CHAPTER XXXI.
SIR FRANCIS VARNEY AND HIS MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.--THE STRANGE CONFERENCE.
Sir Francis Varney is in what he calls his own apartment. It is night,and a dim and uncertain light from a candle which has been longneglected, only serves to render obscurity more perplexing. The room isa costly one. One replete with all the appliances of refinement andluxury which the spirit and the genius of the age could possibly supplyhim with, but there is upon his brow the marks of corroding care, andlittle does that most mysterious being seem to care for all the richfurnishing of that apartment in which he sits.
His cadaverous-looking face is even paler and more death-like-lookingthan usual; and, if it can be conceived possible that such an one canfeel largely interested in human affairs, to look at him, we could wellsuppose that some interest of no common magnitude was at stake.
Occasionally, too, he muttered some unconnected words, no doubt mentallyfilling up the gaps, which rendered the sentences incomplete, and beingunconscious, perhaps, that he was giving audible utterance to any of hisdark and secret meditations.
At length he rose, and with an anxious expression of countenance, hewent to the window, and looked out into the darkness of the night. Allwas still, and not an object was visible. It was that pitchy darknesswithout, which, for some hours, when the moon is late in lending herreflected beams, comes over the earth's surface.
"It is near the hour," he muttered. "It is now very near the hour;surely he will come, and yet I know not why I should fear him, althoughI seem to tremble at the thought of his approach. He will surely come.Once a year--only once does he visit me, and then 'tis but to take theprice which he has compelled me to pay for that existence, which but forhim had been long since terminated. Sometimes I devoutly wish it were."
With a shudder he returned to the seat he had so recently left, andthere for some time he appeared to meditate in silence.
Suddenly now, a clock, which was in the hall of that mansion he hadpurchased, sounded the hour loudly.
"The time has come," said Sir Francis. "The time has come. He willsurely soon be here. Hark! hark!"
Slowly and distinctly he counted the strokes of the clock, and, whenthey had ceased, he exclaimed, with sudden surprise--
"Eleven! But eleven! How have I been deceived. I thought the hour ofmidnight was at hand."
He hastily consulted the watch he wore, and then he indeed found, thatwhatever he had been looking forward to with dread for some time past,as certain to ensue, at or about twelve o clock, had yet another hour inwhich to prey upon his imagination.
"How could I have made so grievous an error?" he exclaimed. "Anotherhour of suspense and wonder as to whether that man be among the livingor the dead. I have thought of raising my hand against his life, butsome strange mysterious feeling has always staid me; and I have let himcome and go freely, while an opportunity might well have served me toput such a design into execution. He is old, too--very old, and yet hekeeps death at a distance. He looked pale, but far from unwell orfailing, when last I saw him. Alas! a whole hour yet to wait. I wouldthat this interview were over."
That extremely well known and popular disease called the fidgets, nowbegan, indeed, to torment Sir Francis Varney. He could not sit--he couldnot walk, and, somehow or another, he never once seemed to imagine thatfrom the wine cup he should experience any relief, although, upon a sidetable, there stood refreshments of that character. And thus some moretime passed away, and he strove to cheat it of its weariness by thinkingof a variety of subjects; but as the fates would have it, there seemednot one agreeable reminiscence in the mind of that most inexplicableman, and the more he plunged into the recesses of memory the moreuneasy, not to say almost terrified, he looked and became. A shudderingnervousness came across him, and, for a few moments, he sat as if hewere upon the point of fainting. By a vigorous effort, however, he shookthis off, and then placing before him the watch, which now indicatedabout the quarter past eleven, he strove with a calmer aspect to waitthe coming of him whose presence, when he did come, would really be agreat terror, since the very thought beforehand produced so muchhesitation and apparent dismay.
