“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, is it not? Very remarkable. We never know a moment when, from some most trifling cause, we may receive really some serious bodily hurt. How true it is, Mr. Bannerworth, that in the midst of life we are in death.” “And equally true, perhaps,” said Henry, “that in the midst of death there may be found a horrible life.” “Well, I should not wonder. There are really so many strange things in this world, that I have left off wondering at anything now.” “There are strange things,” said Henry. “You wish to purchase of me the Hall, sir?” “If you wish to sell.” “You—you are perhaps attached to the place? Perhaps you recollected it, sir, long ago?” “Not very long,” smiled Sir Francis Varney. “It seems a nice comfortable old house; and the grounds, too, appear to be amazingly well wooded, which, to one of rather a romantic temperament like myself, is always an additional charm to a place. I was extremely pleased with it the first time I beheld it, and a desire to call myself the owner of it took possession of my mind. The scenery is remarkable for its beauty, and, from what I have seen of it, it is rarely to be excelled. No doubt you are greatly attached to it.” “It has been my home from infancy,” returned Henry, “and being also the residence of my ancestors for centuries, it is natural that I should be so.” “True—true.” “The house, no doubt, has suffered much,” said Henry, “within the last hundred years.”