The estate which
had been so recently entered upon by the person calling himself Sir
Francis Varney, and which common report said he had purchased, was a
small, but complete property, and situated so close to the grounds
connected with Bannerworth Hall, that a short walk soon placed Henry and
Mr. Marchdale before the residence of this gentleman, who had shown so
kindly a feeling towards the Bannerworth family. "Have you seen Sir Francis Varney?" asked Henry of Mr. Marchdale, as he
rung the gate-bell. "I have not. Have you?" "No; I never saw him. It is rather awkward our both being absolute
strangers to his person." "We can but send in our names, however; and, from the great vein of
courtesy that runs through his letter, I have no doubt but we shall
receive the most gentlemanly reception from him." A servant in handsome livery appeared at the iron-gates, which opened
upon a lawn in the front of Sir Francis Varney's house, and to this
domestic Henry Bannerworth handed his card, on which he had written, in
pencil, likewise the name of Mr. Marchdale. "If your master," he said, "is within, we shall be glad to see him." "Sir Francis is at home, sir," was the reply, "although not very well. If you will be pleased to walk in, I will announce you to him." Henry and Marchdale followed the man into a handsome enough
reception-room, where they were desired to wait while their names were
announced. "Do you know if this gentleman be a baronet," said Henry, "or a knight
merely?" "I really do not; I never saw him in my life, or heard of him before he
came into this neighbourhood." "And I have been too much occupied with the painful occurrences of this
hall to know anything of our neighbours. I dare say Mr. Chillingworth,
if we had thought to ask him, would have known something concerning
him." "No doubt." This brief colloquy was put an end to by the servant, who said,--

"My master, gentlemen, is not very well; but he begs me to present his
best compliments, and to say he is much gratified with your visit, and
will be happy to see you in his study." Henry and Marchdale followed the man up a flight of stone stairs, and
then they were conducted through a large apartment into a smaller one. There was very little light in this small room; but at the moment of
their entrance a tall man, who was seated, rose, and, touching the
spring of a blind that was to the window, it was up in a moment,
admitting a broad glare of light. A cry of surprise, mingled with
terror, came from Henry Bannerworth's lip. _The original of the portrait
on the panel stood before him!_ There was the lofty stature, the long,
sallow face, the slightly projecting teeth, the dark, lustrous, although
somewhat sombre eyes; the expression of the features--all were alike. "Are you unwell, sir?" said Sir Francis Varney, in soft, mellow accents,
as he handed a chair to the bewildered Henry. "God of Heaven!" said Henry; "how like!" "You seem surprised, sir. Have you ever seen me before?" Sir Francis drew himself up to his full height, and cast a strange
glance upon Henry, whose eyes were rivetted upon his face, as if with a
species of fascination which he could not resist. "Marchdale," Henry gasped; "Marchdale, my friend, Marchdale. I--I am
surely mad." "Hush! be calm," whispered Marchdale. "Calm--calm--can you not see? Marchdale, is this a dream? Look--look--oh! look." "For God's sake, Henry, compose yourself." "Is your friend often thus?" said Sir Francis Varney, with the same
mellifluous tone which seemed habitual to him. "No, sir, he is not; but recent circumstances have shattered his nerves;
and, to tell the truth, you bear so strong a resemblance to an old
portrait, in his house, that I do not wonder so much as I otherwise
should at his agitation." "Indeed." "A resemblance!" said Henry; "a resemblance! God of Heaven! it is the
face itself." "You much surprise me," said Sir Francis. [Illustration]

Henry sunk into the chair which was near him, and he trembled violently. The rush of painful thoughts and conjectures that came through his mind
was enough to make any one tremble. "Is this the vampyre?" was the
horrible question that seemed impressed upon his very brain, in letters
of flame. "Is this the vampyre?" "Are you better, sir?" said Sir Francis Varney, in his bland, musical
voice. "Shall I order any refreshment for you?" "No--no," gasped Henry; "for the love of truth tell me! Is--is your name
really Varney!" "Sir?" "Have you no other name to which, perhaps, a better title you could
urge?" "Mr. Bannerworth, I can assure you that I am too proud of the name of
the family to which I belong to exchange it for any other, be it what it
may." "How wonderfully like!" "I grieve to see you so much distressed. Mr. Bannerworth. I presume ill
health has thus shattered your nerves?" "No; ill health has not done the work. I know not what to say, Sir
Francis Varney, to you; but recent events in my family have made the
sight of you full of horrible conjectures." "What mean you, sir?" "You know, from common report, that we have had a fearful visitor at our
house." "A vampyre, I have heard," said Sir Francis Varney, with a bland, and
almost beautiful smile, which displayed his white glistening teeth to
perfection. "Yes; a vampyre, and--and--"

"I pray you go on, sir; you surely are far above the vulgar superstition
of believing in such matters?" "My judgment is assailed in too many ways and shapes for it to hold out
probably as it ought to do against so hideous a belief, but never was it
so much bewildered as now." "Why so?" "Because--"

"Nay, Henry," whispered Mr. Marchdale, "it is scarcely civil to tell Sir
Francis to his face, that he resembles a vampyre." "I must, I must." "Pray, sir," interrupted Varney to Marchdale, "permit Mr. Bannerworth to
speak here freely. There is nothing in the whole world I so much admire
as candour." "Then you so much resemble the vampyre," added Henry, "that--that I know
not what to think." "Is it possible?" said Varney. "It is a damning fact." "Well, it's unfortunate for me, I presume? Ah!" Varney gave a twinge of pain, as if some sudden bodily ailment had
attacked him severely. "You are unwell, sir?" said Marchdale. "No, no--no," he said; "I--hurt my arm, and happened accidentally to
touch the arm of this chair with it." "A hurt?" said Henry. "Yes, Mr. Bannerworth." "A--a wound?" "Yes, a wound, but not much more than skin deep. In fact, little beyond
an abrasion of the skin." "May I inquire how you came by it?" "Oh, yes. A slight fall." "Indeed." "Remarkable, is it not? Very remarkable. We never know a moment when,
from same most trifling cause, we may receive really some serious bodily
harm. How true it is, Mr. Bannerworth, that in the midst of life we are
in death." "And equally true, perhaps," said Henry, "that in the midst of death
there may be found a horrible life." "Well, I should not wonder. There are really so many strange things in
this world, that I have left off wondering at anything now."