Chapter 12 of Varney, the Vampire, this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Varney, the Vampire, Volume 1 by Thomas Prescott Press. Chapter 12. 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 receive 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 the course of true love ran not smooth, and yet how little would anyone 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 fair 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 bathed 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 vampire 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 found himself almost unconsciously engaged in a mental calculation as to how long it would last him in the night. Half a shame, then, of such terrors as such considerations 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 that party whom it represented. It was one of those kinds of portraits that seemed so lifelike that, as you look at them, they seemed to return your gaze fully and even follow you with their eyes from place to place. By candlelight, 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 lifelike appearance. Here is true skill, he said, such as I have not before seen, how strangely this likeness of a man who I never saw seems to gaze upon me. Unconsciously, too, he aided the effect which he had justly enough called lifelike by a slight movement of the candle such as anyone 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 in 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. Every 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 a different color 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 oak and 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 sat 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 thus 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 great 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 to Zidirata. 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 the 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 molding had been inserted all around, which had the effect of keeping it in its place. And it was a fracture of one of these pieces, which had first called Charles Collins' attention to the probability of the picture having been removed. That he should have, to get to, at least of the pieces of molding 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 one demanded admittance and wished to awaken his attention with the least possible chance of disturbing anyone 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 open 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 set in the moon's rays so that it was tolerably light. But he could see no one. Indeed, to look for anyone 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 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 necessity for giving up that chamber he had himself asked as a special favor 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 privato 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 color which, even though 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 terror is 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 in 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, and 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 Hollands could tell him not to come to him, as he intended to do so, for he felt ashamed to have, in a manner of speaking, summoned assistance for so trifling a cause of alarm as 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 Banner's worth, 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 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. Someone had been knocking at it, and when I go to it low, I can see nobody. Indeed, such is the case, you surprise me.  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 connection 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 molding 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 as 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 useful. Remain here a few moments, and I will endeavor to find something which will assist us in its removal. Henry left the mysterious chamber in order to search in his own for some means of removing the framework 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 molding 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 paneling 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 pre-sentiment 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 ordinary thickness, is, after all, but a bit of plain oak, and apparently fashioned for no other object than to paint the portrait on. True. Shall we replace it? Charles reluctantly ascended, and the picture was replaced in its original position. We say Charles reluctantly ascended, 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 were 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 pretty natural 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 his case a large holster pistol, he leveled 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 the 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 onto the balcony, both George Bannerworth and Mr. Marshdale 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. Marshdale 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 tonight as guard, and therefore may as well continue to do so. Marshdale 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 the 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 paint of glass will make in it, was clearly and plainly discernible. You must have hid him, said Henry. One would think so, said Charles, for that was the exact place where the figure was, and there is nothing there, added Marchdale. What can we think of these events? What resource has the mind against the most dreadful suppositions concerning them? Charles and Henry were both silent. In truth, they knew not what to think, and the words uttered by Marchdale were too strikingly true to dispute for a moment. They were lost in wonder. Human means against such an appearance as we saw tonight, said Charles, are evidently useless. My dear young friend, said Marchdale, with much emotion as he grasped Henry Banner's worth hand, and the tear stood in his eyes as he did so.   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 forever? 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. He'd nothing but an escape from such horrors as seems 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 vampire, and after this mortal life shall have ended. It is dreadful to think that 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 toward her, should become one of that dreadful tribe of beings who cling to existence by feeding in the most dreadful manner upon the lifeblood of others. Oh, it is dreadful to contemplate. Too horrible. Too horrible. Then wherefore speak of it? said Charles with some asperity.  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 Hollins, if you wed, you would look forward to being blessed with children, those sweet ties which bind the sternest of hearts to life with so exquisite a bondage.  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 holds a sad contest. I will hear no more of this, cried Charles Hollins. I will hear no more. I have done, said Mr. Marchdale, and for 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 the speaker, because his words may not sound pleasant to our ears. By heaven, said Charles with animation, I meant not to be a liberal, 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. Tomorrow, I leave this house, said Marchdale. Leave us, exclaimed Henry. I, forever. 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 that honest right hand of friendship? Henry turned to Charles Holland, saying, Charles, I know your generous nature. Say you meant no offense to my mother's old friend. If to say I meant no offense, 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 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 purposed to be. Come what may, I am the affianced husband of your sister. And she, and only she, can break us under the ties that bind me to her. