THE OFFER FOR THE HALL.—THE VISIT TO SIR FRANCIS VARNEY.—THE STRANGE
RESEMBLANCE.—A DREADFUL SUGGESTION.
The party made a strict search through every nook and corner of the
garden, but it proved to be a fruitless one; not the least trace of any
one could be found. There was only one circumstance, which was pondered
over deeply by them all, and that was that, beneath the window of the
room in which Flora and her mother sat while the brothers were on their
visit to the vault of their ancestors, were visible marks of blood to a
considerable extent.
It will be remembered that Flora had fired a pistol at the spectral
appearance, and that immediately upon that it had disappeared, after
uttering a sound which might well be construed into a cry of pain from
a wound.
That a wound then had been inflicted upon some one, the blood beneath
the window now abundantly testified; and when it was discovered, Henry
and Charles made a very close examination indeed of the garden, to
discover what direction the wounded figure, be it man or vampyre, had
taken.
But the closest scrutiny did not reveal to them a single spot of blood,
beyond the space immediately beneath the window;—there the apparition
seemed to have received its wound, and then, by some mysterious means,
to have disappeared.
At length, wearied with the continued excitement, combined with want of
sleep, to which they had been subjected, they returned to the hall.
Flora, with the exception of the alarm she experienced from the firing
of the pistol, had met with no disturbance, and that, in order to
spare her painful reflections, they told her was merely done as a
precautionary measure, to proclaim to any one who might be lurking
in the garden that the inmates of the house were ready to defend
themselves against any aggression.
Whether or not she believed this kind deceit they knew not. She only
sighed deeply, and wept. The probability is, that she more than
suspected the vampyre had made another visit, but they forbore to press
the point; and, leaving her with her mother, Henry and George went from
her chamber again—the former to endeavour to seek some repose, as it
would be his turn to watch on the succeeding night, and the latter to
resume his station in a small room close to Flora’s chamber, where it
had been agreed watch and ward should be kept by turns while the alarm
lasted.
At length, the morning again dawned upon that unhappy family, and to
none were its beams more welcome.
The birds sang their pleasant carols beneath the window. The sweet,
deep-coloured autumnal sun shone upon all objects with a golden lustre;
and to look abroad, upon the beaming face of nature, no one could for a
moment suppose, except from sad experience, that there were such things
as gloom, misery, and crime, upon the earth.
“And must I,” said Henry, as he gazed from a window of the hall upon
the undulating park, the majestic trees, the flowers, the shrubs,
and the many natural beauties with which the place was full,—“must I
be chased from this spot, the home of myself and of my kindred, by a
phantom—must I indeed seek refuge elsewhere, because my own home has
become hideous?”
It was indeed a cruel and a painful thought! It was one he yet would
not, could not be convinced was absolutely necessary. But now the sun
was shining; it was morning; and the feelings, which found a home in
his breast amid the darkness, the stillness, and the uncertainty of
night, were chased away by those glorious beams of sunlight, that fell
upon hill, valley, and stream, and the thousand sweet sounds of life
and animation that filled that sunny air!
Such a revulsion of feeling was natural enough. Many of the distresses
and mental anxieties of night vanish with the night, and those which
oppressed the heart of Henry Bannerworth were considerably modified.
He was engaged in these reflections when he heard the sound of
the lodge bell, and as a visitor was now somewhat rare at this
establishment, he waited with some anxiety to see to whom he was
indebted for so early a call.
In the course of a few minutes, one of the servants came to him with a
letter in her hand.
It bore a large handsome seal, and, from its appearance, would seem to
have come from some personage of consequence. A second glance at it
shewed him the name of “Varney” in the corner, and, with some degree of
vexation, he muttered to himself,
“Another condoling epistle from the troublesome neighbour whom I have
not yet seen.”
“If you please, sir,” said the servant who had brought him the letter,
“as I’m here, and you are here, perhaps you’ll have no objection to
give me what I’m to have for the day and two nights as I’ve been here,
cos I can’t stay in a family as is so familiar with all sorts o’
ghostesses; I ain’t used to such company.”
