and money he had about
him -- it will pay us handsomely."
"Well, it was a strange start of him, at all events. I wonder how he came to be buried in
such a manner -- how was it?"
"I don't know. All I know is, that the thing was kept secret because it was considered that
it would be a temptation to disturb any grave when it was known that he was buried in his
clothes and jewellery, and that his money was buried also with him. It was certainly a
tempation [sic] I could not resist."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes; I will tell you, another time, how I came to know all about it; indeed, I saw him
screwed down, and the consequence is, I know that he has the money and valuables about
him."

"Then I am sure we had better get into the church itself; we can do more with your slab of
marble than on the outside of the wall. And besides that, I do not think that this rain will
give over; the hole we have already made is fast filling up with water, and we shall find it
impossible to work."
"So we shall. What do you say to getting inside the cathedral?"
"Agreed, my lads; as quickly as you like; for, if we stay here much longer, we shall
certainly be drowned. I'm wet through as it is."
"So am I; but never mind, my boys, bright gold and jewels will warm your hearts, and
that will keep your outsides dry, or at least you will not feel it. I am sure that I should not if
I can but get it."
"Ay, that is all I care about; but, if you get foiled, you may depend upon it you don't feel
any the better -- you are rather worse, and feel everything more; but what do you say to yon
window?"
"That will do if we can reach it: that is my only difficulty."
"That is one that is easily overcome," said his companion, "for I know where the ladder
is, and that is just over our heads; all you have to do is to put the point of the crow-bar
under the staple to which the chain is fastened that secures it, and then you have the means
at once of entering."
"But if we get in and are detected, how shall we get out again?"
"Are we not three to one? If the old verger should come, I think we could make a dead
body of him in a very short while; and I cannot tell where you will be if you can't get the
better of the old man."
"Well, say no more about it; up with the ladder, and we will get in and chance it. Such a
night as this, it would be strange, indeed, if anybody heard us; but, as there is much to be
got, why, we can't grumble at the risk."
The three men set to work about wrenching the staple out to which was attached a chain
which secured the ladder. That was soon effected, and the ladder placed against one of the
lowermost windows, and then one of the men went up, and forcing the window open said,
after he had looked in, --
"All right -- come up. We have got to a right place."
They all three came up one after another, when the first up crept in at the open aperture,
and by means of ornamental work, and a monument that there projected from the wall in a
manner that enabled them to descend with ease, and in a few moments more the whole
three stood in the old cathedral of Winchester.

At that moment the bell tolled heavily the hour of twelve. The sound was solemn, and it
made a deep impression upon the robbers.
"What a dismal, hollow sound that has, to be sure," said one.
"Yea; it sounded like tolling."
"Pshaw!" said one of them; "'tis no matter -- if it be tolling, it is not for us, nor for the
man we come to visit, so no more old women's fears; if you don't like stopping in this
place, you had better set to work and be quick, when we shall have no further need of
staying. Of what use is it for you to stare and gape about with white faces, and swelled
eyeballs, like so many cats; be men -- be active, and use you arms."
"Well, where are we to use them? What are we to do? You brought us here, and yet you
do not tell us what we are to do. You know all about this matter, and you cannot, or do not
point out where we are to commence."
"Here, then; on the very stone you are standing; set to work to raise this, and then we
shall soon find our way into the vaults below, and we shall then satisfy ourselves for our
trouble, and be well paid too, I hope."
"I hope so, too, Josh; for, to tell you the truth, I don't ever recollect so uncomfortable a
job as that which I am in to-night."
"Well, you ain't got paid all, I'll warrant."
"I haven't got paid at all, yet; but we waste time; lend me a pick. I don't see how I am to
get a tool in here. The chinks are all so small, that you can hardly put in the blade of a
penknife."
"There is a hole somewhere near the head. There is a small piece of black marble."
"Yes; here it is."
"Well, chip that out, and then you may insert a crow-bar, or pick, beneath the stone, when
you will find that it will lift up, and then, by main strength, lift it back, and we may go
down."
These instructions were followed out. The black marble was discovered, and then
knocked out, when a large crevice was discovered, into which a powerful crow-bar was
immediately thrust; and then, by one united effort, they contrived to lift the marble slab up
out of its place, though not above a foot, which required a great effort, when it is considered
that it was imbedded in cement.
"Well, we shall be able to get it up now, I think."

"Don't be too sure, for we have not got it far -- it is enormously heavy, and the lever has
done all as yet."
"Well, then, are you all ready? A long pull, you know, comrades, and a strong pull, does
the business. Now, then, altogether."
"Heave, ho!" whispered another, and they all three made a prodigious effort. It was not
only a strong pull, but a very long pull, for the stone was so heavy, it came slowly and
unwillngly upwards, and it was nearly three minutes before the enormous mass stood
upright in the aisle.
"Well, I didn't think it would have been done. That's the hardest job that ever I had a hand
in, and don't desire to have such another, but yet, hard as it is, it is easier than what we had
to do outside."
"Yes, much, and you will soon find it is so. Lend a hand to clear away the rubbish that
lies here; there's a trap-door underneath that leads into the vaults; it belonged to the monks
of old, of whom it is said it served either for the same purpose of burial, or for a cellar for
wine."
"Well, well, there are some things better than wine, I trow, in the cellar, now, if we can
find the coffin; there has been no other burial in the vaults since he was buried, so we shall
not have much trouble."
"But what are we to do with the stone? If we let it down again, we shall do some
mischief."
"We must turn it corner by corner until we get it against the pillars, and there leave it; for
if we let it down, it will go down like the report of a gun, and smash all that comes in the
way."
This was agreed to, and it was not long before they propped the heavy mass of stone
against one of the pillars, and then returned to the place where it had been raised, and began
to clear away the rubbish, when a trap-door was plainly observable; and after much labour
and force, they contrived to open the door, when there appeared a dark aperture, into which
they could not look without some misgivings, for nothing could be seen.
"Well, who's to go down?"
This was a question that no one liked to answer. And certainly no one would volunteer to
go below. It was too dark to be inviting, and the men looked at one another as well as they
could, for it was total darkness, or nearly so, in the aisle; and below, it was so utterly dark,
that it was impossible to make out anything.
"What is to be done now? Have you got the lantern?"

"I have, and matches, but did not think we ought to use them before, lest we attract
attention; however, we will have a light now, and should anybody look down, they will
think there is a general meeting among the dead."
So saying, he lit the lantern, which threw a light into the vault, and rendered visible a
flight of steps that ran up to the opening, but which were invisible in the darkness that had
reigned in the place.
"Now, then, jump down, and see where the last coffin is placed; it is easily known from
all the others, for I don't think there has been a burial here for many months -- the old
cathedral is not often disturbed for the reception of the dead, and only when some rich man
dies and fancies he may lie more comfortable here."
"Ay, rich men can afford to be buried in a good suit of clothes, and money in their pocket,
to bribe St. Peter to open the gate."
"Ha! ha! ha! well said; Peter has the keys."
"Yes, and here we have the coffin."
"Have we? Is this it?"
"Yes; don't you see that it has all the signs of newness about it? There is hardly any dust
collected upon it; here we shall find our treasure; the coffin is a stong one, and will, I think,
take some trouble to break open."
"Indeed! We shall be choked with the horrible stench which we have below. I can't stand
it another minute -- I shall be sick."
"Ay, and I too."
"Here, then, I have the lantern. Lay hold of the coffin and bring it up stairs; we can carry
it amongst us."
"Ay, anything but remain here -- that I cannot do."
"Be quick, for confound me, but such a mass of putrid flesh as there must be here, is
horribly sickly. I would sooner be hanged than pass an hour here."
"I'm not so afraid of death as all that. I could manage to live through a night."
"You might, but you would soon find out the ill effects, and die of some fever or other;
and that is what we shall have, if we remain here much longer."
The three men then shifted the coffin from its place, and then on to their shoulders, one at
either end, and one under the centre.

The coffin was heavy -- very heavy, and the men were tottering under their burden. They
were strong men, but hardly equal to the task of carrying so dead a weight; but yet they
never shrank from it, but, with slow and unsteady steps, they gradually neared the stairs that
led upwards. They paused. If it was a task beore, it was worse now. What more exertion
could they make?
"Do you think the steps will hold us?" said one.
"I'm sure I cannot say; and perhaps not."
"I think they are rotten, or partially so; what do you say? How shall we get the body up?"
"There is a rope, is there not?"
"Yes."
"That will do then. I will get that; by its means we may hoist the coffin up to the stone
pavement above. I'm almost sick."
"And I too. This place is enought to breed a pestilence in a town."
The smell in the vaults was certainly very strong and very pernicious. The foetid odour
that rose from the vaults was especially disagreeable; the smell that comes from the
accumulated and putrefying remains of human bodies, is of all odours the most noisome,
and, to our tastes, the worst.
Right glad were the men, who had propped the coffin up against the ladder, to get up into
the aisle above, to breathe a less impure atmosphere. They gasped again; and one of them
climbed up the monument, to get to the open window, at which they had entered, to inhale
some of the pure moistened air; and then, after a few inspirations, he returned, at the call of
his comrades to aid them.
The rope was procured and secured round the coffin, and one man remained below to
guide it, while the two others remained above to haul up the rope, which would bring the
body, coffin and all, to the top.
"Well, Josh, how goes the storm?"
"It is blowing over, I think; it does not rain, and it is breaking. I shouldn't wonder if we
don't have moonlight after all, and, if we should, we shall have a trouble to get away
unperceived."
"You forget what hour it is."
"Hark! there are the chimes."

The four quarters now chimed from the great clock, and sounded solemnly and
mournfully in the dead of the night. The iron tongue struck one, and the last sounds of the
clock died away before any of the men moved or spoke.
"Well, we have been here an hour, and nearly two hours since our first commencement.
It's nearly time, I'm thinking."
"Yes," said the man below." [sic]
"Heave ho!" called out the leader of the gang, in a low voice.
The two men at the top hauled at the rope, while he below pushed the coffin up with all
his strength, and after a time they succeeded in causing it to rise about a foot, or something
less, at each haul, and as it got higher, the man below could the better apply his strength to
it, and at length it came up to the top.
Here, however, they experienced another difficulty. It was hard to pull up so high as to
enable them to throw its weight on the pavement, and the rope was almost useless as a
means of pulling it up higher, and the only one who had it in his power effectually to apply
his strength, was the man below. However, after a while, to their great relief, the coffin lay
fairly upon the stone pavement.
"A good job done!"
"So say I, Josh; and such another would completely finish me for the night. I might lie
down and defy the world."
"How about the coffin -- there is no time to rest. I have a small flask of rum in my pocket,
which we will discuss as soon as we have broken open the coffin, which I expect is the last
hard job we shall have."
"And a hard job it would have been, had I not come provided with a screwdriver -- one
that is used by undertakers in such work."
"Set to work -- good luck to you. I am quite dry, and quite tired too, and the sooner this is
over the better. There, the screws come out easily enough, though they are long and hold
firm."
"Yes, they go deep; but they have a wide worm, that carries them down or brings them up
so quickly."
In a few minutes more the whole of the screws were drawn, and the lid of the coffin was
thrown on one side, and the corpse was at once discovered to them. It lay calm and quiet;
but yet it was terrible to look at. The living man had been tall -- remarkably tall, as well as
remarkable-looking.

He was dressed as if for walking. It was strange, the corpse was apparelled as if were in
life; and this, perhaps, caused the extreme paleness -- even extreme for a corpse -- to be so
apparent that they spoke not, but gazed in silence upon it, until at length one of them said, -
-
"Put out the light. We have the moon's rays -- at least there is enough to enable us to see
what we want, and the light is dangerous."
The light was put out, and the subdued light of the moon rendered all apparent enough to
the robbers.
The storm had lulled and altogether ceased, while they had been busy in the vaults and
getting up the body, and now it was a perfect calm. The moon, though obscured at the
moment, promised to shed her rays upon the earth; and as it was at the full, and the clouds
clearing off, the probability was that the town would become as light as day.
"There he is," said one of the men.
"Yes; and about as ugly a chap as ever I saw."
"He is no beauty: but he's been a fine man."
"If you mean tall, I dare say you are right; but he's not fine as I take it. He's not quite full
enough about the chest and shoulders."
"He's got some fine rings, and a gold watch and chain. Well, there is a good ten or fifteen
pounds each, and if his pockets are well lined, why, he will afford us a tolerable good
booty."
"Yes; we must not complain. Shall we replace all?"
"It is not possible to do so, either in time to enable us to escape, or to do it so as to escape

detection. Besides, there would be no use in it. See how bright the moon is getting. We
shall have as much to do as we shall get through to escape being seen. I am sure we shall
run a great risk."
"I think so too."
"Well, then, commence proceedings. Ha!"
The moonbeams had fallen upon the corpse just as he was speaking, and he thought he
observed a motion in the body.
"What is the matter, Josh?"
"Didn't you think he moved."

"Ha! ha! ha! dead! ha! ha! ha! dead moved -- buried moved -- ha! ha! ha! Eh? why -- oh -
- it's all fancy; you'll see me believe it, presently. I do declare -- well, a man dead and
buried -- I suppose a week."
"No."
"I think so -- -"
"Well, it does not matter much how long he has been buried; but he can't move unless
you move him. D -- -- n!"
As he spoke he started to his feet, and his hair began to straighten, and his limbs quiver,
and yet he appeared to think he might be mistaken; for he endeavoured to speak to his
companions; pointing to the corpse, he contrived to say,
"I -- 'l -- 'l take the j -- j -- jewels; he -- he -- he moves."
"Eh? Well, I told you I thought so, but you said no, and only laughed at me for doing so;
but stand on one side, and let the moonlight come upon him, we can tell better then if he
really does move; though, notwithstanding all I saw, I am inclined to believe it is quite an
impossibility; but the more light we have the better we shall be able to tell how the mistake
arose."
"I thought I saw his eyes move."
As he spoke he moved on the side, as he had been standing between the corpse and the
moon's rays, and for the most part intercepted them; but the moment that he did move
away, and the rays came full upon the corpse, a shivering motion appeared to pervade it, to
the intense horror of the robbers, who could not believe what they saw, but believed they
were yet mistaken, though they were too much terrified to speak or even move. They stood
gazing upon the body with bursting eyes and gaping mouth, as if they had suddenly become
spell-bound by the wand of some magician.
Presently the corpse opened his eyes and glared full at them. Oh, such glistening, lead-
like orbs, that froze the very current of their blood; they knew not what to think, but when
the body turned on one side, towards the moon's rays, all doubt vanished and the spell was
broken.
"The devil, by -- !" exclaimed Josh.
Not another word was uttered by either of the other two; but they sprang like emancipated
madmen up the slippery sides of the monument, and out at the windows, as easily as a fly
can run up a wall. It did not occupy more than a few seconds to enable them to clear the
place. Half a minute had not elapsed before they stood shivering by the beautiful old cross,
at Winchester. ****

The corpse in the cathedral, which mysteriously became animated when exposed to the
moonlight, turned towards the moon's rays and gazed upon the flying and terrified robbers,
who had just exhumed him.
No word passed his lips, and he looked around him for some time in silence, upon the
scene before him.
The moon came in at the tall windows of the cathedral, throwing long streams of silvery
light upon the stone flooring, and upon some of the monuments that were erected by the
pillars, or columns that rise to the roof.
All was silent, all was still -- no movement was discernible, save in the form that now sat
up, and leaned on his elbow in his coffin; and he but turned his head slowly from side to
side, as though he were meditating upon the lovely and solemn beauty of the place.
At length he arose, but he appeared to move with extreme difficulty, and once or twice he
placed his hand in the region of the heart, as if he felt something there that pained him, and
tottered about; but seemed to recover himself a little after a time, and muttered to himself,
in low but distinct tones, --
"I must have been another victim; I am weak, the vital action is languid, and my veins are
empty; I must satisfy the instinct of my nature, and another victim must restore me to life
and the world for a season."
He looke up towards the window, gave one look around him and on the coffin, while a
shudder passed though him; and then, gazing on himself and feeling for his valuables, he
slowly clambered up the monument, and carefully got through the window, and thence into
the open air, and he finally disappeared from Winchester churchyard.
--

CHAPTER CXXXIV. [Chapter 144]
THE STAR HOTEL, AND THE STRANGER'S ARRIVAL. -- A REMARKABLE

COUNTENANCE. -- THE ILLNESS AND DEATH OF THE STRANGER. -- A
STRANGE REQUEST COMPLIED WITH.
Some days previous to the scene related in the previous chapter, the London coach drove
up opposite to the Star Hotel, and, as usual, out came a couple of waiters to see what there
was from the metropolis, in the shape of a passenger, who might become an inmate of the
hotel, and a customer, of course.
"Now, then, Billy," said the guard, a stout, good-humoured fellow, to a very stiff and
punctilious waiter, dressed in black, with a white neckerchief.
"My good friend, my name is William, if you must be familiar, though I am sure I don't
number you among my acquaintances."
"Very good, Billy. I declare you are one of the politest waiters that is to be found between
Portsmouth and London; ay, and more than that, you are the politest. Didn't you say you
were edicated [sic] among a lot of gals -- young ladies, I mean?"
"I never held any discourse, relative to my early days, with you, my friend; I am not, just
this moment, aware of it."
"Ah! I see you are too polite to pass an east wind without taking your hat off to it; how do
they when they have none?"
"Have you anybody for us?" said William, mildly.
"Yes, my pink, I have."
"Who is he, and where is he? I must not waste my master's time; it is an impropriety I am
especially anxious to avoid."
"You needn't be in a hurry, nevertheless, especially as I see he is fumbling about for small
change; but what will you say if I introduce a customer to you, a good six foot high, and
perhaps a little to spare; and the colour of a well scraped horse-radish? Eh? what do you say
to that, my promrose?"
William did not know what to say, but, after a moment's hesitation, he said,
"We don't charge our customers by the room they take, or by their personal appearance. A
gentleman is a gentleman, Mr. Guard, all the same, whether he have a red face or a white
one."

"Well, that's good, Billy; but the chief thing is, after all, of what colour is his money, and
how he parts with it; eh?"
The guard winked and William's impassive features were lit up with a spark of
intelligence and vivacity, which, however, was only transient, and he relapsed into his old
state of extreme and unimpeachable gentility.
"Hold your tongue, Billy; here he comes."
At that moment the gentleman pulled down the window, and said to the guard,
"Open the door, if you please; I shall get out here."
"Yes, sir," said the guard, who immediately obeyed the injunction; and a tall, but awfully
pale individual descended the steps, wrapped up in a huge coak, so that but little of his
person was seen, or features either; what little there was visible was not prepossessing by
any means by the colour.
"This is the Star?" said the stranger, inquiringly.
"Yes," said the guard.
"I'll stop here. Are you the waiter?" said he, addressing William.
"I am, sir," said William. "Will you walk this way, sir?"
"Yes; show me into a private apartment -- let me have a good fire, for I am exceedingly
cold."
William immediately took him into a room where there was a fire, saying, --
"If you please to remain here, sir, we will make you a fire and warm the room; and, as
you are cold, perhaps you will prefer this to going into a room without a fire there already
lighted for your reception."
"Certainly, I much prefer it."
"Would you like to take any refreshment, sir?" inquired William.
"Not now," replied the stranger, in mild accents.
William left the room, muttering to himself, --
"Well, he deserves to be a prince; he is as mild and gentlemanly as a prince. I vow I never

heard any one speak in such a tone, and with so much amiable condescension. What a pity
he is so white -- at least, that he is so, I only infer from the nose, and part of the forehead

and cheeks around the eyes -- these being the only parts that I have noticed; he is, indeed,
not much unlike, in colour, to the guard's vulgar simile -- a well scraped horse-radish. I
never saw white so opaque and dead before."
While those thoughts passed through the mind of William, he saw that the apartment was
placed in readiness for the stranger's reception, and placed himself in communication with
the proprietor, and obtained his orders; he then returned to the stranger, and conducted him
to his proper apartment, and then awaited his commands.
The stranger gave him some orders, which were at once executed, and then he said, --
"I shall sleep here, of course."
"Yes, sir," said William.
"I am very particular about my beds -- I must have my bed well and thoroughly aired."
"Oh, yes, sir," said William; "we always -- -"
"Never mind, never mind all that," said the stranger, blandly. "Never mind all that; I
know what you would say. All your beds are always aired. Well, be it so -- I have no desire
to dispute it -- but I once slept in a damp bed -- I fell ill, and have never entirely recovered
from it."
"Oh, that makes him look so horrible pale," thought William.
"So you perceive, my friend, that I have cause to be particular, and, therefore, you will
excuse me when I inquire minutely into the character of the beds."
"Oh, certainly, sir -- certainly, sir."
"Then you will see that my bed is aired, will you not?"
"Yes, sir, I will take care that it is especially aired; and, if you approve of my doing so,
sir, I will have a fire lit in your bed-room."
"If you please. If you will do all this, you will greatly oblige me. Are there any females in
the family?"
"Yes, sir; the servants," said William, fearing some impropriety was meant.
"Oh, the servants; and no others?"
"None," said William, quite suddenly.

"Oh, yes, that is right -- none but the servants. Then my requests will not put you to any
serious inconvenience?"
"Not in the least, sir," said William, pleased to find that the females had only been
inquired about for fear of annoying them.
The stranger sat up in his room, and appeared to be very ill, and ate and drank but little,
though he ordered whatever was requisite for a liberal individual; and, though taken away
untouched, yet it was clearly understood he would have to pay for it.
The bed was used and approved of, and the tall remarkable looking stranger expressed
himself satisfied to the proprietor of the hotel, who came to inquire if he should desire
anything more or different from what was already done.
This was at once answered in the negative, and the proprietor retreated by no means
prepossessed in the stranger's personal appearance, which was remarkable to a degree --
that was noticed by every one in the hotel.
"Winchester is an old town -- a city -- sir," said the proprietor, by way of entering into a
conversation with his guest.
"Yes, very old," said his guest.
"And the cathedral, sir, has been built in part ever since the Saxon times, and then
increased by the Normans."
"Ay, it is very beautiful; one could wish to lie there, it is so calm and beautiful," said the
stranger, with a shudder, which he endeavoured to suppress; and then he added, "The
grave-yard is quiet and retired."
"Yes, sir. You have been in Winchester before?"
"I have," replied the stranger.
Finding any further attempt at conversation likely to appear intrusive, the landlord quitted
the apartment with a bow, which was condescendingly returned by the guest, who folded
his hands one over the other, and turned towards the fire, upon which he gazed thoughtfully
for some time in silence.
The strange and ghastly-looking countenance of the stranger had created quite a sensation
among the individuals at the hotel, all of them declaring they never heard of, or saw
anything equal to it in all their lives. But what was it? How did it happen so? They had seen
dead men, but they had never seen any so ghastly and so fearfully pale.
"He doesn't seem long for this world," said one of them.

"If you had said he didn't belong to this world," said another, "I should almost have been
inclined to believe you."
"He does look like a corpse," added an old woman.
"Yes, and what a tooth he has projecting out in front. Upon my word I never saw his
like."
"And I," said another, "never beheld such eyes. Why, he is scarcely human. Such eyes as
those I scarcely wish to look at again."
"He always appears to me to be in some dreadful agony," said the cook; "he really looks
as if he had a perpetual pain in his stomach, and had eaten something that had disagreed
with him."
There was some truth in this last assertion, for the stranger always did appear as if
suffering from some internal pain -- mental or physical, or both -- and it was soon seen that
he was rapidly losing strength, and could scarcely walk abroad.
The cause of all this none could tell; possibly, it was only a sudden illness, or perhaps it
was a long affliction, to which he was used to, and hence the terrible expression upon his
countenance, which appeared as if it had never been otherwise, so deep and so settled was
the expression of pain. ******
The stranger appeared anxious to get out, but was unable to do so; he could just walk
across the room several times in the day, but was unable to get down stairs; and whenever
he attempted to do so, he sunk down, his limbs losing the power of sustaining his weight.
"I can go no further," he muttered to himself, as he endeavoured to walk down stairs; "I
am lost."
As he spoke, a truly horrible expression came across his countenance, that made William,
who came to his aid, step back terrified.
"You -- you are ill, sir," he said, in somewhat uncertain accents.
"I am ill," he replied, "very ill."
"Will you allow me to help you up, sir, to your room?"
"If you please," said the stranger, who was endeavouring to rise by the aid of the
bannisters; and by these, and with William's assistance, he got up; and then, with some
difficulty, he reached up stairs -- his own bed-room.
"I will send master immediately, sir."

"You need not be in any hurry," said the stranger. "I do not desire his presence."
However, William left the stranger to seek his master; and when he found him, he said, --
"Oh, sir, the strange-looking gentleman in No. 5 is very ill."
"Is he, William? What is the matter with him?"
"I am sure I don't know, sir; he sank down on the stairs just now, and could only get up to
his room again by my help."
"Something serious I think, then. I thought he appeared ill when first I saw him, from the
expression of his countenance."
"Yes, sir; 'tis very strange."
"Very," said the landlord, thoughtfully. "I'll go and see him; but, in the mean time, you
had better send for Doctor Linton, who knows me, and will come at once."
"Yes, sir," said William.
The landlord immediately sought the stranger's apartment, which he entered without any
ceremony, and advanced to the bed in which the stranger lay; and, upon his first glance at
the occupant, the landlord stepped back in affright, so truly terrible did the countenance of
the stranger appear.
"Ah," said the stranger, as he turned his glassy eyes upon him.
"I -- I -- I have come to see you," stammered the landlord. "I have come to see you; my
servant informed me you were ill, sir."
"I am very ill."
"I feared so, and I have sent for Doctor Linton, who will be here immediately."
"It is of no consequence; I believe, I am too far gone to recover." Another horrible spasm
passed across his countenance.
"What does your illness arise from?"
"Decay of the system. I want renovating," said the stranger.
The landlord paused; he didn't understand this at all, for the stranger did not bear the
appearance of decay about him. He was tall, and seemingly of the middle age, he thought,
and nothing about him to savour of decay, save, indeed, the terrible and [r]emarkable

paleness which his flesh appeared to bear; and his system generally, in other respects, bore
nothing of the appearance of general decay.
"Shall I send for any one, sir? Have you any friends I could write to for you?"
"None, sir, thank you," replied the stranger, who, however, bated nothing of his
politeness, even in his present position.
"Have you any desire to see any one in particular?"
"No one, I thank you."
At that moment Doctor Linton was announced, and the proprietor having introduced him,
left the apartment, leaving the doctor and his patient together; the former at once perceived,
and wondered at his extraordinary paleness. After a few preliminary questions, he appeared
quite puzzled, and said to him, --
"May I inquire what is the cause of this extraordinary complexion?"
"Certanly," said the stranger; "it was caused by damp beds."
"Damp beds," muttered the doctor, amazed, and hardly comprehending what was said, or
the nature of the reply; he was at a loss, but did not say so, what was the connexion
between cause and effect.
"Yes, damp beds," said the stranger.
"Have you ever suffered in this way before?" inquired the surgeon.
"Yes, more than once."
"And you have recovered?" said the doctor, abstractedly.
"I am here," said the stranger, mildly.
"Truly, you are," said the the surgeon. "I had almost forgotten that, your case is so
singular. You [sic] pulse is very low and irregular."
"It is," coolly replied the stranger; but immediately a kind of spasm shot across him, as he
had before exhibited to the landlord.
"Do you feel much pain? -- does that often happen?"
"No, only occasionally. I don't think you are at all likely to benefit me, sir," said the
stranger, with much courtsey in his manner. "I do not mean any disrespect to you; but my
complaint is a fatal one in our family."

"Are you all afflicted in this manner?"
"Yes, all before me died," replied the stranger; "and when it does come on, we have no
means of avoiding the end that approaches; there is no medical aid that can be rendered,
ever did us any good."
"You are quite an exception to nature, sir," said the medical man, "quite an exception.
Your case cannot be beyond the assistance of medicine -- if not to cure, to ameliorate --
though its nature may not be ascertained; but if we could do so, we could tell you what we
might be able to do."
"That has been attempted before," said the stranger, mildly; "and hence it is I am loth to
give you needless trouble."
"Well, I will call upon you, and see you again; but you ought to take some medicine. I am
persuaded that it is some great and extraordinary derangement of the system -- a complete
sinking of the whole system."
"Most undoubtedly it is a sinking in the whole system -- a sinking which has never yet
been stopped by human aid. But you can pursue what course you may deem proper."
"Will you take medicines if I send any?"
"Yes," replied the patient; "I will take them when you choose to send them."
"I will endeavour to send you something that shall infuse something like vitality into the
system, that will indeed help you to rally."
"That will, indeed, be doing something more than was ever yet done by any one who
attended any individual of our family. I feel I am very weak, and am sinking fast, and do
not expect that I shall again have the honour of seeing you."
As he again spoke, the same spasm seized upon him; his frame was convulsed for more
than an minute, and his pallid features appeared to give forth expressions which it was
impossible to describe.
The doctor paused, and gazed with something like fear and awe upon him. He had never
before seen such a case so destitute of facts, nor yet such a man; it was quite beyond his
experience; there was nothing like it in all his previous experience; there was no apparent
cause for all that he saw. It might be some severe chronic disorder which did not manifest
itself outwardly. If this were the case, it was most extraordinary.
But more extraordinary than all was, apart from the medical question, the strange and
terrible appearance of the stranger; his paleness -- the terrible expression of his features --
the strange, and even revolting cast of his eyes, that completely baffled all his attempts to
understand them, or to remember anything he had ever heard of, or seen.

The stranger languidly turned in his bed, and then closed his eyes, leaving his medical
attendant to his reflections.
"Well," muttered Doctor Linton, as he looked at his incomprehensible patient. "I never
met with so fearful a human puzzle before. I never saw such an expression of countenance
in all my life; nor did ever I meet with such a case. Had he been one of the fabled monsters
of old, the creation of the German mind, he could not have been more unlike a human
being, to wear a human form.
As he spoke, he quitted the room, and made his way to the proprietor of the hotel, who
was as anxiously waiting to see him, as he was to meet him.
"Well, doctor, what do you think of the patient?"
"Why, I don't know what to think. I never saw such a man before in all my life -- I cannot
make him out."
"Nor I. I can't understand what he means or what he is."
"Nor anybody else. But he is quite a gentleman; and yet there is something very frightful
to be seen in him. I don't know why it is, I don't care about going oftener to him than I am
obliged."
"I don't doubt it. There was something in the feel of his hand more like a corpse than
anything I ever felt before."
"Indeed -- it is a queer affair."
"Do you know him?"
"No, I do not," replied the proprietor. "He has not been here more than two days; and
when he entered he had that deadly paleness which he has now."
"Did he indeed. It is, I dare say, natural to him, though it must create an unpleasant
sensation, go where he would."
"He must feel it to be so, no doubt; but, at the same time, he could not avoid it. Have you
come to any conclusion respecting his complaint?"
"I have not indeed; I will send him some medicine; though, to tell you the truth, I can
hardly tell what is the matter with him. His disorder seems to consist of a rapid sinking of
the whole system, accompanied by a few minor symptoms, and a spasm, which must be
very painful; for it produces an extraordinary effect upon his visage, and his eyes glisten
like a piece of tin."

"That's it, doctor. Do you know, I have been thinking for something to which I could
liken those eyes to, but could not do it. When do you see him again?"
"To-morrow, some time; in the mean time I must bid you good day, for my presence is
wanted in the Dundrum family."
"Oh, have you any of them for a patient?"
"Yes, two. Good day -- good day."
"Good day, doctor," said the proprietor of the hotel, as he bowed the doctor out? [sic] and
then, returning to his own apartment, he wondered, in his own mind, at all that had been
said by that learned individual, when William entered his room with a hastiness of manner
quite unusual to him.
"What is the matter, Willam?"
"Oh, sir -- I beg your pardon -- but the strange gentleman -- -"
"Eh! -- Well! -- What?"
"Why, he's dying, and wants to see you, sir."
"To see me, William -- and dying!"
"Yes, sir -- it's very sudden -- but good Lord, how dreadful he looks. He clasped his
hands and shook -- it made the bed shake and the windows rattle, just as if an earthquake
were taking place."
"Goodness me!" muttered the proprietor, who immediately quitted the apartment, and
followed William to that of the stranger, who lay in the same attitude as that described by
William; but he was evidently endeavouring to repress all nervous emotion, and by the time
he was spoken to, he succeeded in this endeavour completely, and lay apparently calm and
collected for the landlord's appearance.
"I believe you sent for me," said that worthy, in a subdued tone.
"Yes; I wish to speak a word to you before I die."
"Die!" said the landlord, with a start. "No, no, you cannot mean that -- you will get better
-- you are deceived."
"No, no; do not endeavour to persuade me from believing what I know is the truth. I shall
die, and that, too, before many hours."

"If the case is so urgent, let me send to Mr. Linton; he cannot have gone far, and he will
return."
"Nay, do not do that; his aid is utterly useless -- utterly."
"He is a clever man; but still, if your own feelings tell you that you can't live, allow me to
send for a clergyman."
"My friend," said the stranger, "I have settled all that in my own mind. My affairs are all
made up, my account is cast, and I shall learn the balance where I am going to. I wish,
while I have breath, to beg a favour of you."
"Anything on earth that I can do, I will," said the landlord.
"Nay, I do not desire -- all -- that -- I -- I only want you to -- to -- to -- promise me you'll -
- attend to my funeral."
"All shall be done as you desire."
"My breath -- I feel it going. I have money enough about me; you will find in my pocket-
book and purse, a certain sum."
"Yes, sir -- yes."
"And with that you will have the goodness to liquidate my debt to yourself, my funeral
expenses, and place the residue of that sum about my person."
"When you are dead!" exclaimed the landlord.
"Yes; will you promise me -- will you swear to see it done?"
"Yes, I will -- I do swear."
"See you keep the oath; my breath is going fast -- my strength is leaving me -- and -- and
-- -"
"I will do all." said the landlord again. "Will you have any friend attend your funeral
obsequies? It's melancholy, but I am obliged to speak of it to you, because I cannot
otherwise know your wishes."
"Do not mind that," said the stranger, turning towards the landlord; "but when I am dead,
dress me in my clothes, just as if I were about to walk; let me have all my property and my
money -- such of it as remains after paying all charges -- the remainder cause to be placed
about my person -- in fact, all that belongs to me; and place -- me -- and place me -- me --
me -- -"

"Where -- where would you be burried?" said the landlord.
"Place me," gasped the dying man; "place me in the -- the -- -"
A gurgling noise, succeeded by a sharp rattle in the throat, was all the sound that escaped
him, while his glazed eyes were fixed, with a truly horrifying expression, upon the features
of the landlord, whose presence of mind appeared to forsake him, and he exclaimed, falling
on his knees in affright, --
"Lord, have mercy upon us, what a dreadful affair!"
"Horrible, sir," said William.
"Oh! are you here, William?" inquired the landlord.
"Yes, sir," replied that individual.
"Oh, I'm glad of that; did you see him die?"
"I did, sir. How dreadful!"
"Very; but I am glad you were here because he has made some singular requests about
burying him, and in a certain manner, with all his clothes on and his jewels and money
about him. Now I should be considered foolish if I did anything of the kind; but I have
promised, and as he has no friends, I will do what I have promised."
"It is very good of you, sir; though I think he has been very silly in making such a
request; yet you cannot be so considered for performing the wish of a dying man; it is the
duty of any one so promising to perform it."
"Quite right, William, quite right; but did you understand what he meant by his last
words? I mean, where he wished to be buried."
"I don't know positively, sir, but I think he meant the cathedral -- I thought so, at least. I
am not sure he said so, but I believe he meant to do so."
"Well, I think so myself; and in the cathedral he shall be buried; but it is a terrible-looking
corpse. I sure [sic] I could not sleep in the same room with him. Poor fellow! What he'll
come to at last there is no telling."
"Yes, sir; he does look dreadful."
"You needn't tell anybody we have a dead customer in the hotel, William."
"No, sir."

"Because people might be curious, and wish to see him, and if they were to do so, I am
sure they would leave the house."
"So they would, sir. He's a dreadful-looking corpse. I never heard of such a one. What
can be the cause of it? -- and to be buried in his clothes, too!"
"Ay, and his money and his jewels; that is very strange!"
"Very strange, sir, indeed; and the fewer persons who know of it the better, else the body
will not lie very long in its grave. There will be those who would not mind turning
resurrection-men for the value of what he had about him."
"So there would be, William; and now I think of it, the authorities of the cathedral shall
know nothing about it; for who can tell what fancy they may take concerning it being an
unchristian burial?"
"And yet, sir, he paid all his debts like a Christian."
"Yes; and left a remembrance for the waiter."
"There could not be a more Christian act than that, for who could be more Christian-like
than to remember the waiter?" and William at once admitted the truth of the assertion, and
they both left the room, and instructions were given to William to obtain the proper aid
respecting the funeral, and an order was given to the undertaker to come and measure the
corpse for its last garment.
All these things were duly attended to, and kept secret, so that a very few persons were
aware of the fact that so strange an occurrence had taken place in the good city of
Winchester, much less were they acquainted with the precise locality of the very house n
which the occurrence took place.
When the morning arrived on which the funeral was to take place, some persons were
surprised to behold a couple of mutes standing side by side at the door of the Star hotel, and
there had been no previous signs of mourning.
The hearse and one mourning coach, however, was all that attended, into which one
solitary mourner entered. There were several others made up for the occasion, to give the
cavalcade an uniform appearance.
The body was carried down by eight men. It was very heavy, and the men bent beneath
the load they bore, and when it was placed in the hearse, the one mourner got in, and they
proceeded towards the cathedral, which was quite close at hand.
A few -- very few minutes served to bring them to the goal, and before the entrance of the
cathedral they stopped, and out came the undertakers, who contrived, with much exertion,
to carry the body into the church; and then, after some preliminary ceremonies, it was

conducted into the vaults, where it was deposited, and the burial service was said over it
most duly and solemnly, and then left, it was presumed, safe and secure, to abide its final
doom at the day of judgment.
But many thoughts prove but the shadow of our wishes, and this seemed but as a mocking
shadow; as our readers are aware by this time of what actually took place in the dead of the
night.
"In what name was the deceased registered -- the burial, I mean?" inquired the clergyman,
whose memory, like some of his other faculties, was obscured by age.
"His name was Francis Varney," replied the chief-mourner, who was no other than the
proprietor of the Star hotel.
--

CHAPTER CXXXV. [Chapter 145]
A RURAL SCENE BY MOONLIGHT. -- THE STORM. -- AN ACCIDENT ON THE

ROAD. -- A NEW AND STRANGE ACQUAINTANCE ACQUIRED. -- A
DISAPPOINTMENT.
It was one of those pleasant, moonlight evenings that are frequently felt, as well as seen,
towards the end of August, that a party of individuals sat in a travelling-carriage, and were
proceeding at an easy pace on one of the cross-roads that run from Winchester to Bath, and
also from Southampton, the Isle of Wight, between Salisbury -- more properly speaking --
and Bath.
The evening was lovely: the day had been sultry, and the sun had not been gone down so
long but that the heat of his rays yet remained. Indeed, though the moon gave light, yet the
radiated heat from the earth, first received from the sun, was so great, that the light evening
breeze barely tempered the air.
The party thus proceeding had been spending a few weeks in rambling about
Southampton, Portsmouth, and Salisbury, and were now wending their way to the city of
Bath. They consisted of but four individuals, -- Captain Fraser, his wife, her sister, and
younger brother. The latter did not count more than tweleve years, while the sister, Miss
Stevens, was just seventeen years of age.
Captain Fraser had scarce been married six months, and was upon one of the early
matrimonial jaunts which often take place in the earlier part of the married life, when all is
sunshine, and the matrimonial barometer might always have the index nailed to "set fair" at
such periods.
The lady's sister and brother were residing with her; for their parents were dead, and
hence they, the captain and his lady, were their natural protectors.
They were riding in an open carriage, the head parted, and thrown back; and even in this
manner they felt the evening air was scarcely, though riding, cool.
"I don't think," said Mrs. Fraser to her husband, "that ever I beheld so beautiful a scene.
The time -- the warmth of the air -- the occasional delicious feel of the light evening breeze
-- the serene light of the moon; altogether, I never felt so comfortable, or, I may add, so
happy as I do at this moment."
"I am glad to hear you say so," said the captain; ["]it gives me an additional pleasure to
find I can please you."
"Now, Fraser, that is too bad of you."
"What is too bad, my dear?" said the captain, inquiringly.

"Why, to say you are glad you can please. That is as bad as to say that it is a very difficult
matter; and you know I am very easily pleased, especially when you make the attempt,"
said Mrs. Fraser.
"Well, we will not quarrel about that, my dear. But I must say, with you, this hour, time,
and place are all one could desire, and such as we seldom meet: the scene across the
country is truly beautiful!"
"Yes," said Miss Stevens; "it is beautiful, as far as we can see."
"What river is that yonder?" inquired the brother.
"That is the Willey; the same that we saw at Salisbury," said Captain Fraser.
"Indeed! I thought that came from another direction more northerly."
"That was another arm of the same river, and joined this about there, and all the low
grounds on this side of yon hills are called the Valley of the Willey; and a beautiful little
vale it is, too, fruitful and picturesque."
"How beautiful the moonbeams glisten on yonder water!"
"They do; but not so strongly as they did."
"No. What is the reason of that? The air appears to darken. I have noticed it for some
minutes past. Why is that?"
"I suppose it is caused by the evaporation from the grounds and heavy dews, to
compensate for the want of rain that usually takes place at this time of the year."
"Then we shall be obliged to shut up the carriage, for the dew is more likely to cause cold
than anything else."
"It is so; but we are upon comparatively high ground here; and, moreover, they will not
reach us yet; but, here are shawls; you can wrap up if you feel chilly, or you can put on
your veils."
"It is yet so warm," said Miss Stevens, "that I should be reluctant to put on any more
clothing yet-awhile."
"Do as you please, but do not take cold," said Captain Fraser. "How indistinct the scene
becomes around; the river, which we just now saw so plain, is quite obscured, and you can
scarcely tell where it is, save here and there, where the doddered willows appear, and which
mark out the course of the stream."

"It is so," said the youth. "I can just see the green tops of the trees appear above the thick
mist that rises from the river below."
"Exactly; that is the fact."
"And see how it spreads itself over the cornfields and meadows."
"Was that not a flash of light?" said Mrs. Fraser, suddenly.
"Light! I saw no light," said the captain.
"Nor I," said the youth; "did you, sister?"
"No, I did not do so; but it is very sultry, and therefore it is very likely just at this time of
the year. How much farther have we to travel before we stop for the night?"
"I suppose seven or eight miles, not more."
"There, that was no mistake, however," said Mrs. Fraser, as a flash of light shot across the
heavens, and left not a trace behind it.
"No, there was no mistake about it; nor did I think so before," said Captain Fraser, "only I
have not noticed it; but it is harmless -- it is what is called summer lightning, and has none
of the the ordinary results of lightning."
"It will possibly make the air cool," suggested Mrs. Fraser, "and, in that case, we shall
have a more agreeable temperature; to tell the truth, the extreme warmth and dryness of the
air gives a strange uneasiness to the body."
"Another flash -- ah, that's a change in its character."
"Yes; that is the blue-forked lightning, and I am much mistaken if we do not have a
sudden change -- hark!"
At that moment, a sullen and deep rumbling was heard in the heavens, followed by
another flash, and then such a peal of thunder that boomed and rattled through the air in a
manner that startled the dull echoes of the night, and made the welkin resound with the
fearful sounds that filled the heavens.
"We shall have a fall of rain in another moment," said Captain Fraser; "push on, drive on,
and let us get out of this as soon as we can."
"Aye, aye, sir," said the driver, and crack went his whip -- the horses increased their
speed, and they rattled on at a good pace.
"Had we better not stop and have the hood closed.[?]"

"No," said the captain; "I can manage that very well, with the assistance of your brother,
and we shall not lose time."
Captain Fraser, and the young gentleman alluded to, brought the coach-top up and
secured it, just as a heavy shower descended in such torrents that they could scarcely hear
themselves speak, so heavily did it rattle upon the leathern covering of the vehicle, and they
sat for some time in silence.
Soon, however, the thunder and lightning filled the air with sounds and flashes in a
manner that began to create a feeling of alarm in the minds of the ladies, and some
uneasiness in the mind of the captain; not upon their account only, but because the cattle
might take flight under the circumstances, especially as they were fresh, and had now
scarcely run three or four miles; for their stage was a long one before they reached their
destination, which was now about two days' easy journeys.
The thunder and lightning appeared to become more and more terrible; the storm, indeed,
appeared to increase rather than diminish in intensity; the very centre of the storm appeared
to be fast approaching, and making the spot upon which they stood the pivot on which it
turned; its fury increased, and with it the horses were each moment becoming more and
more unmanageable. Though in some measure aware of the fact, Captain Fraser kept his
place, fearful lest he should alarm his wife, and at the same time distract the coachman.
Suddenly there was a bright and vivid flash of light, such as they had not seen before, but
which illumined the whole place around them, and made everything as visible as if placed
in the strongest light imaginable, followed by such a crashing peal of thunder that the living
earth appeared to rock again.
It wanted but this to make the horses perfectly ungovernable, and they dashed away at a
furious speed along the road.
"Good heavens! the horses have taken fright," said Mrs. Fraser, as she became aware of
the speed they were going at.
"They have merely taken fright, my dear," said the captain, unwilling to increase their
alarm by informing them of his own; "he will keep them in the middle of the road, and we
shall be at our journey's end the sooner, and the more so the better."
They were upon the point of being satisfied, when the jolts of the carriage, added to its
eccentric course from one side of the road to the other, attracted so much of their attention
that Miss Stevens said, --
"See, captain, how the carriage sways from side to side; we shall all be over in another
minute or two -- we shall all be killed!"

"There goes the thunder again, worse than your kettle drums," said young Stevens, who
appeared to think it rather a joke; "the lightning flashes, too, as if we had got into an
electrical machine."
"Do not talk in that way, Charles, for goodness sake," exclaimed his younger sister. "We
shall all be killed presently."
"I hope not," said Captain Fraser, "though I admit it looks serious; but all you can do, and
the best under all the circumstances, is to remain calm and quiet, and see what happens."
"See what happens! Dear me, captain, what do you think we are all made of that we
should sit calm," said Miss Stevens, "and see what will happen, when there may be broken
limbs, at the least, if not death?"
"It is the best advice I can give you."
"Had we better not get out -- I don't mind trying?"
"Aye, if you wish to run imminent risk of instant and violent death, you will make the
attempt; if you remain in here shut up, you have every probability that, if we do have an
upset, which is not yet certain, we may all escape with but a little fright, or at most a few
bruises."
"Yes, sister; you had better wait for the worst, if the worst must happen, rather than rush
into it."
This was sensible advice, and the whole party fell into a deep silence, which was
unbroken save by the sounds of wheels, the rattling of the carriage, the rain, and the roar of
thunder, enough to employ their minds, and at the same time to keep them in momentary
dread of the fearful catastrophe.
Suddenly there was a crash and dreadful jolt; they knew not what had happened, except
they felt that the vehicle was turned over.
In a moment more the door was opened, and a stranger lent assistance in getting out the
unfortunate travellers.
"Do not be alarmed, ladies," said a strange, but courteous voice. "No further mischief can
happen now, beyond inconvenience."
As the stranger spoke, he lifted the two ladies out of the carriage, and placed them in a
sheltered position by the body.
"Are you hurt?" inquired the stranger, as he assisted Captain Fraser and young Stevens
out of the fallen carriage.

"No, sir, I am not; I thank you for your timely aid. Where are the ladies?"
"There they are; I hope, uninjured."
Captain Fraser immediately ran up to them, and, seeing them in safety, said, --
"I am glad to see you are safe. I was stunned at first by a blow on the side of my head."
"Yes, we are safe; but we have to thank this gentleman that we have been so speedily and
so easily extricated from our unpleasant prison."
"I am much indebted, sir, for your aid to the ladies. May I trespass upon your kindness to
lend me a little further assistance?"
"I shall be happy to assist you under these unpleasant circumstances; but, allow me to
suggest as the first thing, that the cushions be placed under the hedge for the use of the
ladies, and what cloaks or coats you have should be thrown over them."
"Right, sir; I thank you."
"If you are deficient in them, my cloak is at their service, though I am afraid that it is
almost saturated."
"I have enough here," said Captain Fraser, as he pulled out several articles of that nature;
and then he, with the assistance of the stranger, placed them so that Mrs. Fraser and sister
were almost, if not entirely, sheltered from the storm.
"Now," said the stranger, "the first thing that can be done will be to right the carriage, and
place it in a position where it will receive no further damage."
"But the driver and horses," said Captain Fraser, "I must look after them. Had we better
not look after them? He may be dying."
"By no means," said the stranger; "he will do very well; if we place the carriage upright,
we shall be able to replace the ladies."
"We can," said the captain, who appeared to be divided between the duties of humanity
and the tender anxiety he felt for his wife.
"Exactly," said the stranger; "and permit me to suggest that he has either gone on beyond
our aid, or does not require it."
"It is possible."

"And very probable," said the stranger; "but if you prefer it, and think the ladies will not
suffer, we can walk on ahead till we come up with them, if they stop before the end of the
stage."
"No, no, sir; you are quite right; I will get the carriage up if you can so far assist me; we
shall then place the ladies in comparative safety."
"We shall so."
They immediately walked round the carriage, and examined its position, as well as they
were able, when, to the captain's great relief, he found that it was still on its wheels, though
the body was thrown over on its side.
"How can it have happened?" inquired the captain.
"I cannot well see," replied the stranger; "but you will perceive something must have
caught the off-side wheel, and turned the whole of the fore carriage that way, which has left
this corner of the body without support; added to which, the speed or momentum it must
have acquired in its course, has thown it over."
"Precisely. I see now how it is; but if we get the body up, it will fall again over on this
side, since it has no support."
"Oh, yes, it will remain up, since it has lost all force, all moving power; unless, indeed,
any of the straps are broken. We can try."
"Here, Charles," said Captain Fraser, "we shall want your aid."
"Oh," said the stranger, "the slightest assistance is valuable; it is the last strain or effort
that may complete the removal. Now, if we can lift it up from this side, we shall soon right
it, and then the fore carriage can be forced round, and the ladies replaced, until we can
better dispose of them."
The stranger placed his shoulder to the carriage, as well as the captain and his brother-in-
law, young Stevens, and thus aided, he soon lifted it up into its old position, and there it
remained very quietly.
"Now we had better pull the wheels round."
This was done, and the carriage assumed its former state.
"Well, how could they have got away?" inquired Captain Fraser, examining the axles and
the bars; "all appears right."

"They have broken the splinter-bar, and here are the remains of the traces. The splinter-
bar, I find, has only lost its hooks, so it will do again. Come, sir, you have less damage to
regret than I at first thought it possible you could have escaped with; I am tuly glad it is so."
"Thank you, sir; your kindness and assistance has been truly great and efficient; but I
have yet to find the poor fellow who drove us."
"We will seek after him; or, I had better ride on to the next town or house where I can
obtain assistance, while you will be better able to protect the ladies by remaining with
them, and my horse will carry me quickly enough."
"Oh! you are mounted."
"I am; but the ladies wait."
Thus admonished, the captain turned to the ladies, and, with the stranger's assistance, he
conducted them back to the carriage, where they were replaced, without any material
damage or misfortune of any kind, save what might arise from fright.
"Some one is coming this way," said the stranger. "If I mistake not, they are your
runaways, by the sounds."
They listened, and distinctly heard the sounds of horses' feet coming along, with the
jingling of harness, that made it pretty certain that what the stranger said was correct, and
that it was most probable that this was indeed the man who drove them coming back with
the same cattle, or some fresh.
A few moments more decided the speculation, and the man himself rode up, and looked
at the carriage, saying, --
"Well, I thought it was upset."
"So it was, but we have righted it now. Has no accident happened to you? But these are
the same horses!"
"Yes, sir. When they got loose, or broke away, they went as if they were shot out of a
gun, and away they went for some miles, until I contrived to stop them, which was a hard
job; however, I thought then, as there was nothing the matter with them or with me, I had
better return and see what was become of you, sir, and the ladies."
"Quite right. Do you think they will go quietly in the harness again?"
"Oh, yes -- oh, yes, sir."
"Then we will harnes; [sic] them, and go on to the end of the next stage, when we can see
exactly what mischief, if any, has been done."

This was immediately put in practice, and they were soon harnessed, the broken straps
and traces being mended in the best way time and circumstances admitted, but effectually
enough for the present purpose.
"Now, sir," said Captain Fraser, "do you continue this road, or the one we have come? I
supppose we must have overtaken you, as you were coming this way."
"No; I was a traveller going in the same direction. I saw your speed from a distance, and,
believing your horses to have taken fright, I rode on, and, being well mounted, I overtook
you just as the accient happened."
"Then we may have the pleasure of your company on the road for some distance to come,
I hope, sir?"
"As far as the next place to stop at, at all events; for I do not desire to travel further than I
can avoid to-night."
"Then I shall be able to thank you more at leisure, and at a better opportunity than at
present," said the captain.
"Do not name it; I am too happy to have had it in my power to render you any assistance.
Shall I ride on and secure you proper accomodation when you do arrive there?"
"You kindness is very great," said the captain again. "I am much beholden to you; but if
we can get as far as we hoped to do, we shall not require it; there will be sufficient for
travellers under the ordinary course of events. We shall do very well; and if we should not
be able to get so far, we must make ourselves content with whatever chance
accommodation we get on the road."
"Then we will journey for that distance in company," said the stranger, as he mounted his
horse, which had stood quietly by while the tall stranger rendered the timely assistance he
had to them.
They proceeded along now at a cautious pace. The weather had abated, and the rain was
now less severe; the thunder only heard in the distance; while the lightning could only be
seen in occasional flashes in the distance, in a direction away from them. The clouds began
to lighten, and then the diffused light of the moon came and shed a gentle light upon the
scene, though it was very scarce, and of comparative little use save it enabled them to see
their way all the better.
The roads were good, and they travelled onwards with some increase of speed; and
finding none of their amended horse-tackle had given way, they still kept journeying
onwards at the same pace.

Time brought them to their destination, and when they arrived at the inn at which they
were to stop for the night, they found it had not made much more than an hour or an hour
and a half's difference.
When they were fairly housed, the stranger took an apartment to himself. It was while he
sat before the fire that Captain Fraser entered his room.
"I must apologise for my intrusion," began the captain.
"Do not say a word on that head, sir," said the stranger; "it is no intrusion -- you are
welcome. Be seated, if you please; I am alone, and perfectly at leisure."
"I have come to thank you for the service you have done us, and to beg that you will sup
with us, and permit the ladies to have an opportunity of thanking their preserver in person.
You will oblige us all by accepting the invitation."
"I am much obliged for your courteous offer," said the stranger, who was a tall, dignified
man. "I will come after supper, if you please, and shall feel it a great honour, I assure you;
but I am so truly sensible that my efforts were more owing to accident than to anything
else, that I do not wish to hear anything more of it."
"You must not be so self-denying, sir. We do not wish to put any more merit on your act
than we think it deserves; but that much you must accept, if you will permit me to use such
a word. Shall we have the pleasure of your company?"
"After supper."
"I will not press you against your feelings; but you will come in after supper, sir? I hope I
may have the pleasure of drinking a bottle of wine with you. Will you come?"
"I will, sir, and thank you for the honour."
"May I have the pleasure of being able to introduce you to the ladies by name?" said the
captain, with a little hesitation.
"Certainly -- certainly. I beg your pardon. I am somewhat forgetful; I forgot I had not
passed through an introduction," said the stranger. "Permit me to give you my card."
As he spoke, he handed Captain Fraser a beautifully-embossed card, upon which was

printed, in Italian characters, -- "Sir Francis Varney."
Captain Fraser took the card and read the name, and then, passing a compliment, he said,
that since he could not have his company to supper, then he should expect him when he felt
at leisure and disposed to do so. * * *

"My dear," said Captain Fraser to his wife, when he returned to his apartment, "our new
friend will not come to supper but will take a glass of wine with me afterwards."
"I am sorry he will not come; though, under other cicumstances, I should have been glad
of it; but I am sorry on this occasion."
"And why would you have been glad?"
"Because, after the flurry and upset we had, I am hardly fit to see any one, much less a
stranger; but he so kindly and promptly rescued us from our danger, that I cannot feel
reluctance at any time."
"Yes," said her sister; "and I must say I never heard a voice that sounded so really like a
gentleman's -- indeed, I could fancy that any one could positively assert that he was a
gentleman, only from hearing him speak, without seeing him at all; but, be that as it may, I
felt convinced he was such."
"He is very courteous, I must say," said Mrs. Fraser.
"And who do you think he is?"
"I have no means of forming any judgment."
"Well, then, he is Sir Francis Varney."
"Sir Francis Varney! Well, I do not know the name; I never heard the name before that
time; but I think there was some one of that name in the time of Queen Elizabeth -- an
attendant on the Earl of Leicester."
"Are you not joking?"
"Indeed I am not; I have read so.["]
"And you think this gentleman may be a descendant of his?"
"There is no impossibility nor improbability about it, that I see," said Mrs. Fraser; "but I
am the more obliged to him for his timely assistance. I am sure it was fortunate that he was
so close at hand."
"Yes, it was very fortunate. Mary, my dear, we shall be introduced to a baronet. It is quite
a prophecy of yours in saying he was a gentleman when you only heard him speak. By the
way, Fraser, what sort of a man is he?"
"Very singular indeed."
"Singular! Ay -- he is very tall."

"Yes, he is tall; but very pale; more remarkable and dignified than handsome; extremely
courteous and polite."
"What age is he?"
"Well, I cannot tell; perhaps forty, perhaps not so old by ten years; it is quite impossible
to say."
"Dear me, how strange! I think I could guess anybody's age better than that."
"You shall have an opportunity of doing so, then, in an hour or so, when he will come;
and I think I may venture upon saying you will be pleased with his dignified politeness, and
say he is much superior to most men." ****
The supper ended, and the wine was produced, and Captain Fraser, his lady, and two
young relatives, were seated round a good fire -- for the storm had chilled the air; besides,
the damp they had stood in rendered such a precaution necessary and pleasant,
notwithstanding the day had been sultry; but the change in the temperature was sudden and
great -- awaiting, with something like impatience, the stranger's arrival.
"He does not appear to come," said Charles Stevens.
"He is not here, certainly; but he will come, no doubt, the moment he is quite sure that we
had done our supper, and he had finished his own; perhaps he takes longer than we."
"Perhaps so; but I am strongly tempted to go to him again."
"It might be construed into undue urgency, or something of the sort," said Mrs. Fraser;
"and yet he might be waiting for something of the sort."
"So he might," said the captain. "At all events, I will go and see; if he were inclined to do
so under other circumstances, he would not take offence under the present."
"Perhaps not."
At that moment the door was opened, and the waiter presented a note.
"A note for me?" said Captain Fraser.
"Yes, sir."
"Who can it be from?"
"From the gentleman up stairs, sir, who came with you an hour back."
"Oh!" exclaimed Captain Fraser.

"He was taken ill, and obliged to go to bed, sir."
Captain Fraser immediately tore open the note, and read as follows: --
"SIR, -- I deeply regret I cannot keep my promise to take a glass of wine with you, and
have the honour of being introduced to the ladies. Favour me so far as to make my excuses
to them. It is a great pleasure lost to me on the occasion; permit me to to say deferred,
rather than lost; and if I might venture to make an appointment, under the circumstances, I
can only say that, if convenient, I should be happy to breakfast with you, and then have the
honour and happiness I have now the misfortune to lose.
"Sudden and severe indisposition alone have caused me to retire before I had the honour
of seeing you, and expressing my inability to attend you. -- Yours, obliged, "FRANCIS
VARNEY."
There was a blank upon the countenances of all present. Evidently a deep disappointment
was felt by all; but the captain was especially surprised, and, turning to the waiter, he said, -
-
"Did you see this gentleman?"
"Yes, sir."
"Was he unwell?"
"Yes, sir."
"I mean, was he, or is he, dangerously ill?"
"He was very ill, sir; but I don't know that he is dangerously ill. He suffered much pain,
and he was obliged to have aid to go up stairs."
"Did he say what it was that ailed him?" pursued Captain Fraser.
"Not that I heard; though some said he had got the cramp and cold by being too long in
the wet."
"Perhaps so -- very likely -- very likely -- that will do. Let me know how he is the first
thing in the morning; do you hear?"
"Yes, sir, I will take care."
"Well," said Mrs. Fraser, when they were alone, "I did not expect such a disappointment
this evening. However, he makes up for it by appointing the breakfast hour for our meeting;
it is the more agreeable, as we shall have had a good night's repose, and shall be the better
able to appear to advantage."

CHAPTER CXXXVI. [sic] [Chapter 146]
THE ALARM AT THE INN. -- BED-CHAMBER TERRORS. -- A NIGHT SCENE. --

A MORNING SUCCEEDING TO A NIGHT OF ADVENTURE.
The inmates of the inn are all fast bound in sleep. The senses of all seem steeped in deep
forgetfulness; even the hour of dreams was passed. The storm, which had raged so violently
in the early part of the evening, and which had appeared to have gone and a calm
succeeded, had returned, and the fury of the blast was only equalled by the deluging rain
and the fearful rumbling of the thunder.
But calmly slept the beautiful and innocent Mary Stevens. She was young, and her mind
bore no weight of care; when she slept no dreams disturbed her rest, but a calm, death-like
sleep sat upon her soul, and steeped it in forgetfulness.
The storm raged around, but she heard it not; she was unconscious of it. Perhaps the
disturbance and fatigues of the previous day caused a greater degree of depth to her
insensibility, and rendered her mind less liable to slight interruptions. But she slept
soundly, and even did not hear the intruder who walked across the floor of her bedroom,
and stood gazing on her fair arms as she lay sleeping.
The intruder was a tall man, enveloped in some strange mantle, all white. He stooped
over her, as if he listened to the beating of her heart, while his strangely bright eyes, which
shone fearfully, appeared to express a horrible kind of joy, too terrible for human nature to
contemplate.
He stooped -- he placed his hand upon her heart, and felt its pulsations, and a terrible and
ghastly smile passed over his features, while a movement of the lips and mouth generally,
appeared as if anticipatory of a coming meal.
Then he took the white arm in his hands, and cast a longing look at the features of the
maiden, who appeared disturbed by the rude action, and moved in her sleep, and was
suddenly aroused from her slumber by a severe pang in her arm, as though some creature
had plunged its fangs into her flesh.
She started up, and found herelf [sic] flung upon the bed with gigantic strength. She
screamed, and uttered scream upon scream.
The old inn was filled with sounds of terror and pain. There was a loud knocking heard at
the door. Then, indeed, the assailant left his prey to provide for his own safety; but it was
almost too late, for the door was burst open violently, as he made for another means of exit,
which was the means by which he had entered the apartment; but he was prevented, and, as
the first person entered the apartment, he threw him down by placing something in his way.
The light was thrown against some furniture, which immediately rose up into a flame.
"Help! help! Fire! fire!"

These were fearful sounds, such as had never before been heard in that place, and the
inmates, woke up by the screams from deep slumber, were startled and terrified at these
sounds, and springing at once from their beds, echoed the sounds as they run wildly about
from place to place.
"Where is the fire? What's the matter?"
"Fire in the young lady's room."
All eyes were directed to that quarter, and in another instant there were several persons
rushing to the room, the glare of the fire in which at once attracted their observation, and
they rushed to the rescue; among the foremost of whom was Sir Francis Varney, whose
bedchamber was not far distant from Mary Steven's. He rushed to the bed, and wrapping
the bedclothes round her, he carried her out of the room and the scene of danger, and, as he
came out of the room, he inquired, --
"Where is Captain Fraser?"
"Here -- here I am, Sir Francis," said the captain, coming hastily forward.
"Then, Captain, Fraser, I resign my charge up to you -- you are her proper protector; but I
must apologize for my hasty intrusion into her apartment."
"Do not think of speaking in that manner, Sir Francis; we are already indebted to you for
our lives, and now we are again your debtor. Your ready aid has twice saved the young
lady."
Captain Fraser took Miss Stevens form Sir Francis, and then carried her, as she was quite
insensible, to his own room to his wife, her sister, where she was laid upon the bed, and
found to be quite insensible.
There was much confusion in the inn -- people were running about from place to place,
and tumbling over each other in the confusion of thought; and the moments were precious,
for many were running about, yet none did effective service, though all were willing
enough to do all that could be done by them under the circumstances.
"You had better get some water," said Varney, "as quickly as you can. It is useless to run
about and stare at each other. Get all the buckets you can. Be quick about it. There may yet
be time enough to save the inn, and keep the fire to the room where it is; but that time will
soon be at an end."
Instantly two or three of the men ran down and got a plentiful supply of water, and then,
under the direction of Sir Francis Varney, the fire was very soon got under, and the flames
were extinguished.
Then came an inquiry how the fire had first appeared.

"Do you know how it happened?" inquired Sir Francis Varney, of the innkeeper, who
stood quite mute with astonishment at the scene before him.
"Know, sir!" said the the innkeeper. "I don't know anything. I don't know myself. I don't
even know where I am, or what's the matter."
"Then I beg to tell you, sir," said Varney, with much sauvity of manner, "then I beg to tell
you, sir, that there has been a fire in your inn -- a young lady frightened out of her senses,
and I know not the cause."
"No more don't I," said the landlord, with a short grunt, indicative of wonderment and
alarm. "I wish I did. I wonder who set the place a-fire; that's what I wants to know, and why
he did it."
"The motive was not a bad one, I believe."
"Not a bad motive, that which causes one man to set fire to and destroy another man's
property!"
"Not when it is not only not done with any evil intention, but it was not even done
wilfully," said Sir Francis.
"Perhaps you saw it done," said the landlord, with another grunt.
"I did," replied Varney; "hearing the disturbance, I hastily threw on some of my clothes,
and ran out of my apartment to ascertain what was the matter, and found several others had
got here before me, and had burst open the door. The first who entered, had a light in his
hand, and fell with it, setting the place on fire, which burned furiously for a minute or more,
the hangings being dry and old. I took the young lady out, else I am sure she must have
perished."
"Well, I saw you come out with her in your arms, like a salamander; but what I most want
to know is, what was it that disturbed my customer? That is of the greatest consequence to
me."
"You are perfectly right, my friend," said Sir Francis, with much composure, "to make
that inquiry, that being the origin of all that subsequently took place. You are a man of
discernment, and must see that the young lady herself can alone give us any account of
that."
"True, sir; but I am much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken, not only for the
young lady's sake, but for the property you have prevented being destroyed. You have, no
doubt, saved the inn, and all it contains."
"That is enough, sir," said Varney, waving his hand, "you have said enough. I am glad I
have rendered you a service, and that it has been effectual."

"It has been just the thing," said the landlord.
"Then take my advice. See the place is secure, and send all persons to bed, save, perhaps,
a single individual, who might be set to watch the room which has been on fire, and which
may have some slumbering spark in it, though I think not; but the quieter the place is, the
sooner the young lady's alarm will be over, and then all will be well."
"Certainly, certainly," said the landlord, "it will be better to do so; but here is the only
gentleman who can tell us how the young lady is."
Sir Francis Varney turned round, and beheld Captain Fraser coming towards them with a
very grave aspect.
"Captain Fraser," said Sir Francis, "perhaps you can tell us what we are so very anxious
to learn, and what we have been inquiring about."
"What may that be, Sir Francis?"
"We have been trying to learn what it is that caused the young lady to scream out in such
a fearful manner. We have settled the cause of the fire -- that has been manifest enough to
us all."
"Indeed! I am not acquainted with it."
"It arose from the first person who entered her apartment after the door was burst open,
falling over something, and setting fire to the curtains, which blazed up in an instant, and
set the whole room on fire."
"Indeed!" said Captain Fraser, almost incredulously.
"Yes, I saw that myself," said Varney, "and I stepped over him as he lay on the ground,
and therefore know it; but how is the young lady? Has she recovered from the extreme
fright into which she has been thrown?"
"It is a much more serious affair than I had any notion of, Sir Francis."
"I am concerned to hear you say so."
"Shall I send for the doctor?" inquired the landlord.
"Do -- that is what I came to ask you to do; she has recovered once, and has fainted again.
I know not what to think. She has a singular wound in her arm. I can't understand that, at all
events."

"I did not see it when I took hold of her; though, to be sure, what I did, was done in
smoke and flame, and I could not be supposed to scrutinize very closely, had I been so
inclined; but what kind of wound is it?"
"I can hardly describe it to you, save it is a bite; and there are teeth-marks plain enough to
be seen; though we have no means of telling what kind of creature it was that inflicted the
wounds."
"Indeed! I am concerned, for the effect upon the imagination will be very bad; but did she
not see, or fancy she saw the object that injured her?"
"It was dark, and the storm raged without; moreover, she was held down by a powerful
grasp; and when she attempted to rise, she was flung down, and she could feel the blunted
teeth enter her flesh, and the creature appeared to suck her blood."
"Dear me," said Sir Francis, "what a very strange affair! It is fortunate I was obliged to
retire early, and I slept the lighter, and was therefore easily aroused from my sleep; but I am
proverbially a light sleeper."
"Are you, sir? But what has caused the wound in her arm I cannot tell; it is quite a
mystery. She has got a fancy into her mind that it was a human being; but that could not
have been the fact."
"I should imagine not," said Sir Francis.
"And then, I know of no animal who could commit such an act: a cat or a dog could not
have done it, though a dog might have made the teeth-marks; but a dog would hardly have
attempted to suck blood."
"They will do it," said Sir Francis, "that I know to be a fact; and I believe it to be one that
is generally admitted by all persons, especially that breed of animials mostly kept, and
which have something of the bull-dog in them."
"It may be so; but how could she be held down by one of them? She could not be struck
down when she attempted to rise."
"It is not for me to combat the young lady's opinions; but, remember, my dear sir, how
terrified, not to say how horrified, she must have been at such an unusual, and, I may add,
unheard-of an attack; if you consider such things, and the improbability -- not to say what
appears to me, the impossibility -- you will see plenty of room for mistakes to arise, and
give her notions a wrong turn."
"That is very true."

"And besides, I would, if I were convinced of the contrary, endeavour to persuade her of
her mistake, unless you can discover the perpetrator of the outrage, when justice demands
that such a savage should be severely punished."
"By G-d! Sir Francis," said the captain, "if I could see him, I would shoot the scoundrel!
But, then, I am getting angry without a cause; it may not be what she thinks, and then, you
know, all one's anger goes for nothing."
"So it does; but, in the meantime, great care and attention is requisite to regain her
confidence and serenity of mind."
"Oh, a day or two will make a great difference in these matters, when we come to change
the scene."
"Are you travelling far, Captain Fraser?"
"As far as Bath," said the captain.
At this moment the landlord returned, saying to Captain Fraser, --
"I have sent to Mr. Carter, who will be here, no doubt; he is close at hand, and will come
in a moment. He's a very clever gentleman, is Mr. Carter. I saw him perform four
operations on coach accidents."
"Operations on coach accidents!" said Sir Francis Varney; "a curious matter, that. How
did they succeed upon such materials?"
"Oh, they were two broken arms, and three broken legs."
"Indeed! Did they all recover?"
"No; only one got over it."
"Upon my word, a promising member of the faculty to entrust so tender a charge to,
under such delicate circumstances. But, landlord, have you any bad characters about your
house, or in the neighbourhood?"
"I can't say anything about the neighbourhood, though I believe it is as quiet and orderly
as can be, or usually is. I never hear anything against it, and know nothing against it; and as
for them in the house, I can answer they would not hurt a fly, unless provoked to do so; but
what I mean is, they are all honest and tried servants."
"Well, that is saying a good deal," said Captain Fraser; "but, have you any dogs about the
house -- I mean, any large dogs?"
"Ah! dogs! Yes, I have several dogs, and good dogs they are, too."

"Could any of them get into the rooms -- the sleeping-rooms? I mean, could any of them
get into the room that has taken fire?"
"No, unless the door was opened," said the landlord. "They are not allowed to run about
loose here, lest any one should get up in the night and be mistaken for intruders; for my
dogs, gentlemen, would take any one they saw moving about outside of a night; but,
otherwise, they are quiet, well-conducted dogs."
"Well, you mean to say they could not have got into Miss Stevens's room."
"I do; I am sure of it. They could not, because there were none of them about the house
when we went to bed -- when the house was shut up at night. However, here is the doctor."
The medical man now arrived, and was forthwith introduced to Captain Fraser, who
conducted him to the apartment in which Mrs. Fraser and Miss Stevens were awaiting the
coming of the doctor. Captain Fraser, after having introduced him to the invalid, returned to
the landlord and Sir Francis.
"Well, I cannot make it out at all," said Sir Francis. "There must be some mystery in it, I
am persuaded; and if that could only be discovered, the matter would lose half its terrors to
the mind of the young lady."
"No doubt it would do so," said the captain. "The fire and her wound together, have made
a deep impression upon her."
"The wound!" said the landlord. "Is the young lady hurt, then?"
"Hurt, indeed! she is seriously hurt. She has received a severe wound in the arm, by some
one, or some dog having seized and bitten her seriously."
"God bless me!" said the landlord; "I never heard of such a thing. Somebody began to eat
her, I suppose. Upon my word, it would almost make one believe we are in the Cannibal
Islands, to say the least of it."
"Here is the surgeon," said Sir Francis, who noticed that gentleman's approach.
"Well, sir," said Captain Fraser, "how is your patient?"
"I fear she is much terrified; and if she were to remain here long, I should hardly like to
answer for her health. She has received a very severe shock."
"Her wound -- what think you of that, sir?"
"I really can't say anything about it, save that is is a bite; but how inflicted I cannot say. It
is very mysterious, indeed; very strange! But, what I look upon as most important in the
affair, is the impression it has produced upon her mind; that, you see, may last her all her

life, and produce very unfortunate consequences. I do not know that it will be so, but I state
what there is a possibility of -- or, I may, more correctly speaking, add, -- of what there is a
great probability."
"I regret to hear you say so," said Sir Francis Varney. "Do you really imagine the young
lady has been bitten by any animal?"
"Yes, I do; there are evidences enough to prove that. There is the wound in her arm, and
the marks of the teeth quite plain; and she suffers from the anguish of it much; but I shall be
better able to say more about it early in the morning, when I call again to see her."
"She will be able to travel, I hope?"
"Oh, yes, she will be able to do that; indeed, I would recommend she should try to do so,
as the best means of throwing off all the unpleasant feelings and thoughts upon the
occasion."
"Will you call early to-morrow?"
"I will," said the doctor; and then he bade them good evening, and left.
"Well," said the landlord, "I'm amazed at what the doctor says about the young lady. I'm
sorry it should have happened in my house; but I hope something will turn up to make it
turn out different."
"That I'm afraid is not possible, seeing you have a clear demonstration of what it is now;
the mischief has been done."
"I am the more sorry," said the landlord, "that it is likely to prey upon the young lady's
feelings, which are to be considered in the case."
"Certainly, certainly; there is where the mischief is likely to spring from."
"However, it is of no use to stand here all night -- it is cold. I must get an hour or two's
sleep before I get to business in the morning."
"I think so too," said Captain Fraser; "well, I will bid you good night, Sir Francis, and
shall expect you in the morning to breakfast."
"With pleasure," replied Varney; and they all parted, each going to his own dormitory, to
sleep or to think over the events of the night, as best they might.
--

CHAPTER CXXXVII. [Chapter 147]
The next morning came, and with it came also the usual bustle of a country inn, when
strangers are stopping there, especially carriage strangers; as well as the usual coach
stoppages, when they change horses, which they did more than once that morning. It was at
a later hour than usual when the party breakfasted, and it was somewhat late when Sir
Francis Varney entered the room.
"Good morning," said Sir Francis, with great suavity of manner, and in a most courtly
tone; "I trust I see you somewhat recovered from the fright you were put to last night."
"Oh, Sir Francis," said Mrs. Fraser; "it was a dreadful fright, indeed; but we have so much
to thank you for. To you we owe much, and my sister owes to you a double obligation --
you have rescued her twice."
"I am happy to think I have been a fortunte instrument in serving you. I trust Miss
Stevens is better than she was."
"I think she is better, Sir Francis; but she desires to remain in her apartment until we are
ready to start. Though I thought it somewhat unreasonable, because, if she is to travel, she
had better have come out."
"But her rest was disturbed by the accident, and it might have been early before she slept;
and an hour's rest and repose might do much towards recovering her," said Sir Francis; "her
own feelings are a good guide under those circumstances."
"I think so, too," said Captain Fraser.
"I," said young Stevens, "was awoke by a desperate riot caused by people running about;
I did not hear anything of the scream."
"I was awoke by it," said Captain Fraser. "How did you hear of it -- how were you
awoke?"
"By a loud scream," said Sir Francis; "I was asleep, and when it awoke me, I knew not
what it was. I remained for a moment or two in doubt as to whether I had not dreamt, but a
repetition assured me that I was not dreaming -- and knowing from the sound it was a
female's voice, I jumped up, and dressed myself as well as I could; but, before I could do
that, I heard people running about, and when I got into the gallery, I heard the door burst
in."
"Did any one come out?"
"I cannot say -- I saw no one; but the man who first entered the apartment fell down, from
some cause or other, and set the bed-curtains on fire -- accidentally, of course, but it was
the same in effect."

"Did you see any one in the room, Sir Francis?"
"No one at all; I did not even know who slept there; but seeing the form of a human being
lying there, and wrapping the bed-clothes, or rather seizing her and the bed-clothes, by
grasping with both arms, I carried her out. I used but little ceremony, and the urgency of the
case must be my excuse."
"And it is, Sir Frnacis, though I know not in what way we can manifest our feelings of
gratitude to you."
"You may, madam, by saying no more about it; but I shall be delighted to think you have
such a good opinion of my services; and the knowledge that they have been useful, that is a
gratification to me."
"And one you are well entitled to, Sir Francis," said Captain Fraser.
"How far are you travelling?" inquired Mrs. Fraser.
"As far as Bath, madam, for the benefit of my health."
"We are going to Bath, Sir Francis, as well. I am sure it will be a great pleasure to Captain
Fraser, to find that we are to have such a travelling companion -- that is, if you can
accommodate yourself to travelling in a carriage."
"I can travel as you please. I am mounted, and am used to such travelling, for months at a
time."
"Do you travel much at a time, Sir Francis?"
"Yes, I have been a great traveller, for years; not so much as regards distance as to the
constancy of my perambulations; for I continue for months together out, riding from one
town to another."
"Without an attendant?"
"Always; I never carry a servant about with me; it cannot be done with comfort by any
one. You have always proper attendance if you stop at a respectable inn, or hotel; or, if not,
if the road you have to travel be a cross route, you cannot expect any additional comfort
from a servant, but you are troubled at his not being comfortably lodged; at least, I am, for I
have tried it."
"I dare say there is much wisdom in that. I know from experience that a single traveller,
who has leisure, and is willing, may enjoy himself better than he could if he were attended
by his servant. You are somewhat restrained in your motions, and cannot do as you would
please under all circumstances."

"I am fully persuaded of that, from experience; but I shall travel on horseback till I get to
Bath, and then I hardly know whether I shall reamin at an hotel, or take lodgings for the
season -- or what."
"What we intend is, to take lodgings," said Captain Fraser, "for a time -- as long as we
feel inclined -- and then to enjoy ourselves."
"Quite right," said Sir Francis; "quite right. I am glad to hear you say so, and I hope it
may be of advantage to Miss Stevens."
"I hope so too. Shall we have the advantage of your company en route?"
"I shall have great pleasure in having your company so far. It will give me great
gratification, indeed; I shall be most happy to bear your company as far as the city of Bath,
and shall consider myself the gainer by your society."
"No, we shall be the only party that will benefit by it; but we shall feel greatly your
kindness, and I, for one, anticipate much pleasure on the road from your society, and also
when we arrive in Bath."
"I feel such will be the case."
At this moment Mr. Carter was announced also. In a few momemts more this individual
was introduced to them; he was a plain gentlemanly man, who really was a clever man,
notwithstanding the fearful account of his prowess and skill which the landlord had
descanted on the previous night.
"Well, Mr. Carter," said Captain Fraser, "how do you find my sister -- do you think she is
any better than she was?"
"I think she is calmer, and much of the first violence of terror is gone; but I cannot say
any more -- she is still much disturbed."
"Do you think there is anything dangerous in her state?"
"No, sir, I do not; though I cannot hide from you the possibility that there is of her being
permanently affected by it -- I mean mentally; it may take a deep hold of her, and there will
be no getting her free from it, save by judicious treatment."
"You do not consider much, then, of her wound?"
"The arm? Oh, yes; that looks very angry, and has been a very severe bite, and has caused
her arm to swell; though I have no doubt about its getting well, still it will be very painful
for some days; and, had it been a little more severe, it is possible that some of the tendons
might have been injured, or an artery wounded."

"Upon my word," said Sir Francis Varney, "this had very nigh turned out a very bad and
serious affair, if not a dangerous one."
"Of that there can be no doubt," said the doctor.
"Well, but, after all, what was it that has caused all this disturbance? What was it, a man
or brute?"
"Decidedly the latter, " said Sir Francis Varney, "decidedly the latter, be the form of the
creature what it may."
"Indeed, you are right, Sir Francis," said Mrs. Fraser; "but she insists it was a human
being who made this abominable attack upon her -- why or wherefore, no one knows; but
she insists it was a man."
"What do you say," doctor?"
"I only know, sir, what the young lady says."
"Do you think it probable?"
"I cannot say I do. I think it most unlikely; though, to be sure, there is nothing in it that is
impossible. Had any one felt maliciously towards the young lady, they might have
perpetrated the crime; but, in the absence of all malice, I cannot think so bad of human
nature as to believe it."
"You discredit it, then?" said Sir Francis Varney.
"I do," said the doctor, "with all due respect to the young lady; but the probability of
mistake is so great, and when you consider the terror so natural to the occasion, her powers
of observation were limited and liable to error, that I cannot myself believe otherwise than
there is a great mistake."
"And what do you consider of the wounds? I mean, do you think it possible they were
inflicted by human teeth? Are they of that shape and character that could be inflicted by
human teeth?"
"Yes, decidedly; that is, so far as I am able to judge, while the wound is swelled and
angry, I should consider them just such as might be inflicted by the teeth of a man or
woman."
"That corroborates the young lady's own belief."
"It does, so far," said Mr. Carter.
"Then comes the question of how could it have been done, and by whom?"

"These seem to be questions which cannot be answered. I asked the landlord all that could
tend to elicit that information, but with no success; he knew nothing that could throw any
light upon the subject."
"Perhaps he knew nothing," suggested Mrs. Fraser.
"Most probably he did not," was the reply.
"I know the landlord to be a respectable, though somewhat eccentric man; and I think him
quite incapable of being a party to such an outrage upon any person, much less upon a lady
who was stopping at his house."
"Well; however true that may be, yet it is undeniable that this outrage has been commited,
though by whom we cannot say, for we do not even suspect anybody. I can't understand it
at all."
"Nor I; but, as you observed, sir, the outrage has been committed, and here, too; but,
unfortunately, no one is suspected, and justice cannot be done, which, in such a case, ought
to be fully and clearly made out, for there can be no palliation."
"None at all."
"I wish," said Captain Fraser, "I had been first in the room."
"Why, sir," inquired Sir Francis Varney, "do you wish that?"
"Because you see, sir, I should have felt that inward satisfaction arising from the fact, that
I fancy I might have ascertained whether any one was, or had been, in the room."
"The young lady said there was," said Sir Francis.
"Yes -- yes; but then you saw the door opened, and saw no one come out."
"I did not, though, after I had Miss Stevens in my arms, I came away, and then it was
possible any one might have got out, though there were others who would have seen them;
but still, in the bustle and confusion of the moment, there might have been somebody."
"Yes, there is that possibility," said Captain Fraser; "and I don't see why I should trouble
myself about this affair -- I mean, by wishing myself there; but I should have done nothing
but carry out the body -- that would have been my first act."
"No doubt," said Sir Francis; "and what made such an act the more necessary is, the fact
that she was in instant danger of death from burning, or suffocation."
"True -- true; who would have coolly gazed around him, when there, on the bed, lay the
unfortunate victim of God knows what."

"Well, sir, I must bid you good day. I have some patients to visit."
"Not before we square accounts, which is easily done. Let me know how we may stand,
sir, and I will pay you at once."
This little affair was soon settled; and the doctor was about to depart, when he said,
before he left the room, --
"I have given the young lady directions what to do relative to her arm. She must not use it
much; but any medical man who may chance to see it, will be able to prescribe for it;
though what I have given I deem almost enough to effect her complete restoration, as far as
regards the arm. The shock, the mind and nervous system have sustained, will only be
eradicated by time and change."
"Thank you for your advice; that shall be attended to."
The doctor now quitted the hotel; and the landlord entered the apartment with a very
serious aspect; and, after making his bow, proceeded to say, --
"I am very sorry, sir, for the occurrence of last night -- very sorry, indeed. Indeed, sir, I
cannot make it out at all. I have inquired all over the house, and nobody at all knows
anything about it, nor can't think how it could be. A good many of them won't believe it at
all, though I told them there could be no doubt of it, for the young lady was burnt, and the
bed set on fire."
"You may be sure of that, landlord; the young lady has been bitten on the arm most
severely."
"And, as for the fire," said Sir Francis, "I saw how that occurred."
"So you said, sir," replied the landlord; "if that fellow as fell down had stood up, why, it
wouldn't have set the curtains a fire."
"No, that is true."
"Well, then, he would have been able to have seen what was the matter, instead of his
filling the room full of smoke and fire as he did; he hadn't no excuse to tumble down --
nobody knocked him down."
"But didn't he hurt himself very badly?"
"Oh, only about two or three square inches, or perhaps a patch as big as your hand, off his
chin -- that's nothing to such as he."
"Very good. But have you examined the place, to see if anybody could have got in and
concealed himself? Was there any possibility of a man's getting into your house, and

secreting himself in any part of the bed-room, which would thus afford him an opportunity
of doing what has been done?"
"Why, sir, I don't think it likely; and yet these people are so cunning, that you could not,
by any possibility, guard against them in any way, especially in an inn. But there is no
house free from intrusion of that character; but in this instance they could have had no
notion the young lady was to sleep there."
"That is very true," said Captain Fraser, "and tends to show she was not singled out for
outrage; but what seems very singular, is, that any one should secret themselves, and that
with a view to commit such an outrage."
"That is very true," said the landlord; "but people do very strange things sometimes, and I
think the object of any one hiding himself in the house in such a manner as this rascal must
have done, was robbery."
"But he met with no resistance, and there could have been no excuse for so cowardly an
assault as this complained of."
"There is much truth in that, and yet we don't know what human nature is capable of,"
said the landlord. "I have known a few things in my time; but the man, or whatever he
might be, might have been tempted to make the assault complained of."
"What? Then, landlord, you imagine that a thief who had got into the house, would make
an attempt to eat a young lady?"
"Why, as to eating her, sir," said the landlord, scratching his head, "I cannot say that he
would. I don't know what his intentions might be, nor do I profess to understand it all. I
can't, however, see what can be the motive, save malice and spite; they mightn't care whom
they injured, so long as somebody was hurt."
"They must have been very bad."
"Yes, sir; and I wish I had seen them; if I had, I would no more mind chopping them in
two than I would cleave a marrow-bone. I truly hope, sir, you won't consider that, however
unfortunate the circumstances are, that I am blameable in this affair. I took all the usual
precautions in this affair -- that is, my house was secured as usual, and the place watched
during the day; for we are particular in that respect, knowing that we are very liable to be
robbed."
"Exactly," said Captain Fraser; "and though I much regret the occurrence, yet, I tell you, I
do not see anything in which I say you are to blame. It is simply a great misfortune, and
there ends the matter."
"Thank you. I regret it as much, I am sure, as anybody, because I am very likely to be

injured by it."

"You are not to blame. Allow my carriage to be at the door in half an hour, as we shall
leave almost immediately."
"And my horse, too, landlord, as I bear this gentleman company."
The landlord departed, and went towards the stables, and gave the necessary orders; while
the guests remained conversing on the extraordinary occurrence that had taken place, and
much pleased with the courtesy of their new friend.
Many were the speculations that were indulged in respecting the attack upon Miss
Stevens; many of them wild, but all wide of the mark, fortunately, for her frame of mind;
and then, before they had at all come to any conclusion, or any satisfactory probability, the
carriage was announced.
"Well, Sir Francis, I presume you will ride with us?"
"Yes, on horseback."
"I understand so; we shall be much indebted to you for your goodness; but here is Miss
Stevens."
At that moment the young lady entered the room, ready attired for travelling, but looking
very pale and timid. Sir Francis advanced, and, taking her hand, said, --
"May I have the pleasure of hearing you say the occurrence of last night has done you
only a temporary mischief?"
"I hope not," said Miss Stevens; "but, to you, Sir Francis, I owe everything. I am grateful
to you for your ready and effectual aid under such trying circumstances. I am sure I never
can repay you for your goodness."
"Nay, the task is easier than you imagine," said Sir Francis; "to know that I have saved
you, and to see it has been effectual, is repayment enough. I am sure we never feel so much
satisfaction and pleasure as when we find our endeavours, however important or
unimportant they are, have proved effectual -- that we have done what we desired to do --
that is ample reward."
"You are so good, Sir Francis."
"We will say nothing about that. None are so perfect but we may see room for
amendment; but we will have a truce, I hope, upon this subject, and now converse upon the
pleasures of our journey."
"They, I hope, will be very many," said Mrs. Fraser.

"I have every expectation of it myself," said Sir Francis; "the day appears fine, and the
sun is high. The storm of last evening has cleared the air of much of its heat; it is cool and
pleasant. The country will look refreshed, the fields will be quite gay and pleasant, and the
face of nature renewed."
"Well, I am certain it will be a pleasant journey under such a change, for I must say it was
very sultry yesterday."
"It was," said Captain Fraser; "the appearance of the earth alone will tell that. But are you
all ready?"
"Yes, all," replied Mrs. Fraser.
"Now, my dear Charles, what are you about?"
"I'm looking for my gloves," said the youth; "but I can't find them."
"Never mind them; we shall be off without you."
"I'll come before you have all got into the carriage, so don't wait."
"Permit me, Miss Stevens," said Sir Francis, as he offered his arm, "to have the pleasure
of seeing you safe into the carriage."
They young lady accepted of the proffered arm of Sir Francis, though not without
something like reluctance, though, why, she could not tell; but yet she did not like to appear
to hesitate, and forced herself to do what common courtesy, if not gratitude, demanded she
should do. She took his arm, and the whole party were shortly seated in the carriage, and
with Sir Francis Varney mounted beside them, they all quitted the inn, where they had
experienced such strange vicissitudes of fortune during one night, that it would never be
erased from their memories.
--

CHAPTER CXXXVIX. [Chapter 148]
THE ROAD, AND THE TRAVELLERS. -- THE PLEASURES OF DOING GOOD. --

THE BEGGAR WOMAN. -- SIR FRANCIS VARNEY A PHILANTHROPIST.
The road was pleasantly bounded on either side by hill and dale scenery, while it was
itself of a very diversified character; and at one moment they passed through long avenues
of trees, at other times a bare heath, without so much as a dwarf hedge; and then well-
cultivated country would succeed, studded with handsome villas, and country seats, old
half-castellated mansions and halls, where gentlemen lived in the abodes of their ancestors,
and felt pride in doing so.
The air was balmy and beautiful -- every object appeared fresh, and every tree and shrub
looked as though new life had been infused into it; the birds sang merrily, and the whole
party were in high spirits.
"Such scenes as these," said Sir Francis Varney, "please me better than the gaieties and
follies of the town. I am sure there is much more happiness to be found by a contented
mind, than there is in the feverish pleasures of a city."
"There is much truth in that, Sir Francis," said the captain; "but, in my own case,
connected as I am with my professional friends, I cannot follow what is the natural bent of
my taste; but I find pleasure wherever I go, for I am determined to make the best of all that
passes beneath my observation."
"Sweets can be extracted from every bitter, and therefore it is good philosophy to take the
bright side of a picture, in all the ordinary relations of life; we are better men and better
subjects by so doing."
Thus the distance was soon passed over, and a stage was but the same as a pleasant
morning ride; and then an hour or two spent of the heat of the day in quiet in some small,
but respectable, inn, with wine and pleasing conversation, gave them a relish for the life
they led.
The style of the conversation of the stranger, Sir Francis Varney, was pleasing in the
extreme; he was evidently a man of great and varied talents and attainments, and one of
great experience, and who had seen much of life.
Two days passed this way, and they had not reached Bath; they were tempted to stop
longer by the way than they would have done.
"To-morrow," observed Sir Francis, "we must reach Bath. About three short stages will
place us within its precincts, and then I presume the assembly-room, as well as the pump-
room, will occupy much of your attention.
"We shall certainly go there."

"Have you been in Bath before?"
"Yes, but many years ago, when we were quite children, so that I have no recollection of
the place."
"And you, Captain Fraser?"
"No, I have not, I am quite a stranger there; but for the kindness of your offer, I should
have to trust to strangers, or my own good fortune, to find out those things which strangers
usually seek, and those places they usually visit."
"I shall have great pleasure in showing you that which is worthy of your attention. It is
now some years since I was there; but I believe, though there may be improvements, yet the
place is essentially the same."
"No doubt; cities seldom alter much, unless it be in their suburbs. If the alteration be
great, it will point itself out."
"Exactly so."
The party were seated beneath a large cedar tree, which stood in the inn garden, with a
table, upon which were spread some wine and biscuits, walnuts, and a few things besides,
of a character agreeing much with the place.
Into this garden crept an unfortunate beggar woman, who, espying the party from the
road, escaped the vigilance of the waiters and menials who hung about the inn, and entered.
She crept timidly towards the party, looking wistfully, but yet fearful of the consequences
of the intrusion; for there was a notice in the village, which gave forth fearful threats to
them, should they dare to beg for the bread for which they were starving.
Presently, finding the captain's eye fixed upon her, with a beseeching look, she dropped
her curtsey.
"Who is that woman, and what does she want?"
All turned to look upon the unfortunate creature, who began her petition by saying, --
"Kind ladies and gentlemen, pity a poor woman who is starving. I am very weary, and am
weak with travelling -- "
"Eh! what do you do here?" exclaimed the waiter. "Come, come, we don't allow beggars
in this place. The high roads, or the Bridewell, are the only places we have in these here
parts."

"Do not be in a hurry," said Sir Francis, to the officious waiter. "It might have been right
enough to prevent her entering; but now we have seen her, I cannot, if she deserve it, refuse
to aid her in her affliction."
The woman dropped a very low curtsey.
"My good woman, where have you come from?"
"From Bath, sir," said the unfortunate creature.
"From Bath, eh? And what took you there?"
"I lived there."
"You lived there; if that were the case, why should you leave a place where you did live,
to wander about where you cannot live? That is a bad policy, methinks. What do you say,
captain?"
"I think so too, Sir Francis," said the captain; "but that may be only a verbal blunder of
the woman; we can't expect propriety in speaking from such people; it would be expecting
too much."
"So it would," said Mrs. Fraser.
"I have left Bath for two reasons, sir," said the woman; "one is, I was too unwell to work,
and then my rent got into arrears. While I could work, I did pay my way, though living very
hard."
"And what was the other reason?"
"Why, sir, I was turned out of my lodging, and having nowhere to go to, and finding
nobody would assist me, was compelled to beg."
"What induced you to take this road, my good woman?"
"Because, sir, it will, if I live long enough, carry me to Portsmouth."
"Are you known there?"
"No, sir."
"What induces you to go so far? Speak out and do not be afraid; we have no object in
asking you questions, save with the view of assisting you if we find you a worthy object."

"I am going to Portsmouth," replied the poor creature, "in the hope that I may hear from
my son, whom I have not seen these many years, and who went to sea about seven years
ago."
"You have a son then?"
"Yes, sir, I had one. God knows if I have one now."
The poor woman uttered these words with such sorrowing [accents], that all were
convinced of the truthfulness of them.
"Speak out and tell us your story. Bring the poor woman some refreshment," said Sir
Francis; "her tale may interest us, and give us food for ref[lection]. I am sure one cannot
hear the misfortunes of others, without feeling grateful for the luxuries and blessings one
enjoys [over] and above the common lot of mankind."
"That is very true, Sir Francis," said Mrs. Fraser; "and I am sure we ought not to pass
those whom we can assist by a trifle, when our means will permit our doing so."
"You are perfectly correct, ma'am."
"Have you no husband?" inquired Mrs. Fraser.
"None, ma'am, none. When I had one, I had a good home over my head. I would not wish
for happier or better days to come again."
"What was your husband?"
"A respectable tradesman, who kept a good house and his own servants. We spent such a
life as that for nearly fifteen years."
"And how came it to a close?"
"His death, sir, which was brought on by a sudden cold; in a few days he was a corpse. I
can never forget that dreadful day. We were living very comfortably and happy. My
husband had just at that time entered into some speculations that promised to make a
handsome fortune in a few years; and all promised success and happiness, complete and
continued."
"How great a change!" said Miss Stevens.
"Yes, miss, great indeed. My husband hearing some news that caused him to be anxious
to ascertain its truth, he left home one wet night, and got drenched through; and where he
went to, he was obliged to remain in damp clothes, and not being a strong man, he took a
violent cold, and inflammation followed.

"After this he had medical advice; but he soon sank, and was pronounced beyond
recovery; he died a very few hours after that, and I was left a widow. A few short hours
caused a great change in my circumstances."
"What became of the business?"
"Why, that was carried on for a time; but an accident deprived me of that."
"What was that?"
"I will tell you, sir. My son was about fourteen years of age when his father died, and was
just able to carry on the business; and I believe we should have done pretty well, because he
was a steady youth, and I could trust him; and he looked after the men employed, and I was
not robbed.
"However, a severe misfortune awaited me. I thought the loss of my husband a dreadful
misfortune; and I believe it was; but in his case he left one behind who could help to
maintain me. His loss I mourned; but it did not produce the same disastrous results that the
loss of my son produced."
"How came you to lose him?" inquired the captain.
"Why, sir, I had occasion to have some business transacted at Bristol. I could send no one
else, though I could ill spare him; but then I was compelled to send him, and did send him.
It was to accommodate some terms of sale; and he only knew the affair. He, therefore, went
to Bristol. He was pleased enough, being his first journey; and I could hardly have resisted
his importunity, if I had been so inclined.
"He left me, and arrived safely in Britol, and was there a day or two, when, walking about
one evening by the water-side, he was seized by a press-gang, and carried out to sea. It was
useless for him to complain or to entreat; they would take him, and forced him on board a
man-of-war."
"He served his king and country, then?" said the captain. "I honour him, upon my soul;
and you are going to learn something of him -- if he be dead or alive?"
"Yes, sir; I know this much, he was alive about two years ago, and expected to reach
Portsmouth in a couple of years."
"Well, proceed."
"When I heard my fate -- the detention of my son -- I was thrown on a bed of illness, in
which I lay for nearly three months, during which time I was completely robbed, and run
into debt; and when I recovered, I had but a few pounds in the world, for an execution had
been put into the house, and all was sold.

"Thus was I left without a friend or a soul to comfort me, or any relative upon whom I
could call for aid and assistance. I had no right to do so to any one; and after my
misfortunes, I found that my former friends deserted me. I found that it was necessary to
have the means of purchasing friends, just the same as anything else. I could obtain them
for money; but without money I had no friends."
"I was by far too independent to ask for what I felt I was capable of earning. I could live
upon little, and I at once left all who had formerly known me, before I attempted anything. I
was determined that I would not even ask work at their hands, but get it among strangers.
"Of course this caused me to seek a subsistence in the lowest capacity, and I cared not for
it, because it put a still greater barrier between me and my late acquaintances. It was a long
time before I obtained any employment, because I was unknown to any one who could
recommend me, or who wanted my services.
"This was to be expected; but the first place I obtained work at was through the interest of
my landlady; and then I obtained more afterwards, and one led to another, till I obtained a
hard-earned but honest living.
"I had a little money by me -- some two or three pounds; in case of being out of work, or
in case illness overtook me, then I had something to fly to, the workhouse being a place of
all others I most dreaded; sooner than go there I would consent to die by the roadside, and I
have put my resolution to the test."
"You lost your work?"
"I fell ill for some months; all my little store of money was gone, and my rent grew in
arrear. I became more and more deeply indebted, and what food I obtained was given me
by others out of charity; but this could not last long, and a soon as I was able to walk, my
landlady asked me for my rent.
"I then told her that I had no money, but that, in a few weeks, if I could find food to
enable me to get up my strength, I should then be able to work, and I would then pay her
off by degrees, until I was out of debt.
"She knew what I had been, and had some thought that I had money, or if I pleased I
could obtain it from my former friends, and expected me to make the attempt; but this I
refused, and upon my doing so, she, after the first expressions of astonishment and anger,
gave me the alternative of doing so or leaving the house.
"I was turned out, and had no refuge. I wandered about, and knew not where to go, or
what to do; indeed, I was houseless and friendless -- a wanderer without a penny. I could
not now obtain work -- I could not do it; and my appearance caused people to shut their
doors against me, and I wandered about begging.

"This was the first time I ever took what I had not earned, save what was voluntarily
given me when I was ill.
"One evening, as I was creeping about, I heard some men conversing about the different
vessels that were out at sea, and one of them named the one in which my son was. I
instantly listened, and heard one of them say that she was on her voyage homewards, and
would be home in a month.
"I had no sooner heard this than I had some hope.
"'I will go,' I said, 'to Portsmouth. I will meet my son, and he will not refuse to support his
unfortunate mother. I know his disposition too well to dream of it; and should he be unable
to do so, I will beg for him.'
"I slept in Bath that night, and then began to consider how I should get to Portsmouth. It
was a long road; many weary miles must be walked over ere I could get there; and as for
the means, I must trust to the charity of the passengers. It would not be much more than
what I was doing. I could sit on a doorstep and beg; but to walk on the road where there
were few or no passengers, I might starve.
"However, I resolved to make the attempt, because I loved my son; and if I could see him
I should see an end to my misery.
"I started out about four days ago, and I have got this far; but I have had only bread on the
road, and almost despair of being able to reach there; and the charity of people is not
enough to support life upon."
"And where have you slept as you came along?"
"Wherever I could, sir; beneath the haystack, or even a hedge."
"Where did you sleep last night?"
"Beneath a haystack about seven miles from this place."
"And is that all you have got through to-day?"
"Yes, sir, every step; and considering my weak state, I consider it good travelling, and
shall feel thankful for even that rate of travelling. You do not know how intensely I wish to
get to see my son."
"I have no doubt of it, my good woman, and if I can, I will help you on the road. I think
yours is a case that deserves some attention. If you choose to remain here all night and rest,
you may. You shall have food till you go, and some food shall be placed in your hands
before you go."

