VARNEY, THE VAMPYRE;
                                    OR,
                             THE FEAST OF BLOOD.

                               Chapter XXXIII.

THE STRANGE INTERVIEW. -- THE CHASE THROUGH THE HALL.


     It was with the most melancholy aspect that anything human could well
bear, that Sir Francis Varney took his lonely walk, although perhaps in saying
so much, probably we are instituting a comparison which circumstances scarcely
empower us to do; for who shall say that singular man, around whom a very
atmosphere of mystery seemed to be perpetually increasing, was human?

     Averse as we are to believe in the supernatural, or even to invest
humanity with any preternatural powers, the more singular facts and
circumstances surrounding the existence and the acts of that man bring to the
mind a kind of shuddering conviction, that if he be indeed really mortal he
still must possess some powers beyond ordinary mortality, and be walking the
earth for some unhallowed purposes, such as ordinary men with ordinary
attributes of human nature can scarcely guess at.

     Silently and alone he took his way through that beautiful tract of
country, comprehending such picturesque charms of hill and dale which lay
between his home and Bannerworth Hall.  He was evidently intent upon reaching
the latter place by the shortest possible route, and in the darkness of that
night, for the moon had not yet risen, he showed no slight acquaintance with
the intricacies of that locality, that he was at all enabled to pursue so
undeviatingly a track as that which he took.

     He muttered frequently to himself low, indistinct words as he went, and
chiefly did they seem to have reference to that strange interview he had so
recently had with one who, from some combination of circumstances scarcely to
be guessed at, evidently exercised a powerful control over him, and was
enabled to make a demand upon his pecuniary resources of rather startling
magnitude.

     And yet, from a stray word or two, which were pronounced more distinctly,
he did not seem to be thinking in anger over that interview; but it would
appear that it rather had recalled to his remembrance circumstances of a
painful and a degrading nature, which time had not been able entirely to
obliterate from his recollection.

     "Yes, yes," he said, as he paused upon the margin of the wood, to the
confines of which he, or what seemed to be he, had once been chased by
Marchdale and the Bannerworths -- "yes, the very sight of that man recalls all
the frightful pageantry of a horrible tragedy, which I can never-- never
forget.  Never can it escape my memory, as a horrible, a terrific fact; but it
is the sight of this man alone that can recall all its fearful minutia to my
mind, and paint to my imagination, in the most vivid colours, every, the least
particular connected with that time of agony.  These periodical visits much
affect me.  For months I dread them, and for months I am but slowly recovering
from the shocks they give me.  'But once more,' he says-- 'but once more,'
and then we shall not meet again.  Well, well; perchance before that time
arrives, I may be able to possess myself of those resources which will enable
me to forestall his visit, and so at least free myself from the pang of
expecting him."

     He paused at the margin of the wood, and glanced in the direction of
Bannerworth Hall.  By the dim light which yet showed from out the light sky,
he could discern the ancient gable ends, and turret-like windows; he could see
the well laid out gardens, and the grove of stately firs that shaded it from
the northern blasts, and, as he gazed, a strong emotion seemed to come over
him, such as no one could have supposed would for one moment have possessed
the frame of one so apparently unconnected with all human sympathies.

     "I know this spot well," he said, "and my appearance here on that
eventful occasion, when the dread of my approach induced a crime only second
to murder itself, was on such a night as this, when all was so still and calm
around, and when he who, at the merest shadow of my presence, rather chose to
rush on death than be assured it was myself.  Curses on the circumstances that
so foiled me!  I should have been most wealthy.  I should have possessed the
means of commanding the adulation of those who now hold me but cheaply:  but
still the time may come.  I have a hope yet, and that greatness which I have
ever panted for, that magician-like power over my kind, which the possession
of ample means alone can give, may yet be mine."

     Wrapping his cloak more closely around him, he strode forward with that
long, noiseless step which was peculiar to him. Mechanically he appeared to
avoid those obstacles of hedge and ditch which impeded his pathway.  Surely he
had come that road often, or he would not so easily have pursued his way.  And
now he stood by the edge of a plantation which in some measure protected from
trespassers the more private gardens of the Hall, and there he paused, as if a
feeling of irresolution had come over him, or it might be, as indeed it seemed
from his subsequent conduct, that he had come without any fixed intention, or
if with a fixed intention, without any regular plan of carrying it into
effect.

     Did he again dream of intruding into any of the chambers of that mansion,
with the ghastly aspect of that terrible creation with which, in the minds of
its inhabitants, he seemed to be but too closely identified?  He was pale,
attenuated, and trembled. Could it be that so soon it had become necessary to
renew the life-blood in his veins in the awful manner which it is supposed the
vampyre brood are compelled to protract their miserable existence?

     It might be so, and that he was even now reflecting upon how once more he
could kindle the fire of madness in the brain of that beautiful girl, who he
had already made so irretrievably wretched.

     He leant against an aged tree, and his strange, lustrous-looking eyes
seemed to collect every wandering scintillation of light that was around, and
to shine with preternatural intensity.