“What do you mean?” said Henry.
The question was a superfluous one; too well he knew what the woman
meant, and the conviction came across his mind strongly that no
domestic would consent to live long in a house which was subject to
such dreadful visitations.
“What does I mean!” said the woman,—“why, sir, if it’s all the same to
you, I don’t myself come of a wampyre family, and I don’t choose to
remain in a house where there is sich things encouraged. That’s what I
means, sir.”
“What wages are owing to you?” said Henry.
“Why, as to wages, I only comed here by the day.”
“Go, then, and settle with my mother. The sooner you leave this house,
the better.”
“Oh, indeed. I’m sure I don’t want to stay.”
This woman was one of those who were always armed at all points for
a row, and she had no notion of concluding any engagement, of any
character whatever, without some disturbance; therefore, to see Henry
take what she said with such provoking calmness was aggravating in
the extreme; but there was no help for such a source of vexation. She
could find no other ground of quarrel than what was connected with the
vampyre, and, as Henry would not quarrel with her on such a score, she
was compelled to give it up in despair.
When Henry found himself alone, and free from the annoyance of this
woman, he turned his attention to the letter he held in his hand, and
which, from the autograph in the corner, he knew came from his new
neighbour, Sir Francis Varney, whom, by some chance or another, he had
never yet seen.
To his great surprise, he found that the letter contained the following
words:—
Dear Sir,—“As a neighbour, by purchase of an estate contiguous
to your own, I am quite sure you have excused, and taken in
good part, the cordial offer I made to you of friendship and
service some short time since; but now, in addressing to you a
distinct proposition, I trust I shall meet with an indulgent
consideration, whether such proposition be accordant with your
views or not.
“What I have heard from common report induces me to believe
that Bannerworth Hall cannot be a desirable residence for
yourself, or your amiable sister. If I am right in that
conjecture, and you have any serious thought of leaving the
place, I would earnestly recommend you, as one having some
experience in such descriptions of property, to sell it at once.
“Now, the proposition with which I conclude this letter is, I
know, of a character to make you doubt the disinterestedness of
such advice; but that it is disinterested, nevertheless, is a
fact of which I can assure my own heart, and of which I beg to
assure you. I propose, then, should you, upon consideration,
decide upon such a course of proceeding, to purchase of you the
Hall. I do not ask for a bargain on account of any extraneous
circumstances which may at the present time depreciate the
value of the property, but I am willing to give a fair price
for it. Under these circumstances, I trust, sir, that you will
give a kindly consideration to my offer, and even if you reject
it, I hope that, as neighbours, we may live long in peace and
amity, and in the interchange of those good offices which
should subsist between us. Awaiting your reply,
“Believe me to be, dear sir,
“Your very obedient servant,
“+Francis Varney+.
“To Henry Bannerworth, Esq.”
Henry, after having read this most unobjectionable letter through,
folded it up again, and placed it in his pocket. Clasping his hands,
then, behind his back, a favourite attitude of his when he was in deep
contemplation, he paced to and fro in the garden for some time in deep
thought.
“How strange,” he muttered. “It seems that every circumstance combines
to induce me to leave my old ancestral home. It appears as if
everything now that happened had that direct tendency. What can be the
meaning of all this? ’Tis very strange—amazingly strange. Here arise
circumstances which are enough to induce any man to leave a particular
place. Then a friend, in whose single-mindedness and judgment I know I
can rely, advises the step, and immediately upon the back of that comes
a fair and candid offer.”
There was an apparent connexion between all these circumstances which
much puzzled Henry. He walked to and fro for nearly an hour, until
he heard a hasty footstep approaching him, and upon looking in the
direction from whence it came, he saw Mr. Marchdale.
“I will seek Marchdale’s advice,” he said, “upon this matter. I will
hear what he says concerning it.”
“Henry,” said Marchdale, when he came sufficiently near to him for
conversation, “why do you remain here alone?”
“I have received a communication from our neighbour, Sir Francis
Varney,” said Henry.
“Indeed!”
