The Penny Dreadfuls MEGAPACK™ (100 page)

“No, sir, he is not; but recent circumstances have shattered his nerves; and, to tell the truth, you bear so strong a resemblance to an old portrait, in his house, that I do not wonder so much as I otherwise should at his agitation.”

“Indeed.”

“A resemblance!” said Henry; “a resemblance! God of Heaven! it is the face itself.”

“You much surprise me,” said Sir Francis.

Henry sunk into the chair which was near him, and he trembled violently. The rush of painful thoughts and conjectures that came through his mind was enough to make any one tremble. “Is this the 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 any refreshment for you?”

“No—no,” gasped Henry; “for the love of truth tell me! Is—is your name really Varney!”

“Sir?”

“Have you no other name to which, perhaps, a better title you could urge?”

“Mr. Bannerworth, I can assure you that I am too proud of the name of the family to which I belong to exchange it for any other, be it what it may.”

“How wonderfully like!”

“I grieve to see you so much distressed. Mr. Bannerworth. I presume ill health has thus shattered your nerves?”

“No; ill health has not done the work. I know not what to say, Sir Francis Varney, to you; but recent events in my family have made the sight of you full of horrible conjectures.”

“What mean you, sir?”

“You know, from common report, that we have had a fearful 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 far 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. Bannerworth to speak here freely. There is nothing in the whole world I so much admire as candour.”

“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. Bannerworth.”

“A—a wound?”

“Yes, a wound, but not much more than skin deep. In fact, little beyond an abrasion of the skin.”

“May I inquire how you came by it?”

“Oh, yes. A slight fall.”

“Indeed.”

“Remarkable, is it not? Very remarkable. We never know a moment when, from same most trifling cause, we may receive really some serious bodily harm. How true it is, Mr. Bannerworth, that in the midst of life we are in death.”

“And equally true, perhaps,” said Henry, “that in the midst of death there may be found a horrible life.”

“Well, I should not wonder. There are really so many strange things in this world, that I have left off wondering at anything now.”

“There are strange things,” said Henry. “You wish to purchase of me the Hall, sir?”

“If you wish to sell.”

“You—you are perhaps attached to the place? Perhaps you recollected it, sir, long ago?”

“Not very long,” smiled Sir Francis Varney. “It seems a nice comfortable old house; and the grounds, too, appear to be amazingly well wooded, which, to one of rather a romantic temperament like myself, is always an additional charm to a place. I was extremely pleased with it the first time I beheld it, and a desire to call myself the owner of it took possession of my mind. The scenery is remarkable for its beauty, and, from what I have seen of it, it is rarely to be excelled. No doubt you are greatly attached to it.”

“It has been my home from infancy,” returned Henry, “and being also the residence of my ancestors for centuries, it is natural that I should be so.”

“True—true.”

“The house, no doubt, has suffered much,” said Henry, “within the last hundred years.”

“No doubt it has. A hundred years is a tolerable long space of time, you know.”

“It is, indeed. Oh, how any human life which is spun out to such an extent, must lose its charms, by losing all its fondest and dearest associations.”

“Ah, how true,” said Sir Francis Varney. He had some minutes previously touched a bell, and at this moment a servant brought in on a tray some wine and refreshments.

CHAPTER XIV.

HENRY’S AGREEMENT WITH SIR FRANCIS VARNEY.—THE SUDD
EN ARRIVAL AT THE HALL.—FLORA’S ALARM.

On the tray which the servant brought into the room, were refreshments of different kinds, including wine, and after waving his hand for the domestic to retire, Sir Francis Varney said—

“You will be better, Mr. Bannerworth, for a glass of wine after your walk, and you too, sir. I am ashamed to say, I have quite forgotten your name.”

“Marchdale.”

“Mr. Marchdale. Ay, Marchdale. Pray, sir, help yourself.”

“You take nothing yourself?” said Henry.

“I am under a strict regimen,” replied Varney. “The simplest diet alone does for me, and I have accustomed myself to long abstinence.”

“He will not eat or drink,” muttered Henry, abstractedly.

“Will you sell me the Hall?” said Sir Francis Varney.

Henry looked in his face again, from which he had only momentarily withdrawn his eyes, and he was then more struck than ever with the resemblance between him and the portrait on the panel of what had been Flora’s chamber. What made that resemblance, too, one about which there could scarcely be two opinions, was the mark or cicatrix of a wound in the forehead, which the painter had slightly indented in the portrait, but which was much more plainly visible on the forehead of Sir Francis Varney. Now that Henry observed this 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. I pray you help yourself.”

“I cannot.”

Henry rose as he spoke, and turning to Marchdale, he said, in addition—

“Will you come away?”

“If you please,” said Marchdale, rising.

“But you have not, my dear sir,” said Varney, “given me yet any answer about the Hall?”

“I cannot yet,” answered Henry, “I will think. My present impression is, to let you have it on whatever terms you may yourself propose, always provided you consent to one of mine.”

“Name it.”

“That you never show yourself in my family.”