In order too, if possible, then to further withdraw himself from a toopainful consideration of those terrors, which in due time the readerwill be acquainted with the cause of, he took up a book, and plunging atrandom into its contents, he amused his mind for a time with thefollowing brief narrative:--
The wind howled round the gable ends of Bridport House in sudden andfurious gusts, while the inmates sat by the fire-side, gazing in silenceupon the blazing embers of the huge fire that shed a red and brightlight all over the immense apartment in which they all sat.
It was an ancient looking place, very large, end capable of containing anumber of guests. Several were present.
An aged couple were seated in tall high straight-backed chairs. Theywere the owners of that lordly mansion, and near them sat two youngmaidens of surpassing beauty; they were dissimilar, and yet there was aslight likeness, but of totally different complexions.
The one had tresses of raven black; eyebrows, eyelashes, and eyes wereall of the same hue; she was a beautiful and proud-looking girl, hercomplexion clear, with the hue of health upon her cheeks, while a smileplayed around her lips. The glance of the eye was sufficient to thrillthrough the whole soul.
The other maiden was altogether different; her complexion altogetherfairer--her hair of sunny chestnut, and her beautiful hazel eyes wereshaded by long brown eyelashes, while a playful smile also lit up hercountenance. She was the younger of the two.
The attention of the two young maidens had been directed to the words ofthe aged owner of the house, for he had been speaking a few momentsbefore.
There were several other persons present, and at some little distancewere many of the domestics who were not denied the privilege of warmthand rest in the presence of their master.
These were not the times, when, if servants sat down, they were deemedidle; but the daily task done, then the evening hour was spent by thefire-side.
"The wind howls and moans," said an aged domestic, "in an awful manner.I never heard the like."
"It seems as though some imprisoned spirit was waiting for the reposethat had been denied on earth," said the old lady as she shifted herseat and gazed steadily on the fire.
"Ay," said her aged companion, "it is a windy night, and there will be astorm 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 andrain."
The old man sighed at the mention of his son's name, a tear stood in theeyes of the maidens, while one looked silently at the other, and seemedto exchange glances.
"I would that I might again see him before my body seeks its final homein the cold remorseless grave."
"Mother," said the fairest of the two maidens, "do not talk thus, let ushope 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 whatI have suffered, such a life of sorrow and ill health is at least equalto thirty years added to my life."
"You may have deceived yourself, aunt," said the other maiden; "at allevents, you cannot count upon life as certain, for the strongest oftengo first, while those who seem much more likely to fall, by care, asoften live in peace and happiness."
"But I lead no life of peace and happiness, while Henry Bradley is nothere; 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 oldDame Poutlet had twins on that night."
"A memorable circumstance."
"And one died a
t a twelvemonth old," said the man; "and she had a dreamwhich foretold the event."
"Ay, ay."
"Yes, and moreover she's had the same dream again last Wednesday was aweek," said the man.
"And lost the other twin?"
"Yes sir, this morning."
"Omens multiply," said the aged man; "I would that it would seem toindicate the return of Henry to his home."
"I wonder where he can have gone to, or what he could have done all thistime; 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 ofhis, and yet he knew not otherwise how to act or escape his father'sdispleasure."
"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 wouldhave taken my words so to heart as he did."
"Why," said the old woman, "he thought you meant what you said."
There was a long pause, during which all gazed at the blazing fire,seemingly wrapt in their own meditation.
Henry Bradley, the son of the apparently aged couple, had left that daytwo years, and wherefore had he left the home of his childhood?wherefore had he, the heir to large estates, done this?
He had dared to love without his father's leave, and had refused theoffer his father made him of marrying a young lady whom he had chosenfor him, but whom he could not love.
It was as much a matter of surprise to the father that the son shouldrefuse, as it was to the son that his father should contemplate such amatch.
"Henry," said the father, "you have been thought of by me, I have madeproposals for marrying you to the daughter of our neighbour, Sir ArthurOnslow."
"Indeed, father!"
"Yes; I wish you to go there with me to see the young lady."
"In the character of a suitor?"
"Yes," replied the father, "certainly; it's high time you were settled."
"Indeed, I would rather not go, father; I have no intention of marryingjust yet. I do not desire to do so."