“It is here. Peruse it for yourself, and then tell me, Marchdale,
candidly what you think of it.”
“I suppose,” said Marchdale, as he opened the letter, “it is another
friendly note of condolence on the state of your domestic affairs,
which, I grieve to say, from the prattling of domestics, whose tongues
it is quite impossible to silence, have become food for gossip all over
the neighbouring villages and estates.”
“If anything could add another pang to those I have already been made
to suffer,” said Henry, “it would certainly arise from being made the
food of vulgar gossip. But read the letter, Marchdale. You will find
its contents of a more important character than you anticipate.”
“Indeed!” said Marchdale, as he ran his eyes eagerly over the note.
When he had finished it he glanced at Henry, who then said,—
“Well, what is your opinion?”
“I know not what to say, Henry. You know that my own advice to you has
been to get rid of this place.”
“It has.”
“With the hope that the disagreeable affair connected with it now may
remain connected with it as a house, and not with you and yours as a
family.”
“It may be so.”
“There appears to me every likelihood of it.”
“I do not know,” said Henry, with a shudder. “I must confess,
Marchdale, that to my own perceptions it seems more probable that the
infliction we have experienced from the strange visitor, who seems now
resolved to pester us with visits, will rather attach to a family than
to a house. The vampyre may follow us.”
“If so, of course the parting with the Hall would be a great pity, and
no gain.”
“None in the least.”
“Henry, a thought has struck me.”
“Let’s hear it, Marchdale.”
“It is this:—Suppose you were to try the experiment of leaving the Hall
without selling it. Suppose for one year you were to let it to some
one, Henry.”
“It might be done.”
“Ay, and it might, with very great promise and candour, be proposed
to this very gentleman, Sir Francis Varney, to take it for one year,
to see how he liked it before becoming the possessor of it. Then if
he found himself tormented by the vampyre, he need not complete the
purchase, or if you found that the apparition followed you from hence,
you might yourself return, feeling that perhaps here, in the spots
familiar to your youth, you might be most happy, even under such
circumstances as at present oppress you.”
“Most happy!” ejaculated Henry.
“Perhaps I should not have used that word.”
“I am sure you should not,” said Henry, “when you speak of me.”
“Well—well; let us hope that the time may not be very far distant when
I may use the term happy, as applied to you, in the most conclusive and
the strongest manner it can be used.”
“Oh,” said Henry, “I will hope; but do not mock me with it now,
Marchdale, I pray you.”
“Heaven forbid that I should mock you!”
“Well—well; I do not believe you are the man to do so to any one. But
about this affair of the house.”
“Distinctly, then, if I were you, I would call upon Sir Francis Varney,
and make him an offer to become a tenant of the Hall for twelve months,
during which time you could go where you please, and test the fact of
absence ridding you or not ridding you of the dreadful visitant who
makes the night here truly hideous.”
“I will speak to my mother, to George, and to my sister of the matter.
They shall decide.”
Mr. Marchdale now strove in every possible manner to raise the spirits
of Henry Bannerworth, by painting to him the future in far more radiant
colours than the present, and endeavouring to induce a belief in his
mind that a short period of time might after all replace in his mind,
and in the minds of those who were naturally so dear to him, all their
wonted serenity.
Henry, although he felt not much comfort from these kindly efforts, yet
could feel gratitude to him who made them; and after expressing such
a feeling to Marchdale, in strong terms, he repaired to the house, in
order to hold a solemn consultation with those whom he felt ought to
be consulted as well as himself as to what steps should be taken with
regard to the Hall.
The proposition, or rather the suggestion, which had been made by
Marchdale upon the proposition of Sir Francis Varney, was in every
respect so reasonable and just, that it met, as was to be expected,
with the concurrence of every member of the family.
Flora’s cheeks almost resumed some of their wonted colour at the mere
thought now of leaving that home to which she had been at one time so
much attached.
“Yes, dear Henry,” she said, “let us leave here if you are agreeable so
to do, and in leaving this house, we will believe that we leave behind
us a world of terror.”
