which may help her to pass some merry hours."
Charles took Henry to his room, and, unstrapping a small valise, he took from it some manuscript papers, one of which he handed to Henry, saying—
"Give that to her: it contains an account of a wild adventure, and shows that human nature may suffer much more—and that wrongfully too—than came ever under our present mysterious affliction."
"I will," said Henry; "and, coming from you, I am sure it will have a more than ordinary value in her eyes."
"I will now," said Charles, "seek my uncle. I will tell him how I love her; and at the end of my narration, if he should not object, I would fain introduce her to him, that he might himself see that, let what beauty may have met his gaze, her peer he never yet met with, and may in vain hope to do so."
"You are partial, Charles."
"Not so. 'Tis true I look upon her with a lover's eyes, but I look still with those of truthful observation."
"Well, I will speak to her about seeing your uncle, and let you know. No doubt, he will not be at all averse to an interview with any one who stands high in your esteem."
The young men now separated—Henry, to seek his beautiful sister; and Charles, to communicate to his uncle the strange particulars connected with Varney, the Vampyre.
CHAPTER XIX.
FLORA IN HER CHAMBER.—HER FEARS.—THE MANUSCRIPT.—AN ADVENTURE.
Henry found Flora in her chamber. She was in deep thought when he tapped at the door of the room, and such was the state of nervous excitement in which she was that even the demand for admission made by him to the room was sufficient to produce from her a sudden cry of alarm.
"Who—who is there?" she then said, in accents full of terror.
"'Tis I, dear Flora," said Henry.
She opened the door in an instant, and, with a feeling of grateful relief, exclaimed—
"Oh, Henry, is it only you?"
"Who did you suppose it was, Flora?"
She shuddered.
"I—I—do not know; but I am so foolish now, and so weak-spirited, that the slightest noise is enough to alarm me."
"You must, dear Flora, fight up, as I had hoped you were doing, against this nervousness."
"I will endeavour. Did not some strangers come a short time since, brother?"
"Strangers to us, Flora, but not to Charles Holland. A relative of his—an uncle whom he much respects, has found him out here, and has now come to see him."
"And to advise him," said Flora, as she sunk into a chair, and wept bitterly; "to advise him, of course, to desert, as he would a pestilence, a vampyre bride."
"Hush, hush! for the sake of Heaven, never make use of such a phrase, Flora. You know not what a pang it brings to my heart to hear you."
"Oh, forgive me, brother."
"Say no more of it, Flora. Heed it not. It may be possible—in fact, it may well be supposed as more than probable—that the relative of Charles Holland may shrink from sanctioning the alliance, but do you rest securely in the possession of the heart which I feel convinced is wholly yours, and which, I am sure, would break ere it surrendered you."
A smile of joy came across Flora's pale but beautiful face, as she cried—
"And you, dear brother—you think so much of Charles's faith?"
"As Heaven is my judge, I do."
"Then I will bear up with what strength God may give me against all things that seek to depress me; I will not be conquered."
"You are right, Flora; I rejoice to find in you such a disposition. Here is some manuscript which Charles thinks will amuse you, and he bade me ask you if you would be introduced to his uncle."
"Yes, yes—willingly."
"I will tell him so; I know he wishes it, and I will tell him so. Be patient, dear Flora, and all may yet be well."
"But, brother, on your sacred word, tell me do you not think this Sir Francis Varney is the vampyre?"
"I know not what to think, and do not press me for a judgment now. He shall be watched."
Henry left his sister, and she sat for some moments in silence with the papers before her that Charles had sent her.
"Yes," she then said, gently, "he loves me—Charles loves me; I ought to be very, very happy. He loves me. In those words are concentrated a whole world of joy—Charles loves me—he will not forsake me. Oh, was there ever such dear love—such fond devotion?—never, never. Dear Charles. He loves me—he loves me!"
The very repetition of these words had a charm for Flora—a charm which was sufficient to banish much sorrow; even the much-dreaded vampyre was forgotten while the light of love was beaming upon her, and she told herself—
"He is mine!—he is mine! He loves me truly."
After a time, she turned to the manuscript which her brother had brought her, and, with a far greater concentration of mind than she had thought it possible she could bring to it, considering the many painful subjects of contemplation that she might have occupied herself with, she read the pages with very great pleasure and interest.
The tale was one which chained her attention both by its incidents and the manner of its recital. It commenced as follows, and was entitled, "Hugo de Verole; or, the Double Plot."
In a very mountainous part of Hungary lived a nobleman whose paternal estates covered many a mile of rock and mountain land, as well as some fertile valleys, in which reposed a hardy and contented peasantry. The old Count de Hugo de Verole had quitted life early, and had left his only son, the then Count Hugo de Verole, a boy of scarcely ten years, under the guardianship of his mother, an arbitrary and unscrupulous woman.
The count, her husband, had been one of those quiet, even-tempered men, who have no desire to step beyond the sphere in which they are placed; he had no cares, save those included in the management of his estate, the prosperity of his serfs, and the happiness of those, around him.
His death caused much lamentation throughout his domains, it was so sudden and unexpected, being in the enjoyment of his health and strength until a few hours previous, and then his energies became prostrated by pain and disease. There was a splendid funeral ceremony, which, according to the usages of his house, took place by torch-light.
So great and rapid were the ravages of disease, that the count's body quickly became a mass of corruption.
