Starved
Abraham settled heavily into his chair, resting his eyelids against fingertips as he pondered the continuing frustration that was his vampire. He didn't truly want to kill the beast; it was ancient, and powerful, and intelligent. It killed people, yes, for that was its nature. He hoped it was not simply due to innate cruelty, but only to the creature's existence as a predator. It hunted, and humans were its prey. When the vampire had been heavily weakened, he'd taken advantage of the moment to not kill it, but instead, return to England with it.
He'd hoped to be able to contain and control it, to allow it to live, the limited freedom of his small estate, even. The beast had options. It could be destroyed. It could be locked away in the cellar for decades or centuries, not killed, but allowed no freedom, and not able to kill a human. The third option was what he longed for; he'd keep it safe and fed, bind it to his bloodline, and in return for its obedience and captivity, he'd provide what freedom he could. He didn't want to abuse the beast, but he simply couldn't let it continue to hunt and kill innocent victims.
He'd kept it asleep in its coffin, brought it to England, chained it securely in the black basement. He'd kept its coffin from it, wanting the vampire to remain weak; he had no doubt that at full-strength it would likely break right through the restraints. Each evening, shortly before sunset, a large fresh bowl of blood was provided for the creature. Pigs' blood, or horse, or cow, even sheep, goat, and chicken, had been offered to the monster. He'd tempted it with brimming bowls from every variety of creature he could obtain, still warm and steaming. Getting them fresh each evening, from a just-slaughtered beast, was not cheap. But he could afford it, and he'd no intention of starving the monster or feeding it cold and congealed blood.
And each night, the vampire had ignored the blood.
Tonight had been a repeat of each night for the last month. He'd looked through the door's spyhole at the vampire, to receive nothing but a snarl, seen the bowl untouched. Pleading with the beast to eat something, for it was nothing but skin and bones and tangled white hair, drew vicious, louder, blood-curling snarls instead. At least the vampire had stopped lunging at him this last week, instead glaring up from its seat on the floor.
The first night, it had cursed at him in Romanian, furious at the situation, snarling and snapping, lunging forward...had the chains been any weaker, they would have broken. Only when he'd left had the beast quieted. Speaking to Dracula from the stairwell had resulted in a moment of sudden silence, the constant shifting and clanking of chains ending...and then a snarl.
It had threatened him the next night, judging from the tone, but not in English or Dutch. And since then, it had not spoken at all, only growling and snarling like an enraged beast. Furious, and starving...the hunger strike went on. He did not want to kill it...but...this could not continue. The vampire was a fighter, it refused to surrender to him no matter how bleak the odds, refused to cease its resistance. It would likely fight him to the death. And he was sadly sure that was exactly what would happen, no matter how much he despaired over destroying this unique and fascinating creature.
x x x x
The bowl sat near him...warm, steaming, scented deliciously, luring him in...damn that man. He was so hungry he was nearing mindlessness, yet all he was offered each night was animal blood. It was torture, and he'd found himself constantly swallowing saliva triggered by the scent and sight until he'd finally dried up too much to produce any more.
He could barely move. Each joint felt as though a silver spike were embedded, and his head thundered. Weak, so weak, near to drying up and never moving again. His chest had been a constant source of steady, throbbing pain, never quite healed from the initial attack. The heart and skin had reformed, but the crushed bones and shredded muscle from the attack remained. He'd been horrified to wake in the dark cell, on the hard floor, away from his coffin, in pain, and so hungry.
Never let your enemy know you are weak. Bluffing had kept him alive as a mortal, and so he bluffed now. He'd threatened the man, snarling curses at him and yanking at the chains until the bastard had stopped yapping at him and left him in peace. Even then, he'd been in so much pain from the knife wound in his heart and the subsequent stakes that he'd been near-delirious. English was not his native tongue, and while he was passably fluent when healthy and unstressed, this was not such an occasion.
And the damned doctor mangled the words with that germanic accent of his to begin with.
Van Helsing had garbled some nonsense the first few nights, but it was far too important to keep the man from realizing just how weak his prey was to stop and try and puzzle out the meaning. Dracula had bluffed, driving the man away, using the peace and quiet to take stock of his injuries, his restraints, the ramifications of the situation.
