THE DREADFUL MISTAKE.—THE TERRIFIC INTERVIEW IN THE CHAMBER.—THE
ATTACK OF THE VAMPYRE.
The footstep which Flora, upon the close of the tale she had been
reading, heard approaching her apartment, came rapidly along the
corridor.
“It is Henry, returned to conduct me to an interview with Charles’s
uncle,” she said. “I wonder, now, what manner of man he is. He should
in some respects resemble Charles; and if he do so, I shall bestow upon
him some affection for that alone.”
Tap—tap came upon the chamber door.
Flora was not at all alarmed now, as she had been when Henry brought
her the manuscript. From some strange action of the nervous system, she
felt quite confident, and resolved to brave everything. But then she
felt quite sure that it was Henry, and before the knocking had taken
her by surprise.
“Come in,” she said, in a cheerful voice. “Come in.”
The door opened with wonderful swiftness—a figure stepped into the
room, and then closed it as rapidly, and stood against it. Flora tried
to scream, but her tongue refused its office; a confused whirl of
sensations passed through her brain—she trembled, and an icy coldness
came over her. It was Sir Francis Varney, the vampyre!
He had drawn up his tall, gaunt frame to its full height, and crossed
his arms upon his breast; there was a hideous smile upon his sallow
countenance, and his voice was deep and sepulchral, as he said,—
“Flora Bannerworth, hear that which I have to say, and hear it calmly.
You need have nothing to fear. Make an alarm—scream, or shout for help,
and, by the hell beneath us, you are lost!”
There was a death-like, cold, passionless manner about the utterance
of these words, as if they were spoken mechanically, and came from no
human lips.
Flora heard them, and yet scarcely comprehended them; she stepped
slowly back till she reached a chair, and there she held for support.
The only part of the address of Varney that thoroughly reached her
ears, was that if she gave any alarm some dreadful consequences were to
ensue. But it was not on account of these words that she really gave no
alarm; it was because she was utterly unable to do so.
“Answer me,” said Varney. “Promise that you will hear that which I have
to say. In so promising you commit yourself to no evil, and you shall
hear that which shall give you much peace.”
It was in vain she tried to speak; her lips moved, but she uttered no
sound.
“You are terrified,” said Varney, “and yet I know not why. I do not
come to do you harm, although harm have you done me. Girl, I come to
rescue you from a thraldom of the soul under which you now labour.”
There was a pause of some moments’ duration, and then, faintly, Flora
managed to say,—
“Help! help! Oh, help me, Heaven!”
Varney made a gesture of impatience, as he said,—
“Heaven works no special matters now. Flora Bannerworth, if you have as
much intellect as your nobility and beauty would warrant the world in
supposing, you will listen to me.”
“I—I hear,” said Flora, as she still, dragging the chair with her,
increased the distance between them.
“’Tis well. You are now more composed.”
She fixed her eyes upon the face of Varney with a shudder. There
could be no mistake. It was the same which, with the strange, glassy
looking eyes, had glared upon her on that awful night of the storm,
when she was visited by the vampyre. And Varney returned that gaze
unflinchingly. There was a hideous and strange contortion of his face
now as he said,—
“You are beautiful. The most cunning statuary might well model some
rare work of art from those rounded limbs, that were surely made to
bewitch the gazer. Your skin rivals the driven snow—what a face of
loveliness, and what a form of enchantment.”
She did not speak, but a thought came across her mind, which at once
crimsoned her cheek—she knew she had fainted on the first visit of the
vampyre, and now he, with a hideous reverence, praised beauties which
he might have cast his demoniac eyes over at such a time.
“You understand me,” he said. “Well, let that pass. I am something
allied to humanity yet.”
“Speak your errand,” gasped Flora, “or come what may, I scream for help
to those who will not be slow to render it.”
“I know it.”
“You know I will scream?”
“No; you will hear me. I know they would not be slow to tender help to
you, but you will not call for it; I will present to you no necessity.”
“Say on—say on.”
“You perceive I do not attempt to approach you; my errand is one of
peace.”
“Peace from you! Horrible being, if you be really what even now my
appalled imagination shrinks from naming you, would not even to you
absolute annihilation be a blessing?”
“Peace, peace. I came not here to talk on such a subject. I must
be brief, Flora Bannerworth, for time presses. I do not hate you.
Wherefore should I? You are young, and you are beautiful, and you bear
a name which should command, and does command, some portion of my best
regard.”
