"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 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 SUDDEN ARRIVAL AT THE HALL.--FLORA'S ALARM.
[Illustration]
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, vampyres.