And each night, he'd gotten weaker, hungrier. With little movement and no cushioning, only the cold stone floor, his body had stiffened, joints protesting. The lack of coffin left him exhausted and sore, the punishment incurred during his capture and the unforgiving stone of the floor sapped what energy and health he had with the constant pain. It had taken almost every bit of energy he had left to sit upright, to snarl convincingly and drive the man away. Had Van Helsing dallied even a few moments longer, it would have been over. Dracula's strength had run out, and even his fierce spirit and indomitable will could not maintain him. He'd collapsed.
Slumping over miserably, he blinked vaguely at the blood. His mind, normally so sharp, clear, and brilliant, was nothing but a fog of pain and desperation. Animal blood, for a short time, would restore him, give him energy, provide strength to his muscles, even heal some of his injuries. For a short time. And he was desperate enough , hunger-fogged, exhausted...his faculties were rapidly slipping. He was aware, and it frightened him more than anything else, that he was very nearly no longer Dracula, only a hairs-breadth from being no more than a slavering ghoul.
He closed his eyes, stopped his breath, no longer looking at or smelling the blood, desperately trying to avoid the temptation. The last bits of rational thought left him, and he was Hunger. The vampire toppled over entirely, scrabbling across the floor the short distance to the bowl, lacking the energy even to crawl.
In moments, it was done...the long, pointed tongue flicking about his face, cleaning any trace of blood, then scouring out the bowl, finally gnawing on it in desperation for more, more blood. He woke to himself then, teeth rasping across the cheap wooden blowl, stomach distended painfully, freezing in realization.
What was done, was done. He rested, feeling the damage of his chest mending, the flush of energy, and waited a few more moments. Timing, timing was essential. He'd taken animal blood a few times in the distant past, before he had fully gained control over his impulses and blood-lust, for when spilled and steaming it was as tempting as any human's. And he knew what would happen. There was a brief moment, a few minutes, when his strength would be at a peak, and before the other effects of the blood appeared.
If he could break his chains then, escape the room, and find a human prey...he might succeed in escaping. His mind turned over the possibilities, wondering at where his coffin could be, whom he could eat, as his body remained motionless, conserving every scrap of energy.
Yes. It was time.
Muscles flooded with strength, though temporary, he lunged forward, fingers locked about the chain, twisting and twisting and twisting it as he strained and yanked. And with a rending pop, the chain to his collar snapped, the heavy links clattering to the floor. Ignoring the remnant clanking from him neck, he bent over and began to twirl, the chain to his manacles looping and twisting about. When it formed a short, tight bunch, he launched himself from the stone wall, leg muscles straining, body held hunched and horizontal to the floor. A foot was planted on each side of the great anchoring loop in the wall, body suspended with the force he applied to the twisted chain...and...strained...and...back snapping, muscles rending...pain, but the chain flexed, the links gave...and snapped, flinging him half across the cell to lie dazed and aching on the floor.
It had begun. He thrilled to be free again, but his dash to the door turned into a stagger and his stomach twisted horribly, a foul belch rising in his throat to gust out his mouth. Time, he had so little time... Wrenching the door open, he stumbled down the hall, struggling to stop his panting so that he could sniff, listen, track down prey, feed. But his stomach twisted again, the pain drilling to his back, feeling as though his insides were ripping, and additional foul gases erupted. No one, no one behind any door, only storerooms.
Crates, a broken warddrobe, dusty tables, empty shelves, again and again, and nothing, nothing for him, no heartbeat, no warm body...nothing. Desperate, he raced faster, reaching the last room, finding it empty. No!
Turning back down the hall, he staggered to the stairs. He was easy prey himself should he find a human not alone. Why had he looked down here? Humans would not be in the basement. Sobbing at his foolishness, stumbling, realizing he'd never make it up the stairs, he pulled open the last few doors...Coffin.
His coffin was there. So close to him this entire time, only a wall between them...
His legs gave out, and his stomach. He sprawled helpless on the floor as wave after wave of violent pain tore through him. The belches changed to liquid, thick and red, half-digested, and blackened chunks of his own viscera. Again and again Dracula vomited, bringing up the entire poisonous meal of animal blood and all the damaged tissues of his own that had been destroyed. Bloodied stringing bits tangled in his teeth, horribly soft chunks wedged against his gums, and he sprawled helpless in the expanding puddle of filth and stench.
