CHAPTER XXXII.
THE THOUSAND POUNDS.--THE STRANGER'S PRECAUTIONS.
Varney moved not now, nor did he speak, but, like a statue, he stood,with his unearthly looking eyes rivetted upon the door of the apartment.
In a few moments one of his servants came, and said--
"Sir, a person is here, who says he wants to see you. He desired me tosay, that he had ridden far, and that moments were precious when thetide of life was ebbing fast."
"Yes! yes!" gasped Varney; "admit him, I know him! Bring him here? Itis--an--old friend--of mine."
He sank into a chair, and still he kept his eyes fixed upon that doorthrough which his visitor must come. Surely some secret of dreadfulmoment must be connected with him whom Sir Francis expected--dreaded--andyet dared not refuse to see. And now a footstep approaches--a slow and asolemn footstep--it pauses a moment at the door of the apartment, andthen the servant flings it open, and a tall man enters. He is envelopedin the folds of a horseman's cloak, and there is the clank of spurs uponhis heels as he walks into the room.
Varney rose again, but he said not a word and for a few moments theystood opposite each other in silence. The domestic has left the room,and the door is closed, so that there was nothing to prevent them fromconversing; and, yet, silent they continued for some minutes. It seemedas if each was most anxious that the other should commence theconversation, first.
And yet there was nothing so very remarkable in the appearance of thatstranger which should entirely justify Sir Francis Varney, in feeling somuch alarm at his presence. He certainly was a man past the prime oflife; and he looked like one who had battled much with misfortune, andas if time had not passed so lightly over his brow, but that it had leftdeep traces of its progress. The only thing positively bad about hiscountenance, was to be found in his eyes. There there was a mostungracious and sinister expression, a kind of lurking and suspicionslook, as if he were always resolving in his mind some deep laid scheme,which might be sufficient to circumvent the whole of mankind.
Finding, probably, that Varney would not speak first, he let his cloakfall more loosely about him, and in a low, deep tone, he said,
"I presume I was expected?"
"You were," said Varney. "It is the day, and it is the hour."
"You are right. I like to see you so mindful. You don't improve in lookssince--"
"Hush--hush! no more of that; can we not meet without a dreadfulallusion to the past! There needs nothing to remind me of it; and yourpresence here now shows that you are not forgetful. Speak not of thatfearful episode. Let no words combine to place it in a tangible shape tohuman understanding. I cannot, dare not, hear you speak of that."
"It is well," said the stranger; "as you please. Let our interview bebrief. You know my errand?"
"I do. So fearful a drag upon limited means, is not likely to be readilyforgotten."
"Oh, you are too ingenious--too full of well laid schemes, and to aptand ready in their execution, to feel, as any fearful drag, theconditions of our bargain. Why do you look at me so earnestly?"
"Because," said Varney--and he trembled as he spoke--"because eachlineament of your countenance brings me back to the recollection of theonly scene in life that made me shudder, and which I cannot think of,even with the indifference of contempt. I see it all before my mind'seye, coming in frightful panoramic array, those incidents, which even todream of, are sufficient to drive the soul to madness; the dread of thisannual visit, hangs upon me like a dark cloud upon my very heart; itsits like some foul incubus, destroying its vitality and dragging me,from day to day, nearer to that tomb, from whence not as before, I canemerge."
"You have been among the dead?" said the stranger.
"I have."
"And yet are mortal."
"Yes," repeated Varney, "yes, and yet am mortal."
"It was I that plucked you back to that world, which, to judge from yourappearance, has had since that eventful period but few charms for you.By my faith you look like--"
"Like what I am," interrupted Varney.
"This is a subject that once a year gets frightfully renewed between us.For weeks before your visit I am haunted by frightful recollections, andit takes me many weeks after you are gone, before I can restore myselfto serenity. Look at me; am I not an altered man?"
"In faith you are," said the stranger "I have no wish to press upon youpainful recollections. And yet 'tis strange to me that upon such a manas you, the event to which you allude should produce so terrible animpression."
"I have passed through the agony of death," said Varney, "and have againendured the torture--for it is such--of the re-union of the body and thesoul; not having endured so much, not the faintest echo of such feelingscan enter into your imagination."
"There may be truth in that, and yet, like a fluttering moth round aflame, it seems to me, that when I do see you, you take a terrific kindof satisfaction in talking of the past."
"That is strictly true," said Varney; "the images with which my mind isfilled are frightful. Pent up do they remain for twelve long months. Ican speak to you, and you only, without disguise, and thus does it seemto me that I get rid of the uneasy load of horrible imaginings. When youare gone, and have been gone a sufficient lapse of time, my slumbers arenot haunted with frightful images--I regain a comparative peace, untilthe time slowly comes around again, when we are doomed to meet."
"I understand you. You seem well lodged here?"
"I have ever kept my word, and sent to you, telling you where I am."
"You have, truly. I have no shadow of complaint to make against you. Noone, could have more faithfully performed his bond than you have. I giveyou ample credit for all that, and long may you live still to performyour conditions."
"I dare not deceive you, although to keep such faith I may be compelledto deceive a hundred others."
"Of that I cannot judge. Fortune seems to smile upon you; you have notas yet disappointed me."
"And will not now," said Varney. "The gigantic and frightful penalty ofdisappointing you, stares me in the face. I dare not do so."
