"Bid him come in; we shall lose no warmth because there is one more
before the fire." The stranger entered, and said,--"I have missed my way, and the snow
comes down so thick and fast, and is whirled in such eddies, that I
fear, by myself, I should fall into some drift, and perish before
morning." "Do not speak of it, sir," said Mr. Bradley; "such a night as this is a
sufficient apology for the request you make, and an inducement to me to
grant it most willingly." "Thanks," replied the stranger; "the welcome is most seasonable." "Be seated, sir; take your seat by the ingle; it is warm." The stranger seated himself, and seemed lost in reflection, as he gazed
intently on the blazing logs. He was a robust man, with great whiskers
and beard, and, to judge from his outward habiliments, he was a stout
man. "Have you travelled far?" "I have, sir." "You appear to belong to the army, if I mistake not?" "I do, sir." There was a pause; the stranger seemed not inclined to speak of himself
much; but Mr. Bradley continued,--

"Have you come from foreign service, sir? I presume you have." "Yes; I have not been in this country more than six days." "Indeed; shall we have peace think you?" "I do so, and I hope it may be so, for the sake of many who desire to
return to their native land, and to those they love best." Mr. Bradley heaved a deep sigh, which was echoed softly by all present,
and the stranger looked from one to another, with a hasty glance, and
then turned his gaze upon the fire. "May I ask, sir, if you have any person whom you regard in the army--any
relative?" "Alas! I have--perhaps, I ought to say I had a son. I know not, however,
where he is gone." "Oh! a runaway; I see." "Oh, no; he left because there were some family differences, and now, I
would, that he were once more here." "Oh!" said the stranger, softly, "differences and mistakes will happen
now and then, when least desired." At this moment, an old hound who had lain beside Ellen Mowbray, she who
wore the coal-black tresses, lifted his head at the difference in sound
that was noticed in the stranger's voice. He got up and slowly walked up
to him, and began to smell around him, and, in another moment, he rushed
at him with a cry of joy, and began to lick and caress him in the most
extravagant manner. This was followed by a cry of joy in all present. "It is Henry!" exclaimed Ellen Mowbray, rising and rushing into his
arms. It was Henry, and he threw off the several coats he had on, as well as
the large beard he wore to disguise himself. The meeting was a happy one; there was not a more joyful house than that
within many miles around. Henry was restored to the arms of those who
loved him, and, in a month, a wedding was celebrated between him and his
cousin Ellen. *       *       *       *       *

Sir Francis Varney glanced at his watch. It indicated but five minutes
to twelve o'clock, and he sprang to his feet. Even as he did so, a loud
knocking at the principal entrance to his house awakened every echo
within its walls. CHAPTER XXXII. THE THOUSAND POUNDS.--THE STRANGER'S PRECAUTIONS. [Illustration]

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 to
say, that he had ridden far, and that moments were precious when the
tide of life was ebbing fast." "Yes! yes!" gasped Varney; "admit him, I know him! Bring him here? It
is--an--old friend--of mine." He sank into a chair, and still he kept his eyes fixed upon that door
through which his visitor must come. Surely some secret of dreadful
moment must be connected with him whom Sir Francis expected--dreaded--and
yet dared not refuse to see. And now a footstep approaches--a slow and a
solemn footstep--it pauses a moment at the door of the apartment, and
then the servant flings it open, and a tall man enters. He is enveloped
in the folds of a horseman's cloak, and there is the clank of spurs upon
his heels as he walks into the room. Varney rose again, but he said not a word and for a few moments they
stood opposite each other in silence. The domestic has left the room,
and the door is closed, so that there was nothing to prevent them from
conversing; and, yet, silent they continued for some minutes. It seemed
as if each was most anxious that the other should commence the
conversation, first. And yet there was nothing so very remarkable in the appearance of that
stranger which should entirely justify Sir Francis Varney, in feeling so
much alarm at his presence. He certainly was a man past the prime of
life; and he looked like one who had battled much with misfortune, and
as if time had not passed so lightly over his brow, but that it had left
deep traces of its progress. The only thing positively bad about his
countenance, was to be found in his eyes. There there was a most
ungracious and sinister expression, a kind of lurking and suspicions
look, 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 cloak
fall 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 looks
since--"

"Hush--hush! no more of that; can we not meet without a dreadful
allusion to the past! There needs nothing to remind me of it; and your
presence here now shows that you are not forgetful. Speak not of that
fearful episode. Let no words combine to place it in a tangible shape to
human understanding. I cannot, dare not, hear you speak of that." "It is well," said the stranger; "as you please. Let our interview be
brief. You know my errand?" "I do. So fearful a drag upon limited means, is not likely to be readily
forgotten." "Oh, you are too ingenious--too full of well laid schemes, and to apt
and ready in their execution, to feel, as any fearful drag, the
conditions of our bargain. Why do you look at me so earnestly?" "Because," said Varney--and he trembled as he spoke--"because each
lineament of your countenance brings me back to the recollection of the
only 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's
eye, coming in frightful panoramic array, those incidents, which even to
dream of, are sufficient to drive the soul to madness; the dread of this
annual visit, hangs upon me like a dark cloud upon my very heart; it
sits like some foul incubus, destroying its vitality and dragging me,
from day to day, nearer to that tomb, from whence not as before, I can
emerge." "You have been among the dead?" said the stranger. "I have." "And yet are mortal." "Yes," repeated Varney, "yes, and yet am mortal."