Over time, the spasms eased, his body having expelled the final traces. Weak as a kitten, shaking, he rolled himself from the filth. It still matted his hair, coated his chin and the cheek that had rested in it, befouled his chest, the reek drawing a few last staggered gasping heaves. And then it ended.
Hollow. He felt hollow. Scooped-out, empty, and the ceiling and walls blurred about him. The pain vanished, leaving a ghostly weakness in its place.
Coffin. It was there.
Moving blindly, he crawled to it, lifting the lid, and falling into it. Darkness took him.
x x x x
Abraham froze, bowl of fresh blood in his hand, as he realized that the door to the vampire's cell was open. The latch dangled, twisted and broken...dear God in Heaven, it was loose. A sick feeling dropped his stomach at the sudden thought that the beast had been free all day, had escaped the previous night...and he had never checked, never looked. And no one had been harmed, it had been too intent on escaping, no one was unaccounted for all day. But Dracula would be furious, and Abraham realized with a racing heart that the beast had likely gone to feed and then would return for his vengeance.
But first to check...
Wishing with all his heart that someone else was there to do this with him, he pulled the crucifix from his shirt, leaving it to gleam dully on his chest in the glow of the gaslights. A knife in one hand, he lifted his gun with the other, blessed silver bullets in all six chambers. The bowl was forgotten on the ground behind him as he stepped cautiously, as quietly as he could, to peer into the monster's room.
Empty. Only the shattered chains on the floor...and the empty bowl. A small voice, aware of the absurdity, happily announced in the back of his mind that the vampire had finally eaten. Eaten, yes...and...gnawed? The edge of the bowl was absolutely splintered, great gouges raked down the side. Dropping the bowl and leaving the mystery behind him, he went to the next room to check on the coffin.
He expected it to be gone, was already running through plans to safeguard his home from a return visit from the count, thinking of garlic and crosses and moving all the residents to a single, central room that they could protect, and it took a moment for his racing mind to realize that the coffin was still there, and that something was wrong.
A blink, and he turned on and turned up the gaslights in that room, looking in shock and horror at the floor, trying not to recoil from the stench. A great puddle of blood spread across it, not just blood, but soft, squishy-looking organic bits. Had the beast eaten someone in this room? No...no one had been down here, there was no ash, no sign that someone had been here, only the great mysterious smear of reeking rancid blood, the handprints and smears as the vampire, for it had to have been the beast, had crawled to the coffin.
And the coffin lid was not only sitting loosely on top, angled carelessly across the open casket, but a bare foot draped over the edge. A vampiric foot, narrow, with long yellowed toenails arched into claws.
The sun would be down very soon, and the beast would awaken. He'd have to shoot it, or stake it, or otherwise stop it, before then. Confused at what he'd seen, unsure of what would be in the coffin, he hesitantly crept to it, peering in...
Dracula slept in his coffin. But not in the supine, regal position he'd assumed before. No, the vampire appeared to have literally fallen into the coffin. One arm was pinned under the beast, the other twisted painfully behind him against the side. The body angled across the bottom, the neck bent far back and face pressed against the coffin side. The legs, too, were tangled, with one of them angling up to the coffin edge, the foot dangling outside.
And the vampire looked...terrible. Skeletal, even worse than before. A touch of cold chilled Abraham as he wondered if, this time, the vampire was truly dead.
If not dead, then in terrible, terrible shape. Resting the gun by the coffin, he reached in, concern replacing fear, and rolled the beast over. The great bloody smear on the face and chest became visible, and with a guilty pang, Abraham realized what had happened, what must have happened. Animal blood. A glance at the sticky pool of it on the floor, at the drawn and damaged blood-streaked monster...and he felt horror, and pity. The vampire couldn't eat animal blood, after all...but had been so desperate as to try. And it had sickened him, damaged him; he'd expelled both the animal blood and his own tissue and blood, to judge from the size of that pool. Then crawled into the coffin, and collapsed.
Dear God, he'd tortured the poor beast, unknowing. Gently, he moved the arms and legs into a more comfortable position for the beast, then pulled the coffin lid closed. As bad off as the vampire appeared, it wouldn't be escaping. He made it as comfortable as he could, then left it, gaslights on but low and dim in case the beast should wake.