This was an opposition that Mr. Bradley had not expected from his son,and which his imperious temper could ill brook, and with a darkened browhe said,--
"It is not much, Henry, that I trespass upon your obedience; but when Ido so, I expect that you will obey me."
"But, father, this matter affects me for my whole life."
"That is why I have deliberated so long and carefully over it."
"But it is not unreasonable that I should have a voice in the affair,father, since it may render me miserable."
"You shall have a voice."
"Then I say no to the whole regulation," said Henry, decisively.
"If you do so you forfeit my protection, much more favour; but you hadbetter consider over what you have said. Forget it, and come with me."
"I cannot."
"You will not?"
"No, father; I cannot do as you wish me; my mind is fully made up uponthat matter."
"And so is mine. You either do as I would have you, or you leave thehouse, and seek your own living, and you are a beggar."
"I should prefer being such," said Henry, "than to marry any young lady,and be unable to love her."
"That is not required."
"No! I am astonished! Not necessary to love the woman you marry!"
"Not at all; if you act justly towards her she ought to be grateful; andit is all that is requisite in the marriage state. Gratitude will begetlove, and love in one begets love in the other."
"I will not argue with you, father, upon the matter. You are a betterjudge than I; you have had more experience."
"I have."
"And it would be useless to speak upon the subject; but of this I canspeak--my own resolve--that I will not marry the lady in question."
The son had all the stern resolve of the father, but he had also verygood reasons for what he did. He loved, and was beloved in return; andhence he would not break his faith with her whom he loved.
To have explained this to his father would have been to gain nothingexcept an accession of anger, and he would have made a new demand uponhis (the son's) obedience, by ordering him to discard from his bosom theimage that was there indelibly engraven.
"You will not marry her whom I have chosen for your bride?"
"I cannot."
"Do not talk to me of can and can't, when I speak of will and wont. ItIs useless to disguise the fact. You have your free will in the matter.I shall take no answer but yes or no."
"Then, no, father."
"Good, sir; and now we are strangers."
With that Mr. Bradley turned abruptly from his son, and left him tohimself.
It was the first time they had any words of difference together, and itwas sudden and soon terminated.
Henry Bradley was indignant at what had happened; he did not think hisfather would have acted as he had done in this instance; but he was toomuch interested in the fate of another to hesitate for a moment. Thencame the consideration as to what he should do, now that he had arrivedat such a climax.
His first thoughts turned to his mother and sister. He could not leavethe house without bidding them good-bye. He determined to see hismother, for his father had left the Hall upon a visit.
Mrs. Bradley and Emma were alone when he entered their apartment, and tothem he related all that had passed between himself and father.
They besought him to stay, to remain there, or at least in theneighbourhood; but he was resolved to quit the place altogether for atime, as he could do nothing there, and he might chance to do somethingelsewhere.
Upon this, they got together all the money and such jewels as they couldspare, which in all amounted to a considerable sum; then taking anaffectionate leave of his mother and sister, Henry left the Hall--notbefore he had taken a long and affectionate farewell of one other wholived within those walls.
This was no other than the raven-eyed maiden who sat by the fire side,and listened attentively to the conversation that was going on. She washis love--she, a poor cousin. For her sake he had braved all hisfather's anger, and attempted to seek his fortune abroad.
This done, he quietly left the Hall, without giving any one anyintimation of where he was going.
Old Mr. Bradley, when he had said so much to his son, was highlyincensed at what he deemed his obstinacy; and he thought the threathanging over him would have had a good effect; but he was amazed when hediscovered that Henry had indeed left the Hall, and he knew not whither.
For some time he comforted himself with the assurance that he would, hemust return, but, alas! he came not, and this was the second anniversaryof that melancholy day, which no one more repented of and grieved for,than did poor Mr. Bradley.
"Surely, surely he will return, or let us know where he is," he said;"he cannot be in need, else he would have written to us for aid."
