Who wrote it, remains at present one of those mysteries which time, in the progress of our narrative, will clear up.
The opportune, or rather the painful juncture at which Charles Holland had arrived at Bannerworth Hall, we are well cognisant of.

Where he expected to find smiles he found tears, and the family with whom he had fondly hoped he should pass a time of uninterrupted happiness, he found plunged in the gloom incidental to an occurrence of the most painful character.
Our readers will perceive, too, that coming as he did with an utter disbelief in the vampyre, Charles had been compelled, in some measure, to yield to the overwhelming weight of evidence which had been brought to bear upon the subject, and although he could not exactly be said to believe in the existence and the appearance of the vampyre at Bannerworth Hall, he was upon the subject in a most painful state of doubt and indecision.
Charles now took an opportunity to speak to Henry privately, and inform him exactly how he stood with his uncle, adding-- "Now, my dear friend, if you forbid me, I will not tell my uncle of this sad affair, but I must own I would rather do so fully and freely, and trust to his own judgment upon it." "I implore you to do so," said Henry.

"Conceal nothing.

Let him know the precise situation and circumstances of the family by all means.

There is nothing so mischievous as secrecy: I have the greatest dislike to it.