Even rushing, it took time to draw blood from the cook and maid. Not much, but more would have left them swooning, and there wasn't time to ask the groom or any other residents. But he expertly drew the blood, filling the bottle, and hoping it was enough for the beast. Guilt spurred him on, and the warm water, soap, and rags appeared as he pulled the needle from the maid and showed her how to apply pressure on the little hole. He tried to explain to them what was down in the basement when he'd brought the vampire home, had stressed how dangerous it was and how they were to avoid it...and now he was drawing skeptical looks along with the blood as he rushed to save it.
x x x
He clattered down the stairs, blood in on hand, bucket in the other, rags across his shoulder and soap in his pocket, rushing in to the room, hoping to find the vampire before it attempted to escape...to find that it had not moved at all. It looked even worse than he remembered, and he hoped he was not too late. Blood first, and so he lifted the head, tilting the bottle to pour it down the throat, as the vampire remained limp and unaware. But it swallowed, and he couldn't help but grin as the dull red eyes cracked open and the vampire whimpered softly, sucking down the last of the blood.
Bottle empty, he rested the beast back in the coffin, vaguely disappointed to see the eyes slide shut. He left the vampire to rest, not speaking to him or moving him, instead focusing on cleaning the poor bastard. Warm wet cloths soaked loose the clotted blood, wiped through the hair, and suds lifted the remaining stains from the skin. The bucket was empty before the last smears were gone from the chest and knees, but with the layer of gore gone, the vampire had to be more comfortable. He tossed the last grimy rag into the empty bucket, and looked up at Dracula's face to find the vampire's half-open eyes watching him with a dazed, half-vacant expression.
He reached up to move a wayward strand of hair from the monster's face, and was shocked when the creature flinched away. The gaze sharpened, watching him with a wary and guarded expression, and guilt stabbed at him again.
"Ssshh. I'm sorry, so sorry. Please, rest, just rest." Disbelieving, almost frightened, the eyes widened slightly and the vampire drew back the slightest bit as he spoke. Hissing...that's what the beast was doing, but the sound was so weak, so faded, he'd at first thought it merely the beast breathing. Frustration at its continued resistance even though he was so clearly apologetic and trying to help the monster rose in him...and then faded.
He'd spoken to it in his own native dutch tongue, forgetting in the stress of the evening to speak in English. And as he realized that, he also realized that the vampire, though it spoke English fluently, had Romanian for its native tongue. And, dazed and damaged as it was...
"Dracula, can you understand me?" The red eyes narrowed and the beast growled weakly at him, though it immediately faded into a choked huff instead. No comprehension glittered in those eyes. "Please, if you can understand me...blink." The red glared at him, unchanging, and he wondered...had the vampire ever understood him, damaged as it was?
It was too weak to move, glaring at him as he gently brushed that stray lock from its face, flinching with wide, frightened eyes as he unexpectedly stood. Though he remained still and silent, Dracula's nostrils flared in warning and the thin lips curled up to show teeth in clear threat as Abraham reached across the prone form to draw the lid back over the coffin.
The beast needed more blood, certainly. And his earth, the crates of it were in the corner of the first room in the basement, along with various items they'd taken from the crypts under its castle. Thinking back, he pondered the heavy door of that room, the restraints on the wall left over from darker centuries past. He could move the vampire's coffin to that room, put the beast near its earth. That would be easier than moving those bloody heavy crates of soil, certainly. The room, he'd decided not to use it, putting the vampire farther from the stairs, worried that the vampire would be between visitors and the stairs, but it was otherwise suitable. He'd need new chains, but he had those as well, prepared when he'd thought and expected the vampire to break free initially.
Mind turning, he looked over the room, planning and thinking and organizing in his head. The beast was still so weak, it wouldn't be moving any time soon...he had the entire night to prepare, if need be.
Plans whirling about, he moved up the stairs, gathering his employees. No, the blood on his clothes was not his. Yes, the vampire was down there, badly weakened and sick. He needed their help to move the creature, and more blood.
x x x x x
Enclosed in the safe, dark confines of his coffin, Dracula relaxed a bit. He was still so very hungry, so weak...he'd vacillated between terror at the man leaning over him, and bloodlust urging him to rip the throat out. But Van Helsing had left him, after feeding him and, oddly, cleaning him.
He wondered at this. He'd expected abuse, perhaps the finality of a stake, or to be beheaded. So weak, so clearly vulnerable...prey. He'd been prey.