"Got bless you, sir," said the poor woman, in tears; "you will, indeed, do an act of
kindness to me."
"You will stop?"
"And be be grateful to you for your kindness."
"Here, waiter," said Sir Francis.
"Yes, sir," said that worthy, running up.
"Just take this person, and see that she wants for nothing -- let her have a bed here and
breakfast in the morning, and let me know what the charges are, and I will pay for it -- do
you hear what I say to you."
"Yes, sir," exclaimed the waiter, who considered the charge as one beneath his dignity;
but he was forced to obey, and the woman was desired to follow him, which she did, after
thanking Sir Francis Varney for his humanity and generosity. * * * * *
"Upon my word, Sir Francis," said Mrs. Fraser, "you do those things as if they were
common occurrences to you."
"Why, madam, I am -- and perhaps I ought to abstain from making the confession -- one
who does not love to come in contact with misery; but then one does not feel justified in
turning away from it."
"You must have a deep purse to be able to satisfy all such claimants."
"I cannot do that, if I were inclined, or they were deserving, which many are not, as you
no doubt must be well aware."
"Indeed, that is a fact. Very few of the claimants possess the same strength of right to our
pity and commiseration. I am certainly struck with the woman's manners, and her artless
mode of telling her story."
"Exactly. It bears the impress of genuineness about it."
"So it does."
"And when that is the case, I cannot resist the sense of my duty, which impels me to aid
the distressed. But then I injure no one. I have ample means; and, therefore, others may do
less, and yet deserve more credit. I have no heirs to come into my property, and I cannot,
therefore, injure any one; if I were to give it all away, I should be entitled to do so."
"You are as good, Sir Francis, as you are courageous and fortunate," said Miss Stevens; "I
am sure I have every reason to be thankful to you for two preservations."

"Nay, say no more about the past; you say things at which I ought to blush to hear, for my
modesty is greater than you imagine; but, seriously, I take more pleasure in it than most
people, and that may be a set-off against my disinterestedness, for I am only laying out my
money in pleasure and amusement."
"No, no, that will not pass."
"It will, I hope; but permit me to return and see how they have disposed of this temporary
protege of mine."
"Certainly, Sir Francis; don't let us detain you; we shall remain here some time longer,
and then we shall leave the shelter of this house."
*****
--

CHAPTER CXL. [Chapter 149]
THE ENTRANCE INTO BATH. -- A NEW SCENE. -- THE HOTEL AND THE
LODGINGS. -- THE ATTENTIONS OF SIR FRANCIS VARNEY.
After Sir Francis Varney had left the place where the Frasers were sitting, there was a
long silence, in which each of the party appeared to be engaged in meditating deeply upon
something or other, and yet each shrunk from expressing them. The first who broke the
silence was Captain Fraser, who said, --
"Well, my dear, what do you think of our new acquaintance?"
"I think he is a most amiable man."
"Very courtly," observed his his sister.
"Yes; a sure sign of good breeding -- of good company."
"He is that," said Captain Fraser. "I never met with one in whom dignity, ease, and
complete and unceremonious courtesy were so blended."
"And he appears to be a very kind and amiable man."
"But," said Miss Stevens, "he is also a very strange and a very singular man -- a very
singular man indeed! I never saw such a man before, or any one approaching him. What a
strange complexion!"
"He has a singular complexion, and it strikes me he is well aware of it, and that is the
reason why he prefers a country to a town life; and his solitariness, together with his
manners, all indicate that his peculiarity in this respect causes him much annoyance."
"I dare say it may," said Captain Fraser.
"I never saw anything so truly terrible!" said Charles.
"Hush! do not speak in that way, Charles; it is ungrateful."
"I hope not; it is merely the truth. I never saw a corpse so pale! Indeed he is just such an
one as you might imagine to have started out of a grave with an unwholesome life, and
whoever had resuscitated him had forgotten to warm his blood, or to put blood into his
veins."
"How very absurd you are, Charles! I am sure Sir Frances Varney deserves better of you
than that. You are under a great obligation to him. I feel assured he feels the peculiarity of
his complexion -- I mean it has an effect upon his mind; and, if we knew the cause of it, it

is possible some disinterested action, terminating in evil to himself, has been the cause of
it."
"Well, sister, I do not mean to say that you can admire such a visage; but you ought not to
say I am ungrateful, for I am not; and, moreover, I never saw any gentleman whom I liked
better -- his conversation is quite superior; but then, gratitude, surely, does not prevent one
noticing so glaring a circumstance."
"Certainly not," said Captain Fraser; "though I fancy it would be better to remain silent
upon such topics, if we cannot commiserate them."
"I think you are quite right, Fraser," said Mrs. Fraser; "he deserves respect at our hands,
and the less that is said in regard to his misfortunes the better."
"I think the evening is getting very cool," said Miss Stevens; "will you remain here any
longer? -- I shall return to the house."
"We may as well all go -- especially if you feel chilly."
"I do."
"Then come along; to-morrow we shall be in Bath. Come, sister, you must be quite well
to share in the gaieties of the place. You know you said you should have the greatest
pleasure there -- you have been anticipating it all along."
"I did," said her sister.
"Well, but you will do so now. Why should your expectations not be fulfilled? I can see
no reason why they should not. Bath is a gay place, and a city apparently made soley for the
amusement of those who can pay for them."
"I have been so alarmed and terrified, sister."
"I know that, my dear; but you have had now two days' constant change of scene, and
lived, I may say, almost wholly in the open air, so that you ought not now to be very
nervous, sister."
"I might have been worse under other treatment," replied Miss Stevens; "but at the same
time you can have no idea of what it is to suffer from such an outrage; you cannot conceive
anything like it."
"I dare say not; I am sure it must have been dreadful."
"It must," said the captain; "but we will not say anything about a matter so disagreeable
and so inexplicable."

"Suppose we go in."
"With all my heart; we shall be in Bath to-morrow, and you will have nothing to fear;
how does your arm feel now?"
"Sore, but much of the inflammation has gone down; that I think will soon be well, and
then I shall be able to use it as I used to do; I don't think it will leave any permanent injury
of evil behind."
"I am glad of it," said the captain.
They now all returned to the inn, while the whole of the party passed the remainder of the
evening in company, retiring at an early hour with the view of rising early for the purpose
of getting into Bath in the afternoon, or before the evening set in, at all events. * * * * *
The next morning came, and with it a cloudless sky. They were all in high health and
spirits, and sat down to a breakfast that was especially prepared for them.
"What has become of your protege?" said Mrs. Fraser to Sir Francis.
"I have not seen her this morning. I have not risen long, and I have had no time to spare,
but intend to see her before I go, and see that she has means to reach Portsmouth in safety."
"Will you send for her here, Sir Francis?"
"Certainly, if you wish it," said Sir Francis; "I will tell the waiter to inquire if she be
ready, and, before she goes, to send her up."
"That will be the best."
This accordingly was done, and in about a quarter of an hour the poor woman came up to
the room; there were several alterations for the better in her appearance, and she did not
look so careworn and cast down as she had done; she appeared thankful, and refreshed with
rest and food.
"You are now ready to start, my good woman?" said Sir Francis.
"I am, sir, thanks to you."
"I wish you all possible success in your mission, and I hope your son may be living, and
prove grateful to you, as his mother."
"If living, I am sure he will, sir; and I do not doubt now but I shall be able to meet with
him, thanks to your bounty."
"I hope you may. Have they treated you well in the house, below?"

"Yes, very well, sir, and kindly."
"I am glad of it. Have you any food given you to carry you on your road?"
"I have, thank you, sir."
"Then there remains now nothing to be done, but to give you some silver to enable you to
provide lodgings, and now and then a lift on the road."
"Thank you, sir," said the unfortunate widow, as she took the silver which Sir Francis
held out to her. She could only shed tears of gratitude; and Miss Stevens added some to it
from her own pocket.
"You have our best wishes," said Sir Francis Varney. "Go now; we have done all we can
for you -- good day."
"God bless you," said the woman; "may you never experience misfortune, or ever know
the want of even luxuries; you who can give, deserve to have. The poor and unfortunate
have few such as you, sir, for benefactors."
"That will do," said Sir Francis. "Good day to you."
"Good day, ladies and gentlemen," said the woman, curtseying low, and then turning
round, she left the apartment.
"Poor thing," said Sir Francis, "she has a long journey before her. A temporary aid given
to poor people, often lifts them above want, and places them in a decent position in society.
"So it does," said Mrs. Fraser.
"Yet, you see, people disclaim charity, and say private charity is pernicious in its effects.
But are there not two sides to any picture? An individual might as well say it was
pernicious to take medicine because people sometimes poison thmesleves with some of the
ingredients. Besides that, it does good to the state; for it often prevents such a one from
coming to the state, and being a burthen upon society at large. I am really of opinion that
much temporary distress might by aid be avoided; while, without that aid, it would, in all
probability, become permanent."
"There is much wisdom in what you have said, Sir Francis; though you must be aware
that it opens a door to much abuse and reliance upon the charity of others, which can
scarcely be credible."
"Oh, yes; I expect there is an abuse of everything; but we do not, from that, argue its total
cessation."

At that moment the landlord entered the room, saying the carriage was ready, as it had
been ordered.
"Then we may as well at once proceed to the carriage, which is waiting, and we are ready
to depart."
"And," added Sir Francis, "I am ready too."
They once more left the house they had slept in, and the carriage again bore them
onwards towards the city of Bath, which was now only three short stages from them; and
where they could arrive at almost any hour they pleased, if they chose rapid travelling; but
this they did not, because it deprived them of much of the pleasure of travelling -- the views
and beauties on the road.
There were many gentlemen's seats on the road, which called forth comment and
admiration; as well as many smaller estates and houses, that were often picturesquely
situated, as well as lonely.
At length they came within sight of the famed city; and, each moment they neared it, saw
fresh evidences of a large and populous place. However, they stopped not; but the closer
they came to the town the faster they went, until they were really within the city.
"Here we are in Bath at length," said Sir Francis. "It is a fine city, and much of fashion
and talent may be found here."
"I am glad we have arrived here at last," said Captain Fraser.
"And so am I," said Mrs. Fraser; "for I am almost tired of riding every day. I begin to
want rest; I want to stop for a time in one place."
"We get fatigued, even with a change," said the captain, "after a time; and yet our lives
are a complete round of change."
"Yes; if you consider the character of time."
They now stopped at one of the principal hotels, into which they all entered, and ordered
their dinner; and, while the ladies arranged themselves for the occasion, Sir Francis Varney
and Charles walked out into the town, where they amused themselves with looking at the
different objects which were presented to the gaze of the stranger. In all these things Sir
Francis appeared to be well versed -- knew what was now, and what had been formerly. * *
***
Two days had passed by, and there had been but little time lost, so far as the visiting of
one part of the city and another was concerned, and they gradually became acquainted with
and visited the different places of amusement -- at least, so many of them as could be
visited by them in the time.

Sir Francis Varney was the chaperon; and, as he obtained attention and consideration
wherever he went, he was a valuable aid and assitance, and the family had now got quite
used to him, and he to the family.
The peculiarity of his countenance or complexion wore off, his pleasing manners
producing an effect that acted as an antidote to that, which was likely to cause some
peculiar feeling in all who looked at him; but his courtly manners completely took from any
one with whom he came in contact the power and the desire to exhibit any dislike or
aversion.
However, there was not one among all those who looked upon him who did not look
upon him with various emotions; but they were only such as result from a source that acted
upon their feelings and tastes, without producing any deep or permanent emotion in any
one.
Great care was taken by Sir Francis in dress, and his display was altogether good, but
there was no ostentation; his manners were those of a man who was used to the position
and sphere above what he even then moved in.
There was no mistake in the matter at all, and the Frasers were well convinced that he
was what he appeared to be; and there was, moreover, an evident partiality for Miss
Stevens manifested by him, which had already been more than once remarked by the
captain and his lady, who tacitly approved of the honour, though nothing was broached on
either side.
"Sir Francis appears to be a very gentlemanly man," said the captain.
"Very," said the lady -- "very. I never saw one whom I could find so little fault with;
indeed, I may say he had none."
"That is a very extensive compliment, at all events," said the captain. "No fault is a thing
you can say of but very few people indeed."
"I mean, as far as personal behaviour is concerned. Of course I know nothing more; his
demeanour appears perfectly unexceptionable. I am sure I never saw any one at all his
equal in that respect."
"Perhaps not. He appears to be very attentive to your sister; indeed, I should say he
appears to be very partial."
"I think so too. What do you say to Sir Francis Varney, Mary," inquired Mrs. Fraser, "as a
lover, eh?"
"I cannot think of him in such a light," said Miss Stevens.
"And wherefore not?" inquired the captain.

"Because I could not bear the idea. I don't know why -- I can't tell you; but I could not do
so -- it would be against my nature to accept of such a lover. It would much pain me to
refuse one who had done so much for me; but I could not accept of him."
"Upon my word you appear to feel strangely upon this matter," said the captain; "but I
think you might think twice before you answered thus."
"No; think how much I might, it could make no alteration in my mind; for the more
gratefully I think, and the more I endeavour to be, yet the stronger would be my repugnance
to have such a man for a lover."
"Dear me, Mary! how can you say so?"
"I do indeed."
"Ah, well! girls will be girls; but he has not done you the distinguished honour to ask you,
so you must not refuse in anticipation. You may consider the grapes are sour because they
hang so high."
"You ask me a question, to which I have given you the best answer I can upon the
moment. Besides, we know nothing of Sir Francis."
"We know enough of him, I think, to speak and think with the utmost gratitude of him.
Not that that should make any of us overlook the precautions that are usual on such
occasions. And as for your opinion, why, that might be amended by time; and I am sure
that what we do know of him is enough to cause us to respect him, and to have confidence
in him. He has not sought our acquaintance, and that is one guarantee in his favour."
"So it is."
"But all this is useless. Sir Francis appears very sensitive. He is of retired habits and
tastes, and, perhaps, something of that may result from the disadvantage under which he
lies, which he may feel severely."
"So he might; and, therefore, I would never, if I could help it, make any personal allusion
of any character before him, even though I were speaking of some one else, and it had no
reference to him, as he might apply it to himself."
"That is quite right, and just what [i]t ought to be."
--

CHAPTER CLXI. [Chapter 150]
SIR FRANCIS VARNEY IN BATH. -- THE OLD WOMAN AND HER FANCIES. --
THE MURDER IN BATH. -- THE TREASURE.
Sir Francis Varney, when he walked out into the city of Bath, appeared to be lost in deep
thought, and walked along as if he saw nothing that was going on aroung him; he was lost
in meditation -- something weighed heavy upon his mind, and he now and then muttered
inaudibly to himself.
Whatever might have been his purpose, he merely wandered about without going to any
one place, as if he were in the search for an adventure, rather than having any specific and
determinate object. But, after much wandering about, he came near the corner of a street,
where he saw two persons conversing together. A stray word appeared to rivet his attention,
and he paused, and then stepped into the shadow of a doorway and listened.
"You see, Martha, Aunt Matthew is an old miser. She would sooner see all the world at
the last gasp, before she would dream of parting with a shilling. I am sure it is much too
bad."
"What is too bad?"
"Why, that she, and such as she, should have so much money, and others, who would
work hard, should have none, or even the means of procuring it."
"Yes, it is hard; and yet if those who have it did not keep it, there would be no one who
would be worth money."
"That is all very well; but the more money circulates, the more hands it gets into; and
that, of course, enriches every one who has for a time the possession of it, for they do not
part with it unless they have value for it."
"Well, well, that may do very well; but it does not appear to me to be any business of
mine that such an one should beg anything of anybody else; but no matter, she has money
enough."
"She is single, is she not?"
"Yes," replied the other.
"Then you may, after all, possess all she has."
"I may, but she is fat and forty; she may live for years, and in the menatime I may be a
beggar all my life."
"No, no, not so bad as that."

"And what is worse than all, while she is living, she is decreasing the money she has, and
it will yearly get less and less, till, if any comes to me, it will be so small a portion of it,
that I am sure there will be but little good come of it." "Indeed. If she be such a miser as
you speak of, I should have imagined that the property, personal or real, would increase
under such management as that."
"It would, if she were not living on the principal."
"On the principal -- what do you mean?"
"That she lives on the principal, as I told you. She has got some strange fancies in her
head, and one of them is, that the banks will break, all and every one of them, from one end
of the kingdom to the other."
"What a notion."
"Yes, and that is not all; she believes that all banks will break, so all the public securities
will be of no use, but only so much waste paper; and real property will all be seized, and
there will be I don't know what universal ruin, desolation, and disorganization."
"What does she do?"
"Why, keeps all her cash at home; and then goes to her strong box and takes out her
bright gold guineas, which appear in such abundance, that it would seem as if it could never
sensibly diminish; and thus she has been going on for a matter of two years or more."
"Upon my word, what can she dream of? If she go on in that manner, I am sure, too, that
she will be a beggar."
"That is certain; but she thinks not, and you can't argue her into any other belief whatever
that is contrary to this matter. However, I have no favour in her eyes, because I am her
relative."
"And why should that be?"
"Because, bring her relative, she thinks I may be wishing her dead every day she lives; so
, you see, if she go on with this feeling about her, she may take a complete dislike to me,
and I should never have a farthing left me, even if she died before all was gone, and
dissipated."
"Very true. Where do you live?"
"I have been living with my aunt.
"Indeed! And where may that be?" inquired her companion.

"Where -- why, don't you know number one hundred and nine, Chapel-street? but I have
left there -- that is, I shall do so to-night."
"Will you? You are wrong."
"I doubt it, very much -- very much indeed."
"What motive can you assert there is, to make it good policy in doing this?"
"She will think I do not care about waiting for her money; and that motive being
observed, I am sure it will influence her in my favour."
"Then, you will not go back to-night?"
"No, not at all."
"Well, you know best; but I should. However, I must now leave you, and bid you good
day. I must go."
"Good day," said the other, and they quitted the place.
When the two speakers had left the spot, Sir Francis Varney came forth from his hiding-
place, and gazed after them for some moments in silence; but when they were no longer in
sight, he muttered, --
"Could anything be more fortunate! I am reduced to the last guinea. I have not another
pound to pay my way with. Just at a moment, too, when I think I may be successful at last
in securing a victim."
He then walked onwards until he came to the neighbourhood of the street he had heard
the stranger name, and then he paused and approached the house with some curiosity, but
passed by it without stopping.
It was a corner house, and a blank wall ran a short way down the street, being the side of
the house, and a small portion of ground called a yard; here the wall was lower -- here there
was a chance of getting over, and here Sir Francis Varney paused a moment, as if
examining the place with care and scrutiny.
He looked all around, and saw no one approaching; he heard no sound, and he saw no
face in any window that was within sight. It was, moreover, too dark to be seen, and he,
without a moment's hesitation, ran a few paces towards the wall, and by a violent effort
succeeded in placing one hand upon the summit, and then the other soon followed.
Sir Francis Varney was a man of great agility and strength, and he was not long in
drawing himself up to the top, and then he dropped down.

It was fortunate he dropped heavy, and also fortunate, from that circumstance, he fell
upon something soft. The good fortune of the occurrences was dependent upon each other.
We say it was fortunate he fell heavy, because he fell upon the old lady's yard-dog, an
unamiable cur, and prevented an alarm, for the dog was crushed, and unable to utter a
single howl before the animal died.
There was now nothing to do but enter the house if the back door was open; but upon trial
this proved not to be the case.
This was a matter that required some consideration; the door was not to be forced, and he
hoped to get in by that means, but he was foiled; but yet it was something to have
possession of the yard, he could hide here; but yet that increased his danger, for if he
remained there, he was liable to a discovery, and that, too, before any attempt had been
made upon the coffers of the old woman, and no good effected by him.
What to do he could scarely tell; but after some thought, he determined to attempt the
back windows in the parlour, or room above the ground; and to effect this purpose, he
would have to get upon a water-butt, and thence to the railings facing the window of the
room, and which appeared to have no shutters.
Having once made up his mind, he set about it at once, and was soon on the top of the
water-butt, and made good his hold upon the small balcony, and then he drew himself up.
This was a work of some difficulty, because the balcony was very close to the window,
and left him no room to lean over; but yet he succeeded, and found to his great joy that the
window was only closed without being fastened; he had only cautiously and noiselessly to
lift it up, and he could enter it.
This he did at once, and then stood in the room; but all was dark, and he could not hear a
sound throughout the house, for he listened many minutes, lest he might be suddenly
intruded on by some one, and then there would be no escape from there, and he would
possibly lose all.
Caution, therefore, was the order of the day, and he gently closed the window, lest the
draught might be felt in some of the other parts of the house.
That was very fortunate, for there was every possibility of a discovery resulting from such
a course; for any one, feeling a greater than usual draught, would soon inquire into the
cause.
Having got thus far, he opened the door and walked into the passage, and then he heard
the sound of conversation being carried on in an undertone; he listened at the door, and
heard two female voices.
"Betty," said one.

"Yes, ma'am," replied the other.
"Have you shut the shutters, and locked up all the doors?"
"Yes, ma'am.
"The kitchen-door?"
"Yes, ma'am -- all right as can be; nobody can get in, I'll warrant."
"You don't say so?"
"Oh, but I do; the dog's out in the yard, too."
"When you have had tea, I'll have him brought in; he mustn't lay out there, poor creature,
to spoil his coat, and catch cold. I'm almost thinking I ought not to let him stay out to this
hour."
"He's well enough -- he'll not hurt -- he's got the kennel to sleep in, and he's plenty of
straw; there's many a one about these parts as would be glad of such a bed. I've taken care
of him."
"Very well, Betty; sit down to tea, and, when it is over, I'll bet you anything that old
Martha Bell will be here."
"Lord bless me, ma'am, you don't say so!"
"Yes, I do; but I won't be at home; she and I have fallen out of late, and I'm not inclined
to make up the quarrel, for she won't believe the banks will break, and you know they will,
Betty."
"To be sure, ma'am, they will -- I know very well they will; it's quite certain -- as certain
as the almanac."
"Yes; and, what's worse, she wanted to borrow ten pounds, and that, you know, will never
do at any price; she would break, too, and then I should have loss number one, and no one
can tell how soon number two might follow."
"He! he! he!" said Betty; "oh, lawks, I shall split."
"What's the matter now -- what are you laughing at, silly?"
"Oh, you are so funny, ma'am; I'm sure you'd make anybody laugh -- you do joke so, it
makes one laugh."

"Laugh! -- what is there funny in losing ten pounds, I should like to know? Nobody
would laugh at that, I should imagine; I am sure I should laugh at nothing of that sort. If
you were to lose ten shillings, I am sure that I should not laugh at you, nor do I think you
would, either."
"No, ma'am, I'm sure you would not, and I am sure I should not; but you do say such
things that make me forget all about the money."
"Well, then, go down stairs and fetch some more coals."
"Yes, ma'am," said Betty; and, before Sir Francis Varney had time to slip back and open
the door of the other room, the door of the one he was listening at was suddenly opened,
and Betty stood before him.
She came out plump, before he had time to step back; and she ran against him before she
was aware any one was there; for coming from a room where there was light, she could not
see at all in the dark passage.
"Oh, my -- -"
She had got thus far in her exclamation, when she received a heavy blow from the
intruder, which felled her senseless to the floor, and, as quick as thought, he drew his dress
sword, and plunged the point through her heart. Not a groan followed -- she was dead, and
might be said to have died while bereft of sense or motion.
"What is the matter, Betty?" said the woman -- her mistress.
No answer was returned, and Varney paused, as if uncertain what to do. He was in some
doubt if he should or not go in, or await the woman's approach to where he stood. He had
not been seen, or she would have screamed out; and if he went to her she would see him,
and have time to alarm people.
He paused, and awaited her coming; but she appeared to defer doing so, and merely said,
--
"Betty -- Betty, what has ailed you? What can be the matter? You don't mean to say that
the tea has got into your head? No, no," she muttered, after a pause; "that can't be the case.
She must have been to my medicine bottle, and that has been too strong for her. I shall
discharge her. She'll be breaking something or other, and then who knows where that will
end -- begin by breaking a basin, and end by breaking a bank."
So saying, she muttered something unintelligible to Varney, and then began to rise and
walk along the room towards the door.
This was a moment of suspense -- the door opened suddenly, and then she stood before
Varney, who made a rapid thrust with his sword. This would have been as fatal as that

which he had dealt Betty, but the mistress was more fortunate, at the moment, for a steel
busk was the means of preventing its taking effect.
"Murder! What do you want! Oh, you wretch -- I know you now! Depend upon it you
shall be hanged! Murder -- murder!"
"One word, and you are a corpse," said Varney.
"Mercy -- mercy! Will you spare me -- will you spare my life?"
"I will."
"Oh, thank you -- thank you! I never hurt you, and I don't think you would me. I am very
sorry that I made any noise -- but you will spare me?"
"Yes, upon one condition."
"On a condition?" said the woman, tremblingly.
"Yes, upon a condition."
"Tell me what it is you require of me, and I will comply."
"Then," said Varney, after a moment's pause, "show me where you keep your money. I
must have money, so give me plenty."
"Plenty of money, did you say?"
"Yes, plenty. I want some. You have money I know -- gold -- gold in quantity."
"Ha, ha, ha! gold! Oh, yes -- gold! Ha, ha! how funny!"
"Funny! Is my sword funny?" asked Varney; "because, if you think so, you may have a
small portion of it, which you may consider funnier still."
"No, no; but I have no money -- none at all, save a little money I have for immediate
expenses. I have but little; for nobody now-a-days keeps money in houses, if they can get
any at any time."
"But you have plenty of money."
"I haven't any, upon my -- -"
"You have. You keep it in the house, you know, because the banks might break, and you
would lose all. Now give me some at once, or you are dead as any nail in your house --
mark that!"

"Oh, dear! -- oh, yes! What would you have of me?"
"Money," said Varney, pressing the point of his sword against her side.
"Oh, mercy! I'll tell you all; but -- but you must be satisfied with what I have got, and not
leave me a beggar, or kill me because I have no more."
"I will be satisfied with what you have got; but that I know to be much more than I can
carry away with me."
"Oh, good lord, you don't know me, or else you would know the reverse of that. A poor
lodging-housekeeper is not the person to have much money in the house; but if the truth
must be told, I have up stairs my quarter's rent, which I ought to give my landlord. I can
give you that, but God knows how he will believe me when I tell him I have lost it."
"You have all your property about you. You have gold in quantities."
"I have not."
"Then take the fruits of your obstinacy," said Varney, in a fury; and, making a savage and
sudden lunge at her, he passed his sword through her breast, and with a smothered scream
she fell to the earth, where she lay gasping and writhing for several seconds, when a rapid
gurgling sound came from her throat, and she died.
"'Tis done;" said Varney to himself; "'tis done, and it would have been as well if I had
done it as first; but no matter, 'tis done quietly."
There lay the two bodies upon the flooring, the one in the passage by the door, and the
other in the parlour. There was a long pool of black blood, extending from one to the other
of the two corpses -- they mingled their blood in death, though they held different positions
in life. What could be done? there they were, and even Varney could not pick his way
without treading in the blood.
He at once entered the apartment, and began to examine the whole place, but he did not
find much there -- a few odd pounds, and yet he turned everything upside down, to use a
common phrase; but yet there was nothing of the sort which he hoped for, and expected to
find.
"Can I have mistaken the place?" was his first thought.
Upon consideration, he saw reason enough to make his mind easy upon the score of
mistakes in that matter. There was the number and the street, and the old woman, and her
conversation answered exactly to what he had heard; and after a few moments'
consideration, he muttered, --

"It must be right; there are more rooms than one in the house. I will go and search
through the rooms, and if I don't find any, I will set the house on fire. Indeed, I think that
will be better done, it will prevent the deed taking light, and as little suspicion may be as
well incurred as can be."
This was a thing only thought of to be resolved on; but he cast that aside, and proceeded
with his search, and having finished that room, he splashed through the blood, and once
more stood in the passage.
"And now for the bedrooms," he muttered.
The candle he held was the only one he could obtain, and he was compelled to walk
steadily, lest he should lose its aid by going out; however, he soon got up stairs, and walked
into the best bedroom, where he again began to search about for the hidden treasure, but
found it not.
"Curses upon the stupidity of the old fool, where does she hide her money? I am sure she
has it here, and I wanted to get back without delay. I did not want to be away long, and here
I have been, I dare say, an hour."
This was true, and he turned things over and about in great hast; but his endeavours had
liked to have been useless, as regarded the discovery, only his eye chanced to light upon a
panel.
He started up and pulled away a part the bed-curtains, behind which it was partially
concealed.
"Ha! ha! what have we here? What I have been wishing to find, no doubt. This is the
secret hiding-place of her gold -- the treasury."
However, whatever it might be, it did not appear to be in his power to determine, for he
could not open it.
This was, of course, a provoking state of things; and Varney seized hold of each
implement that came to his hands, but threw each down again, being unable to effect his
object by any means whatever.
He started up suddenly, after making many desperate attempts to break the door open,
which, however, were futile, and exclaimed, --
"There are keys to these places, and I am sure the old woman must have them about her,
if this place be really the receptacle of her wealth, as I have every reason to believe it is. I
will find out, if I can; no doubt, however, I shall find it upon her somewhere -- I'll try."
He immediately went down stairs and found the body of the old woman; it was fast
stiffening; but the clothes were all sopping in blood, and he turned her over hastily until he

found out the pocket; and from that he drew a bunch of keys. They were all bloody, but he
did not hesitate about seizing them.
"These will, no doubt, let me into the secret. I shall find my way in, now, and then the
house will no longer hold me."
He turned, and quitted the corpse; and, in going upstairs, he saw for the first time that the
stairs all bore the imprint of his own foot; he saw they were stained in blood, and were
clear, distinct, and well defined.
"It matters not," he muttered; "fire will, and shall efface that; and, besides, if it did not,
what care I?"
He ran up the stairs, and again entered the bedroom, and was once more kneeling before
the door of the cupboard. The bunch of keys was composed of many, and he tried one after
the other, until, after many trials, he came to one, which was of a peculiar make and shape,
and which convinced him he was now in possession of the right key.
"I think I have succeeded, now," he muttered, as he put the key into the lock. It fitted very
closely into the lock, and then it slowly turned, and he saw the door open; but it only
disclosed another door.
"What is the meaning of this?" muttered Varney; "what, is there another door to be
found? I suppose some of these keys will fit this as well."
However, he was not compelled to make the search, for the key of this inner door hung up
by one corner, on a little hook, in a niche which had been apparently cut out on purpose.
This was soon opened, and then came rather a startling sight.
In a small cupboard were packed a heap of human bones -- more than bones, for they had
yet the flesh dried and sticking to them -- the skull was brown and bare, save here and there
remained some hair.
"What is the meaning of this?" he muttered, angrily -- "and have I troubled myself in this
manner for only these few bones?"
It was, however, an apparent fact. There was the place, and it was now opened, and the
contents were plain enough -- bones! -- bones! -- human bones! There could be no mistake;
and Varney rested his hand on his knee, and gazed intently into the cupboard at the bones,
and everywhere else.
He was about to rise, when, somehow or other, he was induced to push the bottom shelf --
why, he could not tell; but, when he had done so, he found it give downwards. Yes, the
whole cupboard went down; he pushed, and pushed, until the roof was no higher than the
floor; then, indeed, he saw a sight that caused him to feel a satisfaction.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "ah! this is what I have sought, and I will have it -- gold! -- gold! --
aye, here is gold in heaps, more than I can carry."
He stretched forth his arm, and leaned into the cupboard, and then examined the contents,
and felt assured that there were several thousands of pounds; the glittering heap before him
was what he wanted, and for which he had remorselessly committed such fearful crimes.
"But I must make haste -- I must make haste. I shall lose what I have such a certainty of
possessing."
So muttering to himself, he put as much gold into his pockets as he could, and carrying a
bag under his arm, he re-locked the cupboard. Having retraced his steps below, he replaced
everything; while at the same time he carefully examined his person, to see that there were
no traces of his deeds upon him; and then, wrapping himself up in his cloak, he left the
house, and proceeded towards his hotel.
--

CHAPTER CXLII. [Chapter 151]
THE SCENE AT THE HOTEL. -- THE RELATION OF THE CAUSE OF SIR

FRANCIS VARNEY'S PALENESS.
When Sir Francis Varney reached his hotel, he hurried to his own apartment, and then he
called for his luggage; and when that was brought to him, and he was alone, he unlocked a
portmanteau, and placed his gold in it; and then, having taken care to dress himself, he
again met the Frasers below, at the evening meal.
"I have been strolling the streets for an odd hour," he said, "and find things pretty much
as they used to be; I don't see many alterations worth speaking of.["]
"And yet they say they are improving daily."
"They may be; but only in parts and places; and it does not alter the general plan of the
place, though appearances may be benefitted."
"Exactly; that, I dare say, may be the case; as, indeed, it is most likely to be the fact,
expecially when we see that, save in the case of entire new streets, all improvements are
effected by individual exertions."
"Exactly; but life and happiness is the result of individual exertions," said Sir Francis;
"but yet many shrink from prosecuting a scheme of happiness, lest barriers be placed in
their path that would be as injurious to all as they are effectual."
"Indeed, that is often the case."
"I have met with many instances of blighted devotion since I have wandered about over
the green vales of England."
"I dare say you have met with some adventures?"
"I have, sir. I have met with many that, perhaps, few men would have ventured into, and
ever expect to come out alive; but I have not done so without paying dearly for my
temerity."
"Indeed; have you incurred much danger?"
"I have, sir."
"But still it must be pleasant to fall back upon the remembrances of the past, and recall
scenes and events that possess interest to your mind."

"It is so. I remember well that, some years ago, when I was in the north, that an
occurrence took place that has left a lasting memorial upon me, and one I can never forget
as long as I live."
"It must have been a serious affair."
"It was a serious affair -- a very serious affair. I was going to Scotland, when, by some
accident, the carriage in which I was travelling broke down, and it was unable to proceed,
and I took up my abode at the nearest inn; where I determined to remain until the carriage
was repaired, which would, it was said, take a couple of days, at the least.
Well, in the evening of the first day, I walked about visiting the different places where I
could hope for any pleasure; in doing so, I was wandering slowly down a lane, when I
heard voices on before me. The wind blew from them to me, and I heard all they said.
"Then this evening," said one.
"Yes, yes; I consider this the most favorable opportunity than can be taken advantage of."
"Well, then, we had better go at once."
"Yes; now we are on our road there, you see, and we shall be soon there; there will just be
light enough to reconnoitre."
"Very well. We can secret ourselves somewhere about the place, where we shall not be
discovered, and then we can get into the house at our leisure."
"But we may have to meet with opposition."
"Then, we must resist, too. You don't intend to be taken, I suppose?"
"No, not I."
"What did you intend to do if you were caught?"
"Fight my way out, or, if need be, I can push my knife into the ribs of any one who may
be in my way."
"Right. I shall be inclined to do for any one who wants to keep me against my will -- you
may reckon upon that for a certainty; and if the old man but as much as moves or utters a
single cry, I will do for him."
"You don't mean that, do you?"
"I do, and will do it."

"Then I know, and I will do the same. I like to have a pal that will stick by me, and have
no nonsense. However, we need not be in a hurry, and just do what is necessary -- go to
work steadily and determinedly."
"Agreed. We will now go on -- strike off to the left here, and we come then to the house.
There's only one man servant, but he can be dealt with; and as for the old man himself, he
cannot do much."
Then they both proceeded across the fields until they came to some thick wood, when I
lost sight of them.
Well, I knew the house they were both going to, and I determined to proceed by another
route to the same place.
I followed the lane as far as it would go, and found it led up to the very house which I had
heard the men declare their intention of robbing, and possibly of murdering the owners --
the inhabitants, I must say, for master or servant alike they would not hesitate in destroying.
I entered the house -- the door was open, -- after having walked up a broad and stately
avenue of linden trees which lined the way up to the hall door. I was for some moments
unable to make any one hear, but soon after I heard some one approaching the hall. I
paused, therefore, and presently there came an elderly gentleman, with a grave but pleasant
countenance, upon whose shoulders fell a profusion of snow-white locks; he was venerable,
yet pleasing in the expression of countenance.
He bowed when he saw me, but looked rather surprised.
"I dare say, sir, you appear surprised at my intrusion; but I do not come without a
motive."
"I dare say not, sir. But you are welcome; will you walk in?"
"Thank you," I said, "but I have come to put you on your guard against an attempt at
robbery, and possibly murder, that is to be made upon your house to-night."
"Indeed, sir. I can hardly believe any one would be so wicked as to do anything of the
kind; and yet, I am sure you would not say so if you had not some grounds for such a
belief."
"I have," I replied, "and I will relate them."
I then related to him distinctly all that I had overheard in the lane, and the direction the
men had taken. He appeared very thoughtful for some moments, and then he said to me, as
he led the way up stairs, --
"Will you walk up stairs with me?"

I did as he desired, and followed him up stairs, until he came to a samll observatory
erected in the top part of the house.
"You say you saw them enter the copse between here and the lane yonder."
"Yes, I did; and I imagine they may be seen if watch is kept in such a place as this; for I
am sure they intend to examine the house, as to the means of approaching it, and they
expect to find only yourself and a man-servant."
"They would have met but little more, indeed; however, I am fore-warned, and I will take
care to be fore-armed."
"That is my object in coming to you; to effect this is all I seek; and now I will bid you
good evening, for I have got some distance to walk before I can get back to the hotel where
I am staying."
"Are you staying at an hotel?"
"Yes," I replied; and I named the place where I was stopping, when he said, --
"You are welcome, if you are pleased to do so, to remain here; I shall be most happy with
your company."
"Thank you," I said; "and frankly I must say, I should like to see the issue of this affair,
and will accept of your invitation, though, perhaps, I have accepted of your invitation too
readily."
"Not at all -- not at all, you are heartily welcome; we will sit up and wait for these
fellows; when we have beaten them off, we can retire in security to rest, without fear of
disturbance."
"Do you see them?" I inquired, as he was looking through a telescope towards the point I
had named.
"No, I do not see them yet," he said; "no, no; and yet I -- I think I see something now
through a portion of the copse -- it's difficult to tell what they are about; if they go much
further in that direction, they will be plain enough; there -- there they are; I can see them
both plainly enough."
"Two of them?" said I.
"Yes," he replied, "I see two; they appear to be looking this way; what are they doing
now? Oh, I see, they are making for a place of concealment nearer the house. Well, sir, I
am much obliged to you -- very much, indeed; for you have evidently saved my house from
being robbed, and myself from murder -- I owe you my life."

"Nay, sir, not so bad as that; the villains might not have been successful enough to have
effected an entrance before you were alarmed."
"And if they had, what could I have done? Why, truly, I have fire-arms, but I should have
been loth to have used them, and my hesitating might have cost me my life; so I have to
thank you for life and property."
"As you please," I said; "but what steps do you intend to take towards your own and your
property's preservation?"
"I shall obtain the aid of another, and quietly await their coming; but as I think, from their
appearance, they are not mere country people who come about robbing from distress, but
men who make a kind of profession of housebreaking, I will have both taken and dealt with
according to law."
"It is their deserts," I said, "for a more deliberately planned affair I never yet heard of; and
what makes it so very black, is the fact of their early making up their minds to murder any
one."
"No doubt," he replied; "but that is an inducement to take them in the fact. I will send for
one man, and, what with ourselves, we can secure the villains; we are enough to do that."
"They are desperate," I said.
"But they will yield to numbers," he said."
"No doubt; but there must be a yet greater number; the odds, in my opinion, are not great
enough to secure victory. These are desperate men, for they will not be taken, and two to
one will not deter them -- one, or even two lives may be sacrificed before they are secured,
if they do not get off."
"Well, then, you appear to think that we had better obtain more aid?"
"I do," I replied. "At least, a couple of men, if not, three, over the number you first spoke
of, if you wish it to be perfectly harmless in its results."
"I should so desire it," he replied.
"Then you'll find that requisite," I answered.
Then I was invited down stairs, and great hospitality shown me by the old gentleman,
who was an exceedingly pleasant companion. He was well informed, and a well read man,
and was the only inhabitant of that large mansion.

He had been many years a widower, and had but one child, a son, a young man of great
promise; he was abroad on a tour, and he was awaiting his return with great anxiety, as he
was somewhat longer than he had anticipated.
We sat conversing for some hours. We had a handsome supper, and afterwards some
choice wine, and then in came three stout countrymen.
"My friends," he said, "I want you to keep watch and ward to-night in my house, to
protect it from robbers."
They agreed to do so, but expressed some surprise at what had occurred, and appeared to
believe it hardly possible that any one could have been wicked enough to compass such an
object.
However, he told them all I had said, and they were sent below, where they were served
with a very good supper, and promised reward, with injunctions not to speak after a certain
hour.
This all arranged, I and my host seated before a fire, and with some wine, we passed the
time agreeably enough. * * * * *
"The time passes," said my host, as the clock chimed the hours. "I wonder if anybody is
about now?"
"I should think," I replied, "they must be about thinking of what they have in
contemplation. I am sure it is a quiet hour in this part of the world, and I should imagine
that no human being can be asake about here."
"None, I dare say, save ourselves, and our assailants, if they have not altered their minds,
and given up their intentions, or altered the night they intended for the attempt. Who can
tell? they may have done so."
"I hope not."
"No; it will be very uncomfortable to be in constant dread, never knowing any night I lay
down what I may come to before morning; I may lose my life, and never again see my
son."
"Yes," I replied; "but had we better not put out the lights?"
"I will order it to be done."
As he spoke, he rang a bell, and when a servant appeared, he said to him, --
"William, you had better put out all lights, and be quite silent; and if you hear any noise,
get out of the way, and remain silent, unless they try to get away and elude us."

"Very well, sir."
"And as soon as you hear them at work, you had better steal up and let me know, as I
intend to be present when they are taken into custody, as I have a particular desire to see it
done."
"Very well, sir; but you don't know the danger you run. These men are desperate men,
and they care not what they do."
"I know all that, William; but hasten down, and see my orders executed."
"Very well, sir," said the servant, who at once left the room.
"These people," said my host, "are not willing that I should run any risk; perhaps they
think they will not have so indulgent a master in the next. Perhaps they are right; for I give
but little trouble, and my servants are mostly out visiting some of their relatives."
"Indeed. I thought you were somewhat slenderly attended."
"I am. I have two very ill away at this moment, and I have another away on a visit to
some relative."
"Indeed; they have an easy life under you."
"It is much the same as not having them at all; and yet, I must say, I have nothing to
complain of; my wishes are complied with, and I have all my work done well, and
punctually to a minute; and, if they have extra work to do, they never complain, but set
about it cheerfully."
At that moment we heard William creeping up the stairs, and my thoughts soon reverted
from the contemplation of the calm contentment in which all here appeared to dwell, to the
confusion and bustle that was now likely to ensue.
"Hilloa, William!"
"Yes, sir, they are come," said William, in a low voice.
"Where are they getting in at?"
"In at the pantry window, sir. I can hear them unbolting the shutters. They have cut a hole
out of it, and they will be clear in in another minute."
"Very good. Now do you all keep together, and, at the appointed signal, rush upon them,
and bind them hand and foot."
"It shall be done, sir, as soon as they get into the kitchen."

"Very well. I will come down and watch the operations; but don't let them get back
again."
"Oh, we'll take care of that."
"Make haste," he said, "and station some of them under the stairs, so that they cannot
escape. They must both be taken."
"And they shall."
"Go one. Will you come down with me," he said, turning to me, "or will you remain here
till we have secured them? You, sir, are a stranger, and, perhaps, you had better remain
here."
"No, not I," said I. "I will go down with you, by all means, and we will see how these
fellows behave themselves under these circumstances. Let me see them. I was the first to
discover them, and I hope you will not refuse me permission to be present at a denouement
which I have, in some measure, been instrumental in bringing about. I wish to be present."
"Then follow me," said my host; "we shall not be too soon, for several minutes have
elapsed."
I waited not a moment, but hurried down stairs, and found that, as I was going down the
kitchen stairs, the robbers were well aware of the fact that they were entrapped; and, in their
rage, they fought with desperation, and forced their way out of the kitchen, and through the
barrier placed below; and, seeing they would effect an escape, I jumped over the rails, and
stood between them and the way out.
I had but my sword, and I drew that, and placed myself in a position, threatening
destruction to the first who should attempt to pass.
This, however, was disregarded; and the two men rushed at me, hoping to bear me down,
but my weapon ran through the first, when a pistol bullet laid me low, and the man rushed
over me."
"Good Heavens! and were you shot, Sir Francis?"
"Oh, yes, and was severely injured; and it was some months before I was cured, the bullet
having wounded an artery."
"That was dangerous."
"Yes, so much so, that two surgeons declared that, had I bled another half-second, I must
have been dead -- that I must in fact have bled to death, and I should never have recovered;
for I had, they thought, scarcely half an ounce of blood in my whole body -- scarcely
sufficient to cause the heart to beat."

"It was a fearful state -- where did you remain?"
"I remained at this gentleman's house the whole of the time; he was very liberal, and very
generous; I wanted for nothing. He said that, but for the immediate attention of the
surgeons, he thought I must have bled to death; he saw me fall, and one of the men, without
waiting for orders to do so, ran for a surgeon, and hence the rapidity with which the
medical man was in attendance. And, what was worse, I had, in about two months
afterwards, to undergo an operation to have the bullet extracted."
"Good Heavens! you had a severe time of it?"
"I had; and I had nearly lost my life a second time, for I lost a vast quantity of blood
again; and, ever since that, I have been of the extraordinary pale complexion which you
now see."
"I thought it was natural," said Mrs. Fraser, suddenly; but a look from Mr. Fraser told her
she had done wrong.
"No, ma'am, it is not, indeed, natural."
"It was not until the loss of blood occasioned it, I presume?"
"No, captain, it was not; it resulted partly from the dreadful loss of the vital fluid which I
sustained, and partly from a most violent virulent typhus, which I took in consequence of
my looseness of system -- that, I believe, did more than anything else towards bringing me
to my present positon -- for, before, I was considered fair and florid in complexion, but my
friends hardly knew me, or professed they did not, and I have not see them from that day to
this."
"Upon my word, Sir Francis Varney, you have had some extraordinary occurrences in
your life. I am amazed at them; indeed I could scarcely believe one person, especially a
gentleman of your propery and standing -- -"
"Why, as for that, I can only say that my position and rank here have given me the means
to enable me to go through them without any inconvenience, for I have no home or place
dedicated to domestic delights; such a life I should be proud and happy to possess, but
which I can never accomplish; indeed, I may say, I fear to make the attempt; but, no matter.
The prime of life will, in a few years, pass away, and then I shall be past the desire for a
home; and yet Varney-hall in the north, is an ancient, palace-like abode, that would grace a
duchess."
"Is that your ancestral hall?"
"It is," said Varney, with emotion.
"And now uninhabited?"

"Oh, dear, no. When I determined to lead the life I do, I could not permit the old place to
become ruinous and deserted and, therefore, let it, and those who now live there, are well
able and willing to keep the place in repair."
"That is fortunate."
"Well, sir, I hardly know what is fortunate or unfortunate as regards myself; but I have
one of my old fits of melancholy come over me."
"Nay, you must battle against them, Sir Francis."
"I have ever endeavoured to do so, but I don't know how it is -- I cannot, somehow or
other, bear up -- I feel a terrible depression of spirits."
"I am truly sorry to hear it; but let us hope that the gaieties of Bath will restore you to
your wonted serenity."
"I am sure I wish it," said Mrs. Fraser; "but where are we to go to-morrow? -- can you tell
me that, Sir Francis?"
"To the pump-room in the morning -- the library and the assembly in the evening, if you
are inclined to do all at once."
"Yes; well, then, suppose we make the attempt; we can but give in if we find it too much
exertion, though I am inclined to believe we shall not find it beyond our strength," said
Mrs. Fraser.
"Then that is our agreement," said Sir Francis.
"Yes; it is."
--

CHAPTER CXLIII. [Chapter 152]
THE SCENE OF THE MURDER. -- THE VISIT TO THE HOUSE. -- THE

MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF THE TREASURE.
The next day came; there was much excitement in the family of the Frasers; each one
could see the partiality of Sir Francis Varney for Miss Stevens. She herself could not
pretend that it was not so, or that she was unable to see it. It was quite plain and evident,
and yet it gave her great pain, because she had an unconquerable aversion to him, who was
her benefactor, and to whom she owed so much.
This, however, was a strong and inexplicable feeling in her own mind, and she felt that if
death or Sir Francis were her only alternatives, she must choose the former. This was from
some feeling, from what source it sprung she could not tell you, that appeared to forbid her
permitting the approach of such a lover.
It might have been instinct, or it might have been that she had taken a personal dislike to
him on account of his complexion; and yet she could not admit so much even to herself as
that, and yet it must have had an origin.
She looked at him much more and more each hour, and more and more did she dislike
him. At length she felt so much repugnance to him, that, if it were not for the deep gratitude
she owed him, she would fly from and not even endure his society, good as that she was
compelled to admit really was.
When he offered her his arm in their walk to the assembly-rooms and the pump-room,
they were much pleased with the appearance of everything, and with the attentions of Sir
Francis, who certainly did all he could to make the party comfortable and amused, he was
so well acquainted with every object.
As they returned to the hotel, at which they all remained, they passed the house of the old
woman who had been so cruelly murdered the night before. Sir Francis cast a cursory
glance at it as they passed, but there was no sign of the door having been opened, and the
murder had not yet been discovered; and this arose from the fact that the old woman was an
eccentric, and her shutters had remained in that way before; and, therefore, no one took any
particular notice of it.
When the party had reached the hotel, Sir Francis said, --
"You will, I presume, attend the ball this evening at the assembly-rooms?"
"We should wish to do so," replied the captain. "Do you intend to go, Sir Francis?"
"I will, captain. It is now some time since I went to such a place, and I think the change
will be so great and agreeable, that I will go."

"Then we shall have the advantage of your guidance," said Captain Fraser; "and I hope
we shall long have the pleasure of doing so."
"You are very good in saying so, captain; and, if agreeable to yourself and the ladies, I am
willing, and shall be happy to bear you company."
"I am sure," replied Mrs. Fraser, "we shall always be happy with Sir Francis Varney's
company, and thank him for his condescension -- shall we not, sister?"
"Yes. I am sure I shall be much obliged to Sir Francis for this, as well as many other
services he has done us."
"Do not talk in this manner," sadi Sir Francis, -- "do not speak of the past, Miss Stevens;
it is the present I would wish you to think of; at the same time, I desire only to be accepted,
because I may not be thought intruding."
"Dear me, Sir Francis, how you talk! Really, I am afraid we have said something to give
you displeasure, or my sister, here, has misbehaved herself; if so, I shall really take her to
task for so doing."
"You will be acting unjustly if you do. But permit me to leave you for a short time. I have
some matters to transact. I expect a remittance of money to this place, for I usually appoint
some particular town or city, for I do not consider it safe to carry any great amount of
money about me; it gives such temptations to robbery and violence that, travelling as I do,
from place to place, I am especially liable to such attempts."
"Certainly, you are."
"Then I will bid you good evening, for the present," said the baronet, and he left the
room.
*****
When Sir Francis left the apartment in which he had been with the Frasers, he walked to
his own apartment, and taking a large cloak and a small portmanteau he had purchased, he
made his way to the very house where he had the night before committed such a double
murder.
Before he reached there, however, he put the cloak on, and when he approached the
house, he found the street entirely deserted; then hastilly stepping up, he put the key into
the key-hole, and at once opened the door and walked in.
He paused a moment or two, and then went down the passage a few feet, until he came to
the body, for which he felt with his foot.

"Ah!" he muttered; "I see all is right -- quite right; here is the body -- nobody has been
here to disturb it."
He took out materials for obtaining a light, and then he pushed past, and walked up stairs,
until he came to the bed-room, where he again opened the strange receptacle of gold and
bones; but, as he did so, what was his amazement to find a small packet of paper lying
down, but all the gold gone!
He started up in an instant, and laid his hand upon his sword, but at the same time he
appeared rivetted to the spot, and paused in this attitude for more than a minute.
Then, recovering himself, he gazed round slowly and carefully from side to side, as if to
assure himself he was not trapped. But hearing no sound -- nothing stirring from any
quarter whatever, he began to think there might be some mistake in his vision.
"Surely -- surely," he muttered, "no one could have come in, and, seeing the bodies,
possessed themselves of the money, and then walked out. They would surely have given the
alarm; besides, any one who had entered would never have gone further than the bodies.
"It is impossible," he muttered, and he again stooped down to examine the cupboard from
which the treasure appeared to be abstracted. But there was nothing to be seen, save the
bare boards; no signs of the treasure remained. This was a strange and mysterious
disappearance of what could not have gone without human means.
"How did they get at it?" he muttered; "the place was locked, and in the same order as I
left it; there is no getting into such a place without unlocking or forcing open the cupboard,
or, I may say, chest, for this is a stong place; it is not broken open, and I have the key."
Varney paused for several moments, and then he picked up some paper, which was folded
up, and seeing it was written upon, he thrust it into his pocket, and again looked into the
treasure coffer, but all was gone.
"D -- -n!" muttered Varney, furiously stamping his foot, as if at that moment only he had
become perfectly aware of his disappointment. "What can be the meaning of this? But this
is no place for me; some one has been here, and the murder is known. I must quit it -- eh?"
At that moment there came such a peal at the door with the knocker, that made the house
appear as if it were a pandemonium of noises and echoes, which followed the first stunning
sounds that filled the place.
Varney started and listened.
"Ah," he said, "they have tracked me here. What can that mean? Have they, indeed, laid a
trap for me? Do they think I am caught? But, no -- no, I am too fast; they know me not, nor
can any one have traced me here, for they know not where I came from, and -- but there, it
is useless speculating; they may have laid a trap to catch whom they could, or they -- ah,

they have seen the light, and the house being shut all day, they now want to see if anything
is the matter; but I'll warrant all is safe and clear; there is nothing known, and all I have to
do, is to get away."
That was very true; all Sir Francis had to do was to get away; but it was somewhat more
difficult to perform than he had any notion; for, as he came out into the landing, he found
there was an unexpected obstacle in his path. As soon as he attempted to descend to the
back parlour for the purpose of getting out of the back window, he found the door had been
burst open by the impatience of the mob who stood below, and the door not being very
strong, the shoulders of those who were nearest were sufficient to force it open.
In a moment the passage was filled with the crowd, the foremost of whom tumbled over
the body, and were up in a moment.
"Good God!" exclaimed one, "here is somebody lying down in the passage."
"It is a corpse," said another.
"The woman's murdered," said another, "Get a light -- get a light, and let us see what is
the matter. Here is a dead body -- a light -- get a light, can't some of you?"
"Well, I suppose we can; but what of it? I expect it can't be done without giving anybody
time to do it in; if you think it can, you had better do it yourself, and perhaps you'll begin
now."
However, there was a light produced, and that put an end to the altercation, and silence
was immediately restored, when they saw the congealed blood, and the body lying in it; and
then one, on pushing his way into the parlour, exclaimed, --
"And here's the old woman, she's dead and cold."
"She's murdered!"
"Yes, there's no doubt about that, poor creatures; and no one at hand to lend them any
assistance. What a horrible affair!"
"Yes, horrible; but who's done it? There are rooms up stairs; they had better be searched;
let's go up at once."
"Aye -- aye."
Sir Francis waited not a moment more; he had heard enough to convince him his only
chance was to escape while he could, for if they once seized him under such circumstances,
he would not be able to escape again, and he immediately rushed to the back window; but
there was no balcony there; he could not get out there, so came to the landing, and just

reached the short steps that led to the roof, and there, had scarcely got the trap-door
unbolted, when the heard a voice say, --
"Up stairs, lad -- up stairs. I hear somebody there trying to get out -- up stairs, lads, and
follow him -- up stairs."
There was a shout, and then all rushed up stairs, and Varney had scarcely got into the loft,
when some one called out, --
"I see his legs -- he's got into the loft. Up the steps."
"Hurrah! hurrah! up the steps, my boys; follow me," sadi one man, as he got on the
landing, and ran to seize the ladder; but Varney saw the necessity of preventing immediate
and hot pursuit, lest he should be recognised and followed to the hotel, when that would be
death to his hopes.
Just as the man had reached the ladder, Varney lifted it off the hooks upon which it hung,
and flung it back against the man, who fell back, and he, with the fallen ladder, created a
dreadful confusion amongst those who were coming up stairs, many being knocked down,
and the remainder retreated, thinking that at least there were a battalion of murderers.
This gave Varney time to get to the roof, and he then crept along several house-tops,
without being discovered, though he could hear the shouts and hum of the mob, as they
gathered round the house he had left.
Then how to get out of his present position was a question he was not well able to tell. He
must let himself out through some of the houses, and to do that without raising a hue-and-
cry, was a question he was not able to solve. Once or twice he thought of letting himself
down from the outside; but this he gave up as being impossible, for destruction to himself
would be the instant result.
"I must get into one of these houses, and remain concealed," he thought, "till the dead of
the night, and then I could get through the house without any trouble, or fear of detection --
but then the Frasers. I must not disappoint them."
This last consideration appeared to determine him, for he immediately crawled to one
house that appeared to be the best calculated for his purpose, and he at once entered it by
means of a small window that belonged to an attic. In this room was to be seen only a bed,
and a few chairs, and a table.
All was silent, no one was moving; he stepped up to the bed, but was somewhat startled
to find it occupied by some odd-looking human form, wrapped up in a curious and
uninviting manner.
"Ah!" thought Varney, "I didn't think to have found any one in possession of this place so
early; but they sleep, and that is enough."

He had scarce said so, when a voice said,
"Nurse, nurse -- confound you, why don't you bring my posset? Do you hear, cuss you?
here have I been kept here for two hours without my supper, and what you gave me last
night had no rum in it. How's a man to get well, and kept upon short allowance? I tell you it
cannot be done, not at any price. Will you bring me my grog posset, or won't you? You
inhuman wretch, to keep an old sailor upon short allowance of grog and won't give him any
except in the shape of a posset!"
This was pathetic, but Varney paid no attention to it, and gently glided out of the room.
When he quitted the apartment, he descended the stairs, and then he came to the passage or
hall, when he was met by a stout female.
"Whom do you want?" exclaimed the fat female.
"Madam," said Varney, "are you aware of the calamity that has befallen you?"
"No, sir. What -- what is it?"
"The lunatic in the top room has in a fit of malignity set the upper part of your house in
flames. You had better take care of yourself."
"Oh, my God! the house is on fire!" said the fat woman. "Oh, mercy, mercy! Fire! fire!
fire! The house is a fire."
Varney turned round and opened the door, just as several people were rushing out of their
rooms at hearing these alarming exclamations.
"That will do," muttered Varney, as he closed the door behind him, and then walked
hastily towards the hotel, to which, however, he did not go quite straight; he went a little on
one side to avoid meeting the crowd, as being an unpleasant mass of human creatures
which are singularly unpleasant to meet with, leaving them to secure themsleves and find
the murderer, if they were able to do so.
--

CHAPTER CXLIV. [Chapter 153]
THE ASSEMBLY. -- SIR FRANCIS'S FIRST OVERTURES TO MARY STEVENS. --

THE BREAKFAST SCENE. -- AND THE HONOUR DECLINED.
Sir Francis Varney, as soon as he reached his hotel, changed his habiliments, and sought
the Frasers, whom he found ready for the assembly, and somewhat fearful he was not
coming; but he easily excused himself on the score of illness, and then they persuaded him
to remain at their abode, and they would all do so too; but at the same time Sir Francis
insisted that his indisposition was but temporary, and he would rather visit the place, as it
was a ball night.
Thus persuaded, they agreed, and the five of them proceeded to the assembly rooms,
where they amused themselves as fashionable people usually do. They danced, and were
highly delighted with the place, which was certainly of a very superior description,
contained the very elite of the Bath visitors, and appealed to advantage.
The wealth and beauty to be found in the room would have caused many a heart to bound
with rapture, whether it was the miser's or the lover's; for both could there find that which
gladdened them most, gold and beauty -- wealth and youth; each could gloat his eyes on
that he held dearest.
"Did you ever witness a scene like this?" said Sir Francis Varney, as he led Miss Stevens
to a seat, and handed her refreshments. "Did you ever behold one in which was collected so
much beauty and youth?"
"There are many happy faces," said Mary Stevens.
"And hearts, too, I hope," said Varney.
"I hope so, too," replied Mary.
"There are several here who have never been to a ball before; 'tis their debut in life, and a
fine and lovely commencement it is; and if all their future years should be such a round of
pleasure and gaiety as this, they needs must be happy."
"I am sure they must. People here seem to wish to make each other happy."
"And if they strive in heart, they must succeed in doing so, and in making themselves
happy too."
"No doubt they do."
"And you, Miss Stevens, would you not make yourself happy when you make others
happy?" inquired Sir Francis Varney.

"I certainly do feel happy when I am an instrument in the hands of another doing good,
and seeing it really gives others happiness."
"That is one of the noblest ends of life."
"And one which you, Sir Francis, have pursued to some purpose. You ought to be happy,
if any man can claim happiness."
"I am, in one respect; but when there is a great void in life, which has to be filled -- when
that void is in the affections, can it be surprising that sorrow and grief are there?"
"I cannot give you an answer, because I have no knowledge of such an existence; had I, it
would be otherwise; but I cannot say yea, or nay."
"Well," said Sir Francis, "it is so; that void is in my heart; and, before I saw you, I felt it
not; but now," he paused, "but now I feel it -- feel it deeply, and I shall ever do so unless --
but I hardly dare say more -- my heart will never again know sorrow, and never again feel
tranquil. Wants and wishes have sprung up which, until now, have never presented
themselves in the shape of possibilities, much less probabilities, and which now are
realities."
"This is a strange conversation, Sir Francis."
"It is, Miss Stevens, and I feel it to be so; but, unfortunately, I have a certain difficulty to
overcome, which, perhaps, accident, more than courage, wiil enable me to break through.
But, to speak plainly, before I saw you, the whole world was alike to me; I cared not for
one more than another; but, now the world has new charms, I have new hopes and wishes.
God knows if they are to be dissipated, like the morning mist before the glories of the rising
sun. Love has made sad havoc in my heart; and to love and despair is the bitterest lot
humanity can fall into. Man can bear all that adverse fate may entail upon him; but that saps
at the foundation of the superstructure, our love of life, without which, society could not
hold together; and, with disappointed love, there is no love of existence."
"Indeed, Sir Francis, I regret to hear it."
"Will you prevent it?"
"I cannot now answer you any such question, if I were inclined to do so -- I have not the
power. See, Sir Francis, there is another set."
"Will you dance?"
"No; I do not think I will dance any more to-night; but I shall be glad to rejoin my sister
and brother."

"I will lead you to them, with pleasure; but will you allow me to name this matter to
Captain Fraser?"
"I have no right to dictate to you, Sir Francis," said Mary, with evident embarrassment,
"much less would I do so, or endeavour to do so to one to whom I owe so much; and yet I
fear it will be fruitless."
"There, yonder, are your friends."
As Sir Francis spoke, he pointed to another end of the room, to which he was leading her,
and which was occupied by many of the most fashionable and beautiful; they also had to
pass down a lane of fashionables who were occupying seats, having been fatigued by
dancing -- many not having danced at all, but come to keep watchful and Argus eyes upon
the sons and daughters whom they brought with them.
These, at least, noticed them -- all eyes were fixed upon them, and Sir Francis, certainly
with an air of triumph, led the beautiful Mary Stevens towards her friends, who were
gazing at them with attention.
Mary thought herself somewhat awkwardly situatied, and knew not how to release
herself; and also felt that any attempt of the kind would really be as ungracious as it would
be ungrateful, and so resigned herself.
A few yards more, and then she was once again in the company of her friends, but not
released from Sir Francis, for he seated himself by her side with the ease of one who was
well accustomed to their society, and of those around him.
"Well, Sir Francis," said Mrs. Fraser, "you have not been unnoticed in the ball-room. You
have created quite a sensation; your dancing is superior, and your tall figure has set you
off."
"You mistake, Mrs. Fraser; the object of such general attention was no other than your
beautiful sister -- my fair partner."
"Don't make her vain."
"That, indeed, would be a misfortune; but she has such an excellent capacity of mind, that
she runs no danger of such a misfortune; but even were it not so, there would be much
excuse."
"You are flattering, Sir Francis."
"Not I, I assure you. How do you find yourself?"
"I am getting fatigued. My recent journeys must plead an excuse for my weariness at such
a time and in such a place as this."

"I am not suprised at this, considering how you have been riding about for many days
past. Would you choose to retire to-night, and remain later on another occasion?"
"I think," said Captain Fraser, "it may be as well. What do you say, my dear?"
"I am quite willing."
"And so am I," said Mary. "Indeed I would much sooner we left early -- if midnight can
be called early."
"It is much past that hour now."
"Then I think we are decided upon going."
"Very well," said Sir Francis; "then I will obtain a carriage for our use, and then we shall
retire to our homes."
"If you please, Sir Francis."
Varney then rose, and went out for the purpose of procuring what was wanted, and, by the
aid of a little silver, he soon obtained what he desired, and then returned to inform his
friends of the success of his mission.
They then left the ball-room, and proceeded at once to enter the carriage, which was so
placed that they could at once enter without any inconvenience; and they soon gained their
hotel, and, after a slight repast, they separated. * * * * *
It was late next moring when Sir Francis Varney entered the room in which he usually
took breakfast with the Frasers; but, though late, he only met Captain Fraser.
"I am afraid, Captain Fraser," said Varney, "I have kept you all. Perhaps the ladies are
gone out?"
"No, no; they have not yet come down. Indeed, had you been in five minutes earlier than
this, you would not have found me here."
"Well, I know not the reason, but I slept well myself. To be sure," said Sir Francis, "I did
not fall readily to sleep, and that may account for it."
"Indeed! and do you not sleep sound?"
"Usually -- I may say, generally; but sometimes some reflections keep the mind actively
employed against one's own wishes."
"They do so, Sir Francis. I have myself found that to be the case; but I am sorry my
female folks do not come down."

"Nay, nay, Captain Fraser, do no wish that on my account. I am rather pleased they are
not down than otherwise."
"Indeed, Sir Francis!"
"Yes," replied Sir Francis, " as it leaves me an opportunity of saying a few words to you,
Captain Fraser, upon a subject that concerns myself nearly and deeply."
"You amaze me, Sir Francis."
"I had hoped you might have had some guess at it, Captain Fraser, as it would have
helped me through my task; for my heart almost fails me when I think of the possibility of
want of success -- my want of nerve is not habitual."
"I can depose to so much, Sir Francis; you showed courage, and nerve, where courage
and nerve were most wanted."
"Ah, well, Captain Fraser, If I had been brought up to your noble profession, I should
have been better able to make an impression; but I will do my best; but the subject is a
grave one, as it relates to my feelings toward your sister-in-law, Miss Mary Stevens."
"Indeed, Sir Francis!"
"Yes, Captain Fraser. I, who have passed through so many ordeals of beauty, have at last
been compelled to bow before the shrine of beauty. I am a devoted and humble admirer of
Miss Stevens's charms and virtues."
"Well, Sir Francis?"
"I now beg your permission to visit her, and be accepted in your family in the character of
one who ardently wishes and desires to become a member of it by means of an union
between myself and that young lady."
"Personally, Sir Francis, I have the greatest pleasure in hearing you say so much."
"Then I am likely to be fortunate."
"So far as my approbation, and my consent are concerned, Sir Francis, you certainly are
successful; but, according to the vulgar proverb, as one swallow makes no summer, so one
individual's consent is not decisive where two are required to concur."
"Certainly, Captain Fraser. I was not wishing to put the young lady aside; but having your
consent, I may go on to endeavour to obtain the happiness I so much look foward to -- but I
may count upon your good offices?"
"You may, most certainly."

"And your amiable lady?"
"Yes, I think I may say she will unite with me in using all due means of aiding you in
your wishes -- but here she is."
At that moment, Mrs. Fraser entered the apartment, and advancing to Sir Francis, offering
him her hand and saying, --
"Sir Francis, how do you do this morning? I am afraid I have kept you -- ah, I see you are
alone with Captain Fraser -- where is my sister?"
"Mary has not yet come down," said Fraser.
"Ah, we are both late, I think."
"I am, madam; but you have come at a right moment."
"Have I? Why do you reckon it so?"
"Because I was just at that moment speaking of you, and here you are; so that I can speak
to you, which is much better."
"Well, so it is -- but what is it about?"
"You amiable and lovely sister."
"Ah, that is what you men always say -- it is just what Captain Fraser said to me."
"Then may I hope for a like success?"
"I don't understand," said Mrs. Fraser, doubtfully."
"Why, I was saying to Captain Fraser, if he could obtain your aid in my behalf in an
attack upon your sister's heart. I have been unable to hold out any longer -- I am deeply and
desperately in love."
"Well, that is a very dangerous disorder, and I must see what Mary can do to console you
in your affliction."
"You will indeed deserve my best thanks if you will do so; and, should success crown our
efforts, how deep a debt of gratitude will mine be to you."
"How much are we not yours already?"
"But my whole happiness will be through your efforts."

"Oh, no, no; remember, you said but just now it was my sister you meant to wed, and not
me."
"Good God! how could you imagine I had any such profane thought?"
"Ha! ha! Sir Francis, I must see what I can do with Mary; but, she comes -- another of the
dramatis personae."
Mary Stevens at that moment entered the room, and felt most abashed at finding all eyes
rivetted upon her without speaking, and she advanced towards the fire, having made an
inclination to Sir Francis, saying, as she came down, --
"I fear I have been the means of keeping you waiting. I am sorry you did so; but I was
really not aware of the hour."
"Nor were we," said Mrs. Fraser; "and it appears we have all been late, save Sir Francis,
who, like a true knight, has been at his post, I don't know how long before I came down
myself."
"Nay, don't you listen to any charges, Miss Stevens. I have been here but a very short
time, though I ought to have been here earlier."
"It is fortunate then you did, Sir Francis, and I am relieved of the charge of detaining
breakfast to an unusual hour."
"It matters but little when it is had, so long as it is to be had when it is wanted. What say
you, Sir Francis?"
"I believe that the grand object of all our wishes and wants, is to have what we want when
we want it. An eastern potentate could not be better served, or more powerful, or richer,
than to be able to say so much."
"You are his equal."
"I am in some things certainly," replied Sir Francis; "but I want an empress, and thus, you
see, I am dethroned and rendered powerless by a few words."
"You can obtain even that."
"Not exactly; for she whom I might choose might refuse to become mine; then, I am a
weary wanderer upon earth's surface -- I am no longer one among men; but a mere
existence, moving about without filling any allotted position."
"This is very doleful, Sir Francis," said Mary; "if you say much more, you will spoil your
appetite for breakfast."

"Mary, that is a cruel cut, you did not mean it, I dare say; but it is a sufficient rebuke. I
must come to plain speaking, and at once hope you recollect the subject upon which I spoke
to you in the ballroom last night."
"I do, Sir Francis; it would be affectation to say I did not."
"Well, I have sought Captain and Mrs. Fraser's permission to endeavour to win those
smiles and good wishes, that I so much desire should be mine."
"You can never deserve less than good wishes from me," said Mary Stevens; "you cannot
have less, I am too deeply indebted -- -"
"There, now, pray permit me to interrupt you. I must not hear any more of that; I did my
duty on that occasion -- -"
"Occasions!"
"Well, occasions; and I hope no gentleman, having the power, would have done
otherwise; and if so, I have only done what others would have done under the same
circumstances -- a very ordinary act indeed."
"You are making less of it than it deserves, were it only for our sakes."
"I see you won't entertain my wishes seriously; but, recollect, what is sport to you is death
to me -- the affections of a blighted heart cannot weigh lightly when the evil is
consummated."
"Do not think, Sir Francis, I wish to evade or to slight any wishes you may form; as far as
I am concerned, they are a great honour to me; but I am yet too young, and averse to
anything of the kind yet to feel justified in seriously entertaining such matters as those you
allude to."
"That, indeed, must be a mistake; you are not too young. Let me hope that you will not
refuse to allow me the satisfaction and pleasure of your company; that would indeed be a
greater misfortune than could otherwise happen to me to be deprived suddenly of that, I
assure you."
"Certainly I cannot feel otherwise than gratitude to you, Sir Francis, and derive that
pleasure in your society which others feel, and which all your friends must experience; but
we will say no more upon this subject, except that I have given as serious and positive an
answer as I can."
There were many other observations made during breakfast-time to much the same effect,
but it is unnecessary to record them, and the breakfast passed off as pleasantly as possible,
under the circumstances.

CHAPTER CXLV. [Chapter 154]
THE TWO SISTERS. -- MARY STEVENS'S DISLIKE OF SIR FRANCIS VARNEY. -

- AN USELESS SUIT. -- DISUNION.
There was much stir in Bath next day on account of the murder that had occurred, and
everybody spoke of it. The papers were filled with it, and it was thought to have been the
most barbarous murder that had ever been committed, and most active exertions were being
made to discover the perpetrators of this horrid deed. All sorts of conjectures were being
made as to who the murderer might be, and his object in becoming one. Gold, of course,
was assigned as that.
There was something terrible in the fact that this should have occurred just as the Frasers
had arrived in Bath -- it was startling, they thought, though they could of course have no
connexion with it whatever.
While the examinations were being proceeded with, Sir Francis Varney appeared out in
the streets as seldom as possible; not that he had any fear of recognition, for that was
impossible; but, at the same time, he would not run unnecessary risk, while so much was to
be won.
The days passed, and many very pleasant hours were spent, and the gaieties of Bath were
enjoyed to their fullest; while Sir Francis was their great friend everywhere, for, somehow
or other, Sir Francis obtained the precedence go where he would, and they shared it with
him.
He pressed his suit with much ardour, and Mary Stevens appeared each day less and less
inclined to accept of Sir Francis Varney for a lover. She felt a greater and greater
repugnance to Sir Francis, who, however, pressed her more hardly and more assiduously
than ever.
However, Captain Fraser and his lady were sensible of the advantages of such a match to
themselves and to Mary, for they could not believe that one so courteous and brave could
do otherwise than make any lady happy; the first objection would wear away in the person
of such a man as Varney; they therefore espoused his cause warmly when they found that
Mary was averse to the match.
"What can be you objection, Mary?" inquired Mrs. Fraser.
"I cannot tell."
"Surely it cannot be an insurmountable objection," said Captain Fraser, "since you do not
know what it consists of. You cannot have a very definite idea; and possibly a little
explanation may set the matter to rights."
"I know well enough what it means."

"Do you, dear? Why not tell us?"
"I will. It consists of a strong dislike to Sir Francis. I cannot tell you why; but it is a very
strong and yet distinct feeling."
"What can it arise from?"
"That I cannot explain."
"If you could, we should be able to come to some conclusion respecting it; but at present
it appears like a blind, causeless antipathy, and, against one so well calculated to make any
feamle happy as Sir Francis Varney, is so extraordinary that it really exceeds belief. I
cannot express my regret and astonishment."
"I cannot understand it."
"I am sorry for it."
"And more like ingratitude, Mary, than I though you capable of. There are two occasions
upon which you stand indebted to him for your life. He risked his own greatly on the last
occasion."
"I am truly sorry it should happen so, sister."
"Well, then, Mary, amend the error; for if it were an ordinary affair, common dislike
might pass very well; but towards such a man as Sir Francis Varney it is decidedly wrong.
Indeed, when I recollect the horrors of that night -- when I remember the flames and smoke,
and saw you wrapped up safely from the effects of the fire, while he was exposed to every
breath of hot air -- -"
"Hush! I recollect it all; but it makes me shudder."
"Can you, then, regard such a man with cold dislike? Upon my word, I am shocked at
your baseness."
"Sister, sister, you are too severe -- too severe."
"Only just, Mary -- only just."
"More than just. Do not turn persecutor."
"I would not; but this conduct of yours make me feel strongly -- very strongly, and I can
hardly face Sir Francis Varney and tell him that one who belongs to me can treat him in
such a manner."
"Does love always spring from gratitude?"

"It is useless to ask such questions, Mary, or I might retort by asking if such services as
his always produced dislike. But Sir Francis is no ordinary man. Suppose you do not love
him, which might be explicable; but then you have no other love; you are fancy free, are
you not?"
"Yes, yes."
"Well, then, you have no motive for dislike, though you might be indifferent. In such a
case, I should not have thought it possible that there could have been less than gratitude,
and the warmest esteem for his services and his own good qualities; for he has as good
qualities as a man can have."
"Yes, sister; but that dreadful night has left such an impression upon my mind, that I
cannot, dearest, do what you desire -- I mean I cannot love Sir Francis Varney."
"What! not love him because of the remembrance of his services?"
"You quite misunderstood my feelings upon that occasion. I can never feel grateful
enough for the rescue from the horrible monster who attacked me while I slept at the inn. I
can never forget that moment of horror and terror. I cannot even to this day make out the
object of the intruder. It was not robbery, and it could not have ben any ordinary attack, for
it was not carried on in the usual manner. To seize any one by the arm, and suck the blood
from their veins, appears to me to be a proceeding quite unaccountable in the ordinary
course of things."
"It was very strange."
"Yes; and, stranger than all, it has given me a perfect horror of man in general. I cannot
abide the thought of being married at all; indeed, I won't, and I hope that is enough."
"Upon my word, my good sister," said Captain Fraser, half angry and half jestingly, "you
would almost make me believe you were desirous of taking the veil; but you cannot have
any reason for taking such a strong antipathy to male creatures. You must know very well
that, because you have got a fright in a country inn, that all the abodes of men in the world
are not filled with goblins, spirits, and the like, and wicked ogres, who are only waiting to
eat up young maidens."
"It was no jesting matter to me."
"I do not say but what it was a frightful reality; but, at the same time, such terrible
occurrences as these cannot be supposed to happen every day in one's life; indeed, one in a
long life would be a terrible frequency which is never known, and I think you might
dismiss the subject from your mind, as an inexplicable event, unpleasant and unprofitable
to recall."

"But it has been too terrible and too mysterious for me to ever forget; and, least of all,
could I do it in so short a time."
"Well, I do not expect you could forget it immediately; but, at the same time, I cannot see
how it could affect your opinion of your preserver. Indeed, it is a strnage perversion of
intellect, not to say a degree of ingratitude, that it is difficult, if not impossible, to
understand or believe."
"Well, I can say no more," said Mary.
"Thta is very resigned and easy on your part; but what we are to say to Sir Francis Varney
I am sure I cannot tell. It appears to me that you have a childish dislike to him -- one for
which you can allege no reason, and, therefore, improper. I wonder what he, or any
impartial person, could think of it, if they had all fully and carefully explained to them."
"I am sure I do not know; but it is usually sufficient, in a case of this kind, to say one
cannot love the party, and to escape from what becomes an infliction, or, in time, a
persecution."
"But this is not such a case as you would appear to imagine. There is no persecution, and
Sir Francis only desires that you will permit him to attempt tot obtain your good will."
"But knowing he cannot obtain that -- speaking in the light you mean -- it becomes a
serious annoyance to me to think I should always be attended by a person who, on the score
of having done me some services, expects me to listen to his addresses, and to accept him
as a lover. It is becoming a slave, indeed, when one must not exercise one's discretion in a
matter that so nearly concerns the happiness of my future life."
"You are making mountains out of mole-hills, Mary."
"I have not taken the same view of this matter that you have," replied Miss Stevens, "and
therefore you quarrel with me. I think that a great deal too bad; I did not believe you would
have quarrelled with me upon such a subject -- one that concerns me so much, too, as this."
"Exactly; it does concern you, and it concerns us also, and that is the reason why we feel
warmly upon the subject. Your want of motive is so apparent that it quite concerns us -- we
are completely staggered. What it can all end in I am sure I cannot tell; but Sir Francis must
think us an ungrateful set, or at, least, he must believe you are actuated by the worst and
most ungracious caprice, and capable of great ingratitude."
"I am sorry for it; but for all that, I cannot consent to marry Sir Frnacis Varney. I know
not why, but I do."
"You really ought to be ashamed of such an admission, for I am sure he does not deserve
such treatment."

"I am compelled to admit that to be true."
"Then why, in the name of Heaven, should you let prejudice surmount reason -- and
reason that you acknowledge ought to be paramount? You know your folly, and yet you
persist in it. Was there ever such folly? Come, Mary, come, you must give up this kind of
nonsense; you must act as I have always believed you would; you must meet Sir Francis in
a proper spirit, and the result will no doubt be that you will banish all these idle fancies."
"I should be glad to do so, for they make me very unhappy."
"Well, well, they are calculated to do so, and when you have cast them aside, your own
happiness and that of your friends will be much increased." * * * * *
There was much stir in Bath on account of the murder, and the papers were filled with
terrific descriptions of the scene, which some even went to the trouble and expense of
producing sketches of, which, what with being badly drawn, badly copied, blotted, and
printed, and being as unlike the original as possible, gave the inhabitants and strangers not a
very vivid idea of the place.
When, however, the details were adverted to they were terrible enough; and when Sir
Francis Varney entered the apartment in which he usually dined, he found his friends were
full of the discussion.
"Have you seen anything of the murder, Sir Francis?"
"No, sir," replied Sir Francis.
"Well, there is a dreadful affair happened. How horrible to think -- they might not have
been discovered at all, but for the neighbours breaking the doors in."
"What is it all about, captain?"
"Why, two old women were murdered a few nights ago, and they have but just been
discovered; the papers are full of it."
"What, the murderers? Well, that was a quick discovery."
"No, no; I mean it was not discovered at all, as it is supposed, till at least four-and-twenty
hours after the deed."
"Dear me; how was that?"
"I cannot tell, except the old woman was an eccentric, and her shutters had been closed
before for a whole day; but there were no other signs of life about the house the whole day,
which alarmed the neighbours much, and they began to take precautions towards the

evening to force the door, when a tall, peculiar-looking man was observed entering the
house by menas of a key."
"They observed that, did they?"
"Yes; he was seen quite plain."
"It will be fortunate, if he should have been the murderer, because they can identify him."
"Undoubtedly they can."
"I am glad of it," said Varney.
"Well; he was seen to go in, and then to go over the house, because there was a light seen
to travel up stairs, and stop there some time; and then they knocked for admission, but not
being answered, they at once forced open the door, and they all rushed in, but were
horrified to find themselves tumbling over the dead bodies of the old woman who kept the
house, and her servant."
"Ah! it must have been a startling thing, certainly."
"Well; they stopped a moment or two -- as was most probable at such a sight -- and then
they ran up stairs, believing the murderer was there."
"And was he there?"
"He must have been so, because they heard him get up to the roof, and they followed, but
were baffled, because he threw the ladder down, which caused them some confusion, and
during that the murderer contrived to escape."
"Well; it was quite a field of adventure; but it is to be lamented," said Varney, "they were
not successful in their endeavours to catch the murderer; but what is the alleged motive for
the deed?"
"They say that she had some strange fancies, and that, among others, she had all her
money in the house -- her capital, upon which she lived, without any fear of exhausting it.
That was known to some one or other, and got whispered about, and it is presumed that for
this purpose the poor woman was murdered."
"How horribly barbarous! but ain't there any suspicion upon any one, because it is usually
the case?"
"There is, I believe."
"And upon whom does it fall?"

"Upon a relation of her own, who has not been seen for some days, and who had been
know to have spoken with impatience at the old woman's life, and the mode in which she
spent her money."
"That speaks for itself," said Varney.
"So it does; but they have not taken him yet."
"I hope they will, I am sure; because the whole affair is so truly horrible!"
"So it is. Will you go to the theatre to-night; there is no ball -- we can have an excellent
box?"
"What do you say, my dear?" said Captain Fraser to his lady.
"I am willing. Are you agreeable Mary?"
"Yes; I am quite content with your decision."
"Then we are all agreed to the proposal. There will be a celebrated actress from London
there, and I hope we shall find the entertainment well worthy of our patronage -- indeed, I
have little doubt of it."
--

CHAPTER CXLV. [Chapter 155]
THE EFFECTS OF PERSEVARANCE. -- SIR FRANCIS VARNEY AND MARY

STEVENS. -- AN EVENING PARTY AND CONVERSATION.
The evening was spent agreeable enough at the Bath theatre; Sir Francis Varney having
taken the greatest pains to ingratiate himself with Mary Stevens so much and so delicately,
that she could not but feel ashamed at her antipathy towards him, and certainly did all she
could to get the better of it, and succeeded in some measure in doing so.
They all returned home in very good humour with themselves and everything. Captain
Fraser and his lady were completely predisposed to look upon Sir Francis Varney as one of
the first men in England for rank and breeding; even Mary Stevens was compelled to admit
she never saw any one whose demeanour was to be more admired more than his.
The next morning they all assembled at the breakfast-table, and were all full of lively
images and thoughts of the preceding evening.
There was much more of cordiality and intimacy than had been felt among them before;
for Sir Francis Varney's courtliness gave way, and he became almost as one of the family.
Mary looked upon him with something like wonder, to see how agreeable a man could be
whom she disliked.
One or two days more passed in this manner; and the dislike of Mary Stevens to Sir
Francis, if not less, was at least not so active or violent; but she received him as an old
friend.
That much emboldened Sir Francis, who again resolved he would speak to her, and that in
the presence of her brother and sister, hoping by such a proceeding he should be able to
overcome her dislike or fears by his own efforts, aided by Captain and Mrs. Fraser, who
would create a diversion in his favour.
"I wish not," he said, "to be importunate; but, in a matter that concerns one's future hopes
and wishes -- one cannot well slumber over them -- I wish to become one of such a family
as that into which I find myself so strangely and accidentally introduced, though I fear I
have failed to make myself as acceptable as I could wish."
"No one could think Sir Francis Varney otherwise than acceptable," said Captain Fraser;
"your services to us alone would be enough to endow us all with the most lively gratitude
and admiration, were you only to appear amongst us with no other qualification; but you
add those which evidently make any gentleman an ornament to the circle he may grace with
his acquaintance and friendship."
"You take a favorable view of all that you see, Captain Fraser."

"No, no; I merely speak what I think upon a subject which I have had, I may say, some
experience. I have myself had some dealings in the world; my profession puts me forward,
and I may repeat what I said."
"No, no, I will not suffer you to do that; what I wish to do is, to impress, if possible, my
fair friend here with favourable sentiments towards myself. I am not as some of the young
men of these times, who win by the violence of their suit, which they urge with all the haste
of violence to attack and storm the citadel."
"That is a very good plan, Sir Francis; why don't you yourself pursue such a system? It
must carry the citadel by assault."
"No, no," said Mary, "you will not do anything of the kind. Was that the way in which
you yourself acted? If so, I am sure I pity my sister; for what can she hope for when she
was taken in such a violent manner?"
"Oh, no, no; Fraser was the unfortunate victor, who was taken prisoner in the moment of
victory."
"Yes, that is the fact; I was taken prisoner; but I have since been appointed governor in
the enemy's country."
"Ha! ha! ha! well, that is a fortunate issue to your adventure. I would that mine were as
fortunate -- I love, and yet fear to say so."
"Fear never won a fair lady," said Fraser; "so don't be afraid."
"What does my fair enemy say her?"
"I have said so much upon the subject, sir, before, that I was in hopes I should not have
had any occasion to say more."
"I am sorry to hear you say so."
"Why, it is a pity to render a matter that is settled uncertain, without the prospect of
anything being gained by it."
"So it is; but I hope that is not the present case, Miss Stevens. My petition, I hope, is not
rejected merely because it has suffered so before. I cannot but hope, though despair for ever
stare me in the face for it; but perhaps devotion and heartfelt love may make some
impresssion upon you, and soften the rigours of a heart that cannot, I am sure, feel any
pleasure in the distress of another."
"No, no, Sir Francis; you only do me justice in saying so much. I can, indeed, feel no
pleasure in such things. You may rely upon it, gratitude alone would prompt me to comply
with any request you might make at once and cheerfully; but you must admit that this is a

question that alters the complexion of other matters, and what might be proper under other
circumstances, cannot be expected under this."
"Nor am I so unreasonable as to expect anything of the kind. Now, Miss Stevens, you
much mistake Sir Francis Varney if you think him capable of such meanness. I wish you to
act from your own unbiassed judgment, and, however painful the result, yet I would in
silence put up with your decision. But still I hope you will not act imperatively -- that you
will look upon my suit with, at least, not a harsh and averse spirit. Have some compassion
upon one who is entirely at your mercy."
"Come, Mary, do not act unkindly."
"I -- I do not know what to say. I -- I cannot give any other answer."
"Nay, I won't hear of such a thing, Mary," said Mrs. Fraser; "now or never. I will not say
that you must not be mindful of the past; but you were never ungrateful, that I know. You
cannot be otherwise than happy."
"You embarrass me."
"Miss Stevens, let nothing weigh with you, save your own happiness; that is my object,
and my own at the same time."
"Say yes, Mary."
"I -- I cannot."
"Will not! What objection? What on earth could you wish for more?"
"Do not press me."
"I should be sorry to do so at such a moment, were it decidedly your desire not to give an
answer now; but I do beg you will not let me linger longer than necessary. Indeed, I find I
cannot exist in your society and be deprived of the hope that I may call you one day mine
own."
"Do, Mary, say yes -- say yes!"
"Will Miss Stevens give me leave to suppose that there may be a time when I may be
rewared for my patience? I will not press you for a plain answer now, but give me some
token that I am not to remain unhappy."
"Come, Mary, come -- Sir Francis gives you every indulgence."

But Mary was obstinate some time longer, until Sir Francis, in a transport, pressed her
hand, and placed it to his lips; at the same time she suffered her silence to be construed into
a consent to his wishes. * * * * *
"Well, Sir Francis," said Captain Fraser, "let me congratulate you in having subdued the
enemy, and you, Mary, in having such a conqueror. I protest it was a hard fought battle, and
one that I could not tell who would prove trumphant."
"I feel well assured you may congratulate me, Captain Fraser. I congratulate myself, I
assure you; therefore you may do so to me."
"I do heartily."
"Thank you; I shall be happy. But what are the tactics for the night?"
"What are we to do?"
"Yes, precisely."
"Oh, suppose we have a nice party among ourselves. We can amuse ourselves, I dare say.
I am fatigued myself, and care not to go out to-night. We have all gone out so lately that it
will be a change and a rest."
"So it will," said Miss Stevens. "I am really glad that we shall have one night, on which
we can retire at early hours."
"Are you willing, Sir Francis, to spend a dull evening?"
"It cannot be dull, at all events, in such company. I shall be happy to remain with you,
indeed. I feel that a quiet, happy evening is a thing that would be very acceptable to me, at
least; but still I can do as you please."
"Then we'll have a quiet evening among ourselves."
"Have you heard anything more about the murder that took place the other day?"
"No," replied Sir Francis. "Have you?"
"I have," said Mrs. Fraser.
"What have you heard?" inquired Sir Francis.
"I will tell you," replied Mrs. Fraser. "You recollect that the nephew had been suspected
of having murdered the two women, and committed a robbery afterwards."
"Yes, yes; I heard so much."

"Well, they ahve taken the nephew now, and he has been examined before a police-
constable, and will be again examined in another day or two."
"Indeed! they have made quick work of it. How can they suspect he had any hand in the
affair?"
"I believe they knew he had been very poor, and had been very impatient for the old
woman's death, that he might have it all. Now, such a line of conduct was bad, and has
caused persons to suspect him; and, also, the fact, that he has got a quantity of gold about
him, for the possession of which he cannot account."
"Ay, that seems bad; but what kind of excuse can he give for the possession of such
treasure -- he is surely not silent?"
"Oh, dear, no, he is not silent. All he says, however, is, that his aunt gave it him to leave
the country with."
"That is strange -- very singular."
"It is, and that is why they disbelieve it; besides; he had made no preparations for his
departure, that have yet been discovered -- besides, his shoes were evidently soiled with
human blood, and the footsteps in the passage and on the stairs -- at least, some of them,
were exactly of the same size."
"That is a strong proof."
"So it is; but there appears to have been an accomplice, for there are other footmarks of a
different size, much larger and longer."
"Dear me," said Varney; "didn't you say there were many people who ran up stairs after
the man, who got away?"
"Yes; to be sure."
"Well, some of them might have left a foot-print."
"Well, I suppose they might, and yet they must have reasons for saying that these
footsteps were those of an accomplice; perhaps they were fresher than the others, or it may
be they have a different appearance from the more recent ones."
"It may be so."
"However it may be; it is quite certain that he has done the deed; whether he had any help
or not, he, at least, will be punished."

"No doubt he ought to suffer for such a deed; it is that which gives security to the rest of
society."
"But it was a dreadful thing. A murder committed by a friend or relation is, I think, more
heinous, if possible, than when committed casually, by ordinary murderers, whose sole
crimes are murder and robbery."
"To be sure; when any tie that can bind one individual to another is broken, who would
have taken precautions against such as those whom we value; but he was ungrateful, and
killed his benefactress -- for such she had been."
--

CHAPTER CXLVIII. [Chapter 156]
THE WEDDING MORNING. -- THE PROGRESS OF JUSTICE, AND THE

DISCOVERY OF THE MURDERER. -- THE DISSIPATION OF A SCENE.
The days flew by, and the aspect of affairs insensibly changed. Sir Francis Varney
gradually drew over the scene such an appearance of candour and disinterestedness, that the
Frasers were delighted with the prospect of such an alliance, and they left no means of
propitiating and influencing Miss Stevens in his favour; and they succeeded to a certain
exent in stifling all expressions of dissent, and brought her to a state of passive obedience.
She had nothing to allege against Sir Francis but her dislike to him, and even that she felt
was weaker, and the more she exerted her mind, the weaker such impressions appeared to
be; a convincing proof to her that it was a mere blind, reasonless prejudices which it was
her duty to throw off, and she exerted herself to do so.
Thus it was she became passive in the hands of her friends; and Sir Francis Vareny had
the satisfaction of seeing that he was about to pick up a bride at length. His pleasure knew
no bounds, and his eyes glistened in a manner, that once or twice Mary recoiled from him
in terror, and she had nearly revived her fist feelings against him.
However that might have been, he saw his error, and he conducted himself differently
afterwards; for he too well knew the effect it must have upon the artless and beautiful
young girl, whose affections he cared not to win, so that he stifled her objections, and
obtained her hand -- her heart was not with him an object.
"I think now," said Captain Fraser to Sir Francis, when they were alone -- "I think, now,
Sir Francis, that we ought to come to some understanding."
"I shall be but too happy, Captain Fraser, to do so, in every sense of the word, and upon
every subject we can have in common."
"Then we shall have no difficulty in this affair."
"I hope not, I assure you."
"Well, then, Sir Francis, you desire to marry into our family?"
"Most unquestionably; my heart and fortune are at the disposal of Miss Stevens. I care for
nothing else but her -- fortune, Captain Fraser, is no object to me; I do not care for a single
penny piece. I have enough for myself."
"Money is not happiness itself," pursued the captain.
"I believe it -- I feel it."

"And yet Mary is not penniless; she has her dower, though by no means a large one; yet
she has one."
"Then let the whole, whatever it may be, be safely, securely made over for her own use,
and that of her children."
"It is generous -- very generous of you, Sir Francis; and your generosity much
embarrasses me, and I hardly know how to proceed with a little matter which I deem a part
of my duty to perform."
"Do not let me be an hindrance to you; I am sure I should regret it much; besides, the
more we know of each other, the greater confidence we have in each other, provided our
knowledge is of that character that will increase our respect."
"You are quite right, Sir Francis."
"Well, captain, I hope what you are going to say, will not give me cause to feel myself
less happy than I am."
"I hope not; I believe not; but what I was about to say is a very ordinary and common
occurrence on an occasion like the present."
"Well, let me know all about it, and then the murder will be out."
"Good. We have but little more than personal communication with each other, apart from
our respective homes; and we do not know much of each other in the ordinary acceptation
of the word. I wish to know something relative to your private affairs."
"I really cannot do so, unless you travel northward with me."
"Indeed -- indeed -- -"
"Stop. I can give you corroborative proof; I have none direct about me; but I can do that
much; but perhaps it will not do."
"Quite enough. I am satisfied -- if you can give me corroborative proof of what you say,
and that without premeditation, it will be still stronger and more valuable."
"If you think so, what do you say to those two letters, Captain Fraser?"
"Two letters."
"The one is from my gamekeeper, and the other is from my bailiff, who has to overlook
my property, and advise me of what was being done on the estate, and the state of my
financial affairs."

"They will do, sir, I believe."
As Captain Fraser took the two letters, he looked at the post-marks, and saw that they
were plain and readable, and the date: they had been correctly described by Sir Francis
Varney -- they came from the north, and one was a business-like letter from the bailiff, and
one quite in keeping from the head gamekeeper, both of whom mentioned many local and
petty matters, that fully bore out all that was to be expected from them.
"And do you keep up an establishment of this character, Sir Francis?"
"I do. I can afford it, and I do not like to turn the knaves adrift on the world, who have,
ever since they have been born, looked for abundance from the soil that produced them; and
I don't think I shall be justified in having the hardness of heart to turn them off."
"You are a kind and good master."
"I wish to be so."
"And when, Sir Francis, do you intend to return there?"
"I am glad you ask the question. I should like to take my bride there to spend the
honeymoon. I wish now to leave other objects, and to get back as soon as the ceremony is
over. There I should like to take her; it would be a rare and splendid life to lead in the old
gothic mansion -- as much like a castle as anything I can describe; but an ornamented
castle, of course, for I don't mean high walls, and no windows."
"Certainly not."
"But will you assist me in obtaining her consent to a speedy union; and, that effected, we
will whirl off for the mansion, and you can follow us at leisure. The union will, I hope and
believe, be most happy."
"I hope so. I trust and believe it will."
"In the meantime, any more information or proof you can desire shall be obtained for
you. Do not be backward upon this head."
"I am quite satisfied, Sir Francis." * * * * *
Thus Sir Francis Varney had succeeded in hoodwinking Captain Fraser and his wife, and
had now entirely subdued all shew of objection, and had so far succeeded as to obtain a
quiet and tacit consent to all he desired.
The interveiew described was reported to Mrs. Fraser and her sister, and was considered
liberal and satisfactory, and the marriage was spoken of as likely to be immediate, which

brought forth no remark from Mary, and the matter was considered as nearly settled; the
day only was to be appointed, and that could not be very distant.
One morning as they were seated at breakfast, and that after the day had been fixed at a
greater distance of time than Sir Francis Varney liked, the subject of the murder was again
brought up, and Mrs. Fraser said, --
"There is nothing more about the murder now -- is there?"
"No," replied Sir Francis; "not that I have heard of. I believe the unfortunate man will be
tried one of these days -- he stands committed."
"Stop," said Captain Fraser, "here is something in the paper."
"What is in it?"
"Something more about the murder."
"What is it?" inquired Sir Francis. "I am anxious to learn if they have done anything
more, for I was sick of it, and wish to know when such a horrible tragedy will end -- the
sooner it is past and forgotten, the better."
"That is true; for knowing a man is lying waiting for the hour to arrive when he shall die a
violent death, is truly terrible."
"So it is. They seem to say there is some clue to another person, of a most remarkable
appearance, who escaped through another house, and deceived the inmates by describing a
fire that was up stairs."
"Indeed! How strange," said Sir Francis.
"Yes; they say they will not publish more, lest it defeat the ends of justice."
"Something else sprung up, I suppose?"
"No doubt. But here is something more: the prisoner will be tried in a few days, and, if
condemned, executed in a very short time."
"Then I wish that one happy marriage would come off before that time. I am sure Mary
will be wretched, and I cannot be so happy as I could wish to be."
"Then postpone it for a few weeks."
"No, no, no; that would never do; hasten it. Besides, we should have to pass through all
the wretchedness consequent upon knowing a man -- a murderer, it is true, and perhaps two
of them -- that is waiting to die."

"I think myself," said Captain Fraser, "that we might, with advantage, leave Bath before
the trial takes place. It would certainly be more comfortable."
"So it would," said Mrs. Fraser; "and, to tell the truth, I begin to get tired of this place,
beautiful as it is. In fact, I want to get to your mansion in the north."
"Not more than I do, madam," said Sir Francis. "Will Miss Stevens permit me to persuade
her to shorten my period of probation, to escape some of the disagreeables we have
mentioned relative to this unhappy affair?" * * * * *
The wedding morning was arrived. Sir Francis Varney had not been sparing of his ill-
gotten gains. He willingly made some handsome presents to Mrs. Fraser and Mary Stevens;
jewels were the form he gave them in; and Sir Francis himself took care to display no small
degree of ornament, and yet he appeared to be a man, who, though wearing and having the
best of all, still wore but little ornament.
But the occasion made the change in his habit. And now the post horses are ready at the
door -- ready to bear them northwards. They are at the church. Sir Francis, and Mary
Stevens leaning upon his arm, come before the altar, and the friends of the bride were on
either side of them. The clergyman was about to read, but asked first, if any knew any
causes or impediment, &., to the marriage.
No answer was returned; when there was some bustle at the other end of the church, and
the clergy man paused to ascertain its character.
In a moment more there was a motley group of persons making towards the altar; and
foremost among these were two or three peace officers, and after them a woman, dressed in
many clothes, which added to her natural obesity.
"Ah, that's him -- that's the wagabone that said my house was on fire when it warn't; that's
him as frightened me so, that I'm quite thin through it."
"Shiver my timbers, and they begin to creak a bit now -- d -- n the gout! -- but that's
Varney, the vampyre! Who'd a thought he would always be turning up in this way, like an
old mop as nobody can use?"
Varney turned to the clergyman, and begged that these mad people might be turned out,
and, after the ceremony, he would meet any proper accusation at a proper time and place;
but he showed his anger so strongly, that Mary shrank from him; while the two officers
demanded him as a prisoner.
The clergyman yielded; and Sir Francis, striking the officer near him down, made a rush
at a side door, and escaped.
The fact was, there had been more than one doubt about the murder; and Sir Francis had
been followed to the hotel the night of the murder by one of the waiters, who came up

behind him. They took his shoes, and found they were bloody; and all things beign traced
home to him, it was agreed to capture him at home; but he had left for the church, when the
officers followed him. Old Admiral Bell, who was gouty, happened to see him pass, and
determined to unmask him, which he did.
--

CHAPTER CXLIX. [Chapter 157]
THE MURDER IN THE WOOD DEL NOTTI. -- A NEAPOLITAN SCENE.
There had been a great heat during the day, even for the sunny shore of Naples. Not a
cloud had been seen all day, not a breath of air had been stirring; all was golden sunshine --
all was fair; the very sea glittered like molten gold, and the heat was oppressive in the
extreme -- so much so that even the Neapolitans themselves stirred not out of doors, but
sank listless and sleepy on the couch, fanning themselves, and endeavouring to create an air
that would give some slight refreshment.
Even the sea was calm -- the very waves lashed the shore lazily, and appeared to partake
of the general weariness that came over all nature -- all things that moved.
There was no soul stirring in the villas that were seen dotted about the environs of Naples,
most of them like palaces, surrounded on every side by gardens and fountains, walled in,
and secure from the intrusion of a stranger.
There was one of great magnificence adjoining the small wood Del Notti, that reared its
stately structure on a slope looking towards the sea, though at a mile or two's distance, but
close adjoining the wood.
The gardens were extensive, and abutted on the wood, which was a cool and shady spot at
most times, and if such a one were now to be found, it would certainly be found in the
wood Del Notti.
The trees grew tall, and spread their branches out until they interlaced each other so
completely, that when the foliage was on them the light rarely found its way to the earth,
save in a dim and diluted form.
Here there might now and then be found some of those who had been overtaken by the
heat of the day, or who from choice preferred the coolness of the woods to the walls of their
houses. Here, then, reposing beneath the great trees, might occasionally be found a few
individuals who slept in coolness and shade.
Near the wall of the villa where the wood ran were some tall black trees, mostly fir and
cedar; there beneath one of the latter lay a tall, gaunt-looking man, who, notwithstanding
the weather, was wrapped up in a cloak of large dimensions, and sable colour.
There was something strange in that man's appearance; above all, the cloak which he
wore was a thing so much out of place, that none other than himself could or would have
worn it. What was his motive none could divine, were it not for the concealment of his
person, which seemed likely enough.