“Flora,” remarked Henry, in a tone of slight reproach, “if you were so
anxious to leave Bannerworth Hall, why did you not say so before this
proposition came from other mouths? You know your feelings upon such a
subject would have been laws to me.”
“I knew you were attached to the old house,” said Flora; “and, besides,
events have come upon us all with such fearful rapidity, there has
scarcely been time to think.”
“True—true.”
“And you will leave, Henry?”
“I will call upon Sir Francis Varney myself, and speak to him upon the
subject.”
A new impetus to existence appeared now to come over the whole family,
at the idea of leaving a place which always would be now associated
in their minds with so much terror. Each member of the family felt
happier, and breathed more freely than before, so that the change which
had come over them seemed almost magical. And Charles Holland, too, was
much better pleased, and he whispered to Flora,—
“Dear Flora, you will now surely no longer talk of driving from you the
honest heart that loves you?”
“Hush, Charles, hush!” she said; “meet me an hour hence in the garden,
and we will talk of this.”
“That hour will seem an age,” he said.
Henry, now, having made a determination to see Sir Francis Varney,
lost no time in putting it into execution. At Mr. Marchdale’s own
request, he took him with him, as it was desirable to have a third
person present in the sort of business negotiation which was going
on. The estate which had been so recently entered upon by the person
calling himself Sir Francis Varney, and which common report said he had
purchased, was a small, but complete property, and situated so close
to the grounds connected with Bannerworth Hall, that a short walk soon
placed Henry and Mr. Marchdale before the residence of this gentleman,
who had shown so kindly a feeling towards the Bannerworth family.
“Have you seen Sir Francis Varney?” asked Henry of Mr. Marchdale, as he
rung the gate-bell.
“I have not. Have you?”
“No; I never saw him. It is rather awkward our both being absolute
strangers to his person.”
“We can but send in our names, however; and, from the great vein of
courtesy that runs through his letter, I have no doubt but we shall
receive the most gentlemanly reception from him.”
A servant in handsome livery appeared at the iron-gates, which opened
upon a lawn in the front of Sir Francis Varney’s house, and to this
domestic Henry Bannerworth handed his card, on which he had written, in
pencil, likewise the name of Mr. Marchdale.
“If your master,” he said, “is within, we shall be glad to see him.”
“Sir Francis is at home, sir,” was the reply, “although not very well.
If you will be pleased to walk in, I will announce you to him.”
Henry and Marchdale followed the man into a handsome enough
reception-room, where they were desired to wait while their names were
announced.
“Do you know if this gentleman be a baronet,” said Henry, “or a knight
merely?”
“I really do not; I never saw him in my life, or heard of him before he
came into this neighbourhood.”
“And I have been too much occupied with the painful occurrences of this
hall to know anything of our neighbours. I dare say Mr. Chillingworth,
if we had thought to ask him, would have known something concerning
him.”
“No doubt.”
This brief colloquy was put an end to by the servant, who said,—
“My master, gentlemen, is not very well; but he begs me to present his
best compliments, and to say he is much gratified with your visit, and
will be happy to see you in his study.”
Henry and Marchdale followed the man up a flight of stone stairs, and
then they were conducted through a large apartment into a smaller
one. There was very little light in this small room; but at the
moment of their entrance a tall man, who was seated, rose, and,
touching the spring of a blind that was to the window, it was up
in a moment, admitting a broad glare of light. A cry of surprise,
mingled with terror, came from Henry Bannerworth’s lip. _The original
of the portrait on the panel stood before him!_ There was the lofty
stature, the long, sallow face, the slightly projecting teeth, the
dark, lustrous, although somewhat sombre eyes; the expression of the
features—all were alike.
[Illustration: The men behold Sir Varney, with surprise.]
“Are you unwell, sir?” said Sir Francis Varney, in soft, mellow
accents, as he handed a chair to the bewildered Henry.
“God of Heaven!” said Henry; “how like!”
“You seem surprised, sir. Have you ever seen me before?”
Sir Francis drew himself up to his full height, and cast a strange
glance upon Henry, whose eyes were rivetted upon his face, as if with a
species of fascination which he could not resist.