And yet his mouth was filled with the taste of human blood, though Abraham had been unbitten. He'd been cleaned, too, though it had been deeply disturbing to have his helpless limbs moved about and wiped as though he were a doll. Left to rest comfortably in his coffin, limbs straightened, lid settled on top of him. Wondering, he recuperated, finally able to lift a hand and shift the lid a bit. No, the man had not locked him in somehow, contained him... The remnants of chains still clanked about his wrist, but no more had been added.
Odd, so very odd. Fear seeped out of him; he was a prisoner, yes...but not one to be abused. What was Van Helsing doing? He wanted to get up, to find out...but he was so tired, so sore. Instead, he found himself drifting in and out of awareness as time slid by.
MOVING! He could hear voices, though he couldn't make them out, and his coffin rocked about and tipped. No! Snarls, he could snarl, and there was a gasp and then quiet, the rocking stopping as the men froze. Their hearts raced, he heard that...and then Van Helsing. Not threatening at all, no. The words still a mystery, but soothing. Calming. Reassurring.
A man, reassurring a monster? This was not how things were to be...but...it was how things were. They did not appear to be planning to hurt him, and with four men outside his coffin, he was not willing to begin a battle with them. Even injured, weak, starved, he could defend himself against one. But four hearts beat outside his coffin, and while he railed inside at the situation, Dracula was no fool. Discretion was the better part of valor. He quieted, and the coffin resumed its rocking and movement.
Earth! He could FEEL his earth! The presence of the soil, so close to him, after so long from it...it promised rest, and sleep, and peace, and recuperation. Even with the men so nearby, even with the dread of what they would do and the uncertainty of his future, even with the pain and the hunger...it soothed. And he was in no condition to resist it. Helpless against its effects, Dracula slid into a deep sleep.
x x x x x
"Thank you all for helping." Abraham's honest and relieved face expressed his emotions clearly as he met each set of eyes. Butler, groom, and gardener, all the men of the estate had joined to move the heavy coffin and its resident to the room with the crates of earth. "I need to restrain him again, though, and this is the most dangerous part of the evening. Please, be ready." Abraham watched approvingly as the men pulled out their weapons, feeling to verify that they had their crucifixes on their necks, preparing to protect themselves should the vampire attack.
Bracing himself, poised to dodge out of the way immediately should the beast attack, Abraham moved the lid off, flinching in anticipation...to hear nothing.
"He's sleeping..." the awed voice of the gardener gave tongue to what they all felt as the four men stared down at the beast. Starved, fierce, injured...and sleeping, face utterly relaxed and inexplicably peaceful. Key clicked in locks, chains rattled and clanked, and Dracula slept on, oblivious to the chains now tethering him to the wall by throat and by his arms. Abraham marveled, realizing again just how deprived the beast had been.
No coffin, no earth, no blood...he'd tortured the beast mercilessly, all unknowing.
x x x x
Another two bottles of blood drawn from the men sat as his feet as he crouched by the sleeping vampire. Dracula dozed on, though the clock had crept past midnight, entirely oblivious to his surroundings and situation. The groom waited by the door, gun out and ready, though neither he nor Abraham expected anything from the vampire.
Parting the lips, Abraham poured the first bottle down, the vampire slack and unresponsive though it swallowed. The second bottle marked Dracula's awakening, though the eyes remained unfocused as the vampire sucked and gulped and whined, drinking as fast as it could. Bottle empty and pulled away, the tongue flicked out, searching for the food.
"Nay, it's empty, vampire. We're all out, though I'll bring you more tomorrow." Red eyes fixed on his own, waking further, though the vampire was silent. No longer threatening, but not communicating, either.
"Hungry." Faint, so heartbreakingly tired, and pleading, the vampire...was begging. Remembering the proud pose and the intense internal pride the beast had radiated, Abraham realized just how broken the creature had to be...but he thrilled to realize that the vampire was now speaking, and in English!
"There isn't any more. Rest, Dracula. I'll have more for you tomorrow." Abraham rose, back popping from the time spent hunched, only to have the vampire whine pathetically at him.
x x x x x
Hungry, he was so hungry. The hollow feeling was gone, though exhaustion dragged him down...and hunger, hunger was twisting him inside, the pain of the previous damage joining with the clamoring of his body for blood to push tears to his eyes. Weak, he was so weak...and the man looked down at him. But no gloating, no anger...sad. Guilt. Van Helsing was guilty.