His slouched hat was bent over his eyes; his face was scarcely distinguishable between
the collar of the cloak and the hat, though he lay on his back motionless, and without
heeding aught that neared him.
It was true, there did not exist any reason why he should take any heed, seeing that at that
point no one ever came. It was a spot that was not frequented, having a bad name, which
usually deters people from trusting themselves in such a place.
However, the stranger lay motionless, and apparently without fear. Perhaps it was the
long two-edged sword he wore, that gave him his security; at all events, he lay there in
silence, and almost motionless -- quite and entirely so, save the motion in breathing; and his
eye now and then turned in a particular direction.
The hours rolled by, and no one approached, till the sun sunk towards the ocean, there to
bury himself till another morrow appeared.
The heat of the high noon was past, and the shadows of the trees reduced the light in the
wood to a twilight; and the stranger arose and stood beneath the shadow of a tall one, while
he appeared to be listening for some sound which he appeared to expect from some
particular quarter of the wood.
The hour of noon is some hours past; and with it a gentle sea breeze begins to fan the
heated shores, and here and there might be seen some of the inhabitants creeping about in
the shady places.
The stranger listened, and from the quarter to which he appeared most to direct his
attention, he heard sounds proceed. These were those made by persons walking over the
dried leaves and sticks which lay scattered about from the effects of the storms that
sometimes visit even these pleasant shores.
"She comes!" he muttered, and his eye glanced round, and he grasped the hilt of his
sword. "She comes! but does she come alone?"
He paused, and again listened.
"She comes not alone -- another is with her; but no matter; she shall come. I have the
means of security here. But, above all, I need her."
He paused again, and listened, but quietly drew his sword, which was long and sharp, and
stood beneath the tree, while the voices and sounds slowly approached, until they came
quite distinct and audible.
"And so," said a man's voice, but in a low key, "the marchese is not well."
"She is quite indisposed."

"I was about to say I could hardly feel it in my heart to regret it."
"And why could you be so unfeeling?"
"Because, by dear Fiametta, had she been well, you would scarce have got away from her
this evening, and I should have had but little of your sweet company."
"I admit that; but were you not selfish in desiring it?"
"Yes, I was."
"And are you not ashamed to say so?"
"No, I am not, Fiametta. I can acknowledge anything that concerns myself and you; for I
must admit a great deal of selfishness in this matter. I love you tenderly, and that puts all
the world beside us. I think nothing of any one save you, and for you I would sacrifice the
whole world."
"I am fearful of you."
"And wherefore should you be fearful of me, fair one? Am I not willing and ready to fight
and die for you? I would not fear the summons of death this moment, if I knew that I could
save you but one hour's pang."
"I hope," said Fiametta, leaning on her lover's arm, "I hope that you will never be called
upon for so sad a a sacrifice. I am sure I should never know an hour's happiness if I thought
there was a possibility of it."
"I do not think there is any possibility of that happening. But, Fiametta, when do you
hope for an end to this slavery? Can't you leave the old marchese? -- she is anything but
kind to you, and would marry you to one of her poor relatives; and unless you marry with
her consent, you will never be rewarded for the many listless hours you have passed, night
after night, at her bedside."
"But she will reward me when she dies."
"What an age to wait!"
"Surely you cannot grudge her life!"
"I do not, only so long as it is a term of imprisonment for you. If you would leave her,
and come back with me, I will make you happy. You shall have a happy home, and form
new ties, and new affections."

"I have not got so tired of the old, that it is necessary to change them; but I cannot leave
the marchese. She is almost alone -- no one goes near her to do her a good office, and I am
her only friend."
"And yet she won't give you liberty."
"She says I am too young, and, if you must know all, she says I am too pretty to be
trusted in everybody's company."
"I must admit there is much of truth in that, and yet I cannot see its application in this
instance, as far as I am concerned."
"No; that is not to be expected from you, you know; but this must be admitted, that she
speaks of men in general. Besides, she says, if I have patience to await her death, she will
handsomely endow me."
"Upon my word, I think the old woman only wants to lease her life a few years longer, or,
I should say, wishes to live forever."
"How can you make that appear?"
"Thus -- when you are waiting for people's deaths, you never do succeed in hearing of
their dying within any reasonable space. It gives them new life, and the spirit of opposition
and obstinacy is created within them, and they won't die."
"For shame."
"Nay, you will find, Fiametta, that we shall both grow grey-headed in waiting for the
happy moment when you and I are man and wife. Do not stay, then, any longer, leave here,
and come with me; we shall be happy, and defy the world."
"But look what a dowry I shall lose."
"Never mind about that. Such a dowry would not make you young again, nor would it
recall many years of past service and attendance upon her. You must know how very
precarious such a life must be. It may so happen that you may forfeit all you have deserved
through some fancy of this old woman. She may take it into her head to insist upon your
marrying her poor cousin there. You know, if you were to displease her, she might very
easily leave you nothing for your pains."
"I admit all that; but it amounts to nothing, because she has said as much that she would
never force me, only she wished me to marry him, as being a worthy man and one who
would act justly to me through life."

"Justly through life! What a sound! It sounds but little of love. Justly, indeed! I would I
could act no otherwise to others, but to you, Fiametta, I should as soon think of forgetting
you as merely acting justly. I love you; I would, at this moment, lay down my life for you."
At that moment they neared the stranger, who was standing silently and motionless, with
his sword concealed beneath his cloak, but eagerly watching them, and devouring every
word they uttered; and, by degrees, they drew nearer and nearer.
"I am sure it will be wise to wait awhile. I am sure the poor old marchese will not live
long. She cannot eat and drink, save with great difficulty. I am sure we shall not have long
to wait."
"I am willing to abide by your wishes, Fiametta; but it cannot be well to wait for an age --
it cannot be well to wait till we are old."
"I know that; but -- -"
Fiametta screamed, as her eye fell upon the stranger, who rushed out upon them, with his
sword drawn. This gave her male companion time to defend himself, by, in the first
instance, jumping aside.
"Mercy! mercy!" screamed Fiametta.
Her lover drew his sword, and put himself upon his defence, saying, as he parried the first
thrust of his enemy, --
"Villain! what mean you? Is it robbery you would attempt, or murder alone? Will nothing
but shedding blood satisfy you?"
The stranger made no reply, but pressed on furiously, and with great strength and skill,
for two or three minutes, when Fiametta's lover, by changing his ground, contrived to elude
so desperate an assault upon his life.
Fiametta, however, believed her lover was getting the worst of it. She screamed out for
help several times, but none came. However, it caused the stranger to press his adversary
more quickly, and to hasten his own movements, for he was quite desperate and furious;
but this laid him open to the assaults of the other. But, so fierce the attack, and such was the
strength exhibited, that Fiametta's lover was compelled to give ground.
"What is your object, villain? -- speak!"
But the stranger spoke not, but furiously threw himself upon him, and endeavoured to
beat down his guard, which his great strength and height almost enabled him to do; but as
the other gave ground he was obliged to follow him, and then his foot caught against some
of the tangled roots that grew out of the earth, and threw him forward; adn his adversary,

not slow to profit by it, and rid himself of so dangerous an enemy, stepped forward and
received him upon the point of his sword.
"A good deliverance," said the lover, drawing his sword out of the body as it fell to the
earth -- "a timely deliverance, truly."
He wiped his forhead, for the perspiration streamed down his face; the day was warm,
and his exertion great.
"Oh, Jose," exclaimed Fiametta, "what a horrid man!"
"A brigand, I suppose."
"But he said nothing -- he asked nothing."
"No, he meant murder; there is no doubt of it, now, in the world; but I never saw such an
ill-looking wretch before."
As Jose spoke, he kicked the hat and cloak off which the brigand wore, and which
remained partially on. There was a ghastly wound in his breast where Jose's sword entered
and let out the life of the the stranger.
He was very tall, but thin and emaciated; his features remarkable, and he wore some
straight, straggling hair, that was disordered, and fell over his forehead and face of more
than marble paleness.
"Well, I never met with such an encounter before, and I never met with such an ill-
looking villain," said Jose. "Come away, Fiametta; we need not say anything to any one
about the affair. I will not come here again, though it may be needless to take the
precaution, seeing that none could be brought to match this fellow in villany and ugliness;
at least, it is so to my mind. Come away."
Wiping his sword on the cloak of the fallen man, and sheathing it, he took the hand of
Fiametta, and drawing it through his arm, left the spot.
--

CHAPTER CL. [Chapter 158]
A MAIDEN'S MIND DISTURBED. -- AN EASY WAY OF PROMOTING COMFORT

OF CONSCIENCE. -- THE MONK.
The spot was deserted, and no soul came near; but the body lay, with its ghastly wound,
all sopping in its gore. It was a fitting place for such a scene as this; no sound was heard,
and the lazy hours turned slowly over, till the shades of evening came on apace; the light
grew dim, and darkness increased; but there the dead body of the tall, remarkable-looking
stranger lay, without motion. It was cold and bloodless -- death had long since deprived it
of its last spark of animation. * * * * *
Jose and Fiametta quitted the neighbourhood of the deed of darkness as quickly as they
could, and it was many minutes before either of them spoke, so filled were their minds with
the reflections natural to, and consequent upon, the strange occurrence that had just before
fallen upon them.
At length Fiametta broke silence, by saying, --
"Oh, Jose, what a dreadful thing has happened!"
"Truly, it had like to have been a dreadful affair; but it don't matter now, he's settled, I
believe."
"Yes; but you have killed a man."
"Truly, my dear Fiametta, I have killed a man, or devil, I don't yet know which; but that
man would have killed me if I had not done so."
"Yes, he would; but how dreadful."
"So that being the case, it is, in my opinoon, a very good job he is dead; a very good job,
indeed; he will be safe where he is."
"But still," said Fiametta, crossing herself, "how dreadful it must be to be slain thus; with
all one's sins upon one's head."
"What would have been my fate?"
"As bad, and to me it would have been worse by far; but still it is really dreadful to think
that there should be a soul thus sent to heaven without so much as the good offices of a
priest."
"He would have killed me without giving me time for repentance. He would have forced
me to leave a world in which I have all happiness yet to know; a world which I am by no
means prepared to quit."

"Truly no, Jose, nor I; but what a state for this man to be in; he is so much the worse
prepared than even you, because his end was bad; now, you had no evil intention."
"None -- none."
"You did not know even that you were in danger from him."
"I did not, Fiametta, else I had never brought you there. I cannot understand what brought
him there -- what he wanted, or why it was he made such a desperate attack upon me; my
life was aimed at."
"It was, Jose; but have you no private enemy, whom you believe capable of such a deed
as this? Surely -- surely it cannot be done, save from some motive."
"That is the thing that most puzzles me; I cannot understand the motive. I know him not; I
have no enemy who would hire an assassin; but there let him and his deed lie buried in
oblivion."
"He has no burial."
"He deserves none," said Jose.
"But, dear Jose, do you not think we ought to give him one."
"Are we his executors or heirs?"
"God forbid! -- but we saw him die, and not for his sake, but for the sake of human
nature, do not let us leave him unburied like a dog. He may not deserve it, bu he has
answered all his offence."
"Yes, yes; I admit he has been punished -- he paid to the uttermost all he owed me, and I
gave him a receipt in full. He will never make another demand upon me; we have quite
done with each other, I believe."
"I shall never forget the horrible sight; it will haunt me day and night; I shall not be able
to banish the terrible features from my mind. I shall, in truth, pass a sad life; I wish this had
never happened."
"Why, so do I, dear Fiametta; but, surely, you do not accuse me of wrong, in having, to
save my life, killed this man. I was compelled, forced to do it; it was either his life or mine;
and, the truth to tell, I never was in such peril, from any single sword, in all my life, and but
for the lucky accident that laid him open, I had not been here with you, but where he now
is."
"Thank God for you deliverance, Jose; but -- but what a revolting thing to remember, that
in the wood Del Notti, there lies a corrupting mass of humanity, over which loathsome

insects crawl; a thing that had once been a living soul like ourselves; but now, alas! what is
he?"
"But, Fiametta, your grief appears misplaced; you mourn this stranger as if he was near
and dear to you. Do you know him?"
"Not I," said Fiametta, sorrowfully.
"Then what have you to grieve about, Fiametta? Tell me truly. You have nothing to
blame yourself with. I do not feel I have acted wrongly. Say what it is that causes you so
much sorrow."
"I grieve to think that the body of that sinful and wicked man lies unburied, and that no
masses have been said for the repose of his soul."
"If that be all you require to set your mind at rest -- though the villain deserves it not -- I
will see that he is buried and masses said for him."
"Will you, indeed, Jose?"
"Upon my conscience, I will see your desire executed."
"Well, then, Jose, yonder lives a holy monk. He is a pious and good man, and will, I am
sure, do all that is required -- watch and pray by the body till midnight, and continue there
until the sun shall illumine the wood.["]
"Be it so, my dear Fiametta -- be it so. We will go to the holy man and tell him of our
distress, and will reward him; and then I will see you in safety, and return to conduct him to
the spot where you know we left the body. I would the villain had come by a less noble
death than falling by the sword."
["]It will be a danger that will never be forgotten by me," said Fiametta.
"Nor by me," replied Jose. "What that man meant I cannot conceive. But then there can
be but one answer to the question -- he meant robbery; nothing else could have tempted him
to draw his sword upon me."
"But why did he not demand your money at once?"
"Because he might meet with what he has met; and he took me at a disadvantage, and, of
course, gave him a better chance of killing me, and running less danger in doing so. I am
not, therefore, surprised at it."
"Here is the holy father's residence. He is poor -- very poor; but, withal, he is very good.
He is a holy man."

"Then he will serve our turn the better; for it would, in my opinion, take something more
than a saint to pray out of purgatory such a soul as his must be. It must wing its way
through space very much like a bat."
"Hush, Jose -- hush! Not a word about that. Here is the holy man's abode. Shall I enter
with you?"
"If you will, Fiametta -- if you will."
Fiametta stood by her lover's side while he knocked at the holy man's door, and, after a
pause of about a minute, a deep voice said, --
"Who is it that knocks at my door?"
"'Tis one who needs your service, good father."
"Enter," said the monk, and a bolt was withdrawn. The door opened, and Fiametta
followed her lover into a hovel, or rather a bare room, in which was nothing, save some
straw in one corner, and some few clothes; besides which there were one or two articles of
necessary use and convenience, but they were very few indeed.
"Well, my son, what wouldst thou? Dost thou require mine aid to bind thee to this
maiden, and she to thee?"
"I do indeed wish so much, but she is not willing."
"Not willing! Then wherefore dost thou come to me?"
"You see, holy father, as we were walking in the wood Del Notti, which I dare say you
well enough know -- -"
"I do, my son."
"Well, I was talking to my companion, heedless of danger, nor dreaming any could be at
hand, when my attention was attracted to a spot on the right of me whence a man rushed
out upon me, with a drawn sword, and attacked me."
"I should not have had time to see him, much less time to draw and defend myself, but for
the scream of her who was by my side. I looked where I saw her look, and saw him
advancing, and had time to spring back and draw."
"Did you kill your opponent?"
"As it fell out, good father, I did. He rushed on and pressed me so hard, that I had no
alternative. My life was in great danger, and I could not rid myself of my enemy, or
preserve my own life, except at the expense of his."

"Did you slay him?"
"I did."
"Another soul ushered into eternity," said the monk, gloomily. "How long will it be
before the wickedness of men shall cease to bear such fruits?"
"But, holy father, I did but act lawfully in saving my life. It was only the law that nature
has implanted in us, and can hardly be called wickedness, since Heaven itself gives us the
power and impulse."
"Hold thy peace, my son, thou knowest nothing of these matters; therefore I say hold thy
peace, and let me know what it is you desire of me."
"That you will say masses for the repose of his soul, and give him Christian burial. I do
not like -- we do not like such a portion of humanity to remain where it is; we would it were
not entirely neglected, or deprived of burial rites."
"It is but just of thee, my son; but I have known many who would have neglected it
altogether, and permitted the body of one of God's creatures to lie and rot like a dog. My
son, you have done well, and I will, for your sake, do mine office."
"Nay, holy father, I cannot permit thee to do it wholly without giving the church some
due, and here in this purse you will find all I have."
"I take it, my son, not for my own sake, but for that of the church, to whom belongs all
that is offered her."
"And this, too, holy father," said Fiametta, giving a samll purse; "take that, and for my
sake do what may be done by those on earth for those who have departed from it by a
violent and sudden death."
"I will, daughter."
"And now, holy father," said Jose, "if you will, I am ready to take you to the spot where
fell this man."
"I will follow, my son," said the monk, concealing his two gifts beneath his garments, but
rising at the same time -- "I'll follow thee."
They all left the place, but went a circuitous route, to enable Jose to leave Fiametta in
safety at the marquise's villa, where she resided in half dependence, being a distant relative
of her's.
Jose led on the monk until he came to the spot where the stranger fell, and where he yet
lay just as he had fallen -- a ghastly cor[p]se.

"Here, holy father, you see the caitiff, a treacherous villain, who has now been paid for
his villany -- for, perhaps, a life of villany."
"Perhaps so, my son. He does not appear to have been formed by nature when in one of
her most kindly moods; but yet it might have been she impressed his character upon his
features as a warning to the rest of mankind."
"It was so, most likely; but you see he is slain. Fiametta would never have known peace
again unless the body was watched through the night by some holy man, and prayed for.
That is what is desired, holy father; and now I will leave you to your task, bidding you
adieu, and wishing your office a prosperous one, and a pleasant night to watch by."
--

CHAPTER CLI. [Chapter 159]
THE WATCH BY THE DEAD MAN'S SIDE. -- THE DEAD ALIVE. -- THE DEATH-
STRUGGLE, AND THE MURDER OF THE MONK.
The monk gazed after Jose for some moments, until he had vanished from his sight; even
then he continued gazing upon the vacant space that he lately filled, as if meditating in his
own mind, and quite unmindful of the present. At length he turned and gazed upon the clay-
cold corse before him.
There it lay in all its hideousness -- all its horrible reality. The slouched hat was
knowcked off in the fall, and the face was exposed to view.
"Ave Maria!" muttered the monk, telling his beads. "I never before saw so unfavourable a
looking creature. I pray Heaven he may have been better favoured in grace than in features
-- that he may make a better appearance spiritually than bodily. I would I had had time to
speak with him before his spirit fled, for I misdoubt me much of his salvation -- but I will
not charge him with unknown sin."
"That," he muttered, after a pause, "might, indeed, be quite unnecessary, seeing his
appearance and his deeds -- at least the only one I know of is of a like character; were it
otherwise, I would be loth to doubt him; but two such proofs are enough to damn the best
spoken-of being in all Christendom."
He paused again; examined the features of the dead man, but could not appear at all
satisfied with the success of his ministry.
"I would sooner have had some poor, but honest corpse to watch by," he said as he gazed
upon the long white visage of the dead man, whose leaden eye appeared fixed upon him; "I
would," he continued, "much sooner have had some early flower cut down before its prime
-- I could have wept and prayed for him, then; but this, alas! was but full-grown iniquity, I
strongly fear -- it cannot be otherwise."
The monk sank down upon a tree.
"Alas! what a sinner I am, for uttering such a thought -- nay, I am worse for conceiving
such a thought, and expressing it must be heinous. To have such a one would be to cut off
the most worthy, instead of looking at the destruction of the full grown sinner in all his
pride and moral deformity, as being the full extent of the length he was permitted to go by
Devine wisdom and intelligence. He has filled his measure of iniquity, and the Lord hath
cut him off in the midst of his sins."
The monk now devoutly crosed himself, and muttered several of his Ave Marias and
paternosters, and prayed in bad Latin for some time, nearly an hour, when he appeared to
think he might be indulged in a rest from his theological labour, and that his mind might
refresh itself.

The monk arose and paced about the body for some minutes in solemn and deep wonder
at the place chosen for such a deed.
A number of fresh thoughts now rushed through his mind, as he assigned all possible
motives for the deed that had been done, or attempted to be done; and, also, for the choice
of spot; but this speculation was more curious than useful.
Time passed by, and the hours rolled on, and darkness came on apace. A heavy
atmosphere seemed to hang over him, and the light gradually faded away, and the moon
showed no light on that night.
"It is dark," muttered the monk, "but the Lord is my light, and darkness has no fears for
me. I am in the discharge of my ministry, and am safe. The dead man lies quiet and still --
no sound comes thence."
He listened, but no sound; not the rustle of a leaf could be heard; not a breath of air
stirred. All was silent and still; no one sound disturbed the stillness of the night -- all was
quiet.
"It is a night of death," said the monk to himself -- " a night such as might be supposed to
exist if the last man had ceased to live."
There was a weight in the air that appeared stronger, and had an effect upon the monk,
and made a gloomy feeling come over him.
"What ails me?" he said to himself. "I am not strong and confident as I am wont to be --
the reverse; I am doubting, and very sad. Yet why should I be sad -- I, a minister of
religion? I, at all times, am prepared to die, or ought to be.
"And yet there is the clinging after life, as in all; but I am mortal, as other men are. I have
not all the motives for life they have. I am alone in the world. I am but a pilgrim, whose
stay is short, and who leaves behind him nothing to remember, and no one to remember me.
It is better it is so than otherwise."
The monk paused again, and approached the trunk of the tree, upon which he sat in deep
meditation for more than an hour, without altering his posture, or uttering a single word. a
whole hour passed thus.
"Now," muttered the monk, as if waking up from a profound meditation, "man is here but
in a state of probation. If he were not, what would be the explanation of the chequered
course he runs, what the use of all the various stages he goes through during a long life, and
then to drop into rottenness at last?"
"Why are we educated and improved, if for any other purpose? Why should we spend
years in improving ourselves, only to be deprived of the jewel at last, and to have it not
only taken, but destroyed.

"No -- no; it is for better use."
The monk's mind was evidently disturbed in regard to some speculation which had been
suggested by the solitary moments of his watch. At such times, all the strange and inquiring
thoughts that could be devised by man usually arise and enter his mind, and strange doubts
and fancies will supervene, when all other thoughts have been banished, and they take their
place.
Man's mind is always liable to these fanciful intrusions, and will remain so, while there is
a single important assertion or circumstances existing, incapable of positive and
mathematical demonstration.
When all shall be clear, and when there shall be no longer any play for the mind -- any
room for imagination -- any possibility of conception left, then doubt may be cleared up,
and an unanimity might be raised upon such a structure that never would be raised under
any other circumstances whatever.
But, as this is not likely to happen, human doubt will exist, more or less, to all; we shall
none of us be freed from that great cause of all the calamities of races. But to proceed with
our narrative.
The monk looked around him. He could, however, see nothing, save the few trees near
him, but beyond that he was unable to see. There was a strong mist up -- one that limited
vision, and left no room for any other object to shine through, and diversify the scene.
"I would," muttered the monk, "that the morning would come. There is no light; the moon
is hidden; no rays penetrate the dense air; and all the while the air is close and muggy, Not
a star out, or luminary visible."
He looked upwards, and found he could see the spot where the moon was striving to force
its rays through some thinner stratum of the clouds; but it was doubtful, and the monk, of
very weariness, began to count his beads and to repent his paternosters, between whiles and
alternately, untill he grew weary.
It wanted yet an hour of midnight, and the night would not be passed for many hours, and
the monk thought that the nights were long.
"It is cold," he muttered; "but yet 'tis not midnight. 'Tis the moisture with which the air is
loaded, and thus it is cool more rapidly than it could have otherwise happened; but it
matters not to me -- if I were to lose my life, I shall only be called home in my minstry;
therefore it matters not. I am in the discharge of my duty, and shall have the reward
appropriate to the service."
A slight breeze sprung up, and in a short time the mist was cleared off, and not a cloud
was to be seen on the horizon.

There might be seen the moon rising slowly and majestically, while a gentle and diffused
light shed its influence throughout the wood. Of course its direct rays could not enter until
it had risen to its full height.
"Ha!" said the monk, "now I shall be relieved of some of the terrors of my watch; it will
cease to be so tedious and so long; but, no matter, I am content, quite content. Soon I shall
be able to see the body, and then I will close its eyes. I had forgotten to do so before; but it
is time enough."
"Pater noster," again began the monk, until he came to the last word, by which time the
light was enough to enable him to discover the body plainly; then he knelt down by its side
to pray, and gazed on its features.
"I see its eyes are glaring wildly -- aye, no wonder! no wonder! he met with a sudden,
painful, and violent death.
"Poor erring mortality! what an end to come to; but, alas! what can men expect? He who
lives by the sword will die by the sword."
The monk closed the eyes of the dead man, and pulled the cloak, which lay open, over
him, and then leaned back against a tree, and shut his eyes for a moment; but they did not
remain long shut, for some fancied noise drew him out of a train of speculation he was
indulging in.
"He moves not!" he muttered.
However, he knelt down by the side of the body, and began to repeat his paternoster
again, and for a few moments shut his eyes, as if he had no service for them, and continued
his prayers without intermission.
The moon's rays now came with their full effulgence, and the forest appeared like some
enormous piece of lattice work; for the moon's rays were able to penetrate the leaves and
branches of many of the trees.
The moonbeams at length fell upon the body of the dead man, and he got slowly up until
he rested on his elbow with his face towards the moon; and the monk, who yet remained
kneeling, was still praying with his eyes wholly shut.
"Ha!" groaned the stranger.
The monk stopped in his prayer, started, and opened his eyes, which were fixed, in an
extremity of terror and horror, upon the apparition before him -- he was entranced, and had
no power to remove his eyes.
"Ha!" said the figure, slowly rising to a sitting posture, but, at the same time, immediately
facing the unfortunate and wretched monk, who was prostrated by fear.

"Ha!" groaned the figure, by a strange effort.
"My God -- my God!" exclaimed the monk, save me -- save me!"
He endeavoured to rise, but shook so much he could not do it, for the figure kept its
horrible eye fixed upon him, and he shook violently; but after a while he contrived to say,
scarcely audible though,
"Avaunt, Satan, I command thee."
The figure heeded it not, but took some ominous proceedings, by laying its hands upon
the monk's shoulder; but this had the effect of releasing him from his spell, and he sprang to
his feet, exclaiming, --
"The Lord of Hosts aid me!"
The figure replied not, but rising without taking his hand off, a deadly struggle ensued
between the two, which lasted some minutes. The monk, being driven desperate, resisted
with great strength; but he had one to deal with, whose strength was far beyond his, and he
felt himself gradually sinking, till, after another effort, which ended in a wild shriek, he was
forced on his knees.
In this posture the strange man seized him by the throat, which he compressed, and thrust
his knees into his chest, until the unfortunate and wretched man was quite dead and
senseless.
--

CHAPTER CLII. [Chapter 160]
THE DEVIL A MONK WOULD BE. -- THE DEMAND FOR ADMISSION INTO THE
CONVENT OF ST. MARY MAGDALEN. -- THE FORTRESS AND THE MONK.
It was some minutes before the stranger, who had so newly risen from the dead, let go of
the grasp he had of the monk's throat. He held him firmly by the throat by both hands; but
as he stood grasping him, his face was turned upwards towards the moon's rays, which fell
upon his breast and features, insomuch that he appeared to gain strength at every breath he
drew.
But what a ghastly face he wore; what a death-like paleness spread over his forehead; the
horrible looking eyes appeared to throw back the light of the moon, much the same as its
rays are reflected by glass.
The unfortunate monk was partially kneeling, his back forced against the trunk of the
tree, upon which he had been sitting, his face turned upwards, and his eyes almost bursting
from their sockets, while his hands convulsively grasped those of his enemy; but his
strength decreased as that of the other increased; his cowl fell off, and his bare head was
exposed to the moonlight.
There was a death-like pause, and the figure slowly released its hold upon the throat of
the monk and stepped back a pace or two to look upon his work. The monk's body retained
the posture given to it by the efforts to extinguish his life, and appeared as though his
muscles had rigidly set in death, but the trunk of the tree itself was a sufficient support.
"Dead!" muttered the figure; "dead!"
Again he moved about, and went into an open space, where the moonlight came
uninterruptedly, without any barrier, and from this spot he surveyed the hideous work of his
hands.
"Dead -- dead!" muttered the figure.
This was undoubtedly true; and yet there remained the body of the monk, which, but for
the turn of the head backwards, and its face upwards, it might be easily supposed that he
had died in the attitutde of devotion or supplication; but, as it was, it was evident by what
means he had come by his death.
"I must have a victim," muttered the stranger; "am I always to meet with the pangs of
death but to renew such a life on such term! Never to obtain a renewal without the pangs of
death; and why? because I have not been able to obtain the voluntary consent of one that is
young, beautiful and a virgin; I might then for a season escape the dreaded alternative."

He walked round and round the body of the monk for some time, and then he came and
sat down by its side upon the trunk of the tree, and appeared lost in contemplation; but at
length he looked at the body, saying, --
"Ay, ay -- I have a plan. The church has furnished many a victim -- let it furnish me with
one. The church will furnish the sacrifice, and will give me the means of obtaining the
offering. Well and good; it shall be done."
He arose, and walked about the body once more, and then approached it; having
apparently made up his mind, he came to it, saying, --
"I will become a monk, too, of the most holy order of St. Francis; yes, that will serve me
well enough. I will take his cassock, it will serve my turn, and be a ready introduction to the
religious world. I am the good monk Francis myself. My learning and sanctity is great; it
will carry all before it, and I shall be in great request. It will indeed be strange if there be no
fruit upon such a tree. I am sure I shall deserve it."
He seized the body, and pulled off the monk's clothing, and quickly apparelled himself in
it, leaving the body as if fell by the side of the tree; and, having thrown his own clothes on
one side, he drew the cowl over his head, and, seizing the staff he brought with him, he was
about to leave the spot; but a sudden thought occurred to him, and he turned back, and
began to rummage among the pockets of the monk.
"These churchmen, I have heard, never travel without something of value about them, and
his gold, if he have any, may as well be mine as any one else's who may be passing this
way."
He found the two purses that had been given him by Fiametta and Jose, and some that he
had beside; moreover, there were some letters and papers, which he put into his pocket,
merely observing, --
"These will enable me to pass for the character I assume successfully. I am and will be a
monk. I will shrive and confess poor deluded souls, and send them on their eternal
journeys."
A ghastly and hideous smile crossed his face; and having burthened himself with what he
thought necessary, or worth while, he quitted the spot. * * * * *
There were two convents, or nunneries, near the city of Naples, at some short distance
apart from each other.
One was the convent of St. Mary Magdalen, and the other was the convent of St. Cecilia,
about a mile and a half apart, or perhaps more -- some said a league; and so it was by the
road, but not in a direct line.

It was late one evening, when the great bell of the convent of St. Mary Magdalen gave
warning from without that some one demanded admission. The superior of the convent, a
woman far advanced in age, and somewhat proud of her character, and not a little disposed
to personal comfort, was much annoyed at the sound which gave some promise of trouble.
"Well," muttered the portress, as she rose from before a fire, and tottered towards the
gate, looking through the iron grating for the object that disturbed her in her meditations
and her devotion to the good things that Providence had furnished her with, -- "well, what
do you want?"
"I am a poor travelling broth of the order of St. Francis; I am benighted, and I wish for a
lodging and food."
"Friend, brother of St. Francis, this is at a later hour than that at which we open our gates
to strangers."
"They little think at Rome," said the monk, "that, to obtain a shelter, we have to get to the
gates of a holy house before a certain time; and those who most need shelter, because it is
less to be had, must wait and perish in the cold."
"The gates are shut."
"I see it."
"And the abbess has got the keys."
"Will she not give me shelter and food?"
"I may not ask her."
"I must, then, remain here outside the walls until the morning, and then I will wend my
way back to the holy city, where I will say their messenger could not obtain rest and shelter
at the convent here."
"Do you come form Rome?"
"I do; and do you refuse to tell your abbess an unworthy brother of holy St. Francis is
here, and waiting for admission?"
The portress made no reply; she was by far to indignant to make any answer, and yet too
fearful to refuse to do his bidding; for he spoke in a peremptory tone, that indicated an
authority beyond what was usual in his appearance.
She, therefore, found her way to the lady abbess, to whom she began with every
expression of submission and respect.

"My lady," said the portress, "there is one without who wants to come in."
"Well," said the abbess, "we can't let him in."
"I told him so," replied the portress; "but you would hardly credit it what he said about a
holy pilgrim from Rome, stopping outside the gate all night, and returning to the holy city
and speaking of our inhospitality."
"Did he," said the abbess, "say so much?"
"He did."
"Then let him in," said the abbess.
"Let him in!" said the portress, in an extacy of surprise, opening her eyes very wide, and
repeating the words "Let him in."
"Yes; do as we bid you," said the abbess.
"Yes," replied the portress, "certainly; whatever our holy superior orders, it is for me to
obey. I do your bidding."
Away went the holy portress to discharge her spleen in privacy; and, at the same time,
unable to account for the orders given her, she returned to the portal, and having unbarred
the gate, she drew the bolts and turned the lock, and opening the door, stood for the monk
to enter.
"Come in," she said. "What do you mean? -- do you not want to come in?"
"Am I free to enter?"
"Wherefore do I hold the gate open -- for pleasure?"
"No, sister," said the monk, "through anger, I believe; but if you can find it in your
conscience to be angry because I am at the door and give you this trouble, what will be the
feelings of St. Peter, who keeps the gates of Heaven, when you present yourself thereat a
hungry being and erring sinner; but peace be upon this place."
"Amen," said the portress.
At that moment one of the nuns came from the superior of the convent, saying, --
"Holy father, when you have rested and refreshed yourself, our worthy abbess will be
glad to converse with you."
"I am even now at her commands," said the holy man.

"Will you not tast food, and rest yourself?"
"I never tire or need food, when I have aught to do that in any way concerns our religion."
"But, holy father, the body needs refreshment."
"It can be supported upon spiritual food alone, if the Lord wills," said the monk, crossing
himself most devoutly.
"You must have great gifts, holy father!"
"Not I, but he that sent me," said the monk, solemnly.
"Will you follow me, holy man, and I will lead you to the abbess, who will be right glad
to speak with you?" She wishes to speak to one lately come from the holy city; you can tell
her news of the holy father."
"I can, my sister."
"Then, come this way," said the nun, who immediately led the way to the abbess, and the
monk followed her closely, till he was lost sight of by those in the waiting-room.
--

CHAPTER CLIII. [Chapter 161]
FATHER FRANCIS'S INTERVIEW WITH THE ABBESS OF ST. MARY

MAGDALEN. -- THE OBJECTS AND WISHES OF THE HOLY FATHER.
After passing through a few passages, they entered into a room which had the appearance
of a waiting-room, in which were placed chairs and seats; but they did not stop here, for the
sister approached a door, at which she knocked, and paused a moment; but a voice from
within desired her to enter; and, beckoning the monk to follow her, which he did, they both
entered a comfortable room in which the abbess was seated.
"Here is the holy father," said the sister, "who demands lodging and refreshment; but he
will take nothing until he has done all that may be required of him."
"Holy brother," said the abbess, "the traveller needs rest, and he that is hungered requires
food. Will you partake of our hospitality?"
"I was told you desired to converse with me, and I could not let my ministry wait while I,
like a glutton, ate and drank."
"No, brother, it was not for such a purpose I sent for thee, but to hear what news thou
hadst from Rome, whence I heard you have come."
"I have come thence."
"But will you not take some refreshment here -- it shall be brought thee, if thou wilt have
it, or in the buttery, which you please."
"Whichsoever you please, sister," said the member of St. Francis.
"Then let some of the best be brought, sister, for the good man; and stay, I ate none at the
last meal, which I may amend now; let me have a small moiety of a pasty, and a samll trifle
of cold venison."
The sister departed, and the abbess opened a small cupboard, from which she took a
bottle and two glasses, of goodly dimensions, considering the fact that the place was
inhabited only by females.
"Pronounce a blessing upon us, holy father," said the abbess. "This has been tasted by no
unhallowed lips; it was a present from a holy lady to me, to take myself, and to offer to
such as I deemed worthy of it -- and you, holy father, I believe are worthy."
The worthy monk pronounced the required benediction, and drank as fine a glass of real
Burgandy as ever went down consecrated lips.
"Thanks, worthy sister, thanks."

"Brother, I am glad to be able to give it thee; it gives me more pleasure to do so than thee
to drink. I'll warrant me, that never has such wine passed through the merchants' hands,
because he would never have parted with it at a price that would have made it procurable in
a place like this, for we are, holy brother, poor, very poor."
"The people who live in these parts are, I fear, not so godly as they should be, to let a
house like this want."
"There are many nobles."
"And they ought to pay handsomely."
"They do, I am thankful; but I should like to be able to offer the poor, diseased, and
helpless men, better sort of diet than I do."
"It ought to be in your power when the rich and great are so close around you here. You
ought to have rich penitents."
"But few of the rich are penitent, brother."
"Naples I was told was a sink of iniquity. I did not expect to find it in reality such as I
have heard it described. But, sister, we must be thankful that we have what the times will
afford; but, at the same time, whent he enemy is thus about, we must be up and doing, and
preach salvation to them."
"But they only answer by sending invitations for Sabbath balls," said the unfortunate
abbess, in great dolour.
"That must be looked to. They must be chidden."
"And then they withhold their hands from works of charity -- from doing any good deed
to us -- and we have no gifts and offerings."
"But that ought not to be any motive. When they see you in earnest, they will not resist
any longer; they will, as they must, give in."
"Ah, holy father! you don't know the Neapolitans; they are the most sinful set of men that
you ever met with."
"The holy father must know of this; he must be informed of the character of these bad
people -- of these facts. It is a melancholy state of things, which is a disgrace to a Christian
country, and must be amended."
At that moment the nun returned with the refection for the monk and the abbess, who cast
a longing glance towards it.

When this was laid on the table, the abbess gave a signal that there was no need of the
further attendance of the servitor, who quitted the room, leaving the abbess and the monk to
enjoy each others society at leisure.
Some minutes elapsed before either spoke, which time was spent in mastication of no
ordinary morsels, being some of the most delicious meats that could be obtained for a
religious house of this character, and they were usually supplied with the best of everything
that could be had.
"Holy father," said the abbess, "the fare is poor; but I hope it will relieve those calls
which imperious nature demands you to satisfy."
"Yes," said the monk; "I am well satisfied."
"Permit me to press upon your notice those venison pasties; they are made by Sister
Bridget, who never made an indifferent one in all her life."
"I decidedly approve of Sister Bridget's skill," said the monk. "She is no doubt a worthy
woman, and a woman fit for her station."
"I would not have another to do her duties for a trifle, save as a penance," said the abbess.
"I will, at all events, retain her while the convent will give her a place of shelter."
"Very right, sister -- very right."
"But what news from Rome, brother?"
"Little, save the holy pontiff has been very ill."
"I heard as much; and by many it is presumed that his holiness will be translated, if he
should not be better soon."
"No: his holiness is safe, as far as it is possible for any human being to be. God preserve
him long!"
"Amen!" said the abbess, devoutly.
"But have you no penitents, holy sister?"
"I have several, but they are all in the way of performing their penances, save one, who is
somewhat refractory, holy father, and I know not what to do with her. She has no respect
for those in authority."
"Is she one of the order?"
"No, a neophite."

"How is it, then -- what brings her here?"
"She is sent by relatives who are afraid of a disgrace, and will not give her any chance of
committing their family to such a disgraceful marriage. She at one time pledged herself to
take the vows, but now has some objection to do so."
"On what grounds does she refuse?"
"Because she thinks she shall not be happy."
"Absurd! Where is she?"
"We must have been compelled to secure her, for she has made more than one attempt to
escape, and I have reasons to believe that these efforts have been aided from without."
"'Tis a serious offence -- a very serious offence to those concerned, and would inevitably
lead to a terrible example, if they were detected."
"No doubt; and we should feel it our duty to make every exertion to punish any one who
makes an attempt to violate the sancity of our house."
"It must be so, sister."
"Yes, certainly; and I have secured the maiden, who, if she be brought to their mind, will
largely endow the convent."
"That ought to be seen to."
"I am, as you may imagine, holy father, anxious that the young maiden should become a
member of our house. Who can tell," muttered the abbess, half aloud, "but she may become
a chosen vessel by which much good may be effected?"
"She may," said the monk. "I am from Rome; you may examine the these credentials
which I have with me. I will take the charge of this refractory sister of yours, and will
pursue such a course as will bring her round to your way of thinking."
"And the endowment?"
"Will still belong to your house, to which it will be given. I have no object, sister, save
the welfare of the church; reward I seek not, save what may be given in the good words of
the wise and good."
"You are deserving of all praise, holy father. I was not thinking about the endowment,
holy father, because, you see, it will not belong to me, but to the church, and this house in
particular, for the use of the poor lambs here, over whom I am appointed shepherdess; so I

have no feeling in the matter beyond what I ought to have in the spiritual welfare of our
fellow sinners."
"I have no authority to interfere in aught else."
"I see, holy father," said the abbess, "you are a wonderful man, and such a one as will do
much good."
"I will make an attempt to do good, sister."
"And I will make bold, holy brother, to say you will be successful; though, I venture to
say, with humility, that I have tried everything with the unfortunate young woman, which
appears to aggravate the evil, rather than give any promise of the future."
"So I might expect."
"You will pursue a different course?"
"I may; but it must depend upon circumstances. If I find it necessary, I must have some
place of security, where no one can have any communication with her, save when I shall
order it, or deem it proper she should be so confined."
"Certainly; very right."
"Moreover, if I find she needs such severe measures, I shall not let any food be given,
save what is given by me, or in my presence, which, of course, amounts to the same thing."
"Exactly, holy father."
"And," continued the monk, "I will not permit this holy house to be insulted by a
recusant, for I am quite resolved that no heretick shall baffle the ministers of religion."
"Oh, very improper; it would be indeed, not only an aggravation, but a decided loss to the
church, which would damnify it to that extent."
"Undoubtedly," replied the holy man, "undoubtedly; and with your aid I hope to be able
to make one good effort, and I pray heaven it may be attended with grace."
"I trust so; and now, holy brother, what may I call you?"
"You will see by these presents I am called Father Francis, of the order of St. Francis; and
unworthy brother, who has, perhaps, beyound his gifts, obtained the praise and good wishes
of his holiness the Pope, who has been pleased specially to send me forth on a travelling
commission, to report to him and to stay where I thought my services might be required."

"Holy father, we may have you stay here some time, I hope, and your favourable report of
our poor endeavours; they are in the right direction, and carried on with the right spirit; but
we are all weak and erring mortals, we cannot always be as successful as we would wish,
and in this matter we have been unsuccessful."
"You have done all that could be expected; there are some matters that will not yield to
the weaker vessel, but which would yield to the stronger; therefore you have nothing to
blame yourself with; but you are to be commended for what you have done."
"Thanks, holy father; I would not be willingly found wanting."
"Nor are you, sister, according to my poor judgment."
"And when will you see this neophite?"
"I will see her on the morrow; and in the meantime I must be chargable to you for board
and lodging, if you will so far grace me."
"Name it not, holy father; I have nothing here but what is yours; and when you choose to
retire, there will be the best traveller's bed ready for you."
"Straw and sackcloth are good enough for me," said the monk, ostentatiously.
"But it concerns our housekeeping, holy father, and our hospitality too. We must not let
you lodge thus. I pray you, for our sakes, permit us to do what the credit of the place will
permit us to do in the way of entertainment."
"Be it even as you will, sister; it does not beseem me that I should contend for matters
like these -- be it so; I will retire."
"It grows late. I will summon Sister Agatha to show you your dormitory."
Accordingly, Sister Agatha was summoned, and the monk was, after another delicate
libation of rich Burgandy, led to his room.
--

CHAPTER CLIV. [Chapter 162]
THE CELL OF THE NEOPHITE. -- THE INTERVIEW. -- THE UNEXPECTED

TURN GIVEN TO THE AFFAIRS AT THE CONVENT OF MARY MAGDALEN.
The morning broke, and the matins were duly performed at St. Mary Magdalen.
This was what happened every day in the week included, for the convent was always
alive to the perfomance of its duties from the dawn of day until sunset and after; but it was
their business -- a business from the toil of which they rested not on the Sabbath.
But then it happened that there was no labour; it was all easy-going, straight-forward
work, and was a mere pastime, that only occupied the lips and ears; for not half of it was
understood, and the other half had long since ceased to produce any impression upon the
stagnant minds of the mewed-up sisterhood.
However, there was not lack of comfort, especially for those who held any of the good
offices in the convent. The holy Father Francis was met at table by the abbess, who was
great and gracious to him.
"Will you inform the sisterhood, holy sister, of my stay here, lest it bring any scandal
upon your house, the well-being of which is to me of importance."
"I have already done so. I anticipated your wishes on that point, holy father -- in fact, I
did it on my own account, too, for we live in evil times -- in very evil times."
"We do, sister."
"So that being done, you have but to express your wishes; for of course they are the
wishes deputed of the pope."
"Certainly -- certainly; it could not be otherwise."
"I knew," said the abbess; "and now I wait for your wishes; let me know them, and I will
answer for it, that nothing that is desired by his holiness through you shall meet with any
other than the most profound attention and willing obedience."
"You are a worthy superior, and if Heaven please to permit me, I will not fail to let his
holiness know of all this devotion and obedience; and, not less, your regularity and
religious observances; he will be well pleased, I am sure."
"Thanks, holy father."
"Nay, 'tis justice. But I would now see your unworthy guest."

"The probationist? Yes, she can be seen. She has had her food given her for breakfast,
and will be ready to receive you."
"I am ready, then. In the meantime, what is her name and designation?"
"Her name is Juliet, and of a noble house -- that of the famous Di Napotoloni."
"Indeed! 'tis very strange."
"She desired to marry against her friends' wish, who would not hear of the iniquity that
was desired to be perpetrated."
"I will see her, then. I may be able to do some good."
"You cannot fail."
"I do not know. The race is not always with the swift, nor the battle with the strong; but I
will essay to try."
"If you will come this way, holy father, you shall be admitted into her cell. Shall I remain,
or shall I return?"
"I will be alone, for I will confess her, and bring her mind to a calm state. Then, when I
have her confidence, I will begin the object in view, and then we shall find whether there is
any probability of that system being successful."
"Certainly; but if not?"
"Why, we must adopt more energetic means, and these we must continue to pursue until
there is an end of hope, or life; for when coercion is once begun we must continue it on
without intermission."
"No doubt -- no doubt, holy father."
"Have you any others who are in a very similar state to this unhappy being?"
"None, holy father, none; but this is her door. She will be sulky, or spiteful, as the humour
may be; but, at the same time, she will not spare me, because I have, as you see, thus
confined her to this place as a punishment."
"You have done right, sister, quite right -- there is no blame."
The abbess opened the door, and at the same moment they both entered the dungeon in
which the unfortunate young female was thrust by the aid of paternal authority, sanctioned
by religious usage, and a presumed right they had over her actions.

"This, holy father," said the abbess, "is the unfortunate female whose case I told you of as
being so desperate, that there is no remedy left but that to which we never resort, save in an
extremity, and upon no other occasion whatever."
"I see, sister -- I see; but I hope one so young has not been entirely won over to the
enemy. I trust she will not strive against those who strive for her."
"This holy man," said the abbess to Juliet; "this holy man has travelled from St. Peter's, at
Rome, and has come to examine, with the sanction of his holiness the Pope, the state of our
spiritual existence. See that you give good account of yourself."
"What the lady abbess has stated to you," said Father Francis, "is no more than the truth. I
am so come, and for such a purpose. Prepare, therefore, to confess, and tell me freely what
it is that troublest your soul. Confess, daughter."
The monk drew a stool towards him, and having sat down, he waved his hand towards the
abbess, who stood by, saying, --
"I will hear her confess; we must be alone."
There was an instant movement on the part of the abbess, and she quitted the cell of the
lady, placed the key of the door on the inside, and left them alone.
"Daughter," said the monk, after awhile, "daughter, what is this I hear of you?"
The unfortunate young woman fixed her eyes upon her questioner, and took them not off
him during some minutes; and a shudder seemed to pass through her mind.
"I have spoke to thee," said the monk.
"You have," answered Juliet.
"Then answer me."
"I cannot. I know not what has been said."
"Could you not guess?"
"I might, holy father; but what can that be to such as you? You must know that I have
been put here according to the abbess's orders."
"I do know so much, daughter. What more have you to say?"
"Simply, that I know not what I am thus confined here for."

"Since you know it not, I will tell you. You have disobeyed the abbess's orders -- that is
what you are now punished for -- 'tis a heinous offence."
"I am not yet one of the order, holy father; and, therefore, the abbess has no right to do
this; and if she did not know that my friends were her abettors, she dare not do it; 'tis a
grievous injury, and a deep and shameful wrong. Instead of religion being, as it ought to be,
the safeguard of the poor and weak against the rich and powerful, it is a means of
oppression against those who have no power."
"These are hard accusations, daughter."
"They will bear the proof, however, and that fairly. Where have I taken the vows? --
where am I the sworn sister? -- tell me that, holy father."
"I have come for another purpose, daughter; you have been undutiful to those whom
nature and God gave control over you; and you have desired to live disgracefully; surely,
these are things that deserve punishment, for they are great moral crimes."
"I cannot see any such, holy father."
"I am afraid your soul is in an unclean state, daughter. There is no hope for you until this
is amended; depend upon it, you can never prosper while you set at naught the desires of
those who rule you."
"But they have no right to force me to an alternative that my soul revolts at."
"You cannot mean you revolt at becoming one of the holy and chaste sisterhood here? --
that must be a libel upon your chastity."
"Holy father, it is not the age, nor under the circumstances, at which such a proposal can
be made with any chance of success; for I am quite confident that I am born with better
prospects than those which now threaten me. My father and mother had no right to send me
here; they led me to believe I should inherit a fortune, and now they desire I should enter a
cloister."
"And you have given them cause to change the original intention they had concerning
you; you are disobedient, that is enough."
"But, holy father, there is a power stronger than a father's or a mother's -- a power of
which the church approves. What would you more?"
"What power?"
"The divine command which says, we shall leave a parent and fly to the arms of him
whom we have chosen to become our husband."

"The devil can quote scripture when he has any object in view. But, Juliet, you are carried
away by the strength of your own passion. This is a disgraceful marriage, and one you
should not contract -- one that would never be sanctioned by them."
"It might be so -- that is, unsanctioned by them; but there is no disgrace in being married
to a young officer who loved me."
"And whom you mean really to marry?"
"Yes."
"And you would, in fact, marry any one who would offer himself, instead of being a
nun?"
"I would sooner die -- and I will, by slow starvation -- sooner than become one of this or
any other order."
"I see -- but who was this young man?"
"Jules di Maestro."
"How strange -- how passing strange!" said the monk, changing his tone from one of
severity to one of sadness and sorrow.
"Why, what ails you, holy father? Has anything happened?"
"I know not, my daughter, whether to feel most sorrow or most anger; but your case is
one that requires some care. Whether to tell you all, or whether to conceal a part, or -- or --
in fact, to tell the whole and trust to your goodness."
"What do you mean -- what do you mean? Your manner distresses me. I cannot
understand you at all -- speak, for the love of Heaven!"
"I can hardly do so, unless, by a solemn vow, you promise secrecy."
"I swear," said the hasty and impatient Juliet.
"Then listen."
"I do -- I do. For Heaven's sake, keep me no longer in suspense!"
"Well, then, Jules di Maestro and I concocted a plan together, which we were to execute
with the view of getting you out of this convent, so that you might both quit the kingdom of
Naples, and get into some of the free states."

"Oh, dear Jules! and did he really take so much trouble about me -- did he really mean to
do so much? I can never be grateful enough to him."
"Why, you remember his last attempt?"
"I heard of it; but it did not succeed, But it must be two months ago.["]
"It was. We both were present."
"Both! You?"
"Yes; I was present, and wounded in the affray, though not so bad as poor Maestro."
"Hurt! but he has got over that, else you would not come here from him to plan another
escape, which I see you have. I am truly sorry for his hurts; but he is, no doubt, well again."
"Stay -- stay -- you are much to sanguine."
"He has not forgotten me?"
"No; but you must permit me to speak. I am quite sure that had you heard the whole of
the affair, you would not speak in this strain; for had I known that I had to tell you
unwelcome news, I would not have undertaken this affair, even urged as I have been by
him and your beauty."
"What mean you?"
"Why, that Jules is dead. He died within a few days after the last attempt that he made to
rescue you from your captivity."
"What, do I hear aright! Jules dead! Great God, impossible -- quite impossible! Nothing
so dreadful can be real."
"I am sorry to say it is so," said the monk; "very sorry."
"But how did it fall out?" asked Juliet, who appeared to be too much stunned to feel
anything acutely; "tell me how."
"When we made our last attempt to get you out, it failed; for we were both compelled to
defend ourselves, and to fly before a numerous body of men. I should have got clear of
them, but I saw that Jules was made prisoner, so I charged and rescued him from their
hands."
"It was nobly done of you."

"Then, you see, I got some marks that I could not help; there were too many; but poor
Jules got mortally wounded."
"Heaven be merciful to him!"
"I hope so; but he was not killed immediately. I got him quite away without any one
being able to tell who he was, but that was an effort that cost me much. I took him away, as
I said, and I sat by his side when he breathed his last breath."
"And what said Jules?" inquired Juliet, as she shed many bitter tears. "What said he? did
he not curse her who had caused him such an end?"
"No, no; Jules did not; he wept when he knew his wounds were mortal, not because he
was to die, but because he must leave you here, and you would be for ever ignorant of his
fate; that is what most affected him, I assure you."
"Ah! he was of a noble, generous nature."
"I, however, promised him that I would see you, and let you know how the matter had
stood with him; and he gave you his last blessing, and desired me not to tell your family
that he was dead, as it would be a triumph for them; at the same time he wished, if possible,
I could supply his place to you in his stead."
"No, no," said Juliet; "no, no; that can never be. I loved Jules, and can never love any one
else, and will never try. No, no; Jules and Jules only, will I live for!"
"But he is dead."
"Then for him will I die, too; he died for me, and I will for him."
"But his last words were to me -- 'Go and see Juliet, tell her truly how I died, and what
my last wishes were. Those I have formed with the full belief that they are for her benefit. I
know how she is placed -- without a friend, and in danger.'"
"Yes, yes; now I have no one to help me."
"You have me, if you choose."
"Not at the price you spoke of."
"But you know not how clearly he expressed himself upon the matter; he knew the life
you lead then -- what it will be by and by -- you know the starvation which you will have to
feel, and, perhaps, be built up in a wall after all."
"Oh, God!"

"He said, 'See, and tell her you have nearly lost your life in serving me, and in serving
her; that I am under an obligation to you for saving my life more than once. Thus, Juliet is
the last word I pronounced, and the last I thought of -- but if I had a legacy to leave you,' he
said, 'I would leave her, and die happy if I thought you would enable her to escape. Marry
her, and keep all the world at defiance -- then, indeed, I could be happy -- almost as happy
as if I lived to be in your happy position.'
"'I will,' I replied; 'I will endeavour to obtain her escape.'
"'Will you swear?'
"'I do swear,' I replied; 'and at the same time I will risk my life, and lose it, if she will
accept of me for a husband; but I cannot for less.'
"'You have said enough,' he replied; 'I am satisfied.'"
"And he died?" said Juliet.
"Yes; he died; but I have been long enough. I will see you again before another day is
past, and then I will learn your determination. Do not let my cause be rejected because I
have not urged it forward as I could have done; but the truth is, it is an honest one, and it
will speak for itself. Farewell for the present; be secret and silent. They think me monk, for
I have assumed this disguise, at the peril of my life, which will be taken with cruel tortues if
I am discovered."
There was a pause, when the monk resumed again, --
"If you can consent to become my wife by this time to-morrow, I will endeavour to free
you from bondage."
"Why purchase the motive to a good action?"
"I do not do so. I only purchase a right which, if risk of life, and all that man hold dear, be
anything, why, you will not think me a Jew in the bargain. Think, lady, think upon what I
have offered you."
"I do think; but 'tis a hard bargain for me to lose my liberty either way."
"Nay, you gain it, for you would be my mistress. But, hark! here comes the abbess. I must
bid you adieu."
"How fares the penitent?" inquired the abbess, entering.
"I cannot gain either a satisfactory or an unsatisfactory answer to your inquiry. I will,
however, see her to-morrow again, and if I find she is obdurate, perhaps the shortest way
will be an application to the inquisition."

"Think of that, daughter," sadi the abbess, leaving the cell.
"Think of that," added the monk, "as your means of leaving the cell -- of escaping.
Farewell, daughter. Benedicite."
--

CHAPTER CLV. [Chapter 163]
THE NUN'S ATTEMPTED ESCAPE FROM THE CONVENT OF ST. MARY

MAGDALEN. -- THE PURSUIT AND THE DISCLOSURE. -- THE ESCAPE OF THE
PRETENDED MONK.
The next day all Naples was alive to the fact that a holy man had been murdered in the
wood Del Notti -- a holy brother of teh order of St. Francis, who was much respected by the
good people of Naples.
Jose and Fiametta both attended before the municipal authorities to give the required
information they had give the monk gold to remain by the side of the dead man whom Jose
had killed.
There was a general terror throughout Naples, for no one was aware of how the matter
had fallen out, nor how the enormity would be punished, and who would be the sufferers in
the present case.
The officers of the state were in active search after the perpetrator of so wicked a deed --
as well as the officers of the inquisition. * * * * *
The next time Father Francis called at the convent, he went straight to the lady abbess,
and said to her with some earnestness, --
"I am sorry to tell you, the more I reflect upon the conversation I had with your neophite
Juliet, I have some strong doubts about the course I originally thought of pursuing towards
the young person."
"In what respect, holy father?"
"I thought of pursuing a mild course towards her."
"I have done it, and failed."
"The reason I think is not that she is hardened, but that she simply does not believe we
will proceed to the extremity that we have threatened."
"I think she is hardened, holy father."
"Time alone will show; but I have altered my plans respecting her."
"In what respect, holy father?"
"I think I will begin to strike terror into her soul, and at once shew her the reality of my
intentions, with respect to what I shall subject her by way of punishment for her resistance
to her religious superiors."

"Very good, holy brother; I think it the plan that will most likely succeed the best; if she
be terrified, she will be obedient."
"And to that end," said the monk, "I have ordered the alguazils of the inquisition to be
here in half an hour's time, when she will be carried there, and subjected to the first process
of torture."
"You will not hurt her?"
"Not much."
"Just enough to teach what powers you can exert."
"Yes, just so. Now, when they come, let me know, and, if she consents to go, all well and
good; and, if she do not, we must use force."
"And how long will you keep her at the inquisition?" inquired the abbess; "because,
eventually, the parents will claim her of me."
"About three weeks, at the farthest; but, if the parents are troublesome, name the
inquisition, and say holy brother Francis, from Rome, will come and confess them, and
make some inquiries concerning their belief and faith in the church."
"I will, holy father."
The monk now returned to the cell where the unfortunate Juliet was confined, and, on
opening the door, he found her in tears.
"Juliet," he said, "I come again."
"You are here;" she replied, "I see."
"And I am here with all the means of escape; you have but to say the word, and you are
free and at liberty."
"I cannot -- I cannot."
"You cannot. Do you love life -- do you love liberty?"
"I do."
"And yet you choose the cold, bare walls of a cloister, to a life of happiness and love; to a
life that is made for such as you."
"I cannot love you."

"I love you; that I have risked my life for you more than once, is true; my persecution is
another proof of that."
"It may be so."
"Then why not consent? you have no alternative that can interest you more, or that will
offer you more happiness."
"I cannot so soon forget Jules."
"Nay, we will not quarrel about that; I cannot expect you. I am not unreasonable, beause I
know so well the circumstances of the case. All is haste and confusion; there is no time for
thought or preparation -- all lies in self-preservation; say at once you will have me; I will
endeavour to gain your love and esteem afterwards; our happiest days, our courting-time
will come after our wedding."
"It cannot come."
"But will you choose the horrors of the inquisition rather than wed one who would give
life and fortune to you?"
"Who speaks of the inquisition?" inquired Juliet, terrified.
"The abbess spoke to me about it when I came here last time, and said she had your
father's commnds to deliver you over to them."
"I'll not believe it."
"I entreated her not to do so, but to leave it in my hands, and I would undertake to
communicate with the inquisition, and bring their officers here to-day."
"And have you?"
"I have brought those who will counterfeit them, and carry you off. The plan is matured.
Will you leave this place, wed me, and be a happy woman, or remain here to be tortured
and disfigured by the tortures of the inquisition -- perhaps to die in their hands?"
"Horrible!" said Juliet, with a shudder.
"Think on this and on that."
At that moment a tremendous uproar occurred in the convent, and a ringing of bells. The
pretended monk started, and listened attentively.
"They come," he muttered -- "they come!"

"Have they discovered you?" inquired Juliet.
"I know not -- I care not if they have. Will you quit the convent, and leave Naples with
me? Will you become my wife? You see what I have risked for you. I wait but your
answer: they are coming."
Before any answer could be given, the door was thrown open, and the abbess, followed
by a troop of soldiers, entered the cell, and, among them, the vampire monk saw his late
adversary, Jose, and his love, Fiametta.
"There is the murderer," said Jose, pointing to the monk, whose cowl had fallen off; "and
he is the man whom I believed I had killed."
"Oh, yes, it is the same horrid face!" said Fiametta.
"The murderer of Father Francis?" said the abbess.
"I know not how it was done; but I told Father Francis to watch and pray by the dead
body, and see it decently buried, and he said he would do so. I gave him gold, and left him
at his watch and his devotions."
"And he is dead now -- his cassock and papers torn from him."
"Seize him, comrades!" said the officer.
At the sound of the officer's voice, Juliet looked up, and beheld her lover, Jules di
Maestro, whom she was told had been killed. She sprang up, saying, --
"It is all false, then. You are not slain -- you are still living -- and you did not send this
man to marry me?"
"I -- who -- Oh! Juliet, have I found you?"
"I am here, dear Jules. Take me hence -- take me hence!"
"I will not do so now; but I have their majesties' favour, and will take care you shall be
released from this vile durance."
"And that man -- -"
"Ay, look to your prisoner," said the officer.
But there was no prisoner to look to. He had slipped off his cowl and cassock, and left the
convent, leaving all present immersed in their own affairs. The abbess was indignant at the
imposture, and would not risk Jules's appeal, on behalf of Juliet, to the king, and at once
consented to her release and immediate marriage; and at the same time Fiametta consented

to wed Jose, so that all was forgotten, save the murder of the holy Father Francis, and the
resurrection of the vampire monk, who was, in reality, no other than Sir Francis Varney,
who was no more heard of in Naples, but supposed to roam about the world at large.
--

CHAPTER CLVI. [Chapter 164]
THE STORM. -- A SHIPWRECK AT SEA. -- THE HAPLESS FATE OF THE

MARINERS.
The morning was ushered in with wind and rain; a tempest was howling over the main;
the seas lashed the shores with a fury that made it dangerous for even such vessels as were
moored; and great fears were entertained that many wrecks would be seen before the night
set in. The roar of the ocean and the bellowing of the wind was almost deafening; and the
few fishermen and sailors that now and then showed themselves; as they came towards the
shore to ascertain the safety of their little barques, could scarcely make themselves heard.
The sky was too heavy, and the rain too incessant, to permit them to see very clearly or
very far; they could not see any ships in the offing.
"Neighbour," said one, "did you hear the wind in the night?"
"Hear it!" replied the man spoken to; "could I help it? Who is there that could sleep, while
such a tempest was blowing great guns. I never heard anything like it in all my life. God
help those poor fellows who are at sea such a night as this."
"So say I, neighbour, so say I; if there be any upon this coast -- if any awake with the
morning dawn and find themselves upon a lee shore, they will never get off again, depend
upon it; they are all lost men."
"So they are; there's no hope for them on this shore; every vessel must, indeed, come
upon it, and no aid could be rendered to them."
"You are right, neighbour. I am glad our boats are high and dry; for, if they were not, they
would never be on the sea again, except as fragments; every timber in them would be
broken to pieces, and scattered about the beach."
"Ay, ay, 'tis an awful day. I propose, neighbour, we should make an attempt to get our
boats still higher on the beach; see, the sea comes now within a few boat-lengths of them; a
few more waves heaving one upon the other will at last reach them, and, if so, we are,
indeed, poor men, neighbour."
"With all my heart; we have no time to lose, neighbour -- see, the waves have got nearer
yet -- come on, come on."
The two fishermen hurried down to the beach; and, with the aid of one or two more, who
had hurried onwards with the same object as themselves, that of putting the boats out of
danger from the waves, they succeeded; and then they returned, leaving their boats, their
only wealth, high above the reach of the most tempestuous sea.

"There, neighbour, I never heard such a sea. I will go and see what can be done in-doors
by the fire-side; this is not a day to be out in; you are wet through in about ten minutes, and
nothing to do but to look on the black clouds."
"No, neighbour; though I don't think in-doors much better, for I expect our roof to come
off, or the chimney to fall over; and must consider myself very fortunate if I do not have the
whole house blown down."
"Ay, ay; but I expect to hear of a few accidents. I don't see any vessel coming in the
horizon at all -- do you see any?"
"None."
"Well, I hope there may be none. I'm for the house; too much of this may be hurtful to a
fisherman; so, good day."
"Good day, for the present. I dare say we shall see each other before the day's out, if
anything may happen in the shape of wreck."
"Safe and sure to be out."
"If you hear a gun, let me know, if I should not be out; for the wind blows and the sea
roars so loudly that I can scarcely hear at all."
"I'll be with you; and do you the same for me, if I should happen to miss it; though I can't
tell how that can be, as the wind blows dead in shore."
"It's a bargain -- I'll do it."
The two fishermen parted from each other, and entered their own dwellings to escape the
fury of the elements; for there was nothing to keep them outside, but there was everything
to induce them to stay in-doors -- a warm fire and freedom from the wind and rain, though
that howled and roared in the chimneys in a frightful manner. * * * * *
If the aspect of the affairs was bad on the land, it was much worse at sea; for there a
vessel rode out the fury of the storm gallantly enough, and resisted the force of the winds
and waves for some time; but she could not resist the impetuosity of the elements, though
she strove hard and resisted long.
She strained, and timber after timber started, masts were gone, and the rudder became
damaged, and at length no hope was left.
The crew was not a large one, and the pumps had become completely choked and useless;
while the vessel was drifted hither and thither without any means of guidance whatever; she
was at the mercy of wind and waves.

"We are drifting towards the shore," said the mate to the master; "we cannot keep her
head out to sea at all."
"I know it," answered the master, gloomily -- "I know it; she has been making land for
some time now, and as we have neither rudder, nor sails, nor masts, we may as well make
our peace, for the worst must soon come."
"I expect that some tiem ago, when I found that the wind was set dead on shore, and the
rudder was gone."
"Surely, we haven't much time to lose; let the guns be fired, as a signal of distress; it may
give warning to those on shore."
"We cannot expect assistance."
"Not here, I know."
"Certainly not; no boat would live for a moment in a sea like this."
"No, I know it would not; but it may put them upon the look out, and some of our poor
fellows may get picked up; for we don't exactly know how far we may be driven towards
the land, and we may be sent right on to the beach, for aught we can tell."
"So we might."
"I hope we may."
"Are the guns ready?"
"Yes, sir, they are loaded; but there is only one barrel of powder dry."
"Let it be cared for; fire the guns."
The order was promptly obeyed, for the men had left off pumping, conceiving it useless
to continue it any longer; indeed; they could not, for the pumps were no longer serviceable,
and they saw the land ahead, and each man made up his mind that the struggle for life was
about to commence; while the firing of the guns was a measure of precaution which might,
or might not, be of use; and as every one clung to hope to the last, the order was obeyed
with alacrity.
The guns were fired in minute intervals, and at length every half minute while the powder
lasted, and then they ceased.
There was not more than from fifteen to twenty souls on board; but there were several
passengers among them; one in particular was remarkable for his height, and the singular
pallid hue of his features.

He was reserved, but of gentlemanly deportment; he was well aware of his danger, but it
did not appear to render him incapable of seeing and understanding what was going on; but
he was grave and melancholy.
"How long, captain, do you think it will be," he said, approaching the master, "before the
vessel will break up; for I see that we shall be wrecked, that is no secret at all to any of us,
and certainly not to me."
"I don't know, replied the captain; "it is impossible to say."
"Cannot you form an opinion upon the subject?" inquired the stranger.
"I can; but it is only an opinion. I can give you no information," replied the captain, who
did not wish to give an opinion upon such a subject.
"Certainly, I am aware of that. I asked for an opinion; if you have one, perhaps you may
be good enough to favour me with it, if it be not too great a favour to expect from you, sir. I
thought you had experience enough to enable you to form an opinion, and it was for that
reason I asked you."
"Well, sir, we strike in five minutes, perhaps in twenty; it depends upon wind and waves,
our course, and how far we may go ashore."
"I understand you; if we are forced in upon the shore in a direct line, we may expect the
shortest time."
"We may."
"And if we should not meet with any obstruction, we may be thrown far on shore."
"Yes; if we had but the means of guiding the vessel, I could steer her within fifty or a
hundred yards of the shore, where she would strike, and a better chance would then be had
of some reaching the shore."
"Which is now rather more than uncertain."
"It is so," said the master.
At the moment there was such a shock from the vessel striking upon a sunken rock, that
they were all thrown down on the deck, and the sea made a clear breach over her, and swept
away several of the crew.
The master contrived for a moment or two to secure himself to a spar, with the hope that
he would be able to float off; but this was a vain hope, for a moment after he was lifted up
by a sea, and dashed against the stump of the mast, and crushed in a horrible manner, his

blood dying the deck for a minute, and then it was washed away, as he himself was by the
same wave, and was not seen again.
The master no doubt had been killed, and there was nearly all of the crew swept away;
but among those who yet survived, was to be seen the tall stranger, who stood in the storm,
and held on by a portion of the vessel; he still braved the fury of the waves as they broke
over the deck clearing all before them.
Each breach of the sea made away with some one of the unhappy mariners who yet clung
with hopeless desperation; but yet they feared to quit their last hold, and to throw
themselves into the foam that was boiling around them.
In the meantime the vessel heeled about, and every now and then, being in shallow water,
a great wave would come and lift her up, and then leave her higher on the rocks, but giving
her each time dreadful shocks, and breaking her keel up.
The only hope the unfortunate men had, was that some portion of the wreck upon which
they might chance to be, would be floated to the shore before life was extinct; but this was
more and more hopeless, for the breakers over which they would have to float would
probably be their destruction, for they would be dashed to pieces.
The wind and the waves howled and roared, and drowned all noise -- nothing could be
heard, and nothing seen, for the waves broke over them so furiously, and raged so high
above them, that they neither could do so, nor even see the shore. Nothing but a white sea
of foam and spray met their eyes, whenever they cold raise them, and free them from salt
water.
At length an immense wave came rolling towards them; the men shrieked as the flood
came onwards. In a moment afterwards they were lifted up, vessel and all, and carried a
few yards further onwards and then left, with a report that seemed like that of a cannon to
them; but they felt the shock, and when the wave left them, the vessel was no more; a mere
mass of boards and other matters floated about; she had been utterly and entirely destroyed;
no vestige of her was left, and nothing but a confused mass of planks was to be seen, with
here and there a human being clinging to them for life. But, alas! their efforts were vain --
they sank -- they could not sustain the battle with the waves and the breakers; they were
dashed to mummies, and every limb broken on the foaming, raging breakers.
--

CHAPTER CLVII. [Chapter 165]
THE FISHERMEN. -- THE DESPAIRING CRY OF THE MARINERS. -- THE

BREAKERS FROM THE SHORE.
On shore the day wore away; the wind blew furiously, and the oceans roared to such an
extent, that no other sound was audible; and the fishermen who lived upon the coast kept
within doors, knowing that nothing could be done out of doors on such a day; and each one
seated by the fire, began to recount some wonderful tale of death and shipwreck, or of
happy escapes from the boiling sea, until noon had long since passed, and the turn of the
day showed a decided approach towards evening; but no abatement of the tempest.
The principal fisherman on the coast, a man whose poverty was less, rather than his
wealth was greater than his fellows, sat by his fireside, with one or two others of his class
seated with him.
"I never saw a worse storm," said one of them.
"I have," said Massallo, the fisherman.
"You have?" said one of his comrades, in his turn.
"I have, I can promise you -- one that blew me upon this coast, where I have ever since
remained, and intend to remain."
"I have heard you say so; but I never heard the particulars of that story; it must have been
many years ago, I fancy."
"Yes, it must have been fifteen years ago," said Massallo, speaking; "fifteen years ago at
the very least, if not more than that."
"Well, I think it must be quite that time; for my old man has been dead these fourteen
years, and he remembered you very well, and used to speak of you; and, as I thought, you
must have known him more than a year."
"Aye, two."
"Well, it must, then, have been more than sixteen years ago since you came here."
"I dare say it was; very nearly seventeen years ago, now I come to think of it. The storm,
if possible, blew harder, and the waves beat higher than they do now; the rain was heavier
than it rains now; and, in addition to all, the thunder and lightning were tremendous, not a
sound could be distinguished. The speaking-trumpet was useless -- no sound issued from it
-- all was confusion and danger."
"It must have been a rare time, certainly."

"It was a time for devils to be abroad, and not for men; but we were compelled to pump,
and cut away the wreck. Why, you see, we had been chased by the Algerines, and we had
got nearer to the land than we would have gone, but for the fact that we desired to escape
from a superior and formidable enemy, who knew no mercy.
"Yes, the Algerines, if they had spared us, would have made slaves of us for our lives,
and there would have been little wisdom in being caught by them, if we could help it."
"I should imagine no one would ever do it."
"Well, that was the cause of our being in shore nearer than we ought; but we noticed that
the Algerine sheered off at a moment when there was but little chance of our escaping him;
but we could not tell the reason; but we concluded that he saw some danger, of which we
were at that moment ignorant.
"Well, we had not time to haul out a little before we were surprised by a tremendous clap
of thunder and lightning, as vivid as if it had been brought from all quarters of the world,
and loosened at one and the same moment."
"It must have added to your terrors."
"It was the main thing that wrecked us on this coast."
"What, the lightning! why, I suppose it struck you, then?"
"Yes; we could have held off, or run the vessel bump ashore -- almost dry -- but we lost
all commnad over her, when the lighting shivered our mast to atoms and left the stump
burning in the vessel; then, more than that, it killed two of our best hands at that moment,
and most of us were knocked up and unable to work at the pumps; but it was of no use; we
came ashore, crash went the vessel, and we were all in the boiling sea in an instant, and a
wave or two more threw me on the beach, without any fatal injury, and I scrambled up out
of their reach."
"And then you remained by us."
"Yes; I did not find means to return whence I came for some years."
"Perhaps you had reason."
"I had; I was a rival for a girl; I was then endeavouring to win money; I had entrusted
some money in the vessel -- all I had; and with her I lost all, and with that all I lost even
hope, and never returned to my native home."
"Did the girl love you?"

"She liked me well enough to have me, if her relations would consent, but they would
not, unless they saw I had more money than I could obtain; and, in default of that, they
would marry her to another, who had more money than I; and I only obtained time to get
money by the girl's intercession; but I was baulked."
"Well, that was bad; but I suppose you were well assured that you would be rejected if
you had not money."
"I was, by her family."
"And herself -- -"
"That was not so sure; and yet they had great influence upon her; but I could not have the
courage to go back and ask her to wed poverty; a man without even the means of
purchasing a wedding garment."
"You did right, neighbour."
"I did, and I knew it," replied the fisherman, bitterly.
"But you have prospered since; and you have been happy, if I mistake not."
"Yes, I have been prosperous, and tolerably happy; it is wonderful how men adapt
themselves to the circumstances around them."
"They do; if they did not, how insupportable would life be."
"You are right; I should have been miserable for ever; I should never have recovered my
feelings, and should never have been what I am now."
"The storm seems as furious as ever, neighbour," observed one of the fishermen, after a
long pause, for they were meditating upon what they had heard, "and I think we shall have
but a very rough night of it."
"Good; we shall have a night of it."
"I think," said another, "I must be getting near my own fireside by this time; they will
expect me home, or think some accident has happened."
"And I will step out to see how the weather looks before it grows dark; there appears no
change."
"Hark! what is that?"

There was a moment's pause, and in about a minute, in one of the lulls of the wind, they
thought they heard a gun; but the storm increased so as to leave them in great doubt of what
it was.
"It was a gun, I think," said the fisherman. "Such sounds as those I have heard before; but
'tis hard to tell them form the sounds of the elements."
"We can tell when we get outside, I dare say; but the wind sweeps all sounds past so
rapidly that it is scarcely possible to tell even there; but there is yet light to see, and as the
sun sets in the horizon, we have a chance of seeing a sail if there be one."
"We have, but not of helping her."
"True; there is no help for those on board."
"May Heaven have mercy upon the poor mariners," said the fisherman's wife. "It is hard
times with them now. Life is dear to all, and they will cling to it. Do what you can for the
poor beings."
"There's no doing anything," said the fisherman, gloomily. "Neither boat nor ship can ride
through such a sea, on the ocean or at anchor."
"But they may be cast ashore, and they may not be quite dead, you know; instant aid
might avail much, when even they had ceased to feel."
"We will not fail in that particular. We are going down to the beach now, and shall not
neglect any means that are in our power, at all events; more we cannot do, but that much
shall be done, and I hope it may be of some service."
"Hark! the same sound again," said his companion.
"I did not hear it."
"Nor I."
"Come on; we shall now know better in the open air," said the fisherman, as he wrapped
himself up in a large rough coat, and pulled his hat over his eyes. "The rain is as heavy as
ever, and I think it will soon fill the sea to overflowing."
The fisherman left the hut and proceeded towards the beach; at least, they did not go
down, for the waves ran so high that they beat a long way inland -- more so than they had
ever done before.
"What do you think of our storm?"

"It is a complete tempest -- furious; and the wind blows the waves towards the shore, and
that is the cause why we have the sea so high; and should the wind continue in that quarter
for a day or two, even our cottages will be in some danger."
"I dare say they would; but it would be without example if the winds were to continue in
that quarter for so long a time, blowing a complete hurricane without any intermission. I
should almost think the world about to end."
"Do you see any vessel out in the horizon?" inquired one of the fishermen.
"Not I."
"But I can hear the gun."
There came booming across the waters the sound of a piece of artillery. There was no
mistaking it -- it was plain and evident to all that there was a vessel in distress somewhere,
but they could not exactly tell where.
Again the sound reached them on the wind, accompanied by the roar of the elements; but
it was enough to distinguish it by from the rest of those awful sounds, which spoke plainly
to them of the dreadful fate of the unfortunate men who were on board the vessel in
distress.
"Can you make them out?" inquired one of the fishermen of his companion. "I cannot see
her, though I hear the guns, and can almost imagine her whereabouts."
"No, I can't see her," replied the man spoken to.
"I can though," replied the first fisherman; "she lies close in shore, not a mile out, nor yet
that. I think she's dismasted."
"I see her now, myself. I looked about in the horizon, above her there. She labours much,
and the sea breaks over her."
"She has lost her rudder, I have no doubt, and is drifting right in shore. What will become
of them, I cannot well think."
"It is too easy to think."
"Do you imagine that one man among the whole crew can be saved?"
"Hardly, on such a shore as this, with rocks on all sides; every man that is swept
overboard will be dashed to pieces, and disabled, even if lashed to spars."
"You are right; for if one man survives this wreck, it will be a miracle, and I can hardly
believe it to be possible."

They now watched the course of the vessel. The guns had ceased to fire, and daylight was
fast departing; and though she came nearer, yet she became less distinct; but still they could
see her, and note her progress well through the surf that rose up around her as it dashed
against the labouring vessel's side.
"She strikes," cried one of the men; "that shivering action is her first shock."
"Yes," said a companion. "Poor wretches, they have but a short time now. She will go to
pieces on those rocks as sure as they are there."
"May she not hold together?"
"No; see, she heaves up again! No; as there are but bare rocks under her, and she will not
settle into any place, but continue beating and bumping upon them until she will break and
split to shivers, not a timber can hold."
"Too true -- too true," said his companion.
The fishermen now bent their eyes upon the ocean, where this exciting scene was going
on, but they spoke not. It was growing yet darker, and yet they gazed stedfastly, heedless of
the beating and overwhelming rain; but they could hardly see the vessel, until at length a
loud shriek came to them, borne to them upon the hoarse winds, and heard distinctly above
the roaring of the ocean.
The fisherman knit his brows, and compressed his lips, as he heard the sounds, and then,
clasping his hands, he said, --
"Heaven have mercy on them! for I fear the sea will have none. It's all over, and they are
dead and dying. Follow me!"
--

CHAPTER CLVIII. [Chapter 166]
THE ONE BODY WASHED ASHORE. -- THE FIRST REQUEST. -- THE

SHIPWRECKED STRANGER.
The fishermen followed down towards the beach, for they had been standing upon some
cliffs which commanded the sea below, which now was one dark boiling mass, in which
nothing at all was distinguishable; and, therefore, they could not tell what went on below.
They soon arrived at the little bay, in which their fishing-boats used to ride; but they had
been drawn up beyond the reach of the sea, though the sea now ran quite up into the land,
and they stood watching the waves as they rolled upwards.
"Had we not drawn our boats higher," said one "they would have been wrecks by this
time, and we should have been beggars."
"Ay; so we should, neighbour."
"Don't you see the waves beating over the very spot were they lay?"
"I do; and they ain't far from them even now, and I am in some fear lest they reach them;
but they have been moored as well."
"They are doubly secured."
"Do you see anything upon the water yet?" inquired the first fisherman.
"Nothing."
"Nor I, and I have strained my eyes to their utmost. They are most likely all dashed to
pieces, and they are not likely to live through such a sea."
"No, no; they must be overwhelmed with water. God help them, poor fellows! and if they
are not to be saved, may they soon have an end to their tortures, for the strife after life must
be dreadful."
"It is dreadful," said the other; "but you must know that the sufferings are endured under
excitement, and therefore not so much felt as when they have been saved. To have passed
the barrier of life, and to become insensible to all, and then to be recalled to life, is an
agony not to be described. I have seen men who have been restored to life, and who have
solemnly declared that the pangs of death they could encounter, and not those of a return to
life."
The fisherman made no rply, but stood listening to the howlings of the storm, and
watching the waves; but this was productive of nothing -- they watched for more than two
hours, and yet nothing came ashore.

"I don't see we can do any good here," said one.
"Nor I. Those who were alive, must now have been dead some time."
"Yes; the sea don't wash them this way."
"Most likely," added another, "they are washed among the breakers, and dashed against
the cliffs, and therefore cannot reach this place, where they can reach the land."
"It usually happens so."
"It does; but we may as well return. There is a wreck, no doubt."
"That is quite settled."
"Quite, as you say; but there are no signs of it."
"Save such as you saw."
"Yes; we have evidence enough of the fact. We saw her go to pieces, and we have heard
the death-shriek of the mariners, and more we cannot have seen. When we come down here
in the morning, we may indeed see the bodies, and the broken and severed planks of the
unfortunate vessel, strewn over the sands."
"I shall return again after I have had an hour or two's turn in," said the fisherman.
"Give me a call," said his companion, "and I will go with you."
"And I."
"Agreed. Then about midnight we will again visit the beach, and see if any of the men are
ashore." * * * * *
There was no one now by the shore, and nought save the sounds of the turmoil of the
elements could be heard. What other sounds can be any possibility be distinguishable at
such a time? There was nothing that could be done there that would sound. The loud roar of
the breakers was tremendous; the dash of the waves against the cliffs, and the steady
bellowing of the wind, which sounded not much unlike a steady and continued report of
great guns fired at a distance, were as but one sound and that sound of a strange, awful, and
furious character -- perfectly dreadful.
There was one body, however thrown up by the waves, as if they would yield that one
alone, and no other, or as if that one was the only one they refused to swallow; it floated
about for some time, and was thrown hither and thither, now thrown on shore by one wave,
and withdrawn by another.

At last a high wave came rolling onwards, and falling upon the shore, it lifted the body
up, and carried it further upon the beach and there left it, and no subsequent wave came so
far as that, and it was left unmolested.
That body was the carcase of the stranger, who of all the rest had been swept towards the
little bay, and deposited there alone. * * * * *
The fisherman left his hut to call his companions, and having done so, they came towards
the beach, while they conversed together.
"Well," said one, "I did not expect to see the storm abate so soon."
"I did not," replied his companion, "though, I dare say, it was much too violent to last
much longer; and yet I can scarcely credit my senses that it is reallly gone, and that the
deluging rain has ceased altogether."
"Yes; and there comes the moon peeping behind that mass of clouds."
"The wind blows stiffly yet; but it has greatly moderated, and I think it will continue to do
so."
"I hope it may; but the sea does not abate a bit, and will not for many hours, even if the
wind was to go down."
"Oh, dear, no; the waves will keep on in this fashion for some hours; and I dare say it will
be useless to get our boats out; we shall not have any more fish for some days to come."
"Most likely not; but I would not venture to go out while the sea is heaving, after such a
storm as this; there would be but little use in doing so, I am quite persuaded; but what is
that yonder?"
"Where -- I see nothing?"
"There, lying a few yards from the reach of the waves; to me it looks like a human body.
It is quite quiet and still -- no motion -- it is, I fear, dead; there is no motion, and the
attitude is that of one who has not moved after he was thrown there -- I think not, however;
but let us see what it is."
The fishermen now went down unto the beach, where the body lay, for such it really was;
and, when they reached it, at once saw it was a human body, and they all paused before it.
"Bring it higher upo on the beach; the waves may come upon you presently -- they are
high enough. Bring him up higher on the beach, and you will then see what state he is in;
for if his limbs are broken, and his body otherwise injured to any extent, you may spare
much useless labour."

The fishermen drew the body up higher; they then carried him to a dry and sheltered spot,
and examined him, but found no particular injuries to speak of, but that he was apparently
drowned.
"What course to pursue," said one, "I don't know; no doubt but he is quite dead; he must
have been in the water several hours, besides being knocked about on the breakers, which is
enough to destroy life itself."
"I should imagine so; and yet, we had better take it up to the cottage, and place it under
cover; indeeed, we cannot tell how long it has been thus; therefore, I say we had better
make some attempt to recover him; he may yet come round, though there may be but little
hope in it."
"We will try; stand out of the moonlight -- we shall be able to see presently better what he
is, than we can now."
The moon was now freed from the mass of deep heavy clouds that hung over it, like a
curtain before that luminary, and which now shed a brilliant light upon the earth. The
fishermen stood round gazing upon the body of the stranger.
"Ha! it moves," said one.
The body did move, and no sooner did the moonlight fall full and fair upon its form, than
it slowly raised itself upon its elbow, and gazed around. A deep inspiration took place,
almost a groan, and some sea water was vomited.
"He lives -- he lives!" exclaimed the fisherman.
"Take him to the hut," said another.
They all stooped down to aid him, and began to lift him up.
"He lives -- he lives!"
"Away with him to the hut," said several of the fishermen. "Before a warm fire, and with
some warm drinks, he will get better."
"A little more light -- a little more light, if you please," said the stranger, in a bland but
broken voice, as he attempted to move his hand.
"He speaks!" exclaimed the fishermen in a breath, and at the same time they removed a
pace or two, and looked at each other with amazement, and then again at the stranger, who
gradulaly rose up, and sat upright in the light of the moon.
"Are you any better?" inquired one of the men who had looked on in silent amazement,
not unmixed with awe, as they gazed.

"Yes; much better. What a vile thing is sea water," said the stranger, turning such a
ghastly face upon the men that they shrunk in horror, and yet they were not men used to
fear or any like passion.
However, they soon approached him, muttering to each other, --
"What manner of man is this?"
They did not long consider what was to be done, for one of their number replied, --
"Poor fellow! he is not used to the rough usage of the waves, and therefore does not
improve upon their acquiaintance. But let us lend him a hand."
"With all my heart," replied his comrades.
"Will you come with me to my cottage?" said the fisherman. "You will benefit more mby
a good fire than by the cold moonlight, I'll warrant. I never throve upon night air and wet
clothes, and I cannot believe you will."
"We all know our constitutions best," said the stranger; "but if you will grant me the
accomodation you speak of, it will be welcome."
"Come, lean upon me; never mind your clothes being wet."
The stranger rose, and, to the amazement of all, he appeared to walk as well as any of
those present; and the only difference was, he was ghastly pale, and he was dripping with
sea water, which left a track after him.
"Had you been long on the beach?" inquired one.
"I don't know," replied the stranger. "I was insensible."
"Can you form any idea how long you have been in the water?"
"I really cannot tell even that; for I was insensible immediately after the ship went to
pieces, which she did about the close of the day; and I only remember receiving a hard
blow by being struck against a rock, or a piece of timber, I cannot say which."
"You must have been insensible for some hours."
"I dare say I was."
"I never heard of such a miraculous preservation."
"Nor I."

"To come to life, too, without any aid to recover you, that is what entirely bothers me."
"Well, they do say, those that are born to be hanged will never be drowned," added one of
the fishermen, in an under tone, to his companion.
They soon arrived at the hut of the fisherman, in which there was a good fire, and the
wife and daughter were ready to do all that could be done for the unfortunate stranger.
"You have saved a mariner, then?" said the wife.
"We have picked up one from the wreck, wife; but we cannot call him a mariner. This
gentleman was, no doubt, a passenger."
"Welcome, sir! I did not expect to see any one alive from the wreck, much less in
condition to walk an speak."
The stranger paid them some compliments; but contented himself with sitting by the fire,
and being entirely passive in their hands, and eventually retired to rest well wrapped up and
warm.
--

CHAPTER CLIX. [Chapter 167]
THE FISHERMAN'S COTTAGE. -- THE FIRESIDE, AND THE TRAVELLER'S BED.
The fisherman's hut was large and roomy. There was no choice furniture, though there
was enough of the homely conveniences that were to be found in such habitations -- much
more so than is usual. There was a large fire-place, upon which some faggots had been
newly laid, and which now blazed away most cheerfully.
"Our home is humble, sir," said the fisherman; "but such as it is, you are welcome to it,
and may it serve you instead of a better."
"I am much beholden to you," replied the stranger; "much beholden to you, and cannot
thank you enough. This change is most valuable. I do not know in what state I should have
been, had you not come forward and offered the shelter of your house to me. I am very
cold, indeed, and the warmth of yoru fire is grateful to me."
"I am glad of it, sir. You are the only one, I fear, as far as I know, that is saved. Was there
many on board?"
"About twenty, I think."
"Poor fellows! they have met with a watery grave."
"Yes, they have, I fear. They have had a fearful struggle, for many were lashed to spars,
hoping they might be washed, or floated, ashore. I hope I am not disturbing, though I fear I
am, your wife and daughter -- that is your daughter, I presume, if I may judge from her
likeness to yourself."
"Yes, sir, that is my daughter; she's a good girl, sir, though I say so, that am her father;
and if a secret must be told, in another month she will exchange a father's for a husband's
control and care, which will I hope, be a happy change."
"They have long loved each other," said the mother, "and, to my mind, it is cruel to keep
them apart. Times will never be better, and I don't see but they may begin the world as well
as others, with little more than a will to work."
"You are right," said the stranger; "you are right; it was never intended that mankind
should wait till circumstances were propitious, or it would have made the desire dependent
upon circumstances, too."
"You have hit the right nail, sir -- you have spoken the truth; but still we must recommend
caution."
"Very right. I wish them joy and prosperity," said the stranger.

There was now a bustle in the cottage. Some of those who had accompanied the stranger
into the hut, now departed, while the remainder left a few moments after, in company,
leaving the fisherman and his family with their guest.
"Well," said one, "of all the odd looking fish that ever I saw come out of the sea, I think
he beats all; not but what I make every allowance, but I cannot make any in such a case,
because he has not been drowned."
"He was quite insensible, and had been so for a long time. Don't you remember what he
said about his becoming insensible immediately after the ship struck."
"Yes; I heard it all, but hang me if I can understand it. He is as if he had been bled to
death, and then came to life."
"He ain't got much of a colour."
"No; but more than that, the dreadful deathly, or ashy paleness is fearful; and then his
peculiar features, his long hair, flattened to his head by the water, and the teeth in his head,
which appear as if they had been set with the express intention of enabling him to catch
otters."
"That would be no easy task, either; but I must say, as you say, that there have been better
looking men than he, at all events." * * * * *
In the fisherman's hut the stranger was willingly attended to by the fisherman and his
family, without any invidious attention; and when he had changed his habiliments, he
seated himself again by the fire, when some warm drinks and other refreshment were given
him.
"I did not think to find any one alive when I went down to the beach," said the fisherman.
"I thought all were lost."
"And I doubt not but they are all lost, save myself," said the stranger, blandly; "and
though I do not appear much hurt by the occurrence, yet I feel as if the whole mass of my
blood was changed, and that I should never again be what I was; that, in fact, I shall always
carry about me the appearance, and certainly the feeling, of a man torn from the arms of
death, and made to live."
"It does affect some people strangely," said the fisherman. "I know what shipwreck is
myself, and, therefore, can easily guess what it is to those who are unused to the sea. I was
the only one saved out of a whole crew."
"Indeed! then your case is identical with mine."
"In that respect it is," replied the fisherman; "but I was used to the dangers of the sea; and,
though that makes no difference when you find yourself in the boiling waters, yet a man

who has the fear of wreck constantly before his eyes, can see the danger -- take more
precaution, and is not so likely to lose that presence of mind which at such times is so
valuable."
"So it is; though I took it very quietly, and stood still until I was thrown down by the first
shock of the vessel."
"She struck more than once?"
"She did; four or five times; she was thrown upon the rocks in shallow water, I believe, as
I understand these matters."
"Yes, it was so," said the fiserhman -- "it was so."
"Well, it was only when the waves left us that we came down with a dreadful crashing
shock, which caused the vessel to shiver as if she had been but a leaf. Well, every time a
wave swept towards us, it lifted the vessel off the rock, and carried her a few yards further,
sometimes scraping and scratching her keel as she went along; at other times, she was lifted
clear of the rocks, and then suddenly thrown upon them with great force, and then every
timber separated."
"Just what might be expected."
"And just as it occured," said the stranger.
"And, of course, the crew were carried into the sea, and drowned."
"Yes; but what became of them -- I mean where they were carried to -- I cannot tell; but I
suppose among the tall rocks that I saw before the wreck. But why was I not carried there
and left?"
"It is something that neither you nor I can tell," said the fisherman.
"Perhaps so; but I am safe, and only so to tell the disaster to others, not for a warning; for
it can be none, but I am saved."
"You are. Perhaps you would like to lie down for an hour or two before daylight comes,
and then we will take a walk down to the shore in the morning, and see if there is anything
washed ashore."
"I am tired, and think that it would be of some service, if I can sleep; though I dare say I
shall be dreaming of what I have seen and felt, and hardly dare to sleep, so great is the
disturbance in my mind."
"Sit up, and welcome, by the fire," said the fisherman; "you can do so; it may be as well,
perhaps, too -- you may be able to sleep that way."

"No, no, I'll lie down on the boards -- I am not particular upon such an occasion; and, as it
has turned out, I shall be too much in need of rest to sit up. The warmth of the fire, too,
draws me off, I can find, and I dare say you feel it too."
"It has that effect, as much as I am used to it," replied the fisherman; "but do what you
please; I shall turn in till daylight, unless you want anything more."
"Nothing, thank you, my good friend, but a place to lie down on, and then I am quite
content for the remainder of the night."
"There is a settle up in yon corner where you can sleep; it is rough and homely, but we
have nothing otherwise here."
"No apology; I am too thankful for what I have escaped from, and for what I have
received, to look hard at the mercies afforded me." * * * * *
The stranger said no more, but took the fisherman's advice and walked to the settle, and
then lay down with his face towards the fire.
"Good night," said the fisherman; "pleasant slumbers."
"The same to you, my friend; I hope I have not dispossessed any of your family of their
means of rest. I have, perhaps, deprived them of their bed."
"No, no; sleep in peace; we are all provided for. I sleep here," he said, as he was about to
open the door; "and my daughter sleeps there," he added, pointing to a small door. "So, you
see, we have our appointed places, and that on which you now sleep is retained for the use
of any strange traveller of friend that may need it."
"Then good night," said the stranger, which was returned again by the fisherman, who
entered his own room, leaving his guest lying on his bed, and looking around him by the
light of the fire, which burned yet for some time.
--

CHAPTER CLX. [Chapter 168]
THE NIGHT IN THE FISHERMAN'S HUT. -- THE MIDNIGHT FEAST OF BLOOD.

-- THE CHASE, AND THE GUN-SHOT.
The stranger, as he lay, listened to the sounds that were emitted by, and occasionally
opened his eyes to gaze upon, the flames, as they ran upwards; he watched the forked
tongues as they played about the faggots, and then turned his eyes towards the various parts
of the apartment as it was now and then illuminated with its warm glare.
What might have been his feelings after his esacpe it is difficult to conjecture, for he
appeared not inclined to sleep, but to gaze about him and keep watch over the fire, which
every now and then blazed up afresh; and his mind appeared to be intent upon something
else than merely thinking of the past -- there was too much of inquiry and curiosity about it.
"The time has come round again," he muttered; "my blood requires renewal, my strength
renovation, and no aliment will do that but maiden's blood."
A horrible expression of countenance came over him that must have caused a feeling of
horror to have crept through the veins of any one who might have been near to see him; but,
as it was, he was alone, and there was no one to be terrified.
"Yes, yes; I must have that supply, else though the sea may give up its dead, and the earth
refuse to cover me, yet I may sink into that sleep I would so willingly escape from; then,
indeed, I should suffer what I cannot bear to think of.
"Yet how near have I been to that death from which I have believed it impossible to
return; but yet the moonbeams have found me, and I have again been re-animated, and the
horrible appetite has returned which must have its periodical meal -- its terrible and
disgusting repast. It must be done, aye, it must be done."
As he muttered, his lips met, and his long tongue was occasionally thrust out, as if he
were anticipating the pleasures of the feast.
"Yes, yes; this very night must renew the life that has been this night restored to me. I
must make a fresh attempt. I think he said his daughter lay in yonder chamber; in another
hour I will adventure upon this scheme."
His eyes were fixed upon the door, which he appeared to watch and examine with the
utmost care and avidity.
He watched, however, for some time, and the flames appeared to subside, and the embers
gave out a dull, red glare, and some warmth.

"Now is the moment," he muttered, as he rose softly from his bed; "now is the moment --
all are asleep, and stillness reigns around me. I will go and ascertain if all be quiet, and then
to my midnight orgies -- a feast that shall restore me to my life -- my former self."
He crawled out of the bed, and stood upright for a moment, and listened, and then, with a
noiseless step, he crept to the door of the fisherman's bedroom, and then listened for some
seconds, and muttered as if he were satisfied, --
"Yes, yes; they sleep sound enough, and will not readily awaken."
He then took a small cord, and tied the handle of the door to a nail on the post, so as to
offer an impediment to egress from the sleeping-room, and then he went towards the other
which the fisherman had told him belonged to his daughter. He paused, and listened at the
door for a few momemnts, and then he said, --
"Yes, yes; that is the maiden's chamber -- that is sure to be her chamber -- her father said
so, and I have no reason to doubt he told the truth, since he had no cause to lie; here, then,
is the casket that contains all my treasure -- the elixir vitae of my life -- the undefiled blood
of a maiden's veins."
He tried the door, but it was secured on the inside.
This, for a moment, disconcerted him, and he took a moment or two to consider what best
could be done; and at length he saw a small chink in the wall, which he approached; then,
peeping in, he saw that if he could enlarge the hole, he might push his hand in, and open the
door by undoing the fastenings.
This was effected by means of a chisel which happened to be lying near at hand; then he
opened it, and thrust in his hand and withdrew the bolt that held the door, and quietly
opened it.
With cat-like caution he approached the bed where the fisherman's daughter lay. She was
a beautiful girl, scarce eighteen, and, by a consent of all, the queen of the place, in respect
of beauty.
With greedy eyes the vampyre approached the bed on which lay the form of the sleeping
maiden, and gazed upon her fair white neck and bosom -- heaving with the sleeper's breath;
and then, as if he could contain himself no longer, he eagerly bent down over her, and then,
as her face was turned on one side, his lips and teeth approached the side exposed. * * * * *
A scream ran through the fisherman's hut that awoke its inmates in an instant, and which,
though it banished sleep, yet it gave not the power of thought.
"Help! help! help!" screamed the maiden.
"'Tis Mary!" said the fisherman; "surely -- -"

"Hasten, and see what 'tis that ails her. She never would scream so, unless in utmost peril;
hasten, and see."
"Help! help! again screamed the maiden, as she struggled in the arms of the monster, who
kept her in his powerful grasp while he sought the life current that crimsoned her veins with
horrible desire.
"The door is secured; d -- -n!" muttered the fisherman. "What does this mean? Give me
my gun down, while I force the door."
The old woman handed down the gun, while the fisherman put his strength to the door,
which quickly gave way and flew open.
"Here is your gun. Be quick; but do not be too hasty in its use. See to Mary and the
shipwrecked voyager."
"Who secured my door, dame, but he?"
"The door! Ay, I remember -- hasten!"
"Help -- help!" again shouted or screamed Mary, but not in so loud a voice as before; she
was getting weaker, and just as the fisherman emerged into the large room, the faggots fell
together and gave forth a sudden blaze, and in an instant the whole place was lighted up,
and the fisherman's eye sought the couch of the stranger whom he had lodged, but the bed
was empty.
"Gone!" he muttered -- "gone!"
He turned his head in the direction of his daughter's bedchamber, and saw the door was
open, and he heard a struggle and a sucking noise.
"Ha!" he muttered, and rushed in exclaiming -- "What means this noise? Who calls for
help?"
The appearance of the fisherman was so opportune and so sudden, and so intent was the
vampyre upon the hideous meal, that he did not hear the approach of the fisherman, and it
was not until the latter shouted that he turned and saw him.
"Treacherous and ungrateful villain!" said the fisherman, who was almost powerless from
terror and astonishment.
The vampyre turned and dropped his victim on the bed, while he endeavoured to pass the
fisherman; but the act recalled him to himself, and he made a blow at him with the but-end
of the gun; but the vampyre jumped back, and the blow missed its intended object, and they
both closed for a struggle.

