Here
is some manuscript which Charles thinks will amuse you, and he bade me
ask you if you would be introduced to his uncle." "Yes, yes--willingly." "I will tell him so; I know he wishes it, and I will tell him so. Be
patient, dear Flora, and all may yet be well." "But, brother, on your sacred word, tell me do you not think this Sir
Francis Varney is the vampyre?" "I know not what to think, and do not press me for a judgment now. He
shall be watched." Henry left his sister, and she sat for some moments in silence with the
papers before her that Charles had sent her. "Yes," she then said, gently, "he loves me--Charles loves me; I ought to
be very, very happy. He loves me. In those words are concentrated a
whole world of joy--Charles loves me--he will not forsake me. Oh, was
there ever such dear love--such fond devotion?--never, never. Dear
Charles. He loves me--he loves me!" The very repetition of these words had a charm for Flora--a charm which
was sufficient to banish much sorrow; even the much-dreaded vampyre was
forgotten while the light of love was beaming upon her, and she told
herself,--

"He is mine!--he is mine! He loves me truly." After a time, she turned to the manuscript which her brother had brought
her, and, with a far greater concentration of mind than she had thought
it possible she could bring to it, considering the many painful subjects
of contemplation that she might have occupied herself with, she read the
pages with very great pleasure and interest. The tale was one which chained her attention both by its incidents and
the manner of its recital. It commenced as follows, and was entitled,
"Hugo de Verole; or, the Double Plot." In a very mountainous part of Hungary lived a nobleman whose paternal
estates covered many a mile of rock and mountain land, as well as some
fertile valleys, in which reposed a hardy and contented peasantry. The
old Count de Hugo de Verole had quitted life early, and had left his
only son, the then Count Hugo de Verole, a boy of scarcely ten years,
under the guardianship of his mother, an arbitrary and unscrupulous
woman. The count, her husband, had been one of those quiet, even-tempered men,
who have no desire to step beyond the sphere in which they are placed;
he had no cares, save those included in the management of his estate,
the prosperity of his serfs, and the happiness of those, around him. His death caused much lamentation throughout his domains, it was so
sudden and unexpected, being in the enjoyment of his health and strength
until a few hours previous, and then his energies became prostrated by
pain and disease. There was a splendid funeral ceremony, which,
according to the usages of his house, took place by torch-light. So great and rapid were the ravages of disease, that the count's body
quickly became a mass of corruption. All were amazed at the phenomena,
and were heartily glad when the body was disposed of in the place
prepared for its reception in the vaults of his own castle. The guests
who came to witness the funeral, and attend the count's obsequies, and
to condole with the widow on the loss she had sustained, were
entertained sumptuously for many days. The widow sustained her part well. She was inconsolable for the loss of
her husband, and mourned his death bitterly. Her grief appeared
profound, but she, with difficulty, subdued it to within decent bounds,
that she might not offend any of her numerous guests. However, they left her with the assurances of their profound regard, and
then when they were gone, when the last guest had departed, and were no
longer visible to the eye of the countess, as she gazed from the
battlements, then her behaviour changed totally. She descended from the battlements, and then with an imperious gesture
she gave her orders that all the gates of the castle should be closed,
and a watch set. All signs of mourning she ordered to be laid on one
side save her own, which she wore, and then she retired to her own
apartment, where she remained unseen. Here the countess remained in profound meditation for nearly two days,
during which time the attendants believed she was praying for the
welfare of the soul of their deceased master, and they feared she would
starve herself to death if she remained any longer. Just as they had assembled together for the purpose of either recalling
her from her vigils or breaking open the door, they were amazed to see
the countess open the room-door, and stand in the midst of them. "What do you here?" she demanded, in a stern voice. The servants were amazed and terrified at her contracted brow, and
forgot to answer the question she put to them. "What do you do here?" "We came, my lady, to see--see--if--if you were well." "And why?" "Because we hadn't seen your ladyship these two days, and we thought
that your grief was so excessive that we feared some harm might befall
you." The countess's brows contracted for a few seconds, and she was about to
make a hasty reply, but she conquered the desire to do so, and merely
said,--

"I am not well, I am faint; but, had I been dying, I should not have
thanked you for interfering to prevent me; however, you acted for the
best, but do so no more. Now prepare me some food." The servants, thus dismissed, repaired to their stations, but with such
a degree of alacrity, that they sufficiently showed how much they feared
their mistress. The young count, who was only in his sixth year, knew little about the
loss he had sustained; but after a day or two's grief, there was an end
of his sorrow for the time. That night there came to the castle-gate a man dressed in a black cloak,
attended by a servant. They were both mounted on good horses, and they
demanded to be admitted to the presence of the Countess de Hugo de
Verole. The message was carried to the countess, who started, but said,--

"Admit the stranger." Accordingly the stranger was admitted, and shown into the apartment
where the countess was sitting. At a signal the servants retired, leaving the countess and the stranger
alone. It was some moments ere they spoke, and then the countess said in
a low tone,--

"You are come?" "I am come." "You cannot now, you see, perform your threat. My husband, the count,
caught a putrid disease, and he is no more." "I cannot indeed do what I intended, inform your husband of your amours;
but I can do something as good, and which will give you as much
annoyance." "Indeed." "Aye, more, it will cause you to be hated. I can spread reports." "You can." "And these may ruin you." "They may." "What do you intend to do? Do you intend that I shall be an enemy or a
friend? I can be either, according to my will." "What, do you desire to be either?" inquired the countess, with a
careless tone. "If you refuse my terms, you can make me an implacable enemy, and if you
grant them, you can make me a useful friend and auxiliary," said the
stranger. "What would you do if you were my enemy?" inquired the countess.