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Roger Maline. Varni the Vampire, Vol. 1 by Thomas Prescott Prest. Chapter 13. The Offer for the Hall. The Visit to Sir Francis Varni. The Strange Resemblance. A Dreadful Suggestion. The party made a strict search through every nook and corner of the garden, but approved to be a fruitless one, not the least trace of anyone 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 someone, 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 vampire, 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 a 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 anyone 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 vampire 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 endeavor 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-colored, autumnal sun shone upon all objects with the golden luster, and to look abroad upon the beaming face of nature no one could for a moment suppose, except from sad experience, that there were such things as gloom, misery, and crime upon the earth. And must I, said Henry, as he gazed from a window of the hall upon the undulating park, the majestic trees, the flowers, the shrubs, and the many natural beauties with which the place was full, must I be chased from this spot, the home of myself 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 painful thought, but 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 large 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 showed 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 in 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, because I can't stay in the family as is so familiar with all sorts of 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 from a vampire family, and I don't choose to remain in a house where there is such things encouraged. That's what I mean, sir. What wages are owing to you? said Henry. Why, as to wages, I only come here by the day.  The sooner you leave this house the better. Oh, indeed, I'm sure I don't want to stay. This woman was one of those who were always armed at all points for a row, and she had no notion of concluding any engagement of any character, whatever, without some disturbance. Therefore, to see Henry take what she said was 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 vampire, 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 neighbor, 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 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 neighbors, 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 Esquire. 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 favorite 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? It is 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, advise that step, and immediately upon the back of that comes a fair and candid offer. There was an apparent connection 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 neighbor, 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 visitor, who seems now resolved to pester us with visits, will rather attach to a family than to a house. The vampire may follow us. If so, of course the parting with the hall would be a great pity and no gain. Not 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. I, and it might, with very great promise and candor, 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 vampire, he need not complete the purchase, or if you have 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 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 colors than the present, and endeavouring to induce a belief in his mind that a short period of time might, after all, replace in his mind and the minds of those who were naturally so dear to him, all their wanted 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 wanted color 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 to do so, 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 Bannaworth Hall, why did you not say so before this proposition came from other miles? 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 residents 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 gatebell. 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 that 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 neighborhood. And I have been too much occupied with the painful occurrences of this hall to know anything of our neighbors. I daresay 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 a 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 Banneworth'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 riveted upon his face as if with a species of fascination which he could not resist. Marchdale, Henry gasped. Marchdale, my friend, Marchdale, 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!  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 anyone tremble. Is this the vampire? was the horrible question that seemed impressed upon his very brain in letters of flame. Is this the vampire? 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. Banneworth, 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. Banneworth. I presume ill health has thus shattered your nerves. No, ill health has not done the work.  What mean you, sir? You know, from common report, that we have had a fearful visitor at our house. A vampire, I have heard, said Sir Francis Varney, with a bland and almost beautiful smile, which displayed his white, glistening teeth to perfection. Yes, a vampire, 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 vampire. I must, I must. Pray, sir, interrupted Varney to Marchdale, permit Mr. Banneworth to speak here freely. There is nothing in the whole world I so much admire as candor. Then you so much resemble the vampire, 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. Banneworth. 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 should know a moment when, for some most trifling cause, we may receive some serious bodily hurt. How true it is, Mr. Banneworth, that in the midst of life we are in death.  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. End of Chapter 13. Recording by Roger Moline. Chapter 14 of Varney the Vampire. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Varney the Vampire, Volume 1. By Thomas Prescott Prest. Chapter 14. 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, It will be better, Mr. Bannerworth, for a glass of wine after your walk, and you too, Sir. I am ashamed to say I have quite forgotten your name. Marchdale. Mr. Marchdale. I, 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 seatrix, of a wound in the forehead, which the painter had slightly indented in the portrait, but which was 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, vampires. 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 an answer yet 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 forever and drive her to madness. Am I so hideous? No, but you are— 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 shutter, 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 vampire. Hush, hush! I tell you, Marchdale, cried Henry in a wild, excited manner. He is a vampire. 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 vampire. There are such things. I cannot doubt now. Oh, God, I wish now that your lightnings would blast me, as here I stand forever 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?  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 vampire? Yes, but reflect, Henry, for a moment, upon the length to which you might carry out so dangerous an argument.  But that being so attacked during life by a vampire, they themselves, after death, become such. 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? I, and in any way, in any way. No mode of death should appall 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.  In life you may ward off many a blow of fate from them. I may endeavour to do so. Consider that Flora may be wholly dependent upon such kindness as you may be able to bestow upon her. Charles clings to her. 