Varney the Vampire 1(125)

The wind howled round the gable ends of Bridport House in sudden and furious gusts, while the inmates sat by the fire-side, gazing in silence upon the blazing embers of the huge fire that shed a red and bright light all over the immense apartment in which they all sat.

 

It was an ancient looking place, very large, end capable of containing a number of guests. Several were present.

 

An aged couple were seated in tall high straight-backed chairs. They were the owners of that lordly mansion, and near them sat two young maidens of surpassing beauty; they were dissimilar, and yet there was a slight likeness, but of totally different complexions.

 

The one had tresses of raven black; eyebrows, eyelashes, and eyes were all of the same hue; she was a beautiful and proud-looking girl, her complexion clear, with the hue of health upon her cheeks, while a smile played around her lips. The glance of the eye was sufficient to thrill through the whole soul.

 

The other maiden was altogether different; her complexion altogether fairer--her hair of sunny chestnut, and her beautiful hazel eyes were shaded by long brown eyelashes, while a playful smile also lit up her countenance. She was the younger of the two.

 

The attention of the two young maidens had been directed to the words of the aged owner of the house, for he had been speaking a few moments before.

 

There were several other persons present, and at some little distance were many of the domestics who were not denied the privilege of warmth and rest in the presence of their master.

 

These were not the times, when, if servants sat down, they were deemed idle; but the daily task done, then the evening hour was spent by the fire-side.

 

"The wind howls and moans," said an aged domestic, "in an awful manner. I never heard the like."

 

"It seems as though same imprisoned spirit was waiting for the repose that had been denied on earth," said the old lady as she shifted her seat and gazed steadily on the fire.

 

"Ay," said her aged companion, "it is a windy night, and there will be a storm before long, or I'm mistaken."

 

"It was just such a night as that my son Henry left his home," said Mrs. Bradley, "just such another--only it had the addition of sleet and rain."

 

The old man sighed at the mention of his son's name, a tear stood in the eyes of the maidens, while one looked silently at the other, and seemed to exchange glances.

 

"I would that I might again see him before my body seeks its final home in the cold remorseless grave."

 

"Mother," said the fairest of the two maidens, "do not talk thus, let us hope that we yet may have many years of happiness together."

 

"Many, Emma?"

 

"Yes, mamma, many."

 

"Do you know that I am very old, Emma, very old indeed, considering what I have suffered, such a life of sorrow and ill health is at least equal to thirty years added to my life."

 

"You may have deceived yourself, aunt," said the other maiden; "at all events, you cannot count upon life as certain, for the strongest often go first, while those who seem much more likely to fall, by care, as often live in peace and happiness."

 

"But I lead no life of peace and happiness, while Henry Bradley is not here; besides, my life might be passed without me seeing him again."

 

"It is now two years since he was here last," said the old man,

 

"This night two years was the night on which he left."

 

"This night two years?"

 

"Yes."

 

"It was this night two years," said one of the servant men, "because old Dame Poutlet had twins on that night."

 

"A memorable circumstance."

 

"And one died at a twelvemonth old," said the man; "and she had a dream which foretold the event."

 

"Ay, ay."

 

"Yes, and moreover she's had the same dream again last Wednesday was a week," said the man.

 

"And lost the other twin?"

 

"Yes sir, this morning."

 

"Omens multiply," said the aged man; "I would that it would seem to indicate the return of Henry to his home."

 

"I wonder where he can have gone to, or what he could have done all this time; probably he may not be in the land of the living."

 

"Poor Henry," said Emma.

 

"Alas, poor boy! We may never see him again--it was a mistaken act of his, and yet he knew not otherwise how to act or escape his father's displeasure."

 

"Say no more--say no more upon that subject; I dare not listen to it. God knows I know quite enough," said Mr. Bradley; "I knew not he would have taken my words so to heart as he did."