The fisherman, however, found that he had one to do with whose strength was even
greater than his own, however great that might be; and in a moment more he was thrown
down, and the monster rushed across the outer room, oversetting the fisherman's wife; and
forcing open the outer door, he fled.
"I am thrown," said the fisherman, rising; "but not done for. Mary, are you hurt?"
"Oh, my God -- my God!" exclaimed the poor girl. "He had begun to eat me and suck my
blood! I have the marks of his teeth in me."
"I'll have revenge upon him yet."
"Nay, father. He is some monster -- do not go!"
"No, no," said his wife -- "no, husband, do not attempt it! [] strong he is; he may do you a
mischief."
"I know," said the fisherman. "He has thrown me, and he has abused my hospitality; he is
not fit to live. He has not, however, any means of fighting against the contents of my gun. I
have got that loaded, and will punish him. Be he man or devil, I will make the experiment
of following him."
All this took place in less time than it takes to relate it, and the fisherman rushed out of
his hut to follow the stranger who had acted so badly.
It was now early dawn; and, though the waves still lashed the shore in angry violence,
and kept up a ceaseless roar, yet the sky betrayed none of the the signs of yesterday's storm,
but was serene and calm, and not a cloud was to be seen -- nothing but a dim, grey night
pervaded all space.
There was just light enough to see objects moving about, and when the fisherman got
outside the hut, he saw, about a hundred yards or better before him, the form of the
stranger, making for the woodland at the height of his speed.
The fisherman hastened to intercept him which, however, was unnecessary, for another,
coming from that quarter, turned him, and he fled towards the sea, whither he was
followed, and, when upon the cliffs, the fisherman fired, and the vampyre fell over and was
supposed to have been drowned.
--

CHAPTER CLXI. [Chapter 169]
THE ASSASSINS ON THE RIALTO. -- THE ATTACK AND DEFEAT. -- THE

STRANGER.
On the Rialto, one evening, as the sun was sinking in the golden west, a stranger was seen
walking to and fro in deep musing, apparently unmindful of what was passing around him,
or of the approach of evening, an hour when the remorseless assassin is known to stalk
abroad in the streets of Venice, and there the dagger finds is victim.
Several individuals looked hard at the stranger in the cloak, but no one approached him,
save those who passed him, and in doing so bestowed a passing gaze upon him, which was
not returned, for he heeded no one. But he was not much open to recognition even if he
were known, for the cloak with which he had enveloped himself was of such ample
dimensions that it completely concealed him from the curiosity of the many; indeed, his
face was hardly visible, for the fur collar he wore hid all save the bridge of a prominent
nose, and his eyes, which had a peculiar lustre.
The evening still grew darker and later, and the passengers were fewer and fewer, but still
the tall stranger walked slowly up and down; but no one ventured to say anything, though
more than one had the inclination to speak; but the tallness of the man, and the point of the
long rapier which appeared beneath the cloak, checked any inclination to familiarity, and
induced a more voluntary courtesy than might at all times have been accorded.
There were, indeed, a small knot of three individuals, who kept near the same place, and
whose eyes every now and then directed their glances towards the stranger, as if they
regarded him with impatience.
These men were of a suspicious character; they all wore cloaks and slouched hats, but
they had all seen some service, and were somewhat the worse for it. They conversed
together, and walked away for a short space, but they returned presently, and still found the
stranger as before at the same spot.
"Well," said one of the three, as they again met at a certain spot, "what think you now --
is he a spy or not?"
"I don't know what to think, Rubino. Spy or no spy, he will interfere with our duty to-
night. I wonder what is best."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, would it be better to chance his presence, or shall we put him away? He evidently
intends remaining there, the devil only knows how long."
"I believe you; but it appears to me that both plans are objectionable to the last degree,
though I confess I can see no alternative whatever."

"Which do you consider the least objectionable plan? -- that is what we have to consider,
for there are but two plans, and we cannot fail to do our business; should we do so, we
should lose something, and we should never get any more employment."
"Good. If we attack him, we shall lose our chance with our better customer. We shall lose
our man, at the least, if we get clear."
"He wears a long sword, and is a tall man. If he has any skill, and I dare be sworn he has,
he will prove an ugly customer."
"We are three."
"That is very true; but an encounter only makes it the worse, and even if he be killed,
which, if we are true to ourselves, he must be, we shall be obliged to quit the spot, and our
main object defeated."
"That is most true; but shall we risk the attempt when there are two? It will make it too
many odds; we shall not be so sure of success as we ought to be."
"We have the advantage of striking when we are not seen. A blow is sure when no hand is
raised to ward it off."
"Ay, we should dispose of one before he has made any resistance, and before the other
can offer any opposition or attempt any assistance, should the first have life enough to call
out. Come, come, let's have no fear of the result; it is all in our own hands."
"Shall we not run more danger during the encounter of being taken by others who may
come up, attracted by the fray? There is much to be said about making an alarm, because
numbers will then be drawn upon us, and you know we have little sympathy among the
multitude."
"No, no; we must make all possible haste, and then we may elude all possible chance.
Strike the blow home, and then we may baffle all; for if he cry, he will fall, and those who
help him, will raise him, and we shall have time to make our escape."
"No doubt -- no doubt; 'tis a good plan -- a very good plan, and one that I think will
succeed; at all events, it only wants a good trial to make it succeed; you see, a strong arm,
quick eye, and swift foot, is all that are necessary."
"I see; and one more quality."
"What is it?"
"Good luck."

"Granted; but that often comes from the manner in which a thing is done, and sometimes
from the want of skill in those who should make it the reverse. Confusion for a moment
gives us our luck, and then we are safe."
"So we are."
"How goes the time, Rubino?" inquired one of the assassins, for such they were.
"Oh, it yet wants one hour of the time in which we are to meet him."
"Well, then, we have more than a chance yet of our being undisturbed here, and the
stranger may leave for some other part of the city; but our plan is fixed whether or no. Shall
we turn into a vintner's?"
"No; we have no time for that, as yet."
"No time! What mean you Rubino?"
"That we have no time," replied Rubino, "to quit this neighbourhood, because you will
perceive he may come any time these next two hours, which is a matter of some
importance; for if he reach home alive, we have miscarried, and incur great displeasure, if
not vengeance."
"We care but little for the vengeance of another."
"We may not individually; but you must know, this one knows too much of us and our
haunts to be a safe and pleasant enemy; besides, we shall lose a liberal patron -- one who
has given us some gold and promised us more."
"Ay, ay; he's the man to serve, and we will not disoblige him; we'll deal fairly by him,
and he cannot expect more."
"And he will reward us liberally."
"Amen, say I. Now we have waited long enough, let us walk down the Rialto, and when
we get to the other end, we can plant ourselves in such a position to watch his advance
towards us, and then we can walk to him."
"Had we better not remain somewhere nearer at hand, because we can then start on him
unawares, and thus have a blow without alarming him; and, if that be a deadly one, why,
then we are safe. No one will know the mischief is done."
"So much the better; but come, we will continue our walk; it will lull suspicion, and when
we come again, one of our number can creep into one of these alcoves, and there wait
against his coming."

"And you will be at hand?"
"Of course; we shall keep upon the look out, so as to be near at the moment you
commence the attack."
"But suppose I should fall?"
"Then you must continue the attack in a sharp and rapid manner, engaging all his
attention to defend himself."
"Ay; and leave me to myself to the attack of that man yonder, should he be at hand at that
moment."
"Oh, no, no. Do not hurt yourself. You need be under no fear of that sort, for you see it
will only be man to man, and a fair encounter."
"It has never yet been fairly done, and will not be with me in this matter, don't you see. If
help arrives, I'm lost; and, if I be lost without help, it will be the worse for you. I'll take my
share of danger and mishap, but I won't be imposed upon by a comrade, and so you will
understand it first."
"Who was desirous you should? Shall we not be at hand?"
"At your heels, I expect; but don't you see that, by giving a minute's time, you endanger
all; for, if my first attack fail, he ought not to be allowed rallying time; he ought not to be
permitted to recover himself, and attempt defence, indeed, because that gives time, and we
may be beat by others coming from whatever quarter we may go."
"We do not intend it. We only are desirous that one of us should be prepared to make the
attack, while we are walking to and fro, and perhaps attracting his attention, and drawing it
from you. Then we aid you; but, should you be foiled, why we will hasten as if we were
coming to help him."
"I see; well, let it be so."
"Good. We can then act effectively, and we are the gainers by this stratagem. Now then,
Roberto, do thou hide thyself in yonder alcove."
"I will. My dagger is sharp, and you know my arm is not usually a weak one, and that I
have done some service with it ere now."
"Thou hast."
"And it will again do more."

"Hush! hasten in. I hear footsteps yonder. 'Tis he, I think. We will not go far, but within
the reach of your eye; fifty yards, at most, will be the distance. We will take and come
towards you the moment we find he has reached you."
"Good. Begone -- he comes."
The assassin stole into an alcove, and then paused in the deep shade of the place where he
had concealed himself, and the other two walked down a short distance -- about a hundred
and fifty yards or so -- and then paused and looked back.
"Do you see anything of them?"
"No; I don't at this moment. It is getting very dark."
"We had better return and see what happens. We shall get up in the very nick of time, and
be able to take part in the fray."
"Well, be it so," replied the other. "I'll go with you; but we run some risk in encountering
the stranger in the rapier and long cloak."
"Most true; but we shall not have taken any part in the affair; that will clear us of
anything that may tend to inculpate us. We are right; and, if we find our comrade hardly
pressed, we can aid him, and that at a time when it is unexpected by the other party. Hark!
they are at it already."
"Come on."
They both hastened towards the scene of combat, towards which they both ran, for they
knew their comrade's voice.
The other villain awaited the coming of the stranger, whom he was waiting to assassinate,
as soon as hi comrades had left him.
The unconscious stranger walked down the Rialto with a slow and steady gait, humming
an air from some opera as he walked along, well pleased in his own mind. He wore his
cloak open in front, and his sword dangling at his side, and altogether most unsuspicious of
an attack.
Scarcely, however, had he passed the assassin's hiding-place, than the fellow rushed out
and made a desperate blow at him with his dagger, which, however, miscarried, on account
of the loose manner in which he wore his cloak; the blow was foiled by the folds of the
garment, and the wearer turned round.
"Villain!" he exclaimed, "thou shalt have thy deserts;" and, as he spoke, he drew his
sword, and became the assailant in his turn.

"Help! help!" shouted the villain, who found himself beset by one who would quickly
make him repent his temerity.
At that moment the rest of the assassins came up, and commenced a furious attack upon
the single stranger, who, of course, from being almost a victor, was immediately compelled
to give ground to the three.
"Help! help!" shouted the stranger, as he was forced on one knee, and that with a wound;
but at that moment help was at hand, and the tall stranger stepped up to his side, and casting
his cloak on one side, and drawing his rapier, he ran one of the assailants through the body
and he fell backwards dead.
A furious combat ensued between the stranger and the other two assassins, who were
compelled to fight, so closely were they pressed by the stranger; however, after a few
moments, they turned and fled.
The stranger then turned towards the wounded man, who was rising from the ground by
the help of the pillar that was supporting the sides of the alcove, and then endeavoured to
stanch the wound he had received.
--

CHAPTER CLXII. [Chapter 170]
COUNT POLLIDORI'S PALACE. -- SIGNORA ISABELLA, THE COUNT'S

DAUGHTER. -- THE INTRODUCTION.
The stranger walked up to him and offered his services, saying, --
"Are you hurt, signor? -- you bleed!"
"But slightly hurt, signor, thank you for that; you have saved my life. I had been cold
meat, indeed -- a bloody corpse for all Venice to look upon to-morrow, but for your valour
and stout assistance."
"Name it not, signor; but the rascals have been well paid. There lies one of them -- the
others have escaped; but permit me, signor, to say, that the sooner you get away from this
spot the better, for the knaves may return in greater force than before, or they will wait till
you leave; by that time they will have rallied, and dart out upon you as you pass along."
"I do not fear that, signor, much; but the fact is, I am almost too weak to walk unaided."
"Permit me to render you the assistance you require. I am a stranger in this place, and
therefore unused to your ways; but -- "
"Say no more, signor; I will accept of your services if you will accept of a lodging at my
poor home. I have that which shall make you welcome -- heartily welcome; and the
signora, my daughter, shall make you welcome, too."
"Signor, if I can be of service to you I will do so with pleasure. Lend me your arm,
signor; but your wound is not stanched -- let me bind it more carefully and securely; you
ought not to bleed from such a wound when bandaged."
"Perhaps, signor, you have had more to do with these matters than I. I am a peaceable
Venetian of rank, and neither afraid nor unwilling to draw a sword in a good quarrel,
shrinking not from some odds, but I have had no practice in these matters; times and
circmustances have not been propitious."
"It matters not," replied the stranger; "you shewed what you were when you had nearly
defeated one, and afterwards kept at bay three. He must be a man who can behave thus, sir;
he must have the heart and conduct of a soldier -- you would be one did occasion serve --
no man can be more; but I have seen many climes, and have therefore some knowledge in
these matters beyond the mere inward power and courage. I have, from sheer necessity,
been compelled to mix in melees, and not from inclination."
"I thank you for your skill as a surgeon, for truly you have stopped the bleeding, which I
had not been able to do myself."

"Lean on my shoulder, signor; it will enable you to walk better. Have you far to go?"
inquired the stranger.
"No, signor; but we will take a gondola, it will be the easier travelling, and, moreover, it
will land us at my house, where you shall be most heartily welcome. If we turn down here,
we shall soon obtain the aid of a gondolier. I had intended walking, but I have enough of
that for one night, even if I were able to walk, which I am not."
"As you please, signor."
As the stranger spoke he walked towards the place indicated by the wounded man, and in
a few moments more they reached the grand canal, and finding a gondolier sleeping in his
gondola, the stranger left his wounded companion to wake the sleeper to his duty, by
shaking him.
"Hillo!" said the stranger, "will nothing wake you -- get up instantly, and about your duty.
Do you always sleep here?"
"No, signor," said the man, sleepily.
"Well, then, are you engaged?"
"Yes, signor, if you engage me."
"Well, then, I do."
"Where to, signor?"
"Come with me to bring a wounded gentleman into the gondola, and he will tell you
where to. Come, quick -- have you not yet awakened?"
"I'm awake, signor, and willing," said the gondolier, following the stranger to the spot
where the wounded man was standing, and, by direction of the stranger, he aided the
wounded signor into the gondola.
"Now, signors, I have but to know where you desire to go to."
"Row on until I tell you where to stop. Follow the course of the grand canal, and you will
go right enough."
There was some time spent in silence, while the gondolier rowed as desired up the grand
canal, until they came to a large mansion, which the wounded man gazed upon, and, after a
moment's pause, as if he had a difficulty in speaking, he said, as he pointed to the building,
--
"There, row up to yonder steps; there I will land -- that is my house."

The gondolier immediately obeyed the injunction, and pulled for the stairs, and when they
reached the place, the gondolier stepped out and secured the gondola.
"Call out some of my people," said the wounded man, "call them out. I am very stiff, and
not able to get out."
The gondolier obeyed, and in a few minutes more several men, all in livery, ran down the
steps to the gondola, and lifted their master out, who appeared to be unable to do so of
himself.
The gondolier was rewarded according to his deserts, and the stranger followed the
wounded man into his own house, which was a most extensive building, and filled with
servants, and furnished in the richest manner, displaying magnificence and wealth to a
degree that was scarce to be surpassed in Venice.
They were shown into an apartment replete with every appointment that wealth or luxury
could suggest, and the wounded ma was placed on a sofa, and his attendants stood round
him as if waiting his orders.
"Signor and stranger," he said, "welcome to my house, as the preserver of my life. All I
have here is at your service.["]
"I am obliged," replied the stranger, with a dignified acknowledgement of the courtesy --
"I am obliged; but I cannot recognise on my part any such right. If I have done you service
-- as I will not affect to believe I have not -- still you overrate the amount of it. But I will
accept of your hospitality for this night; for I am a stranger in Venice, and have little or no
knowledge of the best course to pursue."
"Remain here."
"But you had better dispatch some one for aid," interrupted the stranger. "You are in pain,
at this very instant; send for some assistance. You require the aid of a leech immediately."
"I am faint -- very faint," he replied.
"Hasten," said the stranger -- "hasten some of you to fetch a leech, instead of losing your
wits in silent astonishment."
The servants immediately bustled about, and seemed to have awakened from a trance, and
were seen running in different directions. The room was soon cleared, and the tall stranger
seated himself by his wounded host.
"In me you see the Count Polidori." [sic]
The stranger bowed.

"I am not a native of this city, though now one of her favoured citizens. I have left the
land of my birth because I and my rulers could not agree, and I ran some danger in staying
against their will, and I have settled and married here."
"Our adopted country is that which demands our care and preference," replied the
stranger. "That, at least, is my opinion."
"No doubt. I am now," he continued, "a widower."
"Your lady is dead?"
"Yes; I am sorry to say so. I have, however, one child living at home, and one who is
serving his country in her fleets, an honour to our house; but my greatest comfort is the dear
image of my lost wife -- my daughter."
"Is she here now?"
"Yes; in this palace. Signora Isabella is devoted to her father, and would not for the world
do aught that would give me a moment's pain; indeed, she would die for me rather than I
should feel displeasure."
"Such a daughter must be a treasure."
"She is a treasure."
"And what an inestimable jewel would she be as a wife."
"She will be when the day comes when she will mate, which I hope will be before I die;
for I should be too anxious respecting the worth of the man who was to be her husband, to
permit me to die happy, unless I saw and approved of the choice, or chose the individual
myself."
"I see you are more anxious," said the stranger, mildly, "in providing future happiness for
your daughter, rather than in hoarding wealth or titles for her."
"I am," said the count.
"And a most laudable ambition, too; an ambition that few parents do not neglect in the
pursuit of one of a different character -- either some young love, or some one who is
endowed largely with worldly goods or titles."
"My Isabella will have enough of both; and, therefore, she will not need to seek for them;
but she will not throw herself away upon any nameless adventurer who may love her
fortune better than herself."

"That would be as cruel a neglect as the other," replied the stranger; "and, in my opinion,
more culpable of the two."
"So it would."
At that moment the door opened hastily, and a light step was heard, and before the
stranger could turn round, a lovely young female rushed to the side of the count, throwing
herself on her knees, saying, --
"Oh, heavens! my dear father, what has happened? Are you hurt? For Heaven's sake, my
dear father, what is the matter?"
"Little or nothing, my dear Isabella."
"But you are wounded. Ah! there is blood! My God! my God!"
"Hush, Isabella. I am wounded, but not hurt seriously."
"I pray Heaven it may be so. But what sacrilegious hand could be raised against you?
You have wronged no one."
"I am not aware of having done so, certainly," said the count; "but that does not always
give any security to the wealthy. They will sometimes destroy them from motives apart
from individual revenge."
"The monsters! But have the villains been secured?"
"One has paid the forfeit of his life for his temerity and villany; the rest fled."
"Ah! what will these assassins not risk?"
"Well, my dear Isabella, I have answered your inquiries, and now, perhaps, you will see if
you be alone with me."
"Alone with you!" repeated Isabella, not quite comprehending the words; but she looked
up, and her eyes encountered those of the stranger, who was gazing earnestly upon her, and
she started, as she rose ans said, --
"Excuse me, signor, excuse me -- I knew not any one was present."
"Nay," said the stranger, "filial love and respect need no excuse, signora. Do not think so
badly of me as to imagine I can think otherwise than you were actuated by the tenderest
impulses."
"Your kindness, sir -- -"

"Isabella," said the count, interrupting her, "but for this gentleman's timely and efficient
aid, I should at this moment have been a corpse in the streets of Venice."
"You, my father?"
"Yes, my child. This signor came up just as I was wounded and beaten down, and saved
me from death. He killed one of my assailants, while he put to flight the other two, who left
their dead companion in the streets. Thank him, my child, for he is my preserver, and he
deserves thanks for the deed as well as for the bravery with which it was done, for he ran
great risks in such odds."
"He must. Signor, I know not how to thank you or what to say; the greatness of the
obligation paralyzes me, and I have not words to tell you how grateful I feel for your
goodness and courage; but 'tis an obligation that can never be forgotten or ever repaid -- it
is impossible."
"My dear signora, permit me to say you rate my services too highly."
"Nay, that is quite impossible; for my father's life I prize far before my own -- before
anybody in the world; and to save that is to lay me under the heaviest obligation it is
possible to impose upon me."
"Say no more, signora; I will not underrate it after what you have said; but you must say
as little about it as you will. I am happy, however, to have done any act worthy of your
thanks."
--

CHAPTER CLXIII. [Chapter 171]
THE OPINIONS OF DOCTOR PILLETTO. -- THE STRANGER'S ACCOUNT OF

HIMSELF. -- THE WELCOME OF THE SIGNORA.
At that moment the door opened, and a servant announced the arrival of a leech, the
famous Doctor Pilletto, who forthwith entered the apartment, and advanced towards the
couch on which the wounded man lay.
"Oh, doctor, do what you can for my father," said Signora Isabella.
"I will, signora," replied the doctor. "I will; but what are this hurts or his disease? for I see
he has been taken very badly; but why this paleness? You appear to have lost blood."
"I have bled, doctor, and I want you to dress my wound. I am hurt in the side here, and
but for my friend here I should have been hurt mortally."
"It was not a duel then?" said the doctor.
"No, no, doctor, no, no; it was an attempt at assassination, and I have escaped the death
some one with more enmity than courage had doomed me to; but, at the same tiem, I am
free, and one of his agents has perished."
"'Tis but just," said the doctor; "but I must now see the wound; with your good leave,
we'll strip the wounded part and apply bandages to it, so as to secure it; after which
something else must be done."
The wounded Pollidori was stripped, and, after some exertion, the wound was dressed,
and all bleeding stopped.
"What is your candid opinion concerning my wound, doctor?" inquired the count, "What
do you think will be the result? I would be truly informed of whatever probability of danger
there may be remote or immediate, as the case may be; tell me, I beseech you, doctor?"
"I will, count."
"I have those things to do which are important, and the execution of them depends upon
your answer; so do not mislead me."
"I will not; I cannot form so clear a judgment of your case as I can in a few days hence,
when I may see the progress of the wound towards healing; though at present I see no signs
of danger, yet some may come."
"You do not consider the wound dangerous of itself?" said the stranger.

"No, not of itself; but it is so close to a mortal part that it cannot be considered free from
danger; indeed, it may become so. A little more on one side would have made it quickly
fatal; but, as it is, if it heal well, there will be no danger. You must keep your couch for
some days."
"That will be a lighter evil than any other," replied the count.
"You have lost much blood, and that alone will make you very weak, and it will take
some time before you will be entirely recovered from your present state, and then your
wound will probably be healed."
"And what you appear to think may be dangerous, is only any possible interruption from
the wound itself."
"It does so happen sometimes from bodily infirmity, it shews itself in healing, and the
wound, which now appears healthy, may turn to gangrene, and then the worst may be
apprehended."
"It may," said the stranger; "but these things are only the worst that may happen in
extreme cases."
"Exactly," said the leech.
"And you have seen nothing in this case to induce you to anticipate any such result as this
-- it is only what may happen."
"That is all. It appears to me that all is well at present."
"Then I think the count had better be left to himself in quiet, and he may have a good
mind upon his recovery."
"It will be best," said the doctor.
"I am fatigued and sleepy," said the count; "I would be alone. Daughter, you must
entertain this gentleman as I would do were I able to do so. Signor, the signora will do the
office of hostess -- excuse so cold a welcome."
"Name it not," said the stranger. "I am well cared for. A welcome from such a one is well
worth the acceptance of a prince, much less that of a stranger unknown in Venice. I thank
you for it."
"Say no more on that head," said the count. "I came here almost a refugee, and quite a
stranger myself."
"Will you come this way, signor," said Signora Isabella; "we will leave my poor father to
himself, he will sleep."

The stranger rose, and Doctor Pilletto also, both following the signora, who led them into
a separate, but splendid apartment, and entreated them to sit down, and apologised for her
own want of spirits to entertain them suitably.
"For that matter," said the doctor, "I am by no means surprised; for such a mishap can
never be heard of without producing lowness of spirits."
"And such a misfortune is always productive of grief," said the stranger. "Signora, say no
more, I would not interfere with your grief. I do not wish to stop it, and shall feel myself a
bar to your own feelings if you say any more. I am made welcome, and feel myself so."
"You are, sir -- your kindness deserves no less; but I pray you tell me how this affair
occurred, in which you have been of such signal service to my father, in saving his life?"
"To tell you that, signora, I must first tell you who and what I am."
"I do not wish to be thought unduly curious," replied signora.
"Not at all. I am bound to acknowledge you have a right to it, for you have no
introduction with me which usually supplies the place of an account of who and what we
are; therefore I'll tell you, though I cannot boast of being more than a simple chevalier of
now no fortune, having left my country because I raised my voice against the abuses of
state; therefore I am but a nameless and fortuneless stranger."
"Many a worthy gentleman has been in such a plight before now," observed the doctor. "I
have known many such."
"And I am one. Not that I am without means," added the stranger; "I have been lucky
enough to provide against such a calamity as that which has befallen me, though not to the
extent I could have wished."
"You are fortunate, chevalier."
"I am so far. I came but this morning to Venice; I landed here, and agreed to meet the
captain of the vessel, who promised to meet me on the Rialto, to conduct me to some quiet
and respectable changehouse where I could lodge."
"And he met you not?"
"No. While I was waiting for him, I heard a cry for help, and found, upon running up, the
Count Pollidori beaten to the earth, beset by three villains, who had already wounded him
in the manner you have seen; and I at that time stepped up, and, being unexpected, the men
were confused, and one of them fell, mortally wounded; and, after a little further desperate
fighting, they all fled."

"It was fortunate you yourself were not beaten down too with such odds; for these men
are usually desperate."
"True; but, you see, one was gone, and they could not tell how it might be with the count
-- they did not know how far he might be able to join in the fray again, and if he were to do
so, there would immediately be an equality between us, and such men do not seek such a
fight."
"Truly not, chevalier," replied the signora -- "truly not. When they are safe and secure in
their deeds of blood, they will perpetrate them; but in fair contest such men never shine --
their deeds are of darkness."
"Most true -- most true."
"But they have a deal of ferocity," said the stranger; "and, when they can, will pour out
blood like water; but what amazes me is, that one like the count, your father, should have
been beset by such villains. They must have had some object to accomplish in getting rid of
him by such means."
"Private enmity."
"Indeed! It must be a bad state of things."
"It is, chevalier. It is a sign of great degeneracy in the state; but it is so. For gold you can
procure the death of any man in Venice."
"Horrible!" said the stranger. "I have heard of such things; but I deemed them fabulous,
or, at least, overrated."
"No, no -- I fear not; and yet, who could have an enmity so deep as only to be healed by
blood? and yet, the good and great have as many enemies as the wicked, for they are
always opposed to each other."
"Undoubtedly," said the doctor; "good and bad are always antagonists."
"Exactly. What, however, is the worst in these cases is, the bad very often get the better
of the good, which is the reverse of what ought to be done; because, you see, if we are to
suppose that there is a power above that rules men's actions, surely we might expect to see
goodness manifest in the majority of cases; whereas, we usually see, to a much greater
extent, the success of evil."
"Not always."
"Not always, certainly," said the doctor; "but the exception proves the rule. Goodness
ought to be the great object of men's lives; but it is not; yet it ought to rule, and we must

endeavour to be ruled by it, despite the way of the world, which is often, as we daily see,
the reverse of what it ought to be."
"But," added the chevalier, "when ambition rules the minds of men, you will find that all
other principles give way."
"It is so; but why, I cannot see."
"Because 'tis the master emotion of the mind," said the stranger.
"And ambition appears to possess the souls of those who govern, whether for good or for
evil," said the signora. "Some are ambitions of being rulers -- some of being conquers, and
some of politicians; but they are all moved to it by ambition."
"Aye," said the stranger, "the lover is ambitious of the smiles of his mistress, though ill
fortune will, now and then, deny him the good luck to win them."
--

CHAPTER CLXIV [Chapter 172]
THE COUNT POLLIDORI'S RECOVERY. -- THE INTERVIEW WITH THE

SIGNORA ISABELLA. -- THE CONSENT.
A few days' confinement placed the count beyond the reach of danger. His wound healed
rapidly and favourably, but which was more than anticipated by the cautious leech, who
abstained from saying so, but took his daily seat beside his patient's bed, and, with his prosy
and imperturbable gravity, he continued to give his advice.
"Count," he said, " your wound is healing."
"I feel it is so," said the count.
"But you must be cautious. I would not have you be too sanguine, or trust your feelings
too much."
"I do not; but I may take wine?"
"Indeed, I would recommend you not to do so; for wine is inflammatory, and you are
likely to suffer for it."
"And yet I took a bottle last evening."
"Last evening, count?" said the physician.
"Yes; I speak truly."
"I doubt it not; but it was very imprudent -- very imprudent, indeed; for, though half a
bottle may do no hurt to a man in full health, yet a whole can do him no good, even if it do
him no harm; but, in your case, it is dangerous."
"It might be; but surely the danger is past now?"
"If you have taken it over twelve hours -- though four-and-twenty would be better."
"It is over twelve hours."
"'Tis well; but it was hazardous; you are fast getting well, and, as it happens, you have no
fever, or other evil changes about you; therefore, you may continue your wine, but not in
such quantities."
"I will be more cautious; but, Pilletto, what is your opinion of my guest?"
"Your preserver?"

"Yes; the same."
"He is one of the most learned men I ever met with; even professed scholars have not
been found so full of knowledge."
"That speaks something for his youth."
"Most undoubtedly."
"But what think you of him as a man of the world?"
"I think he has a vast fund of information; he has had an enlarged experience of society,
and has visited, I think, all the continent of Europe; he understands their languages and
manners, too, and has the appearance of a traveller, and a man used to the best and most
distinguished society."
"That is just my opinion of him."
"I understand he is from France."
"Yes."
"A refugee, in point of fact, I suppose, without means."
"No, he appears to have means, and hopes that times my so alter to permit his return, and
the resumption of his former fortune."
"I understand as much, and he has spoken of people whom I know well in France, that
would not associate with any beneath their degree; and he has told me things they would
have divulged to none, save their equals and families."
"It is my opinion of him."
*****
The doctor took his leave, and the count was again left to himself, and he began evidently
to ponder over something in his mind, which appeared to demand his attention, and he, for
some time, sat immoveable.
"My daughter," he murmured, "is a rich reward even for such a deed. I do not pit my life
against her's; no, no; she is by far the most valuable; she I love more than life, and would
provide for her in a manner that shall procure her future happiness, rather than her
immediate approval.

"The dear girl does not well understand these matters; she does not know that present
pleasure may be followed by future pain. She knows not that we should forgo the present,
to ensure future happiness."
He paused a moment, and then he continued, --
"But I cannot be mistaken in this man. No, he has done a deed, which, though I value it
not at so high a price, yet gratitude impose upon me the necessity of showing the highest
consideration. She is fancy free; and I do not see there will be any difficulty in the way
whatever."
At tha moment the door opened, and Signora Isabella entered, and advanced towards the
couch on which he lay.
"My father!"
"Ah, Isabella, I was but then thinking of you."
"Of me, father? I come to see how you are. Our good guest and preserver had been telling
me he is quite sure you are much better than Doctor Pilletto will admit; for he is slow and
cautious to a degree."
"My dear, he is quite right -- I feel it."
"Oh, how joyful I am!"
"What think you of our guest, Isabella? Do you not think him a man well worthy of our
warmest esteem and gratitude?"
"Indeed he is, father -- he is noble."
"I think so -- the true nobility of soul can be seen in him; to such a man as the chevalier,
would I see my Isabella united; to such a man could I confide my daughter's happiness, for
he would secure it."
"What mean you, father?"
"That the strnager, of whom you speak so highly, is to be your future husband; the
preserver of the father will not act unkindly by the child."
"My father, I am stunned."
"Yes, my dear daughter, I have fully settled this matter in my own mind; he has asked
your hand -- go see him -- you have my blessing. I am sure he will be happy. Isabella, you
never disobeyed your father; such an act would be the cruelest stab that ever was planted in
my bosom."

"But when," said Isabella, almost trembling; "but when will this be? When am I to be
given away, father, as you would a present of flowers?"
"Isabella, when have I deserved, when have I had such an answer from thee? Let me have
no more of this."
"But when have you fixed as a time upon which I am to be sent away from home to
strangers?"
"You will not leave this palace, Isabella; you and your husband will always be here, and I
shall have the satisfaction of seeing the happiness I have planned and made. He will be a
father to the child, as well as a husband."
"I do not wish for any such change. I am happy, but shall be otherwise, if I am compelled
to wed."
"Compelled, Isabella, compelled! Do you speak of being forced, when I wish it? Now
that I have settled it in my own mind, love and duty to me, and gratitude to this gentleman,
all conspire to point out how you should act."
"But when, father, when?"
"To-morrow."
"To-morrow!" repeated Isabella, in mornful accents.
"Yes, my child; 'tis better done at once -- 'twill, at all events, save any of those
unnecessary thoughts that might disturb you."
"My father! my father!" said the young lady, as she sunk upon her knees before him.
"Well, my child?"
"Pardon me for once begging a favour of you."
"What mean you by such words?"
"I wish a longer interval to be allowed me before I am -- I am -- -"
"Married," said her father.
"Yes, father; that is the dreadful word."
"Isabella, mind, my love, what my wishes are."

"I have heard them, father; but give me a week -- indeed, you cannot decently bring this
matter to a conclusion before the end of that time. I have had no previous warning fom you,
or this stranger, that such a thing was in contemplation."
"If I grant it you, my Isabella, I must be obeyed."
"You shall be obeyed, father," said Isabella, with an effort, "if it cost me my life, and it
will be near it; but let me keep my room until that period is up, and then do with me what
you will."
"Be it so, Isabella; though it will look ungracious to our guest, yet I will endeavour to
excuse you with the best grace I can."
The Lady Isabella was deathly pale, and, as she rose, she staggered, and could scarce
support herself out of the apartment.
--

CHAPTER CLXV [Chapter 173]
THE WEDDING MORNING. -- THE NEW ARRIVAL. -- THE DISAPPERANCE OF

THE VAMPYRE BRIDEGROOM.
The signora retired to her own chamber, and remained there for many hours; but during
that time two messengers had left the mansion secretly, and then all was still. The lovely
and beautiful Isabella, however, was not to be seen in her usual walks, or at her father's
board, as was her wont. She was only seen within the precincts of her own apartments,
pallid, sad, and sorrowful.
"Your daughter, count," said the stranger, one morning, "does not appear as usual. I trust
she is quite well?"
"Yes; quite well."
"I hope I have given no cause of offence if so, I hope I may be informed of my error, that
I may speedily amend it."
"There is none, chevalier; but my daughter, Isabella, has asked a week's preparation for
the nuptials -- which week she will pass in her own apartments secluded, and at the end of
which time, she leaves them for your protection, and which will, I trust, be to her
happiness."
"It shall be my business to make her happy, and, for want of good will and hearty
endeavour, she shall never lack content and bliss. I have every presage of a most happy and
felicitous life in the future. I am sure she will be happy."
"It is my great hope, chevalier; it is the one object of my life. I would it were settled, and
the affair over. I should die unhappy if I thought poor Isabella in the hands of any one who
would not use her as she deserved to be. She is of herself a treasure."
"She is -- she is."
"And when she is once a wife, she will not look for a father's protection, neither will she
need it. My death, when it does happen, will be a great and heavy blow; but it will be less
when she has the comfort and consolation of a husband to console her for what would
otherwise be irreparable."
"Yes, it would have the effect of deadening the blow, and of shortening the duration of its
intensity, though it will be by no means prevented."
"I cannot say I should desire it."
"No, certainly not; and Signora Isabella never could forget such a parent."

"I have done my duty, I hope."
"And many congratulate yourself, count; but then, with regard to Isabella, she will meet
me as usual here on the day of the ceremonial"
"Most assuredly."
"And I am to be denied her company till then?"
"Yes; she will meet you on the morning at the altar."
"Be it so -- but I could have been happy in her society. At any rate I must be so, by
reflecting that I shall soon be the favoured, happy husband of Isabella, for with her my
happiness will be complete."
"And my happiness will be complete, in knowing her's is so."
"I could have wished that some of those who have known me in France had been here to
see my happiness; but that cannot be."
"Could you not send to them?"
"There would not be time for their return. And, moreover, if there had been, I question
whether I ought to hold any communication with them, lest I bring them under the ban of
the government, and I may not do that."
"Truly, you have the same feelings as I used to have; but I have long since ceased to feel
any of that kind of interest."
"Time cures that."
"It does; and you will find it will heal all those wounds which such a separation from
your country causes you."
"I hope so. My offences there they will never forgive." * * * * *
Thus conversed the stranger and the count, and thus six days passed, during which time
the Signora Isabella was seen by none save her attendants, who were few, and most of her
time was spent in tears and prayers.
She had a heart full of grief, but whe dared not disobey her father, he whom she loved so
well, and whom she had never thought for one moment as being opposed to her own ideas
of propriety and her own wishes. She had always been taught to suppress her own, and
submit to his.

Thus it was now, at the eleventh hour, she had no means of fortifying herself in any
preconceived liking she may have had.
Submission was all she had learned -- a blind and willing submission to a fond and
doating parent. She knew no other course of action.
Her heart, however, had other yearnings. She had loved another; but she knew not how to
act. She dared not even entertain the thought of throwing herself at her father's feet, and
imploring him to save her from perpetual sorrow -- much less did she think of opposing
him; but she had done this much.
In the first moment of her terror and anguish, she had written off to her brother, informing
him of her danger; but, at the same time, she had advised nothing, and expressed no wish --
only told him the fact and her fears. * * * * *
The wedding morning arrived, and the house of the count gave indications of the
festivity; and, with the day, came guests richly dressed, and the bells rang a merry peal
upon the occasion, and the count was in high spirits; but the bride was not seen.
"How is Signora Isabella, your daughter?" inquired one of the guests.
"She is as well as maiden modesty will permit."
"I have not seen her."
"Nor I."
"Nor you!" replied the guest, astonished.
"No; she has secluded herself, but will appear presently, when the bell rings for the
service. The fact is, she cannot leave her father, even for the arms of a husband, without
feeling a grief for the change."
"I hope she will be happy."
"I have no doubt of it; the man is worthy of her."
"And capable of making her happy, I hope."
"I have no doubt of that."
"Hark! the bell sounds; is that the signal?"
"Yes; follow on. I will bring my daughter forth;" and, as he spoke, he left the guests, who
hurried to the chapel, and found the stranger awaiting his bride with some impatience.

He acknowledged the courtesy of those who came to him, and looked towards a small
door, which presently opened, and the count and his daughter appeared. She was of marble
paleness, and no signs of happiness were seen in her face. She trembled, and her whole soul
seemed to be intent on something afar from her presence.
She lifted her eyes and gazed upon the throng; but apparently saw none -- or not those
whom she wished. Her father spoke to her; she heaved a deep sigh, and appeared to be
resigned to her fate. * * * * *
The ceremony commenced, and Isabella stood; but her eyes occasionally sought the
chapel door; and in a few moments more, before the important part was concluded, a bustle
took place near the door, and, immediately afterwards, some officers, in the Venetian
uniform, entered the chapel, among whom was the young count, Isabella's brother, and with
him a young officer, into whose arms she instantly threw herself, and fainted.
"Father," said the young count -- "father, this must not be."
"Why not, my son?" said the count.
"Because my sister loves another, and yon man is a monster."
"What mean you, sir?" said the chevalier. "If you were other than what you are, your
words would beget a different answer."
"You are a vampyre," replied a young Neapolitan, who stepped forward. "I knew you
before. Know you not the holy father whom you murdered?"
"'Tis false. I'll bring one to prove it."
As the chevalier spoke, he crossed the chapel, and left the place; but he did not appear
again; and, upon inquiry, he had quitted the palace in a gondola, and never reappeared.
--

CHAPTER CLXVI [Chapter 174]
THE TWO HIGHWAYMEN. -- THE MURDER AT THE GIBBET'S FOOT. -- THE

RIDE TO THE GOLDEN PIPPIN.
The evening set in a stormy mood; sudden, gusty showers rattled against the traveller;
whilst the wind swept over the country, bending the tall trees, and whistlng round the
peasant's cot, and making the chimneys appear as if they were the residences of imprisoned
spirits, which moaned and groaned most dismally to hear.
The clouds came rapidly across the sky; now darkening the earth, and now they had fled
past, leaving the moonbeams pouring a flood of light upon the fields and roadways; but this
was soon followed by another darkness, a cold rain, and rushing wind, the night being
inclement and very boisterous -- not to say a night too bad to permit travelling.
It was late on such a night, when down a lone cross-road a single horseman might be seen
to ride slowly and carefully. He was wrapped up in a large cloak, and rode a powerful
horse, and appeared to be somewhat tired.
There was much difficulty in travelling over a bad road, that was loose and shifty, with
here and there a slough of some magnitude.
In a very wild and desolate spot stood a mound of stones that had been heaped at the foot
of a gibbet, and had been collected there in consequence of the unpopularity of the
occupant of the instrument of punishment.
On the gibbet, swinging to and fro, was the body of a malefactor, hung in chains -- an
awful and disgusting spectacle -- whose death no one regretted, inasmuch as he was the
terror of the whole neighbourhood.
It was the body of a highwayman, or of a robber, who had committed all kinds of
depredations, and several murders. He was the son of a person of property, but addicted to
vicious courses, and, to support them, he had recourse to robbery and murder.
Several of his former friends were robbed, and at length his own father fell by his hands,
when he refused to give up his purse in the road at this spot. His own son shot him through
the heart.
This was the last crime he ever committed; for he was taken and tried, when enough was
proved that would have hung a hundred men; and there was not one man who could, or who
would, speak one word in his favour. He was executed; and so detested was he by all, that
every one who came by this spot threw a stone, until it grew, by these means, a goodly
heap, which remained a memento of their hate.
It was this spot the stranger was nearing, and to which he appeared to look up with some
degree of either curiosity, or interest; but, before he got there, there was another horseman

riding along the country lane, and who would arrive there about the same time as the first;
but when he came there, it was easy to perceive that he was not alone, but another
horseman was in waiting beneath some trees, and hidden from the traveller.
In a few moments more, the traveller reached the spot, and, looking up at the dead body
that was swinging to and fro in the night air, the other horseman rode up; upon which the
traveller was about to push his horse forward at an increased speed, when he found that
there was not space enough.
"Which side do you take?" he inquired of the stranger.
"Stand and deliver!" was the reply.
"That is uncivil," replied the stranger, "and a request that I do not feel at all disposed to
consent to."
"Deliver your money and a pocket-book, or you are a dead man."
"Nay," said the stranger; "I have means of defence, too."
And, as he spoke, he pulled out a bright, double-barrelled pistol, which he levelled and
cocked, saying, as he very leisurely did so, --
"Beware! you are playing with a determined man. I am not disposed to play. Get out of
my way, or you are a dead man!"
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the other, and made way at the same moment, thus bringing himself
alongside the traveller, leaving him room to go on. "You are not to be frightened -- well,
well, go on."
The traveller put his spurs to his horse, but at the same moment received a bullet from the
treacherous highwayman.
"Ha!" cried the traveller, putting his hand to his side, and in a moment more he staggered
and fell over the side of the horse on to the ground.
"Ha, ha, ha!" said the highwayman, who immediately dismounted; but before he could
search the body, the other horseman came up at a gallop.
"Well, Fred, have you quieted him?"
"I have."
"Resisted, then?"
"Yes. Have you got your lantern?"

"Yes; but it is not yet lighted. But that is soon done."
"Then let us have it as quick as you can; for he has fallen down here in a slough, and I
should like to get the money without more mire than I am obliged to put up with."
"Here it is," said the other, handing the lantern -- a small one, which he had lighted by
means of some chemical matches.
The highwayman took the lantern, and, after some examination, he secured the
pocketbook and the purse, and having done this, he examined the fingers, but saw no rings
and no watch, and he said to his companion, --
"Just come here. Did you ever see such a set of features as these? They are truly strange
and singular; I could never forget them."
"Indeed! I must have a look at them," said his companion, dismounting and bending over
the body; and when he looked at them, he said, --
"I saw that man to-day where I dined, and thought he took the other road, and there
waited for him."
"Did you, though?"
"Yes, till I was tired; and then I came across the country in search of you, but did not
expect you to have any quarry."
"Did you ever see such a countenance? it is most strange and ghastly."
"Yes, it is; but he has died a violent death, you see, and therefore there is much to be done
by way of allowance."
"Yes, yes, I know all that; but the nose, mouth, and teeth -- -"
"They are not the most agreeable in the world, certainly. Well, well, it don't matter; you
have done all your business with him, have you not?"
"I have got all, I believe," said the other. "He has no watch or chain -- not even a ring has
he got on his finger."
Perhaps you'll find enough in his purse and pocket-book to console you; though I must
say, Ned, that he dined very sparingly. But no matter the amount; ride on, for you know it
is not a good plan to stand longer here than necessary; for we may have other riders down
upon us."

"Not very likely, on this road, and as this hour; but 'tis bad. I'm off, and he will remain
behind till found by some frightened peasant or other, who will go to the nearest market
town, with a frightful account."
"Ride away; I hear horses' feet, I think."
"I am ready; forward! ho!"
The two highwaymen rode off at a rapid rate, conversing as they went; but yet it was in
suppressed tones for some distance; and after some riding, one of them pulled up his horse,
partially, saying, --
"Well, I don't think it wise we should thus wear our steeds out; there is no need of our
riding for life; our horses never ought to be put to there [sic] mettle, unless there be plenty
of occasion, which there is not."
"No -- all is right, to-night."
"Have you done much lately, Ned?"
"No; I have been rather upon the seek than find; I have been looking out brightly, but
have not been successful."
"I have myself only done moderately; but I have done better than I should have done,
because I was fortunate enough to come across a fat grazier who had more money than any
three or four persons I have met lately."
"Your fortune is somewhat like mine."
"You have met with little good then, Ned."
"Indeed, I have not; but it is a long lane that has no turning,"
"Yes; indedd, it is."
"However, I hope this queer-looking customer will reward one for one's pains; if you can
but keep the game a going, you are sure to succeed in the end; 'tis only two years or better
since I first began to ride."
"That is, put a period to other people's rising."
"Exactly."
"Well, then, where do you intend to put up for the night? for I suppose you do not intend
to stay out all night any more than myself."

"No; I think of going on until I come to 'The Golden Pippin,' where I intend to stay for the
night. The landlord can wink hard at his friends, and not know they are in the house, or he
can tell them a thing if they want to know anything at all to their interest."
"He's the sort of man; I know him. I was thinking of going there; I don't know better or
snugger quarters than are to be had at his hostel."
"Then we'll have a good supper and a bottle at 'The Golden Pippin.'"
"With all my heart; but you don't think there'll be any danger of our being pursued for this
matter."
"Oh, dear, no; the direct road lies another way, and we shall be quite fifteen miles from
the spot where the body lies."
"So far."
"Yes; we have come over the ground very rapidly, and have gone more than two-thirds of
that distance. When we get there we shall be safe, easy, and comfortable; and right good
wines are there to be had at 'The Golden Pippin.'"
--

CHAPTER CLXVII [Chapter 175]
THE HORRORS OF THE NIGHT. -- THE DISCOVERY IN THE ROAD. --

CONTENTION BETWEEN MAN AND HORSE. -- COMFORTABLE QUARTERS IN
THE GOLDEN PIPPIN.
The malefactor's body swung to and fro on the gibbet, and the chains squeeked and
groaned as the wind impelled the body's motions. The wind itself whistled heedlessly by,
and the transient, but heavy shower passed on, heedless of the deed of blood that had been
perpetrated beneath its monitory shadow.
Now and then there was a little light, and then the body might be seen heaped up, and
lying in the mud and mire, which was all discoloured with the blood of the fallen man -- he
was motionless. The rain fell on him, but it mattered not -- the body felt it not. The wind
blew the cloak about, but the body remained quiet, and nothing appeared to spare the body.
There was no one nigh; that was a lonely spot, and that was tenanted by two dismal
gipsys. The body of the malefactor swang to and fro while the body of the murdered
traveller lay quit enough.
The clouds travelled across the face of the moon, and intercepted her light from the earth;
but yet it was light enough at intervals to enable the traveller to see his way on foot, or on
horseback.
About two hours after that in which the traveller had been stopped and murdered, there
came another individual riding towards the scene.
This was a countryman -- a grazier, who was well-mounted, and came along at a rapid
rate, having a stout trotting nag under him.
When he neared the spot where the murder had been committed, he gave a look up at the
disagreeable object -- the gibbet, and when he had done so, he put the spur to his horse's
side, with the intenetion of going by at a quickened pace, exclaiming as he did so, --
"This is no pleasant place at nine o'clock at night. I wish I were at the Golden Pippin,
instead of here."
As he spoke, he pushed his horse, as he manifested a design to stop; but the animal,
instead of going past, reared up.
"Hilloa! brute. What art after now, eh?"
The spur was again applied, but the animal only became more and more unmanageable,
and the rider near losing his seat; but he was, nevertheless, the more anxious to get onward,
for the neighbourhood was not pleasant; added to which, it was a wet and dismal night, and
late for a cross-road.

"Curse you!" muttered the grazier; "what the deuce is the matter with you? -- did you
never see the gibbet before? If thee hadn't, I should not have been surprised at thee shying
at the man swinging on the gibbet; but thee hast done so, and now thee art frightened.
Whoa! d -- n thee."
He made another attempt to force the horse by, but it was fruitless, and he was at length
unseated into the mire.
"D -- -n!" muttered the man; "the first time I have been thrown these ten years, drunk or
sober, and now I am sober."
This was apparently the first reflection that came to his mind after the first effect of the
concussion; he then scratched his head, adjusted his hat, and was getting up, when for a
moment his eyes rested on something dark lying in the middle of the road, and at which his
horse had in reality shyed.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, with a visible alteration in his demeanour; "that's what Peg shied at,
eh? What the devil is it?"
As he muttered these words, his hair began to stand on end; and the more he looked, the
greater his apprehension; for he began to think what he wished was further from the fact,
though his notions were far from being definite, and he did all he could to dispel the rising
terror.
"Why -- it ain't -- no, it can't be -- and yet it must be! What makes 'un lay there -- he must
be dead, surely!"
Thrice he scrambled to his feet, and then walked a little towards the object against which
his horse stood smelling and snorting with evident signs of fear.
"Woa, brute! What's the matter with thee? -- confound thee! But I suppose thee wast
frightened."
As the man spoke, he walked up to the animal, and, taking the bridle, he passed it over his
arms, and then approached the body.
"Aye, sure enough, he's insensible -- if not dead, poor fellow! What can be done -- there's
no one near at hand to lend assistance?"
He paused to consider what was to be done, when it occurred to him as being the most
likely thing that could be done was to probe the unfortunate man; he could not say whether
he was dead or alive, from his positon in the middle of the road.
"If 'un ain't dead," he argued, "he would come to no harm; for it wasn't every horse that
cared as much for a man as Peg did; they might get run over, or cause some desperate
accident."

Having made up his mind what to do, he secured Peg, and turned his attention to the body
of the stranger, which had been left on its back, with its face upwards, but the wind had
blown the cloak over it, and it was not seen by the grazier, who now essayed to move the
body.
After some trouble, he succeeded in dragging him there, and propping him up against the
bank, upon which grew a stunted hedge, and, when there, he opened the cloak, and looked
upon the features of the dead man.
"Well," he muttered; "I never yet saw such a face! I am sure I can never forget that. Of all
the ill-looking thieves, he is the worst! but much, I suppose, must be set off on the fact that
he is a dead man, and a murdered one, to boot."
There was a strange markedness in the style of features in the dead man, that gave no
pleasing impression to the mind; it was one that could not easily be forgotten, especially
accompanied by all the horrors of their place and circumstances.
"He has been shot, no doubt," he muttered. "This must be all blood. Aye! in in [sic] the
breast, or thereabouts. Oh! he is dead. Well, I'll ride to the Golden Pippin, and then I'll give
them notice of it."
He was just about to turn and mount his horse, when the clouds parted, and the
moonbeams, for a few moments, came upon the body, without any hindrance, and the
grazier thought he saw a movement.
"It must have been gammon,"he muttered. "I'll be off -- I'm quite cold and shivery here.
I'll go to the Golden Pippin, and get some good cheer, for I'm terribly shaken. Eh! what was
that? The devil!"
The latter exclamations were uttered in consequence of the figure turning towards the
moon's rays, and then opening its eyes, which had such an effect upon the unfortunate man,
that he staggered back terrified.
"Lord have mercy!" he ejaculated. "What's -- what's that? He -- he's coming too -- [sic]
hilloa, friend! -- how are you?"
The figure turned his large motionless eyes upon the terrified man, and they had such an
effect upon him, that, despite all he could do to rally himself, he sprang involuntarily to his
horse's back, and galloped off furiously. * * * * *
It was scarce an hour before this occured, when the two highwaymon [sic] rode up to the
Golden Pippin.
"Hilloa! hilloa! ostler -- here!" shouted one of them, and in a few moments more the
ostler came out, willing enough.

"Hilloa, Jem! you are sharp to-night. How is it you are not asleep?"
"I was just going to roost, master; but I shall have a job instead, I can see."
"You will; but not an empty handed affair, this time; take care of the nags, and there's a
crown for you."
"Thank you, master -- you are always generous."
"When I can, Jem; but what company have you in the house?"
"Little to speak of," said the ostler; "about three or four people, as lives about here; but
nobody that I know -- anybody or anything -- only people that have to earn their own
living; they are in the kitchen."
"Good fire?"
"Yes."
"Then we will go there, too," said the highwayman; "it's a raw cold night, and one in
which a good super and a good fire will do one good."
The two highwaymen then entered the house, and walked into the kitchen, which was a
large room, with beams across the top, and a variety of utensils proper to the place; but the
grand feature was the large fire-place, in which burned brightly some good logs, and threw
a glowing warmth and bright light over the whole apartment, in which, however, was one
candle, as if to be mocked by the light of the fire. The use of this solitary wick was to
enable the smokers to light their pipes without stirring, and also to be taken away at a
moment's notice for any purpose that might be needed.
The three guests turned their attention to the new comers, without, however, exchanging
one word, and the landlord himself arose.
"Oh, landlord," said one of the highwaymen, "I'm glad you have a good fire; 'tis one of
the best things, after a cold ride, a man can have met with."
"Except a good hot supper, and a cup afterwards," said his companion.
"All these are very good things in their way, gentlemen," said the landlord, emptying the
ashes of his pipe out into the fireplace by tapping the pipe on the toe of his shoe, and thus
dropped the ashes out of danger.
"You are right, landlord," said the other.

"But I always, think, gentlemen," said the landlord gravely, "that they are always a great
deal better when they can be had together -- they are better for their company's sake -- the
one helps the other."
"So they do."
"Well, then, let us have them all, old cock, as soon as you please, for we are both cold,
tired, and hungry."
"And they are the best accompaniments you can have as a preparatory for all that is to
follow."
"Amen! and about it," said the highwayman.
The two new guests sat themselves down in one quarter of the kitchen, and near to a table
facing the fire, where they could enjoy its genial warmth, which they appeared to do with
much gusto.
Having opened their coats, and taken off their shawls, removed their hats, and sat down in
a comfortable manner, they began to look about them.
"Well, Ned, we have made a good exchange."
"How do you mean?"
"Why, we have exchanged the road to comfortable quarters, which, you will, at least,
admit, is all the better."
"Yes, much better; though I have ridden many a long and weary a night before now, with
the runners at my heels."
"Ay -- ay, so have I; but hush -- say no more of that there. I have no idea of letting these
blacks suspect anything; they are what you call honest men, and men who would give a
clue in a moment, if they thought it was wanted."
"I dare say it is so, Ned; but what are you going to have for supper?"
"I don't know. Landlord, what can we have for supper -- anything hot?"
"Why," said the landlord, "I can kill a couple of chickens and brander them, or there is
some chicken pie, and a cold ham."
"Well, what do you say, Ned?"
"Can't you make the chicken pie warm?"

"It is warm now," said the landlord. "I can't make it quite hot without doing too much; 'tis
uncommon good, and has not long been put by from supper; it was made for supper, but
there's a good half left."
"Eh? What do you say to chicken pie, Ned?"
"With all my heart; chicken pie let it be, then," replied Ned.
"Well, then, landlord, put the chicken pie on, flanked by the ham -- some of your foaming
October, you know."
"Ay -- ay, sir; some with a head on, that would take a blacksmith's bellows to blow off, it
is so strong."
"Ha -- ha -- ha! that's the strike for us."
The landlord now arose, and set about getting the necessary articles, and spreading them
upon a table before the two guests, who were nothing loath to see the expedition that he had
made to please them.
"I think," said the landlord, "you will say you never eat such chickens; they are my
hatching, and have been well fed; they have been well killed, cooked, and I hope, will be
well eaten."
"That is our part of the business, landlord; and if they are such as you speak of, why, you
may depend upon our doing our duty by them."
"And the ham is my own breeding and curing."
"Better and better, -- and the October?"
"Why, I am just going to get that. What say you to a tankard?"
"Yes, a foaming tankard."
"Yes, gentlemen, I will obtain what you want; it is in beautiful condition, and when
chilled, will give you a cream as thick as new cheese; and as mild as new milk,
--

CHAPTER CLXVIII [Chapter 176]
THE GRAZIER'S RELATION, AND HIS FIRST TERRORS. -- THE EFFECTS OF

GOOD CHEER AND THE SUDDEN INTERRUPTION TO A PLEASANT PARTY.
The landlord was not long gone for the October; he came back with a placid smile and a
smacking of his lips, when he shut the door behind him, and then deliberately placing the
candlestick down, he said, handing them the tankard, --
"There, gentlemen, if you find any better brewed than that in the three adjoining counties,
why, you may take measure for my coffin, for I won't live after I am told there is any so
good anywhere else."
"We will not take your word, landlord," said one of the highwaymen, putting the tankard
to his lips, which act produced an approving nod from the jolly landlord, who said, with
much encouragement, --
"That's right; never trust nobody; that's my motto, and I chalks it up over the fire-place,
and acts upon it -- try for yourself, and then you won't be deceived. What's your opinion
upon that now, sir?"
"Never drank its equal, ever here."
"I thought you'd say so; it comes out of a particular cask -- one as I puts by for myself;
but you have ridden hard, and I thought a brew of an extra strike would be an acceptable
drink."
"You are right. It is cold and very wet. I'm as tired as if I had ridden far -- the wind has
blown me about so."
"Ah, don't you hear how it roars in the chimney?"
"So it does. What do you think of the brew, Ned -- ain't it first rate?"
"Indeed it is: I never had any equal to it. I tell you what, landlord, it will make an
excellent night-cap, for a man who has taken a glass or two of this, would not be better able
to keep his saddle."
"No; it's lucky we intend putting up for the night here; you have beds."
"Yes, good, and well aired."
"That is capital. Well, your chicken-pie is good, landlord, your ham good, and the
October excellent; and now -- what's that?"

At that moment there was a sound of horses' feet galloping furiously towards the houses;
and they had not listened long before they came close to the door, and then there was
evidently a sudden pull up.
"Hilloa! what is that?" said his companion.
"I think it is somebody pulled up at the door," said the landlord; "whoever they are they
have come in haste."
The two highwaymen half rose, but a look at each other caused them to resume their
seats, and in another moment there was a loud shouting, and a call for the ostler; but there
was no one at hand.
"Where is that Jim got to -- I must go and see after him, at all events -- he won't come if I
don't."
So saying, he walked away whilst the guests remained silent watching the actions of the
two highwaymen.
"It is but a single horseman," said the first.
"No," said the other; "but still he may be mischievous; and yet I can hardly think he
would venture here at such a time; besides, it can't be known; we are much better here than
anywhere else."
"I think so; we have nothing to fear."
"Nothing."
At that moment the landlord retired; and, at the same time, the door was suddenly opened,
and the grazier entered the kitchen. He glanced around him, much confused. The fire and
light, no doubt, had some share in that; but he stared, and appeared terrified, and all
splashed over.
"Where's the ostler?" he cried out.
"Here I be," said the worthy behind.
"Look after my horse; he is very hardly ridden. See to him, that's a good fellow," said the
grazier.["]
"Yes; I'll see to 'un," said Jem, who departed with the animal.
"Landlord -- landlord!"
"Yes; here I am, Master Green -- here am I!"

"Give me something strong; I'm half dead. I'm cold, and I'm frightened, and that is the
truth. Where's the fire?"
"Why, Master Green, I never saw you in this state before. Give me your hand, Master
Green. I'll show you the fire," said the landlord, holding out his hand to Green. "Why, you
are cold -- what has happened?"
"You shall hear -- you shall hear," said the half-terrified Green. "Only give me a toss of
brandy, and get me a supper, and then I shall be able to tell you more about it. At present I
can say nothing."
"Well, that is pretty well for a man that can't speak," said the landlord. "You are getting
better, Mr. Green."
"I hope I shall; the fire is comfortable."
"Here's some good brandy; take a gill, man. It won't hurt you on such an occasion as this.
I have seen you do as much before; but, as for supper, why I can't say much. These two
gentlemen have had the only thing I had in the house, and, save the ham, I doubt much if
there will be any left."
"If the gentlemen will join us, he is welcome to take a share of what we have," said one of
the highwaymen. "Here will be enough for us all, I dare say, sir, if you do not object to our
company."
"Thank you -- thank you," said Green. "I will accept of your offer gladly; for I have had a
long ride, and have had much that is uncomfortable to put up with, to see and to fear. Lord
have mercy on me say I!"
"Well, what is the matter, Mr. Green?"
"Why," said Mr. Green, as he, between his words, poked in large mouthfuls of food, and
now and then washed it down by the aid of the October. "You all of you know the
highwayman's corner, about fifteen miles from here?"
"Yes," said the landlord, "I know it well; there's a chap hanging up in chairs there, now, at
this present day, that is, if nobody hasn't run away with it, or it hasn't been blown down."
"Exactly. Well, that's the spot; there's been another dreadful murder been done there. Oh!
it was dreadful."
"Well, did you see it?"
"Yes; I did."
"What! the murder!" said both highwaymen at once.

"No; the body -- I only saw the body."
"Where was it lying?"
"Stop, stop a bit -- not so fast," said Mr. Green, who was eating very fast indeed, but
paused a moment. "You must not ask too many questions at once, because I have one way
of telling a tale, and you'll spoil it."
"Well, go on your own way."
"Well, then, listen. I was coming along at a rattling pace, I can tell you, for I was late, and
tired, as it was. When I had reached the gallows, I looked up at the body swinging in the
wind, and creaking and screaming on its rusty swivels; but I had scarcely done so, when my
horse shyed, and very nearly landed me in the mud, but I contrived to keep my seat, though
not without trouble."
"What! at the dead man?" inquired one of the highwaymen.
"Aye," replied his companion. "I am sure they ought not to put men up there like
scarecrows, to frighten horses with; for my part, I never pass it but my horse snorts and
bolts, and I am obliged to be wary."
"I don't know much about that. I have come by without my nag being any the worse. At
all events, I thought there was something in his shying at the gallows, and I tried to push
him by, but he would not go."
"What did you do?"
"Why, I was obliged to get down," said the grazier.
"Thrown?"
"No, no."
"Forced to get down, you mean," said the highwayman.
"Why, in some sort of way I did feel myself compelled to get down, because the brute
wouldn't go a-head, and I saw something on the ground as the clouds cleared away a little,
and showed me that there was something suspicious in the middle of the road, very much
like a bundle of clothes."
"Indeed!" said the landlord, "what was it?"
"I'll tell you, in course. Now, you see, I saw the animal would not move, so I got off to
see what was the matter."

"Forced off," adde the highwayman.
"D -- n it, man, what can it matter; then I got off," said the grazier, getting into a passion,
and then, after a pause, which he employed in taking a long pull at the October, and then
wiping his lips, he continued, --
"What is the matter now?" thought I; "so I went to the object, and found it was a man
rolled up in a cloak in the middle of the road, dead."
"Dead?"
"Aye, dead as a door nail."
"Lor!" said the highwayman. "Why, then he must have been murdered, I suppose?"
"You may take your davy of that," said the grazier; "but I tried to wake him up, but he
was not to be disturbed, so I dragged him to the bank, where I left him."
"Where was he hurt?"
"Shot right in the side, or stabbed, I don't know which, but that's where the blood came
from, so I was sure he was dead; but when I removed the cloak from his face, I saw he had
as ugly a set of features as a man can desire -- a long, peculiar face, large, but thin nose, an
awkward set of teeth, with one or two projecting in front, and oh! such eyes, that is when he
opened them."
"Opened them," said the highwayman; "both?"
"Opened them," repeated the landlord; "why, did you not tell me he was dead?"
"Aye; but when the moonlight came upon him, he opened his eyes. Oh! what eyes -- why,
they were like a pair of enormous great fish eyes -- cod's eyes, that had become suddenly
lighted up, or the moonlight reflected back from the bottom of a new tin saucepan, and then
you have 'em."
"The devil," said the highwayman; "and what did you do?"
"Why, I came away as fast as I could. I wasn't to be done by a dead man. I didn't wait to
see more than that. He turned round and stared at me. He was so horrible, that I got upon
my horse the best way I could, and came on here as fast as the animal would come."
"The body, I dare say, rolled over, and you thought it moved of itself."
"I know better; besides, it opened its eyes."

"The moon shone on them, and you thought he looked at you. You were terror-stricken,
and that is the truth of it."
"Then I know better," said the grazier, doggedly; "it ain't anything of the kind. I know it
ain't a matter that happens every day, and that's why you don't believe it, and don't
understand it, but I know I'm right."
"House, here, house! ostler!" shouted a loud, authoritative voice without the door of the
inn, which caused them all to start and listen for a repetition of the same sounds to prove
that they were not illusory.
--

CHAPTER CLXIX [Chapter 177]
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER'S ARRIVAL. -- THE CONSTERNATION OF THE

GUESTS. -- THE GRAZIER'S TERRORS, AND POWERS OF IDENTITY. -- THE
LANDLORD'S DAUGHTER.
"Hilloa! house! house! shouted the strange voice on the outside, but in a tone that seemed
unearthly; whether it were merely a fancy, or reality, yet it had its effect, and the landlord
sat staring vacantly with his two hands resting on either knee, leaning forward as if he was
staring some imaginary object out of countenance.
"Well," said one of the the highwaymen, "ain't anybody going to the door."
No one answered, but Jem the ostler was hastening by another passage to the door, and
then they heard some confused speaking, as if the stranger was giving some directions for
the care of his horse.
The grazier was fixed in his attention to what was going on, and appeared petrified, and
held a morsel on the end of his fork, halfway between his mouth and the plate, with his eyes
directed towards the door.
In a few moments more they heard the steps of some one approaching the door, and one
of the highwaymen said to his companion, --
"Ned, there are people late on the roads to-night."
"Yes; it appears so, but it is very uncomfortable travelling; the night is bad, and the roads
no better. Who's this, I wonder?"
"We shall now see," said the other, but their backs were turned towards the door, and they
could not see who entered the door so well as the grazier, who sat in the same attitutde,
without a motion or movement, even to wink his eye, when the door opened, and in walked
a tall man, wrapped in a horseman's cloak.
The expression of horror in the grazier's face, and the swelling of his eyes almost out of
his head, at once showed them there was something extraordinary, and they both mutually
turned round, and to their extreme terror they perceived the very man, or his double, they
had left dead upon the spot where the grazier had seen him.
Neither were they alone surprised, for all present were able at once to recognise the same
man without any difficulty.
"It's the same man -- I'm d -- d!" said the grazier, as if he had made an effort to speak, and
when he had so, he couldn't help himself. Oh, Lord! -- who would have thought it? -- it's --
it's the -- the -- what do ye call it?"

"The devil," suggested the landlord.
"No," said the stranger, "no. I am merely a traveller, somewhat weary and tired -- do not
disturb yourselves. I am cold -- very cold -- the fire will do me good; it is a very cold night
-- the roads are bad very unsafe."
"Very," said one of the highwaymen, involuntarily.
"Did you speak?" inquired the stranger, suddenly turning to the highwayman who had
spoken with a look of such a peculiar character, that he caused the bold roadster
involuntarily to start; but he suddenly recovered himself, and said, --
"I did."
"What did you say, sir?"
"The same as you," replied the highwayman.
The stranger made no reply to the highwayman, whose natural effrontery, and the
necessity he always had or presence of mind in circumstances of peril, gave him a greater
superiority than most men possessed under such circumstances.
"I'm not well," said the stranger.
"Perhaps you've ridden far."
"I have," replied the stranger. "Landlord, will you have the goodness to let me have some
supper; I am weary."
"I have only the remains of the chicken-pie and some ham," said the landlord, looking
black [sic] at the already referred-to chicken-pie, which, thanks to its being made of great
size, had already supped three hungry men, -- "and there is but little of that."
"It is not much that I want -- a small matter will suffice -- a little ham, and something
warm, and then I will to-bed -- 'tis late."
"Very well, sir," said the landlord; "here's some good October; will you like that? or is
there anything else? I have French spirits."
"Then let me have some brandy."
"Yes, sir, I'll fetch my daughter down stairs," said the landlord; "she's young, and her
hand is steadier than mine. I shall upset the bottle; my -- my hand, you see, is always
unsteady after I've drawn the October; somehow or other I always get out of order."
"What is the reason of that?" inquired the highwayman.

"Why, it's so strong; I believe it's nothing else whatever."
As the landlord turned to go, he give another look at the guest, and appeared greatly
disturbed, and certainly thought him a strange and unaccountable man; for he believed that
he was in truth the very man spoken of, who had been left for dead on the bank, near the
foot of the gallows.
"Mary," said the landlord, when he had ascended half a dozen stairs, which led out of the
kitchen, "Mary."
"Yes, father," was the ready answer, in a clear, pleasing voice.
"I want you, my dear. Bring the brandy down -- the French -- the sealed bottle; the other's
out; I took the last this morning before breakfast."
"Ho! ho!" siad the highwayman; "hark at our landlord, how early he must begin -- no
wonder his hand shakes."
"Ah!" said the landlord, as he came back with a wink; "when you have been a father and
an innkeeper as long as I have, you'll do many things you don't now dream of; but, no
matter, I ain't as young as I used to be."
At that moment a very pretty and genteel girl, about eighteen, descended the stairs with a
spirit bottle in her hand, and advanced to the table.
"How will you take it, sir?" inquired the landlord.
"Mixed."
"Make a glass, my dear," said the landlord.
"Is that your daughter?" inquired the stranger, fixing his eyes upon her, -- and they were
such leaden eyes, that the girl shrank from him in dismay.
"Yes," said the landlord.
"Any more?"
"None," replied the landlord, and then there was a pause of some moments, during which
the stranger watched the young girl's motions with a greedy jealousy, as if he feared to lose
one movement, and in a manner that especially annoyed the old landlord, who, however,
could say nothing, he having been quite cowed by the stranger's superiority in station and
demeanour; besides which, there was something very strange and peculiar, not to say
superhuman, about him that gave weight, and caused a kind of awe to pervade all present,
and they looked upon him as something fearful or terrible.

It was not long before the stranger ate his supper -- it was soon done; he ate but little, and,
when that was done, he turned to the brandy and water; but there appeared an air of
compulsion, upon his part, as if everything he took was taken under the feeling that it was
absolutely necessary to take something, which did not escape the discerning eyes of all
present, especially the landlord, who felt it a slight upon himself and his cheer.
"If I had known you were coming here," said the landlord, "I would have got something
ready for you, but, as it was, I had nothing but 'pot-luck' for you."
"What is that?" inquired the stranger. -- "What is that? -- I never heard of such a dish
before. I am a stranger in these parts."
"Oh, it only means you could have anything what is in the house."
"It will do," said the stranger, quietly.
"Will you have anything more that we have in the house?"
"Nothing. I came by the gibbet, not far from this place; and I met with an accident there
that has left me but little stomach.
"By gosh, I should think not," muttered the grazier; "it would have settled my stomach
altogether, and anybody else's."
"Well," muttered one of the highwaymen, "It would have left me no stomach, save what
would be in a fair way to become food for the worms."
"What kind of accident was it, sir?"
"A terrible blow in the side; it seemed to go through me."
"Well, well, I imagine there would be but little comfort in a man's bowels after he had
anything go through his side."
"It depends upon the constitution," said the stranger, "quietly." [sic]
"The what?" inquired one of the highwaymen, incredulously.
"The constitution," replied the stranger, quietly[.]
There was a pause for some minutes, during which the strangers exchanged glances at
each other, when one of the highwaymen said, --
"Perhaps a bullet put in your side might be no hidrance to your animal economy, and
would in the course of nature become digested."

"Why, I dare say it would not hurt me so much as many; but it would take me some little
while to recover the shock, which would be great; but I am unwell, and perhaps had better
retire. Will the young female, your daughter, act as my chambermaid and show me my
room?'" [sic]
"Yes," said the landlord, mechanically; "here, Mary, show the gentleman into No. 6, and
leave the light."
"Good night," said the stranger, rising, and walking away erect, but slowly, from the
group, who gazed after him with amazement.
"Good night, sir," said the landlord, which was echoed by those present; and, when the
stranger was gone, there was a general release in their conversation from the constraint
which the presence of the last comer occasioned.
"Well, what do you think of him, Mr. Green?" inquired the landlord.
"The very same man I saw on the bank at the gallows corner."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite."
There was a general pause, as if there was something for them all to think over; and their
thoughts appeared to be so unsatisfactory, that those who lived close at hand left the house,
and those that remained there went to their respective beds, and in half an hour the house
was quite silent.
--

CHAPTER CLXX [Chapter 178]
THE MIDNIGHT CRY OF ALARM. -- THE VAMPYRE'S MEAL. -- THE CHASE

ACROSS THE FIELDS. -- THE DEATH OF THE LANDLORD'S DAUGHTER.
The old inn was in a state of repose; its various parts were no longer vexed by the busy
tramp of men, the noisy voice of the toper, or the untiring hands of the housewife, who does
not spare any part of its edifice from her ablutions. The brush and the broom are sad
intruders and disturbers, and yet they are in perpeutal requisition. However, the inhabitants
were all steeped in slumber.
Among those who lay in that house, there was not one, except one, indeed, who did not
lie down to rest, and fall into a deep sleep; but that one exception was the stranger, who
appeared to have other views.
He threw himself into a chair, and there appeared to meditate upon the clouds which
passed across the sky, in endless variety of shape and form. He sat motionless, and still his
large, lustreless eyes were fully opened, and he was gazing earnestly for nearly an hour
without motion.
At length, as if his attention was of itself wearying to continue so long, he moved, then
sighed deeply, or rather groaned.
"How long is this hated life to last?" he muttered. "When shall I cease to be the loathsome
creature I am?"
There was some reflection in this that was very bitter to him. He shuddered, and buried
his face in his hands, and remained in that state for some minutes; but then he lifted his
head up agian, and turned towards the moon's rays, muttering, --
"But I am faint; I feel the want of my natural slumbers. Blood alone will restore me my
strength. There is no resisting the dreadful appetite that goads me on. I must -- I must -- I
will satisfy it."
He arose suddenly, and drew himself up to his full height, and threw aloft his arms, as he
growled out these words with frantic energy; but in a few seconds he became more calm,
and said, --
"I saw the maiden enter the room next to mine. I can enter it by the same door, for I have
the key, and that will place her at my mercy. Good fortune for once avail me, and then my
wants will be satisfied."
He walked softly to his own door, and undid it stealthily, and listened for some minutes.

"They are all asleep," he said -- "all, save one. I alone walk through the place. All are in
peaceful slumbers, while I, like the creatures of prey, seek those whom I may devour. I
must on."
He crept into the passage, and advanced to the door of the young girl, who lay soundly
sleeping in innocence and peace, little dreaming of the fate that awaited her -- much less
did she think that the destroyer was so close at hand.
She might, indeed, have dreamed that there was some one in the house who was scarcely
of her nature -- one that was loathsome and dreadful -- one who, in fact, lived upon the
blood of the innocent and fairest.
"She sleeps," he muttered -- "she sleeps!"
He listened again, and then he gently put the key into the door, and found that it was not
locked, and then, turning the handle, he found there was some impediment to its opening;
but of what character he could not tell.
"'Tis unlucky; but this must be moved."
He place his hand and foot close to the door, and pressed it gradually and hardly against
it, and he found that it gradually gave way, and that the impediment gave by degrees, and
that, too, with hardly any noise.
"Fortune favours me," he muttered; "she does not hear me. I shall win the chamber, and
shall, before she can wake up, sieze upon the dear life-stream that is no less precious to me
than to herself."
He now had succeeded in effecting an entrance into the room, and found that it was only
an easy chair that had been placed against the door, because there was no other means of
securing it, the key having unaccountably disappeared, and left her without any other
means of securing her door.
"I will lock it," he muttered; "if I be disturbed, I shall be better able to escape, and I shall
be safe. My meal will be undisturbed; at least not before so much has been taken as will
revive my strength."
He now approached the bed, and with eager eyes devoured the fair form of the youthful
and innocent sleeper.
"How calm, and how unsuspicious she lies," he muttered; "'twere a pity, but I must, I
must -- there is no help."
He leaned over her. He bent his head till his ear almost touched the lips of the sleeper, as
though he were listening to the breathing of the young girl.

Something caused her to start. She opened her eyes, and endeavoured to rise up, but she
was immediately thrust back, and the vampire seized her fair flesh with his fanged teeth,
and having fleshed them, he was drawing that life current from her which ensanguined
them both.
Horror and fright for a moment deprived her of strength, or the power of uttering a sound
of any kind; but when she did do so, it was one wild unearthly shriek, that was heard
throughout the whole house, and awakened every human being within it in a moment.
"Help! murder, murder!" she shrieked out, as soon as the first scream subsided, and she
regained breath.
These cries she uttered rapidly, as well as attempting a desperate resistance to her
persecutor; but she was growing gradually more and more faint. * * * * *
The landlord had just got out of an uncomfortable dream about some strange adventure he
was having with some excisemen when he was young, when the heart-piercing shriek of
Mary came upon him.
"God bless me," he muttered, "what's that? I never heard anything so horrible in all my
life. What can it be?"
He sat up in bed, and pulled his nightcap off, while he listened, when he heard the cries of
help issuing from his daughter's room.
"Good God! it's Mary," he muttered, "What can be the matter?"
He did not pause a moment, but huddled on his clothes, and then rushed out of his room
with a light, to his daughter's bedroom.
"What is the matter?" inquired one of the highwaymen, who had been disturbed by the
dreadful shriek.
"I don't know; but -- but help me."
"Help you to what?"
"To burst open this door; 'tis my daughter's room, and the noise comes from that place.
Hark!"
"Help, help!" said a faint voice.
"Damnation!" said the highwayman, "something's wrong there; somebody's sucking;

surely the stranger is not there?"
"Burst the door open."

"Then lend a hand; it must give," said Ned; and they all three made a rush at the door, and
in it went, for their weight carried it all before them, and they all three went into the
apartment without any hindrance, for the frail lock gave immediately, and the other
impediment only served to add to the noise.
Though they went in easily, yet they did not do so quickly enough, for they all rolled over
each other, and before they could rise they distinctly saw the figure of the stranger start up
and rush out of the room with Mary in his arms.
"Help! help! mercy!" she shrieked out.
"'Tis she," said the landlord.
"Mary -- -"
"Yes, after her boys -- after her; for Heaven's sake, after her."
"We will not leave her," said the highwaymen in concert, and at the same moment all
three rushed after her.
"The stranger has made his way down into the kitchen, and I think he has her with him,"
said the landlord.
"I will after him," said Ned; "I saw her in his arms. She was all over blood. Good
Heavens! what can he mean? does he want to murder her?"
"Help! help! murder!" shouted the girl, and at that moment they heard the stranger
attempting the kitchen door below. In a moment they all three ran down stairs as fast as
they could, to seize the villain before he could escape; but they had hardly got into the
kitchen before they saw the door swing to after him.
"He's gone," said the landlord; "he's gone."
"We'll after them; come on, never mind a chase; she's in white, and the moon's up, so we
shall have them in sight."
"Away after them, lads; save my girl -- save my Mary!"
Away they went with great speed, but the stranger somehow or other kept ahead of them;
his great height gave him an advantage in length of stride; but then he bore the landlord's
daughter in his arms, which was more than enough to balance their powers; for though she
was not heavy, comparatively speaking, yet she was heavy to be borne along in this
manner; but the stranger appeared to possess superhuman strength, and moved along safely
until they lost sight of him among some hay-stacks, for which they made.

"There, he's gone into Jackson's rick-yard," said the landlord; "get up; push on; we may
be yet in time to prevent mischief."
The highwaymen ran hard; they had been out of breath for some time, and cold hardly
move their feet, but they made a sudden effort, or spirt, and away they ran, and, in less than
a minute, came up to the rick-yard." [sic]
They rushed into the yard, and then beheld the stranger seated upon some partially cut
hay with the helpless maiden on his lap, but his fanged teeth were fleshed in her fair neck,
and he was exerting himself in drawing the life stream from her veins.
As soon as he saw the highwaymen he arose, and the unfortunate girl rolled to the earth,
and he started up and fled, the highwaymen firing a parting shot after him, with pretty good
aim, yet it took no effect. The landlord's daughter was picked up warm, but lifeless.
Whether it was in consequence of her wound and loss of blood, which was doubted, or
from sheer fright, is not known, but the latter was considered most probable.
--

CHAPTER CLXXI [Chapter 179]
THE HOTEL. -- THE FASHIONABLE ARRIVAL. -- THE YOUNG HEIRESS.
Can it be true, and if so, how horribly strange, that a being half belonging to a world of
spirits, should thus wander beneath the cold moon and the earth, bringing dismay to the
hearts of all upon whom his strange malign influence is cast!
How frightful an existence is that of Varney the Vampyre!
There were some good points about the -- man, we were going to say -- and yet we can
hardly feel justified in bestowing upon him that title, -- considering the strange gift of
renewable existence which was his. If it were, as, indeed, it seemed to be the case, that
bodily decay in him was not the result of death, and that the rays "of the cold chaste moon"
were sufficient to revivify him, who shall say when that process is to end? and who shall
say that, walking the streets of giant London at this day, there may not be some such
existences? Horrible thought that, perhaps seduced by the polished exterior of one who
seems a citizen of the world in the most extended signification of the words, we should
bring into our domestic circle a vampyre!
But yet it might be so. We have seen, however, that Varney was a man of dignified
courtesy and polished manners; that he had the rare and beautiful gift of eloquence; and
that, probably, gathering such vast experience from his long intercourse with society -- an
intercourse which had extended over so many years, he was able to adapt himself to the
tastes and the feelings of all persons, and so exercise over them that charm of mind which
caused him to have so dangerous a power.
At times, too, it would seem as if he regretted that fatal gift of immortality, as if he would
gladly have been more human, and lived and died as those lived and died whom he saw
around him. But being compelled to fulfil the order of his being, he never had the courage
absolutely to take measures for his own destruction, a destruction which should be final in
consequence of depriving himself of all opportunity of resuscitation.
Certainly the ingenunity of such a man might have devised some means of putting such
an end to his life, that, in the perishable fragments of his body there should linger not one
spark of that vitality which had been so often again and again fanned into existence.
Probably some effort of that kind may yet be his end, and we shall see that Varney the
Vampyre will not, like the common run of the world's inhabitants, be changed into that dust
of which is all humanity, but will undergo some violent disruption, and be for ever blotted
out from the muster-roll of the living creatures that inhabit the great world.
But to cease speculating on such things, and to come to actual facts, we will now turn
over another leaf in the strange eventful history of Varney the Vampyre. * * * * *

One stormy, inclement evening in November, a travelling carriage, draggled with mud,
and dripping with moisture, was driven up to the door of the London Hotel, which was an
establishment not of the very first fashion, but of great respectability, situated then in
Burlington-street, close to Old Bond-street, then the parade of fashion, and, as some
thought, elegance; although we of the present day would look with risibility upon the
costumes that were the vogue, although the period were but fifty years ago; but fifty years
effect strange mutations and revolutions in dress, manners, and even in modes of thought.
The equipage, if not of the most dashing character, was still of sufficiently aristocratic
pretensions to produce a considerable bustle in the hotel; and the landlord, after seeing that
there was a coronet upon of the panels of the carriage door, thought it worth his while
personally to welcome the guests who had done him the honour of selecting his house.
These guests consisted of an oldish man and woman, a young man of frivolous and
foppish exterior, of about twenty-two years of age, and a young lady, who was so covered
up in a multitude of shawls, that but little of her face could be seen; but that little was
sufficient to stamp her at once as most beautiful.
The whole party evidently paid great court to this young lady, but whether they did so
from affection, or from some more interested motive, it would not be proper just now to
say, as those facts will come out before we have proceeded far in this little episode.
"Mind how you step, Annette," said the old gentleman, as the young lady descended the
carriage. "Mind how you step, my dear."
"Oh! yes, yes," said the old lady, who was not so very old either, although entering upon
the shady side of fifty. "Yes. Oh! mind my dear, how you get out."
The young lady made no reply to all these kind injunctions, but pushing aside the
proffered arm of the younger gentleman, she tripped into the hotel unaided.
The old lady instantly followed her.
"Now, Francis," said the old gentleman to the servant, who got down from the rumble of
the travelling carriage. "Now, Francis, you perfectly recollect, I hope, what my brother,
Lord Lake, said to you?"
"Yes, sir," said Francis, but there was not the most respectful intonation in the world in
the voice with which he returned the affirmative.
"You remember," continued the old gentleman; "you remember, Francis, that my brother
told you, you were to wait upon us just the same as upon himself, with the carriage."
"Oh, yes."
"Oh, yes! what do you mean by saying 'oh, yes!' to me?"

"Do you want me to say, 'oh, no?'"
"Francis, this won't do. You are discharged."
"That for you, and the discharge, too," said Francis, as he snapped his fingers in the face
of the old gentleman. "I never meant to serve you, Mister Lake; I'm Lord Lake's groom, but
I ain't a going to be turned over to a canting fellow like you, so you have only took the
words out of my mouth, for I meant to discharge myself, and so will George. I say,
George."
"Yes," replied the coachman; "what is it?"
"Are we going to be at the beck and call of Jonathan Lake?"
"See him d -- d first," was the laconic reply of the coachman.
"Now, Mister Lake, added Francis, "you knows what we thinks of you. You is a humbug.
We only came so far, because we wouldn't put Miss Annette, our young lady, to the
inconvenience of a post-chaise, while my lord, her father's carriage here, was so much more
comfortable. We shall take that to the coachmaker's, where my lord's other carriages are
standing, till he comes to England, and then you won't see us no more."
"You rascals!"
"Oh, go on. You're a humbug; ain't he, George?"
"Oh, a riglar one -- a numbug he is," aid the coachman; "and what's more, we don't
believe a word of all what's been a going on. Lady Annette is Lady Annette, bless her sweet
eyes. Come on, Francis, I'm wet."
"And I'm damp," said Francis, as he shook himself, and made as much splashing round
him as a great Newfoundland dog, who has just had a bath. "I'm ready now, mister, and you
knows our minds, and we ain't the sort of folks to alter'em. We serves our master; but we
doesn't serve a humbug."
Some of the waiters at the hotel had come to the door to hear this rather curious colloquy,
and not a little surprised were they at it. At all events, whatever other effect it had upon
them, it did not increase their respect for the new arrivals, and one of them, named Slop,
ran after the carriage, and called out to Francis, --
"I say -- I say!"
"Well, what?"
"I say, young fellow, just tell me where you will be staying, and I'll come and see you,
and stand a glass."

Francis leant over the roof of the carriage, and said, --
"George -- George!"
"Here ye air," said George.
"Here's one o' the waiters at the hotel wants to make an acquaintance. It won't be a bad
thing to know him, as you see he can tell us all about Lady Annette, and what the ladies are
doing. What do you say to it, George?"
"A good idea, Francis."
"Very well. Hilloa! what's your name, old fellow?"
"Slop -- Solomon Slop, they calls me."
"Well, if you come any evening to the King's Head, in Welbeck-street, you'll find either
me or George; and we always likes good company, and shall be very glad to see you
whenever you like. Supppose you say to-morrow?"
"I will, -- I will; to-morrow I can come easily at eight o'clock, so you may expect me.
Good night."
"Good night, Slop. Pleasant evening, ain't it? Drive on, George; I shall be in a ague
presently; drive on, good luck to you, and let's get a change of things, whatever you do I
never was so wet, I do think, in all my life."
"Nor me, nor me," said George, who it will be perceived was not very particular about his
grammar; but that didn't matter much. He was paid for a knowledge of horses, not of
moods, tenses, and cases.
Leaving the servants, then, of Lord Lake, as they had announced themselves to be, let us
return to the hotel, where the family party had by this time got into comfortable enough
quarters.
As far as the landlord of that establishment was concerned, Mr. Lake had won him over
completely, by ordering the best rooms, a supper, as good as the house could afford,
regardless of the price; the best wines, and altogether showed a right royal disposition as
regarded expenditure.
But the waiters, who had often found by experience that the most extravagant people
were not the most liberal to them, did not forget what had passed at the door, and many a
whispered surmise passed from one to the other regarding the circumstances that had
induced the coachman and groom to treat the family so very cavalierly, and so obstinately
to decline serving them.

When Slop returned, he got some of his companions round him in the hall.
"I shall know all about it," he said; "I'm to go and take a glass with them to-morrow night,
at the King's Head, in Welbeck-street, and you see if they don't tell me what it's all about. I
wouldn't miss knowing for a trifle."
"Nor me -- nor me."
"Well, I'll of course tell you all when I come back. You may depend upon it it's
something worth knowing. Have you seen the young lady any of you. I caught just a look
of one eye, and the end of her nose, and I should say she's a out-and-outer, and no mistake."
--

CHAPTER CLXII [Chapter 180]
THE SECOND ARRIVAL AT THE LONDON HOTEL. -- THE MYSTERIOUS

GUEST.
Scarcely had the bustle of the arrival we have noticed subsided at the London Hotel,
when another travelling chariot dashed up to the door, and the landlord made a rush out to
welcome his new arrival, considering himself quite in luck to have two such customers in
one evening.
A gentleman, on whose head was a fur travelling cap, was at one of the windows of this
carriage, and he called to the landlord, saying, --
"Are your best rooms occupied?"
"Not the best, sir," was the reply, "for we have several suites of apartments in all respects
equal to each other; but we have a family just arrived in one suite. The Lake family, sir."
"Well, it don't matter to me who you have; I will get out if you can accomodate me."
"Oh, certainly, sir; you will find here accomodation of the very first character, I can
assure you, sir. Pray, sir, alight. Allow me, sir, to hold an umbrella over you. It's a bad
night, sir; I'm afraid the winter is setting in very strangely, sir, and prophetically of -- -"
"Silence. I don't want your opinion of the matter. If there's one thing I dislike more than
another, it's a chattering man."
This rebuff silenced the landlord, who said not another word, although probably he
thought the more; and those thoughts were not of a very kindly character as regarded the
stranger, who had so very unceremoniously stopped his amiable remarks.
Indeed, when he got into the hall, he consigned the new comer to the care of the head
waiter, and retired to his own apartment in great dudgeon.
"I hope everything is quiet here," said the stranger to the head waiter.
"Oh, dear, yes, sir; the house is as quiet as a lamb, sir, I can assure you. We have only
three inmates at present, sir. There's the Lakes, -- hightly respectable people, sir. A brother
of Lord Lakes, sir, I believe, and the -- -"
"I don't want to hear who you have. What the devil is it to me? If there's anything I dislike
more than another, it's a d -- d magpie of a waiter."
The head waiter was terribly offended, and said not another word, so that the gentleman
was left in the sole occupation of his apartments, and then to fling himself upon a couch.

"Ah, ah! God knows how it will all end. Well, well, we shall see, we shall see. They have
arrived, and that's one comfort; I am now, then, I think so well made up, that they will not
readily know me. Oh, no, no, I should hardly know myself, now, shaven clean as I am, after
being accustomed on the continent, to wear beard and moustache. Well, well, we shall see,
how it will all end. Thank the fates, they have not gone somewhere where I could not find
them." He rung the bell.
"Waiter, let me have the best the house affords, will you? and remember my name is
Blue."
"Sir! Bl -- Blue, sir?"
"Yes, Diggory Blue."
"Yes, sir, -- yes sir. Certainly. What an odd name," soliloquised the waiter, as he went
down stairs to tell his master. "I say sir, the gent in No. 10 and 11 says his name is Diggory
Blue."
"Blue, Blue." said the landlord, "it is an odd name for a Christian."
"Perhaps he ain't a Christian," said the very identical Mr. Blue himself, popping his head
over the bar in which the little discourse was going on, between the landlord and the waiter.
"How do you know he's a Christian?"
"I beg your pardon, sir, really I -- I -- a-hem! a thousand pardons sir."
"Pshaw!"
The strange gentleman went to the door, and gave some directions to the servants
belonging to his carriage, which sent them away, and then Mr. Blue started up into his
rooms again, without saying another word to the landlord, who was terribly annoyed at
being caught canvassing the name of one of his guests, with one of his waiters.
"Confound him," he muttered, "he has no business to have such a name as Blue and good
God! if his sirname was Blue, what the devil made his godfathers and godmothers call him
Diggory? Sam, Sam!"
"Yes, sir."
"Put down in the book, Diggory Blue."
"Yes, sir."
"Bless us! why there's somebody else as I'm a sinner." The landlord could not have sworn
by a better oath.

He ran to the door, and there beheld another travelling carriage, out of which stepped a
gentlemanly looking man enveloped in a rich travelling cloak lined with fur.
"Can you accommodate us?" he said.
"Yes, sir, with pleasure."
"Who have you here, landlord?"
"A family named Lake, sir, and a Mr. -- a -- Blue, sir."
"Quiet people I dare say, I shall most likely remain with you a week or two. Let me have
the best apartments you have unoccupied at present."
"Yes, sir. This way if you please, sir -- this way."
The last arrival seemed to be in bad health, for he walked very slowly, like a man
suffering from great bodily exhaustion, and more than once he paused as he followed the
landlord up the principal staircase of the hotel, as if it were absolutely necessary he should
do so to recover breath, and moreover the landlord heard him sigh deeply, but whether that
was from mental or physical distress he had no means of knowing. His curiosity, however,
was much excited by the gentleman, and his sympathies likewise, for he was the reverse of
Mr. Blue, and listened with a refined and gentlemanly courtesy to whatever was said to him
by any one apparently, although it was evidently an effort to speak, so weak and ill did he
seem to be." [sic]
"I am sorry, sir," said the landlord, when he had shewn the gentleman into his rooms, "I
am sorry sir, you don't seem well."
"I am rather an invalid, but I dare say I shall soon be better, thank you -- thank you. One
candle only, I dislike too much light: charge for as many as you please, but never let me
have but one, landlord."
"As you please, sir, as you please; I hope you will make yourself comfortable here, and I
can assure you, sir, that nothing shall be wanting on my part to make you so."
"I am sure of that, landlord; you are very good, thank you."
"What name shall I say, sir, in case any gentleman should call to see you, sir?"
"Black."
"Black, sir!" -- "Black." -- "Oh, Mr. Black! -- Yes, sir, certainly, why not? Oh, of course.
I -- only thought it a little odd, you see, sir, because we have a gentleman already in the
house called Blue. That was all, sir. Mr. Black, thank you, sir."

The landlord bowed himself out, and Mr. Black inclined his head with the look of a
condescending emperor, so that when the landlord got down stairs, he said to his wife, --
"Now that is a gentleman. he listens to all you have got to say, like a gentleman, and don't
snap you up as that Mr. Blue did. Mr. Black, it is quite clear to me, is a man of the world,
and a perfect gentleman. Hilloa, what's that? Eh? What! why it's Mr. Black's bell, and he
must have almost broken the wire. Sam, Sam! run up to 8, and see what's wanted."
Sam did run up to 8, and when he got there, he found Mr. Black lying upon the floor in a
fainting fit, and wholly insensible.
The alarmed waiter ran down stairs to his master with the news, and the nearest medical
man was sent for, but with as little parade as possible, for the hotel-keeper did not wish to
alarm all his other guests with the news of the fact that there was a sick person in the house,
which he knew was not plesing to many persons, and might induce them to change their
quarters.
When the medical man came, he was shown up stiars at once, when Mr. Black had been
lifted on to a sofa, where he lay without any signs of consciousness at all, much to the
horror of the landlord, who began to think he was dead, and that there would be all the
disagreeableness of having a corpse in his house.
The surgeon felt the pulse and the heart, and then he said, --
"He is in a swoon, but he must be in a desperately weak state."
"He looks it, don't he, sir?"
"He does indeed. How dreadfully emaciated he is!"
By dint of great exertion and the use of stimulants, the surgeon succeded in restoring Mr.
Black to consciousness, and when he was so restored, he looked around him with that
strange vacant expression which a man wears who has newly come out of a trance and
whose memory is in a state of abeyance.
"Well, sir, how are you now?" said the surgeon.
He made no reply.
"I should advise that he be put to bed, landlord," added the medical man, "and something
of a warm nourishing quality given to him. I will send him some medicine."
Mr. Black now made an effort to speak, and his memory seemed to have come back to
him as he said,

"I fear I have been a deal of trouble, but the fatigue of travelling fast -- it is that has
unnerved me -- I shall be much better to-morrow. Thank you all."
"I will call to-morrow" said the surgeon, "and see how you get on, if you please."
"I shall be much obliged; I feel myself quite strong enough to retire for the night without
assistance, thank you."
He made no opposition to the landlord sending him up by Sam some spiced wine, and
when it came, he said, --
"I hope no one sleeps near me who will come in late and disturb me, as I require a full
and clear night's repose."
"Oh no, sir," said Sam, "it's a young lady sir, as belongs to the Lake family sleeps in the
next room but one to you, that is to say, No. 9. The very next room aint [sic] occupied at
all, sir, to night, so you will be as quiet as if you was in a church, sir."
"Thank you, thank you, good night, Samuel."
--

CHAPTER CLXIII [Chapter 181]
THE NIGHT ALARM -- A SCENE OF CONFUSION. -- MR. BLUE SUSPECTED.
It is midnight, and the landlord of the hotel suddenly springs out of bed on to the floor as
if he had been galvanised, carrying with him all the bed-clothes and leaving his wife
shivering.
"Good gracious! what was that?" he cried.
And well he might, for the repose of the whole house was broken in upon by two loud
shrieks, such as had never before sounded within those walls, and then all was still as the
grave.
"Murder! murder!" shouted the landlady, "somebody has stolen all the bed-clothes."
"Bother the bed-clothes" cried the landlord, as he hurried on his apparel by the dim light
of a night lamp that was burning on the dressing table. "There's something wrong in the
house, or else I have had one of the strangest dreams that ever anybody had, and one of the
most likely reality too. Did you hear them?"
"Oh, those horrid screams!"
"It's not a dream then, for two people don't dream the same thing at the same moment of
time that's quite clear. Hark -- hark! what's that, what a banging of doors to be sure. Who's
there? Who's there? Wait a bit."
The landlord lifted the night bolt of his bed room, and then there dashed into the room in
only one garment, which fluttered in the breeze, no other than the young man who had
come with the ladies. He made but one spring into the landlord's bed, crying, --
"Oh! take care of me. Oh, save me! There's thieves or something and I shall be hurt. Oh,
save me, save me, I can't fight, I never did, spare my life, oh, spare my life."
"Oh, the wretch!" shrieked the landlady, and the landlord, justly enough enraged at that
intrusion, seized upon the intruder and shot him out of the room vi et armis, and that with
such force too that he rolled all the way down the stairs, upsetting Sam who was rushing up
with a lantern, it having been his turn to sit up all night, as one of the establishment always
did, in case of fire or anything happening which might make it necessary to arouse the
inmates of the house.
The landlord, however, had completed enough of his toilette to enable him to make a
decent appearance; so out he sallied, having lit a candle, and the first person he met upon
the landing was Mr. Blue, fully dressed and with a pistol in his hand.
"Good God, sir," cried the landlord, "what is it all about, what has happened sir?"

"I cannot tell you, and am as anxious as you can be to know. This way, this way. It was
the young lady who screamed. For God's sake, lend me a light!"
The landlord resigned his light mechanically, and he saw to his surprise, that there was a
black patch now over one of Mr. Blue's eyes, and he thought his face was painted. At all
events, he was so much disguised that it was only by his voice that the landlord knew him.
Before however, they either of them got across the corridor to the door of the young
lady's room, Mr. and Mrs. Lake half-dressed, made their appearance, both eagerly inquiring
what was the matter.
"I don't know," said the landlord, "I only heard a scream."
"Which came from the apartment of that young lady," said Mr. Blue.
"What young lady?" said Mr. Lake sharply. "It's rather odd that you, a stranger, should
know so precisely which was the apartment of that young lady. Mrs. Lake go in and see if
anything be the matter with Annetta; I hope to Heaven, nothing is amiss with her."
Mr. Lake looked suspiciously at Mr. Blue, and so did the landlord, for when Mr. Blue had
spoken in the presence of the Lakes, his voice was completely altered, so that the landlord
no longer could have recognized him by it, and he was more puzzled than ever.
"Oh! come in, come in, Mr. Lake," cried Mrs. Lake, appearing at the door of Annetta's
room, "she is dead."
"Dead!" cried Mr. Blue with a shout, "Oh! no, no, no!"
He dashed past Mr. Lake, the landlord, and Mrs. Lake, and was in the room in a moment.
They went after him as soon as they had recovered sufficiently from their surprise to do so,
and they saw him with his hands clasped, and bending over the form of the beautiful young
girl as she lay in bed.
"No, no, no," he said, "she is not dead. She has fainted. God knows what the cause may
be, but she is not dead. Thank Heaven!"
He turned from the bedside, and without saying another word to the parties present, he
walked away to his own room, and left them staring at each other in surprise. The young
lady now opened her eyes, and looked wildly about her for a few moments, and then she
spoke quickly,
"Oh, help! help! help! away, away. Oh, horror -- horror -- horror!"
"Annetta, my dear Annetta," said Mrs. Lake, "what is this? Pray, sir, retire," to the
landlord. "My dear Annetta, what has alarmed you? My dear, go away, Mr. Lake. I will let
you know all about it. It's a mystery to me at present. Go away, I'll be back soon."

Mr. Lake left the room, and in the corridor he found the landlord, who was looking as
bewildered as any mortal man could well look, for he could make neither head nor tail of
the whole affair.
"Landlord," said Mr. Lake, "who is that party who behaved so strangely just now[?"]
"His name is Blue, sir."
"Blue -- Blue. An odd name, and an odd man. Where can I have seen him before. Just as
he cried out, and went into the room, I thought there was a something in his voice that came
familiarily to my ears, and yet I don't know him; I suspect landlord, that he has had more to
do with this midnight disturbance than he would care to own."
"Well, sir, I don't know," said the landlord, whose interest it was not to disoblige, or
throw suspicion upon any of his guests. "It really ain't very likely, sir. I should say the
young lady has had a bad dream, sir, and that's almost all that can be said about it."
"It may be so."
"You may depend that's what it will turn out to be, sir."
"I hope so, I hope so. These things are not at all pleasant, and if anything of the kind
should happen again we should have to quit directly, you know, but I can say nothing now
about it until I have heard from Mrs. Lake what account Annetta gives of the affair. That
alone must guide us in the whole business. In the morning we will talk about it, sir."
There was a great deal of austerity in the manner of Mr. Lake; indeed he might well
enough be excused for not being over pleased at what had taken place, and as for Mr. Blue
there certainly was sufficient in his behaviour to induce a large amount of suspicion, that he
was in some way connected with the affair. Moreover the efforts he evidently made in the
way of disguise were extremely suspicious in themselves. He evidently had a something to
conceal, and when the landlord was now left alone in the corridor, he was strongly induced
to make one of his first acts in the morning a notice to Mr. Blue, that he would much prefer
his room to his company at the London Hotel.
And then it all of a sudden came into the landlord's head, how poor Mr. Black must have
beeen [sic] distressed at what had taken place; for Sam had told him what Mr. Black had
said about wishing to sleep quietly, so that he felt quite a pang at the idea of so civil a
gentleman having been so awfully disturbed, as he must have been, and he had no doubt but
that in the morning he would go away.
"I wonder if he is awake?" thought the landlord; "if I could but make some sort of
apology to him to-night, and soothe him, all might be well. I'll first go and listen at his
door; it may be that he really wants something, and if so perhaps it would look attentive to
knock and see him; I think I will. It's quite out of the question that he should have slept in
the middle of all this riot."

