CHAPTER 33 THE STRANGE INTERVIEW THE CHASE THROUGH THE HALL It was with the most melancholy aspect that anything human could well bear that Sir Francis Varney took his lonely walk, although perhaps in saying so much, probably we are instituting a comparison which circumstances scarcely empower us to do. For who shall say that singular man, around whom a very atmosphere of mystery seemed to be perpetually increasing, was human? Averse as we are to believe in the supernatural or even to invest humanity with any preternatural powers, the more singular facts and circumstances surrounding the existence and the acts of that man bring to the mind a kind of shuttering conviction that if he be indeed really mortal, he still must possess some powers beyond ordinary mortality, and be walking the earth for some unhallowed purposes such as ordinary men with ordinary attributes of human nature can scarcely guess at. Silently and alone he took his way through that beautiful tract of country, comprehending such picturesque charms of hill and dale which lay between his home and Bannerworth Hall. He was evidently intent upon reaching the latter place by the shortest possible route, and in the darkness of that night, for the moon had not yet risen, he showed no slight acquaintance with the intricacies of that locality, that he was at all enabled to pursue so undeviatingly a tract as that which he took. He muttered frequently to himself low, indistinct words as he went, and chiefly did they seem to have reference to that strange interview he had so recently had with one who, from some combination of circumstances scarcely to be guessed at, evidently exercised a powerful control over him, and was enabled to make a demand upon his pecuniary resources of rather startling magnitude. And yet, from a stray word or two which were pronounced more distinctly, he did not seem to be thinking in anger over that interview, but it would appear that it rather had recalled to his remembrance circumstances of a painful and a degrading nature, which time had not been able entirely to obliterate from his recollection. Yes, yes, he said as he paused upon the margin of the wood to the confines of which he, or what seemed to be he, had once been chased by Marchdale and the Bannerworth. Yes, the very sight of that man recalls all the frightful pageantry of a horrible tragedy, which I can never, never forget. Never can it escape my memory as a horrible, a terrific fact, but it is the sight of this man alone that can recall all its fearful minutiae to my mind, and paint to my imagination in the most vivid colors every the least peculiar connected with that time of agony. These periodical visits much affect me. For months I dread them, and for months I am but slowly recovering from the shocks they give me. But once more, he says, but once more, and then we shall not meet again. Well, well, perchance before that time arrives, I may be able to possess myself of those resources which will enable me to force all his visit, and so at least free myself from the pang of expecting him. He paused at the margin of the wood and glanced in the direction of Bannerworth Hall. By the dim light which yet showed from out the light sky, he could discern the ancient gable ends and turret-like windows. He could see the well-laid out gardens and the grove of stately furs that shaded it from the northern blasts, and as he gazed a strong emotion seemed to come over him, such as no one could have supposed would for one moment have possessed the frame of one so apparently unconnected with all human sympathies. I know this spot well, he said, and my appearance here on that eventful occasion, when the dread of my approach induced a crime only second to murder itself, was on such a night as this, when all was so still and calm around, and when he who at the merest shadow of my presence rather chose to rush on death than be assured it was myself, curses on the circumstances that so foiled me. I should have been most wealthy, I should have possessed the means of commanding the adulation of those who now hold me but cheaply, but still the time may come. I have a hope yet, and that greatness which I have ever panted for, that magician-like power over my kind, which the possession of ample means alone can give, may yet be mine. Wrapping his cloak more closely around him, he strode forward with that long, noiseless step which was peculiar to him. Mechanically he appeared to avoid those obstacles of hedge and ditch which impeded his pathway. Surely he had come that road often, or he would not so easily have pursued his way. And now he stood by the edge of a plantation which, in some measure, protected from trespassers the more private gardens of the hall, and there he paused, as if a feeling of irresolution had come over him, or it might be, as indeed it seemed from his subsequent conduct, that he had come without any fixed intention, or, if with a fixed intention, without any regular plan of carrying it into effect. Did he again dream of intruding into any of the chambers of that mansion, with the ghastly aspect of that terrible creation with which, in the minds of its inhabitants, he seemed to be but too closely identified? He was pale, attenuated, and trembled. Could it be that so soon it had become necessary to renew the lifeblood in his veins, in the awful manner which had supposed the vampire brood are compelled to protract their miserable existence? It might be so, and that he was even now reflecting upon how once more he could kindle the fire of madness in the brain of that beautiful girl who he had already made so irretrievably wretched. He lent against an aged tree, and his strange, lustrous-looking eyes seemed to collect every wandering scintillation of light that was around, and to shine with preternatural intensity. I must, I will, he said, be master of Bannerworth Hall. It must come to that. I have set an existence upon its possession, and I will have it. And then, if with my own hands I displace it brick by brick and stone by stone, I will discover that hidden secret which no one but myself now dreams of. It shall be done by force or fraud, by love or by despair. I care not which. The end shall sanctify all means. I, even if I walk through blood to my desire, I say it shall be done. There was a holy and a still calmness about the night, much at variance with the storm of angry passion that appeared to be momentarily gathering power in the breast of that fearful man. Not the least sound came from Bannerworth Hall, and it was only occasionally that from a far off in the night air came the bark of some watchdog, or the low of distant cattle. All else was mute, save when the deep sepulchral tones of that man, if man he was, gave an impulse to the soft air around him. With a strolling movement, as if he were careless if he proceeded in that direction or not, he still went onward toward the house. And now he stood by that little summer house, once so sweet and so dear a retreat in which the heart-stricken flora had held her interview with him whom she loved with a devotion unknown to meet her minds. This spot scarcely commanded any view of the house, for so enclosed was it among evergreens and blooming flowers that it seemed like a very wilderness of nature, upon which, with liberal hand, she had showered down in wild luxuriance her wildest floral beauties. In and around that spot the night air was loaded with sweets. The mingled perfume of many flowers made that place seem a very paradise. But oh, how sadly it variance with that beauty, the contentedness of nature was he who stood amid such beauty. All incapable as he was of appreciating its tenderness or of gathering the faintest moral from its glory. Why am I here, he said, here without fixed design or stability of purpose, like some miser who has hidden his own horde so deeply within the bowels of the earth he cannot hope he shall ever again be able to bring them to the light of day. I hover around this spot which I feel, which I know contains my treasure, though I cannot lay my hands upon it or exult in his glistening beauty. Even as he spoke he cowered down like some guilty thing, for he heard a fair footstep upon the garden path. So light, so fragile was the step that in the light of day the very hum of summer insects would have drowned the noise. But he heard it, that man of crime, of unholy and awful impulses. He heard it, and he shrugged down among the shrubs and flowers till he was hidden completely from observation amid a world of fragrant essences. Was it someone stealthily in that place, even as he was unwelcome or unknown? Or was it one who had observed him intrude upon the privacy of those now unhappy precincts, and who was coming to deal upon him that death, which vampire though he might be, he was yet susceptible of from mortal hands? The footstep advanced, and lower down he shrunk, until his cowered heart beat against the very earth itself. He knew that he was unarmed, a circumstance rare with him, and only to be accounted for by the disturbance of his mind consequent upon the visit of that strange man to his house. Those presence had awakened so many conflicting emotions. Nearer and nearer still came that light footstep, and his deep-seated fears would not let him perceive that it was not the step of caution or of treachery, but owned its likeness to the natural grace and freedom of movement of its owner. The moon must have arisen, although obscured by clouds, through which it cast but a dim radiance, for the night had certainly grown lighter, so that although there were no strong shadows cast, a more diffused brightness was about all things, and their outlines looked not so dancing and confused the one with the other. He strained his eyes in the direction whence the sounds proceeded, and then his fears for his personal safety vanished, for he saw it was a female form that was slowly advancing towards him. His first impulse was to rise, for with the transient glimpse he got of it, he knew that it must be Flora Bannerworth.  