by Bram Stoker
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? Yo
u 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.
“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.
“N
o, 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.”