“Marchdale,” Henry gasped; “Marchdale, my friend, Marchdale. I—I am
surely mad.”
“Hush! be calm,” whispered Marchdale.
“Calm—calm—can you not see? Marchdale, is this a dream? Look—look—oh!
look.”
“For God’s sake, Henry, compose yourself.”
“Is your friend often thus?” said Sir Francis Varney, with the same
mellifluous tone which seemed habitual to him.
“No, sir, he is not; but recent circumstances have shattered his
nerves; and, to tell the truth, you bear so strong a resemblance to an
old portrait, in his house, that I do not wonder so much as I otherwise
should at his agitation.”
“Indeed.”
“A resemblance!” said Henry; “a resemblance! God of Heaven! it is the
face itself.”
“You much surprise me,” said Sir Francis.
Henry sunk into the chair which was near him, and he trembled
violently. The rush of painful thoughts and conjectures that came
through his mind was enough to make any one tremble. “Is this the
vampyre?” was the horrible question that seemed impressed upon his very
brain, in letters of flame. “Is this the vampyre?”
“Are you better, sir?” said Sir Francis Varney, in his bland, musical
voice. “Shall I order 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 vampyre, I have heard,” said Sir Francis Varney, with a bland, and
almost beautiful smile, which displayed his white glistening teeth to
perfection.
“Yes; a vampyre, and—and——”
“I pray you go on, sir; you surely are 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 vampyre.”
“I must, I must.”
“Pray, sir,” interrupted Varney to Marchdale, “permit Mr. Bannerworth
to speak here freely. There is nothing in the whole world I so much
admire as candour.”
“Then you so much resemble the vampyre,” added Henry, “that—that I know
not what to think.”
“Is it possible?” said Varney.
“It is a damning fact.”
“Well, it’s unfortunate for me, I presume? Ah!”
Varney gave a twinge of pain, as if some sudden bodily ailment had
attacked him severely.
“You are unwell, sir?” said Marchdale.
“No, no—no,” he said; “I—hurt my arm, and happened accidentally to
touch the arm of this chair with it.”
“A hurt?” said Henry.
“Yes, Mr. Bannerworth.”
“A—a wound?”
“Yes, a wound, but not much more than skin deep. In fact, little beyond
an abrasion of the skin.”
“May I inquire how you came by it?”
“Oh, yes. A slight fall.”
“Indeed.”
“Remarkable, is it not? Very remarkable. We never know a moment when,
from some most trifling cause, we may receive really some serious
bodily hurt. How true it is, Mr. Bannerworth, that in the midst of life
we are in death.”
“And equally true, perhaps,” said Henry, “that in the midst of death
there may be found a horrible life.”
“Well, I should not wonder. There are really so many strange things in
this world, that I have left off wondering at anything now.”
“There are strange things,” said Henry. “You wish to purchase of me the
Hall, sir?”
“If you wish to sell.”
“You—you are perhaps attached to the place? Perhaps you recollected it,
sir, long ago?”
“Not very long,” smiled Sir Francis Varney. “It seems a nice
comfortable old house; and the grounds, too, appear to be amazingly
well wooded, which, to one of rather a romantic temperament like
myself, is always an additional charm to a place. I was extremely
pleased with it the first time I beheld it, and a desire to call myself
the owner of it took possession of my mind. The scenery is remarkable
for its beauty, and, from what I have seen of it, it is rarely to be
excelled. No doubt you are greatly attached to it.”
“It has been my home from infancy,” returned Henry, “and being also the
residence of my ancestors for centuries, it is natural that I should be
so.”
“True—true.”
“The house, no doubt, has suffered much,” said Henry, “within the last
hundred years.”
“No doubt it has. A hundred years is a tolerable long space of time,
you know.”
“It is, indeed. Oh, how any human life which is spun out to such an
extent, must lose its charms, by losing all its fondest and dearest
associations.”
“Ah, how true,” said Sir Francis Varney. He had some minutes previously
touched a bell, and at this moment a servant brought in on a tray some
wine and refreshments.