But if the surprise of Sir Francis Varney was great to see Flora Bannerworth at such a time in such a place, we have no doubt that with the knowledge which our readers have of her, their astonishment would more than fully equal his. And when we come to consider that since that eventful period when the sanctity of her chamber had been so violated by that fearful midnight visitant, it must appear somewhat strange that she could gather courage sufficient to wander forth alone at such an hour. Had she no dread of meeting that unearthly being, did the possibility that she might fall into his ruthless grasp not come across her mind with a shuttering consciousness of its probability? Had she no reflection that each step she took was taking her further and further from those who would aid her in all extremities? It would seem not, for she walked onward, unheeding and apparently unthinking of the presence possible or probable of that bane of her existence. But let us look at her again, how strange and spectral like she moves along. There seems no speculation in her countenance, but with a strange and gliding step she walks like some dim shadow of the past in that ancient garden. She is very pale, and on her brow there is the stamp of suffering. Her dress is a morning robe, she holds it lightly around her, and thus she moves forward towards that summer house which probably to her was sanctified by having witnessed those vows of pure affection which came from the lips of Charles Holland, about whose fate there now hung so great a mystery. Has madness really seized upon the brain of that beautiful girl? Has the strong intellect really sunk beneath the oppression to which it has been subjected? Does she now walk forth with a disordered intellect, the queen of some fantastic realm, viewing the material world with eyes that are not of earth, shunning perhaps that which she should have sought, and perchance in her frenzy, seeking that which in a happier frame of mind she would have shunned? Such might have been the impression of anyone who had looked upon her for a moment, and who knew the disastrous scenes through which she had so recently passed. But we can spare our readers the pangs of such a supposition. We have bespoken their love for Flora Bannerworth, and we are certain that she has it. Therefore would we spare them, even for a few brief moments. From imagining that cruel destiny had done its worst, and that the fine and beautiful spirit we have so much commended had lost its power of rational reflection. No, thank heaven such is not the case. Flora Bannerworth is not mad, but under the strong influence of some eccentric dream which has pictured to her mind images which have no home but in the airy realms of imagination. She has wandered forth from her chamber to that sacred spot where she had met him she loved, and heard the noblest declaration of truth and constancy that ever flowed from human lips. Yes, she is sleeping, but with a precision such as the somnambulist so strangely exerts, she trod the well-known paths slowly but surely towards the summer's bower, where her dreams had not told her lay crouching that most hideous specter of her imagination, Sir Francis Varney. He who stood between her and her heart's best joy, he who had destroyed all hope of happiness, and who had converted her dearest affections into only so many causes of greater disquietude than the blessings they should have been to her. Oh, could she have imagined but for one moment that he was there, with what an eagerness of terror would she have flown back again to the shelter of those walls, where at least was to be found some protection from the fearful vampire's embrace, and where she would be within hail of friendly hearts who would stand boldly between her in every thought of harm. But she knew it not, and onward she went until the very hem of her garment touched the face of Sir Francis Varney. And he was terrified. He dared not move. He dared not speak. The idea that she had died, and that this was her spirit, came to wreak some terrible vengeance upon him, for a time possessed him, and so paralyzed with fear was he that he could neither move nor speak. It had been well if, during that trance of indecision in which his coward heart placed him, Flora had left the place, and again sought her home. But unhappily, such an impulse came not over her. She sat upon that rustic seat, where she had reposed when Charles had clasped her to his heart, and through her very dream of remembrance of that pure affection came across her, and in the tenderest and most melodious accents she said, Charles, Charles, and do you love me still? No. No, you have not forsaken me. Save me, save me from the vampire. She shuddered, and Sir Francis Varney heard her weeping. Fool that I am, he muttered, to be so terrified. She sleeps. This is one of the phases which a disordered imagination oft puts on. She sleeps, and perchance this may be an opportunity of further increasing the dread of my visitation, which shall make Bannerworth Hall far too terrible a dwelling place for her, and well I know. If she goes, they will all go. It will become a deserted house, and that is what I want.  A house, which superstition will point out as the abode of spirits. A house, as it were, by general opinion, ceded to the vampire. Yes, it shall be my own, fit dwelling place for a while for me. I have sworn it shall be mine, and I will keep my oath little such as I have to do with vows. He rose, and moved slowly to the row entrance of the summer house. A movement he could make without at all disturbing Flora, for the rustic seat on which she sat was at its furthest extremity. And there he stood, the upper part of his gaunt and hideous form clearly defined upon the now much lighter sky, so that if Flora Bannerworth had not been in that trance of sleep in which she really was one glance upward would let her see the hideous companion she had in that one much-loved spot, a spot hither too sacred to the best and noblest feelings, but now doomed forever to be associated with that terrific specter of despair. But she was in no state to seat so terrible a sight. Her hands were over her face, and she was weeping still. Surely he loves me, she whispered. He has said he loved me, and he does not speak in vain. He loves me still, and I shall again look upon his face, a heaven to me. Charles, Charles, you will come again? Surely they sin against the divinity of love, who would tell me that you love me not. Ha! muttered Varney. This passion is her first, and takes a strong hold on her young heart. She loves him, but what are human affections to me? I have no right to count myself in a great muster role of humanity. I look not like an inhabitant of the earth, and yet am of it. I love no one, expect no love from anyone, but I will make humanity a slave to me, and the lip service of them who hate me in their hearts shall be as pleasant jingling music to my ears, as if it were quite sincere. I will speak to this girl. She is not mad. Per chance she may be. There was a diabolical look of concentrated hatred upon Varney's face as he now advanced two paces towards the beautiful flora. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine. Varney's Vampire, Volume 1, by Thomas Prescott Prest. The Threat, Its Consequences, The Rescue, and Sir Francis Varney's Danger. Sir Francis Varney now paused again, and he seemed for a few moments to bloat over the helpless condition of her, whom he had so determined to make his victim. There was no look of pity in his face. No one touch of human kindness could be found in the whole expression of those diabolical features, and if he delayed making the attempt to strike terror into the heart of that unhappy but beautiful being, it could not be from any relenting feeling, but simply that he wished for a few moments to indulge his imagination with the idea of perfecting his villainy more effectively. And they who would have flown to her rescue, they who for her would have chanced all accidents, eye, even life itself, were sleeping, a new nut of the loved one's danger. She was alone, and far enough from the house to be driven to that tottering verge where sanity ends, and the dream of madness with all its terrors commences. But still she slept if that half-waking sleep could indeed be considered as anything akin to ordinary slumber. Still she slept, uncalled morefully upon her lover's name, and in tender besieging accents that should have melted even the stubbornest hearts did she express her soul's conviction that he loved her still. The very repetition of the name of Charles Holland seemed to be galling to Sir Francis Borney. He made a gesture of impatience as she again uttered it, and then, stepping forward, he stood within a pace of what she said, ending fearfully a distinct voice he said, to Laura Bannerwurst, awake, awake, and look upon me, although the sight blast you, and drive you to despair, awake, awake. It was not the sound of the voice which aroused her from the strange slumber. It is said that those who sleep in that eccentric manner are insensible to sounds, but the delightous touch will arouse them in an instant, and so it was in this case. For Sir Francis Borney, as he spoke, laid upon the hand of Laura two of his cold, corpse-like-looking fingers. A shriek burst from her lips, and although the confusion of her memory and conceptions was immense, yet she was awake, and the somnambulistic trends had left her. Help, help, she cried, gracious heavens, where am I? Borney spoke not, but he spread out his long thin arms, in such a manner that he seemed almost to encircle her, while he touched her not, so that escape became a matter of impossibility, and to attempt to do so must have been to have thrown herself into his hideous embrace. She could obtain that but a single view of the face and figure of him who opposed her progress, but slight as the view was, it more than sufficed. The very extremity of fear came across her, and she sat like one paralyzed, the only evidence of existence she gave consisting in the words. The Vampire! The Vampire! Yes, said Borney, the Vampire, you know me, Flora Bannonworth, Borney, the Vampire, your midnight guest at that feast of blood. I am the Vampire, look upon me well, shrink not from my gaze. You will do well not to shun me, but to speak to me in such a shape that I may learn to love you. Flora shook as in convulsion as she looked as white as any marble statue. This is horrible, she said. Why does not heaven grant me the death I pray for? Hold, said Borney, dress not in the false colors as imagination, that which is itself is sufficiently terrific to need none of the elder remands of romance. Flora Bannonworth, you are persecuted, persecuted by me, the Vampire. It's my fate to persecute you, for there are laws to the invisible as well to the visible creation, that force even such a being as I am, to play my part in the great drama of existence. I am a Vampire, the Sustenances to port this frame must be drawn from the lifeblood of others. Oh, horror, horror! But most I do affect the young and beautiful. It is from the veins of such a zoo-art, Flora Bannonworth, that I would seek the sustenance I am compelled to obtain for my own exhausted energies. But never yet in all my long career, a career extending over centuries of time, never yet have I felt the soft sensation of human pity, till I looked on thee, exquisite piece of excellence. Even at the moment when the reviving fluid from the cashing fountain of your veins was warming my heart, I pitied and I loved you. Oh, Flora, even I cannot feel the pang of being what I am. There was something in the tone, a touch of sadness in the manner, and a deep sincerity in those words, that in some measure disabused Flora of her fears. She sobbed hysterically, and a gush of tears came to her relief, as in almost inaudible accents she said, May the great God forgive even you. I have need of such a prayer, exclaimed Varni. Heaven knows I have need of such a prayer. May it ascend on the wings