“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.  The dreadful suspicions that hovered round him with respect to what he was, appeared to gather confirmation from every act of his existence.

Whether or not this man, to whom he felt bound to pay annually so large a sum, was in the secret, and knew him to be something more than earthly, we cannot at present declare; but it would seem from the tenor of their conversation as if such were the fact.

Perchance he had saved him from the corruption of the tomb, by placing out, on some sylvan spot, where the cold moonbeams fell, the apparently lifeless form, and now claimed so large a reward for such a service, and the necessary secrecy contingent upon it.

We say this may be so, and yet again some more natural and rational explanation may unexpectedly present itself; and there may be yet a dark page in Sir Francis Varney’s life’s volume, which will place him in a light of superadded terrors to our readers.