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 prophesy to you that Charles Holland will yet be so stung with the horror of the circumstances of a vampire 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 air 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 defence 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. Aye, that is a consideration. I should not think it advisable to mention the disagreeable fact that in your neighbourhood 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 I would take such a special care that no power of resuscitation should ever enable that man to again walk the earth. They say the only way of destroying a vampire 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.  The two friends had by this time reached the hall and, leaving his friend Marchdale, Henry Bannerworth, with feelings of the most enviable description, slowly made his way to the apartment occupied by his mother and sister. End of Chapter 14 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 gossipmongers of the neighborhood 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 vampire, spread the news far and wide so that in the adjoining villages and market towns, the vampire of Bannerworth Hall became quite a staple article of conversation. Such a positive godsend for the lovers of the marvelous had not appeared in the countryside within the memory of that sapient individual, the oldest inhabitant. And, moreover, there was one thing which staggered some people of better education and mature 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 vampire. Nurserymaids began to think of vampire vastly superior to old scratch and old bogey 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 fervor 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 headquarters, 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 vampire 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 Barney that a post-chase 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 color of the clothing as nearly assimilated as possible to the undressed naval uniform of an office 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 sure costume of one. He was hearty looking and well dressed, and evidently well fed. As the chase drove up to the door of the inn, this man made an observation to the other to the following effect. Ahoy! Well, you lubber, what now? cried the other. They called this the Nelson's arms, and, you know, shiver me that for the best half of his life he had but one. Damn you! was the only rejoinder he got for his observation, but with that he seemed very well satisfied. Heave, too, he then shouted to the pastillion, who was about to drive the chase into the yard. Heave, too, you rubberly 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.  Aye-aye! cried Jack. I've not been ashore now a matter of ten years, and not learnt a little shore-going politeness, Admiral. I ain't been your wally to sham without learning a thing 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 chase 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 a light, and the landlord of the inn commenced the usual perfusion of bows with which a passenger by a post-chase is usually welcomed in preference to one by a stagecoach. Be quiet, will you? shouted the Admiral, for such indeed he was. Be quiet! Best accommodation, sir. Good wine, well-air beds, good attendance, fine air. Be lay 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-a? 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 Ux Otter, you will hear of me, and I can be sent for, and I will tell you more. Yours very obediently and humbly. Josiah crinkles. Who the deuce is he? This is Ux Otter, 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 lawyer, sir, know something of each other. Makes me smile.  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 damned. 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. Aye, aye, sir, said Jack, to come a hundred and seventy miles to see a damned swab of a rascally lawyer. Aye, aye, sir, I'll smash him. Jack! Your honour? Get into the chase again. Well, but where's Master Charles? Lawyers, in course, sir, is all blessed rogues, but how some devour? He may have, for once in his life, this here one of them 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.  Because you deserves it. Mutiny! Mutiny by Jove! Jack, I'll have you put in irons.  No semen! No semen! 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 semen to stick to you and be your Wally de Cham, nor Jack Pringle. That's all the harm I wish you. You didn't call me no semen in the Bay of Corfu when the bullets were scuttling our knobs. Jack, you rascal! Give us your fin!  You'll leave me, will you? Not if I know it. Come in, then. Don't tell me I'm no semen. Call me a wagabone if you like, but don't hurt my feelings. 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.  Helloa! cried the admiral. You can send for that infernal lawyer, Mr. Landlord. Mr. Crinkle, sir? Yes, yes. Who may I have the honor to say, sir, wants to see him? Admiral Bell. Certainly, Admiral, certainly. You'll find him a very conversable, nice, gentlemanly little man, sir. And tell him Jack Pringle is here, too, cried the seamen. 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. Aye-aye, sir. If he said he was a lawyer, we would have known what to do. But it's a take-in, Jack. So I think. How some devour 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, he says to you, when I'm a big man, I'll go in his ship and fight all the French in a heap, says he. And beat him, my boy, too, he says you, because you thought he'd forgot that.  Don't we always beat him? The admiral laughed and rubbed his hands as he cried aloud. I remember Jack. I remember him.  I know you was. A damned old fool, I thought you. Come, come. Helloa there. Well, then, what do you call me no seaman for? Why, Jack, you bear malice like a marine. There you go again. Goodbye. Do you remember when we were yard-armed to yard-armed with those two Yankee frigates and took them 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.  I didn't. You did. I say I didn't. It was a marlin 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, damn it, I— Where 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 God, 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're crinkles, are you? cried the admiral.  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. Allowed? Read it to the devil, if you like, in a pig's whisper, or a West India hurricane. Oh, very good, sir. 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 appraise worthy interest in your nephew, Charles Holland, I venture to write to you concerning a matter in which your immediate and active cooperation 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 vampire is in that family, and that if he marries into it, he marries a vampire, and will have vampires 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 Ux Otter, 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 vampire, which is as follows. Vampire, a German bloodsucker. By which you perceive how many vampires, 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 bloodsuckers. The lawyer ceased to read, and the amazed look with which he glanced at the face of Admiral Bell Wood under any other circumstances have much to amused him. His mind, however, was by far too much engrossed with the consideration of the danger of Charles Holland, his nephew, to be amused at anything.  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 honor, 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 may not be able to imitate them. That letter, sir, is a forgery, and I now leave you only much grateful at the incident which has procured me the honor of an interview with a gentleman whose name will live in the history of his country. Good day, sir. Good day. No, I'm damned if you go like that, said Jack as he sprang to the door and put his back against it. You shall take a glass of wine with me in honor of the wooden walls of Old England. Damned if you is 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.  