of the night air to the throne of heaven. May it be softly whispered by ministering angels to the ear of divinity. God knows I have need of such a prayer. To hear you speak in such a strain, said Flora, calms the excited fancy, and strips even your horrible presence of some of its maddening influence. Hush, said the vampire, you must hear more. You must know more ear you speak of the matters that have of late exercised an influence of terror over you. But how come I hear, said Flora, tell me that. Why, what more than earthly power have you brought me to this spot? If I am to listen to you, why should it not be at some more likely time and place? I have powers, said Varni, assuming from Flora's words that she would believe such arrogance. I have powers which suffice to bend many purposes to my will, powers incidental to my possession, and therefore is it I have brought you here to listen to that which should make you happier than you are. I will attend, said Flora. I do not shudder now. There is an icy coldness through my veins, but it is the night air. Speak, I will attend you. I will. Flora Bannerwurst, I am one who has witnessed time's mutations on man and on his works, and I have pitied neither. I have seen the fall of empires, and sighed not that high-reaching ambition was toppled in the dust. I have seen the grave close over the young and the beautiful, those whom I have doomed by my insatiable thirst for human blood to death. Long years the usual span of life was passed, but I never loved till now. Can such being as you, said Flora, be susceptible of such an earthly passion? And wherefore not? Love is either too much of heaven or too much of earth to find a home with thee. No, Flora, no. It may be that the feeling is born of pity. I will save you.  Oh, then may heaven have mercy in your hour of need. Amen. And may you even yet know peace and joy above. It is a faint and struggling hope, but if achieved it will be through the interposition of such a spirit as Zion, Flora, which has already exercised soul-bending influence upon my tortured soul, as to produce the wish within my heart to do at least one unselfish action. That wish, said Flora, shall be fathered to the deed. Heaven has boundless mercy yet. For thy sweet sake I will believe so much, Flora Bannerworse. It is a condition with my hateful race, that if we can find one human heart to love us, we are free.  And for your pure sake, and on your merits, shall I yet know heavenly happiness. Will you be mine? A cloud swept from off the face of the moon, and a slant ray fell upon the hideous features of the vampire. He looked as if just rescued from some churnal house, and then doth for a space with vitality to destroy all beauty, and harmony in nature, and drive some benighted soul to madness. No, no, no, shrieked Flora. Never! Enough, said vampire. I am answered. It was a bad proposal. I am a vampire still. Spare me, spare me. Blood. Flora sank upon her knees, and uplifted her hands to heaven. Mercy, mercy, she said. Blood, said Varni. And she saw his hideous fang-like teeth. Blood, Flora Bannerworse, the vampire's mortal. I have asked you to love me, and you will not. The penalty be yours. No, no, said Flora. Can it be possible that even you, who have already spoken with judgment and precision, can be so unjust? You must feel that, in all respects, I have been a victim, most graciously. A sufferer, whether existed no just cause that I should suffer, one who has been tortured, not from personal fault, selfishness, lapse of integrity, or honorable feelings, but because you have found it necessary, for the prolongation of your terrific existence, to attack me as you have done. By what plea of honour, honesty, or justice can I be blamed for not embracing an alternative, which is beyond all human control? I cannot love you. Then be content to suffer. Flora Bannerworse, will you not, even for a time, to save yourself and to save me, become mine? Horrible proposition! Then I am I doomed yet, perhaps, for many a cycle of years, to spread misery and desolation around me. And yet I love you with a feeling, which has in it more of gratefulness and unselfishness, than ever yet found a home within my breast. I would faint serve you, although you cannot serve me. There may yet be a chance, which shall enable you to escape from the persecution of my presence. Oh glorious chance! said Laura. Which way can it come? Tell me how I may embrace it, and such grateful feelings, as a heart-stricken mourner can offer to him, who has rescued her from her deep affection, shall yet be yours. Hear me then, Flora Bannerworse, while I state to you some particulars of mysterious existence, of such beings as myself, which never yet have been breathed to mortal ears. Flora looked intently at him and listened, while, with a serious earnestness of manner, he detailed to her something of the physiology of the singular class of beings, which the concurrence of all circumstances tended to make him appear. Flora, he said, it is not that I am so enamored of an existence to be prolonged only by such frightful means, which induces me to become a terror to you or to others. Believe me, that if my victims, those whom my insatiable thirst for blood make wretched, suffer much, I, the vampire, am not without my moments of unutterable agony. But it is a mysterious law of our nature, that as the period approaches, when the exhausted energies of life require a new support, from the warm, gushing fountains of another's veins, the strong desire to live grows upon us, until, in a paroxysm of wild insanity, which will recognize no obstacles, human or divine, we seek a victim. A fearful state, said Flora, it is so, and when the dreadful reposted hour, then again the pulse beats healthfully, and the wasted energies of a strange kind of vitality are restored to us. We become calm again, but with the calmness comes all the horror, all the agony of reflection, and we suffer far more than tongue can tell. You have my pity, said Flora, even you have my pity. I might well demand it if such a feeling held a place within your breast. I might well demand your pity, Flora Bannerwurst, for never crawled an object for edge upon the earth's retondity so pitable as I.  I will, and with such brief conclusions as I may. Having once attacked any human being, we feel a strange, but terribly impulsive desire again to seek that person for more blood. But I love you, Flora, the small amount of sensibility that still lingers about my paternal existence acknowledges in you a pure and better spirit. I would faint save you. Oh, tell me how I may escape the terrible inflection. That can only be done by flight. Leave this place, I implore you. Leave it as quickly as the movement may be made. Linger not. Cast not one regretful look behind you on your ancient home. I shall remain in this locality for years. Let me lose sight of you. I will not pursue you, but, by force of circumstances, I am myself compelled to linger here. Flight is the only means by which you may avoid a doom, as terrific as that which I endure. But tell me, said Flora, after a moment's pause, during which she appeared to be endeavoring together courage to ask some fearful question. Tell me, if it be true that those who have once endured the terrific attack of a vampire become themselves after death, one of that dread race? It is by such means, said Varni, that the frightful broad increases. But, time and circumstances must aid the development of the new and horrible assistance. You, however, are safe. Safe. Oh, say that word again. Yes, safe. Not once or twice will the vampire's attack have sufficient influence on your mortal frame, as to induce a susceptibility on your part to become co-existent with such as he. The attack must be often repeated, and the termination of mortal existence must be a consequence essential and direct from those attacks before such a result may be anticipated. Yes, yes, I understand. If you were to continue my victim from year to year, the energies of life would slowly wash away, and, till like some faint tapers gleam, consuming more sustenance than it received, the various accidents would extinguish your existence, and then, flora bannervors, you might become a vampire. Oh, horrible, most horrible. If by chance or by design the least glimpse of the cold moonbeams rested on your apparently lifeless remains, you would rise again and be one of us, a terror to yourself and a desolation to all around. Oh, I will fly from here, said flora. The hope of escape from so terrific a dreadful doom shall urge me onward if flight can save me. Flight from bannervors' hole I will pause not until continents and oceans divide us. It is well, I am able now thus calmly to reason with you. A few short months more, and I shall feel the languor of death creeping over me, and then will come the mad excitement of the brain, which, where you hidden behind triple doors of steel, would tempt me again to seek your chamber, again to see you in my full embrace, again to draw from your veins the means of prolonged life, again to convulse your very soul with terror. I need no incentives, said flora, with a shudder, in the shape of descriptions of the past to urge me on. You will fly from bannervors' hole. Yes, yes, said flora, it shall be so. Its very chambers now are hideous, with the recollections of scenes enacted in them. I will urge my brothers, my mother, all to leave. And in some distant climb we will find security and shelter. There even we will learn to think of you with more of sorrow than of anger, more pitches and reproach, more curiosities and loathing. Be it so, said the vampire, and he clasped his hands, as if with a thankfulness that he had done so much towards restoring peace at least one, who, in consequence of his acts, had felt such exquisite despair. Be it so, and even I will hope that the feelings which have induced so desolated and so isolated a being as myself, to endeavor to bring peace to one human heart, will plaid for me, trumpet-tongued, to heaven. It will, it will, said flora. Do you think so? I do, and I will pray that the thought may turn to certainty in such a cause. The vampire appeared to be much affected, and then he added, Flora, you know this spot has been the scene of a catastrophe, fearful to look back upon, in the annals of your family. It has, said Flora. I know to what you allude, it's a matter of common knowledge to all, as that seemed to me, and one I would not court. Nor would I oppress you with it. Your father, here, on this very spot, committed that desperate act, which brought him uncalled, for to the judgment seat of God. I have a strange, wild curiosity upon such subjects. Will you, in return for the good that I have tried to do you, gratify it? I know not what you mean, said Flora. To be more explicit, then, do you remember the day on which your father breathed his last? Too well, too well. Did you see him on converse with him shortly before the desperate act was committed?  