“If I were sure that such a removal would bring with it such a corresponding advantage, I might, indeed, be induced to risk all to accomplish it.”

“As regards poor dear Flora,” said Mr. Marchdale, “I know not what to say, or what to think; she has been attacked by a vampyre, and after this mortal life shall have ended, it is dreadful to think there may be a possibility that she, with all her beauty, all her excellence and purity of mind, and all those virtues and qualities which should make her the beloved of all, and which do, indeed, attach all hearts towards her, should become one of that dreadful tribe of beings who cling to existence by feeding, in the most dreadful manner, upon the life blood of others—­oh, it is too dreadful to contemplate!  Too horrible—­too horrible!”

“Then wherefore speak of it?” said Charles, with some asperity.  “Now, by the great God of Heaven, who sees all our hearts, I will not give in to such a horrible doctrine!  I will not believe it; and were death itself my portion for my want of faith, I would this moment die in my disbelief of anything so truly fearful!”

“Oh, my young friend,” added Marchdale, “if anything could add to the pangs which all who love, and admire, and respect Flora Bannerworth must feel at the unhappy condition in which she is placed, it would be the noble nature of you, who, under happier auspices, would have been her guide through life, and the happy partner of her destiny.”

“As I will be still.”

“May Heaven forbid it!  We are now among ourselves, and can talk freely upon such a subject.  Mr. Charles Holland, if you wed, you would look forward to being blessed with children—­those sweet ties which bind the sternest hearts to life with so exquisite a bondage.  Oh, fancy, then, for a moment, the mother of your babes coming at the still hour of midnight to drain from their veins the very life blood she gave to them.  To drive you and them mad with the expected horror of such visitations—­to make your nights hideous—­your days but so many hours of melancholy retrospection.  Oh, you know not the world of terror, on the awful brink of which you stand, when you talk of making Flora Bannerworth a wife.”

“Peace! oh, peace!” said Henry.

“Nay, I know my words are unwelcome,” continued Mr. Marchdale.  “It happens, unfortunately for human nature, that truth and some of our best and holiest feelings are too often at variance, and hold a sad contest—­”

“I will hear no more of this,” cried Charles Holland.—­“I will hear no more.”

“I have done,” said Mr. Marchdale.

“And ’twere well you had not begun.”

“Nay, say not so.  I have but done what I considered was a solemn duty.”

“Under that assumption of doing duty—­a solemn duty—­heedless of the feelings and the opinions of others,” said Charles, sarcastically, “more mischief is produced—­more heart-burnings and anxieties caused, than by any other two causes of such mischievous results combined.  I wish to hear no more of this.”