A cry of despair came from poor Henry’s lips, and in a moment he seemed completely, mentally and physically, prostrated. “God of Heaven!” he moaned, “I had forgotten her!” “I thought you had.” “Oh, if the sacrifice of my own life would suffice to put an end to all this accumulating horror, how gladly would I lay it down. Ay, in any way—in any way. No mode of death should appall me. No amount of pain make me shrink. I could smile then upon the destroyer, and say, ‘welcome—welcome—most welcome.’” “Rather, Henry, seek to live for those whom you love than die for them. Your death would leave them desolate. In life you may ward off many a blow of fate from them.” “I may endeavour so to do.” “Consider that Flora may be wholly dependent upon such kindness as you may be able to bestow upon her.” “Charles clings to her.” “Humph!” “You do not doubt him?” “My dear friend, Henry Bannerworth, although I am not an old man, yet I am so much older than you that I have seen a great deal of the world, and am, perhaps, far better able to come to accurate judgments with regard to individuals.” “No doubt—no doubt; but yet——” “Nay, hear me out. Such judgments, founded upon experience, when uttered have all the character of prophecy about them. I, therefore, now prophecy to you that Charles Holland will yet be so stung with horror at the circumstance of a vampyre visiting Flora, that he will never make her his wife.” “Marchdale, I differ from you most completely,” said Henry. “I know that Charles Holland is the very soul of honour.” “I cannot argue the matter with you. It has not become a thing of fact. I have only sincerely to hope that I am wrong.” “You are, you may depend, entirely wrong. I cannot be deceived in Charles. From you such words produce no effect but one of regret that you should so much err in your estimate of any one. From any one but yourself they would have produced in me a feeling of anger I might have found it difficult to smother.” “It has often been my misfortune through life,” said Mr. Marchdale, sadly, “to give the greatest offence where I feel the truest friendship, because it is in such quarters that I am always tempted to speak too freely.” “Nay, no offence,” said Henry. “I am distracted, and scarcely know what I say. Marchdale, I know you are my sincere friend; but, as I tell you, I am nearly mad.” “My dear Henry, be calmer. Consider upon what is to be said concerning this interview at home.” “Ay; that is a consideration.” “I should not think it advisable to mention the disagreeable fact, that in your neighbour you think you have found out the nocturnal disturber of your family.” “No—no.” “I would say nothing of it. It is not at all probable that, after what you have said to him, this Sir Francis Varney, or whatever his real name may be, will obtrude himself upon you.” “If he should he surely dies.” “He will, perhaps, consider that such a step would be dangerous to him.”