Ha! what chamber? The one in which I slept myself on the night. Yes, yes, the one with the portrait, the speaking portrait, the eyes of which seemed to challenge an intruder as he enters the apartment. The same. For hours shut up there, added Varney musingly, and from thence he wandered to the garden, where, in the summer house, he breathed his last. It was so. Then, Flora, ere I bid you adieu. These words were scatterly uttered, when there was a quick, hasty footstep, and Henry Bannerworth appeared behind Varney, in the very entrance of the summer house. Now, he cried, for revenge, now for being, blot upon the earth's surface, hurlable imitation of humanity.  A shriek came from the lips of Flora, and flinging herself past Varney, who stepped aside. She clung to her brother, who made an unavailing pass with his sword at the vampire. It was a critical moment, and had the presence of mind of Varney deserted him in the least, unarmed as he was, he must have fallen beneath the weapon of Henry. To spring, however, up the seat which Flora had vacated, and to dash out some of the flimsy and rotten woodwork at the back of the summer house, was the propulsive power of his whole frame, was the work of a moment. And before Henry could free himself from the clinging embrace of Flora, Varney, the vampire, was gone, and there was no greater chance of his capture than on the former occasion, when he was pursued in vain, from the hole to the wood, in the entry casse of which he was so entirely lost. The explanation, Marchdale's advice, the projected removal, and the admiral's anger. This extremely sudden movement on the part of Varney was certainly as unexpected as it was decisive. Henry had imagined that by taking possession of the only entrance to the summer house, he must come into personal conflict with the being who had worked so much evil for him and his, and that he should so suddenly have created for himself another mode of exit, certainly never occurred to him. For heaven's sake, Flora, he said, unhand me, this is a time for action. But Henry, Henry, hear me! Presently, presently, dear Flora, I will make yet another effort to arrest the headlong flight of Varney. He shook her off, perhaps with not more roughness than was necessary to induce her to forego her grasp of him, but in a manner that fully showed he intended to be free, and then he sprang through the same aperture whence Varney had disappeared, just as George and Mr. Marchdale arrived at the door of the summer house. It was nearly morning, so that the fields brightening up with the faint radiance of the coming day, and when Henry reached a point which he knew commanded an extensive view he paused, and ran his eye eagerly over the landscape with the hope of discovering some trace of the fugitive. Such, however, was not the case. He saw nothing, heard nothing of Sir Francis Varney, and then he turned and called loudly to George to join him, and was immediately replied to by his brother's presence, accompanied by Marchdale. Before, however, they could exchange a word. A rattling discharge of firearms took place from one of the windows, and they heard the admiral, in a loud voice, shouting, broadside to broadside, give it them again, Jack, hit them between wind and water, and there was another rattling discharge, and Henry exclaimed, What is the meaning of that firing? It comes from the admiral's room, said Marchdale. On my life I think the old man must be mad. He has some six or eight pistols range in a row along the windowsill, and all loaded, so that by the aid of a match they can be pretty well discharged as a volley, which he considers the only proper means of firing upon the vampire. It is so, replied George, and no doubt, hearing an alarm, he has commenced operations by firing into the enemy. Well, well, said Henry, he must have his way. I have pursued Varney thus far, and that he has again retreated into the wood I cannot doubt. Between this and the full light of day, let us make an effort to discover his place of retreat. We know the locality as well as he can possibly, and I propose now that we commence an active search. Come on then, said Marchdale. We are alarmed, and I, for one, shall feel no hesitation in taking the life, if it be possible to do so, of that strange being, of that possibility you doubt, said George, as they hurried on across the meadows. Indeed I do, and with reason too. I am certain that when I fired at him before I hit him, and besides, Flora must have shot him upon the occasion when we were absent, and she used your pistols, Henry, to defend herself and her mother. It would seem so, said Henry, and disregarding all present circumstances if I do meet him, I will put to the proof whether he be immortal or not. The distance was not great, and they soon reached the margin of the wood. They then separated agreeing to meet within it, at a wellspring familiar to them all, previous to which each was to make his best endeavor to discover if anyone was hiding among the brushwood, or in the hollows of the ancient trees they should encounter in their line of march. The fact was that Henry finding that he was likely to pass an exceedingly disturbed, restless night through agitation of spirits had, after tossing to and fro on his couch for many hours, wisely at length risen, and determined to walk abroad in the gardens belonging to the mansion, in preference to continuing in such a state of fever and anxiety as he was in, in his own chamber. Since the vampire's dreadful visit it had become the custom of both the brothers, occasionally, to tap at the chamber door of Flora, who, at her own request, now that she had changed her room, and dispensed with anyone sitting up with her, wished occasionally to be communicated with by some member of the family. Henry then, after rapidly dressing, as he passed the door of her bedroom, was about to tap at it when to his surprise he found it open, and upon hastily entering it he observed that the bed was empty, and hastily glanced around the apartment convinced him that Flora was not there. Alarm took possession of him, and hastily arming himself he roused Marchdale and George, but without waiting for them to be ready to accompany him, he sought the garden, to search it thoroughly in case she should be anywhere there concealed. Thus it was he had come upon the conference so strangely and so unexpectedly held between Varney and Flora in the summer house, with what occurred upon that discovery the readers are acquainted. Flora had promised George that she would return immediately to the house, but when, in compliance with the call of Henry, George and Marchdale had left her alone, she felt so agitated and faint that she began to cling to the trellis work of the little building for a few moments before she could gather strength to reach the mansion. Two or three minutes might thus have elapsed, and Flora was in such a state of mental bewilderment with all that had occurred that she could scarcely believe it real, when suddenly a slight sound attracted her attention, and through the gap which had been made in the wall of the summer house, with an appearance of perfect composure again appeared Sir Francis Varney. Flora, he said, quietly returning the discourse which had been broken off, I am quite convinced now that you will be much happier for the interview. Gracious Heaven, said Flora, whence have you come from? I have never left, said Varney, but I saw you fly from this spot. You did, but it was only to another immediately outside the summer house. I had no idea of breaking off our conference so abruptly. Have you anything to add to what you have already stated? Absolutely nothing, unless you have a question to propose to me. I should have thought you had, Flora. Is there no other circumstance weighing heavily upon your mind, as well as the dreadful visitation I have subjected you to? Yes, said Flora. What has become of Charles Holland? Listen, do not discard all hope. When you are far from here, you will meet with him again. But he has left me. And yet he will be able, when you again encounter him, so far to extenduate his seeming profidity, that you shall hold him as untouched in honour, as when first he whispered to you that he loved you. O joy, joy, said Flora, by that assurance you have robbed misfortune of its sting, unrichly compensated me for all that I have suffered. I do, said the vampire. I shall now proceed to my own home by a different route, to that taken by those who would kill me. But after this, said Flora, there shall be no danger, you shall be held harmless, and our departure from Bannerworth Hall shall be so quick that you will soon be released from all apprehension of engines from my brother, and I shall taste again of that happiness which I thought had fled from me for ever. Farewell, said the vampire, and folding his cloak closely around him, he strode from the summer-house, soon disappearing from her sight behind the shrubs and ample vegetation with which that garden abounded. Flora sunk upon her knees and uttered a brief but heartfelt thanksgiving to heaven for this happy change in her destiny. The hue of health faintly again visited her cheeks, and as she now with a feeling of more energy and strength than she had been capable of exerting for many days, walked towards the house. She felt all that delightful sensation which the mind experiences when it is shaking off the tremors of some serious evil which it delights now to find, that the imagination has attired in far worse colors than the facts deserved. It is scarcely necessary, after this, to say that the search in the wood for Sir Francis Varney was an unproductive one, and that the morning dawned upon the labors of the brothers and of Mr. Marchdale without their having discovered the least indication of the presence of Varney. Again puzzled and confounded they stood on the margin of the wood and looked sadly towards the brightening windows of Bannerworth Hall, which were now reflecting with the golden radiance the slant rays of the morning sun. Foiled again, remarked Henry with a gesture of impatience, foiled again, and as completely as before, I declare that I will fight this man, let our friend the admiral say what he will against such a measure. I will meet him in mortal combat. He shall consummate his triumph over our whole family by my death, where I will rid the world and ourselves of so frightful a character. Let us hope, said Marchdale, that some other course may be adopted, which shall put an end to these proceedings. That, exclaimed Henry, is to hope against all probability what other course can be pursued, be this Varney man or devil, he has evidently marked us for his prey. Indeed it would seem so, remarked George, but yet he shall find that we will not fall so easily. He shall discover that if poor Flora's gentle spirit has been crushed by these frightful circumstances, we are of sterner mold. He shall, said Henry, I for one will dedicate my life to this matter. I will know no more rest than is necessary to recruit my frame, until I have succeeded in overcoming this monster. I will seek no pleasure here, and will banish from my mind all else that may interfere with that one fixed pursuit. He or I must fall. Well spoken, said Marchdale, and yet I hope that circumstances may occur to prevent such a necessity of action, and that probably you will yet see that it will be wise and prudent to adopt a milder and a safer course. No, Marchdale, you cannot feel as we feel. You look on more as a spectator, sympathizing with the afflictions of either, than feeling the full sting of those afflictions yourself. Do I not feel acutely for you? I am a lonely man in the world, and I have taught myself now to center my affections in your family, my recollections of early years assist me in so doing. Believe me, both of you, that I am no idle spectator of your griefs, but that I share them fully, if I advise you to be peaceful and to endure by the gentlest means possible to accomplish your aims. It is not that I would counsel you cowardice, but having seen so much more of the world than either of you have had time or opportunity of seeing, I do not look so enthusiastically upon matters, but with a cooler, calmer judgment. I do not say a better.  