“There is a portrait,” said Flora, “in this house.”
“No more—no more. I know what you would say.”
“It is yours.”
“The house, and all within, I covet,” he said, uneasily. “Let that
suffice. I have quarrelled with your brother—I have quarrelled with one
who just now fancies he loves you.”
“Charles Holland loves me truly.”
“It does not suit me now to dispute that point with you. I have the
means of knowing more of the secrets of the human heart than common
men. I tell you, Flora Bannerworth, that he who talks to you of
love, loves you not but with the fleeting fancy of a boy; and there
is one who hides deep in his heart a world of passion, one who has
never spoken to you of love, and yet who loves you with a love as far
surpassing the evanescent fancy of this boy Holland, as does the mighty
ocean the most placid lake that ever basked in idleness beneath a
summer’s sun.”
There was a wonderful fascination in the manner now of Varney. His
voice sounded like music itself. His words flowed from his tongue, each
gently and properly accented, with all the charm of eloquence.
Despite her trembling horror of that man—despite her fearful opinion,
which might be said to amount to a conviction of what he really was,
Flora felt an irresistible wish to hear him speak on. Ay, despite,
too, the ungrateful theme to her heart which he had now chosen as
the subject of his discourse, she felt her fear of him gradually
dissipating, and now when he made a pause, she said,—
“You are much mistaken. On the constancy and truth of Charles Holland,
I would stake my life.”
“No doubt, no doubt.”
“Have you spoken now that which you had to say?”
“No, no. I tell you I covet this place, I would purchase it, but having
with your bad-tempered brothers quarrelled, they will hold no further
converse with me.”
“And well they may refuse.”
“Be, that as it may, sweet lady, I come to you to be my mediator. In
the shadow of the future I can see many events which are to come.”
“Indeed.”
“It is so. Borrowing some wisdom from the past, and some from resources
I would not detail to you, I know that if I have inflicted much misery
upon you, I can spare you much more. Your brother or your lover will
challenge me.”
“Oh, no, no.”
“I say such will happen, and I can kill either. My skill as well as my
strength is superhuman.”
“Mercy! mercy!” gasped Flora. “I will spare either or both on a
condition.”
“What fearful condition?”
“It is not a fearful one. Your terrors go far before the fact. All I
wish, maiden, of you is to induce these imperious brothers of yours to
sell or let the Hall to me.”
“Is that all?”
“It is. I ask no more, and, in return, I promise you not only that I
will not fight with them, but that you shall never see me again. Rest
securely, maiden, you will be undisturbed by me.”
“Oh, God! that were indeed an assurance worth the striving for,” said
Flora.
“It is one you may have. But—”
“Oh, I knew—my heart told me there was yet some fearful condition to
come.”
“You are wrong again. I only ask of you that you keep this meeting a
secret.”
“No, no, no—I cannot.”
“Nay, what so easy?”
“I will not; I have no secrets from those I love.”
“Indeed, you will find soon the expediency of a few at least; but if
you will not, I cannot urge it longer. Do as your wayward woman’s
nature prompts you.”
There was a slight, but a very slight, tone of aggravation in these
words, and the manner in which they were uttered.
As he spoke, he moved from the door towards the window, which opened
into a kitchen garden. Flora shrunk as far from him as possible, and
for a few moments they regarded each other in silence.
“Young blood,” said Varney, “mantles in your veins.”
She shuddered with terror.
“Be mindful of the condition I have proposed to you. I covet
Bannerworth Hall.”
“I—I hear.”
“And I must have it. I will have it, although my path to it be through
a sea of blood. You understand me, maiden? Repeat what has passed
between us or not, as you please. I say, beware of me, if you keep not
the condition I have proposed.”
“Heaven knows that this place is becoming daily more hateful to us
all,” said Flora.
“Indeed!”
“You well might know so much. It is no sacrifice to urge it now. I will
urge my brother.”
“Thanks—a thousand thanks. You may not live to regret even having made
a friend of Varney——”
“The vampyre!” said Flora.
He advanced towards her a step, and she involuntarily uttered a scream
of terror.
In an instant his hand clasped her waist with the power of an iron
vice; she felt his hot breath flushing on her cheek. Her senses reeled,
and she found herself sinking. She gathered all her breath and all her
energies into one piercing shriek, and then she fell to the floor.
There was a sudden crash of broken glass, and then all was still.
[Illustration: Flora sinks as Varney clasps her waist.]