The weather had been dull, and there had been for some days a certain
heaviness in the atmosphere, which was now entirely removed. The morning sun was shining with uncommon brilliancy, birds were singing
in every tree and on every bush; so pleasant, so spirit-stirring,
health-giving a morning, seldom had he seen. And the effect upon his
spirits was great, although not altogether what it might have been, had
all gone on as it usually was in the habit of doing at that house. The
ordinary little casualties of evil fortune had certainly from time to
time, in the shape of illness, and one thing or another, attacked the
family of the Bannerworths in common with every other family, but here
suddenly had arisen a something at once terrible and inexplicable. He found Mr. Marchdale up and dressed, and apparently in deep and
anxious thought. The moment he saw Henry, he said,--

"Flora is awake, I presume." "Yes, but her mind appears to be much disturbed." "From bodily weakness, I dare say." "But why should she be bodily weak? she was strong and well, ay, as well
as she could ever be in all her life. The glow of youth and health was
on her cheeks. Is it possible that, in the course of one night, she
should become bodily weak to such an extent?" "Henry," said Mr. Marchdale, sadly, "sit down. I am not, as you know, a
superstitious man." "You certainly are not." "And yet, I never in all my life was so absolutely staggered as I have
been by the occurrences of to-night." "Say on." "There is a frightful, a hideous solution of them; one which every
consideration will tend to add strength to, one which I tremble to name
now, although, yesterday, at this hour, I should have laughed it to
scorn." "Indeed!" "Yes, it is so. Tell no one that which I am about to say to you. Let the
dreadful suggestion remain with ourselves alone, Henry Bannerworth." "I--I am lost in wonder." "You promise me?" "What--what?" "That you will not repeat my opinion to any one." "I do." "On your honour." "On my honour, I promise." Mr. Marchdale rose, and proceeding to the door, he looked out to see
that there were no listeners near. Having ascertained then that they
were quite alone, he returned, and drawing a chair close to that on
which Henry sat, he said,--

"Henry, have you never heard of a strange and dreadful superstition
which, in some countries, is extremely rife, by which it is supposed
that there are beings who never die." "Never die!" "Never. In a word, Henry, have you never heard of--of--I dread to
pronounce the word." "Speak it. God of Heaven! let me hear it." "A _vampyre_!" Henry sprung to his feet. His whole frame quivered with emotion; the
drops of perspiration stood upon his brow, as, in, a strange, hoarse
voice, he repeated the words,--

"A vampyre!" "Even so; one who has to renew a dreadful existence by human blood--one
who lives on for ever, and must keep up such a fearful existence upon
human gore--one who eats not and drinks not as other men--a vampyre." Henry dropped into his seat, and uttered a deep groan of the most
exquisite anguish. "I could echo that groan," said Marchdale, "but that I am so thoroughly
bewildered I know not what to think." "Good God--good God!" "Do not too readily yield belief in so dreadful a supposition, I pray
you." "Yield belief!" exclaimed Henry, as he rose, and lifted up one of his
hands above his head. "No; by Heaven, and the great God of all, who
there rules, I will not easily believe aught so awful and so monstrous." "I applaud your sentiment, Henry; not willingly would I deliver up
myself to so frightful a belief--it is too horrible. I merely have told
you of that which you saw was on my mind. You have surely before heard
of such things." "I have--I have." "I much marvel, then, that the supposition did not occur to you, Henry." "It did not--it did not, Marchdale. It--it was too dreadful, I suppose,
to find a home in my heart. Oh! Flora, Flora, if this horrible idea
should once occur to you, reason cannot, I am quite sure, uphold you
against it." "Let no one presume to insinuate it to her, Henry. I would not have it
mentioned to her for worlds." "Nor I--nor I. Good God! I shudder at the very thought--the mere
possibility; but there is no possibility, there can be none. I will not
believe it." "Nor I." "No; by Heaven's justice, goodness, grace, and mercy, I will not believe
it." "Tis well sworn, Henry; and now, discarding the supposition that Flora
has been visited by a vampyre, let us seriously set about endeavouring,
if we can, to account for what has happened in this house." "I--I cannot now." "Nay, let us examine the matter; if we can find any natural explanation,
let us cling to it, Henry, as the sheet-anchor of our very souls." "Do you think. You are fertile in expedients. Do you think, Marchdale;
and, for Heaven's sake, and for the sake of our own peace, find out some
other way of accounting for what has happened, than the hideous one you
have suggested." "And yet my pistol bullets hurt him not; he has left the tokens of his
presence on the neck of Flora." "Peace, oh! peace. Do not, I pray you, accumulate reasons why I should
receive such a dismal, awful superstition. Oh, do not, Marchdale, as you
love me!" "You know that my attachment to you," said Marchdale, "is sincere; and
yet, Heaven help us!" His voice was broken by grief as he spoke, and he turned aside his head
to hide the bursting tears that would, despite all his efforts, show
themselves in his eyes. "Marchdale," added Henry, after a pause of some moments' duration, "I
will sit up to-night with my sister." "Do--do!" "Think you there is a chance it may come again?" "I cannot--I dare not speculate upon the coming of so dreadful a
visitor, Henry; but I will hold watch with you most willingly." "You will, Marchdale?" "My hand upon it. Come what dangers may, I will share them with you,
Henry." "A thousand thanks. Say nothing, then, to George of what we have been
talking about. He is of a highly susceptible nature, and the very idea
of such a thing would kill him." "I will; be mute. Remove your sister to some other chamber, let me beg
of you, Henry; the one she now inhabits will always be suggestive of
horrible thoughts." "I will; and that dreadful-looking portrait, with its perfect likeness
to him who came last night." "Perfect indeed. Do you intend to remove it?" "I do not. I thought of doing so; but it is actually on the panel in the
wall, and I would not willingly destroy it, and it may as well remain
where it is in that chamber, which I can readily now believe will become
henceforward a deserted one in this house." "It may well become such." "Who comes here? I hear a step." There was a tip at the door at this moment, and George made his
appearance in answer to the summons to come in.