We thank you, said Henry. But this is a matter in which action seems specially called for. It is not to be borne that a whole family is to be oppressed by such a fiend in human shape as that Varney. Let me, said Marchdale. Counsel, you do submit to Flora's decision in this business. Let her wishes constitute the rules of action. She is the greatest sufferer, and the one most deeply interested in the termination of this fearful business. Moreover, she has judgment and decision of character. She will advise you rightly, be assured. That she would advise us honorably, said Henry, and that we should feel every disposition in the world to defer to her wishes, our proposition is not to be doubted, but little shall be done without her counsel and sanction. Let us now proceed homeward, for I am most anxious to ascertain how it came about that she and Sir Francis Varney were together in that summer house at so strange an hour. They all three walked together towards the house, conversing in the similar strain as they went. End of Chapter 35 Chapter 36 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. Recording by Roger Maline Varney the Vampire Volume 1 by Thomas Prescott-Prest Chapter 36 The Consultation The Duel and Its Results Independent of this interview which Flora had had with the much-dreaded Sir Francis Varney, the circumstances in which she and all who were dear to her happened at that moment to be placed certainly required an amount of consideration, which could not be too soon bestowed. By a combination of disagreeables, everything that could possibly occur to disturb the peace of the family seemed to have taken place at once. Like Macbeth's, their troubles had truly come in battalions, and now that the serenity of their domestic position was destroyed, minor evils and annoyances which that very serenity had enabled them to hold at arms length became gigantic and added much to their distress. The small income which, when all was happiness, health and peace, was made to constitute a comfortable household, was now totally inadequate to do so. The power to economize and to make the most of a little had flown along with that contentedness of spirit, which the harmony of circumstances alone could produce. It was not to be supposed that poor Mrs. Bannerworth could now, as she had formally done, when her mind was free from anxiety, attend to those domestic affairs which make up the comforts of a family, distracted at the situation of her daughter, and bewildered by the rapid succession of troublesome events which so short a period of time had given birth to, she fell into an inert state of mind as different as anything could be from her former act of existence. It has likewise been seen how the very domestics fled from Bannerworth Hall in dismay, rather than remain beneath the same roof with a family believed to be subject to the visitations of so awful a being as a vampire. Among the class who occupy positions of servitude, certainly there might have been found some who, with feelings and understanding above such considerations, would have clung sympathetically to that family in distress, which they had known under a happier aspect, but it had not been the good fortune of the Bannerworth to have such as these about them. Hence selfishness had its way, and they were deserted. It was not likely, then, that strangers would willingly accept service in a family so situated, without some powerful impulse in the shape of a higher pecuniary consideration, as was completely out of the power of the Bannerworths to offer. Thus was it, then, that most cruelly, at the very time that they had most need of assistance and of sympathy, this unfortunate family almost became isolated from their kind, and, apart from every other consideration, it would have been almost impossible for them to continue inhabitants of the hall with anything like comfort or advantage. And then, although the disappearance of Charles Holland no longer awakened to those feelings of inclination at his supported perfidy, which were first produced by that event, still, view it in which way they might, it was a severe blow of fate, and after it they, one and all, found themselves still less able to contend against the sea of troubles that surrounded them. The reader, too, will not have failed to remark that there was about the whole of the family, that pride of independence which induced them to shrink from living upon extraneous aid, and hence, although they felt, and felt truly, that when Admiral Bell, in his frank manner, offered them pecuniary assistance, that it was no idle compliment. Yet, with a sensitiveness such as they might well be expected to feel, they held back, and asked each other what prospect there was of emerging from such a state of things, and if it were justifiable to commence a life of dependence, the end of which was not evident or tangible. Notwithstanding, too, the noble confidence of Flora in her lover, and notwithstanding that confidence had been echoed by her brothers, there would at times obtrude into the minds of the latter a feeling of the possibility that, after all, they might be mistaken, and Charles Holland might, from some sudden impulse, fancying his future happiness was all at stake, have withdrawn himself from the hall, and really written the letters attributed to him. We say this only obtruded itself occasionally, for all their real feelings and aspirations were the other way, although Mr. Marchdale, they could perceive, had his doubts, and they could not but confess that he was more likely to view the matter calmly and dispassionately than they. In fact, the very hesitation with which he spoke upon the subject convinced them of his doubts, for they attributed that hesitation to fear of giving them pain, or of wounding the prejudices of Admiral Bell, with whom he had already had words so nearly approaching to a quarrel. Henry's visit to Mr. Chillingworth was not likely to be productive of any results beyond those of a conjectural character. All that that gentleman could do was to express a willingness to be directed by them in any way, rather than suggest any course of conduct himself upon circumstances which he could not be expected to judge of, as they who were on the spot, and had witnessed their actual occurrence. And now we will suppose that the reader is enabled with us to look into one of the principal rooms of Bannerworth Hall. It is evening, and some candles are shedding a sickly light on the ample proportions of the once-handsome apartment. At solemn consultation, the whole of the family are assembled. As well as the Admiral, Mr. Chillingworth, and Marchdale, Jack Pringle, too, walked in by the sufferance of his master as if he considered he had a perfect right to do so. The occasion of the meeting had been a communication which Flora had made concerning her most singular and deeply interesting interview with the vampire. The details of this interview had produced a deep effect upon the whole of the family. Flora was there, and she looked better, calmer, and more collected than she had done for some days past. No doubt, the interview she had had with Varney in the summer house in the garden had dispelled a host of imaginary terrors with which she had surrounded him, although it had confirmed her fully that he and he only was the dreadful being who had caused her so much misery. That interview had tended to show her that about him there was yet something human, and that there was not a danger of her being hunted down from place to place by so horrible an existence. Such a feeling as this was, of course, a source of deep consolation, and with a firmer voice and more of her old spirit of cheerfulness about her than she had lately exhibited, she again detailed the particulars of the interview to all who had assembled, concluded by saying, And this has given me hope of happier days. If it be a delusion, it is a happy one, and now that but a frightful veil of mystery still hangs over the fate of Charles Holland, how gladly would I bid adieu to this place and all that has made it terrible. I could almost pity Sir Francis Varney rather than condemn him. That may be true, said Henry, to a certain extent, Sister, but we never can forget the amount of misery he has brought upon us. It is no slight thing to be forced from our old and much-loved home, even if such proceeding does succeed in freeing us from his persecutions. But, my young friend, said Marchdale, you must recollect that through life it is continually the lot of humanity to be endeavoring to fly from great evils to those which do not present themselves to the mind in so bad an aspect. It is something, surely, to alleviate affliction if we cannot entirely remove it. That is true, said Mr. Chillingworth, to a considerable extent, but then it takes too much for granted to please me. How so, sir? Why, certainly, to remove from Bannerworth Hall is a much less evil than to remain at Bannerworth Hall and be haunted by a vampire. But then that proposition takes for granted that vampire business, which I will never grant, I repeat, again and again, it is contrary to all experience, to philosophy, and to all the laws of ordinary nature. Facts are stubborn things, said Marchdale. Apparently, remarked Mr. Chillingworth. Well, sir, and here we have the fact of the vampire. The presumed fact. One swallow, don't make a summer, Mr. Marchdale. This is a waste of time, said Henry. Of course, the amount of evidence that will suffice to bring conviction to one man's mind will fail in doing so to another. The question is, what are we to do? All eyes were turned upon Flora, as if this question was more particularly addressed to her, and it behooved her above all others to answer it. She did so, and in a firm, clear voice, she said, I will discover the fate of Charles Holland and then leave the hall. The fate of Charles Holland, said Marchdale. Why, really, unless that gentleman chooses to be communicative himself upon so interesting a subject, we may be a long while discovering his fate. I know that it is not a romantic view to take of the question to suppose simply that he wrote the three letters found upon his dressing table and then decamped. But to my mind, it savors most wonderfully of matter of fact. I now speak more freely than I have otherwise done, for I am now upon the eve of my departure. I have no wish to remain here and breed dissension in any family, or to run a tilt against anybody's prejudices. Here he looked at Admiral Bell. I leave this house tonight.  