He approached Mr. Black's door, and listened[.]
All was still as the very grave.
"What a horrid thing it would be if the shock, in his weak state, has been the death of
him!" thought the landlord, and the very idea made him quake again.
After a few moments passed in this state of painful thought, he found that it would be
quite out of the question for him to go to his own room again, without ascertaining how Mr.
Black was, and accordingly he knocked at the door, first gently and then louder, and then
louder still, but received no answer.
"Oh, this won't do, I must get in somehow," thought the landlord.
He tried the handle, and found in a moment that the door was not fast; a light was burning
on the side of the table which was close to the bed, and there lay Mr. Black fast asleep, and
looking so calm and serene, although he was an ugly man, that the landlord was truly
astonished to see him.
"Well," he said, "that's what I call sound sleeping, at all events. It's a mercy however." Oh
lor! he' going to awake."
Mr. Black opened his eyes, and looked up.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said the landlord, "I earnestly beg your pardon, but as there had
been a litle [sic] noise in the house I came to see, first, if you had been disturbed, an then if
you wanted anything, sir."
"No, no, thank you. Has there been a noise, do you say."
"A -- a little, sir."
"Well, I was fast asleep and did not hear it. However, I do sleep so sound that I think a
cannon going off at my ear would hardly awaken me. I am much obliged however for your
attention, landlord."
"Can't I get you anything, sir?"
"Nothing until the morning, thank you."
"Thank you sir, good night sir, good night." -- "Well," said the landlord, as, finding all
quiet, he took his way now back to his own room, "well, he is a gentleman, every inch of
him, that he is. How very mild and polite. -- He hasn'nt [sic] been disturbed, well that's a
comfort."
--

CHAPTER CLXIV [Chapter 182]
THE WAITER TELLS THE STORY OF THE LAKES' DISTURBANCE TO GEORGE

AND FRANCIS.
Nothing further occurred during the night to cause any alarm to the inmates of the
London Hotel, but we may as well give Miss Annetta'a account of the night's transaction;
and account which she gave to Mrs. Lake at the time, and which soon spread all over the
hotel, with, no doubt, many additions and embellishments as it was carried.
She said, that having retired to rest, she, being fatigued by her journey, soon dropped off
asleep. That she, to the best of her belief, fastened her room door, although she certainly
could not absolutely swear to having done so, she was so very weary. She did not know
how long she had slept, but she had a frightful dream, in which she thought she was
pursued by wolves who ran after her through a large tract of country until she took shelter
in a wood, and then all the wolves left her and abandoned the pursuit, except one, and that
one caught her and fastened his fangs in her throat just as she sunk down exhausted upon a
great heap of dried leaves that came in her way in the forest.
She then went on to say that in the agony of her dream she actually awoke at that
moment, and saw a human face close to her, and that a man had his mouth close to her
neck, and was sucking her blood.
It was then that she uttered the two screams which had so alarmed the whole house; and
then she stated that the vampire, for such she named the apparition, left her and she fainted
away.
Now this story so far as it went, might all be very well accounted for by being called a
dream, and the change from a wolf to a man might be but one of those fantastic changes
that our sleeping visions so frequently undergo, but -- and in this case this was a serious but
-- but she showed upon her neck the marks of two teeth, and there was a small wound on
which even in the morning was a little portion of coagulated blood.
This staggered everybody, as well it might, and the whole hotel was in a state of
confusion. Mr. Blue kept his room. Mr. Black got up and declared that he was much better
than the day before, attributing his indisposition to bodily fatigue; and the Lakes were in a
state of consternation difficult to describe.
The landlord, too, was nearly out of his senses at the idea of a vampire being in his house,
adn a grand consultation was held in the bar parlour between him, Mr. and Mrs. Lake, and
Mr. Black, who was asked if he would step down and give his opinion, which compliment
was paid to him on account of his being such a gentlemanly and quiet man.
They took it in turns to speak, and the landlord had the first say.

"Gentlemen," he said, "and you madam, you can easily conceive how grieved I am about
what has taken place, and I can only say that anything in the world that I can do to find out
all about it, I will do with the greatest possible pleasure. Command me in any way, but --
but if I have a suspicion of anybody in this house, it is of that Mr. Blue."
"And I too," said Mrs. Lake.
"I don't know what to say further," remarked Mr. Lake, "than that my suspicions of some
foul play on the part of Mr. Blue, are so strong, that if he is not turned out of the Hotel, we
will leave to-night."
"That's conclusive," said the landlord. "But if you Mr. Black, would favor us with your
opinion, I'm sure, sir, we should be all much obliged."
"I am afraid," said Mr. Black in his quiet, gentlemanly way, "that my opinion will be of
very little importance, as I know nothing of the whole affair, but just what I have heard
from one and another; I slept all the while it appears. But there is one circumstance that
certainly to me is an unpleasant and a suspicious one, and that is that Mr. Blue, as he calls
himself, was up and dressed, and that, with the exception of your night-watchman, he was
the only person in the hotel who was so."
"That's a fact," said the landlord, "I met him."
"Then that settles the business," said Mr. Lake, "send him away. God knows if there be
such things as vampires or not, but al all events, the suspicion is horrid, so you had better
get rid of him at once."
"I will -- I will."
"Stop," said Mr. Black. "Before you do so, is it not worth while to make some effort to
come at the precise truth, and that in my opinion, would be very desirable indeed."
"It would -- it wold," said Mr. Lake, "you must understand, sir, that the young lady is
especially under my care, and in fact I esteem her greatly -- very greatly I may say, for a
variety of reasons, and therefore anything that I can do, which may have the effect of
securing her peace of mind and happiness will be to me a sacred purpose."
"Then I should recommend," said Mr. Black, "that this lady and your wife, landlord, keep
watch in the young lady's chamber to-night."
"Oh, I couldn't -- I couldn't," said the landlady.
"Nor I," replied Mrs. Lake, "nor I, I'm sure, I cannot think of such a thing, I could not do
it, I should faint away from terror.

"And so should I," cried the landlady. "I feel quite ill even now at the thought of the
thing."
"Then I can say no more, ladies. Of course, gentlemen cannot very well, unless they are
very near relatives, undertake such a job. I tell you what we can do, though; suppose we
watch in the corridor, you and I, Mr. Lake, and leaving the door of the young lady's
chamber just closed we shall hear if there be any alarm given from within and effectually
secure her from intrusion without. What say you to this, as a plan of proceedings? There is
your son too, might keep watch with us."
"I'm afraid he is too nervous."
"Yes," said the landlord, "and he might pop into my bed again, as he did last night in his
fright. Oh don't have him gentlemen, I beg of you. I would go myself, but I am so sleepy
always, that I never can keep my eyes open after twelve o'clock. Not that I am at all afraid
of anything, but its downright sleepiness you see, gentlemen. I am on my feet all day, and --
and so you see I'd rather not on the whole."
"I am willing," said Mr. Black.
"Sir," said Mr. Lake, "I am quite ashamed of giving you so much trouble, but I can only
say that I shall be very much obliged indeed, by your company, and I do hope that we shall
have the pleasure of catching Mr. Blue if he be guilty."
"Or acquitting him if innocent," added Mr. Black. "Let us be just even in the midst of our
suspicions. It would be a terrible thing to stigmatise this gentleman as a vampire, when
perhaps he may have as great a horror of such gentry as we possibly can."
At this moment young Lake made his appearance. He looked rather pale as he apologised
to the landlord for his unintentional intrusion into his room over night.
"The fact is," said he, "I am as constitutionally brave as a lion, and so whenever anything
occurs I run away."
"Indeed, sir, an odd way of showing courage," said Mr. Black. "Why do you run away?"
"For fear, sir, of doing something rash."
"Well, I certainly never heard a better excuse for an undignified retreat in one's shirt,
before in my life. But you will not be called upon to do anything to-night. You had better
shut yourself up, and let you hear what you will, you need not come out of your room, you
know."
"Well, do you know, sir, I think that it would be the best way, for if I came out I might do
something rash, such as kill somebody, which I should afterwards be sorry for, you know."

"Certainly."
"Then that's understood, father, that let what will happen I won't come out. I have been
speaking to Annetta, but I can't somehow or another get her to be pleasant."
"Hush!" said old Lake, and he bent his brows upon his son reprovingly, as if he fancied
that he was letting out more of the family secrets than he ought to have done. The young
man was silent accordingly, for he seemed to be in great dread of his father, who certainly
if not a better man, was a man of much more intellect and courage than the son, who was
but a very few degrees removed from absolute silliness. He was fool enough to be wicked,
and the father was cunning enough to be so. How strange that vice should usually belong to
the two extremes of intellect, that folly and talent should lead to similar results, a disregard
of the ordinary moral obligations; but it is so. We may pass over the rest of the day, and we
do so the more willingly, because we are anxious that the reader should be possessed of
some particulars which George and Francis, the servants of Lord Lake communicated
without any reserve at all to Slop, the waiter.
Indeed, far from having anything like a wish to conceal anything, they seemed to glory in
saying as much as they could with respect to those matters that were uppermost in their
mind.
This was just the frame of mind that Slop would have wished in his prayers, had he
prayed at all upon the subject, to find them in; for although Slop was quite remarkable for
neglecting his own affairs, he never neglected anbody [sic] else's and curiosity had been the
bane of his existence.
Upon arriving at the King's Head, in Chiswell-street, he found that the servants of Lord
Lake were there, according as they had said they should be, and glasses of something
uncommonly hot and strong having been ordered, they and Slop soon grew quite happy and
familiar together.
First, though, before they would commence a history of anything they had to tell of the
Lake family, they resolved upon hearing form Slop all that had passed at the London Hotel,
and you may be quite sure, that it lost nothing in the telling, but was duly made as much of
as the circumstances would permit. No doubt the fumes of the something hot materially
astisted [sic] Mr. Slop's invention and general talents upn the interesting occasion.
--

CHAPTER CLXV [Chapter 183]
THE COMMUNICATION OF THE SERVANTS RESPECTING THE LAKE FAMILY.
The coachman and groom, evidently listened with great interest to what Slop had to
relate. For a wonder, they were completely silent while he spoke; and when he had
concluded, they looked at each other, and nodded, as much to say, -- Ah! we can draw
some conclusion from all that, that you Mr. Slop, really know nothing at all about.
"Is that all?" said George.
"Yes," said the waiter, "and sufficient I think."
"More, a good deal," remarked Francis. "But howsomdever, as you seem a proper sort of
fellow, we don't mind telling you what we think of the matter."
"No, no," interposed George, "not exactly that."
"And why not?"
"Because you see, Francis, we have never known yet, my boy, what to think about it."
"Well there's some truth in that at all events. But we will tell Mr. Slop what happened
once before that wasn't much unlike what has taken place at the London Hotel."
"Well, but tell him first who she is," said George. "Then he'll understand all the rest
better, as well as taking more interest in it."
"Very good. Then listen, Mr. Slop."
"With all my ears," said Slop.
At this moment a bell rung sharply, and Slop on the impulse of the moment, sprung up, --
"Coming -- coming -- coming."
Both George and Francis burst into a great laugh, and Slop was quite disconcerted.
"Really, gentlemen," he said, "I'm sorry, very sorry, but I'm so used to cry, coming, when
a bell rings, that, for the moment, I forgot there was no sort of occasion to do so here. I begs
you won't think no more of it, but tell me all as you have got to tell."
"Don't mention it," said Francis, and then after taking another draught of the something
strong, and settling himself in his seat, commenced.

"Lord Lake, you know, is our master, and a very good sort of a man he is, only he's a -- a
-- a; what did the doctor call him George?"
"Oh, I know, a -- a -- a, what was it Frank?"
"Well, I asked you. It was a wallytoddyhairyhun, I think."
"Something like it. Odd wasn't it?"
"Wery."
"I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said a gentlemanly looking man who was seated in an
obscure corner of the room, and who was desperately ugly -- at least so much as could be
seen of his face, for it was much muffled up. "I beg your pardon, but the word you mean I
suppose is valetudinarian."
"That's it, that's it! I knows it when I hears it. That's it; well they say that in consequence
of being that ere he was rather cross-grained a little when there wasn't no sort of occasion
for it, and barring that, which, poor man, I suppose he could not help, he was about as
decent a master as ever stepped in shoe leather, wasn't he, George?"
"I believe you, my boy."
"Well, the Countess of Bhackbighte was his mother-in-law, you see, a wicious old
woman as ever lived, and when Lady Lake died it was she as brought the news to Lord
Lake that his wife was dead, and the wirtuous baby as she had just brought into the world
was dead too, was'nt [sic] that it, George?"
"I believe you my boy, rather."
"Well, Lord Lake was inconsolotable as they says, for ever so long, and he made friends
with his brother who would come next into the property; they all went abroad together."
"All who?" said Slop.
"Wery good, I'll tell you, Lord Lake, his brother, his brother's wife and son. Them as is
now at the London Hotel. Now you knows, don't you?"
"Go on, I knows."
"Well they hadn't been there above a matter o' fourteen years when the old Countess of
Bhackbighte dies, and then there comes a letter to my lord as says that the precious baby as
his wife had brought into the world just afore she went out of it herself, wasn't dead at all,
but had been smugged [sic] away by the old Countess, nobody knows what for, and that she
was alive and kicking then, and ready to come to her papa whenever he said the word, and

so come she did, you see, and thats [sic] our young lady Annetta, you see, [sic upsidedown
word] as is at the London Hotel."
"Well, but I don't understand," said Slop.
"Of course you don't"
"Oh."
"But you will if you goes on a listening; you can't expect to undertand all at once you
know. Just attend to the remainder and you'll soon know all about it; but George is the man
to tell you, that he is."
"Oh, no, no," said George.
"Why, you heard it, and told it to me. Come, don't be foolish, but tell it at once, old
fellow."
"Well, if I must, I must," said George, "so here goes; though when I has to tell anything, I
always feels as if I was being druv with a curb half-a-dozen links too tight. But here goes."
"I am very much amused," said Slop, "and should certainly like to hear it all. Pray go
on?"
"Well, you must know we was at an old tumble down place in Italy, as they call's Rome.
Horridly out o' repair, but that's neither here nor there. In course we had stables and riding
out; and there was a nice sort o' terrace where Lord Lake used to walk sometimes, as well
as his brother, while the carriage was being got out, so that I could hear what they said if I
chose to do so.
"Well, one day the brother, Mr. Lake, or the Honourable Dick Lake as he was sometimes
called, was walking there alone, and I seed as he was all of a tremble like, you understand!
but I could not have any idea of what it was about. Once or twice I heard him say, -- 'It will
do -- and it will do'"
"Presently, then out comes Lord Lake, and he says, giving the other a letter, 'Good God,
read that!' Give us a trifle more sugar?"
"What?"
"Why, what do you mean," said Francis. "Is that the way to tell a story, to run into what
people says what you happens to want yourself? Here's the sugar, and now go on."
"Well, the brother reads it, and then he says; 'Gracious Providence,' says he 'this here says
as the Lady Annetta, aint your daughter, but a himposter.'

"'Yes,' says Lord Lake, 'oh, what will become of me now?'
"'Calm yourself,' says the brother, 'and leave this affair to me. Let her go with me to
England, and we will clear up the mystery. I love her as I would a child of my own; but still
this here letter' says he, 'seems to contain such a statement;' says he -- -"
"Well? Well?"
"That's all! After that, they walked off the terrace and I didn't hear no more at all. After
that, in a day or two Lord Lakes comes to me; and says, 'George, my brother and his
family, with Lady Annetta, are going to England. I wish you and Francis to accompany
them and to attend upon them, just the same as you would on myself,' says he, and in
course I didn't like to say anything; so we came, but as our idea of the brother is that he's a
humbug, we wouldn't have no more to do with him, after we got to London, you see; and so
off we went as you heard."
"Well, but," said Slop; "there was a something else you was to tell me;"
"So there was," said Francis "and this was it. While we were staying at a place called
Florence, and sleeping all of us in an old palace, there was an alarm in the middle of the
night, and we found it came from the chamber of the Lady Annetta; who said that a man
had got in by the window, and she just woke in time to see him; and when she screamed out
away he went again, but nothing could be seen of him; the oddest thing was that the
window was so high from the ground, that it seemed to be quite out of the question that he
could have got at it without a ladder; yet the deuce of a ladder was there to be seen."
"And who was it?"
"Nobody ever knew, but the night after it was said that a vampire had visited a cottage
near at hand, and fastened on the throat of a little girl of about seven, and sucked half the
blood out of her, so that she was lying at the point of death; and the description the child
gave of him was so like what the Lady Annetta said of the man that had got in at the
window of her bedroom, that my lord got very uneasy about it, and moved away from
Florence as quick as he could, and no wonder, either, you will say."
"It was odd."
"It was, and what you have told me of last night, put me in mind of it, you see."
"No doubt; Lord, I'm all of a twitter myself."
"Why, what need you care? those who know about vampires say that there are two sorts,
one sort always attacks its own relations as was, and nobody else, and the other always
selects the most charming young girls, and nobody else, and if they can't get either, they
starve to death, waste away and die, for they take no food or drink of any sort, unless they
are downright forced."

"But who told you?"
"Oh, an old Italian priest, who spoke English."
--

CHAPTER CLXVI [Chapter 184]
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.-THE NIGHT WATCH.
At this moment, the stranger who had put the coachman and groom right about the word
valetudinarian, rose from the seat he had occupied in the corner of the room, and uttering a
deep, hollow groan, walked towards the door.
The party looked at him with awe and astonishment. He was of great height but
frightfully thin, and the slight glance they could get of his face, showed how perfectly ugly
he was. In another moment he had left the place, and there was a silence of several minutes
duration after he had done so, but it was at length broken by the coachman, who said, --
"I say, Frank, my boy."
"Here you is," said Francis.
"Don't you think if you never seed anybody as looked like a vampire before, you have
seed one now."
"The devil," said Francis, "you don't mean that?"
"Yes, I do though, and it strikes me wonderful as we have been a telling all we had to tell
afore the very indiwidual, of all others, as we ought'nt to a told it to, that's a vampire. If a
hoss is a hoss, that's a vampire, Frank! I knows it -- I feels it."
Frank looked aghast.
"Why, why," then he said, "we have just told him where to find the Lady Lake if he wants
her. Lor -- what -- suppose it's the same one as got in at the window at Florence! I'll have
him, he can't have got far, I should say, by this time, and hang me if I don't stop him and
know what he is, afore he goes any further. I shan't sleep if I don't."
Without waiting for any reply, although the coachman, and Mr. Slop both seemed to be
upon the point of saying something, out rushed the valorous Francis into the street. But in
about three minutes he came back, and sat down with a disappointed look.
"He's off," he said.
"In course," said the coachman, "through the air like a sky rocket, you might a know'd
that; but arter all, Frank, he mayden't be a vampire. Do vampires come into public houses,
eh? Answer me that will you; I rather think that's a settler, Frank."
"Do you" said Frank. "It might be, old fellow, if you could prove it. It would be an odd
thing for a vampire to come into a public house and drink, but I don't see, if he has anything

again by it, anything to prevent him coming and ordering and paying for something, and
then leaving it. Look there!"
Frank pointed to the brimming glass of something which was on the table just where the
mysterious man had sat, and this to the coachman and to Slop was such proof positive that
they both looked at each other with the most rueful expression of their countenances.
"I think you are convinced now, you old ump," added Frank.
"Rather, rather."
"I'm all over of a cold inspiration," said Slop.
"Well," added Frank, "it's not never of no use, you know, putting yourself out of the way
about it, and that's the fact, and all I've got to say is that I've got nothing to say."
"Wery good, wery good."
"But if you, Mr. Slop, will give us a call to-morrow and let us know if anything wrong
has took place at the London Hotel, we shall be very much obliged to you; for its [sic]
natural for us that we feel an interest in what's going on there on account of our young lady,
who we won't and don't think is anything else but our young lady, and if she was not, she
ought to be; and I tell you what, just keep an eye on the spooney, young Lake."
"I will."
"He wants to be be quite sweet with the Lady Annetta, but she can't abide him. But you
tell us if he tries to pitch it too strong, and we shall perhaps hit on some scheme of
operations."
All this Slop promised faithfully, and with his own nerves rather startled at the idea of
having been in the same room for the better part of an hour with a vampire, he walked back
to the hotel, and as he had not been enjoined to any secrecy he gave the landlord a full and
particular account of all that had taken place.
This was listened to with no small degree of interest, but as mine host of the London
Hotel could make nothing of it, he could do nothing with it.
"Slop," he said, "I don't like the state of things at all, I assure you, Slop, and I rather shake
than otherwise about what's to occur to-night. You know there's to be a watch kept in the
corridor by the young lady's room, or else poor thing no doubt she wouldn't get a wink of
sleep, and I'm quite sure that I sha'nt at all events, let what will happen or what won't; I'm
all in a twitter now as it is, I've broke nine wine glasses already; and all I can say is, I wish
they would all go away.

The landlord did not like to give good guests notice to quit his house, but he had a
consultation with Mr. Black, whom he considered to be quite his sheet-anchor in this affair,
for if that gentleman had not offered to sit up and watch for the vampire, he, the landlord,
certainly would, despite all profitable considerations, have requested guests who brought
with them such questionable connexions to leave.
The night had now come on, and as hour after hour passed away, the anxiety of all
concerned in the affairs that were taking place at the London hotel increased. But we need
not occupy the time and attention of the reader with surmises and reflections while facts of
an interesting and strange nature remain to be detailed.
Suffice it that at eleven o'clock the Lady Annetta retired to rest.
Two chairs, and a table on which burnt two candles, were placed in the corridor just
outside the room in which the fair girl who had the previous night had such a visitor
reposed, and there sat Mr. Black and Mr. Lake, both determined to do their utmost to
discover the mystery of the vampire's appearance, and to capture him should he again show
himself.
During the first half hour's watch, Mr. Lake related to his companion the particulars of
the affair at Florence, which as it has already been told by Francis, we need not again
recapitulate, suffice it to say that the narration was listened to by Mr. Black with great
interest.
"And did you," he said, "make no discovery of who this midnight visitor was?"
"None whatever."
"'Tis awfully strange."
"It is, and has given her abundance of uneasiness."
"And well it may, sir, I shall be very happy if through my means any elucidation of these
mysteries and truly terrific visitations should take place."
"You are very good sir. What is that?"
"Twelve o'clock, I think, striking by some neighbouring church time-keeper. Hush! is it

not so? Yes, twelve."
"It is. How still the house is. I was told this was a very quiet hotel, and so indeed I find it,
but yet, I suppose upon this occasion there is more stillness than usual."
"Doubtless. Hush, hush! what was that? I though[t] I heard something like a window
opening slowly and cautiously. Hark! There again. Do you not hear it. Hush, hush. Listen
now."

"On my life I can hear nothing."
"Indeed your sense of hearing then is not so sharp as mine. Look there."
He pointed as he spoke to the door of Mr. Blue' chamber, which was opened a very short
distance, not above a couple of inches, and then he added in a whisper, "What do you think
of that?"
"By heaven! I suspected him before."
"And I -- and -- be still, whatever you do. But yet perhaps it would be better. Go down
stairs and bring up the hall porter, we may as well be in force you know. The door at the
head of the stairs is open. You can depend upon my keeping a good watch while you are
gone. Now, now, quick, or we may be pounced upon and murdered before we are aware."
Thus urged Mr. Lake ran down stairs for the purpose of rousing up the night-porter, and
he found that that indiviual did indeed require rousing up.
"Hilloa, my man," he said, "get up!"
"Eh? eh? what? fire!"
"No, no, they want you up stairs, that's all. You are a pretty fellow to consider yourself a
night-watch here and to be fast asleep. Why, with the exception that you have your clothes
on you, you are no more ready than anybody else in the house."
"I beg your pardon sir, I always sleeps with one eye open."
"Well well, come up stairs!"
A loud scream at this moment came upon their ears, and the night-porter staggered back
again into his great leathern chair, from whence he had just risen, and looked aghast! while
Mr. Lake turned pale and trembled fearfully.
"Good God!" he said, "what's that?"
A bell was run furiously, and then ceased, with a sudden jar, as if the wire had broken,
which was indeed the fact. Then Mr. Lake, mustering all the courage he possessed, ran up
stairs again, leaving the night-porter to follow him, or not as he felt inclined; but when he
reached the door at the top of the staircase, he found that it was fast, nor could he with all
his strength force it open.
"Help! help! help!" he heard a voice cry.
--

CHAPTER CLXVII [Chapter 185]
THE VAMPIRE'S FEAST. -- THE ALARM AND THE PURSUIT.
A general ringing of bells now ensued in the hotel, from all the bedrooms that were
occupied, and the din in the house was quite terrific.
Mr. Lake hammered away at the door leading to the corridor, and he was soon joined by
the hall-porter, who having now recovered from the first shock which the scream had given
him, showed more courage and determination than any one would have given him credit
for. He was rather a bulky man, and without any more ado, he flung himself bodily against
the door with such force that he dashed it open and rolled into the corridor.
All was darkness.
"Lights! lights! lights!" shouted Mr. Lake. "Lights! -- Mr. Black, where are you? Mr.
Black! Mr. Black!
A door, it was that of Mr. Blue, was now dashed open, and that gentleman appeared with
a candle in his hand, and a pistol firmly grasped in the other. It was very strange but he
wore an artificial masquerade nose of an enormous size, and had on a red wig.
"Who locked my door?" he cried, "who locked my room door on the outside and forced
me to break it open -- who did it?"
"Where is the vampire?" said Mr. Lake.
"Lights! lights! Lights!" shouted the night-watchman, and in another minute the landlord
and several waiters, half-dressed but carrying lights, and each armed with the first weapon
of offence he could lay his hands on at the moment, made their appearance on the scene of
action.
"What is it? What is it?" cried the landlord. "Oh what is it?"
"God knows," cried Mr. Lake, and he darted into the apartment of the young lady. In
another moment he emerged, and tottered towards one of the seats.
"She is covered with blood," he said.
Mr. Blue and the landlady of the Hotel both made a rush then into the room, and the
former came out in a minute, and going to his own apartment shut the door. They thought
that they then heard him fall at full length upon the floor. All was mystery.
"I'm bewildered," said the landlord, "What is it all about?"
"And where is Mr. Black?" asked Mr. Lake.

"Here," cried a waiter as he pointed to an insensible form lying so close to the table, that
nobody had as yet noticed it. "Here he is. He looks as if he was dead."
Poor Mr. Black was lifted up, his eyes were closed as well as his mouth, and he seemed
to breathe with difficulty. He was placed in a chair, and then held, while water was dashed
in his face to recover him, and after a time, just as one of the waiters who had been sent for
the surgeon again who had before attended the young lady, made his appearance with that
gentleman, he slowly opened his eyes.
"Oh! mercy, mercy! Where am I now?"
"What is all this about?" inquired the medical man.
"Nobody knows sir," said the landlord, "that's the beauty of it. But the young lady is very
bad again; will you, wife, show the doctor into her room. Good God, I shall go out of my
wits, and my hotel that has a character forming one of the quietest in all London -- yes, the
quietest I may say. I'm a ruined man."
"Mr. Black," said Mr. Lake, "I implore you if you can to tell the meaning of all this."
"All -- all I know," said Mr. Black faintly. "All I know, -- "
Everybody gathered round him to listen, and with looks of fright and apprehension, and a
trembling voice, he said: --
"I -- I was sitting here waiting for Mr. Lake to come back with the night porter, for we
had some cause to wish for further help, when somebody came suddenly up to me, and
struck me down. The blow was on the top of my head, and so severe, that I fell as if shot."
"And then? and then?"
"Nothing. I don't know anything else till you recovered me, and then, I seemed as if all
the place was scouring round me; and then -- "
"But, Mr. Black, cannot you tell us who struck you? What was he like? Could you
identify him again?"
"I fear not. Indeed I hardly saw more of him than that he was tall."
"Well," cried Mr. Lake, "all I can say is that I have had my suspicions since last night,
and now I am certain, that is to say circumstantially certain. What say you, landlord? Is
there not one person in the house who may not fairly enough be suspected."
He looked towards the door of Mr. Blue's room, as he spoke, and indeed all eyes were
turned in that direction, and the landlord mustering up courage advanced to the door and
said, as he did so, "We will have him out. He shall not stay another hour on my premises.

We will have him out, I say. This sort of thing won't do, and it shall not do. We will have
him out. I say gentlemen we will have him out."
One thing was quite clear, and that was that the landlord wanted somebody to come
forward, and assist him in having out Mr. Blue; but when he found that nobody stirred he
turned round at the door, and looked rather foolish.
Under any other circumstances, perhaps, this conduct might have excited the risible
faculties of all who were present; but the affair, take it all in all, was of too mysterious and
serious a character to indulge in any laughter about.
"I," said Mr. Lake, advancing, "will have him out, if nobody else will!"
It would appear as if Mr. Blue had been listening to what was going on; for on the instant,
he flung open his door, and said, --
"Who will have me out, and what for?"
"Vampire, vampire," cried a chorus of voices.
"Idiots!" said Mr. Blue.
"Detain him!" sad Mr. Lake; "detain him, we shall never be satisfied until this affair is
thoroughly and judicially enquired into. Detain him I say."
"Let him who sets no value on his life," said Mr. Blue, "lay but a hand upon me, and he
shall have to admire the consequences of his rashness. I am not one to be trifled with; it is
my fancy to leave this hotel this moment let any one dare to stand in my way[.]"
"Your name is not Blue," said the landlord, "you are not what you seem."
"Granted."
"Ah! you admit it," said Lake. "Lay hold of him, I will give ten pounds for him dead or
alive; I have often heard of vampires, and by Heaven, I now believe in them. Seize him, I
say, seize him."
He dashed forward himself, as he spoke, and was on the point of seizing hold of Mr.
Blue, when one well-directed blow from that individual sent him sprawling. After this
nobody showed any very marked disposition to attack him, but he was allowed to walk
calmly and slowly down the staircase of the hotel; while Lake gathered himself up, looking
rather confused at the tumble he had had. But his passion was not subdued, for he made a
rush still after the supposed vampire, but he was too late. The hotel door was closed with a
bang, that reverberated through the house, and Mr. Blue was gone, vampire, or no vampire.
"Landlord, I shall leave your house," said Lake.

"I'm ruined," said the landlord. "This affair will get into some Sunday paper. Mr. Black,
what is to be done?"
"Really, the top of my head is so hurt," replied Mr. Black, "that I can think of nothing
else."
"A plague upon the top of your head," muttered the landlord.
The Lakes now, that is Mr. and Mrs. Lake found their way to the young lady's chamber,
when they found her in a state of great alarm. The story she told amounted to this: --
She was asleep, she said, having perfect confidence that no harm could come to her,
while the door of her room was watched in the way it was. She had a light burning in her
room, but it was one that gave a very faint light, as she had usually an objection to sleeping
otherwise than in profound darkness; but she had no notion of how long she had been
asleep, when she was awakened by a hand being placed over her mouth, which prevented
her from breathing.
She struggled to free herself but it was in vain. The monster attacked her on the neck with
his teeth, and all she remembered was getting sufficiently free to utter one scream, and then
she fainted away.
"My dear," said Mrs. Lake, "I must have some serious talk with you upon a subject which
I have before urged. Go away, Lake."
Lake left the room, and then, Mrs. Lake continued.
"This is a very dreadful affair, Annetta. You know that it is fancied you are not the child
of Lord Lake, and that we have the care of you. Now we so much love and admire you, -- "
"Stop madam, stop," said the young lady, "I know what you are about to say, you are
going to urge me again to marry your son, which I will never do, for I have the greatest
aversion to him."
"You will not? who will protect you from a vampire better than a husband."
"Probably no one, but at least I reserve to myself the right to choose to whom I give that
task, I am ill now and weak, I pray you not to weary me further upon a subject concerning
which it is quite impossible we can ever agree. I only wish I were dead."
"And that you may very well soon be if your blood is all sucked away by a vampire."
"So be it. Heaven help me!"
"Pshaw! you may die as soon as you like."

CHAPTER CXVIII [Chapter 186]
THE MEETING IN ST. JAMES'S PARK.
Another day passed over at the London Hotel, and as Mr. Blue had been kind enough to
take his departure, and that departure seemed to be final, for he did not show himself again,
Mr. Lake rescinded the resolution he had made to leave.
Probably it was much more convenient for him to stay, although he pretended that he did
so out of consideration for the landlord, who ought not to be punished for innocently
harbouring so suspicious a character as Mr. Blue, whether he were a vampire, or not.
But the day, as we say, has passed away, and it is about half-past eight o'clock in the
evening, and quite dark, for the moon did not rise for an hour afterwards, when Mr. Lake
might have been seen making his way towards Saint James's Park.
He entered it by the narrow mode of ingress by Spring Gardens, and made his way
towards the palace of Saint James, that is to say, the wall of its private gardens that look
upon the park; and then, under some shady trees, he paused and looked inquiringly about
him.
"He was to have been here a little before nine," he muttered. "Hush!"
The Horse Guards clock chimed three-quarters past eight.
Mr. Lake draw back, as two men came at a slow pace towards where he stood, and then
he muttered, --
"It is Miller, but confound him, who is that he has brought with him? Hang the fellow! I
did not give him leave to make a confident in this ticklish piece of business."
One of the men only now advanced, leaving the other about twelve paces from him.
"Mr. L -- -, I think," he said.
"Yes, Miller, it is I; but who in the name of all that's infernal have you brought with you?
Are you mad to trust to anybody but yourself?"
"Oh, don't trouble yourself about that, sir. The fact is, he has been with me for a number
of years; he is my managing clerk, and as great a rogue as you would wish him to be. I
cannot keep anything wholly from him, so the best way, I find, is to make a confident of
him at once."
"I don't half like it."

"You may thoroughly depend upon Lee, that is his name, and you never knew such a
rogue as he is, sir; besides, somebody, you know, must have been trusted to personate the
father, and he will do that, and then, you know likewise, sir, that -- -"
"Hush, hush! speak lower! will you? bring this accomplished rogue this way, since I must
do business, it seems, with him! Call him here, Miller, and we will talk as we walk on, that
is always safer than holding a conference in one spot, near which any one may hide; but it
is a much more difficult thing for a spy to follow and overhear you at the same time."
"You have a genius, Mr. Lake."
"Bah! I don't want any compliments from you, Miller; we want downright business."
By this time, Mr. Miller had made a sig[n] to his clerk, Lee, to come up, which that
individual did, and at once saluted Mr. Lake, and made some trivial remark about the
weather, in an off-hand way.
Mr Lake made rather a distant reply and then he said, --
"I presume, sir, that Mr. Miller has made you acquainted with the affair in which, it
seems, I am to purchase your kind co-operation?"
"Oh no," said Miiller, "I have certainly given him a brief outline, but I always prefer that
the principal himself should give all the directions possible to every one, and tell his own
story."
"Well, sir, I think you might as well have told him, and not given me the trouble. But,
however, if I must, I must; so pray attend to me sir."
"I will," said Lee.
"My brother then, is Lord Lake. It's a new title rather, as our father was the first who had
it, and he left large estates to my brother, and to his son if he had one, or his daughter, if he
had one. The title descending to heir males, I must have the title by outliving my brother, if
I do, but hang it all, she [sic] has a daughter, and she will have the estates."
"I comprehend."
"The old countess of Bhackbighte smuggled the child away at its birth, and took care of it
for a consideration that used up two-thirds of my income, but the old cat on her death
confessed that the child was Lord Lakes's, but luckily, you see, without criminating me.
Now Mr. Miller was her solicitor, and so between us we have forged a letter supposed to be
found among the old countess's papers, in which she states that she intends to palm off a
child as the Lord Lakes when she is dying, but that his child really did die, you see."
"Oh yes."

"Now this has had an effect upon Lord Lake, who to some extent had repudiated the girl,
and what I want is to clinch the matter, by providing some one who will actually own her."
"I understand." said Lee, "but it will be an awkward affair if found out."
"I want to provide against any consequences of a disagreeable nature, by getting her to
marry my son, but I don't think she will. Absolute distress to which I am determined to
bring her, if I can, may move her to that step, and then all's right. The secret is in my hands
to play with, as I think proper."
"A very good plan."
"You see, there's a lover of hers too, a young officer in the Guards, but he will be off as
soon as he finds that she's the daughter of a lawyer's clerk instead of a lord -- ha! ha! ha!"
"Likely enough. I'll father her."
"Thank you; and now about money matters. Miller gets a thousand pounds -- what do you
want? Be moderate."
"I ought to have five hundred pounds to pay me."
"The deuce! Well, I don't want to stint you. But you will bear in mind that that is very
good pay; and now we must get up a first rate story, so complete in all its parts that there
shall be no sort of doubt about it, you see -- a story that will stand the test of examination
and criticism."
"That can be better done in my chambers," said the attorney; "I think now we understand
each other perfectly well, and that we need hardly say any more just at present. Money
matters are settled, and as Mr. Lee has once undertaken the business, I am quite satisfied,
for one, that it will be well done."
"I am glad to hear you say that, Miller, and I am quite reconciled, which I must own I was
not at first, to Mr. Lee having a finger in the pie."
"Thank you," said Lee, "thank you; we shall manage it all right, no doubt. Indeed now
that you have fully explained it to me, it seems quite an easy and straightforward affair."
"You think so."
"I certainly do think so."
"Then you take off my mind a load of anxiety for thought it would be a difficult thing to
arrange, and require no end of chicanery and trouble, but yon [sic] quite reassure -- you
quite reasure [sic] me, Mr. Lee."

"Oh, these things are done every day, my dear sir."
They had walked to and fro as they spoke till now, by the time they had settled their
affairs thus far, they stood by the centre of the principal mall. The park was very quiet, and
had quite a deserted aspect. Indeed, it was near the time when there would be more
difficulty in travering [sic] it in consequence of the extra vigilance of the night sentinels.
The moon faded gradually away, or seemed to fade away as the light fleecy clouds swept
over it's face, and the parties who had held this interesting dialogue separated. Mr. Lake
walked hurriedly towards his hotel, and the attorney and his accomplice stood for a few
moments conversing in whispers. They then turned towards the Green Park, and as they did
so, they were crossed by a tall, spectral-looking figure wrapped up in an immense cloak,
but who did not seem to observe them, for his eyes were fixed upon the moon, which at that
moment again began to emerge from the clouds.
He stretched forth his arms as if he would have held the beautiful satellite to his heart.
"An odd fish," whispered the attorney.
"Very," said his companion. "I should like now to know who he is."
The attorney shrugged his shoulders, as he said, "Some harmless lunatic most likely.
They say that such often wander all night about the parks."
"That's strange; only look at him now. he seems to be worshipping the moon, and now
how he strides along; and see, there is another man meets him, and they both hold up their
arms in that strange way to the moon. What on earth can be the meaning of it?"
"I really don't know."
"Some religious fanatics, perhaps."
"Ah! that's as likely as not. We have all sorts of them, jumpers and screamers and tearers,
and why not a few who may call themselves Lunarians. For my part I would rather worship
the moon than I would, as most church and chapel going women do, worship some canting
evangelical thief of a parson, who has -- oh dear! such elegant hands, and such whiskers,
and speaks so soft and impressive. Of all the rougues on earth, I do detest those in
surplices!"
--

CHAPTER CLXIX [Chapter 187]
THE CHURCHYARD AT HAMPSTEAD. -- THE RESUSCITATION OF A

VAMPIRE.
It wants half an hour to midnight. The sky is still cloudy, but glimpses of the moon can be
got as occasionally the clouds slip om [sic] before her disc, and then what a glorious flood
of silver light spread itself over the landscape.
And a landscape in every respect more calculated to look beautiful and rowantic [sic]
under the chaste moon's ray, than that to which we would now invite attention, certainly
could not have been found elsewhere, within many a mile of London. It is Hampstead
Heath, that favoured spot where upon a small scale are collected some of the rarest
landscape beauties that the most romantic mountainous counties of England can present to
the gratified eye of the tourist.
Those who are familiar with London and its environs, of course, are well acquainted with
every nook, glade, tree, and dell in that beautiful heath, where, at all and every time and
season, there is much to recommend that semi-wild spot to notice. Indeed, if it were, as it
ought to be, divested of its donkey-drivers and laundresses, a more delightful place of
residence could scarcely be found than some one of those suburban villas, that are dotted
round the margin of this picturesque waste.
But it is midnight, nearly. That time is forthcoming, at which popular superstition

trembles -- that time, at which the voice of ignorance and of cant lowers to whispers, and
when the poor of heart and timid of spirit imagine worlds of unknown terrors. On this
occasion, though, it will be seen that there would have been some excuses if even the most
bold had shrunk back appalled at what was taking place.
But we will not anticipate for truly in this instance might we say sufficient for the time
are the horrors thereof.
If any one had stood on that portion of the high road which leads right over the heath and
so on to Hendon or to Highgate, according as the left hand or the right hand route is taken,
and after reaching the Castle Tavern, had looked across the wide expanse of heath to the
west, they would have seen nothing for a while but the clustering bushes of heath blossom,
and the picturesque fir trees, that there are to be beheld in great luxuriance. But, after a
time, something of a more noticeable character would have presented itself.
At a quarter to twelve there rose up from a tangled mass of brushwood, which had
partially concealed a deep cavernous place where sand had been dug, a human form, and
there it stood in the calm still hour of night so motionless that it scarcely seemed to possess
life, but presently another rose at a short distance.

And then there was a third, so that these three strange-looking beings stood like
landmarks against the sky, and when the moon shone out from some clouds which had for a
short time obscured her rays, they looked strange and tall, and superhuman.
One spoke.
"'Tis time," he said, in a deep, hollow voice, that sounded as if it came from the tomb.
"Yes, time," said another.
"Time has come," said the third.
Then they moved, and by the gestures they used, it seemed as if an animated discussion
was taking place among them, after which they moved along in perfect silence, and in a
most stately manner, towards the village of Hampstead.
Before reaching it, however, they turned down some narrow shaded walks among garden
walls, and the backs of stables, until they emerged close to the old churchyard, which
stands on high ground, and which was not then -- at least, the western portion of it --
overlooked by any buildings. Those villas which now skirt it, are of recent elevation.
A dense mass of clouds has now been brought up by a south wind, and had swept over
the face of the moon, so that at this juncture, and as twelve o'clock might be expected every
moment to strike, the night was darker than it had yet been since sunset. The circumstance
was probably considered by the mysterious beings who sought the churchyard as
favourable to them, and they got without difficulty within those sacred precincts devoted to
the dead.
Scarcely had they found the way a dozen feet among the old tomb-stones, when from
behind a large square monument, there appeared two more persons; and if the attorney, Mr.
Miller, had been there, he would probably have thought they bore such a strong
resemblance to those whom he had seen in the park, he would have had but little hesitation
in declaring that they were the same.
These two persons joined the other three, who manifested no surprise at seeing them, and
then the whole five stood close to the wall of the church, so that they were quite secure
from observation, and one of them spoke.
"Brothers," he said, "you who prey upon human nature by the law of your being, we have
work to do to-night -- that work which we never leave undone, and which we dare not
neglect when we know that it is to do. One of our fraternity lies here."
"Yes," said the others, with the exception of one, and he spoke passionately.
"Why," he said, "when there were enough, and more than enough, to do the work,
summon me?"

"Not more than enough, there are but five."
"And why should you not be summoned," said another, "you are one of us. You ought to
do your part with us in setting a brother free from the clay that presses on his breast."
"I was engaged in my vocation. If the moon shine out in all her lustre again, you will see
that I am wan and wasted, and have need of -- "
"Blood," said one.
"Blood, blood, blood," repeated the others. And then the first speaker said, to him who
complained," [sic] --
"You are one whom we are glad to have with us on a service of danger. You are strong
and bold, your deeds are known, you have lived long, and are not yet crushed."
"I do not know our brother's name," said one of the others with an air of curiosity.
"I go by many."
"So do we all. But by what name may we know you best."
"Slieghton, I was named in the reign of the third Edward. But many have known me as
Varney, the Vampyre!"
There was a visible sensation among those wretched beings as these words were uttered,
and one was about to say something, when Varney interrupted him.
"Come," he said, "I have been summoned here, and I have come to assist in the
exhumation of a brother. It is one of the conditions of our being that we do so. Let the work
be proceeded with then, at once, I have no time to spare. Let it be done with. Where lies the
vampyre? Who was he?"
"A man of good repute, Varney," said the first speaker. "A smooth, fair-spoken man, a
religious man, so far as cant went, a proud, cowardly, haughty, worldly follower of religion.
Ha, ha, ha!"
"And what made him one of us?"
"He dipped his hands in blood. There was a poor boy, a brother's only child, 'twas left an
orphan. He slew the boy, and he is one of us."
"With a weapon."

"Yes, and a sharp one; the weapon of unkindness. The child was young and gentle, and
harsh words, blows, and revilings placed him in his grave. he is in heaven, while the man
will be a vampyre."
"'Tis well -- dig him up."
They each produced from under the dark cloaks they wore, a short double-edged, broad,
flat-bladed weapon, not unlike the swords worn by the Romans, and he who assumed the
office of guide, led the way to a newly-made grave, and dillegently, and with amazing
rapidity and power, they commenced removing the earth.
It was something amazing to see the systematic manner in which they worked, and in ten
minutes one of them struck the blade of his weapon upon the lid of a coffin, and said,
"It is here."
The lid was then partially raised in the direction of the moon, which, although now
hidden, they could see would in a very short time show itself in some gaps of the clouds,
that were rapidly approaching at great speed across the heavens.
They then desisted from their labour, and stood around the grave in silence for a time,
until, as the moon was longer showing her fair face, they began to discourse in whispers.
"What shall become of him," said one, ponting [sic] to the grave. "Shall we aid him."
"No," said Varney, "I have heard that of him which shall not induce me to lift hand or
voice in his behalf. Let him fly, shrieking like a frightened ghost where he lists."
"Did you not once know some people named Bannerworth."
"I did. You came to see me, I think, at an inn. They are all dead."
"Hush," said another, "look, the moon will soon be free from the vapours that sail
between it and the green earth. Behold, she shines out fresh once more; there will be life in
the coffin soon, and our work will be done."
It was so. The dark clouds passed over the face of the moon, and with a sudden burst of
splendour, it shone out again as before.
--

CHAPTER CLXX. [Chapter 188]
THE VAMPYRE. -- THE FLIGHT. -- THE WATCHMAN IN THE VALE OF

HEALTH.
A death-like stillness now was over the whole scene, and those who had partially
exhumed the body stood as still as statues, waiting the event which they looked forward to
as certain to ensue.
The clear beauty and intensity of the moonbeams increased each moment, and the whole
surrounding landscape was lit up with a perfect flood of soft, silvery light. The old church
stood out in fine relief, and every tree, and every wild flower, and every blade of grass in
the churchyard, could be seen in its finest and most delicate proportions and construction.
The lid of the coffin was wrenched up on one side to about six inches in height, and that
side faced the moon, so that some rays, it was quite clearly to be seen, found their way into
that sad receptacle for the dead. A quarter of an hour, however, passed away, and nothing
happened.
"Are you certain he is one of us?" whispered Varney.
"Quite, I have known it years past. He had the mark upon him."
"Enough. Behold."
A deep and dreadful groan came from the grave, and yet it could hardly be called a groan;
it was more like a howl, and the lid which was partially open, was visibly agitated.
"He comes," whispered one.
"Hush," said another, "hush; our duty will be done when he stands upon the level ground.
Hush, let him hear nothing, let him know nothing, since we will not aid him. Behold,
behold."
They all looked down into the grave, but they betrayed no signs of emotion, and the sight
they saw there was such as one would have supposed would have created emotion in the
breast of any one at all capable of feeling. But then we must not reason upon these strange
frightful existences as we reason upon human nature such as we usually know it.
The coffin lid was each moment more and more agitated. The deep frightful groans
increased in number and sound, and then the corpse stretched out one ghastly hand from the
open crevice and grasped despairingly and frantically at the damp earth that was around.
There was still towards one side of the coffin sufficient weight of mould that it would
require some strenght [sic] to turn it off, but as the dead man struggled within his narrow

house it kept falling aside in lumps, so that his task of exhumation became each moment an
easier one.
At length he uttered a strange wailing shriek, and by a great effort succeeded in throwing
the coffin lid quite open, and then he sat up, looking so horrible and ghastly in the grave
clothes, that even the vampyres that were around that grave recoiled a little.
"Is it done?" said Varney.
"Not yet," said he who had summoned the to the fearful rite, and so assumed a sort of
direction over them, "not yet; we will not assist him, but we may not leave him before
telling him who and what he is."
"Do so now."
The corpse stood up in the coffin, and the moonlight fell full upon him.
"Vampyre arise," said he who had just spoken to Varney. "Vampyre arise, and do your
work in the world until your doom shall be accomplished. Vampyre arise -- arise. Pursue
your victims in the mansion and in the cottage. Be a terror and a desolation, go you where
you may, and if the hand of death strike you down, the cold beams of the moon shall restore
you to new life. Vampyre arise, arise!"
"I come, I come!" shrieked the corpse.
In another moment the five vampyres who had dug him from the grave were gone.
Moaning, shrieking, and groaning he made some further attempts to get out of the deep
grave. He clutched at it in vain, the earth crumbled beneath him, and it was only at last by
dint of reaching up and dragging in the displaced material that lay in a heap at the sides, so
that in a few minutes it formed a mound for him to stand upon in the grave, and he was at
length able to get out.
Then, although he sighed, and now and then uttered a wailing shriek as he went about his
work, he with a strange kind of instinct, began to carefully fill up the grave from which he
had but just emerged, nor did he cease from his occupation until he had finished it, and so
carefully shaped the mound of mould and turf over it that no one would have thought it had
been disturbed.
When this work was done a kind of madness seemed to seize him, and he walked to the
gate of the grave yard, which opens upon Church-street, and placing his hands upon the
sides of his mouth he produced such an appalling shriek that it must have awakened
everybody in Hampstead.

Then, turning, he fled like a hunted hare in the other direction, and taking the first turning
to the right ran up a lane called Frognal-lane, and which is parallel to the town, for a town
Hampstead may be fairly called now, although it was not then.
By pursuing this lane, he got upon the outskirts of the heath, and then turning to the right
again, for, with a strange pertinacity he always kept, as far as he could, his face towards the
light of the moon, he rushed down a deep hollow, where there was a cluster of little
cottages, enjoying such repose that one would have thought the flutter of an awakened bird
upon the wing would have been heard.
It was quite clear that the new vampyre had as yet no notion of what he was about, or
where he was going, and that he was with mere frantic haste speeding along, from the first
impulse of his frightful nature.
The place into which he had now plunged, is called the Vale of Health: now a place of
very favourite resort, but then a mere collection of white faced cottages, with a couple of
places that might be called villas. A watchman went his nightly rounds in that place. And it
so happened that the guardian of the Vale had just roused himself up at this juncture, and
made up his mind to make his walk of observation, when he saw the terrific figure of a man
attired in grave clothes coming along with dreadful speed towards him, as if to take the
Vale of Health by storm.
The watchman was so paralysed by fear that he could not find strength enough to spring
his rattle, although he made the attempt, and held it out at arm's length, while his eyes
glared with perfect ferocity, and his mouth was wide enough open to nourish the idea, that
after all he had a hope of being able to swallow the spectre.
But, nothing heeding him, the vampyre came wildly on.
Fain now would the petrified watchman have got out of the way, but he could not, and in
another moment he was dashed down to the earth, and trodden on by the horrible existence
that knew not what it did.
A cloud came over the moon, and the vampyre sunk down, exhausted, by a garden-wall,
and there lay as if dead, while the watchman, who had fairly fainted away, lay in a
picturesque attitude on his back, not very far off.
Half an hour passed, and a slight mist-like rain began to fall.
The vampyre slowly rose to his feet, and commenced wringing his hands and moaning,
but his former violence of demeanour had passed away. That was but the first flush of new
life, and now he seemed to be more fully aware of who and what he was.
He shivered as he tottered slowly on, until he came to where the watchman lay, and then
he divested that guardian of the Vale of his greatcoat, his hat, and some other portions of

his apparel, all of which he put on himself, still slightly moaning as he did so, and ever and
anon stopping to make a gesture of despair.
When this operation was completed, he slunk off into a narrow path which led on to the
heath again, and there he seemed to waver a little, whether he would go towards London, or
the country. At length it seemed that he decided upon the former course, and he walked on
at a rapid pace right through Hampstead, and down the hill towards London, the lights of
which would be seen gleaming in the distance.
When the watchman did recover himself, the first thing he did was, to be kind enough to
rouse every body up from their sleep in the Vale of Health, by springing his rattle at a
prodigious rate, and by the time he had roused up the whole neighbourhood, he felt almost
ready to faint again at the bare recollection of the terrible apparition that had knocked him
down.
The story in the morning was told all over the place, with many additions to it of course,
and it was long afterwards before the inhabitants of the Vale could induce another
watchman, for that one gave up the post, to run the risk of such a visitation.
And the oddest thing of all was, that the watchman declared that he caught a glance at the
countenance, and that it was like that of a Mr. Brooks, who had only been buried the day
previous, that if he had not known that gentleman to be dead and buried, he should have
thought it was he himself gone mad.
But there was the grave of Mr. Brooks, with its circular mound of earth, all right enough;
and then Mr. B. was known to have been such a respectable man. He went to the city every
day, and used to do so just for the purpose of granting audiences to ladies and gentlemen
who might be labouring under any little pecuniary difficulties, and accommodating them.
Kind Mr. Brooks. He only took one hundred pounds per cent. Why should he be a
Vampyre? Bless him! Too severe, really!
There were people who called him a bloodsucker while he lived, and now he was one
practically, and yet he had his own pew at the church, and subscribed a whole guinea a year
to a hospital -- he did, although people did say it was in order that he might pack off any of
his servants at once to it in case of illness. But then the world is so censorious.
To this day the watchman's story of the apparition that visited the Vale of Health is talked
of by the old women who make what they call tea for Sunday parties at nine pence a head.
But it is time now that we go back to London, and see what is taking place at the hotel
where the Lakes are staying, and how the villany of the uncle thrives -- that villany of
which he actually had the face to give such an exposition to Mr. Lee the clerk of the
attorney.
Let us hope that the right will still overcome the injustice that is armed against it, and that
Lord Lake and his beautiful child may not fall victims to the machinations that are brought
into play agianst them, by those who ought to have been their best friends.

CHAPTER CLXXI. [Chapter 189]
MISS LAKE PASSES A FEARFUL NIGHT. -- THE IMPOSTOR PUNISHE [sic]
The landlord of the London Hotel made every possible exertion to keep a profound secret
the events of the night, but people will talk when even they have not anything particular to
say, so that we cannot wonder at their doing so when they have.
In fact the story of the vampyre at the London Hotel got known pretty well half over
London in the course of the day succeeding that second attempt upon the life blood of the
young lady, who had become the object of attack from the monster.
Mr. Lake was in a strange frame of mind as regarded the whole affair. He did not yet
know whether to really believe it or not -- whether to ascribe it, after all, to a dream, or, as
Mrs. Lake hinted, for she was a woman fond of scheming herself, so always ready to
suggest its existence in others -- a mere plan upon the part of the young girl to get rid of the
projected alliance with young Master Lake, and possibly evoke the sympathy of all who
heard her story.
This view of the matter however, although it did not make much impression upon Mr.
Lake, suggested a something to him, that he thought would chime in well with his other
plans and projects.
"If," he said "I could but instill a little courage into my son he might now, at all events
make a favourable impression upon his cousin."
Full of this idea, he summoned the young gentleman to a conference with him, and
having carefully closed the door, he said in a low confidential tone, --
"Of course you have heard all about this -- this vampyre business?"
"Yes, govenor, to be sure I have. Who could fail of hearing all about it? Why, nobody in
the house will talk about anything else. I'm afraid to go to bed, I can tell you; that is to say,
for fear I should do anything rash, you know, that's all."
"I understand you, and it's no use blinking the fact to me, that you are a coward."
"I am a coward, I -- oh, you are very much mistaken. I'm a long way off that. I'm only
always desirous of getting out of the way when anything happens, for fear of doing a rash
act; it's excess of courage you know -- that's what alarms me."
"Well, there are cases in which there would be no harm resulting, were you ever so rash."
"Ah! only show me one, and then you'll see."

"Very well, your cousin, you know -- and you know she is you cousin -- won't have you.
Now, unless you are married to her, all our nicely got up plans are liable to be blasted by
any accident, or by any breath of treachery that may come across them. But if you were the
husband of your cousin, policy, habit, and, indeed, everything would combine to induce
Lord Lake and her to smother up the affair. You comprehend."
"But what am I to do, if she won't have me?"
"I will tell you. You must awaken her gratitude by rescuing her from all these foolish
terrors about vampyres, and when once a woman feels and knows that a man has done a
brave act in her behalf, the principal entrance to her heart is open to him."
"Oh, but -- I -- I -- the vampyre; that's rather unpleasant."
"Come, now, you are not such a fool, as really to believe that it's, after all, anything but a
mere dream. Don't tell me. Vampyres, indeed! At all events you can vapour as much as you
like upon that subject without any danger occurring."
"Yes, yes -- you may think so."
"I know so. Listen to me."
The son did listen, and the father added:
"You must volunteer to watch alone by your cousin's door for this vampyre, and of course
nothing will think of coming. It's too ridiculous altogher, that it is; so, you see, you run no
risk at all. You comprehend that?"
"Well, but if I run no risk, I don't see what's the use of doing it, you know; for if all is
quite, how can she be grateful to me for having rescued her from nothing at all?"
"Very well put, very well indeed. But as there will be nothing really to rescue her from,
suppose we make something that will just suit our own purposes."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, you know my great grey travelling cloak -- what is to hinder you having that with
you, and whenever you are quite certain that your cousin is fast asleep, you can put that on
over your face partially, and go into the room, and pretend to be the vampyre, and when she
is in a paroxysm of terror do you dash out the light, and then in your natural voice, cry out,
'Ah, wretch, I have you, I have you. How dare you invade the sanctity of this chamber?' and
all that sort of thing, you know, and you can knock about the chairs as much as you like, so
as to induce the belief that you are engaged in a deadly struggle, and then you call for
lights, and you are there, and the vampyre gone."
"Well, I rather like that, and if I were quite sure -- "

"Of what?"
"That there was no real vampyre, you know, why I wouldn't mind it."
"Pshaw!"
"Well, well, I'll do it, I'll do it, I tell you. I see all the importance of getting her for my
wife. Ahem! and if I do," he added to himself aside, "I'll take deuced good care you don't
get hold of the money, for after we are married, I shall just tell Lord Lake all about it."
During the day Mr. Lake had sought an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Black.
"My dear sir," he said to him, you don't seem well at all, and I shall insist that you do not
trouble yourself to watch to-night by the door of the young lady, who has had so
disagreeable a visitor."
"I am certainly not quite well," said Mr. Black. "The fact is, my health will not bear
anything like a shock; a family occurrence has so shattered my nerves."
"My dear sir, say no more; you shall have no more trouble about us. My son who loves
his cousin, and is quite jealous of anybody defending her but himself, will watch alone by
her door. He has great courage when once his spirit is up, and it is now."
"I'm glad to hear it: it takes some time to get it up!"
"Why, a -- a -- yes, sometimes."
"I must be on the look out myself tonight, or the cowardly fellow will spoil all," thought
Mr. Lake; "any unusual noise in the house, I suppose, will be almost sufficient to induce
him to faint away. Confound his cowardice, it mars all."
Mr. Lake was not by any means so clear in his own mind as he pretended to be of the fact
of the vampyre being only a delusion and a creation of the brain of his niece; so when the
evening came, he did all that was in his power to keep the courage of his son to the mark.
He even took care that he should have a glass of something strong and hot, for he knew
by personal experience that while they lasted, the fumes of hot alcohol did something for a
weak heart.
But what pleased Mr. Lake most of all was the ease with which he had thus managed
matters with Mr. Miller and his clerk, who he had no doubt, would fabricate such a story as
would convince the single minded Annetta of his claims to be her father.
"Then," thought the old Lake, "we can surely among us badger her into marrying my son.
Oh, it will be all right. Let no plot henceforward hope to succeed if this one does not. It
must, and it shall; it shall, and it must."

It's all very well of any one to say that a scheme shall succeed;
"But how light a breath of air will chase away,
The darkly woven fancies of a thousand plots."
Mr. Lake stood upon a precipice which he little saw, or the terrific height of it would have
driven him distracted.
Miss Lake was in a great state of mental depression; if anything, more than another was
calculated to thoroughly break down the spirits of a young and innocent girl, it certainly
would be such circumstances as those which now surrounded her, and deprived too, as she
was, of that aid and sympathy she would have received at the hands of a father or a mother,
it was only a wonder that she did not sink under the affliction most completely.
She made no objection to young Lake watching by the outside of her door. Indeed, she
was weeping and depressed, so that she could scarcely know what proposal was made to
her.
"I shall not sleep," she said. "God knows what will become of me."
"Do not despair, all may be well; it was a very sad thing that my brother Lord Lake ever
found out that you were not his daughter. I'm sure I would have given freely all I possessed
to have averted any such news, for it has attacked both his happiness and yours."
The young girl made no reply to this, but the look she gave him was quite sufficient to
show him how much she doubted the sincerity of the professions of friendship and
affection for her that fell from his lips. There was a something in his hollow, heartless
character which, young and innocent and unknowing in the ways of the world even as that
young girl was, she saw through, and he felt that she did so.
This was the most provoking thing of all that his heartlesness [sic] and selfishness should
be transparent to one so young as she was.
But the night came at last, and with it the fidgetty fears of young Lake increased mightily.
He was all of a shake, as Slop the waiter said, like a lot of jelly.
It was only by repeated doses of brandy-and-water that he kept himself from declaring off
the adventure altogether, so that by eleven o'clock at night he was in a terrible state between
fear and intoxication; and as any two impulses will each do its best to defeat the other, he
was prevented from getting entirely drunk by his fears, and from getting entirely afraid by
the liquor.
But at last he did actually take his place by the door of the chamber occupied by his
cousin, and then with a table before him on which were lights, brandy-and-water, and
cigars, he prepared to go through what to him was a terrible ordeal.

"You -- you -- really think," he whispered to his father, who came to promise him that he
would not undress himself, but remain in his own room within call, "you really think there
is no vampyre?"
"Tut, tut."
"Well, but really now, really -- "
"Have I not told you before? Come, come, nonsense, there's the old grey travelling cloak,
put it under the table, and now I shall leave you; its about half-past eleven, and you have
nothing in the world to do but just to enjoy yourself, you know. Good night."
--

HAPTER CLXXII. [Chapter 190]
THE VAMPYRE DISCOVERED. -- THE ESCAPE ON THE THAMES.
"Enjoy myself!" muttered the young Lake, "enjoy myself! That may be his idea of staying
here vampyre-catching, but it ain't mine. What a fool I was to consent to come here, to be
sure, and all alone too. Eh, what was that? Oh! I'm all of a shake. I though I heard
somebody, but I suppose it was nothing. Oh dear, what a disagreeable affair this is; what an
infernal fool I am, to be sure. Eh? eh?"
The hair on his head nearly stood up as he heard, or fancied he heard, a low grown. He
shook so while he arose from his seat that he was glad to sit down again as quickly as he
possibly could, for he found his strength evaporating along with the Dutch courage, or
rather as it should be called, French courage, that had been instilled into him by the brandy.
"What shall I do," he gasped, "what shall I do? Oh, what will become of me? I'm in for a
row, I'm in for it to a certainty; I -- I think I'll call the old man.["]
He did not, however, call his father, whom he designated the old man, more familiarly
than respectfully, but as all continued now quiet, he thought he would wait until the next
alarm, at all events, before he made a piece of work and thoroughly exhibited his own
pusillanimity.
"It may be nothing" he said, "after all, perhaps only the wind coming through some chink
in a door or window. Lord bless us, I've read of such things in romances till my blood had
turned to curds and whey. There was the Bloody Spectre of the Tub of Blood, or the
Smashed Gore. Eh? eh? I thought somebody spoke. No, no -- oh, its [sic] all what do they
call it, imagination, that's what it is, and the sooner I get the job over the better, so I'll just
pop on the cloak, and do the business."
With trembling hands Mr. Lake junior drew the cloak from under the table and put it on,
bringing the collar of it right up to the top of his head, so that but a small portion of his
head was at all visible when he was thus equipped, and he certainly might look like a
vampyre, for he did not look like anything human by any means.
"Now, I wonder if she's asleep," he muttered as he laid his hand gently on the lock of the
door, "if she ain't, it would be a pity; but still I can say, I only wanted to know how she
was, so I'll just make the trial at all events. Here goes."
He opened the door of the bedroom a very short distance, and said, --
"Hist! hist! are you awake, eh? eh? What did you say? -- nothing, oh, she's asleep, and
now here goes -- upon my life when one comes to think of it, it ain't by any means a bad
plan. But just before I begin, I'll have another drain," [sic]

About two-thirds of a glass of brandy-and-water were in the tumbler on the table, and that
he tossed down at once, and feeling very much fortified by laying in such a stratum of
courage, he drew up the cloak to its proper vampyre-like position, as he considered it, and
advanced two steps within the chamber of the sleeping girl.
She was sleeping, and slightly moaning in her sleep. It was a great satisfaction to young
master Lake, to hear her so moaning, for it convinced him that such were the sounds which
he previously heard, and which had gone near to terrifying him out of his project.
He had no compunction whatever regarding the amount of alarm which this dastardly
project was likely to give to Miss Lake. No, all he looked to and thought of was himself. A
light was burning in the chamber, and that according to the directions of his father he blew
out, and then groping his ways towards the bed, he laid his hands upon the young girl's
face, and said, --
"The vampyre! the vampyre has come! -- blood, blood, blood! -- the vampyre!"
She awoke with a cry of terror as usual, and then master Lake moved off to the door, and
said in his natural voice,
"I'll protect you -- I'm coming -- I'll soon clear the room of the vampyre. Come on, you
wretch! Oh, I'll do for him. Take that -- and that -- and that."
Then he commenced kicking about the chairs, and nearly upset the washing-stand, all by
way of making the necessary disturbance, and convincing his cousin what a sanguinary
conflict he was having with the vampyre. In the midst of this something laid hold of him by
the ears and whiskers on each side of his head, and the door swinging open, his own light
that was upon the table in the corridor shone upon a hideous countenance within half an
inch of his own. The long fang-like teeth of which, with the lips retracted from them, were
horrible to look upon, and a voice like the growl of an enraged hyena said, --
"What want you with the vampyre, rash fool? He is here."
Master Lake was absolutely petrified with horror and astonishment. The hair bristled up
upon his head. His eyes opened the width of saucers, and when in a low voice the vampyre
said again, -- "What want you, reptile, with the vampyre?" he let his feet slide from under
him, and had he not been upheld by the horrible being who grasped him, he would have
fallen.
Bang went a pistol out of the corridor, and the vampyre uttered a cry and let go his hold
of Lake, who then fell, and being out of the way, showed his father standing on the
threshold of his own door, with a pistol in his hand recently discharged, and another
apparently ready.
In another moment the vampyre kicked the insensible form of young Lake out of the way,
and shut himself in the girl's bedroom. The father heard him lock the door, and although he

instantly sent another pistol shot through the panelling, he heard no sound indicating its
having done any execution.
"Help, help, help," he cried, "help here. The vampyre, the vampyre, the vampyre!"
All this had not taken above two or three minutes, and the whole house was now alarmed
by the sound of fire-arms, and as nobody had completely undressed themselves to go to bed
since the first alarm of the vampyre, the landlord and several of the waiters, and the night
watchman ran with all speed to the spot, looking full of consternation, and all asking
questions together.
"Force the door, force the door," cried Mr. Lake, "a hammer, a hatchet, anything, so that
we may get the door forced; the vampyre is inside."
"Oh lor!" cried one of the waiters who had gone close to the door, but who now made a
precipitate retreat, treading upon the stomach of young Lake as he did so.
"If you'll pay for the door, Sir," said the landlord, "I'll soon have it open."
"Damn it, I'll pay for twenty doors."
The landlord took a short run at the door, probably he knew its weakness, and burst it
open at once. There was the pause of about a moment, and then Mr. Lake, snatching up the
candle, the light of which had first revealed the hideous features of the vampyre to his son,
rushed into the room.
In these cases all that is wanted is a leader, so he was promptly enough followed. The
state of affairs was evident at a glance. The young lady had fainted, and the window was
wide open, indicating the mode of retreat of the vampire.
"I thought you told us," said Mr. Lake "that this window was too far from the ground to
anticipate any danger from -- -"
"Yes, so I did, sir. But don't you see he could easy enough jump off the sill on to those
leads there. Nobody could get in by the window, but anybody that wasn't afraid could get
out. But we have him, sir, we have him now as sure as a gun."
"Have him. How?"
"Why don't you see sir, there's nothing but high walls. He must be among our stables, and
he can't get out, for I have the keys of the outer doors myself, we shall not lose him now,
sir, I'm not a little thankful for it. Come on, everybody, round to the stables, and nothing
now can prevent us catching him if he is flesh and blood. Come on, come on."
By this time Mrs. Lake had reached the scene of action, and although the first thing she
did was to tumble, sprawling, over her hopeful son, who lay in the door-way of his cousin's

chamber, she gathered herself up again, and remained in charge of Annette [sic] and the
chamber, while Mr. Lake accompanied the landlord and the waiters to the stables of the
hotel, which were surrounded by high walls and only to be approached by a pair of large
gates, which were quite satisfactorily fastened, and there was not a chink large enough for a
cat to get through.
The landlord had the keys, and he opened a small wicket in one of the large gates.
"Now be careful," he said, "for fear he bounces out."
At this everybody but Mr. Lake, who to do him but justice, had certainly the quality of
courage, looked as alarmed as possible, but he said, --
"I have re-loaded my pistols, and he shall not escape me."
The wicket was opened, and in an instant out walked Mr. Black! He appeared at first
somewhat agitated, but speedily recovered his self-possession, and looking at the group, he
said, --
"Have you caught him? I have been upon the look out, notwithstanding my indisposition,
and jumped out of the bedroom window after him; I cannot see him anywhere. Have you
caught him."
"Yes," cried Mr. Lake, "I saw you in the room when I fired at you -- you are the
vampyre!["]
He made a rush forward as he spoke, but Mr. Black got dexterously out of the way, and
seizing the landlord by the hair of the head he cast him so fairly in Mr. Lake's way that they
both fell down together; with amazing rapidity the vampyre then fled from the spot.
"After him, after him," cried Mr. Lake, as he scrambled to his feet, "don't let him escape,
after him, whatever you do; alarm the whole city, rather than let the monster elude you.
This way -- this way, I see him. Follow me, a vampyre, a vampyre; help -- help, seize him,
a vampyre!"
"Fire," cried the landlord, and he too ran.
But all the running was in vain, the vampyre had fairly got the start of them, and he took
good care to keep it, for with the most wonderful fleetness he ran on, until, to his great
relief, he found his pursuers were distanced.
He made his way to the Strand, and diving down one of the narrow streets terminated by
the river, and at the end of which was a landing place, he called aloud, --
"Boat, boat!"

An old waterman answered the hail.
"Where to, your honour?"
"Up the river, I will tell you where to land me, row quick, and row well, and you may
name your own fare, without a chance of its being questioned."
"That's the customer for me," said the waterman.
--

CHAPTER CLXXIII. [Chapter 191]
THE PLOT DISCOVERED. -- THE LETTER LEFT AT THE HOTEL BY THE

VAMPYRE.
The further pursuit of the vampyre was very soon given up by those who had commenced
it with, as they had vainly imagined such an assurance of success.
Probably with the exception of Mr. Lake himself none were really very eager in it at all,
and they were not sorry for a good excuse to drop it.
There sat upon the countenance of Mr. Lake an appearance of great anger, and when they
got back to the hotel, he said to the landlord,
"This is a very disagreeable affair, and I cannot think of remaining here over to-morrow."
"But sir, the vampyre has gone now!"
"Yes, and may come again, for all I know."
"Oh, dear me, surely not now, sir. After what has happened, I should be inclined to say
that you will find this the quietest hotel in London."
Mr. Lake would not be moved from his determination, however, and briefly again
announced that he would on the morrow remove.
"How very vexatious," thought the landlord, but he could do nothing in the matter. His
only hope, and that was a very slight one indeed, was, by the morning the exasperated
feelings of Mr. Lake would be somewhat assuaged, and therefore, he thought it would be,
at all events, a prudent thing to say no more to him just then, when he was in such a mood.
When Mr. Lake retired to his own apartment he was in anything but a pleasant frame of
mind, for he found that things were not exactly turning out as he wished, and he much
feared that all his schemes would turn out abortive, in which case they would recoil upon
his own head in their consequences.
It was quite by accident, that happening to cast his eyes upon the dressing-table, he saw a
sealed letter lying there, and upon looking at the superscription he was surprised to find that
Annetta was the person for whom it was intended.
It was not, as the reader may suppose from what he knows of Mr. Lake, from any
honourables scruples that he hestitated at once to open the letter addressed to his neice, but
he was for a time considering whether he might not, by doing so, be getting himself into
some scrape from which he might find it very difficult to extricate himself.
"Who the deuce can it come from?" he said.

He turned the epistle about in all directions, but such an inquiry did not assist him, and
finally he made up his mind that come what might, he would break the seal and look at the
contents.
He soon, after coming to the determination, carried it into effect, and to his surprise he
found that the letter contained the following statement. --
"To the lady Annetta Lake.
"Fear nothing, lady. He who disturbed your repose will disturb it no longer. Be happy,
and do not let the dread of such another visitation ever disturb your pure imaginings. Your
father will rescue you from your present unhappy circumstances, and you will, likewise,
soon see one who ere this would have been with you, had he known of your being in
London. "This comes from "VARNEY THE VAMPYRE.
"If Mr. Lake, your bad uncle, upon whose dressing table this note is placed, delivers it not
to you, woe be to him, for I will make his nights hideous with realities, and his days
horrible with recollection and anticipation."
Mr. Lake was superstitious. Are not the unprincipled always so?
He read the postscript to the note with a shudder; and he felt that he could no more muster
courage enough to destroy the letter, than he could to lay violent hands upon himself. There
he was with an epistle that he would fain have kept from Annetta, and yet he dared not do
so.
"Confound my unlucky destiny," he said, "for bringing me to this hotel. Perhaps if I had
gone elsewhere, all this would not have happened. Oh, if I could but have suspected what
this Mr. Black really was, I would have tried some means for his extermination."
He paced his chamber in an agitated manner until Mrs. Lake made her appearance from
the chamber of the lady Annetta, where she had been staying, and to her then he at once
communicated the letter that gave him so much uneasiness.
"I don't know what to do," he said, "or what to think."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, indeed. Perhaps you can suggest something?"
"And can you allow yourself to be made a slave of such fears. There is but one course to
pursue, and that is, tomorrow to put the affair altogether in a different shape, by
overwhelming Annetta with the seeming evidence that she is the daughter of an attorney's
clerk, instead of her real father, Lord Lake. I know of no other way; and then when she
finds such, as she will think, to be the case, it's my opinion that she will no longer hesitate
to marry our son."

"You thing so?"
"Indeed do I, The girl is not an absolute fool surely."
"Well, of course, I should be very glad if that darling project could be, after all, brought
about, but what is to be done with this letter?"
"Can you ask?"
"I do, when I consider the threat that is in it. That threat, recollect, is to me, and you can
afford to think lightly of it.' [sic]
"I will take the consequences. It is hardly likely that you will be punished for what you
can't help. I will take good care that this letter never reaches Annetta, and as you have it
not, why of course you cannot deliver it, and so cannot be blamed."
"But I might have it."
"No such thing," said the lady snatching it up. "You know me rather too well, I should
think, to hope that I would give it up to you, and as for your taking it by force, I should
think you knew me too well likewise to make such a ridiculous attempt."
"Well, then I wash my hands of it."
"Ah! you may as well. I don't know what has come over you of late, you are as mean
spirited as you can be, and formerly you used to be able to cope with anything."
"We never played for such a stake as we have now upon the board, and I confess that I
am rather nervous for the consequences."
"Pshaw! I see that I must guide you, or all will be lost. To-morrow let the whole affair be
settled. Let this attorney Miller, as you call him, come here, and bring with him the person
who is to claim Annetta as his own daughter. Let him have all the evidence that you tell me
he has been so ingenious in getting up, ready, in order that he may be in a position to
answer any questions."
"Yes, yes."
"And then, when all is settled, our son must come forward, and make a speech, saying, he
don't care a bit, who or what she is, that he loves her and will make her his wife, although
she has not a penny piece in the world."
"I see, I see."
"I think, from what I know of her, that such a course of proceeding will have a great
effect upon her."

"Well, I hope so."
"You hope so! How despondingly you talk."
"Why the honest truth -- "
"Good God! what do you mean by making use of such words, I never told the honest truth
in all my life; you may depend that won't do in this world, on any consideration. Never let
me hear you say such a thing again, I beg of you."
"I was merely going to remark that this vampyre's business had really so completely
unsettled my whole nervous system, that I could not act with all the tact and the
determination that used to characterise my proceedings, and for which you were ever
disposed to give me so much credit.["]
"Really."
"Yes. But I cannot regret such a state of things so much as I should otherwise do, because
I see that you are unmoved and as energetic as ever."
"Well, well, say no more."
"I am done."
"I will prepare our boy for the part he is to act to-morrow; and mind, I shall rely upon you
to see your associates and get all the affair in train. Let it be all over by twelve in the
morning, so that if you like you can send to Lord Lake where he is staying, at Florence still
I presume, an account of the matter by post that same night; only let me see the letter before
you send it."
"I will, I will; you are my guardian angel."
"Pho, pho; you are getting quite romantic and foolish; we have both made up our minds
to get money, and we have likewise known so much the want of it, in abundance that is to
say, that we have resolved to get it in any way we can."
"Yes, that I rather thing is our principle of action."
"And has it not succeeded hitherto. Have we not lived well without troubling ourselves to
earn the means by which we have done so. Earn, indeed! I leave that to a parcel of sleepy
drones of people who have not the wit to live upon others as we have; so now got to bed
and sleep off some of the unmanly fears that seem of late to be continually pressing upon
you. It is well you have me to look after you as I do."
--


CHAPTER CLXXIV. [Chapter 192]
THE MEETING IN THE MORNING AT THE HOTEL -- THE PREPARATIONS OF

THE ATTORNEY.
It is no less than strange, the difference that takes place in people's feelings with regard to
precisely the same circumstances in the morning, from what they really felt and thought in
the evening, and when the shadows of night were upon them.
This mental phenomenon was not wanting in the case of Mr. Lake.
He felt as he rose the next day, and the sun was shining in at the window of his bedroom,
most thoroughly ashamed of his fears and his nervous tremours of the preceding night.
His wife saw with a smile the change in his feelings.
"You are no longer," she said, "afraid of the vampyre."
"Oh, say no more about it," was his reply. "I shall go immediately after breakfast and see
Mr. Miller, and with him make such arrangements as will bring the affair upon which we
have set our hearts to a crisis, and while I am gone you can instruct our son in what he has
to do."
"I will."
The breakfast passed over in rather a constrained manner. Mrs. Lake had made an attempt
to persuade Annetta that she was really too unwell to get up for an hour or two, but that
Annette [sic] would not submit to, as she felt herself, notwithstanding all her sufferings and
all her fright, really capable of rising.
The consequence was, that she appeared at the breakfast table, and stopped most
effectually anything in the shape of a confidential discourse taking place among the Lakes.
The meal therefore passed off rather silently, and there were only a few remarks made,
incidentally, about the preceding night's alarm.
Annetta was evidently in a state of great nervousness, as well she might be, for the idea
that she would be again subjected to the frightful visits of the vampyre, was ever present to
her, and she was denied the consolation which the letter of Varney might, and most
probably would have given her.
After the morning meal, Mr. Lake gave his wife a significant look to intimate that he was
then going to Mr. Miller's, and that in his absence she was to play her part.
She perfectly understood him, and nodded in return, and thus this worthy pair separated.

We will follow Mr. Lake.
The attorney did not live in one of the most respectable haunts of the profession, but he
was a man of his word, and by the time Mr. Lake reached his chambers he was there, it
being then not much above ten o'clock.
There was some delay in admitting Mr. Lake to the private room of the attorney, and he
thought that the clerk who was in the outer office looked a little confused.
"Is anybody with Mr. Miller?" asked Lake.
"Yes -- that is to say -- I mean no."
"A strange answer. Yes, and you mean no."
"Why, Sir, I only meant that Mr. Miller was rather busy, and we are so much in the habit
when that is the case, of saying that he has some one with him that it slipped out unawares,
only as we would not deceive you, sir, for the world, you understand that that was why, you
perceive, sir, that in a manner of speaking, I corrected myself."
This explanation was rather more wordy than satisfactory to Mr. Lake, however, for want
of a better, he was compelled to put up with it, and he said nothing, but waited with the
most exemplary patience, until Mr. Miller's bell rang.
The clerk answered it, and in a few moments returned to say that Mr. Miller had got
through a legal document he had been engaged upon, and the he much regretted having
kept Mr. Lake waiting, but was then quite at his disposal.
Now Lake could have sworn that he had heard the sound of a voice from the private room
of the attorney, and he consequently did not feel quite easy.
When he went in he found Mr. Miller with a number of letters before him.
"Ah, my dear sir," cried the lawyer, "sit down."
"Thank you. I thought somebody was with you?"
"Oh, dear no, not at all. I was going through a lease, you see, and from long experience in
such matters, I have found that I have a better and clearer understanding of the matter, if I
read it aloud to myself, but perhaps that is only a peculiarity of mine."
"Then it was your voice I heard just now?"
Mr. Lake's suspicions were about half removed, certainly not more than half, but he could
say no more about it, although he cast now and then suspicious glances round the room; yet

if he had been asked what he was suspicious of, he would hardly have been able to give a
clear and understandable answer to the question.
It is one of the curses of conscious guilt ever to live in an atmosphere of doubt and dread,
and to the full did Mr. Lake feel that curse.
"Well, Mr. Miller," he said, after a pause, "I have called upon you to say that I hope it
will suit your convenience to settle a little affair to-day at twelve o'clock at the hotel."
"Twelve -- let me see -- twelve. Not at the hotel my dear sir, I am compelled to be in
chambers in case of a letter coming on very particular business, but if you will bring her
here, I can manage it very nicely; if she don't leave this place with a conviction that she has
a father in London, I'll eat my boots."
"Well, I don't see why we should not come here, as you give me great satisfaction Mr.
Miller by avowing yourself to be so confident of the result."
"I am as confident as that I sit on this three legged stool."
"Good -- then you may depend upon our coming here at twelve o'clock precisely. There
will be myself, Mrs. Lake, my son and the young lady. Mind she is no fool, she must be
perfectly overwhelmed with proofs of what we wish to make her believe."
"Exactly, that she is not the daughter of Lord Lake, but a mere changling imposed upon
him as his own child -- the said own child being dead."
"Precisely."
"Agreed, sir, agreed. With respect to my reward, I have been thinking that I should like,
you know, to have some acknowledgment. You tell me you have no money now, but that
this obstacle once removed you will come in for all the Lake estates, and that Lord Lake
cannot live long."
"That's the state of the case."
"Then sir, will you give me a note for [#]2000 [pounds], payable on demand."
"On demand?"
"Yes; of course it would be needless folly of me to present it until you have money you
know."
"True, true."
We need not pursue the conversation further, but satisfy the reader by stating the result,
which was, that the attorney got the note for [#]2000 [pounds] form Lake, likewise a paper

signed, which admitted the debt more fully still, and effectually barred Lake from objecting
to any proceedings on account of want of consideration for the promissory note, or that it
had not been fairly obtained of him, pleas which might have inconvenienced Mr. Miller if
he chose to pursue Lake for the amount.
In the meantime Mrs. Lake had not been idle, but had spoken to her booby and cowardly
son, making him aware of what he had to do in the business, namely, to shew his great
disinterestedness in taking for his wife Annetta after she was supposed to be proved not the
daughter of Lord Lake, but quite a different personage, and altogether destitute of
pecuniary resources.
He managed pretty well always to understand any villany, and so entered life and soul
into the scheme of his mother.
"Ah! I like that a monstrous deal better than keeping watch for a vampyre, which is a sort
of job that don't at all suit such a constitution as mine, do you see?"
Mrs. Lake not being aware of the alteration of arrangements by which they were all to
proceed to the lawyer's chambers, instead of coming to the hotel, took no trouble with
Annetta, conceiving that it would perhaps be better at twelve o'clock, when the parties were
assembled, to take her by surprise, than to say anything to her beforehand, which might
have the effect of preparing her for what was to come, and so getting up a spirit of
resistance and of inquiry which it might be difficult to resist or satisfactorily to meet.
When Mr. Lake came home from Gray's Inn, she was made aware of the alteration, and
consultations ensued as to how Annetta was to be got there at all. At length after several
modes of managing the matter had been discussed, Mrs. Lake said,
"You two can walk there, and then I can say to Annetta that I am going for a drive and to
make a few purchases, so that she will have no objection to go with me for an airing, and I
will take good care to be with you at the hour of twelve."
"That will do prime," said the son. "Leave mother alone for managing things."
"Well," said Mr. Lake, "it shall be so, I don't see any objection to the scheme, nor can I
suggest a better one, so we will look upon that as settled. "All you have to do," turning to
his son, "is to play your part well."
"Oh! never fear me, I like the girl and I like money."
--

CHAPTER CLXXV. [Chapter 193]
THE VAMPYRE'S VISIT TO THE BARRACKS AT KINGSTON. -- THE YOUNG

OFFICER.
We do not wish altogether to lose sight of Varney in these proceedings, and it so happens
that he is sufficiently mixed up in what further occurred to make it desirable that we should
now again refer to him.
It was not the least singular fact in the character of that mysterious being, to notice how
he always endeavoured to make some sort of amends or reparation to those whom he had so
much terrified by his visitations.
We have seen in the case of the family of the Bannerworths how eventually he was most
anxious to do them a service, as a recompense for the really serious injury he had inflicted
upon them, and how it was really and eventually through him that they emerged from the
circumstances of difficulty and danger in which they had been pecuniarily engaged.
We shall now see if Varney, who really in his way is a very respectable sort of a
personage, is about good or evil.
We left him on the river, after promising in his usual liberal spirit, a handsome reward to
the waterman whom he employed to row the boat in which he embarked.
After going some distance, the waterman, finding his fare was silent, thought it would be
as well again to ask him where he was going.
Accordingly, with a preparatory hem, he began by saying,
"About as nice a tide, sir, as we could have for going up the stream."
"Very likely," was the brief reply.
"Do you land near hand, sir?"
"I want to go to Kingston; take me to some Quay on the river as near as you can, for the
purpose of my walking there."
"Kingston?" said the waterman, with a look rather of surprise. "Its [sic] a long pull to
Kingston, and if your honour could get a conveyance, your best way would be to get out at
Putney."
"Wherefore?"
"Why after that, the river takes such a plaguy lot of windings and turnings that you have
to go treble the actual distance before you reach Teddington.' [sic]

"I said Kingston."
"Well that's close by Teddington; but I'll row your honour if you like, only it will take us
some hours to get there that's all."
"Go on."
"Very good, pull away, pull a -- way."
Having now, as he knew, a long job before him, the waterman husbanded his strength, he
did not row near so fast, but to a low kind of tune he muttered to himself he worked away at
his sculls, slowly and surely, and got through the water at a moderate easy rate, while rather
a quick jerking one would soon have exhausted him.
The boat went slowly onward, and many an interesting sight was passed upon the banks
of the river, but none appeared in the least to attract the attention of the man who sat in the
boat, apparently deeply absorbed in his own meditations.
The boatman began much to wonder who he had got a a fare, and to think that it would be
but a dull and wearisome job to row all the way to Teddington without any amusing gossip
by the way, so he made yet another attempt to break the stillness that reigned around.
"The river up this way, sir," he said, "is quiet enough at night; it's different below bridge
though, for there there is always some bustle going on."
"Ah!" said Varney.
"But here, somehow, it is dull to my mind."
"Ah!"
"Though the gentry and those as is book-learned find a deal of pleasure in looking at the
old places on the banks, where things have been done and said by folks many a long year
since, whose heads don't ache now, sir."
"Ah!"
There was no getting on at this rate, so, after two or three more remarks and getting
nothing by "Ah!" as a reply, the waterman gave it up as a bad job altogether, and pulled
away, chaunting in a low tone his song again, without making another attempt to disturb the
taciturnity of his fare, who sat as still as a statue in the boat, and looking as if he did not
breathe, so rigid and strange were his attitude, and the lifeless-like appearance he had.
The waterman was really a little alarmed by the time they reached Teddington, for he
thought that it might be possible his fare was dead, and the horrid idea that he had stiffened
in that attitude as he sat, began to find a place in the boatman's imagination.

When, however, he boat's keel grated on the landing-place, he cried, --
"Here we are, your honour."
The vampyre rose and stepped on shore. He held out his hand and dropped a guinea into
the extended palm of the waterman, and then stalked off.
After he had walked some distance he spoke to a watchman whom he met, saying, --
"Are there not military barracks somewhere hereabout?"
"Oh, yes."
"Thank you. Can you direct me?"
"Certainly. You have only to go on, and take the second turning to your left, and you will
see the gate; it's horse soldiers that's there now -- the 4th Light Dragoons."
By keeping to the directions which the watchman had given, Varney soon reached the
gate of the barracks, and then it was three o'clock in the morning. A sentinel was pacing to
and fro at the gate. To him Varney at once went, and with a lofty kind of courtesy, that
made the man at once respectful to him, he said, --
"Is Lieutenant Rankin in barracks?"
"Yes, sir, -- on duty."
"Indeed! Is he on guard to-night?"
"Yes, sir, to four o'clock. He will be relieved then."
"That's fortunate, I want to see him. It is on business of the very first importance, or of
course I would not trouble him or myself. You must send to him somehow."
The sentinel hesitated.
"I hardly know," he said, "how the lieutenant will take it -- he is on duty."
"But I suppose he is human for all that, and is liable to all the accidents and alternations
of human affairs, which may make it absolutely necessary he should be communicated
with, even at such an hour as this. I will hold you harmless."
This was so reasonable, and there was such an air of quiet gentlemanly authority about
Varney, that the soldier began to think he should run less risk of offending somebody of
importance if he consented to disturb the lieutenant than if he refused. Accordingly he
stepped a pace or two within the gate and called out.

"Guard!"
A soldier from the guard-room answered the summons.
"Ay," he said, "what is it? -- a strange cat I suppose."
"No, none of your nonsense. Here is a gentleman, I think a general officer, by Jove, wants
to see Lieutenant Rankin. Go and tell him."
"And give him this," said Varney, as he handed the soldier a card, on which was written, -
-
"A friend to a friend of Lieutenant Ranking, whose initials are A. L."
"I know that this young soldier loves the Lady Annetta," muttered the vampyre to
himself, "and he shall be given the opportunity of flying to her rescue from her villanous
relations. So far, I will make reparation to her."
In less than three minutes, Lieutenant Rankin came hurriedly to the gate.
"Where is the gentleman?" he said.
"Here sir," said Varney, "step aside with me."
The young officer did so, and then Varney said to him, --
"It matters not how I became acquainted with the fact, but I know that you love the Lady
Annetta Lake, and that you are far from being indifferently regarded by her. She is in
London at the London Hotel. A vile plot is formed to marry her to her cousin, the gist of
which is to make her both her and her father believe that she is a changeling and not the
daughter of Lord Lake. You love her, young man. Go and rescue her."
"Annetta in London!"
"Yes, what I tell you you may rely upon, as if it were a voice from heaven that spoke to
you. Go and snatch her whom you love from the base hands of those who, under the mask
of pretended friendship, would betray her."
"And you," cried the young soldier; "who are you, and how can I repay you for bringing
me this intelligence of her whom I [ -- "]
"Enough," said the vampyre. "I have performed my mission. It is for you, young sir, to
take a due advantage of that which I have told to you."
In another moment he was gone.

CHAPTER CLXXVI. [Chapter 194]
AN ECLAIRCISSEMENT. -- THE INNOCENT TRIUMPHANT.
It is eleven o'clock, Mr. and Mrs. Lake are standing by one of the windows at the hotel
conversing in whispers, while the hopeful son is brushing his hat.
"It is time, you think?" said Mrs. Lake.
"Yes," was the reply. "and I will be off now at once, and depend upon you following with
Annetta to Mr. Miller's."
"That you may be sure of. She has had a refreshing night's rest, and this morning she
eagerly enough caught at the proposal to take a drive round the principal thoroughfares in
the carriage we have hired so that that [sic] is no longer a difficulty."
"What is to be done if she rejects?"
Mr. Lake gave a jerk with his head in the direction of his son, to signify that it was of him
he talked.
"It can't be helped if she does. Then I should say all we have to do, is to persevere in
making her out no child of Lord Lakes [sic] , and wait for his decease. We must be careful
what we are about, though, or he may take it into his head to make some ample provision
for her, to the decrease of his personal means, which I hope to see all ours."
The only way to stop that will be getting Miller and the pretended father to make it as a
complete part of the plan that Annetta herself should seem latterly to have been a party to
palming herself off upon him as his daughter when she knew the contrary quite well."
"Ah, if that could be done."
"It must and shall; Miller's ingenuity in such matters is immense. He will accomplish
anything in the world -- aye seeming impossibilities -- for money."
"He is just the man for us, so now be off with you at once, and expect me in good time."
In a few moments afterwards, Mr. Lake set off with this booby son to the lawyers,' [sic]
enjoining him all the way as they went, to be especially careful how he maintained the
character of a disinterested suitor, which had been marked out for him in the programme of
the family proceedings.
"Oh, never fear me, father."
"Well, I hope that you will do and say the right things, and what is as important, I hope
you will do and say them at the right time, otherwise you will spoil all."

Thus armed at all points, as they thought, for conquest, old Lake and young Lake, than
whom all London could not have produced two more unprincipled persons, arrived at
Gray's Inn, and were received in the outer room of Mr. Miller's chambers with every
demonstration of respect.
"Walk in, gentlemen, walk in to the clients' private-room if you please," said the clerk.
"Mr. Miller left directions with me that when you came, you should be shown in at once."
All this was very gratifying indeed, and the solicitor was there, seated in his easy chair,
looking as full of serenity as possible, and as if the least affair in the world was on tapis.
Scarcely had the usual salutations passed, when the clerk announced Mrs. Lake and a
young lady.
"My wife with Annetta!" exclaimed Lake; and in a moment his words were verified by
the appearance of the parties he had named.
"Tell me at once," said Annetta, "why I am brought here?"
"My dear young lady," said Mr. Miller, "if you will condescend to take a seat, I will
explain."
"Be brief, sir."
The party was seated, and then Mr. Miller, clearing his throat said, --
"Ahem! You are of course aware, miss, that great doubt arose in the mind of Lord Lake
with regard to your proper identity, and he sent you over to this country from Italy with his
brother and family, to have those doubts resolved -- ahem! They are resolved, and you are
found to be the daughter of a gentleman now in London."
"The proofs, sir," said Annetta, with a dignity and a calmness that surprised the whole
party.
"Ah, ah -- the proofs. Let me see, oh yes; there are the papers. No. 1, copy of a confession
made by -- "
"Stop, sir," said young Lake, "stop. This is -- it must be painful to the feelings of this
young lady, and very, very painful is it to my feelings, for I have been long fervently
attached to her, and let her be whose daughter she may, she is to me all perfection. I love
her and would gladly make her my wife, let her be named whatever she may."
"But she is destitute, -- quite destitute," said Miller.

"It don't matter to me," cried young Lake -- he was playing his part famously -- "it don't
matter to me; I love her, and will work for her -- she shall never want while I have life-
blood in my veins."
"If this now were sincere," said Annetta, "I should begin for the first time to respect you.
But you will excuse me for doubting it very much. I likewise doubt much the pretended
evidence that you bring forward regarding my birth."
A tremendous knock at the outer door of the chambers now disturbed the party. An
altercation was heard with the clerk -- then a shout for police, and a heavy fall as if
somebody had been knocked down, and in another moment the door of Mr. Miller's private
room was dashed open, and Lieutenant Rankin, in his undress military uniform, stood upon
the threshold.
"Annetta!" he cried.
"Rankin -- oh, George, George!" shrieked Annetta, and in another moment she was in his
arms.
"Here's a go," cried young Lake; "I say, young fellow, this won't do."
"Oh, George, George!" said Annetta, "they will have it that I am not my own father's
child, that I am some nameless, houseless thing."
"They lie, Annetta who say so," replied the young soldier; "you shall be mine, and the
proudest that ever stepped shall treat you with becoming respect, or shall rue the
consequences."
"Well, I think it's time!" cried Mr. Miller in a marked manner, and throwing open the
door of an inner room, he added, "my Lord Lake, come forth; no doubt you have heard all."
Lord Lake himself -- the Mr. Blue of the London Hotel, the sham confidential clerk of
Miller -- made his appearance, to the utter confusion of the Lakes.
"My father," said Annetta, "my dear father!"
"Hold," said Lord Lake, gravely, "I suspected, Annetta, from the first that your birth was
impugned by my brother from the most interested motives, and I followed you from Italy --
Mr. Miller disclosed all to me, and the infamous plot is discovered."
"Then I am your child?"
"Confusion," muttered Lake, "death and the devil, what a contre temps."
"Stop," added Lord Lake, "the strangest thing of all has yet to be told. This plot to make
out that you are not my child is but a plot, but it is not baseless as to the fact. You are not
my daughter. I have by mere chance found out that lately, and I cannot provide for you, as

the resources I have must go to him who will inherit my title. What say you, Master Lake,
this girl with all her beauty is destitute, her name is Smith -- will you have her?"
"Not I in faith, thank you for nothing."
"Will you, young soldier, knowing what she is?"
"Ay, will I with all my heart! she is the highest, brightest treasure this world can offer me.
Any name or no name -- poor or rich -- noble or commoner -- she is still my own dear girl,
and her resting place shall be my heart, the whole world shall not tear her from it."
"God's blessings on you," cried Lord Lake, grasping his hands; "I did but this to give yon
shrinking coward a chance of creeping into favour with me, because he boasted so of his
disinterested affection a while ago. She is my child, the Lady Annetta Lake -- I never
doubted it, and she is yours -- George Rankin, and you shall be the dear son of my
adoption."
"I say, father," said young Lake, "I -- I think we had better go."
"Curse you all," cried Lake, "and doubly curse you, lawyer Miller, you have betrayed me;
but I'll be revenged."
"Through the bars of a prison," said the lawyer. "An officer is down stairs to arrest you
for two thousand pounds. Ha, ha, ha!" ****
Thus then was it that this episode in the life of Varney the Vampyre terminated. But still
he lived, and still there existed all the strange and fearful mixture of good and evil that was
in his disposition. There he was yet upon the earth's surface, looking like one of the great
world, and yet possessing so few feelings in common with its inhabitants.
Surely to him there must have been periods of acute suffering, of intense misery, such as
would have sufficed to drive any ordinary mind to distraction, and yet he lived, although
one cannot, upon reviewing his career, and considering what he was, consider that death
would have been other than a grateful release to him from intense suffering.
Perhaps, of all the suffering that, in consequence of his most awful and singular existence,
was inflicted upon human nature, he suffered the most, for that he was a man of good
intellect no one who has followed us thus far can doubt, and one cannot help giving in
almost at times to as strange and fanciful theory of his own, namely that this world was to
him the place of perdition for crimes done in some other sphere.
"It must be so!" he would say, "but as the Almighty Master of all things is all merciful, as
he is all powerful, the period of my redemption will surely come at last."
This was the most consolat thought that Varney could have, and it showed that even yet
there was a something akin to humanity lingering at his hears. [bears? heart?]

This showed that despite the dreadful power he had -- a power, as well as an awful
propensity -- he had some yearnings after a better state.
What had he been? How did he become a vampyre? Did the voice of fond affection ever
thrill in his ears? Had little children ever climbed the knee of that wretched man? Fearful
questions, if he could have answered them the affirmative -- if he bore about with him, deep
in his memory, a remembrance of such joys gone by.
--

CHAPTER CLXXVIII. [Chapter 195]
THE VAMPYRE HAS SERIOUS THOUGHTS. -- THE DREAM. -- THE

RESOLUTION.
The next day after the events that we have detailed, Varney found himself in a hotel in
London. He did not even make the effort to inquire how the affair connected with the Lady
Annetta, in which towards the last he had played a generous part, prospered.
He was too spirit-broken himself to do so.
For nearly the whole day he remained in a room by himself, and although to avoid
uncomfortable and ungracious remarks being made by the people of the house, he ordered
from time to time food and wine, he, in accordance with his horrible nature, which forbade
him any nourishment but human blood, touched neither.
During that day he seemed to be suffering acutely, for now and then as the waiters of the
hotel passed the door of the private room he occupied, they heard deep agonising groans,
and when once or twice they went in, fancying that he must be very ill or dying, they found
him seated at a table on which his head was resting.
He would start up on these occasions, and sternly question them for interrupting him, so
at last they left him alone.
Let us look at him in his solitude.
It is getting towards the dim and dusky hours of late twilight, and he can only barely be
descried [sic] as he sits bolt upright in a high-backed arm-chair, looking at vacancy, while
his lips move, and he appears to be conversing with the spirits of another world, that in
their dim untangibility are not visible to mortal eyes.
Now and then he would strike his breast, and utter a dull groan as if some sudden
recollection of the dreadful past had come over him, with such a full tide of horror that it
could not be resisted.
It was not until a considerable time had elapsed, and the darkness had greatly increased,
that he at length spoke.
"And I was once happy," he daisie mournfully, "once happy, because I was innocent. Oh!
gracious Heaven, how long am I to suffer?"
A spasmodic kind of movement of his whole features ensued, that was quite dreadful to
look upon, and would have terrified any one who could have seen them. Then he spoke
again.