"No, no," said Mrs. Bradley; "it is, I fear, because he has not written,that he is in want; he would never write if he was in poverty, lest heshould cause us unhappiness at his fate. Were he doing well, we shouldhear of it, for he would be proud of the result of his own unaidedexertions."
"Well, well," said Mr. Bradley, "I can say no more; if I was hasty, sowas he; but it is passed. I would forgive all the past, if I could butsee him once again--once again!"
"How the wind howls," added the aged man; "and it's getting worse andworse."
"Yes, and the snow is coming down now in style," said one of theservants, who brought in some fresh logs which were piled up on thefire, and he shook the white flakes off his clothes.
"It will be a heavy fall before morning," said one of the men.
"Yes, it has been gathering for some days; it will be much warmer thanit has been when it is all down."
"So it will--so it will."
At that moment there was a knocking at the gate, and the dogs burst intoa dreadful uproar from their kennels.
"Go, Robert," said Mr. Bradley, "and see wh
o it is that knocks such anight as this; it is not fit or safe that a dog should be out in it."
The man went out, and shortly returned, saying,--
"So please you, sir, there is a traveller that has missed his way, anddesires to know if he can obtain shelter here, or if any one can befound to guide him to the nearest inn."
"Bid him come in; we shall lose no warmth because there is one morebefore the fire."
The stranger entered, and said,--"I have missed my way, and the snowcomes down so thick and fast, and is whirled in such eddies, that Ifear, by myself, I should fall into some drift, and perish beforemorning."
"Do not speak of it, sir," said Mr. Bradley; "such a night as this is asufficient apology for the request you make, and an inducement to me togrant it most willingly."
"Thanks," replied the stranger; "the welcome is most seasonable."
"Be seated, sir; take your seat by the ingle; it is warm."
The stranger seated himself, and seemed lost in reflection, as he gazedintently on the blazing logs. He was a robust man, with great whiskersand beard, and, to judge from his outward habiliments, he was a stoutman.
"Have you travelled far?"
"I have, sir."
"You appear to belong to the army, if I mistake not?"
"I do, sir."
There was a pause; the stranger seemed not inclined to speak of himselfmuch; but Mr. Bradley continued,--
"Have you come from foreign service, sir? I presume you have."
"Yes; I have not been in this country more than six days."
"Indeed; shall we have peace think you?"
"I do so, and I hope it may be so, for the sake of many who desire toreturn to their native land, and to those they love best."
Mr. Bradley heaved a deep sigh, which was echoed softly by all present,and the stranger looked from one to another, with a hasty glance, andthen turned his gaze upon the fire.
"May I ask, sir, if you have any person whom you regard in the army--anyrelative?"
"Alas! I have--perhaps, I ought to say I had a son. I know not, however,where he is gone."
"Oh! a runaway; I see."
"Oh, no; he left because there were some family differences, and now, Iwould, that he were once more here."
"Oh!" said the stranger, softly, "differences and mistakes will happennow and then, when least desired."
At this moment, an old hound who had lain beside Ellen Mowbray, she whowore the coal-black tresses, lifted his head at the difference in soundthat was noticed in the stranger's voice. He got up and slowly walked upto him, and began to smell around him, and, in another moment, he rushedat him with a cry of joy, and began to lick and caress him in the mostextravagant manner. This was followed by a cry of joy in all present.
"It is Henry!" exclaimed Ellen Mowbray, rising and rushing into hisarms.
It was Henry, and he threw off the several coats he had on, as well asthe large beard he wore to disguise himself.
The meeting was a happy one; there was not a more joyful house than thatwithin many miles around. Henry was restored to the arms of those wholoved him, and, in a month, a wedding was celebrated between him and hiscousin Ellen.
* * * * *
Sir Francis Varney glanced at his watch. It indicated but five minutesto twelve o'clock, and he sprang to his feet. Even as he did so, a loudknocking at the principal entrance to his house awakened every echowithin its walls.
Varney the Vampire; Or, the Feast of Blood Page 33