“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.”