"I was happy one hundred and eighty years ago," he said, "for that has been the awful
duration my life as yet; yes, a hundred and eighty years have, with their sunshine of
summer, and their winter storms, passed over my head; and I had a wife and children, who,
with innocent and gladsome prattle, would climb my knee and nestle in my bosom. Oh!
where are they all now?"
He wrung his hands, but he did not weep the fount of tears had dried up for a hundred
years in his bosom.
"Yes, yes! the grave holds them -- holds them? said I. No, no, long since have they
crumbled into dust, and nothing of them remains as a faint indication even of who once was
human. I, I it was who listened to the councils of a fiend, and destroyed he [her?] who had
give up home, kindred, associations, all for me."
He rose up from the chair, and seemed to think that he would find some relief in pacing
the room to and fro, but he soon threw himself again into the seat.
"No, no," he said, "no peace for me; and I cannot sleep, I have never slept what mortals
call sleep, the sleep of rest and freedom from care, [f]or many a long year. When I do seen
[seem?] to repose, then what dreadful images awake to my senses. Better, far better than
my glaring eyeballs should crack with weariness, than that I should taste such repose."
The sympathetic shudder with which he uttered these words was quite proof sufficient of
his deep and earnest sincerity. He must indeed have suffered much before he could have
give such a sentiment such an utterance. We pity thee, Varney!
"And when, oh, when will my weary pilgimage be over," he ejaculated; "Oh when will
the crime of murder be cleansed from my soul. I killed her. Yes, I killed her who loved me.
A fiend, I know it was a fiend, whispered suspicion in my ear, suspicion of her who was as
pure as the first ray of sunlight that from heaven shows itself to chase away the night, but I
listened and then created from my own fevered brain the circumstances that gave suspicion
strength and horrible consistency -- and I killed her."
After the utterance of these words he was silent for a time, and then in heart-rending
accents he again repeated them.
"I killed her -- I killed her, and she was innocent. Then I became what I am. There was a
period of madness, I think, but I became a vampyre; I have died many deaths, but recovered
from them all; for ever, by some strange accident or combination of circumstances, the cold
moonbeams have had access to my lifeless form, and I have recovered."
By this time the landlord of the hotel in which Varney was staying, had got in a fearful
fidget, for he began to think that he had a madman in his house, and that it would turn out
that his guest had made his escape from some lunatic asylum.

"I wonder now," he thought, "if a little soothing civility would do any good; I will try it.
It can't surely do any harm."
With this intent the landlord went up stairs to the room in which Varney the Vampyre
was, and he tapped gently at the door.
There was no reply, and after a few moments' consideration, the landlord opened the door
and peeped in, when he saw his customer sitting in an arm-chair, in the manner in which we
have described him to sit.
"If you please, sir," said the landlord, "would you not like -- -"
"Blood!" said Varney, rising.
The landlord did not wait for any more, but bustled down stairs again with all the
promptitude in his power.
It was a bed-room and sitting-room that Varney occupied at the hotel, the one adjoining
the other, and now although he groaned and sighed at the idea of repose, he flung himself
upon the bed, full dressed, as he was, and there he lay as still as death itself.
One of those strange fitful kind of slumbers, such as he had himself described as being so
full of dread, came over him.
For a time he was still, as we have said, but then as various images of agony began to
chase each other through his brain, he tossed about his arms, and more than once the word
"mercy" came from his lips in accents of the most soul-harrowing nature.
This state of things continued for some considerable time, and then in his sleep a great
change came over him, and he fancied he was walking in a garden replete with all the
varied beauties of a southern clime, and through the centre of which meandered a stream,
the chrystal music of which was delightfully calming and soothing to his senses.
All around seemed to speak of the peace and loveliness of an Eden.
As he wandered on, he fancied that some form was walking by his side, and that he heard
the gentle fall of its feet, and the flutter of garments.
"Varney," it said, "you have suffered much."
"I have. Oh, God knows I have."
"You would die, Varney, if the moonbeams could be prevented from reaching you."
"Yes, yes. But how -- how?"

"The ocean. The deep, deep sea hides many a worse secret than the corpse of a vampyre."
It might have been that, after all, his sleep was to some extent refreshing to him, or that
the dream he had, had instilled a hope into him of a release from what, in his case, might
truly be called the bondage of existence; but he certainly arose more calm, cool, and
collected, than he had been for some time past.
"Yes," he said, "the deep sea holds a secret well, and if I could but be washed into some
of its caverns, I might lie there and rot until the great world itself had run its course."
This idea took great possession of him. He thought over various modes of carrying it out.
At one time he thought that if he bought a boat on the sea coast, and went out alone, sailing
away as far from land as he could, he might be able to accomplish his object. But then he
might not be able to get far enough.
At length he thought of a more feasible and a better plan than that, and it was to take his
passage in some ship for any port, and watch his opportunity, some night when far from
land, to steal up upon the deck and plunge in the waves.
The more he considered of this plan the better he liked it, and the more it wore an
appearance of probability and an aspect of success, so at length the thought grew into a
resolution.
"Yes, yes," he muttered, "who knows but that some friendly spirit -- for the mid air that
floats 'twixt earth and heaven is peopled with such, may have whispered such counsel in
my ears. It shall be done; I will no longer hesitate, but make this attempt to shake off the
dreadful weight which mere existence is to me."
--

CHAPTER CLXXIX. [Chapter 196]
THE SCOTCH PACKET SHIP. -- THE SUICIDE.
It was in pursuance of this resolution, so strangely and suddenly formed, that the unhappy
Varney rose on the following morning and went to that region of pitch, slop clothing, red
herrings, and dirt -- the docks.
But yet, somehow, although the docks may not be the cleanest or them most refined part
of the vast city of London, the coarseness and the litter there -- for after all it is more litter
than dirt -- are by no means so repulsive as those bad addenda to other localities.
There is a kind of rough freshness induced by the proximity of the water which has a
physical and moral effect, we are inclined to think, upon the place and the people, and
which takes off much of what would otherwise wear the aspect of what is called low life.
But this is all by the way, and we will at once proceed to follow the fortunes of Varney, in
carrying out his plan of self annihilation.
The hour was an early one, and many a curious glance was cast at him, for although he
had humanised and modernised his apparel to a great extent, he could not get rid of the
strange, unworld-like (if we may use the phrase) look of his face. He was very pale too, and
jaded looking, for the thoughts that had recently occupied him were not such as to do good
to the looks of any one.
He cared little in what vessel he embarked. He had but one object in embarking at all, and
that was to get out to sea, so that the ultimate destination of the ship that should receive so
very odd and equivocal a passenger was a matter of no moment.
Stopping a personage who had about him a sea-faring look, Varney, pointing to a bustling
place of embarkation, said, --
"Does any vessel start from there today?"
"Yes, there's one going now, or as soon as the tide serves her. She is for Leith?"
"On the coast of Scotland, I think?"
"Yes, to be sure."
Varney walked on until he came to a kind of counting-house, where sat a man with books
before him, and, not to take up more valuable space, he secured what was called a berth on
board the "Ocean", a dirty, small, ill-convenient ship bound for the port near the Scotch
metropolis of Edinburgh.

Not wishing to be himself much noticed, and having no desire to notice anybody, Varney
went down below, and seated himself in a dark corner of the generally dingy cabin, and
there, amid all the noise, bawling, abuse, and bustle contingent upon getting the ill-
conditioned bark under weigh, he never moved or uttered a word to any one, although the
cabin was frequently visited.
But Varney had no idea of the amount of annoyance to which he was likely, in the course
of the evening, to be subjected.
The vessel was got under weigh, and as both wind and tide happened to be favourable,
she dropped down the river rapidly, and soon was clear of the Nore-light, and holding on
her course northward.
The cabin now began to fill with the passengers, and extraordinary as the fact may
appear, there were many Scotchmen actually going back again. They were, however, only
going to pay visits, for it is one of the popular delusions that Scotchmen try to keep up in
this country, that they have left something dear and delightful behind them in Scotland, and
that, take it altogether, it is one of the most desirable spots in the whole world. It becomes,
therefore, quite necessary for them to go back now and then, in order to keep up that
delusion.
Personal vanity, too, is one of the great characteristics of the nation; and many a
Scotchman goes back to Edinburgh, for example, to make an appearance among his old
friends and family connexions, totally incompatible with his real position in London.
By about nine o'clock at night, when the shore to the west could only be discovered as a
dim, grey line on the horizon, the cabin of the "Ocean" packet was crammed.
Whisky was produced, and a drink that the Scotch call "bottled yell," meaning ale; and as
these two heady liquids began to take effect "Auld Lang syne" was chaunted in the
vernacular by the whole party. At length a feeling of annoyance began to grow up from the
fact of the isolated aspect of Varney, and the quiet, unobtrusive manner in which he looked
on at the proceedings, appearing not in the smallest degree enthusiastic, even when the
most uproarious Scotch songs, in the most unintelligible of all jargons, were sung, for
strange to say, the authors of that nation take a pride in slaughtering the English language.
At length a Scotchman approached Varney and said, --
"Ye'll take a glass to auld Reekie mon?"
[Edinburgh is called Reekie in consequence of the absence of drainage, giving it a

horrible foetid smell, a reeky atmosphere, in a manner of speaking; which may be
illustrated by the Scotchman, who was returning to that place from England, on the top of a
stage coach, when within about fifty miles he began sniffing and working his nose in an
extraordinary manner.

"What are you doing that for?" said an Englishman. "Eh! mon, I can smell the gude auld
toon."
"I do not understand your language," said Varney, and he walked from the cabin to the
deck of the vessel. He recoiled an instant, for the moon was rising.
"Ever thus, even thus," he said, "how strange it is that I never dream of ridding myself of
the suffering of living, ut the moon is shining brightly. Can its rays penetrate the ocean?"
The deck was very still and silent indeed. The man at the helm, and one other pacing to
and fro, were all that occupied it, save Varney himself, and he stood by the side gazing in
the direction, where he had last seen the dim grey speck of land.
"A pleasant run, sir, we shall have of it," said the man who had been pacing the deck, "if
this kindly wind continues."
"It blows from the west."
"Yes, nearly due-west; but that suits us. We keep her head a few points in shore, and do
well with such a wind, although a south-west by south is our choice."
"How far are we from land?"
"It's the coast of Suffolk that is to our left, but we are I hope a good thirty miles or more
from it."
"You hope?"
"Yes, sir. Perhaps you are not sufficient of a sailor to know that we never hug the shore if
we can possibly help it."
"I understand. And there?"
"Oh, there lies the German Ocean."
"How deep now should you say the sea was here?"
"Can't say, sir, but it's blue water."
This was not much information to Varney, but he bowed his head and walked forward, as
much as to say that he had had enough of the information and conversation of the man, who
was the mate of the vessel, and quite disposed to be communicative. Perhaps in the very
dim light he did not see exactly what a strange-looking personage he was talking to.

"Thirty miles from land," thought Varney, "surely that is far enough, and I need have no
dread of floating to the shore through such a mass of water as that thirty miles. The distance
is very great; I can to-night in another hour make the attempt."
To his great joy some heavy clouds climbed up the sky along with the moon, and
congregating around the beautiful satellite, effectually obscured the greater number of its
beams. There was in fact, no absolute moonlight, but a soft reflected kind of twilight
coming through the clouds, and dispersed far and wide.
"This will do," muttered Varney. "All I have to fear are the direct moonbeams. It is they
that have the effect of revivfying such as I am."
The man who had been pacing the deck finally sat down, and appeared to drop off to
sleep, so that all was still, and as Varney kept to the head of the vessel, the man at the
wheel could see nothing of him, there being many intervening obstacles. He was perfectly
alone.
Now and then, with a loud roaring about, he heard some boisterous drinking chorus come
from the cabin, and then a rattle of glasses as fists were thumped upon the tables in token of
boisterous approbation, and then all would be still again.
Varney looked up to the sky and his lips moved, but he uttered no sound. He went closer
to the vessel's side and gazed upon th water as it lazily rippled past. How calm and
peaceful, he thought, he ought to be, far beneath that tide.
A sudden plunge into the sea would have made a splash that would have been heard, and
that he wished of all things to avoid. He clambered slowly over the side, and only held on
by his hands for a moment. [????] cool night air tossed about his long elfin locks, and in
another moment he was gone.
--

CHAPTER CLXXX. [Chapter 197]
THE OLD MANOR HOUSE. -- THE RESCUE. -- VARNEY'S DESPAIR.
At about ten o'clock on that same night on which Varney the Vampyre plunged into the
sea with hopes of getting rid of the world of troubles that oppressed him, a small fishing
boat might have been seen a distance of about twenty-five miles from the Suffolk coast,
trying to make for land, and baffled continually by the wind that blew off shore.
In this boat were two young men, and from their appearance they evidently belonged to
the wealthier class of society. They were brothers.
From their conversation we shall gather the circumstances that threw them into such
situation, not by any means divested of peril as it was.
"Well, Edwin," said one, "here we have been beating about for five hours, trying to get in
shore, and all our little bark permits us to do is I think not materially to increase our
distance from home."
"That is about the truth, Charles," said the other, "and it was my fault."
"Come, Edwin, don't talk in that way. There is no fault in the matter; how could you
know that the wind would stiffen into such a breeze as it has, so that we cannot fight out
against it; or if there be fault, of course it's as much mine as yours, for am not I here, and do
I not know full well what an amount of consternation there will be at the Grange?"
"There will indeed!"
"Well, their joy when we get back will be all the greater."
"Shall we get back?"
"Can you ask? Look at our little boat, is she not sea-worthy? Does she not dance on the
waves merrily? It is only the wind after all that baffles us, if it would drop a little, we could,
I think make head against it with the oars.
The brothers were silent now for a few moments, for they were each looking at the
weather. At length Edwin spoke, saying, --
"We shall have the moon up, and that may make a change."
"Very likely -- very likely. There is not, I think, quite so much sea as there was; suppose
we try the oars again?"
The other assented, and the two young men exerted themselves very much to decrease
their distance from the Suffolk coast by pulling away right manfully, but it was quite

evident to them that they did no good, and that they had just as well dropped westward as
they had been doing, by keeping the sail set, and steering as near as possible to the wind.
"Why, if this goes on, Charles, where shall we get to by the morning?"
"To Northumberland, perhaps."
"Or further."
"Well, if we go far enough, what say you to attempting the vexata questio of the north-
west passage?"
"Nay, I cannot jest -- it's a sad thing this -- more sad a good deal for those who are at
home, than for us. To-morrow is Clara's wedding day, and what a damper it will be upon all
to suppose that we have perished at sea."
"They will never suppose that we would do anything so ridiculous. Why, at the worst,
you know, we could go before the wind and run on to Holland."
"Yes, if no storm arises or such a gale as might founder our boat. There, there is the
moon."
"Yes, and she will soon be overtaken by yon bank of clouds that seem to be scudding
after her in the blue heavens. Ha! a sail, by Jove!"
"Where? where?"
"Not I think above four miles there to the east, by our little compass which it is a
thousand mercies we have with us. Look, you may see her sails against that light cloud --
there."
"I see her. Think you she will see us?"
"There is every chance, for her swell of canvass will be all the other way. Fire your
fowling-piece and the sound may reach her, the wind is good for carrying it."
Charles took a fowling-piece from the bottom of the boat. The brothers had merely gone
out at sunset or a little before it, to shoot gulls, and he tried to discharge the piece, but
several seas that they had shipped, while they were thinking of other things than keeping
the gun dry, had, for the time being, most effectively prevented it from being discharged.
"Ah!" said Edwin as he heard the click of the lock, "that hope is lost."
"It is indeed, and to my thinking the ship is distancing us rapidly. You see our mast and
sail, will, at even this distance, lie so low in the horizon that they will hardly see us unless
they are sweeping the sky with a night glass."

"And that is not likely."
"Certainly not, so we have nothing for it but to hold on our way. I am getting hungry if
you are not."
"I certainly am not getting hungry, for I have felt half famished these last two hours; but I
suppose we may hold out against the fiend hunger some hours yet. What are you looking at
so earnestly, eh?"
"I hardly know."
"You hardly know? Let me see -- why -- why what is it?"
"There seems to me to be something now and that much darker than the waves, tiding on
their tops; there, do you not see it? There it is again. There!"
"Yes, yes."
"What on earth can it be?"
"A dead body."
"Indeed! ah! it drifts towards us. There is some current hereabouts, for you see it comes to
us against the wind."
"Dont [sic] deceive yourself, brother. It is we who are going with the wind towards it, and
now you can see there is no doubt about what it is. Some poor fellow, who has been
drowned. Get out the boat-hook, get it out."
"Why, you would not take in such a cargo, Edwin."
"God forbid! but I feel some curiosity to see who and what sort of a personage it is. Here
we have him. What a length he is to be sure."
The body was nearly alongside the boat, and one of the brothers detained it with a boat-
hook, while they both looked earnestly at it.
It was the body of a man, remarkably well dressed, and had no appearance of having been
under the water long. The features, as far as they could see them, were calm and composed.
The hands were clenched, and some costly looking rings glittered on the fingers through the
salt spray that foamed and curled around the insensible form.
"Charles," said Edwin; "what we shall do?"
Edwin shook his head.

"I -- I don't like."
"Like what?"
"I don't like to cast it adrift again, and not take it ashore, where it can rest in an honest
man's grown if he be one. Fancy it being one of us, would it not be a consolation to those
who love us to know that we rested in peace among our ancestors, in preference to rotting
in the sea, tossed and mangled by every storm that blows. I do not like to cast the body
adrift again."
"It's a ghastly passenger."
"It is, but that ghastliness is only an idea, and we should remember that we ourselves -- -"
"Stop, brother, stop. Do not fancy that I oppose your wish to convey this body to the
shore, and place it in some sanctified spot. What I expressed concerning it was merely the
natural feeling that must arise on such an occasion, nothing more."
"Then you are willing?"
"I am."
The two brothers now, without further doubts or remarks upon the subject, got the body
into the boat, and laid it carefully down. Then Edwin folded and tied a handkerchief over
the face, for as he truly enough said, --
"There is no occasion to have to encounter that dead face each moment that one turns
one's eyes in that direction; it is sufficient that we have, by taking the body in at all done,
all that humanity can dictate to us."
To this Charles agreed, and it was remarked by them both as a strange thing that from the
moment of their taking in the dead body to the boat, the wind dropped, and finally there
was almost a calm, after which there came soft gentle air from the south-east, which
enabled them with scarcely any exertion on their own parts to make great progress towards
their own home, from which they found they had not by any means been driven so far
northward as they had at first thought.
The brothers looked at each other, and it was Edwin who broke the silence, and put into
words what both thought, by saying, --
"Charles, there is something more i[n] this whole affair than what lies just upon its
surface."
"Yes, it seems as if we were driven out to sea by some special providence to do this piece
of work, and that having done it, the winds and the waves obeyed the hand of their mighty
Master, and allowed of our return."

"It does seem so," said the other.
--

CHAPTER CLXXXI. [Chapter 198]
A FAMILY SCENE. -- THE SISTERS. -- THE HORRIBLE ALARM.
In the course of two hours more, the young men were so close in shore that they could see
the lights flashing along the coast, and they even fancied they could catch a glimpse of
human forms moving along with torches; and if such were the case, they doubted not but
that these people were sent to serve as a guide to them should they with their little bark be
hovering near the coast.
"Look, Edwin," said Charles, "we are expected, are we not?"
"Yes, yes."
"I am certain that those lights are meant as guides for us."
"They may spare themselves the trouble, for do you not see that the clouds are wearing
away, and that in a few minutes more we shall have the undimmed lustre of a full moon
looking down upon us."
"It will be so."
The boat had now got so far within a large natural inlet of the ocean that but very little
wind caught its gently flapping sail, so that the brothers bent manfully to their oars, and got
the boat through the water at a rapid rate.
Oh, how very different their sensations were now to what they had been when they were
beating about at the mercy of the winds and waves, but a few short hours since, and when it
certainly was but an even chance with death whether they would ever see their home again.
If a gale had sprung up, accompanied by anything in the shape of a very heavy sea, they
must have been lost.
Soon they saw that their boat was descried, and at a particular portion of the coast there
stood a complete cluster of men with torches, inviting them there to land, and they knew
that such landing place was upon their father's property, and that in a few minutes they
would be safe on shore.
Neither of them spoke, but reflection was busy in the hearts of both.
There was a loud and thoroughly English shout, as the boat grated upon the sandy beach,
and Edwin and Charles jumped on shore. They were in another moment pressed in their
father's arms.

"Why, why, boys," he said, "what a fright you have given us all; there's Clara and Emma
have been forced -- I say forced, for nothing but force would do it -- to go home, and the
whole country has been in an uproar. You were blown out to sea, I suppose?"
"Yes, father, but we have not been in any danger."
"Not in any danger with such a cockleshell of a boat fairly out into the German Ocean.
But we will say no more about it, lads. Not another word, come home at once, and make all
hearts glad at the old Grange-house."
"There's something in the boat," cried one of the men who held a light.
"Good God, yes!" exclaimed Charles.
"We had forgotten," said Edwin, "we met with a little adventure at sea, and picked up a
dead body."
"A dead body?"
"Yes, father, we could not find it in our hearts to let it be, so we brought it on shore that it
might have the rites of Christian burial in the village church-yard. Somebody who loved the
man may yet thank us for it, and feel a consolation to know that such had been done."
"You are right boys, you are right," said the father, "you have done in that matter just as I
would wish you; I will give orders for the body to be taken to the dead house by Will
Stephens, and to-morrow it shall be decently interred."
This being settled, the father, accompanied by his two sons, who were not a little pleased
to be safe upon terra firma again, walked together up a sloping pathway, which led to the
Grange-house, as it was called.
The joy that the return of the brothers caused in the family, our readers may well imagine.
The sisters Clara and Emma wept abundantly, and the mother, who had let her fears go
further than any one else, was deeply affected.
But it is time that we should inform the reader who these people were, whom we have
introduced upon the scene of our eventful history.
Sir George Crofton, for such was the name of the father of Edwin and Charles, was a
wealthy warm-hearted country gentleman, and constantly resided upon his own estate all
the year round, being a good landlord to his tenantry, and a good father to his four children,
who have already been to some extent presented to the reader.
The mother was a kind-hearted, but rather weak woman, with an evangelical bias that at
times was rather annoying to the family.

This, however, was perhaps the good lady's only fault, for with that one exception, she
was fond of her children to excess, notwithstanding, as Sir George sometimes jestingly said
he verily believed, she in her heart considered they were all on the high road to a nameless
abode.
The night was so far advanced when the young men got home that, of course, not much
was said or done, and among other things that were put off until the following morning,
was the story of the finding of the body.
"There is no occasion," whispered Sir George, "to say anything to your mother about it."
"Certainly not, father."
"At least not till to-morrow, for if you do, I shall not get a wink of sleep for her
reflections on the subject."
The two young men knew very well that this was no exaggeration, and that their mother
would, like any divine, eagerly seize the opportunity of what is called "improving the
occasion" by indulging in a long discourse upon the most dismal of all subjects that the
mind of any human being can conceive, namely, the probability of everybody going to
eternal perdition unless they believe in a particular set of doctrines that to her seem
orthodox.
The consequence of this was that the dead body was quietly taken out of the boat by men
who did not possess the most refined feelings in the world, and carried to the bone house.
"He seems a decent sort of chap," said one, as he looked at the very respectable
habiliments of the corpse.
"Ah! look at the gould rings."
"Yes, you may, look, Abel, but eyes on, hands off."
"Why?"
"Why, you gowk, do you think as young Master Charles and Edwin don't know of 'em,
and more besides, who would touch dead man's gold off of his fingers?"
"Is it unlucky?"
"Horrid!"
"Then I'll have nought to do with un."
The body was placed on the ground, for there was no coffin of any sort to put it in, and
the door was shut upon it in the dead house, and then the party who had brought it there

thought it a part of their duty to wake up Will Stephens the sexton, to tell him that there
was such a thing as a dead body placed in his custody, as it were, by being put into the dead
house, which was not above a hundred yards from the cottage occupied by Will.
They hammered away rather furiously at his door, and no wonder that he felt a little, or
perhaps not a little, alarmed upon the occasion.
In a few moments a casement was opened and out popped a head.
"Hilloa! you ragamuffins, what do you mean by hammering away at an honest man's door
at this rate, eh? Am I to have any sleep?"
"Ragamuffin yourself," cried one; "there's a dead body of a drowned man in the
bonehouse. All you have got to do is to look after it, and there's a lot of gold rings on its
fingers with diamonds in them, for all we know, worth God knows how much. You may
make the most of it now that you know it."
"A dead man! Who is he?"
"Ah, that's more than we can tell. Good night, or rather good morning, old crusty."
"Stop! stop! -- tell me -- -"
The men only laughted, for they had no desire to protract a conversation with the sexton,
and he called in vain after them to give him some further information upon the subject of
this rather mysterious information.
"A drowned man," he pondered to himself, "a drowned man, and with fingers loaded with
gems, and brought to the bonehouse! Oh, pho! pho! It's a hoax, that's what it is, and I won't
believe it. It's done to get me up in the cold, that's all, and then there will be some trick
played off upon me safe, and I shall be only laughed at for my pains."
Full of this idea, the sexton turned into his bed again, and hoped that by speedily going to
sleep, he should get the laugh of his tormentors, instead of they getting it of him, as well as
lose the shivering that had come on him through standing at the open window, exposed to
the night air so very indifferently clad.
--

CHAPTER CLXXXII. [Chapter 199]
THE SEXTON'S AVARICE. -- THE DEAD AND THE LIVING. -- THE RING.
It was all very well for the sexton to wish, and to try to got to sleep, but actually to
succeed in procuring "Nature's sweet oblivion" was quite another matter.
In vain he tossed and turned about, there was no rest for him of any kind or description,
dreamless or dreamful, and still he kept repeating to himself, --
"A dead body, with gold and diamond rings in the bone-house."
These were the magic words which, like a spell that he was compelled by some malign
influence continually to repeat, kept Will Stephens awake, until at last he seemed to lose
entirely his first perception of the fact that he might be only hoaxed, and all his imagination
became concentrated on the idea of how came the dead body in the bone-house, and how
was it that gold and diamond rings were left on its fingers in such a place?
These were mental ruminations, the result of which was transparent from the first, for that
result in the natural order of things was sure to be that the passion of curiosity would get
the better of all other considerations, and he, Will Stephens, would rise to ascertain if such
were really the state of things.
"It aint [sic] far off morning, now," he reasoned with himself, "so I may as well get up at
once as lie here tossing and tumbling about, and certainly unable to get another wink of
sleep, and besides after all I may be wrong in thinking this a hoax. There may really be
such a dead body as those fellows mentioned in the bone-house and if there be, I ought
certainly to go and look after it."
We easily reason ourselves into what is our pleasure, and so while these cogitatory
remaks were uttered by the sexton, he rose.
He found that if he drew back the blind from before his window, the moon which was
now sailing through a nearly cloudless sky, would give him amply sufficient light to enable
him to go through the process of dressing, so he at once began that operation.
"Yes," he said, "I ought to go, it's my positive duty to do so, after getting the information
I have, and if that information be untrue, let it recoil on the heads of those who invented the
falsehood. I shall go, that's settled. What a sweet moonlight."
It was a sweet moonlight indeed. The floods of soft silvery light fell with an uncommon
radiance upon all objects, and the minutest thing could have been seen upon the ground,
with the same clearness and distinctness as at mid-day.

The only difference was that a soft preternatural looking atmosphere seemed to be around
everything, and a kind of marble like look was imparted to all objects far and near on which
those soft silvery rays rested in beauty and sublimity.
The sexton was full dressed, and although the moonlight guided him well, he thought that
he might in the bone-house require another mode of illumination, and he lighted and took
with him a small lantren [sic] which had a darkening shade to it.
Thus prepared, he walked at a rapid pace from his own house towards the small shedlike
building which served as a receptacle for the unowned dead, and for such human remains as
were from time to time cast ashore by the waves, or flung up from new graves by the spade
and the mattock.
Familiar as he was and had been for many a year with that bone-house, and often in
contact with the dead, he yet on this occasion felt as if a strange fear was creeping over
him, and then a flutter of his heart and the fiery feel that was in his brain were
circumstances quite novel to him.
"Well, this is odd," he said, "and I suppose it is what they call being nervous I can't make
it out to be anything else, I'm sure."
Thus reasoning with himself upon his own unwonted timidity, he reached the bone-house.
The door of the dilapidated building which was known by that name, was only secured by
a latch, for it was not considered that the contents of the place were sufficiently interesting
for any one's cupidity to be excited by it.
The sexton paused a moment before he lifte the latch, and glanced around him. Even then
he half expected to hear a loud laugh expressive of the triumph of those who had combined
to play him the trick, if it were one, of getting him out of his bed on a bootless errand. But
all was still around him -- still as the very grave itself, and muttering then in a hurried tone,
"it is true, there is no trick," he hastily opened the door, and went into the bone-house.
All was darkness save one broad beam of moonlight that came in at the door-way, but the
sexton closed the entrance, and applied to his lantern for a light.
He slid the darkening piece of metal from before the magnifying glass, and then a rather
sickly ray of light fell for a moment upon the corpse that lay then upon its back -- a ray only
sufficiently strong and sufficiently enduring to enable the sexton to make quite sure that
there was a body before him, and then his lantern went out.
"Confound the lantern!" he said, "I ought to have looked to it before I started, instead of
lighting it on the mere hazard of its going on comfortably. What's to be done? Ah, I have it,
I remember."

What the sexton remembered was that on the same wall in which the door was situated,
there was a large square aperture only covered by a kind of shutter of wood, the withdrawal
of a bolt from which would cause it to fall in a moment on its hinges.
The sexton knew the place well, and drawing back the somewhat rusty bolt, down went
the shutter, and a broad flood of moonlight fell at once upon the corpse.
"Ah," said Will Stephens, "there it is sure enough. What a long odd-looking fellow to be
sure, and what a face -- how thin and careworn looking. I do very much wonder now who
he really is?"
As he continued to gaze upon the dead body, his eyes wandered to the hands, and then
sure enough he saw the bright and glittering gems the men had spoken of, and which the
salt water had not been able to tarnish into dimness. Perceiving that the setting was gold
and the stones real, --
"Ahem!" said Stephens, softly; "they will not bury the corpse with those rings on his
fingers. Why, he must have half a dozen on at least; they will be somebody's perquisite of
course, and that somebody won't be me. The idea of leaving such property unprotected in a
bone-house!"
Will Stephens remained now silent for a short time, moving his head about in different
directions, so that he caught the bright colours of the jewels that adorned the dead man's
hands, and then he spoke again.
"What's more easy," said he, "than for some of the very fellows who brought him here, to
slip back quietly, and take away every one of those rings?"
After this much, he went to the door of the bone-house and listened, but all was perfectly
still; and then his cogitations assumed another shape.
"Who saw me come from my house?" he said. -- "Nobody. Who will see me go back to
it? -- Nobody. Then what is to hinder me from taking the rings, and -- and letting the blame
lie on some one else's shoulders, I should like to know? Nothing will be easier than for me
to say in the morning that owing to the strange and insolent manner in which the
information was given me of the arrival of the dead body in the bone-house, I did not
believe it and therefore did not rise, and so -- so I think I may as well eh?"
He thought he heard something like a faint sigh, and the teeth chattered in his head, and
he shook in every limb as he bent all his energies to the task of listening if there were really
any one in or at hand, playing the spy upon him.
All was as before profoundly still, and with a long breath of relief, he cast off his terror.

"What a fool I am to be sure," he said; "it was but the wind after all, no doubt, making its
way through some one of the numerous chinks and crevices in this shed; it did sound like a
sigh from some human lips, but it wasn't."
The propriety of making short work of the affair, if he wished to do it at all, now came
forcibly to the mind of the sexton, and arming himself with all the courage he could just
then summon to his aid, he advanced close to the corpse.
Kneeling on one knee he took up one of the hands from which he wished to take the
rings, and when he saw them closer, he felt convinced that they did not belie their
appearance, but were in reality what they seemed to be -- jewels of rarity and price.
The hand was cold and clammy and damp to the touch, and the knuckles were swollen, so
that there was great difficulty in getting the rings over them, and the sexton was full five
minutes getting one of them off.
When he had done so, he wiped the perspiration of fear and excitement from his brow, as
he muttered, --
"That's always the case with your drowned folks, they are so swelled when first they
come out of the water, and so I shall have quite a job, I suppose."
The sexton's cupidity was, however, now sufficiently awakened, to make him persevere,
despite any such obstacles, in what he was about, and accordingly, kneeling on both knees
he clasped the wrist of the dead man in one hand, and with the other strove to coax off, by
twisting the hoop of gold round and round, a ring that had one diamond, apparently of great
value, set in it, and which the robber of the dead thought was a prize worth some trouble in
the obtaining.
In an instant, the dead hand clasped him tight.
--

CHAPTER CLXXXIII. [Chapter 200]
THE RECOVERY. -- THE SEXTON'S FRIGHT. -- THE COMPACT.
What pen shall describe the abject fright of Master Will Stephens, the sexton, as the cold
clammy fingers of the supposed corpse closed upon his hand.
The blood seemed to curdle at his very heart -- a film spread itself before his eyes -- he
tried to scream, but his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could utter no sound.
In good truth he was within an ace of fainting, and it was rather a wonder that he did not
go clean off.
Power to withdraw his hand from the horrible grasp he had not, and there he knelt,
shivering and shaking, and with his mouth wide open, and the hair literally bristling upon
his head.
How long he and the dead man remained in this way together in silence, he knew not, but
he was aroused from the state of almost frenzy in which he was, by a deep sepulchral voice
-- the voice of the apparently dead.
"What has happened?" it said, "what has happened? Is this the world which was to
come?"
"M-m-mer-cy -- help," stammered the sexton. "I -- I -- I -- am a poor man -- I -- I don't

want your rings, good Mr. -- Mr. Ghost. Oh -- oh -- oh -- have mercy upon me I -- I --
implore you."
The only reply was a frightful groan.
The perspiration rolled down the sexton's face.
"Oh, don't -- oh, pray don't -- hold -- hold me so -- so tight."
"Now," said the dead man, "I know all. The dye [sic] is cast; my fate has again spoken.
Steel shall not slay me, the bullet shall kill me not, fire shall not burn me, and water will
not drown while yon bright satellite sails on 'twixt earth and heaven."
"Yes -- yes, sir."
"Thefi at [sic] has gone forth, and I am wretched, oh, Heaven so unutterably wretched!"
"Perhaps, good Mr. Ghost, you -- you will let me go now. Here's your ring, I don't want to
keep it. Here's the only one I took off your worshipful fingers, good Mr. Ghost."

A very thin filmy sort of cloud had been going over the moon's disc, but now had passed
completely away, and such a flood of unchecked untempered brillancy poured in at the
open window, if it might be so called of the dead-house that it became quite radiant with
the silvery beams.
The drowned man rose with a wild howling cry of rage, and springing at the throat of the
sexton, bore him down to the earth in an instant, and placed his knee upon his chest.
"Villain," he groaned out between his clenched teeth, "you shall die, although you have
made me live. There shall be one victim to the fell destroyer."
The sexton thought his hour was come.
"Wretch!" pursued the revived corpse, "wretch, what devil prompted you to do this most
damnable deed? Speak -- speak, I say, who are you?"
"What -- what deed?" gasped the sexton.
"The deed of restoring me to life -- of dragging me from the ocean, and forcing me to live
again."
"I -- I -- oh dear."
["]Speak. Go on."
"I didn't do anything of the sort. The truth is, I only came to -- to -- to -- -"
"To what?"
"To borrow a ring of you, that's all, and the greatest calamity that ever happened to me is
your coming to life."
"How came I here?"
"That I can't tell your worship. I am the sexton of this place, it's called Culburn, and is in
Suffolk, and they picked your worship up at sea, and brought you here. That's all I know
about it, as I hope for mercy. It can't do you any good to kill a poor fellow like me. I don't
think you are a ghost now, but some ugly -- no I mean handsome fellow -- supposed only to
be drowned."
"Do you tell me truth?"
"As I live, and hope your worship will let me live I do. And here's the ring, I came to
borrow of you, sir, as a proof."
"Of what?"

"Of -- of -- of -- I hardly know what to say to you, sir."
"If you are not the great enemy to me that I thought you -- you are a mere thief. You
came to steal the jewels I had upon my fingers. Is not that the truth?"
"I -- I rather think it is, sir."
"You may save your wretched life if you like. If you promise me that you will keep all
that has happened a secret, except so much of it as I shall empower you to reveal, I will
spare you; but if after having so promised, you break faith with me, and let your tongue
wag further than I wish it, you will not live twenty-four hours afterwards, be assured, for I
will find you out, and twist your head from your shoulders."
"Anything, sir, I will promise anything, I will swear if you like."
"I heed no oaths. Consideration for your own safety will keep you silent. Rise."
He took his knee off the chest of the sexton and his hand off his throat, and then Will
Stephens tremblingly rose to his feet. The idea did cross him for a moment of measuring his
strength with the resuscitated man, but when he beheld the tall, bony, gaunt figure before
him, he saw he had not the shadow of a chance in a personal struggle.
Moreover he had a lively remembrance of a most vice-like pressure upon his throat,
which seemed to say that the ugly stranger was by no means in an exhausted state.
Upon the whole, then, the sexton was glad to have escaped so well.
"You have only to say, sir, what you would have me do," he said.
"Answer me first. Have you always lived here? Is this your native place?"
"Oh, no, sir, I came from London; but then it's years ago."
"Very well. You must say that you remember me in London, as a gentleman of good
repute, and you must add that you came to the bone-house here, and found me reviving, and
that you took measures to complete my recovery."
"Yes, sir. And here is your ring."
"Keep it as a memento of this affair."
"Many thanks, sir. Will it please you to tell me your name and condition?"
"John Smith, a foreign merchant; and now tell me, minutely, how I was rescued from the
ocean, or did the waves themselves give up their dead?"

The sexton who was now assured in his own mind that it was no ghost he was speaking
to, entered as far as he knew into the story of the finding the body, and bringing it to the
bone-house, but as that information was not great, he volunteered, if Mr. Smith would go
with him to his cottage, to get him all the particulars.
To this the other consented, and they both left the bone-house together.
On the short bit of road, the sexton began to think that his companion must be some
madman, for ever and anon when the moon was brightest, he saw him lift up both his arms
to it, as if he were worshipping it, and at those times too, he heard him mutter some words
in a language that he did not comprehend. At length the singular being spoke in English.
"Henceforth," he cried, as if quite forgetful of the presence of another, "henceforth,

begone remorse, begone despair. The great sea has rejected me, and not again will I seek
destruction; I will live, and I will live to be the bane and curse of the beautiful."
"Sir," said the sexton, "here is my house, sir; if you will step in, I will soon dish you up a
little something in the way of refreshment. You see, sir, I live alone, that is to say, an old
woman who keeps my cottage in order and waits upon me goes away at night, and comes
again in the morning, but as it is not her time yet, I will get you anything you like to eat or
to drink."
"I never eat nor drink."
"Not eat! -- nor -- drink! Never, sir?"
"Never. I shall cost you nothing to entertain me. I want some rest, and while I am taking
it, do you go and get me such information as you can regarding me. Make no concealment
that I am alive, but go at once, and return with what expedition you may, and remember
that your fate is in my hands."
"I will, sir."
The sexton was quite terrified enough to do what he was bidden, and perhaps, the
consciousness that the strange and mysterious man whom he had for a guest might accuse
him of the projected robbery of the jewellery he had about his person influenced him more
than the rather obscure threat of personal vengeance by the promised screwing his head off.
But the matter, take it for all in all, was anything but an agreeable one for Master Will
Stephens, and most heartily did he wish he had remained in his bed and left the stranger to
recover, if was to recover, by himself. Will did not attribute that recovery to the moonlight
he had himself let in.
--

CHAPTER CLXXXIV. [Chapter 201]
THE NIGHT ALARM. -- THE VAMPYRE'S ATTACK UPON THE BRIDE.
The particulars concerning the bringing in of the body that had been picked up at sea by
the brothers Edwin and Charles Crofton, were to be learnt from many mouths so soon as
the sexton evinced a disposition to know them, and in a very short time, and as the daylight
was making the fainter and more spiritual light of the moon fade away, he again reached his
own abode, where he had left a guest of whom the reader knows much, but of whom Will
Stephens knew but little.
He found the self-christened Mr. Smith waiting for him rather impatiently.
"Well," he cried, "your news? your news?"
"May be told, sir, in a few words," replied the sexton, and then he made his new fried
acquainted with the whole story, just as he had heard it of the fishermen on the coast.
Mr. Smith, or as we may as well call him at once the vampyre, hesitated for a few
moments as if he had not exactly and accurately made up his mind what to do, and then he
said, --
"You will go to the Grange-house and tell the story that I have before informed you I
would have told. Be sure that you expatiate upon my gentility and respectability, for I want
to be upon good terms with the Crofton family."
"Well, but sir, I'm a tenant of Sir George Crofton's and so you see -- "
"What," said the vampyre, his eyes flashing with indignation as he spoke "dare you
dispute my positive commands?"
"No, sir, I -- I only -- -"
"Peace caitiff, and know that I hold thy life in my hands for your attempted robbery of
me."
The sexton trembled. That was indeed the weak point now of all his defences against
whatever commands might be put upon him by his master, as we may now call the
vampyre, although after all it was but the usual dominion of a strong mind over a weak one,
for there was not so much in reality for the sexton to be afraid of as his own guilty
conscience dictated to him.

It were easy enough for the vampyre to charge him with robbery, but not at all so easy for
him to prove such a charge, and at the same time to substantiate, as by some inquisitive
counsel he might be called upon to do, his own position in society.
But it is most true
"Conscience doth make cowards of us all." And feeling that his intention regarding the
rings of the supposed drowned man had been of a dishonest character, he could not
summon courage sufficient to defy him now.
"I will go," he said, "I am going."
"'Tis well."
In far from the pleasantest train of thought the sexton went to the Grange, and asked to
see Mr. Charles Crofton, and to him he related the version of the resuscitating of the
supposed drowned man. It was heard with, as might be expected, the most profound
astonishment, and the sexton soon found himself confrounted with the whole assembled
family, and force to repeat the wonderful facts over again.
It seemed, as indeed it might well do, a something quite beyond belief.
"Why, Edwin," said Charles, "he must have been in the water far beyond the length of
time that it mostly takes to drown any one before we saw him."
"I think so too."
"It must be so, for this reason, that he was a considerable distance from land, and there
was no vessel near enough for him to have come from."
"Hold!" said Sir George Crofton, "my dear boys, you are forgetting the most important
fact of all."
"Are we, father?"
"Yes, and that is that the gentleman is alive. You cannot get over that, you know, and as I
have often heard that whatever is is natural, why there's no use in disputing any more about
it; and besides how do we know but that he was in some boat which was swamped a few
minutes before you saw him."
"That is a most rational suppositon," said Edwin.
"And that we can say nothing against," added Charles; "what is to be done father?"
"Why, do not let us do good by inches, we know that this is the only decent house within
a considerable distance for a gentleman to remain in, if he have the habits of comfort about

him. So Master Stephen, [sic] if you will go and give our compliments to the stranger, and
ask him to come here, I shall be much obliged to you."
"I will, Sir George."
"And you can tell him that we are plain folks, but assure him of a hearty welcome."
Will Stephens made his bow and exit.
"Well," said Edwin, "it's very odd, although of course, it must be all right, and I am the
last person who would wish to make anything out of a common-place event, but to all
appearances dead he was when we took him into the boat, and I never before heard of a
spontaneous recovery like this from such a state."
"Then you have added to your stock of experience," said his father, laughing, "and I must
own, for my own part, that I am rather curious to see this person, who was a curiosity in
appearance, according to your accounts when he was dead or supposed to be dead."
"He was so," remarked Charles, "for I am certain you might travel the world over without
meeting a more singular looking man than he was; in the first place, he looked particularly
tall, but that might have arisen from the fact that we only saw him in a horizontal position,
and then there was a something about the expression of his face which was perfectly
indescribable, and yet at the same time filled you with feelings of curiosity and dread."
The sisters heard this account of the mysterious stranger with feelings of great interest.
"Why," said Emma, "we have all of us often complained of being dull here, but such an
animal as this will be quite an acquisition."
"And just as Clara is going, too, what a pity," laughed Edwin.
"I shall endeavour to survive the horrid disappointment," said Clara, for she was to be
married on that day, to one who had been the chosen companion of her heart for many a
day, and was to leave the home of her childhood to proceed far away to his house in Wales,
where she was to be the light of joy to another admiring and loving circle.
"Ah, well, I pity you," said Emma.
"Then you had better at once," remarked Clara, forbid the occasional visits here of a
certain young officer who, I'm afraid, has some audacious intentions."
The ready colour flushed to the cheek of the younger sister, who had scarcely expected
such a retort, although she had fairly provoked it.
"Come, girls," said the father, "we will have no more lance breaking between you about
your lovers."

"Certainly not, father," said Clara, "but then, you know, unless Emma is made to see that
she is vulnerable, she will go on tormenting me."
"In other words, Emma," said Edwin, "you see that people who live in glass houses
should not throw stones -- a most useful maxim."
"I don't care for any of you," said Emma, half crying, as she ran out of the room.
Clara followed here, for there was really the very best understanding and the kindest
feeling between the two young girls, although occasionally a smart repartee would be
uttered upon some such occasion as the present, but all that was soon forgotten.
The sexton who was getting each moment more and more uneasy about the share he had
in the affair of the resuscitated man of the bone-house, went back to the cottage, and there
informed the self-named Mr. Smith of the success of his mission to the Grange-house.
"You think they will welcome me," said the vampyre.
"I am sure of it, sir. They are the frankest, freest family I ever knew, and they would not
have asked you to got to the Grange if they did not mean to use you well."
"And there are two daughters?"
"Yes, sir."
"And young and fair, you tell me."
"They are two as handsome girls as you will find in this part of the country, sir. They
have always been much admired. One of them, as I before mentioned, is going to be
married and taken away, but the other stays at home.["]
"'Tis well, not you will not fail to remember the awkward situation in which you are.
Keep the ring which you took from my finger, and with it keep your own counsel, for any
babbling upon your part will most assuredly lead to your destruction."
"Yes, sir, I know."
"And although that destruction might not be immediate, you would lead a life of
trembling terror until your doom was accomplished, and that doom should be a dreadful
one in its manner. Now farewell! farewell! and remember me."
"I shall never forget you the longest day I have got to live," said the sexton, with a
shudder, as he saw the tall, angular, gaunt-looking form of his most mysterious new
acquaintance leave his cottage, and make his way towards the Grange.
--

CHAPTER CLXXXV. [Chapter 202]
THE DEFILE IN THE ROCKS. -- THE HORSEMAN AND THE ACCIDENT.
The Grange-house was visible from the cottage of the sexton, and so the vampyre had
declined the offer of Will Stephens to be his guide.
As it happened, though, it would have been better regarded his reaching the Grange
quickly that he should have taken the sexton with him, for the cliffs that were close at hand
concelaed [sic] to the eye many deep gulleys and frightful precipices that had to be coasted
round, before any one could reach the Grange-house by that route.
If he could have gone directly onward, about half a mile's walking would have sufficed to
enable him to reach the place, but before he had proceeded a quarter of that distance, he
came upon a deep ravine or splitting in the cliff, too wide to jump across, and with all the
appearance of extending inland a considerable distance without narrowing.
"I had indeed better have brought a guide with me," muttered Varney.
He then paused for a few moments, as if he was debating with himself whether or not he
should return back and get the sexton. But the mental hesitation did not last long, and
accustomed as he was to trust to his own sagacity and his own resources more than to other
people, he walked along by the side of the fissure in the cliff, muttering to himself, --
"Were all the guides in the country here, they could but do as I am doing, namely, walk
on until the ravine closes."
With this idea he pursued it, but to his mortification he found that it widened instead of
presenting the least symptoms of closing, and suddenly it opened to his eyes to a width of
about fifty feet, and he paused again irresolute.
"How am I to proceed?" he said; "this is a perplexity."
He advanced close to the brink, and looked down. The depth was very considerable, and
at the bottom there was evidently a road made of sand and chalk, which wound down
somewhere from the interior of the country to the sea-beach.
As he looked, he heard the rapid sound of a horse's feet.
In another moment there dashed down the road towards the sea, a horse bearing on his
back a man, who was exerting himself in every possible way to stop the maddened,
headlong career of the animal, but it would not be checked.
With starting eyes and dilated nostrils, and with its flanks covered with foam, the frighted
steed, which had evidently come some distance in that state, rushed on, but the broken

nature of the ground made it almost impossible that it should make such great speed then as
it had been making, at least with any degreee [sic] of safety.
This was what occurred to the thoughts of Varney, and it was sufficiently proved to be a
correct idea, by the horse stumbling the next moment, and throwing his rider heavily upon
the sand and broken rock that was strewn around.
The steed, now disincumbered of its load, recovered itself in a moment, and with a snort
of rage and probably of pain likewise, dashed and disappeared from the sight, round the
abrupt corner of the ravine to the left hand on the beach.
"So be it," said the vampyre, calmly; "another being is snatched away from the muster
roll of the living, one who perhaps would gladly have preserved his existence, while I -- I
remain and cannot, let me do what I will to accomplish such a purpose, shake off the
cumbrous load of life that will cling to me."
Suddenly quite a whirlwind of passion seemed to come on him, and, standing on the
brink of the ravine with his arms extended, he cried, --
"Since death is denied to me, I will henceforward shake off all human sympathies. Since I
am compelled to be that which I am, I will not be that and likewise suffer all the pangs of
doing deeds at which a better nature that was within me revolted. No, I will from this time
be the bane of all that is good and great and beautiful. If I am forced to wander upon the
earth, a thing to be abhorred and accursed among men, I will perform my mission to the
very letter as well as the spirit, and henceforth adieu all regrets, adieu all feeling -- all
memory of goodness -- of charity to human nature, for I will be a dread and a desolation!
Since blood is to be my only sustenance, and since death is denied to me, I will have
abundance of it -- I will revel in it, and no spark of human pity shall find a home in this
once racked and tortured bosom. Fate, I thee defy!["]
He continued for some few moments after uttering this speech in the same attitude in
which he had spoken the words. Then suffering his hands slowly to fall, again he looked
cold, and passionless, as he had been before.
But his determination was made.
By looking carefully about him, he saw that there was a kind of footpath down the side of
the ravine, which an active person might descend by, although, probably, not altogether
without some risk, for the least false step might precipitate him to the bottom.
The vampire, however, had no such fears. He seemed to feel that he possessed a kind of
charmed life, and that he might adventure to do what others might well shrink from.
This feeling begot a confidence which was almost certain to be his protection, even if it
had been only founded upon imagination, for it fortified his nerves, and when he began the
descent down the side of the ravine, it was without the smallest terror.

He found, however, that when he was fairly on the path, it was a better and a wider one
than he had a first supposed it to be, and in the course of five minutes he had got
completely down to the narrow road, on which, apparently dead, lay the wounded man, for
he was only grievously hurt by his fall, although he was quite insensible.
The vampyre strode up to him.
"Ah," he said, "young, and what the world would call handsome. Ha! ha! Heaven takes
but little care sometimes of its handiwork."
After a few moments' contemplation of the still form that lay at his feet, he knelt on one
knee by its side, and placed his hand upon the region of the heart, after roughly tearing
open the vest of the stranger.
"He lives -- he lives. Well, shall I crush the fluttering spirit that now is hovering 'twixt life
and death, or shall I let it linger while it may within its earthly prison? Let it stay. The worst
turn that any one can do another in this world, is surely to preserve existence after once the
pang of what would be all the agony of death is past."
The vampyre rose, and was moving away up the ravine, when a sudden thought seemed
to strike him, and he turned back again.
"Gold," he said, "is always useful to me, and I think with my new thoughts and feelings it
will now be more so than ever. This insensible man may have some about him."
Again he knelt by the side of the young man, and soon possessed himself of a tolerably
well-stocked purse that he found upon him. Round his neck, too, by a thin chain of gold,
hung a small portrait of a young and beautiful girl, upon which Varney gazed intently.
"She is fair," he said, "very fair -- she would make a fit victim for me. I will take this
portrait; it might stand me in some stead should I encounter the original."
He placed the portrait in his pocket, and was in the act of rising, when he heard the sound
of a footstep.
"Ah, some one comes; it will be no part of my plan to have been seen by the body."
He darted forth down the narrow gorge or ravine, and was soon sufficiently hidden from
the sight of those who were advancing. They proved to be some fishermen going to spread
their nets upon the beach, which just below the spot where the seemingly fatal accident had
taken place, was as level as a carpet, screened from the wind, and composed of the finest
sand.
Of course, it was impossible to avoid seeing the body that lay in their path, and Varney
had no need to be fearful that he would be seen, when an object of so much greater and
more absorbing interest lay in their direct and unavoidable path.

He heard from the sudden exclamations that fell from them, that they had seen the body,
and upon advancing a step or two, he found that they were collected round it in a dense
throng, for there were about a dozen men in all.
"'Tis well," said Varney, "it matters not to me if he be living or dead. I can doubtless now
find my way to the Grange-house by this path along the shore. I will pursue it at all events,
and see whither it will lead me."
He did so, and after going about half a mile, he found another ravine, which, upon
entering and ascending for a time, led him quite close to one of the entrances of the Grange-
house, as it was called, and which he was so anxious to reach.
--

CHAPTER CLXXXVI. [Chapter 203]
THE DISAPPOINTMENT AT THE GRANGE. -- THE NEWS OF DESPAIR. -- THE

FINDING THE BODY.
It was a fine old place the Grange, view it from what aspect you might, and had not the
mind of Varney, the vampyre, been so fearfully irritated by the circumstances of his
horrible existence, he must have paused to admire it.
It was one of those ancient English edifices, which, alas, are fast disappearing from the
face of once merry England. Railways have gone tearing and screaming through the old
parks and shady glens. Alas, all is altered now, and for the sake of getting to some
abominable place, such as Manchester, or Birmingham, in a very short space of time, many
a lonely spot of nature's own creating is marred by noise and smoke.
"So," said Varney, "this then is the home of these young men who have done me such an
injury as to rescue me from the sea."
He ground his teeth together as he spoke, and it was quite clear that he felt disposed to
consider that a most deadly injury had been done to him by Edwin and Charles Crofton,
who had only followed the proper dictates of humanity in rescuing him from the waves.
"It shall go hard with me," added Varney, "but I will teach such meddling fools to leave
the great sea in charge of its dead. Oh, had I but been allowed to remain until now, which
but for these officious perso[ns] might still have been the case, I should have sunk deep --
deep into the yellow sands, and there rotted."
His passion as he uttered these words had in it something fearful, but in a few moments
the external symptoms of it passed away, and he walked slowly and to all appearance
calmly enough towards the Grange.
The distance he had to go was still as before, a deceiving one, for he had to wind round a
clump of trees before he really got to the gate, which appeared to be just in sight, but at
length he reached it, and paused as he saw an old man, who was a kind of warder there.
"Is this Sir George Crofton's?" he said, and he threw into his voice all that silvery softness
which at times had been so fascinating to the Bannerworth family.
"It is, sir."
"Will you announce me?"
"I do not leave this gate, sir, but if you go down this avenue, you will reach the mansion,
and some of the servants will attend to you."
Varney walked on.

The avenue was one formed by two stately rows of chestnuts, the spreading branches of
which met over head, forming a beautiful canopy, and notwithstanding that they were so
near the sea -- that foe to vegetation, these trees were in good truth most luxuriantly
beautiful.
"There was a time," muttered Varney, "when I should have admired such a spot as this,
but all that has long since passed away. I am that which I am."
He now arrived in front of the house itself, and being perceived by one of the domestics,
he was politely asked what he wanted.
"Say that Mr. Smith is here," was the message that Varney gave.
The servant had already heard that such was the name of the person who had been
rescued from the sea by his young masters Edwin and Charles, he now hastened with the
information to the drawing-room, where the family was assembled.
"Oh, if you please, sir, he has come."
"Who has come?"
"The drowned man, Mr. Smith."
"Admit him instantly."
The servant ran back to Varney, and then politely ushered him into the large really
handsome room, in which the family sat awaiting his arrival with no small share of
curiosity. What the sexton had said of him had excited much speculation, and the eagerness
to see a man who was, as it were, a present from the sea, was extreme.
"Mr. Smith," announced the servant; and Varney with one of his courtly bows, and a
smile that was half hideous, half charming, entered.
There was a decided effect produced by his appearance, and perhaps that effect is best
described by the word awe. They all seemed as if they were in the presence of something
very peculiar, if not something very superior.
Sir George Crofton broke the rather awkward silence that ensued by addressing his visitor
with all the frankness that was a part of his nature.
"Sir," he said, "I am glad to see you and hope you will make yourself as much at home as
if you were in a house of your own."
"Sir," said Varney, "you know how much I owe your family already, and I fear to
increase the heavy debt of gratitude."

"Oh, you are welcome, most welcome. Stay here as long as you like; we are rather dull at
times in this isolated house, and the arrival of an intelligent guest is always an event."
Varney bowed, and Edwin advanced.
"Mr. Smith," he said, "I suppose I may almost call myself an old acquaintance."
"And I," said Charles.
"Gentlemen, if you be those to whom I am indebted for my preservation, I owe you my

warmest thanks."
"Oh, think nothing of it," said Sir George; "it was not at all likely that my two boys would
see a fellow creature in such a situation, and not, dead or alive, take possession of him.
Your recovery is the only remarkable thing in the whole affair."
"Very remarkable," said Varney.
They waited a moment as if he was expected to make some sort of explanation of that
part of the business, but as he did not, Sir George said --
"You have no idea of how you became resuscitated."
"Not the least."
"Well, that is strange indeed."
"Perhaps the good fellow who afforded me an immediate shelter, applied before that,
some means of recovering suspended vitality."
"Oh no. Will Stephens is to the full as much surprised as any one. But, however, I dare
say, to you, sir, that is not the most entertaining subject in the world, so we will say no
more about it, except that we are very glad to have a living guest instead of a dead one."
"I much fear, from what I have heard," said Varney, "that I shall be intruding at a time
like this into your family circle."
"Oh, you allude to the marriage to-day of one of my daughters, and that puts me in mind
of really quite an omission on my part. Mr. Smith -- my daughters, Clara and Emma."
The vampyre bowed low, and the young ladies went with established grace through the
ceremony of the introduction to the remarkable personage before them.
At this moment there came upon the ears of all assembled there the sound of hurried
footsteps, and a servant without any ceremony burst into the apartment, exclaiming --

"Oh, Sir George -- Oh, oh, sir -- "
"What is it? Speak!"
"Oh, oh. They have found him -- killed in the ravine."
"Who, who?"
"Mr. Ringwood, as was to be married -- "
"My daughter."
Clara uttered a cry of despair, and sank into a chair in a state of insensibility. The scene of
confusion and general consternation that now ensued baffles all description, and the only
person who looked calm and collected upon the occasion was Mr. Smith, although it was
not the insulting calmness of seeming indifference.
In a few minutes, however, Sir George himself recovered from the first shock which the
intelligence had given to him, and he said, --
"Where is he? Where is he? Let me to the spot."
"And allow me, sir, to accompany you," said Varney. "Believe me, sir, I feel deeply for
the family misfortune. Let me be useful."
"Thank you, sir, thank you -- Edwin, Charles, come with me and this gentleman, and we
will see if this dreadful report be true. Let us hope that fear and ignorance have exaggerated
a very simple affair into so seemingly dreadful a circumstance.
Leaving Clara to the care of her sister and some of the female domestics of the Grange,
who were hastily summoned to attend upon her, the little party, consisting of Sir George,
his two sons, Varney, and several of the men-servants, turned from the Grange in the
direction of the ravine.
Their intimate acquaintance with all the neighbourhood enabled them to reach the place
much sooner than Varney thought it possible to do, and as they came within sight of the
spot where the accident had occurred, they saw a crowd of villagers and fishermen
assembled.
They quickened their pace, and forcing through the throng, Sir George Crofton saw his
intended son-in-law, to all appearance, lying dead and bleeding on the sands.
Such a sight was enough, for a moment, to paralyse every faculty, and it really had, for a
time, that effect upon Sir George.
--

CHAPTER CLXXXVII. [Chapter 204]
THE SICK CHAMBER AT THE GRANGE. -- THE NIGHT.
"Is he dead? Is he dead? cried Sir George.
"We don't know, sir," replied one of the fishermen; "some of us think he is, and some of
us think he is not."
"What is to be done?"
"Have him taken at once to the Grange, father," said Charles, "and let us get medical
assistance; who knows but the affair may turn out in reality very different from what it first
appeared. He may be only stunned by a fall."
"I hope to Heaven it may be so. Can you, among you, my men, make anything like a litter
to carry him on?"
This was soon done. Some of the loose seats from some boats close at hand, and a rough
cloak or two, made a capital couch for the dead or wounded man, as the case might be.
They lifted him carefully into it, and then four of them lifted the rude but easy and
appropriate conveyance, and carried him towards the hall.
"How could this have happened?" said Sir George.
"Perhaps I may be able to throw some light upon it," said Varney. "As I came here to
your hospitable house, a horse without a rider, but caparisoned for one, passed me
furiously."
"That must have been his horse then," said Charles. "You may depend, father, he was
riding on to see Clara before the hour appointed for their marriage, and has met with this
accident. Come, there is some consolation in that. A fall from his horse is not likely to kill
him."
"Where is Edwin?"
"Oh, he went off at once for Dr. North, and no doubt he will get to the Grange about as
soon as we shall."
"That was right -- that was right. I really have been taken so much by surprise that I
hardly know what I am about. It was very right of Edwin."
Nothing of any importance now passed in the way of conversation, nor did any incident
worth recording take place until the melancholy little procession reached the Grange, and
by the advice of Varney, the young bridegroom was carried direct to a bed-chamber before
he was removed from the litter on which he had been carried.

The operation was scarcely performed, and he laid upon a bed, when Dr. North came,
having mounted his horse upon hearing the information from Edwin that he was wanted in
a case of such great emergency at the Grange, and ridden hard all the way.
He was at once introduced to his patient, and upon a cursory examination, he said, --
"This is a concussion of the brain, but don't let that alarm you. It may be very slight,
although it certainly has an awkward sound, and a little rest and blood-letting may put him
all to rights."
This was to some extent cheering, and the doctor at once proceeded to bleed his patient.
As the ruddy stream fell into a crystal goblet, the young man gradually opened his eyes, and
looked round him with a bewildered glare.
"Darken the room," said Dr. North; "he is right enough, but he must be kept quiet for a
day or two at all events."
"What has happened?" said the wounded man.
"Nothing particular," replied Dr. North, "nothing particular. You have had a fall from
your horse."
"Clara!"
"Ah, I know, and now listen to me. If you remain quiet and don't speak, you will see
Clara soon; but if you are wilful and disobey orders, you will bring on a brain fever and you
wont [sic] see her at all in this world; so now you can judge for yourself."
"You are rather harsh," said Sir George.
"Pardon me sir, I am not. There is nothing like making a patient thoroughly understand
his own position; and I give this young gentleman credit for sufficient wisdom to enable
him to profit by what I say to him."
Mr. Ringwood nodded.
"There, you see, all's right; now he will go to sleep, and as all will depend upon the state
in which he awakens, I will, if you please wait here, unless I should be urgently sent for
from home, for I have left word where I am."
"Pardon me, doctor, for finding any fault with you."
"Don't mention it; what I said did sound harsh."
Sir George went now at once to the room where his daughter Clara had been taken to, for
the purpose of informing her of the hopeful state of affairs. He found her just recovered

from her swoon, so that recollection had not yet sufficiently returned to give her all the
agony of thinking that the news so heedlessly and so suddenly communicated by the
servant might be true in its full intensity.
"My dear, you must not distress yourself," said Sir George. "Ringwood was riding over
here, it seems, to see you, and his horse, getting restive, has thrown him; Dr. North says,
there is nothing particular the matter, and that after a little rest he will recover."
Clara tried to speak, but she could not -- she burst into tears.
"Ah!" said the old nurse, who was attending her, and who had been in her family many
years, "ah, poor dear, she will be all right now. I was just wishing that she would have a
good cry; it does any one a world of good, it does."
"What an agitating night and day this has been, to be sure," said Sir George. "First the
terror of losing both my boys, then their return with the dead man, who, so oddly comes to
life again; Then this dreadful accident to Ringwood; upon my word the incidents of a whole
year have been crammed into a few hours. I only hope this is the last of it."
"And I shall see him again, father," sobbed Clara.
"Of course you will."
"You -- you have sent him home very carefully?"
"Home? no. He is here under this roof and here he shall stay till he recovers, poor lad. Oh
dear no, I never thought of sending him home, but I must send some one, by-the-by, with
the news of what has happened. This is well thought of."
The knowledge that her lover, and her affianced husband was doing well, and that he was
under the same roof with her, gave Clara the most unalloyed satisfaction, and she recovered
rapidly her good and healthful looks. It was duly explained to her, that she must not go near
Ringwood to disturb him, as rest was so very essential to his recovery; so she did not
attempt it. The whole household was commanded to be unusally quiet, and never had the
Grange before presented such a collection of creeping domestics, for they went up and
down stairs like so many cats.
Clara did not omit to thank Mr. Smith for the assistance he had rendered them in this evil
emergency, and Dr. North stood with the family in the dining room waiting, perhaps with
greater anxiety than he chose to express, the awaking of his patient.
A servant was left in the adjoining chamber to that occupied by Ringwood, who was told
to bring to the dining-room the first intimation that the wounded man was living.
About two hours elapsed when the servant came in with an air of affright.

Dr. North sprang to his feet in a moment.
"What is it, is he awake?"
"Not exactly awake, sir, but he is speaking in his sleep, and it's all about a -- a -- -"
"A what?"
"A vampyre."
"Stuff."
"Well, sir, he's a having some horrid dream, I can tell you, sir, and he said, 'Keep off the
vampyre; save her, oh, save her from the vampyre!'"
"How singular!" said Varney, "what an absurd belief that is! A vampyre! what on earth
could have put such a thing in his head, I wonder?"
"I will go to him," said Dr. North, "if he should be very much disturbed, perhaps I shall
think it preferable to awake him; but I can inform you all that such dreams show that there
is much excitement going on in the brain.["]
"Then you do not consider the symptom favourable, doctor?"
"Certainly not; quite the reverse of favourable."
Dr. North rose, and as Varney offered very politely to accompany him, he made no sort of
objection, and they proceeded to the chamber of the bridegroom.
During the time that the doctor had been in the society of Varney, he had been much
pleased with him, for he found that he possessed a vast store of knowledge upon almost any
subject that could be touched upon, besides no small amount of skill and theoretical
information upon medical matters, so he let him come with him, when perhaps he would
have objected to any one else.
Varney the vampyre could fascinate when he liked.
When they reached the chamber the young man was quiet, but in a few minutes he began
to toss about his head, and mutter in his sleep, --
"The vampyre, the dreadful vampyre. Oh, save her! Help, help, help!"
"This won't do," said the doctor."
He went to the toilette table, and procuring a large towel he soaked it well in cold water,
and then wrapped it round the head of Ringwood, and so carefully too as not to arouse him.

The effect was almost instantaneous. The vexed sleeper relapsed into a much easier attitute,
the breathing was more regular, and the distressing fancies that had tortured his fevered
brain were chased away.
"A simple plan," said Varney.
"Yes, but a most efficacious one."
--

CHAPTER CLXXXVIII. [Chapter 205]
A MIDNIGHT ALARM. -- THE CHASE. -- THE MYSTERY.
Young Ringwood did awaken about two hours afterwards, and the state he was in,
although not such as to create alarm, was not pleasing to Dr. North. That gentleman desired
that he should be carefully watched and kept quiet, while he went to his own house for
some medicines.
He returned as soon as he possibly could, and administered such remedies as he

considered the urgency of the case required, and having, as he always made a practice of
doing, left word at his own house where he was, he offered to remain at the Grange the
whole of the night.
It is scarcely necessary to say, that such an offer was most gratefully accepted.
Clara was profuse in her acknowledgements of the doctor's kindness, and they all passed
the evening together in the large dining room, to which Varney was first introduced.
Not, however, for a long time had so gloomy an evening been passed at the Grange as
that; nobody was in spirits, and although there was a great deal of conversation, it somehow
assumed always a very sombre shape, let it commence on what subject it might.
Half past ten o'clock was the usual hour at which the family reitred for the night, and it
was quite a relief to every one, when that hour came, and Sir George ordered lights for the
bed chambers.
Clara, indeed, being much oppressed, had retired some time before, and so had Emma, so
that there were none but gentlemen in the dining room at half past ten.
"I have ordered a bed to be prepared for you close to your patient's," said Sir George to
Dr. North.
"Oh, thank you, but I shall only lie down in my clothes, a couch would have done just as
well, I am used to sitting up all night upon occasion."
"No doubt, but I hope you will not be disturbed, and that tomorrow-morning we shall
have a better account of your patient."
"I hope so too; a good calm night's rest may do much."
"You speak doubtingly."
"Why in these cases it is difficult to know the extent of injury. There is no fracture of the
skull, but it is as yet impossible to say what amount of shaking he has had."

"Well, we can but hope for the best. Mr. Smith, although we retire at this early hour, there
is no sort of occasion for you to do so. Order what wines you please, and sit as long as you
please."
"By no means, Sir George; I am a great patron of early hours myself."
Varney was shown into a bed-room which was upon the same floor with those of the
family, and which formed one of a range of chambers, all opening from a corridor that ran
the entire length of the house, and which in the daytime was lighted by a very large,
handsome window at one end, while at the other was a broad flight of stairs ascending from
the lower part of the house.
The sisters occupied contiguous chambers, and then there was an empty room, and next
to that again was the bed-room in which was Ringwood, and then Dr. North's.
Exactly opposite was Varney's room, and colse [sic] at hand slept the sons, while Sir
George himself occupied a room at the furthest corner of the corridor.
Emma made Clara an offer to sleep with her that night, as she was in grief and anxiety,
but this Clara would not permit, for she could not think of sacrificing her sister's repose to
attend upon her.
"No, Emma," she said," I will hope for the best, and strive to rest."
The bade each other affectionately good night, and shortly afterwards retired to their
separate apartments.
By eleven o'clock all was still in the house.
Dr. North had begged a book from the library, for he thought it likely enough that he
should not be able to get much repose, and with that he sat in his room, the only one, as he
thought, in all the house who was not in bed.
He continued reading for about an hour, and then, after visiting his patient, and finding
him asleep, he thought it would be just as well for him to pull off his boots and his coat,
and lie down on the bed to snatch a few hours' sleep.
He performed all the operations but the final one -- the sleeping -- for scarcely had he lain
down, when he heard a soft sliding sort of noise close to the room door, he thought, and he
sprung up in a sitting posture to listen to it.
"Who's there!" he cried.
There was no answer, and jumping off his bed, he took the light which he had not put out,
and opened his door. All was deserted and still in the corridor.

"Imagination, or some accidental noise that I am not familiar with," said the doctor, as he
closed his door again.
Down he laid himself, and he was just upon the point of getting to sleep, when he heard a
scratching sound as he thought upon the very panel of the door of his room.
Up he sprang again, and this time without the delay of asking who was there; he opened
his door, and looked out into the corridor, holding the light above his head so as to diffuse
its rays as much as possible, but he saw no one, and all the other doors were close shut.
"A plague take it," he said, "I may keep myself at this sort of thing all night, if I am
foolish enough. It's a cat, perhaps, for all I know; however it may scratch away, I won't
move again."
Shutting the door, he lay down, now fully determined that he would not move, unless
something very much out of the common way, indeed, should take place.
Again he started. There was a curious sound about the lock of his door, and he listened
intently.
"Now, what on earth can that be?"
All was still, and he nearly dropped asleep. Twice, however, he thought he heard the
sound again, but he would not move, and in a few moments more, he was enjoying a sound
repose.
How long this repose lasted, he had no means of telling, for he was suddenly awakened
by such a cry, that at first he lay overpowered completely by it, and unable to move. It was
a loud shrieking cry, such as might come form any one in a most dreadful agony.
"Good Heaven!" he cried, "what's that?"
Now, Dr. North was not a fearful man, nor a nervous one, and he soon recovered.
Besides, such a cry as that, he knew very well, must have the effect of arousing everybody
in the house, so he sprung out of his bed, and rushed to the door.
It was fast.
In vain he tried the lock, and hammered at it and pushed. The door was a thick and a
heavy one, and it was quite clear he was a prisoner.
This was serious, and he cried out, --
"Help! help! here, undo the door, undo the door. Who has locked me in?"

He heard the scraping of feet, the sound of voices, the ringing of bells, and all the
symptoms of a suddenly disturbed and alarmed household, but nobody paid any attention to
him. He dragged on his boots, in order that he might be able to keep up a constant kicking
on the lower part of his door, and he did keep it up with a vengeance.
At length he heard voices close to his door, and some one cried, --
"Open the door, sir, open the door!"
"Open it yourself," said Dr. North, "you have fastened it on the outside, I suppose."
There was some further running about, and then with a crash the door was forced open
with a crowbar, and upon emerging from the apartment, the doctor found assembled in the
corridor, the whole family, with the exception of the two girls, and several servants half-
dressed bearing lights.
"What's the matter," cried Sir George, "what's the matter?"
"Ah," said the doctor, "that's what I want to know."
"Yes, why -- why you made all the disturbance."
"I beg your pardon, there was a scream came from somewhere, and when I tried to come
out to find what it was, my room door was fast. That's all I know about it."
Bang -- bang, bang, bang, came now a sound. Bang, bang, bang; and all eyes were turned
in the direction of the chamber occupied by Mr. Smith, and they heard his voice from
within shouting in loud and frightened tones.
"Help! help! is it fire! Open my door, help -- help. Do you lock in your guests here?
Help!"
"Why, God bless me," said Dr. North, "that gentleman is locked in likewise."
"But it can't be," said Sir George, "for the keys of all these doors are in the library in a
drawer. The fact is, we none of us fasten up our bed-rooms, and the keys were all removed
years ago."
"Help! help! help!" cried Mr. Smith.
"Break the door open," said Sir George, "this is inexplicable to me, I cannot make it out
in the least."
The same crow-bar that had been brought by one of the servants to bear upon the door of
Dr. North's room, was now applied to that of Mr. Smith, and it soon yielded to the force of
the lever that was used with strength and judgment.

Mr. Smith partially dressed, and with rather a terrified look, emerged.
"Good God," he cried, "I wish you wouldn't lock one in; what has happened? I heard a
shriek that awoke me up, as if the last trumpet had sounded[.]"
"My daughters, are they safe," cried Sir George.
He flew to the door of Clara's room, it yielded to his touch.
"Clara, Clara," he called.
"I am paralysed," said Dr. North, "and so are you, sir. Come in."
He seized a light from one of the servants, and with a presentiment that there was to be
found a solution of, at all events, the mystery of the dreadful shriek that had alarmed all the
house, he dashed into the chamber of the young girl, followed by the father.
--

CHAPTER CLXXXIX. [Chapter 206]
THE SIGHT OF TERROR. -- THE DOCTOR'S SUSPICIONS. -- THE NIGHT

WATCH.
The sight that met the eyes of the father in his daughter's chamber, was, indeed, one
calculated in every respect to strike him with horror and misery.
Emma was lying insensible at the side of the bed, and Clara seemed to be dead, for she
was ghastly pale, and there was blood upon her neck.
The father staggered to a seat, but Dr. North at once rushed forward, and held the light to
the eyes of Clara, at the same time, that he placed his finger on her wrist to note if there was
any pulsation.
"Only a fainting fit," he said.
"But the blood -- the -- the blood," cried Sir George.
["]That I know nothing about, just at present, but let us see what's the matter here.["]
He raised Emma from the floor, and found that she too had fainted, but as she appeared to
be perfectly uninjured. She slightly recovered as he lifted her up, and he resigned her at
once to the care of some of the female servants, who now made their appearance in the
chamber, all terribly alarmed at the shriek that had awakened them.
"This is strange," said Dr. North, "here is a small puncture upon the throat of your
daughter Clara, that almost looks like the mark of a tooth."
"A tooth!"
"Yes, but of course that cannot be."
"Hear me, oh, hear me," cried Emma, at this moment. "Horror -- horror!"
"What would you say -- speak at once, and clear up this mystery if you can. What has
happened?"
["]I heard a noise, and came from my own chamber to this. There was some one bending
over the bed. 'Twas I who shrieked.["]
"You?"
"Yes, oh yes! 'Twas I. I know not what then happened, for I either fell or was struck
down, and I felt that my senses left me. What has happened? I too ask; oh, Clara! What was
it? what was it?"

"Imagination, most likely," said the doctor. "You had better go to your room again, Miss
Emma, for you are trembling with cold and apprehension. Perhaps in the morning, all this
affair will assume a different shape. At present we are all to much flurried to take proper
congisance of it. There your sister is rapidly recovering. How do you feel now, Miss
Clara?"
"I -- I -- am mad!"
"Oh, pho! pho! nonsense!"
"Oh, God help me! How horrifying ! How more than dreadful! That awful face! Those
hideous teeth! -- I am mad! -- I am mad!"
"Why, my dear child, you will drive me mad," cried Sir George, "if you talk in such a
strain. Oh, let me beg of you not."
"Don't heed her," said Dr. North. "This will soon pass away. Come, Miss Clara, you must
tell me freely, as your medical man, what has happened. Let us hear the full particulars, and
then you know well, that if any human means can aid you, you shall be aided."
This calm mode of discourse had evidently a great effect upon her, and after the silence of
a few moments, she spoke much more collectedly than before, saying, --
"Oh, no -- no! I cannot think it a dream."
"What a dream?"
"You -- you shall hear. But do not drag me from my home, and from all I love, if I am
mad; I pray you do not -- I implore you!"
"You are quite safe. Why, what a ridiculous girl you are, to be sure. Nobody wants to
drag you from your home, and nobody will attempt such a thing, I assure you. You have
only to tell us all unreservedly, and you will then be quite safe. If you refuse us you
confidence how can we act for you in any way?"
This argument seemed to be effective, and to reach her understanding quite, so that after a
shudder, and a glance around her of great dread and dismay, she spoke, saying in a low,
faltering voice, --
"Something came; something not quite human, yet having the aspect of a man. Something
that flew at me, and fastened its teeth upon my neck."
"Teeth! everbody says 'teeth!'" exclaimed the father.
"Hush!" said the doctor, with an admonitory wave of his hand; "keep that a secret from
her, whatever you do. I implore you, keep quiet on that head. Well, is that all, Clara?"

"Yes -- yes."
"Then it was a dream, and nothing else, I can assure you. Nothing but a dream; make
yourself comfortable, and think no more of it. I dare say you will have a quiet sleep now,
after this. But you had better let your sister Emma lay with you, as your nerves are a little
shattered."
"Oh, yes, yes."
Emma, who truth to tell, was very little better than her sister, professed her readiness to
stay, and the doctor giving Sir George a nod, as much as to say, "Let no more be said about
it just now," led the way from the room at once.
When he reached the corridor, where Varney and the two sons were waiting, he said, --
"We shall none of us after this, I am certain, feel inclined to sleep; suppose we go down
stairs at once and think and talk this matter over together; there is more in it, perhaps, than
meets the eye; I will follow you in a moment, when I have just seen that my patient is all
right."
They all proceeded down stairs to the dining-room, and in a few minutes, the doctor
followed; lights were procured, and they sat down, all looking at the doctor who had taken
the lead in the affair, and who evidently had some very disagreeable, if not very true, ideas
upon the subject matter of the evening's disturbance.
"Well, doctor," said Sir George, "we rely upon you to give us your opinion upon this
business, and some insight into its meaning."
"In the first place then," said the doctor, "I don't understand it."
"Well, that's coming to the point."
"Stop a bit; it was no dream."
"You think not."
"Certainly not a dream, two people don't dream of the same thing at the same time; I don't
of course deny the possibility of such a thing, but it is too remarkable a coincidence to
believe all at once; but Emma avows that she saw a somebody in her sister's room."
"Ah," said Sir George; "she did, I had in my confusion forgotten that horrible
confirmation of Clara's story. She did so, and before Clara was well recovered too, so she
could not have put the idea into her head. Good God! what am I to think? For the love of
Heaven some of you tell me what are your opinions upon this horrible affair, which looks
so romantically unreal, and yet so horrible real."

All except the doctor looked at each other in surprise.
"Well," he said, "I will tell you what the thing suggests; not what it is, mind you, for the
afffair to me is too out of the way of natural causes to induce me to come to a positive
conclusion. Before I speak, however, I should like to have your opinion, Mr. Smith; I am
convinced it will be valuable."
"Really I have formed none," replied Varney; "I am only exceedingly surprised that
somebody should have fastened me in my bed-room. I know that that circumstance gave
me a terrible fright, for when I heard all the outcry and confusion, I thought the house was
on fire."
"Ah! the locking of us in our rooms, too," said the doctor, "there's another bit of reality.
Who did that?"
"It puzzles me beyond all comprehension," said Sir George; "how the doors could be
locked I cannot imagine; for as I told you the keys are in a drawer in my library."
"At all events, the doors could not lock themselves, with or without keys," said Charles;
"and that circumstance shows sufficiently evidently that some one has been at work in the
business whom we have still to discover."
"True," said Mr. Smith.
"Well, gentlemen," added the doctor, "I will tell you what I suggest; and that is contained
in a letter, written a long while ago by a distant relation of mine, likewise a surgeon. Mind,
I do not of course pledge myself at the present time, for the truth and accuracy of a man
who was dead long before I was born; he might too have been a very superstitious man."
"But what did he suggest?"
"He did more than suggest; he wrote for a medical publication of that day an account,
only of course suppressing names, of the appearance of a vampyre."
"A what?"
"A vampyre!"
"I have heard of such horrors," said Mr. Smith, "but really at the present day, no one can
think of believing such things. Vampyres indeed! No -- that is too great a claim upon one's
credulity. These existences, or supposed existences, have gone the same way as the ghosts,
and so on."
"One would think so, but you shall hear."

Sir George Crofton and his sons looked curious, and thought that the doctor was going to
draw upon his memory in the matter to which he alluded, but he took from his pocket a
memorandum book, and from it extracted some printed papers.
"The communication was so curious," he said, "that I cut it out of the old volume in
which it appeared, and kept it ever since."
"Pray," said Mr. Smith, "what was the name of your distant relation, the medical man?"
"Chillingworth."
"Oh, indeed; an odd name rather, I don't recollect ever hearing of it."
"No, sir, it is not likely you should. Dr. Chillingworth has been dead many years, and no
one else of his name is at present in the medical profession to my knowledge. But you shall
hear, at all events, what he says about it."
The doctor then opened the folded paper, and read as follows: --
"Notwithstanding the incredulity that has been shown regarding vampyres, I am in a

condition from my own knowledge to own the existence of one, I think he is dead now. His
name was Varney, at least that was the name he went by, and he came strangely enought
under my observation, in connection with some dear friends of mine named B -- -"
"Is that all?" said Mr. Smith.
"Not quite," replied Dr. North, "He goes on to say that but for touching the feeling of
living persons, he could and would unfold some curious particulars respecting vampyres,
and that if he lived long enough he will perhaps do so, by which I suppose he meant if he
outlived the parties whose feelings he was afraid of hurting by any premature disclosures."
"And -- and," faltered Sir George, "do you draw a conclusion from all that, that my
daughter has been visited by one of these persons -- surely not."
"May be, Sir George; I draw no conclusions at all, I merely throw out the matter for your
consideration. It is always worth while considering these matters in any possible aspect.
That is all."
"A most horrible aspect," said Sir George.
"Truly dreadful," said Mr. Smith.
"This shall be settled," said Charles, "Edwin and I will take upon ourselves to-morrow
night to set this question completely at rest."

At this moment there was a loud cry of "Help, help, help," in the voice of Emma, and
they all rushed up stairs with great speed.
"Oh, this way, this way," she cried, meeting them at the head of the stairs. "Come to
Clara."
They followed her, and when they reached the room, they found to their horror and
surprise that Clara was dead!
--

CHAPTER CXC. [Chapter 207]
FAMILY TROUBLES. -- THE HOUSE OF MOURNING.
It was too true. It was not the mere appearance of death, but the reality of the fell
destroyer that the Crofton family had to mourn. She who, but a few short hours since, was
in all the bloom of apparent health, and youth, and beauty was now no more.
The poor father, the sisterless sister, the astonished, indignant, and agonised brothers
formed a group that was too sad to contemplate.
As they gazed upon the wreck of her whom they had all loved so fondly, they could
scarcely believe that death had indeed claimed her as her own; they
"Thought her more beautiful than death," and could not, as they gazed tremblingly upon
her still form, bring themselves to believe that she had indeed gone from them for ever.
Dr. North, however, soon put all doubt upon the subject to rest by an announcement that
her spirit had really fled. In vain he tried all the means that his art suggested. That
mysterious and mighty something which we call life, which we miss and yet see no loss,
which is so great, yet so evanescent and impalpable, was gone.
"Come away," he said, "we can do no good here now. Come away, all of you!"
"Oh, no, no," cried Sir George. "Why should we leave my child?"
"That," said the doctor, as he pointed to the corpse, "that is not your child."
The old man shuddered, and with an aspect upon his face, as if ten years of added age had
at least passed over him in those few momemts, he suffered them to lead him from the
room. They all passed down stairs again, leaving Emma in her own chamber along with the
female servants, so hastily again called up to remain with her.
When the dining-room was reached once more, Mr. Smith, who bore all the appearance
of being quite thunder-struck by what had passed, spoke in the most feeling manner,
saying, --
"This is truly one of the most affecting circumstances I ever remember. It is dreadful; a
young girl to be at once snatched from a circle of admiring and loving friends in this
manner, is too sad a picture for any one with a heart to feel for the distresses of others to
contemplate. What, sir, is your opinion," to Dr. North, "of the actual cause of death?"
"The shock to the nervous system I suspect has induced some sudden action of the heart
that has been too much for vitality."
"Dreadful!"

"Alas, alas!" sobbed Sir George. "What have I done, that Heaven should thus launch
against me the bolts of its bitterest vengeance? Why should I be robbed of my child? Surely
there were angels enough in Heaven withoug taking mine from me."
"Hush, hush," said Dr. North; "you are in grief, sir, and know not what you say. These
were not else the words that would fall from the lips of such a man as you are."
The bereaved father was silent, and the sons looked at him with countenances in which
dismay was most strongly pictured. They seemed as if as yet they had not become fully
alive to the loss they had sustained, or of what had really happened within the once happy
domestic circle, of which the fairest portion was now so ruthlessly dragged from them.
"It is like a dream," said Edwin, addressing his brother Charles in a whisper. "It is much
more like a dream than aught else in the world."
"It is, it is. Oh, tell me that this is not real."
"It is too real," said the doctor, "you must bow with what amount of resignation you can
call to your aid to that stroke of destiny which you cannot control; you should consider that
as regards her who has gone from you, that she is now no object of pity. Death is an evil to
you in your loss, but it is the end of all evil and pain to her; and then again, she has but
gone a few years, after all, earlier than usual, for how long shall we -- ay, the best and
strongest of us -- be behind her?"
This was consolation of the right sort, and was sure to have its effect upon persons in the
habit of conversing coolly [sic] and calmly upon general subjects, so that in a short time,
the father even felt much better, and although the sons were quite convinced of their loss
they no longer looked at each other with such bewildered aspects, but exhibited the rational
grief of men.
Charles spoke after a time with great energy, saying, --
"It is true that we may call our reason to our aid, and contrive to rid ourselves of our grief
in a great measure; but there is another duty we have to perform, and that is, to diligently
inquire why and how it was, that our sister got this horrible fright, that has had the effect of
hurrying her into eternity."
"Yes, brother," said Edwin, "you are right! our sister's memory shall be vindicated, and
woe be to him who has brought this desolation and grief upon us.
Sir George looked from one of his sons to the other, but said nothing; he appeared to be
prostrated too much by his feelings, and the doctor strongly urging him to retire to rest, he
shortly did so, where we will leave him for a time, hoping that he will find the oblivion of
sleep creep over him, and

"Knit up the ravelled sleeve of care." "Now," said Dr. North, "here we are four men with
cool heads, and active enough judgments. For Gods's sake, let us try to come to some sort
of conclusion about this dreadful affair. What do you say, Charles?"
"In the first place, I should recommend that the house be searched diligently, in order that
we may see if any stranger is in it, or discover any means by which an entrance to the
premises has been effected. We don't know but that after all some robbery may be the aim,
and that the fright of our sister which has had so fatal an effect, may be the consequence
merely of the appearance of a thief in her room.
"Agreed," said Edwin, "let the search of the house be our first step."
Two of the new servants were summoned with lights, and the party of four proceeded to
an examination of the house, which on account of its size was not a very short process, for
there was so many staircases and rooms opening the one into the other, that the hiding
places were numerous enough.
At length, however, they were not only satisfied that no one was concealed on the
premises, but likewise that all the fastenings were quite secure, and had been made so
before the servants retired to rest. The mystery therefore was rather increased.
Had there not been the collateral evidence of Emma and the singular fact of the fastening
up of the doors of the doctor's and Mr. Smith's bed-chambers, no doubt the whole affair
would have rested where it was, and have been put down as a remarkable death arising
from the influence of a dream.
But that was out of the question -- somebody had been seen, and whether that somebody
was really not an inhabitant of this world was the question.
In the midst of all this, the day began to dawn.
Sir George had had no sleep, but he had done himself some good in the solitude of his
own chamber. He had prayed long and earnestly, and his prayers had had the effect which
they almost invariably have upon all imaginative persons, namely, of bringing him an
amount of mental calmness, peace, and resignation, highly desirable in his circumstances.
The breakfast table was laid in silence by the servants, and when Sir George met his sons
and his guests, he spoke calmly enough, saying to them, --
"You will no more hear from me the accents of grief or of despair. I accept what
consolation I can find, but as a man, and a father I will have justice; my child has been
terrified to death, and I will find who has done the deed, for let him be whom he may, he is
as much her murderer as though he had plunged a dagger in her heart."
"It is so," said Mr. Smith.

"Being so, then let him beware."
Varney thought that as the father uttered these last words, he glanced in a peculiar manner
at him, but he was not quite sure that such was the case. Had he been sure, perhaps, he
would have taken other steps than he did.
Little more passed during the breakfast, but when the meal was over, Sir George said, --
"Edwin, we are but dull and poor company to Mr. Smith; it will amuse him, perhaps, if
you take him through the grounds, and show him the estate."
Edwin made no objection, and as the thing was put in the shape of an amusement to him,
Varney could only say some civil things, and rise to go.
"I regret," he said, "to be of so much trouble."
"Not at all," said Edwin, "no trouble, sir; my own mind, God knows, wants something to
distract it from too close a contemplation of its own thoughts. If you will accompany me in
a walk over the estate, it will, perhaps, put me into better spirits."
They left the room, and when they were gone, Sir George Crofton rose and shut the door,
fastening it on the inside carefully, rather to the surprise of the doctor and his son Charles,
who looked at him in silence.
"Charles," he then said, "and you, doctor, I have something particular to say to you."
"What is it? What is it?"
"God forgive me if I am wrong, but I suspect our guest? [!]"
"Mr. Smith?"
"Yes, I don't like his looks at all; now we know nothing of him but from his own report;
we have searched the house right through, or at least you have, you tell me, and found
nothing. He is the only stranger within our doors. Perhaps it is uncharitable to suspect him,
but I cannot help it, the thought came too strongly upon me last night, as I was alone in my
chamber, for me to overcome it. I have now spoken to you both frankly, and tell me what
are your thoughts."
"I don't like him," said Charles.
"He is a singular man," said Dr. North.
"What -- what now if he were -- were -- "
"Why do you hesitate, father? what would you say?"

"Go on, sir," said Dr. North, with a nod, that signified, I know very well what you are
going to say. "Go on, sir."
"What, then, if it were really true, that there were such things, and he is a vampyre?"
Edwin sprang to his feet in surprise, and said, --
"Good God! you put a frightful idea into my brain that will now never leave it. A
vampyre?"
"Heaven forbid," added Sir George, "that I should say such a thing heedlessly, or that I
should take upon myself to assert that such is the case; I merely throw it out as a
supposition -- a horrible one, I grant, but yet one that perhaps deserves some
consideration."
"Get rid of him," said Dr. North.
"It is difficult after telling him he was welcome to stay, to now tell him that we want him
to go. I would much prefer watching him closely, and endeavouring by such means, either
to confirm or to do away entirely with my suppositions. And you can take an opportunity of
speaking to Edwin upon the subject, quietly and carefully."
"I will, father."
"Then we can be all upon the alert; but above all things I charge you say nothing to
Emma of the really terrific idea. Only I should say that to-night it is in the direction of her
chamber that I would wish to keep the closest watch.["]
"And that, too, without her knowing it," said the doctor. "If she is aware of anything of
the sort, there is no knowing what tricks her imagination might play her, and now, Sir
George, I must say that I take the greatest interest in the matter, and will with your
permission remain here until I am sent for. Poor Ringwood still reminds insensible, and I
take it that under the circumstances that it is really a mercy, for what a sad communication
has to be made to him, when he does recover sufficiently to hear it."
"Sad, indeeed."
It was now finally agreed among them that there was to be no variation whatever in their
conduct towards Mr. Smith, but that after they had taken leave of him for the night, and had
all gone to bed, they should each glide out of his chamber, and wait at the extreme end of
the [corridor] in silence, to mark if anything should happen.
This was duly announced to Edwin, who with a shudder announced that he had his
suspicions, too, of Mr. Smith, so he of course came into the scheme at once; and now they
waited rather anxiously for the night to come again.

CHAPTER CXCI. [sic] [Chapter 208]
THE NIGHT WATCH. -- THE SURPRISE. -- THE CHASE.
Everything was now said and done that could induce a feeling in the mind of Varney, that
he was perfectly welcome at the Grange, and to dispel the least idea of anything in the
shape of supposition that he might have had, that he was suspected, although he had not
himself by word or look betrayed such a feeling.
The day to all parties seemed a frightfully long one. Ringwood remained in the same state
of unconsciousness as he had been in the day previous, and the only circumstance that
served to break the monotony of the time, was the arrival of some of his friends to see him.
It is not essential to our story that we should take up space in detailing what they said and
what they did; suffice it that all the grief was exhibited that was to be expected, and that
finally they left the Grange with a conviction that the wounded man was in as kind hands as
they could possibly wish him, and everything would be done, that kindness and skill could
suggest, to recover him and preserve his life.
Probably the dreadful catastrophe that had happened in the family of the Croftons had in
effect in reconciling the Ringwoods to the lesser calamity, for Dr. North gave them strong
hopes of his ultimate recovery.
And so the time passed on, until the dim shadows of the evening began to creep over the
landscape, and the distant trees imperceptibly mingled together in a chaotic mass. The song
of the birds was over -- the herds and flocks had sought their shelter for the night, and a
solemn and beautiful stillness was upon the face of nature.
Assembled once more in the dining-room of the Grange, were the Croftons -- but not
Emma, she was in her chamber -- the doctor, and Mr. Smith.
Varney had exerted himself much to be entertaining, and yet not obtrusively so, as under
the calamitous and extraordinary circumstances in which the family was placed, that would
have been bad taste; but he led the conversation into the most interesting channels, and he
charmed those who listened to him, in spite of themselves.
Dr. North was peculiarly pleased with so scientific a companion, and one who had
travelled so much, for Varney spoke of almost every portion of the globe as familiar to him.
In this kind of way, the evening sped on, and more than once, as Varney was giving some
eloquent and comprehensive description of some natural phenomenon that he had
witnessed in some other clime, not only were the suspicions entertained agaist him
forgotten, but even the grief of the family faded away for a brief space before the charm of
his discourse.
At length the time for rest came.

Sir George rose, and bowing to Varney, said, --
"Do not let our example influence you, sir. We retire now."
"I shall be gald to do so," said Varney, "likewise; last night was a disturbed as well as a
melancholy one for all in this house."
"It was indeed."
In another five minutes, the dining-room was vacant, and all that could be heard in the
house was the noise of putting up extra bars, and shooting into their places, long unused
bolts in order that it should be quite beyond all doubt that no one could get into the
premises.
After that, all was still.
The moon was in her last quarter now, but only at the commencement of it, so if the night
proved not to be cloudy, it would be rather a brilliant one, which might, or might not be of
service to those who were going to watch in the corridor the proceedings of Mr. Smith.
An hour elapsed before there was any movement whatever, and then it was Dr. North
who first, with great care, emerged from his room.
He had drawn on his stockings over his shoes, so that his footsteps might not be heard,
and he took his station in a dark corner by the large window we have before spoken of as
lighting the corridor.
The moon was up, but it only shone in obliquely at the window,, [sic] so that one side of
the corridor was enveloped in the deepest gloom, while on the other the pale rays fell.
A few minutes more, for half-past eleven was the hour on which they had all agreed, and
Sir George, with Edwin and Charles joined the doctor, who merely nodded to them, as they
could faintly see him.
Sir George spoke in a very faint whisper, saying, --
"We are well armed."
"Good," replied the doctor, in a similar cautious tone, "but let me implore you to be
careful how you use your arms. Do nothing hastily I beg of you; you don't know what cause
of regret the imprudence of a moment may give rise to."
"Depend upon us, we will be very careful indeed."
"That is right."

"We had better not talk," said Charles, "these corridors cary sound sometimes too well; if
we are to do any good, it must be by preserving the profoundest silence."
This advice was too practical and evidently good to be neglected, and consequently they
were all as still as they could be, and stood like so many statues for the next half hour.
They heard a clock that hung in the hall below strike the hour of twelve, and when the
reverberations of sound were over, a stillness even more profound than before seemed to
pervade the whole house. The half hour they had waited in such silence appeared to them to
be of four times the usual length, and they were glad to hear twelve strike.
Still they said nothing, for if silence before twelve o'clock was a thing to be desired, it
was much more so after that hour, for it was then that the alarm of the preceeding evening
had taken place. Their watchfulness, and their anxiety momentarily increased.
The old clock in the hall chimed the quarter past twelve, and yet all was as still as the
grave; not the smallest sound disturbed the repose of the house.
The moon had shifted round a little, so that the gloom of the corridor was not so complete
as it had been, and Dr. North was aware that in another hour the spot where they all stood
would be visited by some rays which would render their concealment out of the question.
But as yet all was right, and there was no need to shift their position in the least.
Suddenly Sir George Crofton laid his hand upon the arm of the doctor, and an
exclamation involuntarily escaped him, but not in a loud tone.
"Hush, for God's sake," whispered the doctor.
They had all heard a slight noise, like the cautious opening of a door. They looked
eagerly in the direction from whence it came, and to their surprise they found it proceed
from the chamber of the dead!
Yes, the door of the room in which lay the corpse of Clara slowly opened.
"God of Heaven!" said Sir George.
"Hush -- hush," again whispered the doctor, and he held him by the arm compulsively.
All was still. The door creaked upon its hinges a little, that was all.
A quarter of an hour passed, and then Sir George was about to say something, when he
started as if a shock of electricity had been applied to him, for the door of Varney's room
was swung wide open, and he appeared, full dressed.

All the doors opening from the corridor creaked unless they were flung open smartly and
quickly, and there could be no doubt but that Varney knew this, and hence the apparent
precipitancy of his appearance.
There he stood in the moonlight, close by the threshold of his room, gazing about him. He
bent himself into an attitude of intense listening, and remained in it for some time, and then
he with slow sliding steps made his way towards the door of Emma's room.
His hand was actually upon the lock, when Sir George, who could stand the scene no
longer, levelled a pistol he had taken from his pocket, and without giving any intimation to
those who were with him of what he was going to do, he pulled the trigger.
The pistol only flashed without being fully discharged.
"How imprudent," said the doctor. "You have done it now! Follow me!"
He rushed forward, but he was too late, Varney had taken the alarm, and in a moment he
regained his own room and fastened it securely on the inside.
"We must have him," cried Charles. "He cannot escape from that room. There is no other
door, and the window is a good thirty feet from the garden below. Alarm the servants, we
will soon open his door. It can't be very secure, for the lock was broken last night."
As he spoke, Charles made a vigorous effort to open the door, but it resisted as if it had
been a part of the solid wall, while within the chamber all was perfectly still, as if Mr.
Smith had quite satisfied himself by shutting out his assailants, and meant to take no further
notice of them.
"This is strange," said the doctor, "but we shall soon find out what he means by it. The
door must be forced as quickly as possible."
Edwin ran down stairs by his father's orders to arouse some of the men servants, besides
getting some weapon or tool by the assistance of which the door might be forced, and he
soon returned with several of the men, and one armed with the identical crow-bar that had
been used with such effect on the preceding evening. They brought lights with them too, so
that the capture of Mr. Smith appeared to be no longer a matter of doubt with such a force
opposed to him.
"Now," cried Sir George, "do not mind what mischief you do, my men, so that you break
open the door of that room, and quickly too."
People somehow are always glad to be engaged in anything that has a destructive look
about it, and when the servants heard that they might break away at the door as much as
they liked, they set about it with a vengeance that promised soon to succeed in the object.
The door yielded with a crash.

"Come on, come on. Yield yourself," cried Sir George, and he rushed into the room
followed by his sons and by Dr. North.
There was no Mr. Smith there.
"Escaped," said Dr. North.
"Impossible, -- impossible! and yet this open window. He must be lying dashed to pieces
below, for no one could with safety drop or jump such a height. Run round to the garden
some of you, at once."
"Stop," said Charles. "There is no occasion. He has had ample time to escape. Look here."
Charles pointed out the end of a thick rope, firmly fastened to the ledge of the window,
and by which it was quite clear any one could safely descend into the garden, it only
requiring a little nerve to do so with perfect ease.
"This has all been prepared," said Dr. North.
"Still," cried Sir George, "I will not give the affair up. Mind I offer a reward of twenty
guineas to any one of my household who succeeds in catching Mr. Smith."
"Lor, sir! what has he done?" said a groom.
"Never you mind what he has done. Bring him in, and you shall have the reward."
"Very good, sir. Come on, Dick, and you Harry; let's all go, and you know it will be all
the pleasanter to share the reward among us. Come on."
Thus stimulated by their companion, the servants ran out of the house into the moonlit
park in search of Varney the Vampyre.
--

CHAPTER CXCII. [Chapter 209]
THE FUNERAL. -- A STRANGE INCIDENT.
It was all very well for Sir George Crofton to offer his twenty guineas for the taking of
Mr. Smith, and nothing could be more legitimate than his servants making active exertions
to endeavour to earn that amount of money, but the really succeeding in doing so was quite
another thing.
To be sure they went out into the park, and did the best to catch him, and being well
acquainted with every turn and every pathway within it, they considered they had a fair
chance of succeeding, but after their pains they were at length obliged to give up the affair
as a bad job, after an hour or two's most active search.
While they were away though, there was something that occurred at the Grange which
gave a great additional shock to Sir George and his sons.
It will not fail to be remembered that the first door they saw move while they were
keeping watch and ward in the moonlit gallery was the door of the chamber in which lay
the corpse of Clara, who had met with so melancholy an end.
This circumstance recurred to them all with fearful force when they felt convinced that
the now more suspected Mr. Smith had really and truly made his escape.
Upon proceeding to that room of the dead, Dr. North being first, they found some
difficulty in opening the door, but upon using force they succeeded, when to their absolute
horror they saw that the dead body was lying upon the floor close to the door, and that it
had been the obstruction to moving it.
Dr. North would fain have spared the feelings of Sir George this affecting sight, but the
baronet was so close behind him that he could not do so.
"Oh, God!" cried the father, "my child, my child."
"Take your father away, boys, for heaven's sake," said Dr. North to the two young men;
"this is no sight for him to see."
It appeared too as if it was no sight for any one to see unmoved, for both Charles and
Edwin stood like statues gazing at it, and for a time incapable of motion.
"My sister -- is it indeed my sister?" said Charles.
The doctor fairly closed the door upon them all, and turned them so out of the room. Then
he having professionally lost all dread of the dead, lifted the body upon the bed again, and
disposed of it properly, after which, without saying a word, he walked down to the dining-
room.