The sooner you leave it the better.  I thought we'd had enough of that. I fully expected this abuse, said Marchdale. Did you expect that? said the Admiral, as he snatched up an ink stand and threw at Marchdale, hitting him a heart-knock on the chin and bespattering its contents on his breast. Now I'll give you satisfaction, you lover.  Shiver my timbers if I shan't say something strong presently. I really, said Henry, must protest, Admiral Bell, against this conduct. Protest be damned. Mr. Marchdale may be right, sir, or he may be wrong. It's a matter of opinion. Oh, never mind, said Marchdale.  If he were a younger man, I should chastise him upon the spot. But as it is, I live in hopes yet of getting him into some comfortable lunatic asylum. Me into an asylum, shouted the Admiral. Jack, did you hear that? Aye, aye, sir. Farewell, all of you, said Marchdale. My best wish is be with this family. I cannot remain under this roof to be so insulted. A good riddance, cried the Admiral.   Nay, nay, cried they. Mr. Marchdale, stay. Stay, stay, cried George. And Mrs. Banneworth likewise said, stay. But at the moment, Flora stepped forward. And in a clear voice, she said, no, let him go. He doubts Charles Holland.  Mr. Marchdale, heaven forgive you this injustice you are doing. We may never meet again. Farewell, sir. These words were spoken in so decided a tone that no one contradicted them. Marchdale cast a strange kind of look round the pond, the family circle, and in another instant, he was gone. Huzzah! shouted Jack Pringle. That's one good job. Henry looked rather resentful, which the Admiral could not but observe, and so, less with the devil may care manner in which he usually spoke, the old man addressed him. Hark ye, Mr. Henry Banneworth. You ain't best pleased with me, and in that case I don't know that I shall stay to trouble you any longer. As for your friend who has just left you, sooner or later, you'll find him out. I tell you, there's no good in that fellow. Do you think I've been cruising about for a matter of sixty years and don't know an honest man when I see him? But never mind, I'm going on a voyage of discovery for my nephew, and you can do as you like. Heaven only knows, Admiral Bell, said Henry, who is right and who is wrong? I do much regret that you have quarreled with Mr. Marchdale, but what is done can't be undone. Do not leave us, said Flora. Let me beg of you, Admiral Bell, not to leave us. For my sake, remain here, for to you I can speak freely and with confidence of Charles, when probably I can do so to no one else. You know him well and have a confidence in him, which no one else can aspire to. I pray you, therefore, to stay with us. Only on one condition, said the Admiral, name it, name it. You think of letting the haul go? Yes, yes. Let me have it then, and let me pay a few years in advance. If you don't, I'm damned if I stay another night in the place.  Those are my terms and conditions. Say yes, and all's right. Say no, and I'm off like a round shot from a caronade.  Aye, aye, sir. There was a silence of some few moments after this extraordinary offer had been made, and then they spoke, saying, Admiral Bell, your generous offer and the feelings which dictated it are by far too transparent for us to effect, not to understand them. Your actions, Admiral. Oh, bother my actions. What are they to you? Come now. I consider myself master of the house.  I invite you all to dinner, or supper, or to whatever meal comes next. Mrs. Bannerworth, will you oblige me, as I'm an old fool in family affairs, by buying what's wanted for me and my guests? There's the money, ma'am. Come along, Jack. We'll take a look over our new house. What do you think of it? Want some sheathing, sir, here and there? Very like, but, however, it'll do well enough for us. We're in port, you know. Come along. Aye, aye, sir. And off went the Admiral and Jack, after leaving a twenty-pound note in Mrs. Bannerworth's lap. End of Chapter 36, Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 37 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. Recording by Roger Maline Varney the Vampire, Volume 1, by Thomas Prescott Prest Chapter 37 Sir Francis Varney's Separate Opponents The Interposition of Flora The old Admiral so completely overcame the family of the Bannerworths by his generosity and evident single-mindedness of his behavior that, although not one, except Flora, approved of his conduct towards Mr. Marchdale, yet they could not help liking him, and had they been placed in a position to choose which of the two they would have had remain with them, the Admiral or Marchdale, there can be no question they would have made choice of the former. Still, however, it was not pleasant to find a man like Marchdale virtually driven from the house, because he presumed to differ in opinion upon a very doubtful matter with another of its inmates. But, as it was the nature of the Bannerworth family always to incline to the most generous view of subjects, the frank, hearty confidence of the old Admiral in Charles Holland pleased them better than the calm and serious doubting of Marchdale. His ruse of hiring the house of them and paying the rent in advance for the purpose of placing ample funds in their hands for any contingency was not the less amiable, because it was so easily seen through, and they could not make up their minds to hurt the feelings of the old man by the rejection of his generous offer. When he had left, this subject was canvassed among them, and it was agreed that he should have his own way in the matter for the present, although they hoped to hear something from Marchdale, which would make his departure appear less abrupt and uncomfortable to the whole of the family. During the course of this conversation, it was made known to Flora with more distinctness than under any other circumstances it would have been that Charles Holland had been on the eve of a duel with Sir Francis Varney previous to his mysterious disappearance. When she became fully aware of this fact, to her mind it seemed materially to add to the suspicions previously to them entertained that foul means had been used in order to put Charles out of the way. Who knows, she said, that this Varney may not shrink with the greatest terror from a conflict with any human being, and feeling one was inevitable with Charles Holland, unless interrupted by some vigorous act of his own, he or some myrmidons of his may have taken Charles's life. I do not think, Flora, said Henry, that he would have ventured upon so desperate an act. I cannot well believe such a thing possible, but fear not, he will find, if he have really committed any such atrocity, that it will not save him. These words of Henry, though it made no impression at the time upon Flora, beyond what they carried upon their surface, they really, however, as concerned Henry himself, implied a settled resolution which he immediately set about reducing to practice. When the conference broke up, night, as it still was, he, without saying anything to anyone, took his hat and cloak and left the hall, proceeding by the nearest practicable route to the residence of Sir Francis Varney, where he arrived without any interruption of any character. Varney was at first denied to him, but before he could leave the house, a servant came down the great staircase to say it was a mistake, and that Sir Francis was at home and would be happy to see him. He was ushered into the same apartment where Sir Francis Varney had before received his visitors, and there sat the now declared vampire, looking pale and ghastly by the dim light which burned in the apartment, and indeed, more like some specter of the tomb than one of the great family of man.  Sir Francis Varney, said Henry, I came not here to bandy compliments with you. I have none to pay to you, nor do I wish to hear any of them from your lips. An excellent sentiment, young man, said Varney, and well delivered. May I presume then, without infringing too far upon your extreme courtesy, to inquire to what circumstances I am indebted for your visit? To one, Sir Francis, that I believe you are better equated with than you have the candor to admit. Indeed, sir, said Varney, coldly, you measure my candor probably by a standard of your own, in which case I fear I may be no gainer, and yet that may be of itself a circumstance that should afford little food for surprise. But proceed, sir, since we have so few compliments to stand between us and our purpose, we shall in all due time arrive at it. Yes, in due time, Sir Francis Varney, and that due time has arrived. Know you anything of my friend Charles Holland? said Henry, in marked accents, and he gazed on Sir Francis Varney with earnestness that seemed to say not even a look should escape his observation. Varney, however, returned the gaze as steadily, but coldly, as he replied in his measured accents, I have heard of the young gentleman, and seen him, and seen him too, as you, Mr. Bannerworth, must be well aware. Surely you have not come all this way merely to make such an inquiry, but, sir, you are welcome to the answer. Henry had something of a struggle to keep down the rising anger at these cool taunts of Varney, but he succeeded, and then he said, I suspect Charles Holland, Sir Francis Varney, has met with unfair treatment, and that he has been unfairly dealt with for an unworthy purpose. Undoubtedly, said Varney, if the gentleman you allude to has been unfairly dealt with, it was for a foul purpose, for no good or generous object my young sir could be so obtained. You acknowledge so much, I doubt not? I do, Sir Francis Varney, and hence the purpose of my visit here. For this reason I apply to you, a singular object supported by a singular reason, I cannot see the connection, young sir. Pray proceed to enlighten me upon this matter, and when you have done that, may I presume upon your consideration to inquire in what way I can be of any service to you? Sir Francis, said Henry, his anger raising his tones, this will not serve you. I have come to exact an account of how you have disposed of my friend, and I will have it. Gently, my good sir, you are aware I know nothing of your friend. His motions are his own, and as to what I have done with him, my only answer is that he would permit me to do nothing with him, had I been so inclined to have taken the liberty. You are suspected, Sir Francis Varney, of having made an attempt upon the life or liberty of Charles Holland. You, in fact, are suspected of being his murderer, and so help me heaven, if I have not justice I will have vengeance. Young sir, your words are of grave import, and ought to be cruelly considered before they are uttered. With regard to justice and vengeance, Mr. Bannerworth, you may have both, but I tell you, if Charles Holland or what has become of him, I know nothing. But wherefore do you come to so unlikely a quarter to learn something of an individual of whom I know nothing? Because Charles Holland was to have fought a duel with you, but before that had time to take place, he has suddenly become missing. I suspect that you are the author of his disappearance, because you fear an encounter with a mortal man. Mr. Bannerworth, permit me to say in my own defense that I do not fear any man, however foolish he may be, and wisdom is not an attribute I find from experience in all men of your friend. However, you must be dreaming, sir. A kind of vivid insanity has taken possession of your mind, which distorts Sir Francis Varney, exclaimed Henry, now perfectly uncontrollable. Sir, said Varney as he filled up the pause, proceed. I am all attention.  