He took from his pocket, as he spoke, a clasped book, from which heproduced several bank notes, which he placed before the stranger.
"A thousand pounds," he said; "that is the agreement."
"It is to the very letter. I do not return to you a thousand thanks--weunderstand each other better than to waste time with idle compliment.Indeed I will go quite as far as to say, truthfully, that did not mynecessities require this amount from you, you should have the boon, forwhich you pay that price at a much cheaper rate."
"Enough! enough!" said Varney. "It is strange, that your face shouldhave been the last I saw, when the world closed upon me, and the firstthat met my eyes when I was again snatched back to life! Do you pursuestill your dreadful trade?"
"Yes," said the stranger, "for another year, and then, with such amoderate competence as fortune has assigned me, I retire, to make wayfor younger and abler spirits."
"And then," said Varney, "shall you still require of me such an amountas this?"
"No; this is my last visit but one. I shall be just and liberal towardsyou. You are not old; and I have no wish to become the clog of yourexistence. As I have before told you, it is my necessity, and not myinclination, that sets the value upon the service I rendered you."
"I understand you, and ought to thank you. And in reply to so muchcourtesy, be assured, that when I shudder at your presence, it is notthat I regard you with horror, as an individual, but it is because thesight of you awakens mournfully the remembrance of the past."
"It is clear to me," said the stranger; "and now I think we part witheach other in a better spirit than we ever did before; and when we meetagain, the remembrance that it is the last time, will clear away thegloom that I now find hanging over you."
"It may! it may! With what an earnest gaze you still regard me!"
"I do. It does appear to me most strange, that time should not haveobliterated the eff
ects which I thought would have ceased with theircause. You are no more the man that in my recollection you once were,than I am like a sporting child."
"And I never shall be," said Varney; "never--never again! This self-samelook which the hand of death had placed upon me, I shall ever wear. Ishudder at myself, and as I oft perceive the eye of idle curiosity fixedsteadfastly upon me, I wonder in my inmost heart, if even the wildestguesser hits upon the cause why I am not like unto other men?"
"No. Of that you may depend there is no suspicion; but I will leave younow; we part such friends, as men situated as we are can be. Once againshall we meet, and then farewell for ever."
"Do you leave England, then?"
"I do. You know my situation in life. It is not one which offers meinducements to remain. In some other land, I shall win the respect andattention I may not hope for here. There my wealth will win many goldenopinions; and casting, as best I may, the veil of forgetfulness over myformer life, my declining years may yet be happy. This money, that Ihave had of you from time to time, has been more pleasantly earned thanall beside. Wrung, as it has been, from your fears, still have I takenit with less reproach. And now, farewell!"
Varney rang for a servant to show the stranger from the house, andwithout another word they parted.
Then, when he was alone, that mysterious owner of that costly home drewa long breath of apparently exquisite relief.
"That is over!--that is over!" he said. "He shall have the otherthousand pounds, perchance, sooner than he thinks. With all expedition Iwill send it to him. And then on that subject I shall be at peace. Ishall have paid a large sum; but that which I purchased was to mepriceless. It was my life!--it was my life itself! That possession whichthe world's wealth cannot restore! And shall I grudge these thousands,which have found their way into this man's hands? No! 'Tis true, thatexistence, for me, has lost some of its most resplendent charms. 'Tistrue, that I have no earthly affections, and that shunning companionshipwith all, I am alike shunned by all; and yet, while the life-blood stillwill circulate within my shrunken veins, I cling to vitality."
He passed into an inner room, and taking from a hook, on which it hung,a long, dark-coloured cloak, he enveloped his tall, unearthly figurewithin its folds.
Then, with his hat in his hand, he passed out of his house, and appearedto be taking his way towards Bannerworth House.
Surely it must be guilt of no common die that could oppress a man sodestitute of human sympathies as Sir Francis Varney. The dreadfulsuspicions that hovered round him with respect to what he was, appearedto gather confirmation from every act of his existence.
Whether or not this man, to whom he felt bound to pay annually so largea sum, was in the secret, and knew him to be something more thanearthly, we cannot at present declare; but it would seem from the tenorof their conversation as if such were the fact.
Perchance he had saved him from the corruption of the tomb, by placingout, on some sylvan spot, where the cold moonbeams fell, the apparentlylifeless form, and now claimed so large a reward for such a service, andthe necessary secrecy contingent upon it.
We say this may be so, and yet again some more natural and rationalexplanation may unexpectedly present itself; and there may be yet a darkpage in Sir Francis Varney's life's volume, which will place him in alight of superadded terrors to our readers.
Time, and the now rapidly accumulating incidents of our tale, will soontear aside the veil of mystery that now envelopes some of our _dramatispersonae_.
And let us hope that in the development of those incidents we shall beenabled to rescue the beautiful Flora Bannerworth from the despairinggloom that is around her. Let us hope and even anticipate that we shallsee her smile again; that the roseate hue of health will again revisither cheeks, the light buoyancy of her step return, and that as beforeshe may be the joy of all around her, dispensing and receivinghappiness.
And, he too, that gallant fearless lover, he whom no chance of time ortide could sever from the object of his fond affections, he who listenedto nothing but the dictates of his heart's best feelings, let us indulgea hope that he will have a bright reward, and that the sunshine of apermanent felicity will only seem the brighter for the shadows that fora time have obscured its glory.