"Tell me, tell me," said Sir George "what does all this mean?"
"Do not ask me," replied Dr. North, "I cannot tell you; I confess I do not know what
advice to give you, or indeed what to say to you."
The old man rested his head upon his hands, and wept bitterly, while his two sons sat
looking at each other perfectly aghast, and unable to think anything of a rational import
concerning the most mysterious proceedings that had taken place. * * * *
Let our readers then suppose that a week has passed away, and that the morning has
arrived when the body of Clara is to be placed in a vault appropriated as the resting place of
the Croftons, beneath the church that was close at hand.
During that time nothing whatever had been heard of Mr. Smith. He seemed to have
completely disappeared from the neighbourhood as well as from the Grange-house.
Fortunately, although Sir George had offered twenty guineas for the apprehension of Mr.
Smith to his servants, he had said nothing of the cause why he offered such a reward, and
the neighbourhood was left to its own conjectures upon the subject.
Those conjectures were of course sufficiently numerous, but it was quite agreed between
Sir George, Doctor North, and the two sons that nothing more should be said upon the
subject.
They of course did not wish "To fill the ear of idle curiosity" with such a tale as they
might tell, but had a thousand reasons, each good and substantial of its kind, for
withholding.
Young Ringwood was sufficiently recovered to be about, and to have told him the story
that widowed his heart. He fell into a profound melancholy which nothing could alleviate,
and as his recovery went on, he asked permission to remain at the Grange.
Sir George, and indeed all the Crofton family, gladly pressed him to remain with them as
long as he would do so, for it was some alleviation of their own distress to have him about
them.
He begged permission to be present at the funeral, and it is of that funeral we have now to
speak, for it took place on that day week on which the vampyre had first taken up his
dreadful residence at the old Grange-house, where all before had been so happy.
The church, as we have remarked, was not very distant, and a mournful procession it was,
consisting of the funeral equipages, followed by Sir George Crofton's carriage, that at
twelve o'clock in the day started to place the youngest and the fairest of the name of
Crofton that had ever reposed in the family vault.

The whole neighbourhood was in a state of commotion, and by the time the funeral
cortege reached the churchyard, there was not a person capable of being out, for some miles
around, that was not congregated about the spot.
The old church bell tolled a melancholy welcome to the procession, and the clergyman
met the corpse a the entrance of the graveyard, and preceeded it to the church, where it was
placed by the altar while he made an impressive prayer.
This brief ceremony over, the coffin was carried to the part of one of the aisles, where
upon the removal of a large stone slab, the resting-place of the Croftons was visible.
"I have not looked upon these stone steps," said Sir George, "since my poor wife went
down there in the sleep of death."
"Compose yourself," whispered Dr. North, who was present. "You ought not, sir, to have
been present at such a scene as this."
"Nay, it surely was my duty to follow my own child to her last resting-place."
The body was lowered into the vault, and the funeral service was read impressively over
the cold and still remains of Clara.
"All is over," said the doctor.
"Yes," faltered Sir George; "all is over. Farewell, my dear child, but not a long farewell to
thee; this blow has nearly stricken me into the grave."
"Leaning on the arm of his son Charles, who as well as Edwin was deeply affected, the
old man now allowed himself to be led from the church. He met at the door Will Stephens,
the sexton, who seemed desirous of speaking to him.
"What is it, Will?"
"Will your honour have some fresh sawdust put down in the vault. It wants it, Sir George;
there aint been any put in for many a long day."
"Very well. It will be ready for me when I go. It won't be long before the vault is again
opened."
"Oh, do not say that, father," said Edwin. "Do not leave us; think that if you have lost one
child who loved you, you have others who ought to be as dear to you."
"That's right, Edwin," said the doctor.
Sir George made no distinct reply to this, but he pressed the hand of his son, and looked
kindly upon him, to signify that he felt the full justice of what he had just said, so they had

hopes that time would soon produce its usual effects upon that feeling which of all others
is, while it lasts, the most poignant, at the same time that it is the most evanescent -- grief
for the dead.
And well it is that it should be so, otherwise we should be a world of weepers and
mourners, for who is there that has not felt the pang of losing some fond heart in which we
have garnered up the best affections of human nature.
Emma since her sister's death had been terribly broken down in spirit, and when they all
got home to the Grange, they found her looking so ill, that the old baronet took Dr. North
on one side, and said to him in tones expressive of the deepest anguish, --
"Am I to lose both my girls?"
"Oh no -- no; certainly not," was the decided reply. "Why, my old friend, you used to be a
man of great moral courage. Where has it all gone to now?"
"It is in the grave of my child."
"Come, come, you must for your own sake, as well as for the sake of others, who are near
and dear to you, rouse yourself from this state of mental torpor, as I may call it. You can do
so, and it is worthy of you to make the effort. Only think what would have been your
situation if you had had but one child, and that had been snatched away from you; but you
have yet three to comfort you, and yet you talk despairingly, as if every tie that bound you
to the world had been suddenly burst asunder."
After this Sir George Crofton was almost ashamed to make such an exhibition of his
grief, and whatever his thoughts were he kept them to himself, as well as exercising a much
greater control over his voice, and the external expression of the feelings, which were still
busy at his heart.
The despondency of Ringwood was great. He could not help fancy that if he had not met
with the unlucky accident in the ravine, Clara would have been saved, and in some obscure
way to his mind, the circumstances seemed to be connected together. He could not account
either for the loss of her miniature, which he had been in the habit of wearing but which he
missed upon his convalescence, so that he was irresistibly led to the conclusion that some
unfriendly hands had been about him during his insensibility.
So highly did he prize the miniature, that he offered a sum of money, exceeding its
intrinsic value by twenty times, for its recovery and pledged himself to make no inquiry as
to how it came into the possession of the party who should restore it to him; but for all that
it was not forthcoming.
The reader of this narrative knows very well in whose possession it was. Varney the
Vampyre had possessed himself of it in the ravine, when he saw the young bridegroom
lying insensible at his feet, and he kept it, although why he did so does not as yet appear,

for surely the sight of it could only remind him of one of his victims; but then Varney had
other thoughts and feelings than he used to have.
Alas, what a thousand pities it was that the ocean had presented him to the two brothers?
Why did he not sink -- why did not some wave hide him from their observation? What
misery would have been spared to them, and to all dear to them. And what misery would
have been spared to the wretched Varney himself!
It is true that he had given expression to sentiments, and declared intentions which would
go far to prove that he had for ever given up and got rid of all human feelings and
influences, but has he really so got rid of such feelings? It is a question which time alone
can answer.
We shall soon see in his now very short career whether he is most to suffer or to inflict
suffering, and what will be the result of his new principles of action -- those principles
which he had in the despair and the agony of his heart painted to himself as the main
springs of a combined existence, he had with such vain and such fruitless perseverance
strove to rid himself of. It was sad -- very sad, indeed, that such a being could not die when
he chose, the poor privilege of all.
--

CHAPTER CXCIII. [Chapter 210]
THE STRANGE VISITOR TO THE OLD CHURCH AT NIGHT.
The request of Will Stephens to be allowed to put some sawdust in the vault of the
Croftons, was one of those regular things that he always propounded to any one who had a
vault opened beneath the old church, and he generally made a very good thing of it.
People were always too much taken up with thinking of the loss of the relation who had
just been placed in that dismal repository, to think much of a guinea to Will for a shilling's
worth of sawdust, and if they did ever intimate that they thought it rather too much, he
always had his answer ready at the tip of his tongue.
"How should you like, sir, or madam, as the case may be, to go into a vault among the
dead, to lay the sawdust for 'em."
That argument was generally conclusive, and Will would get his guinea.
With Sir George Crofton he was quite sure and safe, so he had no scruples upon the
subject, and the little bit of sawdust he meant to carry in when he had time, was more for
the say of the thing, than for any utility it was at all likely to be of, but then as he said, --
"Where's the odds, the dead 'uns can't see it, and living 'uns won't go to see it, so it does
very well, and I pockets my guinea, which does better still, for after all a sexton's aint the
most agreeable life in the world, and he ought to be paid well; not that I care much about it,
being used to it, but there was a time when I had my qualms, and I've had to get over 'em
the best way I could, somehow, if I am now all right."
These were Will's arguments and reflections to himself before night, when he meant to go
and place the little bag of saw-dust in the Croftons' family vault.
But, before we follow Will Stephens on his saw-dust expedition, as we intend to do, we
wish first to draw the attention of the reader to another circumstance, the relation of which
to Will Stephen's proceedings will very shortly appear indeed.
As the night came on there was some appearance of stormy weather. The wind blew in a
strange, gusty and uncertain manner, shifting about from point to point of the compass in an
odd way, as though it had not made up its mind from whence to blow. The most weather-
wise personages of the neighbourhood were puzzled, for just as they prognosticated one
species of weather from the particular direction whence the wind came, it shifted and came
from some other quarter very nearly directly opposite.
This was extremely provoking, but at all events it was generally agreed that the moon
would not on that night, shed its soft light upon the earth.
How far they were mistaken in this surmise we shall presently see.

Will Stephens had an opinion, from certain admonitory symptoms arising from his corns,
that it would rain; so he delayed going to the church until he should see what sort of
weather it was going to be, inwardly deciding that it would be a capital excuse not to go at
all that night if the rain should come down pretty sharply.
This period of indecision he passed at a public house, known as the Blue Lion, the charms
of the excellent ale of that establishment materially assisting him in coming to the
conclusion that if it should rain ever so little it would be better to put off his job until the
morning.
Now it was not that Will was afraid that he hesitated. He was too used to death to feel
now any terrors of fear. It was nothing but the ale. Why then was the hurry? Simply that the
flat stone which was over the vault of the Croftons was left unfastened until the aforesaid
saw-dust was placed within the receptacle of the dead, and the next day was Sunday, so that
the job must be finished before the service should commence.
At night, therefore, or very early the following morning, Will must seem to earn his
guinea by going to the vault. He did not like to venture saying he had been and yet neglect
going, for he knew there were too many gossips about the village to make that safe.
While he is however regaling himself at the ale house, another person totally, to all
appearance, heedless of wind and threatening rain, is abroad in the neighbourhood of the
church.
A tall figure enveloped in a large murky looking cloak, is moving slowly past the few
cottages in the immediate vicinage of the church, and so noiselessly that it looks like a
spirit of the dead rather than a living person.
It was unseen by any one, for it was a time of the night -- half-past eleven -- now at which
few persons in that little quiet place were abroad, and as we have said, Will Stephens,
perhaps the only inhabitant who had any real business to be abroad at such an hour, was
still solacing himself at the Blue Lion with the ale that seemed to get better every glass he
took.
The figure moved on at a slow and steady pace among the old tomb stones that lay so
think [sic] around in the circuit of the church-yard, until it reached the church itself, and
then it walked slowly around the sacred edifice, looking with a curious eye at the windows
that presented themselves to observation, and apparently scanning the height from the
ground.
Finally he paused at a rugged-looking part of the wall, and commenced, with great
muscular power and most wonderful agility, climing [sic] up to one of the windows.
To look at that wall it would have seemed that nothing human could possibly have
succeeded in ascending it, and yet this stranger, catching at asperities which scarcely
seemed to be such, did, with a wonderful power and strength, drag himself up until he

grasped an iron bar, close to the window immediately above him, and then he had a firm
hold.
After this his progress was easy, assuming that his object was merely to get up to the
window of the old church, for he stood upon the narrow ledge without in a few moments.
There was a slight noise, it was of the breaking of a pane of glass, and then the stranger
introduced his hand into the church, and succeeded in removing a rude primitive looking
fastening which held the window in its place.
In another moment he disappeared from external observation within the sacred building.
What could he want there at such an hour, and who was he? Did he contemplate
disturbing the repose of the dead with some unhallowed purpose? Was robbery his aim?
Let us be patient, and probably we shall soon enough perceive that some affairs are in
progress that require the closest attention, and which in the vaults are calculated to fill the
reflecting mind with the most painful images, and awake sensations of horror at the idea
that such things can really be, and are permitted tacitly by Heaven to take place on the
beautiful earth destined for the dwelling place of man.
--

CHAPTER CXCIV. [Chapter 211]
WILL STEPHEN'S VISIT TO THE FAMILY VAULT WITH THE SAW-DUST, AND
WHAT HE SAW THERE.
Will Stephens waited at the ale-house much longer than he intended. To be sure the rain
cleared off, but what of that? It was not a circumstance that made the ale anything worse,
and so he waited to drink it with a gusto that improved each glass amazingly, and then
some of those who were present -- jolly topers like himself -- began to laugh and to say, --
"Ah, Will, you may as well poke that bag of saw-dust into some corner; you won't do
anything with it to-night, old fellow, we know."
Now, some people get good tempered and complying when they have had the drop too
much, and others again, get partcularly obstinate and contradictory. Will of the two,
certainly had more pretensions to belong to the latter class than the former, so when he
heard such a prophecy concerning his movements and knew it was all an assumption based
upon the ale he had drank, he felt indignant.
"Not go!" he cried. "Not go. You may fancy if you please that I will not go, but you will
find yourselves mistaken, I will go."
"What, so late."
"What's the odds to me. Any of you now would be frightened out of your lives to set foot
in the old church at such a time as this, I know; but I'm none of the timid sort, I'm afraid of
nobody living, and it aint likely that I am now going to be afraid of anybody dead."
"Then you really will go."
The only reply that he made to this was to finish off the glass of ale that was before him,
shouldering the bag of saw-dust, and sally out into the open air. Will Stephens felt highly
indignant and touchy about his honour, and as he had said he would go and then somebody
chose to imply a doubt still, he was grievously offended.
When he got out, he found that the night was anything but an inviting one. He was still
sober enough to see that, and to feel that although the heavy rain had ceased, there was a
little disagreeable misty sort of vapour in the air.
He staggered at the first turning he came to, for rather an uncomfortable gust of wind
blew in his face, carrying along with it such a shower of small cold rain that he was, or
fancied himself to be, wet through in a moment.
"Pleasant, this," thought Will, "but I won't go back to be laughed at."

As for the saw-dust he was carrying, its weight was by no means any great consideration
for it was just as light as it could be.
"No, I won't go back -- back indeed, not I; they would make me stand a pot of ale to a
certainly if I were to go back, and besides it would be all over the parish tomorrow that
Will Stephens after he got half way to the church was afraid to go any further. Confound
the small rain, it pricks like pins and needles."
Nothing is more sobering than rain, and as he, Will, gradually got saturated with the small
aquaeous particles, the effect of the strong ale as gradually wore off, until by the time the
dim, dusky outline of the church rose before him he was almost as sober as need be.
"Ah," he said, "here I am at last at any rate. I do hate this sort of rain, you can hardly
make up your mind that it is raining at all, and yet somehow you get soaked before you
know where you are. It's just like going through a damp cloud, that it is, and yet somehow
or another, I don't much mind it; I'm earning a guinea easy enough. Ha, ha!"
This was by no means an unpleasant reflection.
"Yes," he added, "I am earning a guinea easily enough that's quite clear, but then it's not
everybody who would, for a guinea, go into anybody's family vault at such a time. By-the-
by, I wonder now what the time is exactly."
Scarcely had Will spoken those words when the old church-clock struck twelve.
It was a very serious, deliberate sort of clock that, and it took a long time to strike twelve,
and Will listened with the greatest attention with the hope of persuading himself that it was
only eleven, but there could be no mistake, twelve it was.
"Really," he said, "is it so late, well, I didn't think -- "
Will stood within the porch of the church door, and he gave a sort of shiver, and then,
with the bag of sawdust in his hand, he stopped to listen attentively, for he thought he heard
a slight sound.
"What was that, eh? what -- I though, nay, I am sure I heard something; it's very odd --
very odd indeed."
As if then to afford Will an excuse for resolving the sound to something else, the wind at
this moment came in such a sudden gale round the ancent [sic] edifice, that quite
congratulated himiself [sic] he was within the porch and protected from its fury, and
besides it to his mind was a sufficing explanation of the noise he had heard.
"Some of the old doors," he muttered, "rattled by the wind, that's all. Now I suppose we
shall have a clear night after all the rain. Such a gale will soon blow off the damp clouds."

Will was right. The gale, for a gale it was, blew from the north, and away went the rain
clouds as if a curtain had been drawn aside by some invisible hand.
After some rummaging Will found in his pocket the key of the church; it was not the key
of the principal door, but of a smaller side entrance, at which the officials, who required at
all times free ingress and egress, made application. The little arched door creaked upon its
hinges and then Will stood in a sort of vestibule, for another door that was never fast had to
be opened before he could be fairly said to be within the church.
This second door was covered with green baize, and could be opened and shut very
noiselessly, indeed.
Will Stephens stood in the vestibule until he had got a small lantern out of one pocket,
and some matches from another. Then, in a few moments he had a light, and once again
shouldering the bag of sawdust, he pushed open the inner door, and stood in the church.
It might have been fancy -- nay, he felt certain, it could be nothing else -- but he thought
as he opened the door that a faint sort of sigh came upon his ears.
Fancy or not, though, it was an uncomfortable thing at such an hour, and in such a place
too, and he had never before heard anything of the sort upon his visits to the church, and he
had visited it at all hours, many and many a time.
"It's odd," he said, "it's uncommonly odd, I never felt so uncomfortable in the church
before. I -- I never used to mind coming to it in the middle of the night. But now, I -- eh? --
what was that?"
Again an odd sort of noise came upon his ears, and he dropped the bag of sawdust.
All was still again, save the regular roar of wind, as it swept round the sacred building,
and although Will Stephens stood for nearly ten minutes in an attitude of listening, he heard
nothing to augment his terrors. But let an impulse once be given to fear, and it will go on
accumulating material from every trivial circumstance. The courage of the sexton was
broken down, and there was no knowing, now, what tricks his awakened imagination might
play him.
He began to wish he had not come, and from that wish, to think that he might as well go
back, only shame forbade him, for it would be easily known on the morrow, that he had not
placed the sawdust in the vault, and lastly, he began to think that some one might be
playing him a trick.
This last supposition, probably, had more effect in raising his courage than any preceding
one. Indignation took possession of him, and he no longer thought of retreating. He went
forward at once, and fell over the bag of sawdust.
"Murder!" shouted Will.

The moment he did so, he recollected what it was that had occasioned his fall, and being
ashamed of himself he called out impulsively, as if somebody was there to hear him, --
"No -- no, it's only the sawdust. No -- no."
He rose to his feet again, heartily ashamed of his own fears. Luckily, his lantern had not
been broken or extinguished in his fall, and now, without another word, he prepared
himself to execute the work he came to do, and leave the church to its repose as quickly as
possible.
At one end of the church, the southern end, there was a large window, which might be
said to light the whole of the interior, for the little windows at the sides were more
ornamental than useful, being nothing but lattices; and across this window was drawn a
heavy cloth curtain, so that when the sun shone too brightly upon the congregation on a
summer's day, it could be wholly or partially excluded upon a sign from the clergyman.
The curtain was drawn close on the window now, at night, and Will just glanced up to it,
as he walked on towards the aisle where the opening to the family vault of the Crofton's
was situated.
"All's right," he said, "what a fool I have been, to be sure." Upon my word I might have
saved frightening myself all night, and some people would too, but that's not my way of
doing business. So here we are, all right. The door on one side, so that I have just room
enough to go down into the vault. Oh! when one comes to think of it, it was rather a
melancholy thing, the death of such a young girl as she was, going to be married too. Well,
that's the way the world goes."
The stone steps leading down to the vault were rather steep, and Will threw down the bag
of sawdust first, in preference to carrying it, and then with his lantern in his hand, he
commenced his own descent.
"That'll do," said Will, when he felt his feet upon the soft old sawdust that was on the
floor of the vault. "That'll do -- now for it, I shall soon have this job settled, and then I'll get
home no faster than I can."
Somewhow, or another, he felt very much inclined to talk; the sound of his own voice,
conversing, as he might be said to be, with himself, gave him a sort of courage, and made
the place not appear to be altogether so desperately lonely as it really was.
That, no doubt, was the feeling that brought forth so many indifferent remarks from Will
Stephens. He held up his light to look round him, and turned gradually upon his heels as he
did so.
The light shook in his hand. The hair almost stood on end on his head -- his teeth
chattered, and he tried to speak in vain, as he saw lying at his feet, a coffin lid.

It was new. The nails that held the blue cloth upon it, were bright, and fast -- the ate
[plate?] shone like silver. Yes, it was the lid of the coffin of Miss Clara Crofton; but how
came it off -- unsecured, and lying upon the floor of the vault, while the coffin was in its
proper niche?
"Gracious goodness!" gasped Will at length. "What does this mean?"
The question was easy to ask, but most difficult to answer, and he stood trembling and
turning over in his mind all the most frightful explanations of what he saw, that could occur
to any one.
"Has she been buried alive? Have the body snatchers been after her? How is it -- what --
what has happened?"
Then it occurred to Will, that it would be just as well to look into the coffin, and see if it
was tenantless or not. If it were, an thought [?] he should know what to think, od [or?] if the
dead body was there, then he could only conclude that she had been buried alive, and had
had just strength enough to force open the coffin, and cast the lid of it on the floor of the
vault, and then to die in that horrible place.
It required almost more courage than Will could muster, to go and look into the coffin,
for now that his usual indifference was completely broken down, he was as timid as any
stranger to graves and vaults would have been. But curiosity is, after all, a most exciting
passion, and that lent him power.
"Yes," he said, "I -- I will look in the coffin, I shall have but a poor tale to tell to Sir
George Crofton, if I do not look in the coffin. I -- I -- have nothing to be afraid of."
He advanced with trembling steps, the light shaking in his hands as he did so. He reached
the coffin, and with eyes unusually wide he looked in: it was empty.
--

CHAPTER CXCV. [Chapter 212]
THE APPARITION IN THE CHURCH. -- WILL STEPHENS' SWOON. -- THE

MORNING.
For some minutes, Will Stephens continued to gaze in the empty coffin, as if there was
something peculiarly fascinating in it, and most attractive, and yet nothing was in it, no
vestige even of the vestments of the dead. If Clara Crofton had herself risen, and left the
vault, it was quite clear she had taken with her the apparel of the grave.
Will had thought that if he found the coffin empty, all his fears would vanish, and that he
should be able to come at once to the conclusion, that she had become the prey of
resurrectionists. But new ideas, as he gazed at that abandoned receptacle of the dead, began
to creep across him.
"I -- I -- don't know," he muttered, "but she may in a ghost-like kind of way be going
about. I don't know whether ghosts is corpses or not. I -- I wish I was out of this."
The idea of spreading the sawdust in the vault now completely left him; all he thought of
was to get away, and the dread that Clara Crofton was, perhaps, hiding somewhere, and
might come suddenly out upon him with a yell, got so firm a hold of him, that several times
he thought he should faint with excess of terror.
That would be too horrible," he said, "I am sure I should go mad -- mad -- mad."
He retreated backward to the stairs, for the coffin, empty though it was, held his gaze with
a strange kind of fascinating power. He thought that if he turned round something would be
sure to lay hold of him. It was a most horrifying and distressing idea that, and yet he could
not conquer it.
Of course, he must turn round, it would be an awkward thing to attempt ascending the
staircase short as it was, backward, so he felt the necessity of turning his back upon the
vault.
"I -- I will do so," he thought, "and then make such a rush up the steps, that I shall be in
the church in a moment, I -- I can surely do that, and -- and after all its [sic] nothing really
to be afraid of -- it's only a matter of imagination, after all! oh, yes, that's all, I -- I will do
that."
He put this notatble scheme into execution by turning suddenly round and making a dash
at the stairs, but as people generally do things badly when they do them in a hurry, he
stumbled when about half-way and felt himself at the mercy of the whole of the
supernatural world.
"Have mercy on me," he cried, "I am going. Have mercy on me."

He had struck the lantern so hard against the stone stairs that he had broken it into
fragments, and now all was intense darkness around him.
He gave himself up for lost.
He lay, expecting each moment to feel some dead bony fingers clutching him, and he
only groaned, thinking that surely now his last hour was come; and it is a wonder that his
fancy, excited as it was, did not conjure up to him the very effect he dreaded, but it did not
do so, strange to say, and he lay for full five minutes without anything occuring to add to
his terrors.
Then he began gradually to recover.
"If -- if," he gasped, "I could but reach the church, I -- I think I should be safe. Yes, I
should surely be safe in the body of the church. Have mercy on me, good ghosts; I never
harmed any of you, I -- I respect you very much, indeed I do. Let me go, and -- I'll never
say a light word of any of you again, no, never, if I were to live for a thousand years."
As he uttered these words, he crawled up the remaining stairs, and to his great
satisfaction, made his way fairly into the church.
But then a new surprise, if it was not exactly a new fright, perhaps it was something of
both, awaited him.
The curtain that had been, as he had observed when he was walking down the aisle,
closely drawn across the large south window was now drawn on one side, so that a large
portion of that window was exposed, and the north wind having chased away by this time
entirely the damp clouds, the moon was sailing in a cloudless sky, and sending into the old
church a glorious flood of light.
"What a change," said Will Stephens.
It was indeed a change; the church was as light as day, save in some places where
shadows fell, and they, in contrast to the silvery lightness of the moonbeams, were of a jetty
blackness.
But still, let the moon shine ever so brightly, there is not that distinctness and freshness of
outline produced as in the direct daylight. A strange kind of hazy vapour seems to float
between the eye and all objects -- an indistinctness and mysteriousness of aspect, which
belongs not to the sun's unreflected rays. Thus it was, that although the church was
illuminated by the moon, it had a singular aspect, and would scarcely have been recognised
by any one who had only seen it by the mild searching light of day.
But of course Will Stephens the sexton knew it well, and as he wiped the perspiration
from his face, he said, --

"What a relief to get out of that vault and find now that the night has turned out so fair
and beautiful. I -- I begin to think I have frightened myself more than I need have done --
but it was that coffin-lid that did the business; I wasn't my own man after that. But now that
I have got out of the vault, I feel quite different -- oh, quite another thing."
Suddenly, then, it occurred to him, that the curtain had been close on the window, when
he came into the church, and following upon that thought came another, namely, that it
could not very well remove itself from before the casement, and that consequently some
hands, mortal or ghostly, must have done that part of the business.
Here there was ample food again for all his fears, and Will Stephens almost on the instant
relapsed into his former trembling and nerveless state.
"What shall I do?" he said; "it aint all over yet. What will become of me? There's
something horrid going to happen, I feel certain, and that curtain has only been drawn aside
to let the moonlight come in for me to see it."
With a painful expectation of his eyes being blasted by some horrible sight, he glared
round him, but he saw nothing, although the dense little mass of pews before him might
have hidden many a horror.
His next movement was to turn his eyes to the gallery, and all round it he carried them
until he came to the window again, but he saw nothing.
"Who knows," he muttered, "who knows after all, but that the wind, in some odd sort of
way, may have blown the curtain on one side. I -- I wish I had the courage to go up to the
gallery, and see, but I -- I don't think I should like to do that."
He hesitated. He knew that it would sound well on the morrow for him to be able to say
that he went up, and yet it was rather a fearful thing.
"A -- hem!" he said at length, "is any one here?"
As he made this inquiry, he took care to keep himself ready to make a dart out at the door
into the churchyard, but as there was no response to it, he was a little encouraged. The
gallery staircase was close to where he stood, and after the not unnatural hesitation of a few
moments more, he approached them, and began slowly to ascend.
Nothing interrupted him, all was profoundly still, and at length he did reach the south
window, and he found that the curtain was most deliberately drawn on one side, and that
the window was fast, so th[at] no vagary of the wind could have accomplished the purpose.
"Now I'll go -- I'll go at once," he said, "I can't stand this any longer! I'll go and alarm the
village -- I'll -- I'll make a disturbance of some sort."
"Awake!" said a deep, hollow voice.

Will sunk upon his knees with a groan, and mechanically his eyes wandered to the
direction from whence the sound came, and he saw in a pew just beneath him, and on
which the moonlight now fell brightly, a human form.
It wa lying in a strange huddled up position in the pew, and a glance showed the
experienced eyes of the sexton that it was arrayed in the vestments of the dead.
He tried to speak -- he tried to scream -- he tried to pray, but all was in vain. Intense terror
froze up every faculty of his body, and he could only kneel there with his face resting upon
the front of the gallery, and glare with aching eyes, that would not close for a moment,
upon the scene below.
"Awake!" said a deep, strange voice again, "awake."
It was quite clear that that voice did not come from the figure in the pew, but from some
one close at hand. The sexton soon saw another form.
In the adjoining pew, standing upright as a statue, with one hand pointing upwards to the
window, where came in the moonlight, was a tall figure, enveloped in a cloak. It was from
the lips of that figure, that the sound came, so deeply, and so solemnly.
"Sister," it said, "be one of us -- let the cold chaste moonbeams endow thee with your
new, and strange, and horrible existence. Be one of us. Be one of us! Hours must yet elaspe,
ere the faint flash of morning will kill the moonbeams. There is time, sister. Awake, be one
of us."
There was a passing cloud that swept for an instant over the face of the moon obscuring
its radiance, and the figure let its arm fall to its side. But when the silvery beams streamed
into the church, it again pointed to the window.
"'Tis done. She moves," he said. "I have fulfilled my mission. Ha! ha! ha!"
The laugh was so terrific and unmirthful that it froze the very blood in the veins of Will,
and he thought he was surely at that moment going mad.
But still he did not close his eyes, still he moved not from the position which he had first
assumed when the horrible noise me[t] his ears.
"T'is done," said the figure, and the arm that had been outstretched was let fall to his side.
Will Stephens looked in the pew, where he had seen what appeared to be a corpse. It had
altered its position. He saw it move and waive its arms about strangely and deep sighs came
from its lips. It was a dreadful sight to see, but at length it rose up in the grave clothes, and
moved to the door of the pew.

The figure in the adjoining pew opened the door and stood on one side, and the revivified
corpse passed out.
Slowly and solemnly it passed down the aisle. It reached the door at which Will Stephens
had entered, and then it passed away from his sight. The tall figure followed closely, and
Will Stephens was alone in the church.
What could he do? How could he give a sufficient alarm? Would the two horrible
personages return or not? Alas! poor Will Stephens, never was an unhappy mortal sexton in
such frightful tribulation before. He knelt and shook like an aspen[.] At length a lucky
thought entered his head.
"The bell. The bell," he cried, all at once finding his voice. "To the bell."
He sprung to his feet, for what he was now about to do, did not involve the necessity of
going down again into the body of the church. There was a narrow staircase at the corner of
the gallery, leading to the belfry. It was up that staircase that Will now struggled and tore.
--

CHAPTER CCX. [Chapter 213]
THE ALARM FROM THE BELFRY. -- THE BEADLE IN A QUANDARY.
"The belfry," cried Will Stephens. "Oh! if I could but reach the belfry."
He went stumbling on, now falling, then gathering himself up again to renewed
[exertions], for the stairs were steep and narrow, and although the little church tower was
by no means very high yet the place where the bell hung was not to be reached in a
moment.
Perseverance, however, will do wonders[,] and it was reached at last. Yes, he stood
panting in a little square building in the very centre of which hung a thick rope. It was the
means of tolling the bell. To seize it was the work of a moment. The bell swung round and
its iron tongue gave forth a loud and stunning sound. Again and again -- bang -- bang --
bang! went the bell, and then feeling that at all events he had given an alarm, Will Stephens
turned to retrace his steps."
He was half stupified by his previous fears. The noise of the bell, so close as he had been
to it, had been stunning and bewildering, and Will Stephens reeled like a drunken man. The
ale too might have a little to do with that, but certainly he made a false step, and down he
went head foremost from top to bottom of those old steep, narrow belfry stairs. ****
Will Stephens was right when he considered that the tolling of the bell would give an
alarm. Most persons in the neighbourhood were awakened by it, and they listened to the
seven or eight pealing sounds in surprise. What could they mean? Who was doing it? It
could not be fire. Oh dear no. The alarm would not leave off it it were. Somebody dead --
ah, yes, it was some great person in the state dead, and the news had been brought there,
and so the bell was tolled, and we shall hear all about it in the morning. And so those who
had been awakened went to sleep again, and the unhappy sexton was left to his fate at the
foot of the little stairs leading up to the belfry, where he had gone with so much trouble,
and produced so little effect.
The long weary hours of the night crept on, and at last the faint dawn of early morning
showed itself upon the ocean, and in faint streaks of light in the glowing east.
The fishermen began to ply their hazardous and hardy trade. The birds in the gardens, and
in the old lime and yew trees that shaded the church-yard, shook off their slumbers.
Gradually the light advanced, and a new day began.
But there lay poor Stephens, the victim of what he had seen and heard in the old church,
and he was doomed to lie some time longer yet.
There was a Mr. Anthony Dorey, who was parish beadle, and he had awakened, and
heard the sound of the tolling of the well-known bell.

"I say, mother Dorey," he had said to better half, "what's that?"
"How should I know, idiot," was the polite rejoinder.
"Oh, very good[.]"
"You had better get up and see.["]
"Oh dear no. It's no business of mine; Master Wiggins is bell-ringer; I dare say it's
something though."
This was a wise conclusion for the beadle to come to, and he turned to go to sleep again,
which was wise likewise, only more easy in the conception than in the execution, for his
mind was more disturbed than he had though it possible anything could disturb it, by the
tolling of the bell.
Whenever he found himself just going off to sleep, he jumped awake again quite wide,
crying, --
"Eh! eh! Was that the bell?"
This sort of thing, varied by a great number of punches in the ribs from Mrs. Dorey, went
on until the morning had sufficiently advanced to make it quite light enough to see objects
with ordinary distinctness, and then, fancying that all his attempts to sleep would be futile,
the vexed beadle rose.
"I can't sleep, that's a clear case," he said, "so I will go and see what the bell was tolled
for at such an odd time of the night. The more I think of it, the more I don't know what to
think."
Full of this resolution, he went post haste to Mr. Wiggins's and knocked loudly at his
cottage door.
"Hillo! hillo! Wiggins."
"Well," said Wiggins, looking out of his bed-room window with his head picturesquely
adorned by a red night-cap, "Well what's the matter now?"
"That's what I want to know. Why did you toll the bell in the middle of the night?"
"I toll the bell!"
"Yes, to be sure, I heard it."

"Yes, and I heard it too, but it was none of my tolling, and if I had not been rather
indisposed, Mr. Dorey, I should have got up myself and seen what it was all about. As it is
you find me cleaning myself rather early."
"I'll wait for you, then," said Dorey.
Wiggins soon made his appearance, and he and Dorey walked off together to the church,
much pondering as they went, upon the mysterious circumstance that took them there, for if
neither had rung the bell they could not think who had, for although the name of Will
Stephens certainly occurred to them both, they thought it about one of the most unlikely
things in the world that he would take the trouble to perform upon the great bell in the
middle of the night, when it was none of his business to do so under any circumstances
whatever.
"Nonsense," said the beadle; "I hardly ever knew him do a very civil thing."
"Nor I either, so you may depend, neighbour Dorey, it's not him."
"It's a great mystery, neighbour Wiggins. That's what it is, and nothing else."
"I hope it don't bode none of us no harm, that's all. Times are quite bad enough, without
anything happening to make 'em worse."
This sentiment, as any grumbling one always is, was acceded to by the beadle, and so
they went on conversing until they reached the church door; and then the surprise of finding
the smaller entrance open struck them, and they stood staring at each other for some
moments in profound silence.
"There's somebody here," said Wiggins at last.
"In course."
"What shall we do, Mr. Dorey? Do you think it's our duty to -- to go in and see who it is,
or -- or run away? You know I aint a constable, but you are, so perhaps it alters the case so
far as you are concerned, you see."
"Not at all; you are a strong man, Mr. Wiggins, a very strong man; but suppose we try to
make some one answer us. Here goes."
The beadle advanced close to the threshold of the door, and in as loud a tone of voice as
he could command, he said, --
"Ahem! -- ahem! -- Hilloa, hilloa! -- What are you at there? -- Come, come, I'm down
upon you."
"What do they say?" inquired Wiggins.

"Nothing at all."
"Then, perhaps, it's nobody."
"Well, do you know, if I thought that, I'd go in at once, like a roaring lion -- I would --
and show 'em who I was -- ah!"
"So would I -- so would .I" [sic]
After listening for some short time longer, most intently, and hearing nothing, they came
to the conclusion, that although some one had evidently been there, there was no one there
now; so it would be quite safe to go into the church, always taking care to leave the door
open, so that, in the event of any alarm, they could run away again, with all the
precipitation in the world.
It certainly was not one of the most hazardous exploits in the whole history of chivalrous
proceedings to inter [sic] a church in day-light, as it then was, in search of some one, who it
was very doubtful was there. But to have seen the beadle and Mr. Wiggins, anybody would
have thought them bound upon an enterprise of life or death, and the latter the most likely
of the two, by a great deal.
"Ahem!" cried Mr. Dorey again; "we are two strong, bold fellows, and we have left our
six companions -- all six feet high, at the door -- ahem!"
No effect was produced by this speech, which Mr. Dorey fully intended should strike
terror into somebody, and after a few minutes search, they both felt convinced that there
was no one hidden in the lower part of the church, and there was only the gallery to search.
And yet that was a ticklish job, for the nearer they approached the belfry, of course the
nearer they approached the spot from whence the alarm had been given. It was therefore
with rather a backwardness in going forward, that they both slowly proceeded up the
staircase, and finally reached the gallery, where they saw no one; and much to their relief
the want of any discovery was.
"It's all right," said the beadle. "There's nobody here. Oh, how I do wish the rascals had
only stayed, that's all. I'd a shewn them what a beadle was -- I'd a took 'em up in a twinkling
-- I would. Lord bless you, Mr. Wiggins, you don't know what a desperate man I am, when
I'm put to it, that you don't."
"Perhaps not, but there don't seem to be any danger."
"Not the least. Eh? eh? -- oh, the Lord have mercy upon us! I give in -- what's that? --
take my everything, but, oh! spare my life -- oh! oh! oh!"
This panic of the beadle's was all owing to hearing somebody give a horrible groan --
such a groan that it was really dreadful to hear it. Mr. Wiggins, too, was much alarmed, and

leant upon the front rail of the gallery, looking dreadfully pale and wan. The beadle's face
looked quite of a purple hue, and he shook in every limb.
"I -- I thought I saw a groan," he said.
"So -- so -- did -- I -- oh, look -- then don't you hear a horrible bundle up in that corner.
Oh, mercy! I begin to think we are as good as dead men -- that we are -- oh, that we are.
What will become of us? -- what will become of us?"
By this time, Will Stephens, who, the reader is aware, was there to make the groan, had
got up from the foot of the belfry-stairs, and he began to drag hs bruised and stiffened
frame towards the beadle and Mr. Wiggins, which they no sooner perceived than they set
off as hard as they could scamper from the place, crying out for help, as if they had been
pursued by a thousand devils.
In vain Stephens called after them; they did not hear his voice, nor did they stop in their
headlong flight until they reached the door of the clergyman, concerning whose power to
banish all evil spirits into the Red Sea, they had a strong belief, and as the reverend
gentleman was at breakfast, the first thing they both did was to rush in, and upset the tea-
tray which the servant had just brought in.
--

CHAPTER CXCVII. [Chapter 214]
THE CLERGYMAN'S VISIT TO THE VAULT. -- RESCUE OF THE SEXTON.
"What the devil! sounds!"
Yes; that was what the parson said. With all due respect for his cloth, we cannot help
recording the fact that the words at the commencement of this chapter were precisely those
that came from the lips of the reverend gentleman upon the occasion of the sudden and
rather alarming irruption of the beadle and the bell-ringer into his breakfast parlour at the
parsonage.
"We beg your pardon, sir," said the beadle, "but -- -"
"Yes, sir, we beg your pardon," add the bell-ringer, "but -- -"
"What?" cried the parson, as he looked at the remains of his breakfast lying upon the
hearth-rug in most admired disorder at his feet.
"The bell, sir -- the church -- the gallery -- a groan -- a ghost -- a lot of ghosts."
Such were the incoherent words that came, thick as hail, from the beadle and the bell-
ringer. In vain the clergyman strove to get to the rights of the story. He was compelled to
wait until they were both very nearly tired out, and then he said, --
"Very well, I don't understand, so you may both go away again."
"But, sir -- -"
"But, sir -- -"
"If one of you will speak while the other listens I will attend, and not otherwise. This is
Sunday morning, and I neither can, nor will waste any more time upon you."
Nothing is so terrible to a professed story teller, and the beadle was something of that
class, as to tell him you won't listen to him, so Mr. Dorey at once begged that Wiggins
would either allow him to tell what had happened, or tell it properly himself. Mr. Wiggins
gave way, and the beadle as diffusely as possible told the tale of the bell tolling, and the
visit to the church, with the awful adventure that there occurred.
"What do you think of it, sir?" he concluded by asking.
"I have no opinion formed as yet," replied the clergyman, "but I will step down to the
church now, and see."
"You'll take plenty o' people with you, sir."

"Oh dear no, I shall go alone. I don't gather from what you have said that there is any
danger. Your own fears, too, I am inclined to think, have much exaggerated the whole
affair. I dare say it will turn out, as most of such alarms usually do, some very simple affair
indeed."
The parson took his hat, and walked away to the church as coolly as possible, leaving Mr.
Dorey and Mr. Wiggins to stare at each other, and to wonder at a temerity they could not
have thought it possible for any human being to have practised.
But the clergyman was supported by a power of which they knew little -- the power of
knowledge, which enabled him at once in his own mind to divide the probable from the
impossible, and therefore was it that he walked down to the church fully prepared to hear
from somebody a very natural explanation of the mysterious bell-ringing in the night,
which was the only circumstance that made him think that there was anything to explain,
for he had heard that himself.
When he reached the sacred building, he found the door open, as the beadle and the bell-
ringer had left it, and the moment he got into the body of the church, he heard a voice say, -
-
"Help! help! will nobody help me?"
"Yes," he replied, "of course, I will."
"Oh! thank Heaven!"
"Where are you." [?]
"Here, sir, I think that's your voice, Mr. Bevan."
"Ah, and I think that's your voice, Will Stephens; I thought this would turn out some very
ordinary piece of business, so you are up stairs; and did you ring the bell in the night?"
"I did, sir."
"Just so -- come down then."
"I'm afraid I can't, sir, without some help. I have had a very bad fall, and although, thank
God, no bones are broken, I am sadly shaken and bruised, so that it is with great pain, sir, I
can crawl along, and as for getting down the stairs, why -- I -- I rather think I couldn't by
myself, if there was a hundred pound note waiting for me below, just for the trouble of
fetching, sir."
"Very well, I'm coming, don't move."

Mr. Bevan ascended the staircase, and without "a bit of pride," as Will Stephens said
afterwards, in telling the story, helped the bruised sexton down the gallery steps to the body
of the church, and then he made him sit down on one of the forms, and tell him all that had
happened, which Will did from first to last, quite faithfully, not even omitting how he had
stayed rather late at the ale-house, and how terrified he had been by the curious events that
took place while he was in the church, ending by his fall from the stairs leading up to the
belfry.
"Will, Will," said Mr. Bevan, "the ringing of the bell is good proof that you have been in
the belfry, but you will scarcely expect me to believe the remainder of your dream."
"Dream, sir?"
"Yes, to be sure. You surely don't think now, in broad daylight, that it is anything else, do
you?"
"I -- I don't know, sir; of course, sir, if you say its a dream -- why -- why -- "
"There, that will do. I will convince you that it was nothing more, or else you will go
disturbing the whole neighbourhood with this story, that it is quite a mercy, I have first
heard."
"Convince me, sir?"
"Yes; come with me to the vault."
Will Stephens shrunk from this proposal and his fear was so manifest, that Mr. Bevan
was, at all events, convinced that he had told him nothing but what he himself believed, and
accordingly he felt still more anxious to rid Will of his nervous terror.
"You surely," he said, "cannot be timid, while I am with you. Come at once, and if you do
not find that the late Miss Crofton, poor girl, is quiet enough in her coffin, I promise you
upon my sacred word, that I will never cease investigating this affair, and bringing it to
some conclusion. Come at once, before any curious persons arrive at the church."
So urgent a request from the clergyman of the parish to Will Stephens, the sexton of the
parish, almost might be said to amount to a command, so Will did not see how he could get
out of it, without confessing an amount of rank cowardice that even he shrunk from.
"Well, sir," he said, "of course with you I can have no objection."
"That's right. Come along; there are means of getting a light into the vestry; wait here a
moment."
Will would not wait; he stuck close by Mr. Bevan, who went into the vestry, and soon
procured a candle, lighted from materials he kept there under lock and key; and they went

together to the vault, the stone of which was just as it had been left when Will emerged
with so much fright.
"I will go first," said Mr. Bevan.
"Thank you, sir."
The clergyman descended, and Will Stephens followed, trembling, about two stairs
behind him. Little did he expect when he emerged from that vault previous to his
adventures in the church, that he should revisit it again so quickly. Indeed he had made a
mental resolve that nothing should induce him to go down those stairs again, and yet there
he was actually descending them.
So weak are the resolutions of mortals!
"Needs must," thought Will, "when the -- parson, I mean, drives!"
"Come on, Will," said Mr. Bevan.
Will looked about him, but no coffin-lid was visible. There was Miss Crofton's coffin in
its proper niche, with the lid on, and looking as calm and undisturbed as any respectable
coffin could look. Will was amazed. He looked at the coffin, and he looked at the parson,
and then he looked uncommonly foolish.
"Never mind it, Will," said Mr. Bevan, "never mind it, I say. The story need go no
further. You can keep your own counsel if you like. You have come here under the
influence of strong ale, and you have gone to sleep most likely in this very vault, and in
your sleep, having a very vivid dream, you have walked up into the gallery, and thence into
the belfry, where no doubt you did ring the bell under the influence of your dream; and then
you fell down the belfry stairs, I believe, as you say you did."
"Ah!" said Will, "bless you, sir. It may be so, but -- -"
"You are not convinced."
"Not quite, sir,"
"Well, Will, you are quite right never to pretend to be convinced when you are not. I do
not blame you for that, but in a short time, when the effect of the affair has worn off, you
will entertain my opinion."
"I hope, sir, I may."
"That will do. Now the stone must be put over this vault."
"Sir, if you wouldn't mind, sir."

"What, Will?"
"Staying a moment or two, while I empty the bag of sawdust on the floor, sir, I shan't be a
minute, no -- not half a minute, and then I shall have done with the vault altogether I hope,
sir."
"Very well."
Will set to work, and although at any other time he would have been rather ashamed of
letting Mr. Bevan see what a wonderfully small quantity of sawdust made up a guinea's
worth, superior considerations now prevailed, and he would not have spared the
clergyman's company on any account.
"Now I've done, sir."
"Very well, follow me."
Will did not like to ask the clergyman to follow him, so in that difficulty, for as to his
remaining behind it was out of the question, he made a rush and reached the church before
Mr. Bevan could ascend two of the steps. When that gentleman did reach the church he
made no remark about the precipitancy, and apparent disrespect of Will, for he put it down
to its right cause, but he left the church in order to make the usual preparations for the
morning service, which would now commence in an hour-and-a-half.
Will walked home with his empty bag, for the little exercise he had had sufficed to
convince him that he was not so much hurt as he thought, and that the stiffness of his limbs
would soon pass away.
"It's all very well," he said to himself, "for Mr. Bevan to talk about dreams, but if that was
one, nothing real, has ever, happened to me yet, that's all."
--

CHAPTER CXVIII. [Chapter 215]
THE YOUNG LOVER'S MIDNIGHT WATCH.
Did the clergyman really think what he said? Had he no suspicions, that after all there
was a something more even than he was quite willing to admit in the story told by Will
Stephens?
We shall see in good time, but at all events one thing is evident, that the parson thought it
good sound policy, and it was, to endeavour to nip the thing in the head, and by ascribing it
to a dream, put it down as a subject of speculation in the place.
He knew that nothing could be more dangerous than allowing any such story to pass
current as a wonderful fact, and well he knew that in a short time, if such were the case, it
would receive so many additions and so many embelishments, that the mischief it might
produce upon the mind of an ignorant population might be extreme, and of a most regretful
character indeed.
All this he felt hourly, [?] and therefore Will Stephens' story was to be put down as a
dream.
Now Mr. Bevan, it will be recollected, had urged Will to keep his own counsel, and to say
nothing of the affair to any one, but he had faint hopes only that Will would do that, very
faint hopes indeed, for after all he, Will, was the hero of the story, and there would be a
something extremely gratifying in telling it, and in stating what he would have done, had
not his foot slipped as he came down the narrow stairs from the old belfrey, and so
completely stunned him by the fall. Mr. Bevan therefore had very few if any compunctions
in adopting the course he did, which was, in the evening, when there was no service at the
church, to call at the Grange, to see Sir George Crofton upon the subject.
Mr. Bevan was always a welcome guest at the Grange, and he was on those intimate and
good terms with the family, that he could always call whenever he pleased, so that a mere
announcement of his presence by no means had the effect of preparing Sir George for any
communication.
"Ah, Mr. Bevan," he said, when the clergyman entered the room, "I am glad to see you."
"And I to see you, Sir George."
"You come to a house of mourning, sir. But that will be the case here for a long, long
time. Time may and will, no doubt, do much to assuage our grief, but the blow is as yet too
recent."
Tears started to the eyes of Sir George Crofton, as he made this allusion to his daughter,
and he turned his head aside to hide such evidences of emotion from the parson, from
whom, however, he need have expected nothing but the most friendly sympathy that one

human being could bestow upon another. Mr. Bevan was a man of refinement and
consideration, and he let grief aways have its way, seldom doing more than merely throw
out, in the form of a suggestion for consideration as it were, that death was not the great
evil it was thought to be.
In such a way he generally succeeded in bring persons smarting under the infliction of the
loss of dear friends and relations much sooner to proper sense of the subject, than if he had
indulged in all the canting religious exhortations that some divines think applicable to such
occasions.
Sir George Crofton was alone, for his two sons had gone for a stroll in the grounds.
Ringwood who still remained with the family, was in the library, where now he passed
most of his time, in trying by reading to withdraw his mind from a too painful and fixed
contemplation of his loss.
He was still weak, but might be considered now quite convalescent.
"Pray be seated, Mr. Bevan," said Sir George. "Believe me, I take it very kindly of you to
come so often."
"Pray dear sir, don't say another word about it -- I -- I am very sorry to feel myself
obliged to allude to anything of an uncomfortable nature."
"Think nothing of doing so, my friend. Think nothing of it, I have a master grief which
drowns all others."
"But it is concerning that master grief, sir, that I come to speak."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, sir, will you kindly hear me?"
"Certainly, certainly."
"You told me on the day following the melancholy death of your daughter, as a friend, the
peculiar circumstances attendant upon that death. Now I do not mean to say that what I am
going to relate to you has any connection at all with those circumstances, nor would I tell
you what I come to tell at all, were I not fearful that the same story with some of the usual
exaggerations of ignorance would reach you from other quarters, for it is not a matter
consigned to my bosom only, or there it should remain."
"You alarm me."
"That I feared, but deeply regret. Listen to me, and remember always as you do so, that I
think the whole affair is a mere dream -- a disturbed slumberer's vision -- nothing more."

Sir George Crofton did listen with breathless eagerness, and Mr. Bevan, without
detracting anything or adding anything to the narative of Will Stephens, told him the whole
story just as Will had told it to him, concluding by saying, --
"That is all my dear sir, and I felt that my duty powerfully called upon me to be your
informant upon the subject, simply that we might be forewarned against any coarse version
of the story."
Sir George drew a long breath.
"More horrors! More horrors!"
"Nay, why should you say that?"
"Is it not so?"
"Nay I have already given my opinion, by saying, that I look upon the whole affair as but
the phantasma of dream."
"Oh! Mr. Bevan, do not trifle with me. Is that really and truly your opinion, sir, or only
said from kindness to me."
"It is the best opinion that I can come to."
"I thank you, sir; I thank you. Clara, Clara, my child, my child!"
The old man was overcome with grief, and at the interesting moment, Ringwood entered
the room, with a book in his hand. He was astonished, as well he might be to see such a
fearful relapse of grief on the part of Sir George Crofton, and he looked from him to Mr.
Bevan, and from Mr. Bevan to him, for some few moments in silence, and then he said, --
"Surely all here have suffered enough, and there is no new calamity come upon this
house."
"Tell him all," cried Sir George; "tell him all. It is fit that he should know; he is one of us
now, he loved my child, and loves her memory still. I pray you, Mr. Bevan, to tell all to
Ringwood, for I have not the heart to do so."
"I wonder," said Ringwood, calmly, "to hear you speak thus. I wonder to see that any new
grief can come so near to that which we have already suffered. The image of my lost one
fills up each crevice of my heart. I shall listen to you Mr. Bevan with respect, but my grief,
I fear is selfish, and cannot feel more than its own miseries."
Ringwood seemed to imagine that what the parson had to say referred to something with
which Clara had nothing to do; but when, as the story proceeded, he found how intimately
connected she was with the affair, his cheek flushed for a moment, and then grew of a

death-like paleness, and he sat trembling and looking in the face of Mr. Bevan, as he
proceeded with his most strange relation.
When he had concluded Ringwood gave a deep groan.
"You are much affected, sir," said Mr. Bevan.
"Crushed! crushed!" was the reply. "Oh God!"
"Nay now this is not manly, sir, you feel this thing too much; if you are so crushed how
can any one expect that from you is to proceed the necessary exertion to prove that the
story in all its particulars is but a falsehood?"
Ringwood caught at this idea in a moment.
"Exertion from me?" he said. "What exertions would I not make to prove such a horror to
be but a creation of the fancy? What would I not do! What would I not suffer? You have
warned me, sir. Yes, I have a duty to do -- a duty to Clara's memory; a duty to you Sir
George, and a duty to myself, for did I not love her, and does not her gentle image still sit
in my inmost heart enshrined? I will prove that this most monstrous story is a delusion.
Bear with me, gentlemen, I must think. To-morrow you shall know more, but not until to-
morrow."
He rose, and left the room.
"What does he mean," said Sir George, vacantly.
"I cannot tell you, sir; but wait until to-morrow. Perhaps by then he may have proposed
some plan of action, that you or I may not think of. You will use your own discretion, about
communicating the strange affair to your sons or not, sir. Upon such a point as family
confidence, I never venture an opinion. Allow me to call upon you to-morrow morning, sir,
when I hope to find you in better spirits."
The clergyman would not have been in such haste to leave Sir George; but as he saw
Ringwood leave the room; that young man made a sign to him, that he wished to see him
before he left, and accordingly Mr. Bevan was anxious to know what it was he had to say to
him.
When he left Sir George, he asked a servant where Mr. Ringwood was, and being told he
was in the library, Mr. Bevan, being quite familiar with the house, followed him there at
once, and found him pacing that apartment in great agitation, and with disordered steps.
"Thank heaven you have come, sir," cried Ringwood, "tell me, oh, tell me, what would
you advise me to do, Mr. Bevan."
"I think," replied the clergyman, "you have already half decided upon a course."

"I have, I have."
"Then follow it, if it be such a one as in its result will produce a conviction of the truth.
Do not, Mr. Ringwood, allow anything to turn you aside from a course which you feel to be
right; you will always find strength enough to persevere if you have that strong conviction
upon your What is your plan?"
"It is this night to watch in the church?"
"Be it so; I will, if you like, keep watch with you."
"Oh, no, no! let me be alone. All I ask of you, sir, is to provide me with the means of
getting into the sacred edifice at midnight."
"That I will do. You shall have a private key that I have for my own use; you can let
yourself in without any one knowing of your presence. But do you think you have nerve
enough to go alone? if you have the smallest doubt or hesitation, let me accompany you."
"No, no -- I thank you, but let me go alone, and say nothing of this to Sir George. I had it
in my mind when I told him I would speak to him to-morrow about what you had
communicated. I would fain, if these horrors be really true, keep him in ignorance that I
have verified them. But if I keep my night watch quite undisturbed, then he shall have the
satisfaction of knowing that it has been so kept.
"You are right in that; I will send the key to you in the course of another hour and
remember I am at your service if you should alter your mind, and wish for company. Do
not hesitate about disturbing my rest."
--

CHAPTER CXCIX. [Chapter 216]
THE HORRORS OF THE GRAVE. -- A FRIGHTFUL ADVENTURE.
One would have thought that young Ringwood might with effect and with discretion have
disclosed his plan of watching in the old church to one of the brothers of Clara, but he
shrunk from doing that.
In the first place he thought he should be put down as a visionary, and as one who was
disposed to insult the memory of Clara by imagining that the story of the sexton could be
true, and in the second place, if anything did happen, he was afraid that the feelings of the
brother might clash with his.
"No," he said, "I will go alone -- I will not rest again until I have thoroughly satsified
myself that this tale is but a fabrication of the fancy. Oh, Clara! can it be possible -- no, no.
The thought is by far too -- too horrible."
It may really be considered a fortunate thing that the communication of the clergyman
was made in the evvening, for had it been earlier in the day, the hours of frightful anxiety
which Ringwood would have endured until the night came must have been most painful.
As it was, however, the hours that would elapse ere he could venture to go to the church
on his strange and melancholy errand were not many, and they passed the more quickly,
that during some of them, he was making up his mind as to what he should do.
"Yes, Clara, my best beloved Clara," he said, "I will rescue your sweet memory from this
horrible doubt that is cast upon it, or I will join you in the tomb. Welcome, a thousand
times welcome death, rather than that I should live to think that you are -- God, no -- no! I
cannot pronounce the dreadful word. Oh, what evil times are these, and what a world of
agony do I endure. But courage, courage; let fancy sleep, I must not allow my imagination
to become sufficiently excited to play me any pranks to-night. Be still my heart, and let me
go upon this expedition as a spectator merely. Time enough will it be to become an actor,
when I know more, if indeed there be more to know."
The clergyman sent the key, according to his promise, by a confidential servant, who had
orders to ask for Mr. Ringwood and to give it into his own hands, so that the young man
was fully prepared to go, when the proper time should arrive for him to start upon his
expedition.
He purposely kept very much out of the way of Sir George Crofton and his two sons
during the remainder of the evening, for such was the ingenuous nature of young
Ringwood, and so unused was he to place any curb upon his speech, that he dreaded letting
slip some information regarding his intention to keep watch in the old church that night; in
such a case it would have been difficult to refuse company.

Sir George took the advice of the clergyman and said nothing to any one of the dreadful
communication that had been made to him. But he could not conceal from the family and
his servants, that some unusual grief was preying upon him, beyond even the sadness that
had remained after the death of his daughter. He retired to rest unusually early, that he
might escape their curious and inquiring glances.
The clock struck eleven.
"It is time," said Ringwood, as he sprung from his seat in his bed-room. "It is time. For
the love of thee, my Clara, I go to brave this adventure, Mine are you in death as in life. My
heart is widowed, and can know no other love."
He armed himself with a pair of loaded pistols, for he made up his mind that if any
trickery was at the bottom of the proceeding, the authors of such a jest should pay dearly
for their temerity, and then cautiously descending from his bed-room, he crossed the
dining-room, and passing through a conservatory, easily made his way out of the house,
and into a flower-garden that was beyond.
He thought that if he went out of the grounds by the way of the porter's lodge, it might
excite some remark, his not returning again, so he went to a part of the wall which he knew
was low and rugged.
"There," he said, "I can easily climb over, and by getting into the meadows make my way
into the road."
This, to a young man, was not by any means a difficult matter, and he in a few minutes
more found himself quite free of the house and grounds, and making his way very rapidly
towards the church, the tower of which, he could just see.
The night was again a cloudy one; although nothing had as yet fallen, the wind was
uncertain, and no one could with any safety have ventured to predict whether it would be
fair, or rain. Of the two, certainly, Ringwood would have prefered [sic] moonlight, for he
wished in the church to be able to see well about him, without thinking of the necessity of a
light.
"No," he said, as he pursued his way, "I must have no light; that would ruin all."
By the time he reached the church, he had a better opinion of the weather, and from a
faint sort of halo that was in the sky, he was led to believe that the moon's light would soon
be visible, and enable him to see everything that might take place.
The key that the parson had given him opened the same little door by which Will
Stephens, the sexton, had entered, and there was no difficulty in turning the lock, for it was
frequently used.

The young man paused for a moment, debating with himself, whether he should fasten
the door securely on the inner side, or leave it open, and at last he thought, that considering
all things, the latter was the best course to pursue."
"I do not wish," he said, "to stop any proceedings, so much as I wish to see what they are.
There shall therefore be every facility for any one coming into the church, who may chance
to have an intention so to do."
He still, it will be seen, clung a little to the hope that it was a trick.
When he pushed open the door that was covered with green baize, he found that in
consequence of the cloth curtain being entirely drawn aside from before the south window,
that there was not near the amount of darkness within the building that he had anticipated
finding there.
When his eyes got a little accustomed to it, he could even see, dimly to be sure, but still,
sufficiently to distinguish the several shapes of the well-known objects in the church. The
pulpit, the communion table, the little rails before it, and some of the old monuments
against the walls.
The stone slab that covered the opening to the vault of the Crofton family, had been
before the commencement of the morning service properly secured, so that that entrance
could be walked over with perfect safety, and Ringwood carefully ascertained that such was
the fact.
"Surely, surely," he said, "it is as Mr. Bevan says. That man must have come here half
stupified by ale, and have gone to sleep, The only thing that gives the slightest semblance to
such a tale, is the adventure of that most mysterious man who was reclaimed from the sea."
Yes, Ringwood was right. That was the circumstance, full of dread and awful mystery as
it was, which sufficed to make anything else probable, and possible.
And what had become of him? Since the time when he made his escape from the Grange,
nothing had been seen or heard of him unless that were he indeed, who was in the church
pointing to the moonlight when the terrified Will Stephens was there.
And yet Stephens, although he might be supposed to be in a position to know him, did not
recognise him, for we do not find in his account of the affair that he made any mention of
him, or insinuated any opinion even, that the Mr. Smith of the bone-house, was the same
person who had played so strange a part in the church.
The reader will have his own opinion.
"Where shall I bestow myself," thought Ringwood, "I ought to be somewhere from
whence I can get a good view of the whole church."

After some little consideration, and looking about him as well as the semi-darkness would
permit him, he thought that he could not by any possibility do better than get into the pulpit.
From there he could readily turn about in any direction from whence any noise might
proceed, at the same time, that it was something like a position which could not be very
well attacked except with fire arms, and if such weapons were used against him, he should
have the great advantage of seeing who was his assailant.
Accordingly he ascended the pulpit stairs, and soon ensconced himself in that elevated
place.
There was something very awful, and solemn, and yet beautiful about the faint view he
got of the old conventicle-looking church from its pulpit, and irresistible had he chosen to
resist it, there came to his lips a prayer to Heaven for its aid, its protection, and its blessing
upon his enterprise.
How much calmer, and happier he felt after that. How true it is, as Prospero says, that
prayer,
-- -"Pierces so that it assaults
Mercy itself, and frees all faults."
Who is there in the wide world who has not felt the benign influence of an appeal to the
great Creator of all things, under circumstances of difficulty, and of distress. Let us pity the
heart, if there be such a one in existence, that is callous to such a feeling.
But there are none. A reliance upon divine mercy is one of the attributes of humanity, and
may not be turned aside, by even all the wickedness and the infidelity that may be arrrayed
against it.
"All is still," murmured Ringwood. "The stillness of the very grave is here, Oh, my Clara;
methinks without a pang of mortal fear, I could converse in such an hour as this, with thy
pure and unsullied spirit!"
In the enthusiasm of the moment, no doubt, Ringwood could have done so, and it is a
wonder that his most excited imagination did not conjure up some apparent semblance of
the being whom he loved so devotedly, and whose image he so fondly cherished, even
although she had gone from him.
"Yes, my Clara," he cried, in tones of enthusiasm. "Come to me, come to me, and you
will not find that in life or in death the heart that is all your own, will shrink from you!"
This species of mental exaltation was sure soon to pass away, and it did so. The sound of
his own voice convinced him of the impropiety of such speeches, when he came there as an
observer.

"Hush! hush!" he said. "Be still, be still."
It was evident to him that many clouds were careering over face of the moon, for at times
the church would get very dark indeed, and everything assumed a pitchy blackness, and
then again a soft kind of light would steal in, and give the whole place a different aspect.
This continued for a long time, as he thought, and more than once he tried to ascertain the
progress of the hours by looking at his watch, but the dim light baffled him.
"How long have I been here?" he asked himself; "I must not measure the time by my
feelings, else I should call it an age."
At that moment the old church clock began to chime, and having proclaimed the four
quarters past eleven, it with its deep-toned solemn bell struck the hour of twelve --
Ringwood carefully counted the strokes, so that, although it was too dark to see his watch,
he could not be deceived.
--

CHAPTER CC. [Chapter 217]
THE MIDNIGHT HOUR. -- THE STONE SLAB. -- THE VAMPIRE.
Yes, it was twelve o'clock, that mysterious hour at which it is believed by many that
"Graves give up their dead,
And many a ghost in church-yard decay,
Rise from their cold, cold bed
To make night horrible with wild vagary." Twelve, that hour when all that is human feels
a sort of irksome dread, as if the spirits of those who have gone from the great world were
too near, loading the still night air with the murky vapours of the grave. A chilliness came
over Ringwood and he fancied a strange kind of light was in the church, making objects
more visible than in their dim and dusky outlines they had been before.
"Why do I tremble?" he said, "why do I tremble? Clouds pass away from before the
moon, that is all. Soon there may be a bright light here, and lo, all is still; I hear nothing but
my own breathing; I see nothing but what is common and natural. Thank heaven, all will
pass away in quiet. There will be no horror to recount -- no terrifc sight to chill my blood.
Rest Clara, rest in Heaven."
Ten minutes passed away, and there was no alarm; how wonderfully relieved was
Ringwood. Tears came to his eyes, but there were the natural tears of regret, such as he had
shed before for her who had gone from him to the tomb, and left no trace behind, but in the
hearts of those who loved her.
"Yes," he said, mournfully "she has gone from me, but I love her still. Still does the fond
remebrance of all that she was to me, linger at my heart. She is my own, my beautiful
Clara, as she ever was, and as, while life remains, to me she ever will be."
At the moment that he uttered these words a slight noise met his ears.
In an instant he sprung to his feet in the pulpit, and looked anxiously around him[.]
"What was that?" he said. "What was that?"
All was still again, and he was upon the point of convincing himself, that the noise was
either some accidental one, or the creation of his own fancy, when it came again.
He had no doubt this time. It was a perceptible, scraping, strange sort of sound, and he
turned his whole attention to the direction from whence it came. With a cold creeping chill
through his frame, he saw that that direction was the one where was the family vault of the

Croftons, the last home of her whom he held still in remembrance, and whose memory was
so dear to him.
He felt the perspiration standing upon his brow, and if the whole world had been the
recompense to him for moving away from where he was he could not have done so. All he
could do was to gaze with bated breath, and distended eyes upon the aisle of the church
from whence the sound came.
That something of a terrific nature was now about to exhibit itself, and that the night
would not go off without some terrible and significant adventure to make it remembered he
felt convinced. All he dreaded was to think for a moment what it might be.
His thoughts ran on Clara, and he murmured forth in the most agonising accents, --
"Anything -- any sight but the sight of her. Oh, no, no, no!"
But it was not altogether the sight of her that he dreaded; oh no, it was the fact that the
sight of her on such an occasion would bring the horrible conviction with it, that there was
some truth in the dreadful apprehension that he had of the new state of things that had
ensued regarding the after death condition of that fair girl.
The noise increased each moment, and finally there was a sudden crash.
"She comes! she comes!" gasped Ringwood.
He grasped the front of the pulpit with a frantic violence, and then slowly and solemnly
there crossed his excited vision a figure all clothed in white. Yes, white flowing vestments,
and he knew by their fashion that they were not worn by the living, and that it was some
inhabitant of the tomb that he now looked upon.
He did not see the face. No, that for a time was hidden from him, but his heart told him
who it was. Yes, it was his Clara.
It was no dream. It was no vision of a too excited fancy, for until those palpable sounds,
and that most fearfully palpable form crossed his sight, he was rather inclined to go the
other way, and to fancy what the sexton had reported was nothing but a delusion of his
overwrought brain. Oh, that he could but for one brief moment have found himself
deceived.
"Speak!" he gasped; "speak! speak!"
There was no reply.
"I conjure you, I pray you though the sound of your voice should hurl me to perdition -- I
implore you, speak."

All was silent, and the figure in white moved on slowly but surely towards the door of the
church, but ere it passed out, it turned for a moment, as if for the very purpose of removing
from the mind of Ringwood any lingering doubt as to its identity.
He then saw the face, oh, so well-known, but so pale. It was Clara Crofton!
"'Tis she! 'tis she!" was all he could say.
It seemed, too, as if some crevice in the clouds had opened at the moment, in order that he
should with an absolute certainty see the countenance of that solemn figure, and then all
was more than usually silent again. The door closed, and the figure was gone.
He rose in the pulpit, and clasped his hands. Irresolution seemed for a few moments to
sway him to and fro, and then he rushed down into the body of the church.
"I'll follow it," he cried, "though it lead me to perdition. Yes, I'll follow it."
He made his way to the door, and even as he went he shouted, --
"Clara! Clara! Clara!"
He reached the threshold of the ancient church; he gazed around him distractedly, for he
thought that he had lost all sight of the figure. No -- no, even in the darkness and against the
night sky, he saw it once again in its sad-looking death raiments. He dashed forward.
The moonbeams at this instant being freed from some dense clouds that had interposed
between them and this world, burst forth with resplendant beauty.
There was not a tree, a shrub, nor a flower, but what was made distinct and manifest, and
with the church, such was the almost unprecedented lustre of the beautiful planet, that even
the inscriptions upon the old tablets and tombs were distinctly visible.
Such a reflulgence lasted not many minutes, but while it did, it was most beautiful, and
the gloom that followed it seemed doubly black.
"Stay, stay," he shouted, "yet a moment, Clara; I swear that what you are, that will I be.
Take me over to the tomb with you, say but that it is your dwelling-place, and I will make it
mine, and declare it a very palace of the affections."
The figure glided on.
It was in vain that he tried to keep up with it. It threaded the churchyard among the
ancient tombs, with a gliding speed that soon distanced him, impeded, as he continually
was, by some obstacle or another, owing to looking at the apparition he followed, instead of
the ground before him.

Still, on he went, heedless whether he was conveyed, for he might be said to be dragged
onward, so much were all his faculties both of mind and body intent upon following the
apparition of his beloved.
Once, and once only, the figure passed, and seemed to be aware that it was followed for it
flitted round an angle made by one of the walls of the church, and disappeared from his
eyes.
In another moment he had turned the same point.
"Clara, Clara!" he shouted. "'Tis I -- you know my voice, Clara, Clara."
She was not to be seen, and then the idea struck him that she must have re-entered the
church, and he too, turned, and crossed the threshold. He lingered there for a moment or
two, and the whole building echoed to the name of Clara, as with romantic eagerness, he
called upon her by name to come forth to him.
Those echoes were the only reply.
Maddened -- rendered desperate beyond all endurance, he went some distance into the
building in search of her, and again he called.
It was in vain; she had eluded him, and with all the carefulness and all the energy and
courage he had brought to bear upon that night's proceedings, he was foiled. Could
anything be more agonising than this to such a man as Ringwood -- he who loved her so,
that he had not shrunk from her, even in death, although she had so shrunk from him.
I will find her -- I will question her," he cried. "She shall not escape me; living or dead,
she shall be mine. I will wait for her, even in the tomb."
Before he carried out the intention of going actually into the vault to await her return, he
thought he would take one more glance at the churchyard with the hope of seeing her there,
as he could observe no indications of her presence in the church.
With this view he proceeded to the door, and emerged into the dim light. He called upon
her again by name, and he thought he heard some faint sound in the church behind him. To
turn and make a rush into the building was the work of a moment.
He saw something -- it was black instead of white -- a tall figure -- it advanced towards
him, and with great force, before he was aware that an attack was at all intended, it felled
him to the ground.
The blow was so sudden, so unexpected, and so severe, that it struck him down in a
moment before he could be aware of it. To be sure, he had arms with him, but the anxiety
and agony of mind he endured that night, since seeing the apparition come from the tomb
had caused him to forget them.

--
CHAPTER CCI. [Chapter 218]
THE YOUNG GIRL IN THE VILLAGE, AND THE AWFUL VISIT.
It is now necessary that we draw the reader's attention to a humbler place of residence
than the Grange, with its spacious chambers and lordly halls.
Situated not very far from the church, and almost close to the churchyard, upon which its
little garden abutted, was a cottage, the picture of rural neatness and beauty. In the winter it
was beautiful and picturesque, but in the summer time, when its porch was overrun with the
woodbine and the sweet clematis, it was one of the sweetest of abodes that content and
happiness could ever live in.
This cottage was inhabited by an old woman and her only child, a young girl of sixteen,
beautiful as a rose, and as guileless as an angel. They contrived to live upon a small annuity
that the mother had from a family in whose service she spent the best years of her life, and
who, with a generosity that would be well to be abundantly and extensively imitated, would
not see their old dependant want.
These two innocent and blameless persons had retired to rest at nine o'clock, their usual
hour, and had slept the calm sleep of contentment until about half-past one, when the
mother was awakened by a loud and piercing shriek from her daughter's chamber.
To spring from her humble couch was the work of a moment.
"Anna, Anna! my child, Anna!" she shrieked.
As she did so, she rushed across the small stair landing which separated the two, and the
only two upper rooms of the cottage, and was about to enter her daughter's room, when the
door of it was opened from within, and the old dame's heart died within her, as she saw a
figure upon the threshold, attired in the vestments of the grave, and opposing her entrance.
Was it a dream, or did she really see such a sight?
Aghast and trembling the mother stood, unable for a moment or two to speak, and as she
fell fainting upon the landing, she thought that something passed her, but she could not be
quite sure, as it was at the instant her faculties were flitting from her.
How long she lay in that seeming death she knew not, and when she recovered, it was
some few minutes before recollection came back to her, and she really remembered what
had so completely overpowered her.

But when her reason did resume its sway, and she recollected that it was some danger to
Anna, which had first alarmed her, she called her loudly by her name.
"Anna, Anna, speak to me."
"Mother, mother," replied the young girl. "Oh, come to me."
These words suppplied strength to the old woman, and rising she made her way
immediately into the chamber of her daughter, whom she found in an agony of fear; a light
was procured, and then Anna flung herself upon her mother's neck, and wept abundantly.
"Oh, mother, tell me, convince me that it was only a dream."
"What, my child? oh what?"
The girl trembled so much that it was only by the utmost persuasion that the following
account was got from her, of the cause of her fright.
She said that she had gone to sleep as usual within a very few minutes after going to bed,
that she enjoyed a calm, and uninterrupted slumber, the duration of which she had no
means whatever of guessing, but she was partially awakened by a noise at the window of
her room.
She instantly rose and stood looking at the window, on which a sort of shadow seemed to
pass without, which alarmed her exceedingly.
Still as it did not come gain, and as she certainly had not been fully awake when she
sprung from her bed, she had thought it quite possible that all might be a dream, and had
forborne from making any alarm upon the subject.
After some hesitation she had persuaded herself to go to bed again, and when there,
although she sometimes started awake fancying she heard something, she at length yielded
to sleep, and again slept, soundly for a time, until a new circumstance awakened her.
She thought she felt something touching her about the neck, and after opening her eyes,
the moonlight, which at that moment happened to be very bright, disclosed to her a white
figure standing by the side of her bed, the face of which figure was leaning over her, and
within a very few inches of her own.
Terror at first deprived her of all power of speech or motion, but as the figure did not
move, she at length gave utterance to her fears in that shriek which had come from her lips,
and so much alarmed the mother.
This was all the young girl could say, with the exception that the figure when she
shrieked appeared to glide away, but where to she had no means of telling, for some clouds
at that moment came again over the face of the moon.

The mother was much affected and terrified, and at first she thought of calling up her
neighbours, but at length as the night was considerably advanced, and the intruder gone,
they agreed to let the matter rest till morning, and the mother retired to her room again.
How long it was before the shriek form her daughter's room came again she did not
know, but come again it did.
Yes, again came the dreadful shriek. It was -- it could be no delusion now -- and the
mother once more sprung from her couch to rush to the rescue of her child.
Confused and bewildered, she darted onward to the chamber, but the door was fast, nor
could all her exertions suffice to open it.
"Anna, Anna!" she shouted, "speak to me. One word only, my child, my child."
All was still. The trembling mother placed her ear to the door, and she heard a strange
sucking sound, as if an animal was drinking with labour and difficulty. Her head seemed to
be on fire, and her senses were upon the point of leaving her, but she did manage to reach
her own room. She flew to the little casement -- she dashed it open.
"Help! help! help! -- for the love of God, help!"
There was no reply.
Again she raised her voice in shrieking wild accents.
"Help! -- murder! -- help!"
"What is it?" shouted a man's voice. It was one who was going some distance to take in
his fishing nets.
"Oh! thank God, some human being hears me. Come in, come in."
"How am I to get in?"
"Stay a moment, and I will come down and open the cottage door for you. For the love of
mercy do not go away."
Trembling and terrified to a dreadful excess, the old woman went down stairs and let the
man into the cottage, when they both proceeded up to the chamber of the daughter.
"What do you suppose is the matter?" asked the fisherman.
"Oh! I know not -- I know not; but twice to-night -- twice has this dreadful alarm
happened. Do not leave us -- oh, do not."

"I don't want;' but I should hardly think thieves would find it worth their while to come
here at all for wht [sic] they would get. You must have been dreaming."
"Oh, that I could think so!"
Anna's chamber was reached; and there, to the horror of the mother, she was found lying
perfectly insensible on her bed, with a quantity of blood smeared about her neck.
"Why, it's a murder!" cried the fisherman; and firmly impressed with such a belief, he ran
out of the house to spread an alarm.
The window of the chamber was wide open, and from that the mother now cried aloud for
help; so that between her and the fisherman, such a disturbance was made all over the
neighbourhood, that they were soon likely to have more assistance than could be useful.
The people living the nearest were soon roused, and they roused others, while the
distracted woman, who believed Anna was dead, called for justice and for vengeance.
The alarm spread from house to house -- from cottage to hall -- and, in the course of half-
an-hour, most of the inhabitants of the village had risen to hear the old dame's account of
the horrible proceeding that had taken place that night in the cottage.
Exaggeration was out of the question. The fact itself was more than sufficient to induce
the greatest amount of horror in the minds of all who heard it, and there was one, and only
one, whose information enabled him to give a name to the apparition that had assaulted
Anna. That one was the schoolmaster of the place, and he, after hearing the story, said, --
"If one could persuade oneself at all of the existence of such horrors, one would suppose
that a vampire had visited the cottage."
This was a theme that was likely to be popular. The schoolmaster foolishly gave way to
the vanity, and explained what a vampire was -- or was supposed and said to be; and soon
the whole place was in a state of the most indescribable alarm upon the subject.
As yet the horrible news had not reached the Grange, but it was destined soon to do so;
and better would it have been that any one had at once plunged a dagger in the heart of poor
Sir George Crofton than that there should be thought to be such a horrible confirmation of
his worst fears.
To be sure, his daughter was not named, but he received the news with a scream of
anguish, and fell insensible into the arms of his son.
All was confusion. The servants ran hither and thither, not knowing what to do, and it
was not until Mr. Bevan arrived that something like order was restored. He as a privileged
friend assumed for the nonce a kind of dictatorship at the Grange, and gave orders, which

were cheerfully and promptly obeyed. Then he desired a strictly private interview with Sir
George.
It was, or course, granted to him; but the old baronet begged that Charles and Edwin
might now know all. It was Emma alone from whom he wished to keep the awful truth.
--

CHAPTER CCII. [Chapter 219]
THE AWFUL SUPPOSITION -- A RESOLUTION.
It was with some reluctance that the clergyman spoke.
"Sir," he said to the old baronet, "and you, my young gentleman, I am afraid -- very much
afraid, that I am doing anything but right in countenancing a supposition so utterly at
variance with all my own notions and feelings; but my abhorrence of a secret impels me to
speak.
"Say on, sir -- say on," cried Sir George. "Perhaps we are better prepared to hear what
you have to tell, than you imagine."
After this Mr. Bevan had less reluctance to speak, he said, --
"I was aware, although you all were not, that Mr. Ringwood intended to keep watch last
night in the church, in order to test the truth of what had been told by Will Stephens, the
sexton. I did all I could to persuade him from making the attempt, but when I found that
nothing else would satisfy him, I thought it prudent to give him the means of carrying out
what had become such a fixed intention with him, that to oppose it was to do far more
mischief than to grant it all the aid I had in my power to do."
Sir George gave a nod of assent.
"He went there," continued Mr. Bevan, "with a private key of my own, and took his place
in the church."
"I wish, sir, you had been with him," said Edwin.
"Yes," added Charles. "If you, with your cool, calm, unbiassed judgment had been there,
we should have been much better able to come to a correct conclusion about what occurred;
for that something did occur, or was supposed by Ringwood to do so, we can well guess."
"I wish, indeed, I had been there," said Mr. Bevan, "but he begged so earnestly to be
allowed to go alone, that I had not the heart ot refuse him."
"And what happened, sir?"
"I will tell you. I gave him a key which admitted him to the church, by the small private
entrance, at which I usually go in myself; in fact, it was my own private key, for I at times
visit the church, and wish to do so, when I am not expected by those who have the ordinary
charge of it."
"We have heard as much."

"No doubt. Well, then, I say I gave him that key, but it was my sympathy with his evident
distress rather than my judgment which consented to do so, and I had hardly done it, when I
began to busy myself with conjectures, and to deeply regret that I had yielded to him so
easily. 'What if he, in his excited and grief-stricken state of mind, should come to some
serious mischief?' I said to myself, 'should not I be very much to blame? Would not all
prudent persons say that I did very wrong to send a man in such a condition of mind into a
church at midnight, alone?'"
"Your motives and your known character, sir, would protect you," said Charles.
"I hope so," continued Mr. Bevan. "I think it would from all other charges, but
imprudence; and if any great mischance had befallen Ringwood, I should not so readily
have forgiven myself, as others might have been induced to forgive me."
"I understand that feeling," said Sir George.
"Well, then, with such sensations tugging at my heart, no wonder I could not rest, and so
at a little after twelve, I rose, and hastily dressing myself, I left my house as noiselessly as
possible, and made my way towards the church. The moon's light was at that time
obscured, but every spot was so familiar to me, that I was able to go with speed, and I soon
reached the venerable building. I walked round it, until I came to the door, the key of which
I had given to Mr. Ringwood; it was open, but the moment I crossed the threshold, I
stumbled on his insensible form."
"Go on! go on! He had seen something terrible," gasped Sir George; "I am nerved, I
think, for the very worst; I pray you, sir, go on, and tell me all."
"I will, Sir George, because I feel convinced it is my duty to conceal nothing in this
transaction, and because I think you had better more calmly and dispassionately, and
without exaggeration, hear from me all that is to be told."
"That is a good reason, sir," said Edwin. "We should, of course, hear all from other
sources, and probably, with all the aids that a feeling for the marvellous could append to it."
"That is my impression. When, then, I stumbled over a person lying just within the little
private door of the church, I had no immediate means of knowing who it was; I tell you it
was Ringwood, because I afterwards discovered as much. I had the means of getting a light;
when I did so, I found Ringwood lying in a swoon, while at the same time, I could not but
notice a large bruise upon his forehead.
"Of course, my first duty was to look after him, instead of troubling myself about his
assailant, and having placed him in as convenient a posture as I could, I hurried home
again, and roused up my servants. With their assistance I got him to my house, and placed
him in bed."
"And did you search the church, sir?"

"I did. I went back and searched it thoroughly, but found nothing at all suspicious.
Everything was in its right place, and I could not account for the affair at all, because of the
wound that Ringwood had. I was most anxious to hear from him that he had had a fall."
"But -- but," said Sir George, falteringly, "he told a different story."
"He did."
"A story which you will not keep from us."
"I do not feel myself justified, as I have said, in keeping it from you. this is it."
The clergyman then related to the family of the Croftons what is already known to the
reader concerning the adventures of Ringwood in the old church, and which that morning,
upon his recovery, Ringwood had told to him most circumstantially.
We need scarcely say that this recital was listened to with the most agonized feelings.
Poor Sir George appeared to be most completely overcome by it. He trembled excessively,
and could not command himself sufficiently to speak.
The two brothers looked at each other in dismay.
"Now, I pray you all to consider this matter more calmly," said Mr. Bevan, "than you
seem inclined to do."
"Calmly," gasped Sir George, "calmly."
"Yes -- what evidence have we after all that the whole affair is anything more than a
dream of Mr. Ringwood's?"
"Does he doubt it?"
"No -- I am bound to tell you that he does not; but we may well do so for all that. He is
the last person who is likely to give in to the opinion that it is a mere vision, so strangely
impressed as it is upon his imagination. Recollect always that he went to the church
prepared to see something."
"Oh, if we could but think it unreal," said Sir George, glancing at his sons, as if to gather
their opinions of the matter from their countenances.
"I will cling to such a thought," said Charles, "until I am convinced otherwise through the
medium of my own senses."
"And I," said Edwin.

"You are right," added Mr. Bevan, "I never in the whole course of my experience heard of
anything of which people should be so slow of believing in, as this most uncomfortable
affair. You now know all, and it is for yourselves, of course, to make whatever
determination you think fit. If I might advise, it would be that you all take a short tour,
perhaps on the continent for a time."
"Mr. Bevan," said Sir George, in a kindly tone, "I am greatly obliged to you. The
suggestion I know springs from the very best and friendly motives; but it carries with it a
strong presumption that you really do think there is something in all this affair which it
would be as well to have settled in my absence."
The clergyman could not deny but that some such feeling was at the bottom of his advice;
but still he would not admit that he was at all convinced of the reality of what was
presumed to have happened, and a short pause in the conversation ensued, after which Sir
George spoke with a solemn air of determination, saying to his sons, as well as to his friend
and pastor, Mr. Bevan,
"When I tell you that I have made a determination from which nothing but the hand of
heaven visiting me with death shall move me, I hope no one here will try to dissuade me
from carrying it out."
After such an exordium it was a difficult thing to say anything to him, so he continued, --
"My child was dear -- very dear to me in life, and I have no superstitious fears concerning
one who held such a place in my affections. I am resolved that to-night I will watch her
poor remains, and at once convince myself of a horror that may drive me mad or take a
mountain of grief and apprehension off my heart."
"Father," cried Charles, "you will allow me to accompany you."
"And me," added Edwin.
"My sons, you are both deeply interested in this matter -- you would be miserable while I
was gone if you were not with me. Moreover, I will not trust my own imagination entirely -
- we will all three go, and then we cannot be deceived. This is my most solemn resolution."
"I have only one thing to say regarding it," said Mr. Bevan, "that is, to prefer an earnest
request that you will allow me to be one of the party -- you shall sit in a pew of the church,
that shall command a view of the whole building."
"Accompany us, Mr. Bevan, if you will," said Sir George, "but I sit in no pew."
"No pew?"
"No. But my child's coffin, in the vault where repose the remains of more than one of my
race who had been dear to me in life, will I take my place."

There was an earnest resolved solemnity about Sir George's manner, which showed that
he was not to be turned from his purpose, and Mr. Bevan accordingly did not attempt to do
so. He had done what he scarcely expected, that is, got a consent to accompany him to the
night vigil, and at all events let what would happen, he as a more disinterested party than
the others, would be able, probably to interfere and prevent any disastrous circumstances
from arising.
"Say nothing of what has been determined on to any one," said Sir George, "keep it a
profound secret, sir, and this night will put an end to the agony of doubt."
"Depend upon me. Will you come to my house at eleven o'clock, or shall I come here?"
"We will come to you; it is in the way."
Thus then the affair was settled, so far satisfactorily, that there was to be a watch actually
now in the vault, so that there could be no delusion, no trick prctised. [sic] -- What will be
the result will be shown very shortly; in the meantime we cannot but tremble at what that
attached and nearly heart-broken father may have still to go through.
The excitement too in the village was immense; for the story of the vampyre's attack upon
the young girl was fresh in everybody's mouth, and it lost nothing of its real horrors by the
frequency with which it was repeated, and the terror-stricken manner in which it was
dilated upon.
--

CHAPTER CCIII. [Chapter 220]
THE GRAND CONSULTATION AT THE ALE-HOUSE. -- THE AWFUL

SUGGESTION.
Sir George Crofton and his family could form no idea, owing to not being in a position to
know, of the state of excitement produced in the village by the mysterious and frightful
attack which had been made upon the widow's daughter.
When people are very much absorbed with their own grief, they are apt to set a lighter
value upon those of others, and thus it was that the family of the Croftons was so entirely
taken up with what itself felt and had to do that there was little room for sympathy with
others.
Mr. Bevan likewise, from his perculiar and respectable position, was not likely to be
made the depository of gossiping secrets; the inhabitants of that little place were in the
habit of approaching him with respect, so that, although, as we are aware, he had heard
from Will Stephens, the sexton, a full and particular account of what had happened to him
in the old church, and was likewise cognizant of the story of the midnight attack upon the
widow's daughter, he was not fully aware of the startling effect which those circumstances
had had upon the small population of that fishing village.
We are bound to believe that if he had had any idea of the real result of those operations
or of what was contemplated as their result -- he would have done his best to adopt some
course to prevent any disastrous collision.
We, however, with all the data and materials of this most singular narrative before us, are
enabled to detail to the reader facts and occurrences as they took place actually, without
waiting the arrival of those periods at which they reached the knowledge of those actors in
the gloomy drama of real life.
Our readers, then, will please to know that the excitement among the inhabitants of the
place was of that violent and overbearing description, that all the occupations of the
villagers were abandoned, and a spirit of idleness, sadly suggestive of mischief, began to be
prevalent among them.
This feeling was increased by frequent visits to the ale-house, the liquor of which was
well esteemed by Will Stephens, as may be readily imagined; and towards evening the
large old-fashioned parlour of that place of entertainment became crowded with a motley
assemblage, whose sole purpose in meeting together was to drink strong ale, and discuss
the irritating and exciting subject of the appearance of the vampyre in the village.
This discussion, from being at first a sober, serious, and alarmed one, became noisy and
violent; and at length a blacksmith, who was a great man in the politics of the place, and
who of all things in the world most admired to hear his own voice, rose and addressed his
compeers in something of a set speech.

"Listen to me," he said; "are we to have the blood sucked out of all our bodies by a lot of
vampyres? Is our wives and daughters to be murdered in the middle of the night?"
"No, no, no," cried many voices; "certainly not."
"Is we to be made into victims, or isn't we? What's Sir George Crofton and his family to
us? To be sure he's the landlord of some of us, and a very good landlord he is, too, as long
as we pay our rent."
"Here, hear, hear."
"But there's no saying how long he might be so, if we didn't."
"Bravo, Dick!" cried the master of the place, handing the orator a pot; "bravo, Dick! take
a pull at that, old fellow."
"Thank you, Muggins. Now, what I proposes is -- "
"Stand on a chair, and let's all hear you."
"Thank you," said the blacksmith; and getting upon a chair, he was about to commence
again, when some one advised him to get upon the table, but in an effort to accomplish that
feat, he unfortunately trod upon what was a mere flap of the table, which had not sufficient
power to support his weight, and down he came amid an assemblage of pots, jugs, and
glasses, which made a most alarming crash.
This roused the fury of the landlord, who had no idea of being made such a sufferer in the
transaction, and he accordingly began to declaim heavily at his loss.
A dispute arose as to how he was to be repaid, and it was finally settled that a general
subscription would be the best mode of reimbursing him.
If anything was wanting to work up the feelings of the topers at the public-house to the
highest pitch of aggravation, it certainly was their having to disburse for breakages a sum of
money which, if liquified, would have trickled most luxuriously down their throats. They
were consequently ripe and ready for anything which promised vengeance upon anybody.
The blacksmith was not discomfited by his fall. When is a man who is fond of hearing
himself talk discomfited by anything? and he soon resumed his oration in the following
words: --
"Is we to be put upon in this kind of way? Why, we shan't be able to sleep in our beds. All
I asks is, is we to put up with it?"
"But what are we to do?" said one.

"Ah! there's the question," said the blacksmith, "I don't know exactly."
"Let's ask old Timothy Brown," said the butcher, "he's the oldest man here."
This was assented to; and accordingly the individual mentioned was questioned as to his
ideas of the way of avoiding the alarming catastrophe which seemed to be impending over
them. He advised them to wait patiently till the next night, and keep awake till the
unwelcome nocturnal visitor made its appearance, when whoever it might visit was boldly
to assail it, without any fear of the consequences to himself, till further assistance could be
procured. After Timothy Brown had delivered himself of this piece of advice, a dead
silence ensued among the late boisterous company. There were many disentients, and a few
who seemed in favour of a trial of the practicability of the plan. Both parties seemed to give
some consideration to the proposition, and they were by far too much engaged in thinking
of the advice which had been given them, to pay much attention to the quarter from whence
it had emanated; more particularly, too, as from his age and infirmities, he was
incapacitated from carrying it out or from giving any active assistance to those who were
disposed to do so.
A great many efforts were made to get him to say more, particularly with reference to the
case under consideration, as being no common one, but the octogenarian had made his
effort, and he only replied to the remonstrances of those who, alternately by coaxing and
bullying, strove to get information from him, by a vacant stare.
"It's of no use," said the butcher, "you'll get nothing more now from old Timothy; he's
done up now, that's quite clear, and ten to one if the excitement of to-night won't go a good
way towards slaughtering him before his time."
"Well, it may be so," cried the blacksmith, "but still it's good advice, and as I said before
it comes to this -- is we to be afraid to lay down in our beds at night, or isn't we?"
Before any reply could be made to this interrogatory, the old clock that was in the public-
house parlour struck the hour of eleven, and another peal of thunder seemed to be
answering to the tinkling sounds.
"It's a rough night," said one, "I thought there would be a storm before morning by the
look of the sun at setting -- it went down with a strange fiery redness behind a bank of
clouds. I move for going home."
"Who talks of going home," cried the blacksmith, "when vampires are abroad? hasn't old
Timothy said, that a stormy night was the very one to settle the thing in."
"No," cried another, "he did not say night at all."
"I don't care whether he said night or day; I've made up my mind to do something; there's
no doubt about it but that a vampyre is about the old church. Who'll come with me and
ferret it out? it will be good service done to everybody's fireside."

CHAPTER CCIV. [Chapter 221]
THE NIGHT WATCH. -- THE VAULT.
It was each moment becoming a more difficult affair to carry on any conversation in the
public-house parlour, for not only did the thunder each moment almost interrupt the
speakers with its loud reverberations, but now and then such a tremendous gust of wind
would sweep round the house that it would be quite impossible for any one to make himself
heard amidst its loud howling noise.
These were circumstances however, which greatly aided no doubt, in the getting up of a
superstitious feeling in the minds of the people there assembled, which made them ripe for
any proposition, which perhaps in their soberer moments they would have regarded with
considerable dismay; hence when the blacksmith rushed to the door, crying, --
"Who will follow me to the old church and lay hold of the vampyre?" about half-a-dozen
of the boldest and most reckless, -- and be it told to their honour (if there be any honour in
such an enterprise, which after all, was a grossly selfish one,) they were the worst
characters in the village -- started to their feet to accompany him thither.
There are many persons who waver about an enterprise, who will join it when it has a
show of force, and thus was it with this affair. The moment it was found that the
blacksmith's proposition had some half-dozen stout adherents, he got as many more -- some
of whom joined him from curiosity, and some from dread of being thought to lack courage
by their companions if they held off.
There was now a sufficiently large party to make a respectable demonstration, and quite
elated with his success, and caring little for the land storm that was raging, the blacksmith,
closely followed by the butcher, who had no objection in life to the affair, especially as he
was at variance with the parson concerning the tithes of a little farm he kept, called out, --
"To the church -- to the church!" and followed by the rabble, rushed forward in the
directon of the sacred edifice. * * * * *
As the hour of eleven has struck, and as the reader is aware that at that hour Sir George
Crofton and his two sons, accompanied by Mr. Bevan, had agreed to go to the church on
their melancholy errand, we will leave the noisy brawlers of the alehouse for the purpose of
detailling the proceedings of those whose fortunes we feel more closely interested in.
The baronet was by no means wavering in his determination, notwithstanding it had been
made at a time of unusual excitement, when second thoughts might have been allowed to
step in, and suggest some other course of proceeding.
Now, Mr. Bevan was not without his own private hopes that such would be the case; for
what he dreaded above all other things was, the truth of the affair, and that Sir George

would have the horror of discovering that there was much more in the popular superstition
than, without ocular demonstration, he would have been inclined to admit.
Although a man of education and of refined abilities, the evidence that had already
showed itself to him of the existence at all events of some supernatural being, with powers
analogous to those of the fabled vampyre, was such that he could not wholly deny,
withough stultifying his intellect, that there might be such things.
It is a sad circumstance when the mind is, as it were, compelled to receive undeniable
evidence of a something which the judgment has the strongest general reasons for
disputing, and that was precisely the position of Mr. Bevan, and a most unenviable one it
was.
That night's proceedings, however, in the vault, he felt must put an end to all doubts and
perplexity upon the subject, and so with a fervent hope that, in some, at present inexplicable
manner, the thing would be found to be a delusion, he waited more anxiously the arrival of
the Croftons at the parsonage.
At half past ten o'clock, instead of eleven, for as the evening advanced, Sir George
Crofton had shown such an amount of nervousness that his sons had thought it would be
better to bring him to the parsonage, they arrived, and Mr. Bevan perceived at once what a
remarkable effect grief and anxiety had already had upon the features of the baronet.
He was a different man to what, but a few days since, he had been, and more than ever
the kind clergyman felt inclined to doubt the expediency of his being present on such an
occasion, and yet how to prevent him if he were really determined, was a matter of no small
difficulty.
"My dear friend," said Mr. Bevan, "will you pardon me if I make an effort now to
persuade you to abandon this enterprise?"
"I can pardon the effort easily," said Sir George Crofton, "because I know it is dictated by
the best of motives, but I would fain be spared it, for I am determined."
"I will say no more, but only with deep sincerity hope that you may return to your
dwelling, each relieved from the load of anxiety that now opresses you."
"I hope to Heaven it may be so."
"The night looks strange and still," said Charles, who wished to draw his father's attention
as much as possible from too close a contemplation of the expedition on which they were
bound.
"It does," said Edwin; "I should not be surprised at a storm, for there is every indication
of some distubance of the elements.

"Let it come," said Sir George, who fancied that in all those remarks he detected nothing
but a wish to withdraw him from his enterprise; "Let it come. I have a duty to perform, and
I will do it, though Heaven's thunders should rock the very earth -- the forked lightning is
not launched at the father who goes to watch at the grave of his child."
Charles and Edwin, upon finding that Sir George was in the mood to make a
misapplication of whatever was said to him, desisted from further remarks, but left Mr.
Bevan quietly to converse with him, in a calm and unirritating manner.
It was the object of the clergyman to put off as much time as possible before proceeding
to the church, so that the period to be spent in the family vault of the Croftons should be
lessened as much as possible, for he felt assured that each minute there wasted would be
one of great agony to the bereaved father, who would feel himself once again in such close
approximation to that daughter on whom he had placed some of his dearest affections.
Sir George, however, defeated this intention, by promply rising when his watch told him
that the hour of eleven had arrived, and it was in vain to attempt to stultify him into a belief
that he was wrong as regarded the time, for the church was sufficiently near for them to
hear the hour of eleven pealed forth from its ancient steeple.
"Come," said Sir George, "the hour has arrived. I pray you do not delay. I know you are
all anxious and fearful concerning me, but I have a spirit of resolution and firmness in this
affair which shall yet stand me in good stead. I shall not shrink, as you imagine I shall
shrink. Come, then, at once -- it is suspense and delay which frets me, and not action."
These words enforced a better spirit into both his sons and Mr. Bevan, and in a few
moments the party of four, surely sufficiently strong to overcome any unexpected obstacles,
or to defeat any trickery that might be attempted to be passed off upon them, proceeded
towards the church.
It will be recollected that it was just a little after that time that the storm commenced, and,
in fact, the first clap of thunder, that seemed to shake the heavens, took place just as they
reached the old grave-yard adjoining to the sacred building.
"There!" exclaimed Charles, "I thought that it would come."
"What matter?" said Sir George, "come on."
"Humour him in everything," said Mr. Bevan, "It is madness now to contradict him -- he
will not recede under any circumstances."
The natural senses of Sir George Crofton appeared to be preternaturally acute, for he
turned sharply, and said quickly, but not unkindly, --
"No, he will not recede -- come on."

After this, nothing was said until they reached the church door, and then while Mr. Bevan
was searching in his pockets for the little key which opened the small private entrance,
some vivid flashes of lightning lit up with extraordinary brillancy the old gothic structure --
the neighouring tombs and the melancholy yew trees that waved their branches in the night
air.
Perhaps the delay which ensued before Mr. Bevan cold find the key, likewise arose from
the wish to keep Sir George as short a time as possible within the vault, but he at length
produced it, for any further delay could only be accounted for by saying that he had it not.
The small arched doorway was speedily cleared, and as another peal of thunder broke
over head in awful grandeur of sound, they entered the church.
Mr. Bevan took the precaution this time to close the door, so that there could be no
interruption from without.
"Now, Sir George," he said, "remember your promise. You are to come away freely at the
first dawn of day, and if nothing by then has occurred to strengthen the frightful
supposition which, I suppose I may say, we have all indulged in, I do hope that for ever this
subject will be erased from your recollection."
"Be it so," said Sir George; "be it so."
Mr. Bevan then busied himself in lighting a lantern, and from beneath one of the pews,
where they were hidden, he procured a couple of crowbars, with which to raise the stone
that covered the entrance to the vault.
These preparations took up some little time, so that the old clock had chimed the quarter
past eleven, and must have been rapidly getting on to the half-hour, before they stood in the
aisle close to the vault.
"This marble slab," said Sir George, as he cast his eyes upon it, "always hitherto has been
cemented in its place. Why is it not so now?"
"Is it not?" said Mr. Bevan.
"No -- lend me the light."
Mr. Bevan was averse to lending him the light, but he could not very well refuse it; and
when Sir George Crofton had looked more minutely at the marble slab, he saw that it had
been cemented, but that the cement was torn and broken away, as if some violence had
been used for the purpose of opening the vault; but whether that violence came from within
or without was a matter of conjecture.
--

CHAPTER CCV. [sic] [Chapter 222]
THE MADMAN. -- THE VAMPYRE.
"What does this mean?" cried Sir George Crofton, excitedly.
"Hush!" said Mr. Bevan, "I pray you be calm, sir. If you are to make any discovery that
will give you peace of mind, rest assured it will not be made by violence."
"You do not answer my question."
"I cannot answer it." Remember that I know no more than you do, and that, like
yourselves, I am an adventurer here in search of the truth."
Sir George said no more upon that head, but with clasped hands and downcast eyes he
stood in silence, while his two sons, armed with the crowbars that Mr. Bevan had provided
for the occasion, proceeded to lift up the marble slab that covered the vault where lay their
sister's remains.
The work was not one of great difficulty, for the slab was not very large, and as it was not
cemented down, it yield at once to the powerful leverage that was brought to play against it,
and in a few minutes it was placed aside, and the yawning abyss appeared before them.
"Oh! sir," said Mr. Bevan, "even now at this late hour, and when the proceedings have
commenced, I pray you to pause."
"Pause!" cried Sir George, passionately, "pause for what?"
"Disturb not the dead, and let them rest in peace. Absolve your mind from the dangerous
and perhaps fatal fancies that possess it, and let us say a prayer, and close again this
entrance to the tomb."
The sons hesitated, and they probably would have taken the clergyman's advice, but Sir
George was firm.
"No, sir," he said, "already have I suffered much in coming thus far; I will not retreat until
I have effected all my purpose. I swear it, by Heaven, whose temple we now are in. You
would not, Mr. Bevan, have me break such an oath."
"I would not; but I regret you made it. Since, however, it must be so, and this rash
adventure is determined upon, follow me; I will lead you the way into these calm regions,
where you can sleep, I trust, in peace."
Sir George Crofton made a step forward, as if he would have arrested Mr. Bevan's
progress and lead the way himself, but already the clergyman had descended several steps,
so he had nothing to do but to follow him.