Shameless in his hunger, ever manipulative, Dracula whined. He hated abasing himself, but if there was the slightest chance for even a drop more blood, it was so worth it. Voices, they were speaking again, but he'd lost the conversation, letting the English words tumble over him, eyes fixed on Abraham's face, pleading and desperate, mouth watering with need.
A blink, and then there was a gun at his temple. NO! Twisting, snapping, trying to escape, unable to do more than thrash weakly, tense and expecting the ripping pain of a bullet...and...nothing. The cold metal pulled away from him, and the scent of fresh, hot blood hit his nostrils. He hadn't even noticed he'd closed his eyes, but they flew open.
Blood, there was a bloody hand above him, and his mind faintly registered the knife placed on the edge of his coffin, as he gasped and mouthed frantically at the air above him.
x x x
"Keep the gun on him. If he bites, shoot." Abraham's terse instructions had the groom tense and shaking. He'd seen those great teeth, the vampire's reaction to the gun, but that also steadied him. The vampire clearly feared the weapon in his hands, and was too weak to attack either of them. Van Helsing had judged that he could likely feed the vampire a bit more blood safely; the vampire was so weak that pushing it away from the hand would be simple enough, the only risk was those great teeth. Abraham intended to drip the blood onto the beast's mouth.
So close, so close...but only in drops. Dracula wanted to scream his frustration as the slow drops of blood landed on his lips and tongue. He knew that he should be grateful for the food, but the hunger made him only angry that it was so slow. Bracing himself carefully, readying an elbow, he suddenly pushed upwards, one arms thrusting him forward while the other darted out to trap the wrist and pull it close.
x x x x
When the teeth flashed up at him, Abraham's only thought had been simply "Well, that's it." He twisted, trying to break his arm free of the iron grip of the monster, his body having been yanked forward half-over the coffin. The groom's hand grabbed his shoulder, hauling him off, then bringing the gun up to fire...and they both froze.
The vampire's eyes were closed, the expression utter bliss. The teeth were concealed behind the lips, the lips themselves pressed gently, carefully to the mouth while the iron grip of the vampire kept him from moving the arm away. But there was no threat...no pain...and quiet little unconcious whimpers of pleasure came from the vampire as it fed, so unexpectedly...gently.
"I think...it's alright..." a pause, as Abraham observed the vampire's quiet demeanor. "Put that away for now, we won't need it unless he continues to refuse to release me." As he relaxed and stopped fighting, he felt the vampire's grip relax as well, the fingers changing from a steely manacle to wrap loosely about his wrist. Dracula's lips kept up a gentle suction, not painful, though not comfortable either, and, amazed at the gentleness of the beast, he allowed it to continue to eat.
He'd thought that vampires ripped into their prey, attacking and killing. Even so, half-aware as the beast was, Dracula was being careful, gentle...how odd. Thinking, Abraham realized that vampire bats were much the same. Their caution could let them dine on a sleeping person and leave with the person waking non the wiser until the wound was noticed. Perhaps his prisoner had more in common with those simple beasts than he'd expected?
And, he himself was becoming a bit light-headed. He'd donated already to help fill the bottles, and this extra for the vampire was at the limits of what he could spare. Tense and worried, hoping that they wouldn't need to shoot the vampire, he rocked his hand and tried to pull away. Dracula gripped him tight again, and he prepared, regretfully, to order the vampire to be shot.
But the suction had changed, stopped...the vampire now licked the wound instead. And while he puzzled over that, the beast released him.
Without the vampire's grip pulling him down, Abraham found himself over-compensating and falling over backwards onto the floor. A twist, and he rolled upright, prepared in case the vampire was pursuing...to see not a bit of the creature visible above the coffin.
A glance inside showed him that the vampire had fallen back asleep, once again utterly relaxed and insensible.
x x x x x
Still bemused at the unexpected and drastic change in circumstances, Abraham sat on his bed, journal out, recording the extraordinary events of the night.
"...It would seem that though I unwittingly tortured the beast, he holds no grudge for me. Tomorrow I shall see if this amazing forbearance continues. It may be only a temporary weakness, but he may also not be the violent beast I had expected. I shall ask him to bind himself to me, and have the highest of hopes that he will agree."