He hastily consulted the watch he wore, and then he indeed found, that
whatever he had been looking forward to with dread for some time past,
as certain to ensue, at or about twelve o clock, had yet another hour in
which to prey upon his imagination. "How could I have made so grievous an error?" he exclaimed. "Another
hour of suspense and wonder as to whether that man be among the living
or the dead. I have thought of raising my hand against his life, but
some strange mysterious feeling has always staid me; and I have let him
come and go freely, while an opportunity might well have served me to
put such a design into execution. He is old, too--very old, and yet he
keeps death at a distance. He looked pale, but far from unwell or
failing, when last I saw him. Alas! a whole hour yet to wait. I would
that this interview were over." That extremely well known and popular disease called the fidgets, now
began, indeed, to torment Sir Francis Varney. He could not sit--he could
not walk, and, somehow or another, he never once seemed to imagine that
from the wine cup he should experience any relief, although, upon a side
table, there stood refreshments of that character. And thus some more
time passed away, and he strove to cheat it of its weariness by thinking
of a variety of subjects; but as the fates would have it, there seemed
not one agreeable reminiscence in the mind of that most inexplicable
man, and the more he plunged into the recesses of memory the more
uneasy, not to say almost terrified, he looked and became. A shuddering
nervousness came across him, and, for a few moments, he sat as if he
were upon the point of fainting. By a vigorous effort, however, he shook
this off, and then placing before him the watch, which now indicated
about the quarter past eleven, he strove with a calmer aspect to wait
the coming of him whose presence, when he did come, would really be a
great terror, since the very thought beforehand produced so much
hesitation and apparent dismay. In order too, if possible, then to further withdraw himself from a too
painful consideration of those terrors, which in due time the reader
will be acquainted with the cause of, he took up a book, and plunging at
random into its contents, he amused his mind for a time with the
following brief narrative:--

The wind howled round the gable ends of Bridport House in sudden and
furious gusts, while the inmates sat by the fire-side, gazing in silence
upon the blazing embers of the huge fire that shed a red and bright
light all over the immense apartment in which they all sat. It was an ancient looking place, very large, end capable of containing a
number of guests. Several were present. An aged couple were seated in tall high straight-backed chairs. They
were the owners of that lordly mansion, and near them sat two young
maidens of surpassing beauty; they were dissimilar, and yet there was a
slight likeness, but of totally different complexions. The one had tresses of raven black; eyebrows, eyelashes, and eyes were
all of the same hue; she was a beautiful and proud-looking girl, her
complexion clear, with the hue of health upon her cheeks, while a smile
played around her lips. The glance of the eye was sufficient to thrill
through the whole soul. The other maiden was altogether different; her complexion altogether
fairer--her hair of sunny chestnut, and her beautiful hazel eyes were
shaded by long brown eyelashes, while a playful smile also lit up her
countenance. She was the younger of the two. The attention of the two young maidens had been directed to the words of
the aged owner of the house, for he had been speaking a few moments
before. There were several other persons present, and at some little distance
were many of the domestics who were not denied the privilege of warmth
and rest in the presence of their master. These were not the times, when, if servants sat down, they were deemed
idle; but the daily task done, then the evening hour was spent by the
fire-side. "The wind howls and moans," said an aged domestic, "in an awful manner. I never heard the like." "It seems as though some imprisoned spirit was waiting for the repose
that had been denied on earth," said the old lady as she shifted her
seat and gazed steadily on the fire. "Ay," said her aged companion, "it is a windy night, and there will be a
storm before long, or I'm mistaken." "It was just such a night as that my son Henry left his home," said Mrs.
Bradley, "just such another--only it had the addition of sleet and
rain." The old man sighed at the mention of his son's name, a tear stood in the
eyes of the maidens, while one looked silently at the other, and seemed
to exchange glances. "I would that I might again see him before my body seeks its final home
in the cold remorseless grave." "Mother," said the fairest of the two maidens, "do not talk thus, let us
hope that we yet may have many years of happiness together." "Many, Emma?" "Yes, mamma, many." "Do you know that I am very old, Emma, very old indeed, considering what
I have suffered, such a life of sorrow and ill health is at least equal
to thirty years added to my life." "You may have deceived yourself, aunt," said the other maiden; "at all
events, you cannot count upon life as certain, for the strongest often
go first, while those who seem much more likely to fall, by care, as
often live in peace and happiness." "But I lead no life of peace and happiness, while Henry Bradley is not
here; besides, my life might be passed without me seeing him again." "It is now two years since he was here last," said the old man,

"This night two years was the night on which he left." "This night two years?" "Yes." "It was this night two years," said one of the servant men, "because old
Dame Poutlet had twins on that night." "A memorable circumstance." "And one died at a twelvemonth old," said the man; "and she had a dream
which foretold the event." "Ay, ay." "Yes, and moreover she's had the same dream again last Wednesday was a
week," said the man. "And lost the other twin?" "Yes sir, this morning." "Omens multiply," said the aged man; "I would that it would seem to
indicate the return of Henry to his home." "I wonder where he can have gone to, or what he could have done all this
time; probably he may not be in the land of the living." "Poor Henry," said Emma. "Alas, poor boy! We may never see him again--it was a mistaken act of
his, and yet he knew not otherwise how to act or escape his father's
displeasure." "Say no more--say no more upon that subject; I dare not listen to it. God knows I know quite enough," said Mr. Bradley; "I knew not he would
have taken my words so to heart as he did." "Why," said the old woman, "he thought you meant what you said." There was a long pause, during which all gazed at the blazing fire,
seemingly wrapt in their own meditation. Henry Bradley, the son of the apparently aged couple, had left that day
two years, and wherefore had he left the home of his childhood?