This they all did, Sir George going immediately after him, and his two sons, with pale
anxious-looking faces, as if they had a suspicion that the adventure would end in something
terrific, came la[st and they] glanced nervously and suspiciously about them; but they said
not a word, nor if they had spoken, it would have been to express great apprehension, and
that was what they were ashamed to do.
Mr. Bevan carried the light, and when he felt that he was at the bottom of the stone steps,
by finding that he was treading upon the sawdust that was strewn on the floor of the vault,
he turned and held the lamp up at arm's length, so that his companions might see their way
down the steps.
In another minute they all stood on the floor of the vault.
The light burnt with rather a faint and sickly glare, for so rapidly were noxious gases
evolved in that receptacle for the dead, that notwithstanding it had been so frequently
opened as it had been lately, they had again accumulated.
In a few moments, however, this was partially remedied by the air from the church above,
and the light burnt more brilliantly -- indeed, quite sufficiently so to enable them to look
around them in the vault.
Sir George Crofton's feelings at that moment must have been of the most painful and
harrowing description. He had lived long enough to be a witness of the death and the
obsequies of many members of his family whom he had loved fondly, and there he stood in
that chamber of death, surrounded by all the remains of those beings, the memory of whose
appearance and voices came now freshly upon his mind.
Mr. Bevan could well guess the nature of the sad thoughts that transpired in the breast of
the baronet, and the sons having by accident cast their eyes upon the coffin that contained
the remians of their mother, regarded it in silence, while memory was busy, too, within
them in conjuring up her image.
"And it has come to this," said Sir George, solemnly.
"We must all come to this," interposed Mr. Bevan; "this is indeed a place for solemn and
holy thoughts -- for self-examination, for self-condemnation."
"But there is peace here."
"There is -- the peace that shall be eternal."
"Hark! hark!" said Charles; "what is that?"
"The wind," said Mr. Bevan; "nothing but the wind howling round and through the old
belfry -- you will remember that it is a boisterous night."

"Turn, turn, father."
Sir George turned and looked at Charles, who pointed in silence to the coffin which
contained the corpse of his mother. The light gleamed upon the plate on which was
engraved her name. Sir George's features moved convulsively as he read it, and he turned
aside to hide a sudden gush of emotion that came over him.
After a few minutes, he touched Mr. Bevan on the arm, and said in a whisper, --
"Where did they place my child?"
The clegyman pointed to the narrow shelf on which was the coffin of Clara Crofton, and
then Sir George, making a great effort to overcome his feelings, said, --
"Mr. Bevan, our worthy minister and friend, and you, likewise, my boys, hear me. You
can guess to some extent, but not wholly -- that can only be known by God -- the agony
that a sight of the poor remains of her who has gone from me in all the pride of her youth
and beauty, must be to me; yet now that I am here I consider it to be my duty to look once
again upon the face of my child -- my -- my lost Clara."
"Oh! father, father," said Edwin, "forego this purpose."
"You will spare us this," cried Charles.
"Repent you, sir," said Mr. Bevan, "of the wish. Let her rest in peace. The dead are
sanctified."
"The dead are sanctified, -- but I am her father."
"Nay, Sir George, let me implore you."
"Implore me to what, sir? Not to look upon the face of my own child? Peace -- peace. It is
no profanation for one who loved her as I loved her to look upon her once again. Urge me
no more."
"This is in vain," said Charles.
"You are right -- it is in vain."
A shriek burst from the lips of Edwin at this moment, and flinging his arms around his
father, he held him back. Mr. Bevan, too, gave a cry of terror, and Charles stood with his
hands clasped, as if turned to stone.
Their eyes were all bent upon Clara's coffin.

The lid moved, and a strange sound was heard from within that receptacle for the dead --
the clock of the old church struck twelve -- the coffin lid moved again, and then sliding on
one side, it eventually fell upon the floor of the vault.
The four spectators of this scene were struck speechless for the time with terror. Then
they stood gazing at the coffin as if they were so many statues.
And now the light which Mr. Bevan still for a miracle held in his trembling grasp, shone
on a mass of white clothing within the coffin, and in another moment that white clothing
was observed to be in motion. Slowly the dead form that was there rose up, and they all saw
the pale and ghastly face. A streak of blood was issuing from the mouth, and the eyes were
open.
Sir George Crofton lifted up both his hands, and struk [sic] his head, and then he burst
into a wild frightful laugh. It was the laugh of insanity.
Mr. Bevan dropped the light, and all was darkness.
"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" laughed Sir George Crofton. "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" and the horrible
laugh was taken up by many an echo in the old church, and responded to with strange and
most unearthly reverberations. "Ha, ha, ha, ha!" Oh what a dreadful sound that was coming
at such a time from the lips of the father.
"Fly Edwin -- oh, fly," cried Charles.
Edwin screamed twice, for he was full of horror, and then he fell on the floor of the vault
in a state of insensibility.
Charles had just sense left him to spring towards the steps, and make a frantic effort to
reach the church; in his hurry he fell twice, but each time rising again with a shout of
despair, he resumed his efforts, and all the while the horrible laugh of his maniac father
sounded in his ears, a sound which he felt that he should never forget.
By a great effort he did reach the aisle of the church, and when there, he called aloud.
"Mr. Bevan, Mr. Bevan, help -- oh help! For the love of God speak. Help, help, Mr.
Bevan, where are you, speak, I implore you? Am I too going mad? Oh yes, I shall -- I must.
What mortal intellect can stand such a scene as this. Help, help -- oh, help!"
The church was suddenly lit up by a flash of light, and turning in the direction from
whence it proceeded, Charles saw Mr. Bevan approaching with a light, which he had
procured from the chancel, and it would appear that immediately upon dropping in his
horror the light in the vault, he had ran up the stairs with the intent of getting another.
"Who calls me? Who calls me?" he cried.

""I -- I," said Charles. "Oh God, what a dreadful night is this."
The clergyman was trembling violently, and was very pale, but he made his way up to
Charles, from whose brow the perspiration was falling in heavy drops, and then again they
heard the mad Sir George laughing in the vault.
"Ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha!"
"Oh God, is not that horrible?" said Charles.
"Most horrible," responded Mr. Bevan.
Bang -- bang -- bang! at this moment came a violent knocking at the church door, and
then several voices were heard without shouting.
"The vampyre -- the vampyre -- the vampyre."
"What is that? What is that?" said Charles.
"Nay, I know not," replied Mr. Bevan, "I am nearly distracted already. Where is your
brother? Did he not escape from the vault? Where is he? Oh, that horrible laugh. Good
God! that knocking too at the church door. What can be the meaning of it? Heaven in its
mercy guide us now what to do."
The reader will understand the meaning of the knocking, although those bewildered
persons who heard it in the church did not. The fact is, that the party from the alehouse
headed by the valiant blacksmith, and heated by their too liberal potations had just arrived
at the church, and were clamouring for admission.
They had seen through one of the old pointed windows, the reflection of the light which
Mr. Bevan carried, and that it was that convinced them some one was there who might if he
would pay attention to the uproarous summons.
The knocking lasted with terrible effect, for the old door of the sacred edifice shook
again, it seemed as if certainly it could not resist the making of such an attack.
Mr. Bevan was confounded. A horrible suspicion came across him, of what was meant by
those violent demands for admission, and he shook with brutal trepidation as he conjectured
what might be the effect of the proceedings of a lawless mob.
"Now Heaven help us," he said, "for we shall soon I fear be powerless."
"Good God! what mean you?" said Charles.
"I scarcely know how to explain to you all my fears. The are too dreadful to think of, but
while that knocking continues, what can I think?"

"I understand"! they call for my sister."
"Oh call her not now by that name. Remember, and remember with a shudder what she
now is."
--

CHAPTER CCVII. [Chapter 223]
THE HUNT OF THE VAMPYRE.
All these occurrences which have taken a considerable time in telling, occurred as
simultaneously, that although it would appear Mr. Bevan and Charles Crofton, rather
neglected Sir George and Edwin who were still in the vault, they had really not had time to
think of them, to say nothing of making any effort to extricate them from the frightful
situation in which they were placed.
Probably, after procuring a light, Mr. Bevan would have rushed to their rescue had not
that incessant knocking at the church door suggested a new and more horrible danger, still,
from the evil passions of an infuriated multitude.
"Oh, Mr. Charles," he said, "if we could but get your father away from the church, there
is no knowing what an amount of misery he might be spared."
"Misery, sir; surely there is no more misery in store for us -- have we not suffered enough
-- more than enough. Oh, Mr. Bevan we have fallen upon evil times, and I dread to think
what will yet be the end of those most frightful transactions."
The knocking at the church door continued violently, and Charles indicated a wish to
proceed there to ascertain what it was, but Mr. Bevan stopped him, saying, --
"No, Charles -- no -- let them be, I hardly think they will venture to break into the sacred
edifice, but whether they do or not, remember that your duty and mine, yours being the
duty of a son, and mine that of a friend, should take us now to your father's vault.
"That is true, sir," said Charles, "lead on I will follow you."
Mr. Bevan, who had all the intellectual courage of a man of education, and of regular
habits, led the way again to the vault, with the light in his hand. It was a great relief that the
insane and horrible laugh of Sir George Crofton had ceased, the best friend of any man
could almost have wished him dead, ere their ears had drunk in such horrible sounds.
The shouts and cries from without now became incessant, and it seemed as if some
weapon had been procured, wherewith to hammer violently upon the church door, for the
strokes were regular and incessant, and it was evident that if they continued long that frail
defence against the incursions of the rabble rout without must soon give way.
The only effect, however, which these sounds had upon Mr. Bevan was to make him
hasten his progress towards the vault, for anything in the shape of a collision between those
who wanted to take the church by storm, and Sir George Crofton, was indeed most highly
to be deprecated.

The steps were not many in number, and once again the clergyman and Charles Crofton
stood upon the sawdust that covered the flooring of the vault.
At first, in consequence of the flaring of the light, the state of affairs in that dismal region
could not be ascertained; but as soon as they could get a view, they found Sir George lying
apparently in a state of insensibility across the coffin of his daughter Clara, while Edwin
was in a swoon close to his feet.
"Sir George, Sir George," cried Mr. Bevan, "arouse yourself; it is necessary that you
leave this place at once."
The baronet got up and glanced at the intruders. Charles uttered a deep groan, for the
most superficial observation of his father's face was sufficient to convince him that reason
had fled, and that wildness had set up his wild dominion in his brain.
"Father -- father," he cried, "speak to me, and dissipate a frightful thought."
"What would you have of me," said Sir George; "I am a vampyre, and this is my tomb --
you should see me in the rays of the cold moon gliding 'twixt earth and heaven, and panting
for a victim. I am a vampyre."
At this moment Edwin seemed to be partially recovering, for his eyes opened as he lay
upon the floor, and he looked around him with a bewildered gaze, which soon settled into
one of more intelligence as memory resumed her sway, and he recollected the various
circumstances that had brought him into his present position.
"Rouse yourself, Edwin, rouse yourself," cried Mr. Bevan, "you must aid us to remove
your father."
"Do you talk of me?" said Sir George, "know you not that I am one of those supernatural
existences known as the death and despair-dealing vampyres -- it's time I took my nightly
prowl to look for victims. I must have blood -- I must have blood."
"Gracious Heaven! he raves," said Charles.
"Heed him not," said Mr. Bevan -- "heed him not, and touch him not, so that he leave the
place -- when we have him once clear of the church we can procure assistance, and take
him to his own home.
"Edwin," whispered Charles, "what of our sister."
Edwin shook his head and shuddered. "I know nothing but that I saw her -- oh, horrible
sight, rising from her coffin, and then in a convulsion of terror my senses fled -- a frightful
ringing laugh came on my ears, and from that time till now, be the period long or short, I
have been blessed by a death-like trance."

"Blessed indeed," said Mr. Bevan; "tarry one moment."
Sir George Crofton was ascending the steps of the vault, but his two sons paused for an
instant at the request of Mr. Bevan, and then the latter approaching Clara's coffin slightly
removed the lid, and was gratified as far as any feeling could be considered gratification
under such circumstances, to find that the corpse occupied an ordinary position in its
narrow resting place.
"All's right," he said, "let us persuade ourselves that this too has been but a dream, that we
have been deceived, and that imagination has played us tricks it is accustomed to play to
those who give it the rein at such hours as these -- let us think and believe anything rather
than that what we have seen to-night is real."
As he spoke these words, he ascended hastily the stps in pursuit of Sir George, who, by
this time had alone reached the [???]
The heavy strokes against the door of the church had ceased, but an odd sort of scraping,
rattling sound at the lock convinced the clergyman that a workman of more skill than he
who had weilded [sic] the hammer, was now at work, endeavouring to force an entrance.
"Oh, if we could but get out," he said, "by the small private entrance, all might be well;
Charles, urge your father, I pray you."
Charles did so to the best of his ability, but the blacksmith who had originally incited the
crowd to attack the church, in order to get possession of the body of the vampyre, had sent
to his workshop for the tools of his craft, and soon quietly accomplished by skill what brute
force would have been a long time about, namely, the opening of the church-door.
It was flung wide open, before Sir George Croton and his sons could reach the small
private entrance, of which Mr. Bevan had the key.
The sight of the multitude of persons, for they looked such crowds in the church porch,
materially increased the incipient sadness of the bereaved father.
--

CHAPTER CCVII. [Chapter 224]
THE FATE OF SIR GEORGE. -- THE CROSS ROAD.
Sir George, when he saw the crowd of persons, seemed to have some undefined idea that
they were enemies, but this would not have been productive of any serious consequences, if
it had not most unfortunately happened that a most formidable weapon was within his
grasp.
That weapon consisted of one of the long iron crowbars which had been successfully used
by his own sons in order to force a passage to the family vault, where such horrors had been
witnessed.
Suddenly, then, seizing this weapon, which, in the hands of a ferocious man was a most
awful one, he swung it once round his head, and then rushed upon those he considered his
foes.
He dealt but three blows, and at each of those one of the assailants fell lifeless in the
church porch.
To resist, or, to attempt to contend with a man so armed, and apparently possessed of
such preternatural strength, was what some of the party wished, and accordingly a free
passage was left for him, and he rushed out of the church into the night air shouting for
vengeance, and still at interval, accusing himself of being a vampyre, as most dangerous
theme to touch upon, considering the then state of feeling in that little district.
Anxiety for the safety of Sir George induced his sons and Mr. Bevan to rush after him,
regardless of all other consequences, so that the church, the vaults, and everything they
contained, were left to the mercy of a mob infuriated by superstition, rendered still more
desperate by the loss of three of their number in so sudden and exampled a manner.
They opposed no obstacle to the leaving of those persons, who thus for dearer
considerations abandoned the old church, but they rushed with wild shouts and
gesticulations into the building.
"The vampyre, the vampyre," cried the blacksmith, "death to the vampyre -- death and
destruction to the vampyre."
"Hurrah!" cried another, "to the vaults this way to Sir George Crofton's vault."
There seemed to be little doubt now, but that this disorderly rabble would execute
summary vengeance upon the supposed nocturnal disturber of the peace of the district.
Ever and anon, too, as these shouts of discord, and of threatening vengeance, rose upon
the night air, there would come the distant muttering of thunder, for the storm had not yet
ceased, although its worst fury had certainly passed away.

Dark and heavy clouds were sweeping up from the horizon, and it seemed to be tolerably
evident that some heavy deluge of rain would eventually settle the fury of the elements, and
reconcile the discord of wind and electricity.
Several of the rioters were provided with links and matches, so that in a few moments the
whole interior of the church was brilliantly illuminated, while at the same time it presented
a grotesque appearance, in consequence of the unsteady and wavering flame from the links,
throw myriads of dancing shadows upon the walls.
There would have been no difficulty under any ordinary circumstances in finding the
entrance to the vault, where the dead of the Crofton family should have lain in peace, but
now since the large flagstone that covered the entrance to that receptacle of the grave was
removed, it met their observation at once.
It was strange now to perceive how, for a moment, superstition having led them on so far,
the same feeling should induce them to pause, ere they ventured to make their way down
these gloomy steps.
It was a critical moment, and probably if any one or two had taken a sudden panic, the
whole party might have left the church with precipitation, having done a considerable
amount of mischief, and yet as it is so ususal with rioters, having left their principal object
unaccomplished.
The blacksmith put an end to this state of indecision, for, seizing a link from the man who
was nearest to him, he darted down the steps, exclaiming as he did so, --
"Whoever's afraid, need not follow me."
This was a taunt they were not exactly prepared to submit to, and the consequence was,
that in a very few moments the ancient and time honoured vault of the Crofton's was more
full of the living than of the dead.
The blacksmith laid his hand upon Clara's coffin.
"Here it is," he said, "I know the very pattern of the cloth, and the fashion of the nails, I
saw it at Grigson's the undertaker's before it was taken to the Grange."
"Is she there -- is she there," cried half a dozen voices at once.
Even the blacksmith hesitated a moment ere he removed the lid from the receptacle of
death, but when he did so, and his eyes fell upon the face of the presumed vampyre, he
seemed rejoiced to find in the appearances then exhibited some sort of justification for the
act of violence of which already he had been the instigator.

"Here you are," he said, "look at the bloom upon her lips, why her cheeks are fresher and
rosier than ever they were while she was alive, a vampyre my mates, this is a vampyre, or
may I never break bread again; and now what's to be done.["]
"Burn her, burn her," cried several.
"Well," said the blacksmith, "mind its as you like. I've brought you here, and shown you
what it is, and now you can do what you like, and of course I'll lend you a hand to do it."
Any one who had been very speculative in this affair, might have detected in these last
words of the blacksmith, something like an inclination to creep out of the future
consequences of what might next be done, while at the same time shame deterred him from
exactly leaving his companions in the lurch.
After some suggestions then, and some argumentation as to the probability or possibility
of interruption -- the coffin itself, was with its sad and wretched occupant, lifted from the
niche where it should have remained until that awful day when the dead shall rise for
judgement, and carried up the steps into the graveyard, but scarcely had they done so, when
the surcharged clouds burst over their heads, and the rain came down in perfect torrents.
The deluge was of so frightful, and continuous a character, that they shrank back again
beneath the shelter of the church porch, and there waited until its first fury had passed
away.
Such an even down storm seldom lasts long in our climate, and the consequence was that
in about ten minutes the shower had so far subsided that although a continuous rain was
falling it bore but a very distant comparison to what had taken place.
"How are we to burn the body on such a night as this?"
"Aye, how indeed," said another; "you could not so much as kindle a fire, and if you did,
it would not live many minutes."
"I'll tell you what to do at once," said one who had as yet borne but a quiet part in the
proceedings; I'll tell you what to do at once, for I saw it done myself; a vampyre is quite as
secure buried in a cross-road with a stake through its body, as if you burned it in all the
fires in the world; come on, the rain won't hinder you doing that."
This was a suggestion highly approved of, and the more so as there was a cross road close
at hand, so that the deed would be done quick, and the parties dispersed to their respective
homes, for already the exertion they had taken, and the rain that had fallen, had had a great
effect in sobering them.
And even now the perilous and disgusting operation of destroying the body, by fire or any
other way, might have been abandoned, had any one of the party suggested such a course --
but the dread of a future imputation of cowardice kept all silent.

Once more the coffin was raised by four of the throng, and carried through the church-
yard, which was now running in many little rivulets, in consequence of the rain. The cross-
road was not above a quarter of a mile from the spot, and while those who were disengaged
from carrying the body, were hurrying away to get spades and mattocks, the others walked
through the rain, and finally paused at the place they though suitable for that ancient
superstitious rite, which it was thought would make the vampyre rest in peace.
It is hard to suppose that Sir George Crofton, his sons, and Mr. Bevan were all deceived
concerning these symptoms of vitality which they had observed in the corpse of Clara; but
certainly now, there was no appearance of anything of the kind, and the only suspicious
circumstances appeared to be the blood upon the lips, and the very fresh-like appearance of
the face.
If it were really a fact that the attack of Varney the Vampyre upon this fair young girl had
converted her into one of those frightful existences, and that she had been about to leave
her tomb for the purpose of seeking a repast of blood, it would appear that the intention had
been checked and frustrated by the presence of Sir George and his party in the vault.
At last a dozen men now arrived well armed with spades and picks, and they commenced
the work of digging a deep, rather than a capacious grave, in silence.
A gloomly and apprehensive spirit seemed to come over the whole assemblage, and the
probability is that this was chiefly owing to the fact that they now encountered no
opposition, and that they were permitted unimpeded to accomplish a purpose which had
never yet been attempted within the memory of any of the inhabitants of the place.
The grave was dug, and about two feet depth of soil was thrown in a huge mound upon
the surface; the coffin was lowered, and there lay the corpse within that receptacle of poor
humanity, unimprisoned by any lid for that had been left in the vault, and awaiting the
doom which they had decreed upon it, but which they now with a shuddering horror shrunk
from performing.
A hedge-stake with a sharp point had been procured, and those who held it looked around
them with terrified countenances, while the few links that had not been extinguished by the
rain, shed a strange and lurid glare upon all objects.
"It must be done," said the blacksmith, "don't let it be said that we got thus far and then
were afraid."
"Do it then yourself," said the man that held the stake, "I dare not."
"Aye, do," cried several voices; "you brought us here, why don't you do it -- are you
afraid after all your boasting."
"Afraid -- afraid of the dead; I'm not afraid of any of you that are alive, and it's not likely
I'm ging to be afraid of a dead body; you're a pretty set of cowards. I've no animosity agaist

the girl, but I want that we shall all sleep in peace, and that our wives and children should
not be disturbed nocturnally in their blessed repose. I'll do it if none of you'll do it, and then
you may thank me afterwards for the act, although I suppose if I get into trouble I shall
have you all turn tail upon me."
"No, we won't -- no, we won't."
"Well, well, here goes, whether you do or not. I -- I'll do it directly."
"He shrinks," cried one.
"No," said another; "he'll do it -- now for it, stand aside."
"Stand aside yourself -- do you want to fall into the grave."
The blacksmith shuddered as he held the stake in an attitude to pierce the body, and even
up to that moment it seemed to be a doubtful case, whether he would be able to accomplish
his purpose or not; at length, when they all thought he was upon the point of abandoning
his design, and casting the stake away, he thrust it with tremendous force through the body
and the back of the coffin.
The eyes of the corpse opened wide -- the hands were clenched, and a shrill, piercing
shriek came from the lips -- a shriek that was answered by as many as there were persons
present, and then with pallid fear upon their countenances they rushed headlong from the
spot.
--

CHAPTER CCVIII. [Chapter 225]
THE SOLITARY MAN. -- VARNEY'S DESPAIR.
There lay the dead, alone, in that awful grave, dabbled in blood, and the victim of the
horrible experiment that had been instituted to lay a vampire. The rain still fell heavily.
On, surely, pitying Heaven sent those drops to wash out the remembrance of such a deed.
The grave slowly began to be a pool of water; it rose up the sides of the coffin, and in a few
minutes, more nothing of the ghastly and the terrible contents of that grave could have been
seen.
Before that took place, a man of tall stature and solemn gait stepped up and stood upon
the brink of the little excavation.
For a time he was as still as that sad occupant of the little space of earth that served her
for a resting place, but at length in a tone of deep anguish he spoke, --
"And has it come to this?" he said, "is this my work? Oh, horror! horror unspeakable. In
this some hideous dream or a reality of tragedy, so far transcending all I looked for, that if I
had tears I should shed them now; but I have none. A hundred years ago that fount was dry.
I thought that I had steeled my heart against all gentle impulses; that I had crushed -- aye,
completely crushed dove-eyed pity in my heart, but it is not so, and still sufficient of my
once human feelings clings to me to make me grieve for thee, Clara Crofton, thou victim!"
We need not tell our readers now, that it was no other than Varney the Vampyre himself
from whom these words came.
After thus, then, giving such fervent utterance to the sad feeling that had overcome him,
he stood for a time silent, and then glancing around him as well as he could by the dim
light, he found the spades, by the aid of which the grave had been dug, and which the men
had in their great fight [sic] left behind them.
Seizing one, he commenced, with an energy and perseverance that was well adapted to
accomplish the object, to fill up the grave.
"You shall now rest in peace," he said.
In the course of about ten minutes the grave was levelled completely, so that there were
no signs or indications of any one having been there interred.
The rain was still falling, and notwithstanding that circumstance, he continued at his
work, until he had stamped down the earth to a perfect level; and then, even, as if he was
still further anxious to thoroughly destroy any indication of the deed that had been done, he
took the loose earth that was superfluous, and scattered it about.

"This done," he said, "surely you will now know peace."
He cast down the spade with which he had been working, and lingered for a few brief
moments. Suddenly he started, for he heard, or thought he heard, an approaching footstep.
His first impulse appeared to be to fly, but that he soon corrected, and folding his arms
solemnly across his breast, he waited for the man that was now evidently making speed
towards that spot.
In a few moments more he saw the dusky outline of the figure, and then Mr. Bevan, the
clergyman, stood before him.
Mr. Bevan did not at the moment recognize in the form before him the man who had been
the guest of Sir George Crofton, and from whom it was supposed had sprung all he
mischief and horror that hsad fallen upon the family, at the Grange.
"Who are you?" he cried; "can you give me information of an outrage that has been
committed hereabouts."
"Many," said Varney.
"Ah! I know the voice. Are you not he who was rescued from the sea by the two sons of
Sir George Crofton."
"Well."
"Now I know you, and I am glad to have met with you."
"You will try to kill me?"
"No, no -- peace is my profession."
"Ah! you are the priest of this place. Well, sir, what would you with me?"
"I would implore you to tell me if it be really true that -- that -- "
Mr. Bevan paused, for he disliked to show that the fear that it might be true there were
such creatures as vampyres, had taken so strong a hold of him.
"Proceed," said Varney.
"I will. Are you then a vampyre?"
"A strange question for one living man to put to another! Are you?"

"You are inclined to trifle with me. But I implore you to answer me. I am perhaps the
only man in all this neighbourhood to whom you can give an answer in the affirmative with
safety."
"And why so?"
"Because I question not the decrees of Heaven. If it seems fit to the great Ruler of Heaven
and of earth that there should be ever such horrible creatures as vampyres, ought I his
creature to question it?"
"You ought not -- you ought not. I have heard much from priests, but from your lips I
hear sound reason. I am a vampyre."
Mr. Bevan shrunk back, and shook for a moment, as he said in a low faltering tone, --
"For how long -- have you -- "
"You would know how long I have endured such a state of existence. I will tell you that I
have a keen remembrance of being hunted through the streets of London in the reign of
Henry the Fourth."
"Henry the Fourth?"
"Yes, I have seen all the celebrities of this and many other lands from that period. More
than once have I endeavoured to cast off this horrible existence, but it is my destiny to
remain in it. I was picked up by the brothers Crofton after one of my attempts to court
death. They have been repaid."
"Horribly!"
"I cannot help it -- I am what I am."
There was a strange and mournful solemnity about the tones of Varney that went to the
heart of Mr. Bevan, and after a few moments pause, he said, --
"You greatly, very greatly awake my interest. Do not leave me. Ask yourself if there is
anything that I can do to alleviate your destiny. Have you tried prayer?"
"Prayer?"
"Yes. Oh! there is great virtue in prayer."
"I pray? What for should I pray but for that death which whenever it seems to be in my
grasp has them flitted from me in mockery, leaving me still a stranded wretch upon the
shores of this world. Perhaps you have at times fancied you have suffered some great
amount of mental agony. Perhaps you have stood by the bed-side of dying creatures, and

heard them howl their hopelessness of Heaven's mercy, but you cannot know -- you cannot
imagine -- what I have suffered."
As he spoke, he turned away, but Mr. Bevan followed him, saying, --
"Remain -- remain, I implore you,"
"Remain -- and wherefore?"
"I will be your friend -- it is my duty to be such; remain, and you shall if you wish it, have
an asylum in my house. If you will not pray yourself, to Heaven, I will pray for you, and in
time to come you will have some hope. Oh, believe me, earnest prayer is not in vain."
"My friend!"
"Yes, your friend; I am, I ought to be the friend of all who are unhappy."
"And is there really one human being who does not turn from me in horror and disgust?
Oh, sir, you jest."
"No -- on my soul, that which I say I mean. Come with me now, and you shall if you
please, remain in secret in my house -- no one shall know you are with me -- from the
moment that you cross the threshold you shall hope for happier days."
The vampyre paused, and it was evident that he was deeply affected by what Mr. Bevan
said to him, for his whole frame shook.
--

CHAPTER CCIX. [Chapter 226]
THE STRANGE GUEST. -- THE LITTLE CHAPEL. -- VARNEY'S NARRATIVE.
Mr. Bevan could not but see that he had made some impression, even upon the obdurate
heart of Varney, and he was determined to follow that impression up by [e]very means in
his power.
"Always have in mind," he said, that by trusting me, you trust one who is not in the habit
of condemning his fellows. You will be safe from anything like sanctified reproach, for to
my thinking, religion should be a principle of love and tenderness, and not a subject upon
which people who, perhaps are themselves liable and obnoxious to all sorts of reproach,
should deal forth denunciations against their neighbours."
"Is that indeed your faith?"
"It is; and it is the real faith, taught by my Great Master."
"You are as one among many thousands."
"Nay, you may have been unfortunate in meeting with bad specimens of those who are
devoted in the priesthood. Do not condemn hastily."
"Hastily! I have been some hundreds of years in condemning."
"You will come with me."
"I will for once again put faith in human nature."
"Tell me then, before we leave this spot, if you know aught of what has happened to, or
become of the body of Clara Croton."
"I can tell you; it was left here buried, but uncovered."
"Indeed -- the ground is level, and I see no trace of a grave."
"No; I have obliterated all such traces, I have placed the earth upon her -- may she now
rest in peace. Oh, that such a flower should have been so rudely plucked, and I the cause. Is
not that enough to make Heaven's angels mutiny if I should essay to pass the golden gates."
"Say no more of that. I thank God that the body is so disposed of, and that it will not
come in the way of any of the Crofton family. This affair had far better now be let sink into
oblivion -- alas! poor Sir George is now the most pitiable sufferer."
"Indeed!"

"Yes; madness has seized upon him. He only sits and smiles to himself, weaving in his
imagination strange fancies."
"And call you that unhappy?"
"It is called, and considered so."
"Oh, fatal error -- he is happy. Reason! boasted, God-like reason -- what are you but the
curse of poor humanity. The maniac, who will in his cell, fancy it a gorgeous hall, and of
the damp straw that is his couch make up a glittering coronet, is a king indeed, and most
happy."
"This is poetical," said Mr. Bevan, "if not true[.]"
"It is true."
"Well, well; we will talk on that as well as other themes at our leisure. Come on, and I
will at once take you to my home, where you wil be safe, and I hope more happy."
"Are you not afraid?"
"I am not."
"You are right, confidence is safety -- lead on, sir, I'll follow you, although I little thought
to make any human companionship to-night."
Mr. Bevan walked only about a step in advance as they proceeded towards the parsonage
house, and on the way he conversed with Varney with calmness which considering the very
perculiar circumstances, few men could have brought to bear upon the occasion.
But Mr. Bevan was no common man. He looked upon nature, and all the living creatures
that make up its vital portion with peculiar eyes, and if the bishop of his diocese had known
one half of what Mr. Bevan thought, he would not have suffered him to remain in his
religious situation.
But he kept the mass of his liberal opinions to himself, although he alwasys acted upon
them, and a man more completely free from sectarian dogmas, and illiberal fancies of
superstition, which are nicknamed faith, could not be.
There was still, notwithstanding all the circumstances, a hope lingering in his mind that
Varney might after all not be even what he thought himself to be, but some enthusiast who
had dreamt himself into a belief of his own horrible powers.
We know that such was not the case. But it was natural enough for Mr. Bevan to hold as
long as he could by such an idea.

And so those two most strangly assorted beings, the clergyman and the vampyre, walked
together towards the pretty and picturesque dwelling of the former.
"The distance is short," said Mr. Bevan.
"Nay, that matters not," replied Varney.
"I spoke because I thought you seemed fatigued."
"No, my frame is of iron. My heart is bowed down with many griefs, but the physical
structure knows no feeling of dejection. The life I possess is no common one. Oh! would
that it were so, that I might shuffle it off as any ordinary men can do."
"Do not say that. Who knows but that after all your living accomplishes better things?"
"I cannot say that it accomplishes aught completely but one thing."
"And that?"
"That is my most exquisite misery."
"Even that may pass away. But here we are at my little garden gate. Come in, and fear
nothing; for if you will seek Heaven, as I would wish you, you will find this place such a
haven of peace, and such a refuge against the storms of life, as you hardly fancied existed, I
dare say, in this world."
"Not for me. I did not fancy that there existed a spot on earth on which I could lie down
in peace, and yet it may be here."
--

CHAPTER CXCVII. [Chapter 227]
VARNEY OPENS THE VAST STORE-HOUSE OF HIS MEMORY.
A more singular conversation than that which took place between Varney, the Vampyre,
and this minister of religion, could not be conceived. If there was any one particle of
goodness existing in Varney's disposition, we may suspect it would now be developed.
Perhaps the whole domestic history of the world never yet exhibited so remarkable an
association as that between Mr. Bevan and Varney; and when they sat down together in the
little cheerful study of the former, never had four walls enclosed two beings of the same
species, and yet of such opposite pursuits.
But we can hardly call Varney, the Vampyre, human -- his space of existence had been
lengthened out beyond the ordinary routine of human existence, and the kind of vitality that
he now enjoyed, if one might be allowed the expression, was something distinct and
peculiar.
It speaks volumes, however, for the philantrophy and liberality of the minister of any
religion who could hold out the hand of fellowship to so revolting and to so horrible an
existence.
But Mr. Bevan was no common man. His religion was doctrinal, certainly, but it was free
from bigotry; and his charity to the feelings, opinions, and prejudices of others was
immense.
He was accustomed to say "may not my feelings be prejudices," and one of the sublimest
precepts of the whole Scriptures was to him that which says, "Judge not, lest ye, too, should
be judged."
Hence it was that he would not allow himself to revolt at Varney. It had seemed right to
the great Creator of all things that there should be such a being, and therefore, he, Mr.
Bevan, would neither question nor contemn it.
"Look about you," he said to Varney with a disordered gaze; "you seem to look very
about you as if there was danger in the atmosphere you breathe, but be assured you are safe
here; it shall be my life for your life if any harm should be attempted to be done you."
Varney looked at him for a few moments silence, and then in his deep and sepulchral
voice he spoke, saying, --
"My race is run."
"What mean you by that expression?"

"I mean I shall no longer be a terror to the weak, nor a curiosity to the strong. In time
past, more than once I have tried to shuffle off the evil of this frightful existence, but some
accident, strange, wild, and wonderful, has brought me back to life again."
"Perhaps not an accident," said Mr. Bevan.
"You may be right, but when I have sought to rid the world of my own bad company, I
have been moved to do so by some act of kindness and consideration, most contrary to my
deserts; and then again when I have been cast back by the waves of fate upon the shores of
existence, my heart is burdened, and I have begun to plan to work mischief and misery and
woe to all."
"I can understand how your feelings have alternated, but I hope that out association will
have better result."
"Yes, a better result, for with consumate art, with cool perseverance and extended
knowledge, I trust I may think of some means which cannot fail of changing this living
frame to that dust from which it sprung, and to which it should long since have returned."
"You believe in that, but do you not think there is a pure spirit that will yet live,
independent of the grovelling earth?"
"There are times when I have hoped that even that fable were true; but you have promised
me rest, will you keep your word?"
"That will I most certainly; but will you keep yours? You have promised me some details
of your extraordinary existence, and as a divine, and I hope in some degree as a
philosopher, I look for them with some degree of anxiety."
"You shall have them -- leave me pens, ink and paper, and in the solitude of this room,
until to-morrow morning, and you shall have what I believe to be the origin of this most
horrible career."
"Your wishes shall be consulted -- but, will you not take refreshment?"
"Nothing -- nothing. My refreshment is one I need not name to you, and when forced by
the world's customs and considerations of my own safety, I have partaken of man's usual
food, if has but ill accorded with my preternatural existence, I eat not -- drink not -- here.
You know me as I am."
As he continued speaking, Varney evidently grew weaker, and Mr. Bevan could scarcely
persuade himself that it was not through actual want of nourishment, but the Vampyre
assured him that it was not so, and that rest would recruit him, to which opinion, as the
experience of human nature generally afforded no index to Varney's peculiar habits, he was
forced to subscribe.

There was a couch in the room, and upon that Varney laid himself, and as he seemed
indisposed for further conversation, Mr. Bevan left him, promising to return to him as he
himself requested in the morning, with the hope of finding that he had completed some sort
of narrative to the effect mentioned.
It can scarcely be said that Mr. Bevan had thoroughly made up his mind to leave his guest
for so long a period, and as there was a window that looked from the study in his little
garden, he thought, that by now and then peeping in, to see that all was right, he could
scarcely be considered as breaking faith with his mysterious guest.
"He will surely attempt nothing against his own life," thought Mr. Bevan, "for already he
seems to be impressed with the futility of such an attempt, and to think that when he has
made them he has been made the sport of circumstances that had forced him back to life
again, despite all his wishes to the contrary."
Mr. Bevan reasoned thus, but he little knew what was passing in the mind of Varney the
Vampire.
After about two hours more, when the night was profoundly dark, the liberal-minded but
anxious clergyman went into his garden, for the purpose of peeping into his study, and he
then saw, as he supposed, his visitor lying enveloped in his large brown cloak, lying upon
the couch.
He was better pleased to see he was sleeping, and recovering from the great fatigue of
which he complained, instead of writing, although that writing promised to be of so
interesting a character, and he crept softly away for fear of awakening him.
The hour had now arrived at which Mr. Bevan usually retired to rest, but he delayed
doing so, and let two hours more elapse, after which, he again stole out of his garden, and
peeped into the study.
There lay the long, gaunt, slumbering figure upon the couch.
"I am satisfied," said Mr. Bevan to himself; "fatigue has completely overcome him, and
he will sleep till morning now. I long much to become acquainted with his strange eventful
history."
After this, Mr. Bevan retired to rest, but not until in prayer he had offered up his thanks,
and stated his hopes of being able to turn aside from the wicked path he had been pursuing,
the wretched man who at that moment was slumbering peacefully beneath his roof.
We should have less of opposition to churchmen, if they were all like Mr. Bevan, and not
the wily, ravenous, illiberal, grasping crew they really are. There was no priestcraft in him,
he was almost enough to make one in love with his doctrines, be they what they might, so
that they were his.

Although we say that he retired to rest, we should more properly say he retired to try to
rest; for, after all, there were feelings of excitement and anxiety about him which he could
not repress wholly; and although he had every reason to believe his guest was sleeping, and
clamly sleeping too, yet he found he was becoming painfully alive to the slightest sound.
He became nervously alive to the least interruption, and kept fancying that he heard the
slightest indications of movements in the house, such as at any other time he would have
paid no attention to.
It always happened too, provokingly, that just as he was dropping into a slight slumber,
that he thought he heard one of these noises, and then he would start, awake, and sit up in
his bed, and listen attentively, until tired nature forced him to repose again.
Those who have passed such a night of watchfulness need not be told how very very
exciting it becomes, and hour after hour becomes more intense and acute, and the power of
escaping its fell influence less and less.
Indeed, it was not until the dawn of morning that Mr. Bevan tasted the sweets of sound
repose, then, as is generally usual after nights of fever and disquietude, the cool, pure, life-
giving air of early morn, produced quite a different state of feeling, and his repose was calm
and serene.
--

CHAPTER CCXI. [Chapter 228]
[Chapter 228] THE FLIGHT OF THE VAMPYRE. -- THE MASS.
As was to be expected, in consequence of the sleepless state in which he had been in the
early part of the night, Mr. Bevan did not awaken at his usually early hour; and as his
confidential servant had stolen into his room upon tip-toe, and seeing that the [sic] was
sleeping quietly and soundly, she did not think proper to disturb him.
An autumnal sun was gleaming into his lattice window when he spontaneously awoke,
and the reflection of the sunlight upon a particular portion of the wall convinced him that it
was late.
For a moment or two, he lay in that dreamy state when we are just conscious of where we
are, without having the smallest pretensions to another idea; and probably he would have
dropped to sleep again had it not been that his servant again opened the door, the lock of
which had the infirmity of giving a peculiar snap every time it was used, and that
thoroughly awakened him.
"Oh, you are awake, sir?" said his old servant, "I never knew you sleep so long. Breakfast
has been ready an hour and a half. It's a cool morning, sir, and what's worse, I can't get into
your study to light you a bit of fire, which I thought you would want."
The interruption altogether, and the mention of the study, served completely to arouse
Mr. Bevan to a remembrance of the events of the preceding evening, and he cried, --
"What's the time? What's the time?"
"It's after nine, and as for the study -- "
"Never mind the study -- never mind the study, I will be down directly."
Scarcely ever had Mr. Bevan dressed himself with such precipitation as he now did.
"How provoking," he thought, "that upon this particular occasion, when I should like to
have been up and stirring earlier than usual, I am a good hour and a half later. It can't be
helped though, and if my guest of last night is to be credited, he won't be waiting for his
breakfast."
The simple toilet of the kind-hearted clergyman was soon completed, and then he ran
down stairs to the lower part of his house, and finding that his servant was in the kitchen,
he thought he might at once proceed to his study, to speak to the extraordinary inmate.
He had furnished Varney with the means of locking himself in for the night, and it would
seem that the vampyre had fully availed himself of those means, for when Mr. Bevan tried

the door, he found himself as much at fault as his servant had been, and could not by any
means effect an admittance.
"He said his fatigue was great," remarked Mr. Bevan, "and so it seems it was, for surely
he is yet sleeping. It is a comfort when one oversleeps oneself that the necessity for one's
rising has been put off by the same means."
Unwilling to disturb Varney, and not hearing from the slightest movement from within
that he had yet done so, Mr. Bevan went to his breakfast, much better satisfied than he had
been a quarter of an hour since, and as the breakfast room adjoined the study, he had every
opportunity if the vampyre should be stirring, of hearing and attending to him.
Not above ten minutes elapsed in this kind of way, when Mr. Bevan, although he saw
nothing of his guest, heard something of the approach of a visitor, by the trampling of feet
upon the gravel walk, and upon looking through the window, he saw that it was his friend
Sir George Crofton from the hall.
It was rather an early hour for visitors, but still under the peculiar circumstances, Sir
George might be supposed not to stand upon ceremony in calling upon the clegyman of his
parish and upon his old friend, combining, as Mr. Bevan did, both these characters in one.
It was rather, though, placing the clergyman in a situation of difficulty, for while there
was nothing he so much hated as mystery and concealment, he yet could not, upon the spur
of the moment, decide whether he ought to inform Sir George of the presence of Varney or
not.
After the frightful manner in which the baronet and his family had suffered from what
might be called the machinations of the vampyre, it could scarcely be supposed that his
feelings were otherwise than in a most exasperated state, and it might, for all he knew, be
actually dangerous for the personal safety of that guest whom he had pledged his honour to
protect, to allow Sir George Crofton to know at all that he was beneath his roof.
While he was engaged in these considerations, and before he could come to anything like
a conclusion concerning them, Sir George was announced, and shown as a privileged
visitor into the parlour.
We cannot but pause to make a remark upon the stupendous change that had taken place
in the appearance of that unhappy man. When first we presented him to the reader, he was
as good a specimen of the hale hearty English gentleman, as we could wish to see; good
humour and good health beamed forth on every feature of his face; and well they might do
so, for although the past had not been unchequered by trials, the future wore to him a sunny
aspect, and some of the feelings of his youth were returning to him, in the happiness of his
children.

But what a change was now. Twenty years of ordinary existence, with extraordinary
vicissitudes, would scarcely have produced the effect that the events of the last fortnight
had upon that unhappy father.
He appeared to be absolutely sinking into the grave with grief, and not only was his
countenance strangely altered, but the tones of his voice were completely changed from
what they had been.
Alas! poor Sir George Crofton, never will the light of joy again illumine your face. There
are griefs, inevitable griefs, which time will heal, griefs which the more we look upon them
the more we find our reason array itself against them. But his sorrows were of a different
complexion, and were apt to grow more gigantic from thought.
"Good morning, Mr. Bevan," he said, "I am an early visitor, sir."
"Not more early than welcome, Sir George. I pray you to be seated."
"You are very good," said the baronet, "but when one comes at an hour like this, I am of
opinion that he ought to come with something like a good excuse for his intrusion."
"There is none needed, I assure you."
"But I have been thinking upon the advice which you have given me, Mr. Bevan, to leave
this part of the country, and try the endeavour, by the excitement and changes of foreign
travel, to lessen the weight of my calamities."
"I think your determination is a good one, Sir George."
"Probably it is the best I could adopt, but I must confess that I should set about it in better
spirit, but I am haunted by apprehensions."
"Apprehensions, Sir George! is not the worst passed?"
"It may be, and I hope to Heaven it is, but I have another child, another daughter, fair and
beautiful as my lost Clara; but what security have I that that dreadful being may not pursue
her, and with frightful vindictiveness drive her to the grave."
Mr. Bevan was silent two or three minutes, and the idea crossed him that if he could get
Sir George in the proper state of mind, it would be, perhaps, better that he should know that
the vampyre was in the house, and in such a state of mind as not to renew any outrages
against him or his family, than that he should go abroad with the dread clinging to him of
being still followed and persecuted by that dreadful being.
"Sir George," said Mr. Bevan, in an extremely serious voice, "Sir George, did you ever
reason with yourself calmly and seriously, and in a Christian spirit, about this affair."

"Calmly, Mr. Bevan! how could I reason calmly?"
"I have scarcely put my question as I ought; what I meant to ask was, what are your
personal feelings towards the vampyre? We must recollect that even he, dreadful existence
as he is, was fashioned by the same God that fashioned us; and who shall say but he may be
the victim of a horrible and stern necessity? Who shall say but he may be tortured by
remorse, and that the circumstances connected with your daughter, of which you so justly
complain, may be to him sources of the bitterest reflection? What if you were to be assured
that never more would that mysterious man cross your path, if man we can call him? Do
you think that you could then forgive him?"
"It is hard to say, but the feeling that my other child was safe would prompt me much."
"Sir George, I could make a communication to you if I thought you would listen to it
patiently; if you will swear to me to be calm."
"I swear, tell me -- oh, tell me!"
"The vampyre is in this house."
--

CHAPTER CCXII. [Chapter 229]
THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.
One may form some sort of judgment of the astonishment with which Sir George Crofton
heard this statement. He looked indeed a few moments at Mr. Bevan, as if he had a stong
suspicion that he could not possibly have heard aright, so that the good clergyman was
induced to repeat his statement, which he did, by saying, --
"Sir George, I assure you, however remarkable such a circumstance may be, and however
much you may feel yourself surprised at it, that in the extreme bitterness of spirit, and
feeling all the compunction that you could possibly wish him to feel, Varney the Vampyre
is now an inmate of this house."
Had a bomb-shell fallen at his feet, Sir George Crofton could not have felt more
surprised, and he exhibited that surprise by several times repeating to himself, --
"Varney the Vampyre an inmate of this house! Varney the Vampyre here!"
"Yes," said Mr. Bevan, "here, an inmate of this house. He is within a few paces of you,
slumbering in the next apartment, and from his own lips you shall have the assurance that
never again will you have any trouble on his account, and that he most bitterly and most
deeply regrets the suffering he had brought upon you and yours."
"Will that regret," said Sir George, excitedly, "restore the dead? Will that regret give me
my child again? Will it open the portals of the grave, and restore her to me who was the life
and joy of my existence? Tell me, will it do that? If not, what is his regret to me?"
"No, Sir George, no, his regret will not do that. There is such power, but it is not upon
earth. Heaven delegates not such fearful responsibilities to any of its creatures, and the only
reason which has induced me to make this confidence was to take from you the fearful
anxiety of fancying yourself followed by that dreadful being."
"Vengeance," replied Sir George Crofton, "vengeance shall be mine. In the name of my
lost child, I cry for vengeance. Shall he not perish who has made her whom I love perish?
Make way, Mr. Bevan, make way."
"No, Sir George, no, this is my house. I, as a Christian minister, offered the hospitality of
its roof to Varney the Vampyre, and I cannot violate my word."
"You speak, sir, to a desperate man," cried "Sir George; "no roof to me is sanctified,
beneath which the murderer of my child finds a shelter. Mr. Bevan, the respect that one
man has for another, or ever has had for another, cannot exceed the respect I have for you;
but with all that, sir, I cannot forget my own personal wrongs; the shade of my murdered
Clara beckons me."

"Fly, Varney, fly," cried Mr. Bevan, "fly."
"Is it so?" said Sir George; "do you then side with my direst foe?"
"No -- no, I side with Sir George Croton against his own furious unbridled passions."
Neither from profession nor practice was Mr. Bevan one who was likely to force to resist
Sir George, and at the moment the baronet was about to lay hands upon him to hurl him
from his path, he slipped aside.
"Rash man," he said, "the time will come when you will repent this deed."
The door of the study was still fast, but to the infuriated Sir George, that opposed but a
very frail obstacle, and with the effort of a moment he forced it open, and rushed into the
apartment.
"Varney, monster," he cried, "prepare to meet your doom. Your career is at an end."
Mr. Bevan was after him, and in the room with him in a moment, fully expecting that
some very dreadful scene would ensue, as a consequence of the unbridled passion of Sir
George Crofton.
Sir George Crofton was standing in the centre of the apartment with Varney's large brown
cloak in his grasp, which he had dragged from the sofa, but the vampyre himself was not to
be seen.
"Escaped!" he cried, "escaped!"
"Thank Heaven, then," said Mr. Bevan, "that this roof has not been desecrated by an act
of violence. Oh, Sir George, it is a mercy that time has been given to think he has escaped."
"I'll follow him, were it to perdition."
Sir George was about to open the window and rush into the garden, thinking, of course, it
was by that means by which the vampyre escaped, but Mr. Bevan laid his hand upon the
smooth gravel path that was immediately below the casement.
"Behold," he said, "one of the first results of an autumnal night. That this coating of
fleecy sleet, you see, is undisturbed;p it fell about midnight; nine hours have since elapsed,
and you perceive there is no foot mark upon it, and in what direction would you chase
Varney the Vampyre while he has such a start of you?"
Infuriated with passion, as was Sir George Crofton, the reasonableness of this statement
struck him forcibly, and he became silent. A revulsion of feeling took place; he staggered to
a seat, and wept.

"Yes, he is gone," he said. "Yes, the murderer of my child is gone; vengeance is delayed,
but perhaps not altogether stopped. Oh, Mr. Bevan, Mr. Bevan, why did you tell me he was
here?"
"I do now regret having done so, but I believed him to be here, and his departure is as
mysterious to me as it can be to you."
Mr. Bevan cast his eyes upon the table, and there he saw a large packet addressed to
himself. Sir George saw it too, at the same moment, and pointing to it, said, --
"Is that the vampyre's legacy to his new friend?"
"Sir George," said Mr. Bevan, "let it suffice that the packet is addressed to me."
All the good breeding of the gentleman returned, and Sir George Crofton bowed as he left
the room, closely followed by the clergyman, who was as much bewildered by the
disappearance of Varney as even Sir George could possibly be. He had a most intense
desire to examine the packet, with the hope that there he should find some explanation or
solution of the mystery; but not being aware, of course, of what it contained, he could not
tell if it would be prudent to trust Sir George at that time with its contents.
As may be well supposed, there was a sort of restraint in the manner of both of them after
what had happened, and they did what was very rare with them both, parted without
making any appointment for the future.
But whatever might be the feelings of Sir George Crofton then, a little reflection would
be quite sure to bring him back again to a proper estimation of what was due to such a
friend as Mr. Bevan, and we cannot anticipate any serious interruption to their general
friendly intercourse.
The moment the clergyman found himself alone, he with eager steps went into his study,
and eagerly seized upon the packet that was left to him by the vampyre, the outside of
which merely bore the superscription of -- "These to the Rev. Mr. Bevan, and strictly
private."
With eagerness he tore open the envelope, and the first thing that attracted his attention
was a long, narrow slip of paper, on which were written the following words: --
"It was not my intention to trespass largely upon your hospitality; it would have been
unjust -- almost approaching to criminality so to do. I could only think of taking a brief
refuge in your house, so brief as should just enable me to avail myself of the shadows of
night to escape from a neighbourhood where I knew I should be hunted.
"The few hours which I have quietly remianed beneath your roof have been sufficient to
accomplish that object, and the we papers that I leave you accompanying this, contain the

personal information concerning me you asked. They had been previously prepared, and are
at your service.
"To attempt to follow me would be futile, for I have as ample means of making a rapid
journey as you could possibly call to your aid, and I have the advantage of many hours'
start; unter these circumstances I have no hesitation in telling you that my destination is
Naples, and that perhaps the next you hear of me will be, that some stranger in a fit of
madness has cast himself into the crater of a burning mountain, which would at once
consume him and all his sorrows.
"VARNEY THE VAMPYRE."
One may imagine the feelings with which Mr. Bevan read this most strange and
characteristic epistle -- feelings that for some moments kept him a prisoner to the most
painful thoughts.
All that he had hoped to accomplish by the introduction of Varney to his house was lost
now. He had but in fact given him a better opportunity of carrying out a terrible design -- a
design which now there really did not appear to be any means of averting the
consummation of.
"Alas! alas!" he said, "this is most grievous, and what can I do now, to avert the mischief
-- nothing, absolutely nothing. If it be true that he has, as he says he has, the means of
hastening on his journey, all pursuit would be utterly useless."
This was taking a decidedly correct view of the matter. Varney was not the sort of man, if
he really intended to reach Naples quickly, to linger on his route, and then there was
another view of the subject which could not but occur to Mr. Bevan, and that was, that his
mentioned destination might be but a blind to turn off pursuit.
--

CHAPTER CCXIII. [Chapter 230]
VARNEY GIVES SOME PERSONAL ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.
Never had Mr. Bevan in all his recollection been in such a state of hesitation as now.
He was a man usually of rapid resolves, and very energetic action; but the circumstances
that had recently taken place were of so very remarkable a nature, that he was not able to
bring to bear upon them any [po]rtion of his past experience.
He felt that he could come to no determination, but was compelled by the irresistible
force of events to be a spectator instead of an actor in what might ensue.
"I shall hear," he thought, "if any such event happens at Naples as that to which Varney
has adverted, and until I do so, or until a sufficient length of time has elapsed to make me
feel certain that he will not plunge into that burning abyss, I shall be a prey to every kind of
fear; and then again as regards Sir George Crofton. What am I to say to him? Shall I show
him this note or not?"
Even that was a question which he could not absolutely decide in his own mind, although
he was strongly inclined to think that it would be highly desirable to do so, and while he
was considering the point, and holding the note in his hand, his eye fell upon the other
papers which had been enclosed with it, and addressed to him.
Hoping and expecting that there he should find something that would better qualify him
to come to an accurate conclusion, he took up the packet, and found that the topmost paper
bore the following endorsement: --
"SOME PARTICULARS CONCERNING MY OWN LIFE."
"There, then," said Mr. Bevan, "is [w]hat he has promised me."
It was to be expected that Mr. Bevan should take up those papers with a very considerable
amount of curiosity, and as he could not think what course immediately to pursue that
would do good to Varney or anybody else, he thought he had better turn his attention at
once to the documents that the vampyre had left to his perusal.
Telling his servant, then, not to allow him to be disturbed unless the affair was a very
urgent one indeed, he closed the door of his study, and commenced reading one of the most
singular statements that ever created being placed upon paper. It was as follows: --
*****
During my brief intercourse -- and it has always been brief when of a confidential nature
with various persons -- I have created surprise by talking of individuals and events long

since swallowed up in the almost forgotten past. In these few pages I declare myself more
fully.
In the reign of the First Charles, I resided in a narrow street, in the immediate
neighbourhood of Whitehall. It was a straggling, tortuous thoroughfare, going down to the
Thames; it matters little what were my means of livelihood, but I have no hesitation in
saying that I was a well-paid agent in some of the political movements which graced and
disgraced that period.
London was then a mass of mean-looking houses; with here and there one that looked like
a palace, compared with its humbler neighbours. Almost every street appeared to be under
the protection of some great house situated somewhere in its extent, but such of those
houses as have survived the wreck of time rank now with their neighbours, and are so
strangely altered, that I, who knew many of them well, could now scarcely point to the
place where they used to stand.
I took no prominent part in the commotions of that period, but I saw the head of a king
held up in its gore at Whitehall as a spectacle for the multitude.
There were thousands of persons in England who had aided to bring about that result, but
who were very far from expecting it, and who were the first to fall under the ban of the
gigantic power they had themselves raised.
Among these were many of my employers; men, who had been quite willing to shake the
stability of a throne so far as the individual occupying it was concerned; but who certainly
never contemplated the destruction of monarchy; so the death of the First Charles, and the
dictatorship of Cromwell, made royalists in abundance.
They had raised a spirit they could not quell again, and this was a fact which the stern,
harsh man, Cromwell, with whom I had many interviews, was aware of.
My house was admirably adapted for the purposes of secrecy and seclusion, and I became
a thriving man from the large sums I received for aiding the escape of distinguished
loyalists, some of whom lay for a considerable time perdu at my house, before an eligible
opportunity arrived of dropping down the river quietly to some vessel which would take
them to Holland.
It was to offer me so much per head for these royalists that Cromwell sent for me, and
there was one in particular who had been private secretary to the Duke of Cleveland, a
young man merely, of neither family nor rank, but of great ability, whom Cromwell was
exceedingly anxious to capture.
I think there likewise must have been some private reasons which induced the dictator of
the Commonwealth to be so anxious concerning this Master Francis Latham, which was the
name of the person alluded to.

It was late one evening when a stranger came to my house, and having desired to see me,
was shown into a private apartment, when I immediately waited upon him.
"I am aware," he said, "that you have been confidentially employed by the Duke of
Cleveland, and I am aware that you have been very useful to distressed loyalists, but in
aiding Master Francis Latham, the duke's secretary, you will be permitted almost to name
your own terms."
I named a hundred pounds, which at that time was a much larger sum than now, taking
into consideration the relative value. One half of it was paid to me at once, and the other
promised within four-and-twenty hours after Latham had effected his escape.
I was told that at half-past twelve o'clock that night, a man dressed in common working
apparel, and with a broom over his shoulder would knock at my door and ask if he could be
recommended to a lodging, and that by those tokens I should know him to be Francis
Latham. A Dutch lugger, I was further told, was lying near Gravesend, on board of which,
to earn my money, I was expected to place the fugitive.
All this was duly agreed upon; I had a boat in readiness, with a couple of watermen upon
whom I could depend, and I was far from anticipating any extraordinary difficulties in
carrying out the enterprise.
I had a son about twelve years of age, who being a sharp acute lad, I found very useful
upon several occasions, and I never scrupled to make him acquainted with any such affair
as this that I am recounting.
Half-past twelve o'clock came, and in a very few minutes after that period of time there
came a knock at my door, which my son answered, and according to arrangement, there
was the person with a broom, who asked to be recommended to a lodging, and who was
immediately requested to walk in.
He seemed rather nervous, and asked me if I thought there was much risk.
"No," said I, "no more than ordinary risk in all these cases, but we must wait half an hour
'till the tide turns. For just now to struggle against it down the river would really be nothing
else but courting observation."
To this he perfectly agreed, and sat down by my fireside.
I was as anxious as he to get the affair over, for it was a ticklish job, and Oliver
Cromwell, if he had brought anything of the kind exactly home to me, would as life order
me to be shot as he would have taken his luncheon in the name of the Lord.
I accordingly went down to the water-side to speak to the men who were lying there with
the boat, and had ascertained from them that in about twenty minutes the tide would begin
to ebb in the centre of the stream, when two men confronted me.

Practised as I was in the habits and appearances of the times, I guessed at once who they
were. In fact, a couple of Oliver Cromwell's dismounted dragoons were always well
known.
"You are wanted," said one of them to [me."]
"Yes, you are particularly wanted," said the other.
"But, gentlemen, I am rather busy," said I. "In an hour's time I will do myself the
pleasure, if you please, of waiting upon you anywhere you wish to name."
The only reply they made to this was the practical one, of getting on each side of me, and
then hurrying me on, past my own door.
I was taken right away to St. James's at a rapid pace, being hurried through one of the
court yards; we paused at a small door, at which was a sentinel.
My two guides communicated something to him, and he allowed us to pass. There was a
narrow passage without any light, and through another door, at which was likewise a
sentinel, who turned the glare of a lantern upon me and my conductors. Some short
explanation was given to him likewise, during which I heard the words His Highness,
which was the title which Cromwell had lately assumed.
They pushed me through this doorway, closed it behind me, and left me alone in the dark.
--

CHAPTER CCXIV. [Chapter 231]
A SINGULAR INTERVIEW, AND THE CONSEQUENCES OF PASSION.
Being perfectly ignorant of where I was, I thought the most prudent plan was to stand
stock still, for if I advanced it might be into danger, and my retreat was evidently cut off.
Moreover, those who brought me there must have some sort of intention, and it was better
for me to leave them to develope it than to take any steps myself, which might be of a very
hazardous nature.
That I was adopting the best policy I was soon convinced, for a flash of light suddenly
came upon me, and I heard a gruff voice, say, --
"Who goes there? come this way."
I walked on, and passed through an open door way into a small apartment, in the centre of
which, standing by a common deal table on which his clenched hand was resting, I found
Oliver Cromwell himself.
"So, sirrah," he said, "royalists and pestilent characters are to ravage the land, are they so?
anwser me."
"I have no answer to make, your highness," said I.
"God's mercy, no answer, when in your own house the Duke of Cleveland's proscribed
secretary lies concealed."
I felt rather staggered, but was certain I had been betrayed by some one, and Cromwell
continued rapidly, without giving me time to speak.
"The Lord is merciful, and so are we, but the malignant must be taken by the beloved
soldiers of the Commonwealth, and the gospel God-fearing men, who always turn to the
Lord, with short carbines, will accompany you. The malignant shall be taken from your
house, by you, and the true God-fearing dragoons shall linger in the shade behind. You will
take him to the river side, where the Lord willing, there will be a boat with a small blue
ensign, on board of which you will place him, wishing him good speed."
He paused, and looked fixedly upon me by the aid of the miserable light that was in the
apartment.
"What then, your highness?" I said.
"Then you will probably call upon us to-morrow for a considerable sum, which will be
due to you for this good service to the Commonwealth; yes, it shall be profitable to fight
the battles of the Lord."

I must confess, I had expected a very different result from the interview, which I had been
greatly in fear would have resulted, in greatly endangering my liberty. Cromwell was a man
not to be tampered with; I knew my danger, and was not disposed to sacrifice myself for
Master Latham.
"Your highness shall be obeyed," I said.
"Ay, verily," he replied, "and if we be not obeyed, we must make ourselves felt with a
strong arm of flesh. What ho! God-fearing Simkins, art thon [sic] there?"
"Yes, the Lord willing," said a dragoon, making his appearance at the door.
Cromwell merely made him a sign with his hand, and he laid hold of the upper part of my
arm, as though it had been in a vice, and led me out into the passage again where the
sentinels were posted.
In the course of a few moments, I was duly in custody of my two guards again, and we
were proceeding at a very rapid pace towards my residence.
It was not a very agreeable affair, view it in whatever light I might; but as regarded
Cromwell, I knew my jeopardy, and it would be perceived that I had not hesitated a
moment in obeying him. Moreover, I considered, for I knew he was generous, I should
have a good round sum by the transaction, which added to the fifty pounds I had received
from the royalists, made the affair appear to me in a pleasant enough light. Indeed, I was
revolving in my mind as I went along, whether it would not be worth while, almost entirely
to attach myself to the protector.
"If," I reasoned with myself, "I should do that, and still preserve myself a character with
the royalists, I should thrive."
But it will be seen that an adverse circumstance put an end to all those dreams.
When we reached the door of my house, the first thing I saw was my son wiping his
brow, as if he had undergone some fatigue; he ran up to me, and catching me by the arm,
whispered to me.
I was so angered at the moment, that heedless of what I did, and passion getting the
mastery over me, I with my clenched fist struck him to the earth. His head fell upon one of
the hard round stones with which the street was paved, and he never spoke again. I had
murdered him. ** * *
I don't know what happened immediately subsequent to this fearful deed; all I can
recollect is, that there was a great confusion and a flashing of lights, and it appeared to me
as if something had suddenly struck me down to the earth with great force.

When I did thoroughly awaken, I found myself lying upon a small couch, but in a very
large apartment dimly lighted, and where there were many such couches ranged against the
walls. A miserable light just enabled me to see about me a little, and some dim dusky-
looking figures were creeping about the place.
It was a hospital that the protector had lately instituted in the Strand.
I tried to speak, but could not; my tongue seemed glued to my mouth, and I could not,
and then a change came upon my sense of sight, and I could scarely see at all the dim
dusky-looking figures about me.
Some one took hold of me by the wrist, and I heard one say, quite distinctly, --
"He's entirely going, now."
Suddenly it seemed as if something had fallen with a crushing influence upon my chest,
and then a consciousness that I was gasping for breath, and then I thought I was at the
bottom of the sea. There was a moment, only a moment, of frightful agony, and then came
a singing sound, like the rush of waters, after which, I distinctly felt some one raising me in
their arms. I was dropped again, my limbs felt numbed and chill, an universal spasm shot
through my whole system, I opened my eyes, and found myself lying in the open air, by a
newly opened grave.
A full moon was sailing through the sky and the cold beams were upon my face; a voice
sounded in my ears, a deep and solmen voice -- and painfully distinct was every word it
uttered.
"Mortimer," it said, for that was my name, "Mortimer, in life you did one deed which at
once cast you out from all hope that anything in that life would be remembered in the world
to come to your advantage. You poisoned the pure font of mercy, and not upon such as you
can the downy freshness of Heaven's bounty fall. Murderer, murderer of that being sacredly
presented to your care by the great Creator of all things, live henceforth a being accursed.
Be to yourself a desolation and a blight, shunned by all that is good and virtuous, armed
against all men, and all men armed against thee, Varney the Vampyre." * * * *
I staggered to my feet, the scene around me was a churchyard, I was gaunt and thin, my
clothes hung about me in tattered remnants. The damp smell of the grave hung about them,
I met an aged man, and asked him where I was. He looked at me with a shudder, as though
I had escaped from some charnel house.
"Why this is Isledon," said he.
A peal of bells came merrily upon the night air.
"What means that?" said I.

"Why this is the anniversary of the Restoration."
"The Restoration! What Restoration?"
"Why of the royal family to the throne, to be sure, returned this day last year. Have you
been asleep so long that you don't know that?"
I shuddered and walked on, determined to make further inquiries, and to make them with
so much caution, that the real extent of my ignorance should scarce be surmised, and the
result was to me of the most astonishing character.
I found that I had been in the trance of death for nearly two years, and that during that
period, great political changes had taken place. The exiled royal family had been restored to
the throne, and the most remarkable revulsion of feeling that had ever taken place in a
nation had taken place in England.
But personally I had not yet fully awakened to all the horror of what I was. I had heard
the words addressed to me, but I had attached no very definite meaning to them."
--

CHAPTER CCXV. [Chapter 232]
VARNEY'S NARATIVE CONTINUED.
Mr. Bevan paused when he had got thus far, to ask himself if he ought to give credence to
what he read, or put it down as the raving of some person, whose wits had become tangled
and deranged by misfortune.
Had the manuscript come to him without other circumstances to give it the air of
truthfulness, he would have read it only as a literary curiosity, but it will be remembered
that he had been a spectator of the resuscitation of Clara Crofton, which afforded of itself a
very frightful verification of Varney's story -- a story so horrible in all its details, that but
for the great interest which it really possessed, he would have deeply regretted the mixing it
up in his memory with brighter subjects.
There was something yet to read in the papers before him, and thinking that it was better
to know all at once than to leave his imagination to work upon matters so likely seriously to
affect it, he resumed his perusal of these papers, which might be considered the
autobiography of Varney. ** * *
I have already said that I was not yet fully alive to the horror of what I was, but I soon
found what the words which had been spoken to me by the mysterious being who had
exhumed me meant; I was a thing accursed, a something to be shunned by all men, a horror,
a blight, and a desolation.
I felt myself growing sick and weak, as I traversed the streets of the city, and yet I loathed
the sight of food, whenever I saw it.
I reached my own house, and saw that it had been burned down; there lay nothing but a
heap of charred ruins where it once stood.
But I had an interest in those ruins, for from time to time I had buried considerable sums
of money beneath the flooring of the lowest apartments, and I had every reason to believe,
as such a secret treasure was only known to myself, that it remained untouched.
I waited until the moon became obscured by some passing clouds, and then having a most
intimate knowledge of the locality, I commenced groping about the ruins, and removing a
portion of them, until I made my way to the spot where my money was hidden.
The morning came, however, and surprised me at my occupation; so I hid myself among
the ruins of what had once been my home for a whole day, and never once stirred from my
concealment.
Oh, it was a long and weary day. I could hear the prattle of children at play, an inn or
change-house was near at hand, and I could hear noisy drinkers bawling forth songs that
had been proscribed in the Commonwealth.

I saw a poor wretch hunted nearly to death, close to where I lay concealed, because from
the fashion of his garments, and the cut of his hair, he was supposed to belong to the
deposed party.
But the long expected night came at last. It was a dark one, too, so that it answered my
purpose well.
I had found an old rusty knife among the ruins, and with that I set to work to dig up my
hidden treasure; I was successful, and found it all. Not a guinea had been removed,
although in the immediate neighbourhood, there were those who would have sacrificed a
human life for any piece of gold that I had hoarded.
I made no enquiries about any one that had belonged to me. I dreaded to receive some
horrible and circumstantial answer, but I did get a slight piece of news, as I left the ruins,
although I asked not for it.
"There's a poor devil," said one; "did you ever see such a wretch in all your life?"
"Why, yes," said another, "he's enough to turn one's canary sour, he seems to have come
up from the ruins of Mortimers's house. By-the-by did you ever hear what became of him?"
"Yes, to be sure, he was shot by two of Cromwell's dragoons in some fracas or another."
"Ah, I recollect now, I heard as much. He murdered his son, didn't he?"
I passed on. Those words seemed to send a bolt of fire through the brain, and I dreaded
that the speaker might expatiate upon them.
A slow misty rain was falling, which caused the streets to be very much deserted, but
being extremely well acquainted with the city, I passed on till I came to that quarter which
was principally inhabited by Jews, who I knew would take my money without any
troublesome questions being asked me, and also I could procure every accomodation
required; and they did do so, for before another hour had passed over my head, I emerged
richly habited as a chevalier of the period, having really not paid to the conscientious
Israelite much more than four times the price of the clothing I walked away with.
And thus I was in the middle of London, with some hundreds of pounds in my pocket,
and a horrible uncertainty as to what I was.
I was growing fainter and fainter still, and I feared that unless I succeeded in housing
myself shortly, I should become a prey to some one who, seeing my exhausted condition,
would, notwithstanding I had a formidable rapier by my side, rob me of all I possessed.
My career has been much too long and too chequered an one even to give the briefest
sketch of. All I purpose here to relate is how I became convinced I was a vampyre, and that
blood was my congenial nourishment and the only element of my new existence.

I passed on until I came to a street where I knew the houses were large but unfashionable,
and that they were principally occupied by persons who made a trade by letting out
apartments, and there I thought I might locate myself in safety.
As I made no difficulty about terms, there was no difficulty at all of any sort, and I found
myself conducted into a tolerably handsome suite of rooms in the house of a decent-looking
widow woman, who had two daughters, young and blooming girls, both of whom regarded
me as the new lodger, with looks of anything but favour, considering my awful and
cadaverous appearance most probably as promising nothing at all in the shape of pleasant
companionship.
This I was quite prepared for -- I had seen myself in a mirror -- that was enough; and I
could honestly have averred that a more ghastly and horrible looking skeleton, attired in
silks and broad-cloth, never yet walked the streets of the city.
When I retired to my chamber, I was so faint and ill, that I could scarcely drag one foot
after the other; and was ruminating what I should do, until a strange feeling crept over me
that I should like -- -what? Blood! -- raw blood, reeking and hot, bubbling and juicy, from
the veins of some gasping victim.
A clock upon the stairs struck one. I arose and listened attentively; all was still in the
house -- still as the very grave.
It was a large old rambling building, and had belonged at one time, no doubt, to a man of
some mark and likelihood in the world. My chamber was one of six that opened from a
corridor of a considerable length, and which traversed the whole length of the house.
I crept out into this corridor, and listened again for full ten minutes, but not the slightest
sound, save my own faint breathing, disturbed the stillness of the house; and that
emboldened me so that, with my appetite for blood growing each moment stronger, I began
to ask myself from whose veins I could seek strength and nourishment.
But how was I to proceed? How was I to know in that large house which of the sleepers I
could attack with safety, for it had now come to that, that I was to attack somebody. I stood
like an evil spirit, pondering over the best means of securing a victim.
And there came over me the horrible faintness again, that faintness which each moment
grew worse, and which threatened completely to engulf me. I feared that some flush of it
would overtake me, and then I should fall to rise no more; and strange as it may appear, I
felt a disposition to cling to the new life that had been given to me. I seemed to be
acquainted already with all its horrors, but not all its joys.
Suddenly the darkness of the corridor was cleared away, and soft and mellow light crept
into it, and I said to myself, --
"The moon has risen."

Yes, the bright and beautiful moon, which I had felt the soft influence of when I lay
among the graves, had emerged from the bank of clouds along the eastern sky, its beams
descending through a little window. They streamed right through the corridor, faintly but
effectually illuminating it, and letting me see clearly all the different doors leading to the
different chambers.
And thus it was that I had light for anything I wished to do, but not information.
The moonbeams playing upon my face seemed to give me a spurious sort of strength. I
did not know until after experience what a marked and sensible effect they would always
have upon me, but I felt it even then, although I did not attribute it wholly to the influence
of the queenly planet.
I walked on through the corridor, and some sudden influence seemed to guide me to a
particular door. I know not how it was, but I laid my hand upon the lock, and said to
myself, --
"I shall find my victim here."
--

CHAPTER CCXVI. [Chapter 233]
THE NIGHT ATTACK. -- THE HORRIBLE CONCLUSION.
I paused yet a moment, for there came across me even then, after I had gone so far, a
horrible dread of what I was about to do, and a feeling that there might be consequences
arising from it that would jeopardise me greatly. Perhaps even then if a great accession of
strength had come to my aid -- mere bodily aid I mean -- I should have hesitated, and the
victim would have escaped; but, as if to mock me, there came that frightful feeling of
exhaustion which felt so like the prelude to another death.
I no longer hesitated; I turned the lock of the door, and I thought that I must be
discovered. I left it open about an inch, and then flew back to my own chamber.
I listened attentively; there was no alarm, no movement in any of the rooms -- the same
death-like stillness pervaded the house, and I felt that I was still safe.
A soft gleam of yellow looking light had come through the crevice of the door when I had
opened it. It mingled strangely with the moonlight, and I concluded correctly enough, as I
found afterwards, that a light was burning in the chamber.
It was at least another ten minutes before I could sufficiently re-assure myself to glide
from my own room and approach that of the fated sleeper; but at length I told myself that I
might safely do so, and the night was waning fast, and if anything was to be accomplished
it must be done at once, before the first beams of early dawn should chase away the spirits
of the night, and perhaps should leave me no power to act.
"What shall I be," I asked myself; "after another four-and-twenty hours of exhaustion?
Shall I have power then to make the election of what I will do or what I will not? No, I may
suffer the pangs of death again, and the scarcely less pangs of another revival."
This reasoning -- if it may be called reasoning -- decided me; and with cautious and cat-
like footsteps, I again approached the bed-room door which I had opened.
I no longer hesitated, but at once crossed the threshold, and looked around me. It was the
chamber of the youngest of my landlady's daughters, who, as far as I could judge, seemed
to be about sixteen years of age; but they had evidently been so struck with my horrible
appearance, that they had placed themselves as little as possible in my way, so that I could
not be said to be a very good judge of their ages or of their looks.
I only knew she was the youngest, because she wore her hair long, and wore it in ringlets,
which were loose and streaming over the pillow on which she slept, while her sister, I
remarked, wore her hair plaited up, and completely off her neck and shoulders.
I stood by the bed-side, and looked upon this beautiful girl in all the pride of her young
beauty, so gently and quietly slumbering. Her lips were parted, as though some pleasant

images were passing in her mind, and induced a slight smile even in her sleep. She
murmured twice, too, a word, which I thought was the name of some one -- perchance the
idol of her young heart -- but it was too indistinct for me to catch it, nor did I care to hear;
that which was perhaps a very cherished secret, indeed, mattered not to me. I made no
pretentions to her affections, however strongly in a short time I might stand in her
abhorrence.
One of her arms, which was exquisitely rounded, lay upon the coverlit; a neck, too, as
white as alabaster, was partially exposed to my gaze, but I had no passions -- it was food I
wanted.
I sprung upon her. There was a shriek, but not before I had secured a draught of life blood
from her neck. It was enough. I felt it dart through my veins like fire, and I was restored.
From that moment I found out what was to be my sustenance; it was blood -- the blood of
the young and the beautiful.
The house was thoroughly alarmed, but not before I had retired to my own chamber. I
was but partially dressed, and those few clothes I threw off me, and getting into my bed, I
feigned to be asleep; so that when a gentleman who slept likewise in the house, but of
whose presence I knew nothing, knocked hardly at my door, I affected to awaken in a
fright, and called out, --
"What is it? what is it? -- fof God's sake tell me if it is a fire."
"No, no -- but get up, sir, get up. There's some one in the place. An attempt at murder, I
think, sir."
I arose and opened the door; so by the right [sic] he carried he saw that I had to dress
myself -- he was but half attired himself, and he carried his sword beneath his arm.
"It is a strange thing," he said; "but I have heard a shriek of alarm."
"And I likewise," said I; "but I thought it was a dream."
"Help! help! help!" cried the widow, who had risen, but stood upon the threshold of her
own chamber; "thieves! thieves!"
By this time I had got on sufficient of my apparel that I could make an appearance, and,
likewise with my sword in my hand, I sallied out into the corridor.
"Oh, gentlemen -- gentlemen," cried the landlady, "did you hear anything?"
"A shriek, madam," said my fellow-lodger; "have you looked into your daughters'
chambers?"

The room of the youngest daughter was the nearest, and into that she went at once. In
another moment she appeared on the threshold again with a face as white as a sheet, then
she wrung her hands, and said, --
"Murder! murder! -- my child is murdered -- my child is murdered, Master Harding," --

which I found was the name of my fellow-lodger.
"Fling open one of the windows, and call for the watch," said he to me. "and I will search
the room, and woe be to any one that I may find within its walls unauthorised."
I did as he desired, and called the watch, but the watch came not, and then, upon a second
visit to her daughter, the landlady found she had only fainted, and that she had been
deceived in thinking she was murdered by the sudden sight of the blood upon her neck, so
the house was restored to something like quiet again, and the morning begin now near at
hand, Mr. Harding retired to his chamber, and I to mine, leaving the landlady and her eldest
daughter assiduous in their attentions to the younger.
How wonderfuly revived I felt -- I was quite a new creature when the sunlight came
dancing into my apartment. I dressed and was about to leave the house, when Mr. Harding
came out of one of the lower rooms, and intercepted me.
"Sir," he said, "I have not the pleasure of knowing you, but I have no doubt that an
ordinary feeling of chivalry will prompt you to do all in your power to obviate the dread of
such another night as the past."
"Dread, sir," said I, "the dread of what?"
"A very proper question," he said, "but one I can hardly answer; the girl states, she was
awakened by some one biting her neck, and in proof of the story she actually exhibits the
marks of teeth, and so terrified is she, that she declares that she shall never be able to sleep
again."
"You astonish me."
"No doubt -- it is sufficiently astonishing to excuse even doubts; but if you and I, who are
both inmates of the house, were to keep watch to-night in the corridor, it might have the
effect of completely quieting the imagination of the young girl, and perhaps result in the
discovery of this nocturnal disturber of the peace."
"Certainly," said I, "command me in any way, I shall have great pleasure."
"Shall it be understood, then, that we meet at eleven in your apartment or in mine."
"Whichever you may please to consider the most convenient, sir."

"I mention my own then, which is the furthest door in the corridor, and where I shall be
happy to see you at eleven o'clock."
There was a something about this young man's manner which I did not altogether like,
and yet I could not come to any positive conclusion as to whether he suspected me, and
therefore I thought it would be premature to fly, when perhaps there would be really no
occasion for doing so; on the contrary, I made up my mind to wait the result of the evening,
which might or might not be disastrous to me. At all events, I considered that I was fully
equal to taking my own part, and if by the decrees of destiny I was really to be, as it were,
repudiated from society, and made to endure a new, strange, and horrible existence, I did
not see that I was called upon to be particular how I rescued myself from difficulties that
might arise.
Relying, then, upon my own strength, and my own unscrupulous use of it, I awaited with
tolerable composure the coming of night.
During the day I amused myself by walking about, and noting the remarkable changes
which so short a period as two years had made in London. But these happened to be two
years most abundantly prolific in change. The feelings and habits of people seemed to have
undergone a thorough revolution, which I was the more surprised at when I learned by what
thorough treachery the restoration of the exiled family was effected.
The day wore on; I felt no need of refreshment, and I began to feel my own proper
position, and to feel that occasionally a draught of delicious life-blood, such as I had
quaffed the night before was fresh marrow to my bones.
I could see, when I entered the house where I had made my temporary home, that
notwithstanding that I considered my appearance wonderfully improved, that feeling was
not shared in by others, for the whole family shrunk from me as though there had been a
most frightful contamination in my touch, and as though the very air I had breathed was
hateful and deleterious. I felt convinced that there had been some conversation concerning
me, and that I was rather more than suspected. I certainly could then have left the place
easily and quietly, but I had a feeling of defiance, which did not enable me to do so.
I felt as if I were an injured being, and ought to resist a something that looked like
oppression.
"Why," I said to myself, "have I been rescued from the tomb to be made the sport of a
malignant destiny? My crime was a great one, but surely I suffered enough, when I suffered
death as an expiation of it, and I might have been left to repose in the grave."
The feelings that have since come over me held no place in my imagination, but with a
kind of defiant desperation I felt as if I should like to defeat the plan by which I was
attempted to be punished, and even in the face of Providence itself, to show that it was a
failure entailing far worse consequences upon others than upon me.

This was my impression, so I would not play the coward, and fly upon the first flash of
danger.
I sat in my own room until the hour came for my appointment with Mr. Harding, and then
I walked along the corridor with a confident step, and let the hilt end of my scabbard clank
along the floor. I knocked boldly at the door, and I thought there was a little hesitation in
his voice as he bade me walk in, but this might have been only my imagination.
He was seated at a table, fully dressed, and in addition to his sword, there was lying upon
the table before him a large holster pistol, nearly half the size of a carbine.
"You are well prepared," said I, as I pointed to it.
"Yes," he said, "and I mean to use it."
"What do they want now?" I said.
"What do who want?"
"I don't know," I said, "but I thought I heard some one call you by name from below."
"Indeed, excuse me a moment, perhaps they have made some discovery."
There was wine upon the table, and while he was gone, I poured a glass of good Rhenish
down the barrel of the pistol. I wiped it carefully with the cuff of my coat, so there was no
appearance upon the barrel of anything of the sort, and when he came back, he looked at
me very suspiciously, as he said, --
"Nobody called me, how could you say I was called."
"Because I thought I heard you called; I suppose it is allowable for human nature to be
fallible now and then."
"Yes, but then I am so surprised how you could make such a mistake."
"So am I."
It was rather a difficult thing to answer this, and looking at me very steadily, he took up
the pistol and examined the priming. Of course, that was all right, and he appeared to be
perfectly satisfied.
"There will be two chairs and a table," he said, "placed in the corridor, so that we can sit
in perfect ease. I will not anticipate that anything will happen, but if it should, I can only
say that I will not be backward in the use of my weapons."

"I don't doubt it," said I, "and commend you accordingly. That pistol must be a most
formidable weapon. Does it ever miss fire?"
"Not that I know of," he said, "I have loaded it with such extraordinary care that it
amounts to almost an impossibility that it should. Will you take some wine?"
At this moment there came a loud knocking at the door of the house. I saw an expression
of satisfaction come over his face and he sprung to his feet, holding the pistol in his grasp.
"Do you know the meaning of that knocking," said I, "at such an hour?" and at the same
time with a sweep of my arm I threw his sword off the table and beyond his reach.
"Yes," he said, rather excitedly; "you are my prisoner, it was you who caused the
mischief and confusion last night. The girl is ready to swear to you, and if you attempt to
escape, I'll blow your brains out."
"Fire at me," said I, "and take the consequences -- but the threat is sufficient, and you
shall die for your temerity."
I drew my sword, and he evidently thought his danger imminent, for he at once snapped
the pistol in my face. Of course it only flashed in the pan, but in one moment my sword
went through him like a flash of light. It was a good blade the Jew had sold me -- the hilt
struck against his breast bone, and he shrieked.
Bang! bang! bang! came again at the outer door of the house. I withdrew the reeking
blade, dashed it into the scabbard just in time to prevent my landlady from opening the
door, which she was almost in the act of doing. I seized her by the back of the neck, and
hurled her to a considerable distance, and then opening the door myself, I stood behind it,
and let three men rush into the house. After which I quietly left it, and was free." [sic]
--

CHAPTER CCXVII. [Chapter 234]
VARNEY DETAILS HIS SECOND DEATH.
The clergyman was perfectly amazed, as well he might be, at these revelations of the
vampyre. He looked up from the manuscript that Varney had left him, with a far more
bewildered look than he had ever worn when studying the most abstruse sciences or
difficult languages.
"Can I," he said, -- "ought I to believe it?"
This was a question more easily asked than answered, and after pacing the little room for
a time, he thought he had better finish the papers of the vampyre, before he tortured his
mind with any more suppositions upon the subject.
The papers continued thus, and the clergyman was soon completely absorbed in the great
interest of the strange recital they contained. ** * *
I cared nothing as regarded my last adventure, so that it had one termination which was of
any importance to me, namely, that termination which insured my safety. When I got into
the street, I walked hurriedly on, never once looking behind me, until I was far enough off,
and I felt assured all pursuit was out of the question.
I then began to bethink me what I had next to do.
I was much revived by the draught of blood I had already had, but as yet I was
sufficiently new to my vampyre-like existence not to know how long such a renewal of my
life and strength would last me.
I certainly felt vigorous, but it was a strange, unearthly sort of vigour, having no sort of
resemblance whatever to the strength which persons in an ordinary state of existence may
be supposed to feel, when the faculties are all full of life, and acting together harmoniously
and well.
When I paused, I found myself in Pall Mall, and not far off from the palace of St. James,
which of late had seen so many changes, and been the witness of such remarkable
mutations in the affair of monarchs, that its real chronicles would even then have afforded
an instructive volume.
I wandered right up to the gates of the royal pile, but then as I was about to enter the
quadrangle called the colour court, I was rudely repulsed by a sentinel.
It was not so in the time of Cromwell, but at the same moment I had quite forgotten all
that was so completely changed.

I always bow to authority when I cannot help it, so I turned aside at once, without making
any remark; but as I did so I saw a small door open, not far from where I was, and two
figures emerged muffled up in brown cloaks.
They looked nothing peculiar at the first glance, but when you came to examine the form
and features, and to observe the manners of those two men, you could not but come to a
conclusion that they were what the world would estimate as something great.
Adventure to me was life itself, now that I had so strangely shuffled off all other ties that
bound me to the world, and I had a reckless disregard of danger, which arose naturally
enough from my most singular and horrible tenure of existence. I resolved to follow these
two men closely enough, and yet, if possible, without exciting their observation.
"Shall we have any sport?" said one.
"I trust that the ladies," replied the other, "will afford us some."
"And yet they were rather coy, do you not think, on the last meeting, Rochester?"
"Your majesty -- -"
"Hush, man -- hush! why are you so imprudent as to majesty me in the public streets.
Here would be a court scandal if any eaves-dropper had heard you. You were wont to be
much more careful than that."
"I spoke," said the other, "to recal [sic] your majesty to care. The name of Rochester,
which you pronounced, is just as likely in the streets at such a time to create court scandal
as that of -- "
"Hush, hush! Did I say Rochester? Well -- well, man, hold your peace if I did, and come
on quickly -- if we can but persuade them to come out, we can take them into the garden of
the palace; I have the key of that most handy little door in the wall, which has served us
more than once."
Of course, after this, I had no difficulty in knowing that the one speaker was the restored
monarch, Charles the Second, and the other was his favourite, and dissolute companion,
Rochester, of whom I had heard something, although I had been far too short a time in the
land of the living again, to have had any opportunity of seeing either of them before, but
since they had now confessed themselves to be what they were, I could have no sort of
difficulty in their recognition at any other time.
I had carefully kept out of sight while the little dialogue I have just recorded took place,
so that although they more than once glanced around them suspiciously and keenly, they
saw me not, and having quite satisfied them that their imprudent speech had done them no
harm, they walked on hurriedly in the direction of Pimlico.

Little did Charles and his companion guess how horrible a being was following close
upon their track. If they had done so they might have paused, aghast, and pursued another
course to that which was occupying their attention I had a difficult part to play in following
them, for although the king was incautious enough to have been safely and easily followed
by any one, Rochester was not, but kept a wary eye around him, so that I was really more
than once upon the point of being detected, and yet by dint of good management I did
escape.
Pimlico at that time was rather a miserable neighbourhood, and far, very far indeed from
being what it is now, but both the king and Rochester appeared to be well acquainted with it
and they went on for a considerable distance until they came to a turning of a narrow
dismal-looking character bounded on, each side not by houses but by the garden walls of
houses, and to judge from the solidity and the height of those walls, the houses should have
been houses of some importance.
"Bravo, bravissimo!" said the king, "we are thus far into the enemy territory without
observation."
"So it seems," replied Rochester; "and now think you we can find the particular wall
again."
"Of a surety, yes. Did I not ask them to hang out a handkerchief or some other signal, by
which we might be this night guided in our search, and there it flutters."
The king pointed to the top of the wall, where a handkerchief waved and something
certainly in the shape of a human head appeared against the night sky, and as sweet a voice
as ever I heard in my life, said, --
"Gentlemen, I pray you to go away."
"What," said the king; "go away just as the sun has risen?"
"Nay, but gentlemen," said the voice, "we are afraid we are watched."
"We!" said Rochester, "you say we, and yet your fair companion is not visible."
"Fair sir," said the lady, "it is not the easiet task in the world for one of us to stand upon a
ladder. It certainly will not hold two."
"Fair lady," said the king, "and if you can but manage to come over the wall, we will all
four take one of the pleasantest strolls in the world; a friend of mine, who is a captain in the
Royal Guard, will at my request, allow us to walk in the private garden of St. James's
palace."
"Indeed."

"Yes, fair one. That garden of which you may have heard as the favourite resort of the
gay Charles."
"But we are afraid," said the lady; "our uncle may come home. It's very improper indeed -
- very indiscret -- [sic] we ought not to think of such a thing for a moment. In fact, it's
decidedly wrong gentlemen, but how are we to get over the wall?"
The party all laughed out together.
--

CHAPTER CCXVIII. [Chapter 235]
THE PALACE GARDEN IN ST. JAMES'S.
It was certainly a very ingenious speech which the lady on the wall had given utterance
to, and sufficiently exemplified how inclination was struggling with prudence. It was just
the sort of speech which suited those to whom it was addressed.
After the laughter had subsided a little Charles spoke, --
"By the help of the ladder we have," he said, "you can easily leave where you are, and as
easily return, but I perceive you lack the strength to lift it over this side so as to descend."
"Just so, "said the lady, in a low voice.
"Well, I think that by the aid of my friend Smith here, I can get up to the top of the wall,
and assist you."
Charles, by the aid of Rochester, contrived to scramble to the top of the wall, to the
assistance of the two damsels who were so fearful, and yet so willing, to risk a little danger
to their reputations, for the purpose of enjoying a walk in the king's garden at St. James's.
The idea came across me of doing some mischief, but I did not just then interfere as I
wanted to see the result of the affair. The ladder was duly pulled over by the monarch after
both the ladies had got on the top of the wall, and while Rochester steadied it below they
descended in perfect safety, and the party walked hastily from the place in the direction of
St. James's.
I followed them with great caution, after having removed the ladder to the all of a garden
several doors from the proper one. They went on talking and laughing in the gayest possible
manner, until they reached Buckingham house, and then they took a secluded path that led
them close to the gardens of St. James's.
Some overhanging trees shed such an impervious shadow upon all objects that I found I
might as well be quite near to the party as far off, so I apporached boldly and heard that the
ladies were beginning to get a little alarmed at this secret and strictly private mode of
entrance to the garden.
"Gentlemen," said one, "don't go into the garden if you have no proper leave to do so."
"Oh, but we have," said the king. "Lately I have had proper leave I assure you; it did
happen that for some time the leave was taken away, but I have it again along with a few
other little privileges that I wanted much."
"You need fear nothing," said Rochester.

They all four stood in a group by the little door, while the king fumbled about with a key
for some few minutes, before he could open the lock. At length, however, he succeeded in
doing so, and the door swung open. The king dropped the key and was unable to find it
again; so leaving the door as close as they could, the party passed onwards, and I soon
followed in their footsteps.
The place was profoundly dark.
I could feel the soft grating of fine gravel under my feet, and feeling that such a sand
might betray me, I stepped aside until I trod upon a border, as I found it to be, of velvet turf.
The odour of sweet flowers came upon my senses, and occasionally as the night wind swept
among the trees, there would be a pleasant murmuring sound quite musical in its effect.
The soft soil effectually prevented my footsteps from being heard, and I soon stood quite
close to the parties, and found that they were at the entrance of a little gaudy pavilion, from
a small painted window in which streamed a light.
The ladies seemed to be rather in a flutter of apprehension, and yet the whole affair no
doubt to them presented itself in the shape of such a charming and romantic adventure, that
I very much doubt if they would have gone back now, had they had all the opportunity in
the world so to do.
Finally they all went into the pavillion. I then advanced, and finding a window, that
commanded a good view of the interior I looked in and was much amused at what passed.
The place was decorated in a tasteful manner, although a little approaching to the gaudy,
and the pictures painted in fresco upon the walls were not precisely what the strictest
prudery would have considered correct, while at the same time there was nothing positively
offensive in them.
A table stood in the centre, and was covered with rich confectionery, and wine, while the
lamp that had sent the stream of light through the painted window was dependent from the
ceiling by three massive gilt chains.
Take it for all in all, it certainly was a handsome place.
The king and Rochester were urging the ladies to drink wine, and now that for the first
time I had an opportunity of seeing the countenances of the different persons whom I had
followed so far, I confess that I looked upon them with much curiosity. The ladies were
decidely handsome, and the youngest who had fallen to the lot of the king was very pretty
indeed, and had a look of great innocence and sweetness upon her face. I pitied her.
The king was a small, dark, sharp-featured man, and I thought that there was an obliquity
in his vision. As for Rochester, he was decidedly ugly. His face was rather flat, and of a
universal dirty looking white colour. He certainly was not calculated to win a lady's favour.
But then for all I knew, he might have a tongue to win an angel out of heaven.

Such a capacity goes much further with a woman who has any mind than all the physical
graces, and women of no mind are not worth the winning.
--

CHAPTER CCXIX. [Chapter 236]
AN ADVENTURE.-THE CARBINE SHOT.-THE DEATH.
"Nay," I heard the king say, "they ought, and no doubt do, keep choice wine here; drink,
fair one."
The young girl shook her head.
"Nay, now," said Charles with a laugh, as he finished off himself the glass that the young
girl took so small a sip of, "I will convince you that I think it good."
The lady with whom Rochester was conversing in a low tone, had no such scruples, for
she tossed off a couple of glasses as fast as they were tendered to her, and talked quite at
her ease, admiring the pavilion, the pictures, the hangings and furniture, and wondering
whether the king ever came there himself.
Rochester began mystifying her, talking to her in a low tone, while I turned my attention
to the king, and the younger, and certainly more estimable female of the two.
The king had been talking to her in a low tone, when she suddenly started to her feet, her
face flushed with anger and alarm.
"Louisa," she said, "I claim your protection; you were left in care of me. Take me home,
or I will tell my uncle how you basely betrayed your trust, by pursuading me there was no
harm in meeting those gentlemen."
"Pho! he [sic] child's mad," said Louisa.
"Quite mad," said the king, as he advanced towards her again; she fled to the door of the
pavilion. I knew not what impluse it was that urged me on, but I left the window hastily,
and met her, she fell into my arms, and the light fell strongly upon me as I confronted the
king.
"The guard. The guard," he shouted.
"Louisa pretended to faint, and the ngyon grl [young girl] clung to me as her only
protector, exclaiming, --
"Save me! save me; Oh save me!"
The garden door is open," I whispered to her, "follow me quickly, not a moment is to be
lost." We both fled together.
I was about to pass through the doorway, when a shot from one of the guards struck me,
and I fell to the ground as if the hand of a giant had struck me down. There was a rush of

blood from my heart to my head, a burning sensation of pain for a moment or two, that was
most horrible, and then a sea of yellow light seemed to be all around me.
I remembered no more.
It was afterwards that I found this was my second death, and that the favourite, Rochester,
had actually directed that I should be shot rather than permitted to escape, for he dreaded
more than the monarch did the exposure of his vices. I do not think that Charles, in like
manner, had he been at hand, would have had my life taken, although it is hard to say what
kings will do or what they will not when they are thwarted.
--

CHAPTER CCXX. [Chapter 237]
THE TOTAL DESTRUCTION OF VARNEY THE VAMPYRE, AND CONCLUSION.
The manuscript which the clergyman had read with so much interest, here abruptly
terminated. He was left to conclude that Varney after that had been resuscitated; and he was
more perplexed than ever to come to any opinion concerning the truth of the narration
which he had now concluded.
It was one week after he had finished the perusal of Varney's papers that the clergyman
read in an English newspaper the following statement.
"We extract from the Algemeine Zeitung the following most curious story, the accuracy of
which of course we cannot vouch for, but still there is a sufficient air of probability about it
to induce us to present it to our readers.
"Late in the evening, about four days since, a tall and melancholy-looking stranger
arrived, and put up at one of the principal hotels at Naples. He was a most peculiar looking
man, and considered by the persons of the establishment as about the ugliest guest they had
ever had within the walls of their place.
"In a short time he summoned the landlord, and the following conversation ensued
between him and the strange guest.
"'I want,' said the stranger, 'to see all the curiosities of Naples, and among the rest Mount
Vesuvius. Is there any difficulty?[']
"'None,' replied the landlord, 'with a proper guide.[']
"A guide was soon secured, who set out with the adventurous Englishman to make the
ascent of the burning mountain.
"They went on then until the guide did not think it quite prudent to go any further, as
there was a great fissure in the side of the mountain, out of which a stream of lava was
slowly issuing and speading [sic] itself in rather an alarming manner.
"The ugly Englishman, however, pointed to a secure mode of getting higher still, and they
proceeded until they were very near the edge of the crater itself. The stranger then took his
purse from his pocket and flung it to the guide saying, --
"'You can keep that for your pains, and for coming into some danger with me. But the
fact was, that I wanted a witness to an act which I have set my mind upon performing.'
"The guide says that these words were spoken with so much calmness, that he verily
believed the act mentioned as about to be done was some scientific experiment of which he
knew that the English were very fond, and he replied, --

"'Sir, I am only too proud to serve so generous and so distinguished a gentleman. In what
way can I be useful?'
"'You will make what haste you can,['] said the stranger, [']from the mountain, inasmuch
as it is covered with sulphurous vapours, inimical to human life, and when you reach the
city you will cause to be published an account of my proceedings, and what I say. You will
say that you accompanied Varney the Vampyre to the crater of Mount Vesuvius, and that,
tired and disgusted with a life of horror, he flung himself in to prevent the possibility of a
reanimation of his remains.'
["]Before then the guide could utter anything but a shriek, Varney took one tremendous
leap, and disappeared into the burning mouth of the mountain.["]

THE END

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Varney the vampire by James Malcolm Rymer

James Malcolm Rymer

Edición de Panteón de Juda

London Sep. 1847

Edición de Panteón de Juda

Edición de Panteón de Juda

VARNEY, THE VAMPYRE;

-- "How graves give up their dead,

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

Edición de Panteón de Juda

Edición de Panteón de Juda

"Help -- help -- help -- help!"

Edición de Panteón de Juda

Edición de Panteón de Juda

Edición de Panteón de Juda

"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."

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

"For God's sake, get up!"

"We are up," said both the young men, appearing.

"Did you hear anything?"

"Indeed we cannot, mother."

"Good God! what is the matter?"

Edición de Panteón de Juda

"Flora! Flora!" he cried; "Flora, speak!"

All was still.

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

"And so do I. What does it sound like?"

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

"This will do," he said.

"It will, it will. -- Give it to me."

"Has she not spoken?"

Edición de Panteón de Juda

"And that odd noise!"

"It opens -- it opens," cried the young man.

"Flora -- Flora!" he cried.

Edición de Panteón de Juda

"Don't rise, Henry," he cried. "Lie still."

Edición de Panteón de Juda

"God help us!" ejaculated Henry.

"Be it what or who it may, I'll follow it."

"No -- no -- do not," cried the lady.

"I see it -- I see it; it makes for the wall."

Edición de Panteón de Juda

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

"Look at it now. It will surely escape now."

Edición de Panteón de Juda

Edición de Panteón de Juda

Edición de Panteón de Juda

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE BODY. -- FLORA'S RECOVERY AND

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

"There is nothing here," said Harry.

"Nothing," added his brother.

"Then what terrible explanation can we give?"

Edición de Panteón de Juda

"True -- true," exclaimed Henry; "we will hasten home."