“How very unkind. I understand you have a charming sister, young, beautiful, and accomplished. Shall I confess, now, that I had hopes of making myself agreeable to her?”

“You make yourself agreeable to her? The sight of you would blast her for ever, and drive her to madness.”

“Am I so hideous?”

“No, but—you are—”

“What am I?”

“Hush, Henry, hush,” cried Marchdale. “Remember you are in this gentleman’s house.”

“True, true. Why does he tempt me to say these dreadful things? I do not want to say them.”

“Come away, then—come away at once. Sir Francis Varney, my friend, Mr. Bannerworth, will think over your offer, and let you know. I think you may consider that your wish to become the purchaser of the Hall will be complied with.”

“I wish to have it,” said Varney, “and I can only say, that if I am master of it, I shall be very happy to see any of the family on a visit at any time.”

“A visit!” said Henry, with a shudder. “A visit to the tomb were far more desirable. Farewell, sir.”

“Adieu,” said Sir Francis Varney, and he made one of the most elegant bows in the world, while there came over his face a peculiarity of expression that was strange, if not painful, to contemplate. In another minute Henry and Marchdale were clear of the house, and with feelings of bewilderment and horror, which beggar all description, poor Henry allowed himself to be led by the arm by Marchdale to some distance, without uttering a word. When he did speak, he said—

“Marchdale, it would be charity of some one to kill me.”

“To kill you!”

“Yes, for I am certain otherwise that I must go mad.”

“Nay, nay; rouse yourself.”

“This man, Varney, is a 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, for over into annihilation, for I am going mad to be compelled to feel that such horrors can really have existence.”

“Henry—Henry.”

“Nay, talk not to me. What can I do? Shall I kill him? Is it not a sacred duty to destroy such a thing? Oh, horror—horror. He must be killed—destroyed—burnt, and the very dust to which he is consumed must be scattered to the winds of Heaven. It would be a deed well done, Marchdale.”

“Hush! hush! These words are dangerous.”

“I care not.”

“What if they were overheard now by unfriendly ears? What might not be the uncomfortable results? I pray you be more cautious what you say of this strange man.”

“I must destroy him.”

“And wherefore?”

“Can you ask? Is he not a vampire?”

“Yes; but reflect, Henry, for a moment upon the length to which you might carry out so dangerous an argument. It is said that vampires are made by vampires sucking the blood of those who, but for that circumstance, would have died and gone to decay in the tomb along with ordinary mortals; but that being so attacked during life by a vampire, they themselves, after death, become such.”

“Well—well, what is that to me?”

“Have you forgotten Flora?”

A cry of despair came from poor Henry’s lips, and in a moment he seemed completely, mentally and physically, prostrated.

“God of Heaven!” he moaned, “I had forgotten her!”

“I thought you had.”

“Oh, if the sacrifice of my own life would suffice to put an end to all this accumulating horror, how gladly would I lay it down. Ay, in any way—in any way. No mode of death should appal me. No amount of pain make me shrink. I could smile then upon the destroyer, and say, ‘welcome—welcome—most welcome.’”

“Rather, Henry, seek to live for those whom you love than die for them. Your death would leave them desolate. In life you may ward off many a blow of fate from them.”

“I may endeavour so to do.”

“Consider that Flora may be wholly dependent upon such kindness as you may be able to bestow upon her.”

“Charles clings to her.”

“Humph!”

“You do not doubt him?”

“My dear friend, Henry Bannerworth, although I am not an old man, yet I am so much older than you that I have seen a great deal of the world, and am, perhaps, far better able to come to accurate judgments with regard to individuals.”

“No doubt—no doubt; but yet—”

“Nay, hear me out. Such judgments, founded upon experience, when uttered have all the character of prophecy about them. I, therefore, now prophecy to you that Charles Holland will yet be so stung with horror at the circumstance of a 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 err in your estimate of any one. From any one but yourself they would have produced in me a feeling of anger I might have found it difficult to smother.”

“It has often been my misfortune through life,” said Mr. Marchdale, sadly, “to give the greatest offence where I feel the truest friendship, because it is in such quarters that I am always tempted to speak too freely.”

“Nay, no offence,” said Henry. “I am distracted, and scarcely know what I say. Marchdale, I know you are my sincere friend—but, as I tell you, I am nearly mad.”

“My dear Henry, be calmer. Consider upon what is to be said concerning this interview at home.”

“Ay; that is a consideration.”

“I should not think it advisable to mention the disagreeable fact, that in your neighbour you think you have found out the nocturnal disturber of your family.”

“No—no.”

“I would say nothing of it. It is not at all probable that, after what you have said to him this Sir Francis Varney, or whatever his real name may be will obtrude himself upon you.”

“If he should he die.”

“He will, perhaps, consider that such a step would be dangerous to him.”

“It would be fatal, so help me. However, and then would I take especial care that no power of resuscitation should ever enable that man again to walk the earth.”

“They say that 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. Now to play the hypocrite, and endeavour to look composed and serene to my mother, and to Flora while my heart is breaking.”