Varney the Vampire. James Malcolm Rymer

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СКАЧАТЬ Charles Howard, rather abruptly.

      "I do not recollect, my enthusiastic young friend," said Varney. "How old are you?"

      "Just about twenty-one."

      "You are, then, for your age, quite a model of discretion."

      It would have been difficult for the most accurate observer of human nature to have decided whether this was said truthfully or ironically, so Charles made no reply to it whatever.

      "I trust," said Henry, "we shall induce you, as this is your first visit, Sir Francis Varney, to the Hall, to partake of some thing."

      "Well, well, a cup of wine—"

      "Is at your service."

      Henry now led the way to a small parlour, which, although by no means one of the showiest rooms of the house, was, from the care and exquisite carving with which it abounded, much more to the taste of any who possessed an accurate judgment in such works of art.

      Then wine was ordered, and Charles took an opportunity of whispering to Henry—

      "Notice well if he drinks."

      "I will."

      "Do you see that beneath his coat there is a raised place, as if his arm was bound up?"

      "I do."

      "There, then, was where the bullet from the pistol fired by Flora, when we were at the church, hit him."

      "Hush! for God's sake, hush! you are getting into a dreadful state of excitement, Charles; hush! hush!"

      "And can you blame—"

      "No, no; but what can we do?"

      "You are right. Nothing can we do at present. We have a clue now, and be it our mutual inclination, as well as duty, to follow it. Oh, you shall see how calm I will be!"

      "For Heaven's sake, be so. I have noted that his eyes flash upon yours with no friendly feeling."

      "His friendship were a curse."

      "Hush! he drinks!"

      "Watch him."

      "I will."

      "Gentlemen all," said Sir Francis Varney, in such soft, dulcet tones, that it was quite a fascination to hear him speak; "gentlemen all, being as I am, much delighted with your company, do not accuse me of presumption, if I drink now, poor drinker as I am, to our future merry meetings."

      He raised the wine to his lips, and seemed to drink, after which he replaced the glass upon the table.

      Charles glanced at it, it was still full.

      "You have not drank, Sir Francis Varney," he said.

      "Pardon me, enthusiastic young sir," said Varney, "perhaps you will have the liberality to allow me to take my wine how I please and when I please."

      "Your glass is full."

      "Well, sir?"

      "Will you drink it?"

      "Not at any man's bidding, most certainly. If the fair Flora Bannerworth would grace the board with her sweet presence, methinks I could then drink on, on, on."

      "Hark you, sir," cried Charles, "I can bear no more of this. We have had in this house most horrible and damning evidence that there are such things as vampyres."

      "Have you really? I suppose you eat raw pork at supper, and so had the nightmare?"

      "A jest is welcome in its place, but pray hear me out, sir, if it suit your lofty courtesy to do so."

      "Oh, certainly."

      "Then I say we believe, as far as human judgment has a right to go, that a vampyre has been here."

      "Go on, it's interesting. I always was a lover of the wild and the wonderful."

      "We have, too," continued Charles, "some reason to believe that you are the man."

      Varney tapped his forehead as he glanced at Henry, and said—

      "Oh, dear, I did not know. You should have told me he was a little wrong about the brain; I might have quarreled with the lad. Dear me, how lamentable for his poor mother."

      "This will not do, Sir Francis Varney alias Bannerworth."

      "Oh—oh! Be calm—be calm."

      "I defy you to your teeth, sir! No, God, no! Your teeth!"

      "Poor lad! Poor lad!"

      "You are a cowardly demon, and here I swear to devote myself to your destruction."

      Sir Francis Varney drew himself up to his full height, and that was immense, as he said to Henry—

      "I pray you, Mr. Bannerworth, since I am thus grievously insulted beneath your roof, to tell me if your friend here be mad or sane?"

      "He's not mad."

      "Then—"

      "Hold, sir! The quarrel shall be mine. In the name of my persecuted sister—in the name of Heaven. Sir Francis Varney, I defy you."

      Sir Francis, in spite of his impenetrable calmness, appeared somewhat moved, as he said—

      "I have already endured insult sufficient—I will endure no more. If there are weapons at hand—"

      "My young friend," interrupted Mr. Marchdale, stepping between the excited men, "is carried away by his feelings, and knows not what he says. You will look upon it in that light, Sir Francis."

      "We need no interference," exclaimed Varney, his hitherto bland voice changing to one of fury. "The hot blooded fool wishes to fight, and he shall—to the death—to the death."

      "And I say he shall not," exclaimed Mr. Marchdale, taking Henry by the arm. "George," he added, turning to the young man, "assist me in persuading your brother to leave the room. Conceive the agony of your sister and mother if anything should happen to him."

      Varney smiled with a devilish sneer, as he listened to these words, and then he said—

      "As you will—as you will. There will be plenty of time, and perhaps better opportunity, gentlemen. I bid you good day."

      And with provoking coolness, he then moved towards the door, and quitted the room.

      "Remain here," said Marchdale; "I will follow him, and see that he quits the premises."

      He did so, and the young men, from the window, beheld Sir Francis walking slowly across the garden, and then saw Mr. Marchdale follow on his track.

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