Varney the Vampire. James Malcolm Rymer

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      "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, СКАЧАТЬ