     "I must, I will," he said, "be master of Bannerworth Hall. It must come
to that.  I have set an existence upon its possession, and I will have it; and
then, if with my own hands I displace it brick by brick and stone by stone, I
will discover that hidden secret which no one but myself now dreams of.  It
shall be done by force or fraud, by love or by despair, I care not which; the
end shall sanctify all means.  Ay, even if I wade through blood to my desire,
I say it shall be done."

     There was a holy and a still calmness about the night much at variance
with the storm of angry passion that appeared to be momentarily gathering
power in the breast of that fearful man. Not the least sound came from
Bannerworth Hall, and it was, only occasionally that from afar off on the
night air there came the bark of some watch-dog, or the low of distant cattle.
All else was mute save when the deep sepulchral tones of that man, if man he
was, gave an impulse to the soft air around him.  With a strolling movement as
if he were careless if he proceeded in that direction or not, he still went
onward toward the house, and now he stood by that little summer-house once so
sweet and so dear a retreat, in which the heart-stricken Flora had held her
interview with him whom she loved with a devotion unknown to meaner minds.

     This spot scarcely commanded any view of the house, for so enclosed was
it among evergreens and blooming flowers, that it seemed like a very
wilderness of nature, upon which, with liberal hand, she had showered down in
wild luxuriance her wildest floral beauties.

     In and around that spot the night air was loaded with sweets.  The
mingled perfume of many flowers made that place seem a very paradise.  But oh,
how sadly at variance with that beauty and contentedness of nature was he who
stood amidst such beauty! All incapable as he was of appreciating its
tenderness, or of gathering the faintest moral from its glory.

     "Why am I here?" he said. "Here, without fixed design or stability of
purpose, like some miser who has hidden his own hoards so deeply within the
bowels of the earth he cannot hope that he shall ever again be able to bring
them to the light of day.  I hover around this spot which I feel-- which I
know-- contains my treasure, though I cannot lay my hands upon it, or exult
in its glistening beauty."

     Even as he spoke he cowered down like some guilty thing, for he heard a
fair footstep upon the garden path.  So light, so fragile was the step, that,
in the light of day, the very hum of summer insects would have drowned the
noise:  but he heard it, that man of crime -- of unholy and awful impulses. 
He heard it, and he shrunk down among the shrubs and flowers till he was
hidden completely from observation amid a world of fragrant essences.

     Was it some one stealthily in that place even as he was, unwelcome or
unknown? or was it one who had observed him intrude upon the privacy of those
now unhappy precincts, and who was coming to deal upon him that death which,
vampyre though he might be, he was yet susceptible of from mortal hands?

     The footstep advanced, and lower down he shrunk until his coward-heart
beat against the very earth itself.  He knew that he was unarmed, a
circumstance rare with him, and only to be accounted for by the disturbance of
his mind consequent upon the visit of that strange man to his house, those
presence had awakened so many conflicting emotions.

     Nearer and nearer still came that light footstep, and his deep-seated
fears would not let him perceive that it was not the step of caution or of
treachery, but owed its lightness to the natural grace and freedom of movement
of its owner.

     The moon must have arisen, although obscured by clouds, through which it
cast but a dim radiance, for the night had certainly grown lighter; so that
although there were no strong shadows cast, a more diffused brightness was
about all things, and their outlines looked not so dancing, and confused the
one with the other.

     He strained his eyes in the direction whence the sounds proceeded, and
then his fears for his personal safety vanished, for he saw it was a female
form that was slowly advancing towards him.

     His first impulse was to rise, for with the transient glimpse he got of
it, he knew that it must be Flora Bannerworth; but a second thought, probably
one of intense curiosity to know what could possibly have brought her to such
a spot at such a time restrained him, and he was quiet.  But if the surprise
of Sir Francis Varney was great to see Flora Bannerworth at such a time in
such a place, we have no doubt, that with the knowledge which our readers have
of her, their astonishment would more than fully equal his; and when we come
to consider, that since that eventful period when the sanctity of her chamber
had been so violated by that fearful midnight visitant, it must appear
somewhat strange that she could gather courage sufficient to wander forth
alone at such an hour.

     Had she no dread of meeting that unearthly being?  Did the possibility
that she might fall into his ruthless grasp, not come across her mind with a
shuddering consciousness of its probability?  Had she no reflection that each
step she took, was taking her further and further from those who would aid her
in all extremities?  It would seem not, for she walked onward, unheeding and
apparently unthinking of the presence possible or probable, of that bane of
her existence.

     But let us look at her again.  How strange and spectral-like she moves
along; there seems no speculation in her countenance but with a strange and
gliding step, she walks like some dim shadow of the past in that ancient
garden.  She is very pale, and on her brow there is the stamp of suffering;
her dress is a morning robe, she holds it lightly round her, and thus she
moves forward towards that summer-house which probably to her was sanctified
by having witnessed those vows of pure affection which came from the lips of
Charles Holland, about whose fate there now hung so great a mystery.