If, resumed Henry, such was your object in putting Mr. Holland aside, by becoming personally or by proxy an assassin, you are mistaken in supposing you have accomplished your object.  I am all attention. Pray, proceed. You have failed, for I now here on this spot defy you to mortal combat. Coward, assassin as you are, I challenge you to fight. You don't mean on the carpet here, said Varney deliberately. No, sir, but beneath the canopy of heaven in the light of day. And then, Sir Francis, we shall see who will shrink from the conflict. It is remarkably good, Mr. Bannerworth, and begging your pardon, for I do not wish to give any offense, my honored sir. It would rehearse before an audience. In short, sir, it is highly dramatic. You shrink from the combat, do you? Now, indeed, I know you. Young man, young man, said Sir Francis, calmly and shaking his head very deliberately, and the shadows passed across his pale face. You know me not, if you think Sir Francis Varney shrinks from any man, much less one like yourself.  I do not refuse it. I accept it, said Varney, calmly and in a dignified manner, and then with a sneer, he added. You are well acquainted with the mode in which gentlemen generally manage these matters, Mr. Bannerworth, and perhaps I am somewhat confined in my knowledge in the ways of the world, because you are your own principle and second. In all my experience I never met with a similar case. The circumstances under which it is given are as unexampled, and will excuse the mode of the challenge, said Henry with much warmth. Singular coincidence. The challenge and motive it is most singular. They are well matched in that respect. Singular, did I say? The more I think of it, Mr. Bannerworth, the more I am inclined to think this positively odd. Early tomorrow, Sir Francis, you shall hear from me. In that case you will not arrange preliminaries now? Well, well, it is very unusual for the principles themselves to do so, and yet, excuse my freedom, I presumed, as you had so far deserted the beaten track, that I had no idea how far you might be disposed to lead the same route. I have said all I intended to say, Sir Francis Varney. We shall see each other again. I may not detain you, I presume, to taste odd in the way of refreshment? Henry made no reply, but turned towards the door without even making an attempt to return the grave and formal bow that Sir Francis Varney made as he saw him about to quit the apartment, for Henry saw that his pale features were lighted up with a sarcastic smile, most disagreeable to look upon, as well as irritating to Henry Bannerworth. He now quitted Sir Francis Varney's abode, being led out by a servant who had been rung for, for that purpose by his master. Henry walked homeward, satisfied that he had now done all that he could under the circumstances. I will send Chillingworth to him in the morning, and then I shall see what all this will end in. He must meet me, and then Charles Haaland, if not discovered, shall be at least revenged. There was another person in Bannerworth Hall who had formed a similar resolution. That person was a very different sort of person to Henry Bannerworth, though quite as estimable in his way. This was no other than the old admiral. It was singular that two such very different persons should deem the same steps necessary, and both keep the secret from each other. But so it was, and after some internal swearing he determined upon challenging Varney in person. I'd send Jack Pringle, but the swab would settle the matter as shortly as if a youngster was making an entry in a log, and heard the boat's one's whistle summoning the hands to a mess, and feared he would lose his grog. Damn my quarters! But Sir Francis Varney, as he styles himself, shan't make any way against the old admiral Bell. He's as tough as a hauser, and just the sort of blade for a vampire to come with force. I'll pitch him in long and make a plank of him before long. Cuss my windpipe. What a long, lanky swab he is, with teeth fit to unpick a splice. But let me alone. I'll see if I can't make a hull of his carcass. Vampire or no vampire. My nevy, Charles Holland, can't be allowed to cut away without nobody's leave or license. No. No, I'll not stand that anyhow. Never desert a mess made in the time of need is the first maxim of a seaman, and I ain't the one as'll do so. Thus, self-commuting, the old admiral marched along. Until he came to Sir Francis Varney's house, at the gate of which he gave the Bell what he called a long pole, a strong pole, and a pole altogether that set it ringing with a fury, the like of which had never certainly been heard by the household. A minute or two scarcely elapsed before the domestics hurried to answer so urgent to summons, and when the gate was opened, the servant who answered it inquired his business. What's that to you, snob? Is your master Sir Francis Varney in? Because if he be, let him know old Admiral Bell wants to speak to him. Do you hear? Yes, sir, replied the servant, who had paused a few moments to examine the individual who gave this odd kind of address. In another minute word was brought to him that Sir Francis Varney would be very happy to see Admiral Bell.  He was speedily introduced to Sir Francis Varney, who was seated in the same posture as he had been let by Henry Banneworth not many minutes before. Admiral Bell said Sir Francis, rising and bowing to that individual in the most polite, calm and dignified manner imaginable. Permit me to express the honor I feel at this unexpected visit. None of you are gammon. Will you be seated?  Damn all this! You know, Sir Francis, I don't want none of this paliver. It's for all the world like a Frenchman when you're going to give him a broadside. He makes grimaces, throws dust in your eyes, and tries to stab you in the back. Oh, no! None of that for me. I should say not, Admiral Bell. I should not like it myself, and I dare say you are a man of too much experience not to perceive when you are or are not imposed upon. Well, what is that to you? Damn me, I didn't come here to talk to you about myself. Then may I presume upon your courtesy so far as to beg that you will enlighten me upon the object of your visit? Yes, in pretty quick time. Just tell me where you have stowed away my nephew, Charles Holland. Really, I hold your slack, will you, and hear me out. If he's living, let him out, and I'll say no more about it. That's liberally a no. It ain't terms everybody would offer you. I must, in truth, admit they are not, and, moreover, they quite surprise even me, and I have learned not to be surprised at almost anything. Well, will you give him up alive? But, Harky, you mustn't have made very queer fish of him, do you see? I hear you, said Sir Francis, with a bland smile, passing one hand gently over the other, and showing his front teeth in a peculiar manner. But I really cannot comprehend all this. But I may say, generally, that Mr. Holland is no acquaintance of mine, and I have no sort of knowledge where he may be. That won't do for me, said the Admiral, positively, shaking his head. I am particularly sorry, Admiral Bell, that it will not, seeing that I have nothing else to say. I see how it is. You've put him out of the way, and I'm damned if you shan't bring him to life, whole and sound, or I'll know the reason why. With that I have already furnished you, Admiral Bell. Quietly rejoin, Varney. Anything more in that hand is out of my power. Although my willingness to oblige a person of such consideration as yourself is very great. But permit me to add, this is a very strange and odd communication from one gentleman to another. You have lost a relative who has very probably taken some offense, or some notion into his head, of which nobody but himself knows anything, and you come to one yet more unlikely to know anything of him than even yourself. Gamin again now, Sir Francis Varney, or Blarney. Varney, if you please, Admiral Bell, I was christened Varney. Christened, eh? Yes, christened. Were you not christened? If not, I daresay you understand the ceremony well enough. I should think I did. But as for christening, go on, sir. A vampire. Why I should as soon think of reading the burial service of a pig. Very possible. But what has all this to do with your visit to me? This much, you lover.  Well, Admiral Bell, said Varney, mildly. In that case, I suppose I must come out. But why do you insist that I have any knowledge of your nephew, Mr. Charles Holland? You would have fought a duel with him, and now he's gone. I am here, said Varney. I, said the Admiral, that's as plain as a person shirt upon a hand-spike, but that's the very reason why my nevy ain't here, and that's all about it. And that's Marvel as little, so far as the sense is concerned, said Varney, without the movement of a muscle. It is said that people of your class don't like fighting mortal men. Now you have disposed of him, lest he should dispose of you. That is explicit, but it is to no purpose, since the gentleman in question hasn't placed himself at my disposal. Then, damny, I will. Fish, flesh, or fowl, I don't care. All's one, to Admiral Bell. Come fair or foul, I'm a tar for all men, a seaman ever ready to face a foe. So here goes, you liberally moon-manufactured calf. I hear, Admiral, but it is scarcely civil, to say the least of it. However, as you are somewhat eccentric, and do not, I dare say, mean all your words imply, I am quite willing to make every allowance. I don't want any allowance.  Nothing but allowance of grog, and a pretty good allowance, too, will do for me.  Yes, I'm ready to hammer away, or with anything, from a pop gun to a ship's gun. You don't come over me with your gammon.  