"It was I that plucked you back to that world, which, to judge from your
appearance, has had since that eventful period but few charms for you. By my faith you look like--"

"Like what I am," interrupted Varney. "This is a subject that once a year gets frightfully renewed between us. For weeks before your visit I am haunted by frightful recollections, and
it takes me many weeks after you are gone, before I can restore myself
to serenity. Look at me; am I not an altered man?" "In faith you are," said the stranger "I have no wish to press upon you
painful recollections. And yet 'tis strange to me that upon such a man
as you, the event to which you allude should produce so terrible an
impression." "I have passed through the agony of death," said Varney, "and have again
endured the torture--for it is such--of the re-union of the body and the
soul; not having endured so much, not the faintest echo of such feelings
can enter into your imagination." "There may be truth in that, and yet, like a fluttering moth round a
flame, it seems to me, that when I do see you, you take a terrific kind
of satisfaction in talking of the past." "That is strictly true," said Varney; "the images with which my mind is
filled are frightful. Pent up do they remain for twelve long months. I
can speak to you, and you only, without disguise, and thus does it seem
to me that I get rid of the uneasy load of horrible imaginings. When you
are gone, and have been gone a sufficient lapse of time, my slumbers are
not haunted with frightful images--I regain a comparative peace, until
the time slowly comes around again, when we are doomed to meet." "I understand you. You seem well lodged here?" "I have ever kept my word, and sent to you, telling you where I am." "You have, truly. I have no shadow of complaint to make against you. No
one, could have more faithfully performed his bond than you have. I give
you ample credit for all that, and long may you live still to perform
your conditions." "I dare not deceive you, although to keep such faith I may be compelled
to deceive a hundred others." "Of that I cannot judge. Fortune seems to smile upon you; you have not
as yet disappointed me." "And will not now," said Varney. "The gigantic and frightful penalty of
disappointing you, stares me in the face. I dare not do so." He took from his pocket, as he spoke, a clasped book, from which he
produced several bank notes, which he placed before the stranger. "A thousand pounds," he said; "that is the agreement." "It is to the very letter. I do not return to you a thousand thanks--we
understand each other better than to waste time with idle compliment. Indeed I will go quite as far as to say, truthfully, that did not my
necessities require this amount from you, you should have the boon, for
which you pay that price at a much cheaper rate." "Enough! enough!" said Varney. "It is strange, that your face should
have been the last I saw, when the world closed upon me, and the first
that met my eyes when I was again snatched back to life! Do you pursue
still your dreadful trade?" "Yes," said the stranger, "for another year, and then, with such a
moderate competence as fortune has assigned me, I retire, to make way
for younger and abler spirits." "And then," said Varney, "shall you still require of me such an amount
as this?" "No; this is my last visit but one. I shall be just and liberal towards
you. You are not old; and I have no wish to become the clog of your
existence. As I have before told you, it is my necessity, and not my
inclination, that sets the value upon the service I rendered you." "I understand you, and ought to thank you. And in reply to so much
courtesy, be assured, that when I shudder at your presence, it is not
that I regard you with horror, as an individual, but it is because the
sight of you awakens mournfully the remembrance of the past." "It is clear to me," said the stranger; "and now I think we part with
each other in a better spirit than we ever did before; and when we meet
again, the remembrance that it is the last time, will clear away the
gloom that I now find hanging over you." "It may! it may! With what an earnest gaze you still regard me!" "I do. It does appear to me most strange, that time should not have
obliterated the effects which I thought would have ceased with their
cause. You are no more the man that in my recollection you once were,
than I am like a sporting child." "And I never shall be," said Varney; "never--never again! This self-same
look which the hand of death had placed upon me, I shall ever wear. I
shudder at myself, and as I oft perceive the eye of idle curiosity fixed
steadfastly upon me, I wonder in my inmost heart, if even the wildest
guesser hits upon the cause why I am not like unto other men?" "No. Of that you may depend there is no suspicion; but I will leave you
now; we part such friends, as men situated as we are can be. Once again
shall we meet, and then farewell for ever." "Do you leave England, then?" "I do. You know my situation in life. It is not one which offers me
inducements to remain. In some other land, I shall win the respect and
attention I may not hope for here. There my wealth will win many golden
opinions; and casting, as best I may, the veil of forgetfulness over my
former life, my declining years may yet be happy. This money, that I
have had of you from time to time, has been more pleasantly earned than
all beside. Wrung, as it has been, from your fears, still have I taken
it with less reproach. And now, farewell!" Varney rang for a servant to show the stranger from the house, and
without another word they parted. Then, when he was alone, that mysterious owner of that costly home drew
a long breath of apparently exquisite relief. "That is over!--that is over!" he said. "He shall have the other
thousand pounds, perchance, sooner than he thinks. With all expedition I
will send it to him. And then on that subject I shall be at peace. I
shall have paid a large sum; but that which I purchased was to me
priceless. It was my life!--it was my life itself! That possession which
the world's wealth cannot restore! And shall I grudge these thousands,
which have found their way into this man's hands? No! 'Tis true, that
existence, for me, has lost some of its most resplendent charms. 'Tis
true, that I have no earthly affections, and that shunning companionship
with all, I am alike shunned by all; and yet, while the life-blood still
will circulate within my shrunken veins, I cling to vitality." He passed into an inner room, and taking from a hook, on which it hung,
a long, dark-coloured cloak, he enveloped his tall, unearthly figure
within its folds. Then, with his hat in his hand, he passed out of his house, and appeared
to be taking his way towards Bannerworth House. Surely it must be guilt of no common die that could oppress a man so
destitute of human sympathies as Sir Francis Varney.