"As regards poor dear Flora," said Mr. Marchdale, "I know not what to
say, or what to think; she has been attacked by a vampyre, and after
this mortal life shall have ended, it is dreadful to think there may be
a possibility that she, with all her beauty, all her excellence and
purity of mind, and all those virtues and qualities which should make
her the beloved of all, and which do, indeed, attach all hearts towards
her, should become one of that dreadful tribe of beings who cling to
existence by feeding, in the most dreadful manner, upon the life blood
of others--oh, it is too dreadful to contemplate! Too horrible--too
horrible!" "Then wherefore speak of it?" said Charles, with some asperity. "Now, by
the great God of Heaven, who sees all our hearts, I will not give in to
such a horrible doctrine! I will not believe it; and were death itself
my portion for my want of faith, I would this moment die in my disbelief
of anything so truly fearful!" "Oh, my young friend," added Marchdale, "if anything could add to the
pangs which all who love, and admire, and respect Flora Bannerworth must
feel at the unhappy condition in which she is placed, it would be the
noble nature of you, who, under happier auspices, would have been her
guide through life, and the happy partner of her destiny." "As I will be still." "May Heaven forbid it! We are now among ourselves, and can talk freely
upon such a subject. Mr. Charles Holland, if you wed, you would look
forward to being blessed with children--those sweet ties which bind the
sternest hearts to life with so exquisite a bondage. Oh, fancy, then,
for a moment, the mother of your babes coming at the still hour of
midnight to drain from their veins the very life blood she gave to them. To drive you and them mad with the expected horror of such
visitations--to make your nights hideous--your days but so many hours of
melancholy retrospection. Oh, you know not the world of terror, on the
awful brink of which you stand, when you talk of making Flora
Bannerworth a wife." "Peace! oh, peace!" said Henry. "Nay, I know my words are unwelcome," continued Mr. Marchdale. "It
happens, unfortunately for human nature, that truth and some of our best
and holiest feelings are too often at variance, and hold a sad
contest--"

"I will hear no more of this," cried Charles Holland.--"I will hear no
more." "I have done," said Mr. Marchdale. "And 'twere well you had not begun." "Nay, say not so. I have but done what I considered was a solemn duty." "Under that assumption of doing duty--a solemn duty--heedless of the
feelings and the opinions of others," said Charles, sarcastically, "more
mischief is produced--more heart-burnings and anxieties caused, than by
any other two causes of such mischievous results combined. I wish to
hear no more of this." "Do not be angered with Mr. Marchdale, Charles," said Henry. "He can
have no motive but our welfare in what he says. We should not condemn a
speaker because his words may not sound pleasant to our ears." "By Heaven!" said Charles, with animation, "I meant not to be illiberal;
but I will not because I cannot see a man's motives for active
interference in the affairs of others, always be ready, merely on
account of such ignorance, to jump to a conclusion that they must be
estimable." "To-morrow, I leave this house," said Marchdale. "Leave us?" exclaimed Henry. "Ay, for ever." "Nay, now, Mr. Marchdale, is this generous?" "Am I treated generously by one who is your own guest, and towards whom
I was willing to hold out the honest right hand of friendship?" Henry turned to Charles Holland, saying,--

"Charles, I know your generous nature. Say you meant no offence to my
mother's old friend." "If to say I meant no offence," said Charles, "is to say I meant no
insult, I say it freely." "Enough," cried Marchdale; "I am satisfied." "But do not," added Charles, "draw me any more such pictures as the one
you have already presented to my imagination, I beg of you. From the
storehouse of my own fancy I can find quite enough to make me wretched,
if I choose to be so; but again and again do I say I will not allow this
monstrous superstition to tread me down, like the tread of a giant on a
broken reed. I will contend against it while I have life to do so." "Bravely spoken." "And when I desert Flora Bannerworth, may Heaven, from that moment,
desert me!" "Charles!" cried Henry, with emotion, "dear Charles, my more than
friend--brother of my heart--noble Charles!" "Nay, Henry, I am not entitled to your praises. I were base indeed to be
other than that which I purpose to be. Come weal or woe--come what may,
I am the affianced husband of your sister, and she, and she only, can
break asunder the tie that binds me to her." CHAPTER XIII. THE OFFER FOR THE HALL.--THE VISIT TO SIR FRANCIS VARNEY.--THE STRANGE
RESEMBLANCE.--A DREADFUL SUGGESTION. [Illustration]

The party made a strict search through every nook and corner of the
garden, but it proved to be a fruitless one: not the least trace of any
one could be found. There was only one circumstance, which was pondered
over deeply by them all, and that was that, beneath the window of the
room in which Flora and her mother sat while the brothers were on their
visit to the vault of their ancestors, were visible marks of blood to a
considerable extent. It will be remembered that Flora had fired a pistol at the spectral
appearance, and that immediately upon that it had disappeared, after
uttering a sound which might well be construed into a cry of pain from a
wound. That a wound then had been inflicted upon some one, the blood beneath
the window now abundantly testified; and when it was discovered, Henry
and Charles made a very close examination indeed of the garden, to
discover what direction the wounded figure, be it man or vampyre, had
taken. [Illustration]

But the closest scrutiny did not reveal to them a single spot of blood,
beyond the space immediately beneath the window;--there the apparition
seemed to have received its wound, and then, by some mysterious means,
to have disappeared. At length, wearied with the continued excitement, combined with want of
sleep, to which they had been subjected, they returned to the hall. Flora, with the exception of the alarm she experienced from the firing
of the pistol, had met with no disturbance, and that, in order to spare
her painful reflections, they told her was merely done as a
precautionary measure, to proclaim to any one who might be lurking in
the garden that the inmates of the house were ready to defend themselves
against any aggression. Whether or not she believed this kind deceit they knew not. She only
sighed deeply, and wept.