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, Starbird and Larbert, 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 Vampire. Ah, the Vampire. 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 Wampire is, unless he's some distant relation to Davy Jones.  Nobody wants you to make a remark, you great lubber. Ah, 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 knobs, and they were yard-armed to yard-armed with God knows who. Now, Mr. Lawyer, said Admiral Bell, who had about him a large share of the habits of a rough sailor.  You were 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 began 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. Come on, said Jack.  I wasn't speaking to you, shouted Jack, about two octaves higher. It's two boys in the street, as is pretending they're going to fight, and I know damn well they won't. Hold your noise. I'm going. I wasn't told to hold my noise when our knobs were being scuttled off Beirut. Never mind him, Mr. Lawyer, out of the Admiral. He don't know what he's talking about. Never mind him.  Uh, 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 weren't me I wish it had 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.  Do you see this bottle, word the Admiral? To be sure I does. I think as it's time I see it another.  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. One could lay hands sufficiently upon the figure to detain it. It had fled precipitally 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. What about my nephew, Charles? added the admiral. Of him I know nothing. Nothing?  I tell you all I have gathered from common report about this vampire 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 circumstances of anyone 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 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 Britain. Quite equal to a book he talks, said Jack. I never could read one myself, on account of not knowing how, but I've heard him read, and that's just the sort of incomprehensible gammon.  Aye-aye, sir.  Sir, I thank you. If so be as what this letter says is true, my nephew Charles has got a liking for this girl, who has had her neck bitten by a vampire, 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, 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 on 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 vampire. Wouldn't be pleasant. The young lady might have children. Oh, lots! cried Jack. Hold your noise, Jack. Aye-aye, sir. And she might herself, actually, when after death she became a vampire, come and feed on her own children. Become a vampire? What is she going to be a vampire to? My dear sir, don't you know that it's a remarkable fact, as regards the physiology of vampires, that whoever is bitten by one of those dreadful beings becomes a vampire? The devil! It is a fact, sir. Phew! whistled Jack. She might bite us all, and we should be a whole ship's crew of vampires. 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.  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. uh, uh, Crinkles. Ah, Crinkles! 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. And, by the twinkle of his eyes, one might premise that the honest little lawyer was much affected.  Farewell. Good day to you. Cried Jack. Mind how you go. Damn 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 straights with a flowing sheet, provided you don't, towards the end of the voyage, make any loverly blunders. Threw himself into a chair with a deep sigh. Jack, said he. Hey, 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 vampire. And then again, turning his face towards his master, he said, 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 of the vampire, if we can, as well, and go at the whole affair, broadside to broadside, till we make a prize of all the particulars. Arder which we can turn it over in our minds again, and see what's to be done. Jack, you are right. Come along. I know as 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. End of Chapter 15. Recording by Lisa Tobias. Fort Worth, Texas. Hypersensitive.podbean.com. Recorded in November 2007. Recording by Kalinda. Varney the Vampire, Volume 1 by Thomas Prescott Prest. Chapter 16. 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 the 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 honorable-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 were not what you were, and I desert you. Never, never, never. Charles Holland, it will be seen by some of our more philosophic neighbors, 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. Two grand feelings that seemed to possess her mind were fear of the renewed visits of the vampire, and an earnest desire to release Charles Holland from his repeated vows of constancy toward her. Feeling, generosity, and judgment all revolted holding a young man to such a destiny as hers. 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 vampire'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 semi-circular 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 center 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 maybe 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.  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.  Where now was the elasticity of that youthful step? Where now was that lustrous beaming beauty of mirthfulness which was want 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 leaned 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 with those soft accents he again endeavored 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. Oh, 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. Oh, 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.  Not tell you I love you. Oh, Flora, if my tongue, with its poor eloquence and 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 its savor ought 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 rung 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?  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 vampire. Let not that affright you. Afright 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 onto 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 wish 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 heartstrings. I—I have to add, Charles, she said in a tremulous voice. The 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 endeavor 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 those 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.  Some even of the former color 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 daydream 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 grizzly 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 peel 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. It was an awful sound. A natural one. But it's 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. Aye, but it will shine all the brighter for its temporary eclipse. The thunderstorm 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 peel 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 forever. I cannot be yours. Flora, this is madness. Think again, dear Flora. Miss Fortune's far time will hover over the best and most fortunate of us. But like the clouds that now obscure the sweet sunshine, we'll 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 luster 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, except 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.  And now there was a rapt 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, a shriek so wild and shrill that it awakened echoes far and near. Charles staggered back a step as if shot, and then in such agonized accents as he was long indeed in banishing the remembrance of, she cried, The vampire, the vampire!