That's the truth of it. With the other part of your speech, Admiral Bell, allow me to say, you have mixed up a serious accusation, one I cannot permit to pass lightly. Will you or not fight? Oh yes, I shall be happy to serve you any way that I can. I hope this will be an answer to your accusation, also. That's settled, then. Why, I am not captious, Admiral Bell, but it is not generally usual for the principals to settle the preliminaries themselves. Doubtless you, in your career of fame and glory, know something of the manner in which gentlemen demean themselves on these occasions.  Yes, I'll send someone to do all this. Yes. Yes, Jack Pringle will be the man, though Jack ain't a holiday, sure-going, smooth-spoken swab, but as good a seaman as Evertrod Decker handled a boarding-pike. Any friend of yours, said Barney Blanley, will be received and treated as such upon an errand of such consequence. And now our conference has, I presume, concluded? Yes. Yes. We've done. Damn me, no. Yes. No. I will keel-haul you, but I'll know something of mine, Nevy Charles Holland. Good day, Admiral Bell. As Barney spoke, he placed his hand upon the bell which he had near him to summon an attendant to conduct the admiral out. The latter, who had said a vast deal more than he ever intended, left the room in a great rage, protesting to himself that he would amply avenge his nephew, Charles Holland. He proceeded homeward, considerably vexed and annoyed that he had been treated with so much calmness and all knowledge of his nephew denied. When he got back, he quarreled heartily with Jack Pringle, made it up, drank grog, quarreled, made it up, and finished with grog again, until he went to bed swearing he should like to fire a broadside at the whole of the French army and annihilate it at once. With this wish he fell asleep. Early next morning Henry Bannerworth sought Mr. Chillingworth, and having found him, he said in a serious tone, Mr. Chillingworth, I have rather a serious favor to ask you, and one which you may hesitate in granting. It must be very serious indeed, said Mr. Chillingworth, that I should hesitate to grant it to you, but pray inform me what it is you deem so serious. Sir Francis Barney and I must have a meeting, said Henry.  You know the character of your adversary? That is all settled. I have given a challenge, and he is accepted it, so all other considerations verge themselves into one, and that is the when, where, and how. I see, said Mr. Chillingworth. Well, since it cannot be helped on your part, I will do what is requisite for you. Do you wish anything to be done or insisted on in particular in this affair? Nothing with regard to Sir Francis Barney that I may not leave to your discretion. I feel convinced that he is the assassin of Charles Holland, who he feared to fight in duel. Then there remains but little else to do but to wrench preliminaries, I believe. Are you prepared on every other point? I am. You will see that I am the challenger, and that he must now fight. What accident may turn up to save him, I fear not. But sure I am that he will endeavor to take every advantage that may arise, and so escape the encounter. And what do you imagine he will do now he has accepted your challenge? Said Mr. Chillingworth. One would imagine he could not very well escape. No, but he accepted the challenge which Charles Holland sent him, a duel was inevitable, and it seems to me to be a necessary consequence that he disappeared from amongst us, for Mr. Holland would never have shrunk from the encounter. There can be no sort of suspicion about that, remarked Chillingworth, but allow me to advise you that you take care of yourself, and keep a watchful eye upon everyone. Do not be seen out alone. I fear not. Nay, the gentleman who has disappeared was, I am sure, fearless enough. But yet that has not saved him. I would not advise you to be fearful, only watchful. You have now an event waiting upon you, which it is well you should go through with, unless circumstances should so turn out that it is needless. Wherefore I say, when you have the suspicions you do entertain of this man's conduct, beware, be cautious, and vigilant. I will do so. In the meantime, I trust myself confidently in your hands. You know all that is necessary. This affair is quite a secret from all of the family? Most certainly so, and will remain so. I shall be at the hall. And there I will see you, but be careful not to be drawn into any adventure of any kind. It is best to be in the safe side under all circumstances. I will be especially careful, be assured. But, farewell, see Sir Francis Varney as early as you can, and let the meeting be as early as you can, and thus diminish the chance of accident. That I will attend to. Farewell for the present. Mr. Chillingworth immediately said about the conducting of the affairs, thus confided to him, and that no time might be lost he determined to set out at once for Sir Francis Varney's residence. Things with regard to this family seem to have gone on wild of late, thought Mr. Chillingworth. This may bring affairs to a conclusion, though I had much rather they had come to some other. My life for it there is a juggle, or a mystery, somewhere. I will do this, and then we shall see what will come of it. If this Sir Francis Varney meets him, and at the moment I can see no reason why he should not do so, it will tend to deprive him of the mystery about him. But, if on the other hand he refuse, but then that's all improbable, because he has agreed to do so. I fear, however, that such a man as Varney is a dreadful enemy to encounter. He is cool and unruffled, and that gives him all the advantage in such affairs. But Henry's nerves are not bad, though shaken by these untoward events. But time will show. I woulda were all over. With these thoughts and feelings strangely intermixed, Mr. Chillingworth set forward for Sir Francis Varney's house. Admiral Bell slept soundly enough, though towards morning he fell into a strange dream, and thought he was yard-arm and yard-arm with a strange fish, something of the mermaid species. Well, explained the Admiral, after a customary benediction of his eyes and limbs. What's to come next? May I be spliced to a shark if I understand what this is all about? I had some grog last night, but then grog, do you see, is a seamen's native element, as in his paper say, though I never read him now. It's such a plague. He lay quiet for a short time, considering in his own mind what was best to be done, and what was the proper course to pursue, and why he should dream. Hiloa, Hiloa, Hiloa, Jackahoy, ahoy! shouted the Admiral, as a sudden recollection of his challenge came across his memory. Jack Pringle, ahoy!  You're never at hand when you are wanted. Oh, you lover, ahoy! Ahoy! shouted a voice as the door opened, and Jack thrust his head in. What cheer, messmate? What ship is this?   Who says I'll desert the ship, is she sea-worthy? And why do you go away? Because I won't be called loverly. I'm as good a man as ever swabbed a deck, and don't care who says to the contrary. I'll stick to the ship as long as she's sea-worthy, said Jack. Well, come here, and just listen to the log, and be damned to you. What's the orders now, Admiral? said Jack. Though, as we are paid off... There, take that, will you? said Admiral Bell, as he flung a pillow at Jack, being the only thing in the shape of a missile within reach. Jack ducked, and the pillow produced a clatter in the wash-hand stand among the crockery, as Jack said. There's a mutiny in the ship, and hark how the cargo clatters. Will you have it back again? Come, will you? I've been dreaming, Jack. Dreaming? What's that? Thinking of something when you're asleep, you swab. Laugh, Jack.  What's the matter now? I'll tell you what's the matter, Jack Pringle. You are becoming mutinous, and I won't have it. If you don't hold your jaw and draw on your slacks, I'll have another second. Another second. What's in the wind now? said Jack. Is this the dream? If ever I dream when I'm alongside a strange craft, then it is a dream. But old Admiral Bell ain't the man to sleep when there's any work to be done. That's uncommon, true, said Jack, turning a quid. Well then, I'm to fight. Fight, exclaimed Jack. A vast there. I don't see. Where's the enemy? None of that, Gammon. Jack Pringle can fight too, and will lay alongside his admiral. But he don't see the enemy anywhere. You don't understand these things, so I'll tell you. I have had a bit of talk with Sir Francis Varney, and I am going to fight him. What? The Wampire? remarked Jack, parenthetically. Yes. Well then, resumed Jack, then we shall see another blaze, at least before we die. But he's an odd fish, one of Davy Jones's sort. I don't care about that. He may be anything he likes. But Admiral Bell ain't going to have his nephew burned and eaten, and sucked like, don't know what, by a vampire, or by any other confounded land shark. In course, said Jack, we ain't going to put up with nothing of that sort. And if so be is how he has put him out of the way, why it's our duty to send him, arder him, and square the board. That's the thing, Jack. Now you know you must go to Sir Francis Varney and tell him you come from me. I don't care if I goes on my own account, said Jack. That won't do. I've challenged him, and I must fight him. In course you will, returned Jack, and if he blows you away, why I'll take your place, and have a blaze myself.  But he's a knight, and might say no to that. But do you go to him and tell him that you come from me, to settle the when and the where this duel is to be fought. Single fight, said Jack. Yes, consent to anything that is fair, said the Admiral, but let it be as soon as you can. Now, do you understand what I have said? Yes, to be sure, I ain't lived all these years without knowing your lingo. Then go at once, and don't let the honor of Admiral Bell and Old England suffer, Jack. I am his man, you know, at any price. Never fear, said Jack, you shall fight him at any rate. I'll go and see he don't back out there warmant.  I'll not spoil sport, said Jack, as he left the room to go at once to Sir Francis Varney, charged with the conducting of the important cartel of the Admiral. Jack made the best of his way with becoming gravity and expedition until he reached the gate of the Admiral's enemy. Jack rang loudly at the gate. There seemed, if one might judge by his countenance, a something on his mind that Jack was almost another man. The gate was opened by the servant who inquired what he wanted there. The Wampire! Who? The Wampire! The servant frowned and was about to say something uncivil to Jack, who looked at him very hard, and then said, Oh, maybe you don't know him, or won't know him by that name. I want to see Sir Francis Varney. He's at home, said the servant. Who are you? Show me up then. I'm Jack Pringle, and I'm come from Admiral Bell, I'm the Admiral's friend, you see, so none of your black looks. The servant seemed amazed, as well as rather daunted, at Jack's address. He showed him, however, into the hall, where Mr. Chillingworth had just that moment arrived and was waiting for an interview with Varney.