     Has madness really seized upon the brain of that beautiful girl?  Has the
strong intellect really sunk beneath the oppression to which it has been
subjected?  Does she now walk forth with a disordered intellect, the queen of
some fantastic realm, viewing the material world with eyes that are not of
earth; shunning perhaps that which she should have sought, and, perchance, in
her frenzy, seeking that which in a happier frame of mind she would have
shunned.

     Such might have been the impression of any one who had looked upon her
for a moment, and who knew the disastrous scenes through which she had so
recently passed; but we can spare our readers the pangs of such a supposition.
We have bespoken their love for Flora Bannerworth, and we are certain that she
has it; therefore would we spare them, even for a few brief moments, from
imagining that cruel destiny had done its worst, and that the fine and
beautiful spirit we have so much commended had lost its power of rational
reflection.  No; thank Heaven, such is not the case.  Flora Bannerworth is not
mad, but under the strong influence of some eccentric dream, which has
pictured to her mind images which have no home but in the airy realms of
imagination. She has wandered forth from her chamber to that sacred spot where
she had met him she loved, and heard the noblest declaration of truth and
constancy that ever flowed from human lips.

     Yes, she is sleeping; but, with a precision such as the somnambulist so
strangely exerts, she trod the well-known paths slowly, but surely, towards
that summer's bower, where her dreams had not told her lay crouching that most
hideous spectre of her imagination, Sir Francis Varney.  He who stood between
her and her heart's best joy; he who had destroyed all hope of happiness, and
who had converted her dearest affections into only so many causes of greater
disquietude than the blessings they should have been to her.  Oh! could she
have imagined but for one moment that he was there, with what an eagerness of
terror would she have flown back again to the shelter of those walls, where at
least was to be found some protection from the fearful vampyre's embrace, and
where she would be within hail of friendly hearts, who would stand boldly
between her and every thought of harm.

     But she knew it not, and onwards she went until the very hem of her
garment touched the face of Sir Francis Varney.

     And he was terrified -- he dared not move -- he dared not speak!  The
idea that she had died, and that this was her spirit, come to wreak some
terrible vengeance upon him, for a time possessed him, and so paralysed with
fear was he, that he could neither move nor speak.

     It had been well if, during that trance of indecision in which his coward
heart placed him, Flora had left the place, and again sought her home; but
unhappily such an impulse came not over her; she sat upon that rustic seat,
where she had reposed when Charles had clasped her to his heart, and through
her very dream the remembrance of that pure affection came across her, and in
the tenderest and most melodious accents, she said, --

     "Charles! Charles! and do you love me still?  No-- no; you have not
forsaken me.  Save me, save me from the vampyre!"

     She shuddered, and Sir Francis Varney heard her weeping.

     "Fool that I am," he muttered, "to be so terrified.  She sleeps.  This is
one of the phases which a disordered imagination oft puts on.  She sleeps, and
perchance this may be an opportunity of further increasing the dread of my
visitation, which shall make Bannerworth Hall far too terrible a
dwelling-place for her; and well I know, if she goes, they will all go. It
will become a deserted house, and that is what I want.  A house, too, with
such an evil reputation that none but myself, who have created that
reputation, will venture within its walls: -- a house, which superstition will
point out as the abode of spirits -- a house, as it were, by general opinion,
ceded to the vampyre.  Yes, it shall be my own; fit dwelling-place for a while
for me.  I have sworn it shall be mine, and I will keep my oath, little such
as I have to do with vows."

     He rose, and moved slowly to the row entrance of the summer-house; a
movement he could make, without at all disturbing Flora, for the rustic seat,
on which she sat, was at its further extremity.  And there he stood, the upper
part of his gaunt and hideous form clearly defined upon the now much lighter
sky, so that if Flora Bannerworth had not been in that trance of sleep in
which she really was one glance upward would let her see the hideous companion
she had, in that once much-loved spot -- a spot hitherto sacred to the best
and noblest feelings, but now doomed for ever to be associated with that
terrific spectre of despair.

     But she was in no state to see so terrible a sight.  Her hands were over
her face, and she was weeping still.

     "Surely, he loves me," she whispered; "he has said he loved me, and he
does not speak in vain.  He loves me still, and I shall again look upon his
face, a Heaven to me!  Charles! Charles! you will come again?  Surely, they
sin against the divinity of love, who would tell me that you love me not!"

     "Ha!" muttered Varney, "this passion is her first, and takes a strong
hold on her young heart-- she loves him-- but what are human affections to
me?  I have no right to count myself in the great muster-roll of humanity.  I
look not like an inhabitant of the earth, and yet am on it.  I love no one,
expect no love from any one, but I will make humanity a slave to me; and the
lip-service of them who hate me in their hearts, shall be as pleasant jingling
music to my ear, as if it were quite sincere! I will speak to this girl; she
is not mad-- perchance she may be."

     There was a diabolical look of concentrated hatred upon Varney's face, as
he now advanced two paces towards the beautiful Flora.

                                     -+-

 Next Time: The Threat. -- Its Consequences. -- The Rescue, and Sir Francis
 Varney's Danger.

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The Varney Project                Chapter  33             Ver 1.00  02/20/1996
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