Complete Works of Bram Stoker

by Bram Stoker

  “I will show this vampyre, if he be such,” he said, “that I am not afraid to meet him, and alone, too, at his own hour — at midnight, even when, if his preternatural powers be of more avail to him than at any other time, be can attempt, if he dare, to use them.”

  Charles resolved upon going armed, and with the greatest care he loaded his pistols, and placed them aside ready for action, when the time should come to set out to meet the vampyre at the spot in the park which had been particularly alluded to in his letter.

  This spot was perfectly well known to Charles; indeed, no one could be a single day at Bannerworth Hall without noticing it, so prominent an object was that pollard oak, standing, as it did, alone, with the beautiful green sward all around it. Near to it was the pool which hid been mentioned, which was, in reality, a fish-pond, and some little distance off commenced the thick plantation, among the intricacies of which Sir Francis Varney, or the vampyre, had been supposed to disappear, after the revivification of his body at the full of the moon.

  This spot was in view of several of the windows of the house, so that if the night should happen to be a very light one, and any of the inhabitants of the Hall should happen to have the curiosity to look from those particular windows, no doubt the meeting between Charles Holland and the vampyre would be seen.

  This, however, was a contingency which was nothing to Charles, whatever it might be to Sir Francis Varney, and he scarcely at all considered it as worth consideration. He felt more happy and comfortable now that everything seemed to be definitively arranged by which he could come to some sort of explanation with that mysterious being who had so effectually, as yet, succeeded in destroying his peace of mind and his prospects of happiness.

  “I will this night force him to declare himself,” thought Charles. “He shall tell me who and what he really is, and by some means I will endeavour to put an end to those frightful persecutions which Flora has suffered.”

  This was a thought which considerably raised Charles’s spirits, and when he sought Flora again, which he now did, she was surprised to see him so much more easy and composed in his mind, which was sufficiently shown by his manner, than he had been but so short a time before.

  “Charles,” she said, “what has happened to give such an impetus to your spirits?”

  “Nothing, dear Flora, nothing; but I have been endeavouring to throw from my mind all gloomy thoughts, and to convince myself that in the future you and I, dearest, may yet be very happy.”

  “Oh, Charles, if I could but think so.”

  “Endeavour, Flora, to think so. Remember how much our happiness is always in our own power, Flora, and that, let fate do her worst, so long as we are true to each other, we have a recompense for every ill.”

  “Oh, indeed, Charles, that is a dear recompense.”

  “And it is well that no force of circumstances short of death itself can divide us.”

  “True, Charles, true, and I am more than ever now bound to look upon you with a loving heart; for have you not clung to me generously under circumstances which, if any at all could have justified you in rending asunder every tie which bound us together, surely would have done so most fully.”

  “It is misfortune and distress that tries love,” said Charles. “It is thus that the touchstone is applied to see if it be current gold indeed, or some base metal, which by a superficial glitter imitates it.”

  “And your love is indeed true gold.”

  “I am unworthy of one glance from those dear eyes if it were not.”

  “Oh, if we could but go from here I think then we might be happy. A strong impression is upon my mind, and has been so for some time, that these persecutions to which I have been subjected are peculiar to this house.”

  “Think you so?”

  “I do, indeed!”

  “It may be so, Flora. You are aware that your brother has made up his mind that he will leave the Hall.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “And that only in deference to an expressed wish of mine he put off the carrying such a resolve into effect for a few days.”

  “He said so much.”

  “Do not, however, imagine, dearest Flora, that those few days will be idly spent.”

  “Nay, Charles, I could not imagine so.”

  “Believe me, I have some hopes that in that short space of time I shall be able to accomplish yet something which shall have a material effect upon the present posture of affairs.”

  “Do not run into danger, Charles.”

  “I will not. Believe me, Flora, I have too much appreciation of the value of an existence which is blessed by your love, to encounter any needless risks.”

  “You say needless. Why do you not confide in me, and tell me if the object you have in view to accomplish in the few days delay is a dangerous one at all.”

  “Will you forgive me, Flora, if for once I keep a secret from you?”

  “Then, Charles, along with the forgiveness I must conjure up a host of apprehensions.”

  “Nay, why so?”

  “You would tell me if there were no circumstances that you feared would fill me with alarm.”

  “Now, Flora, your fears and not your judgment condemn me. Surely you cannot think me so utterly heedless as to court danger for danger’s sake.”

  “No, not so — ”

  “You pause.”

  “And yet you have a sense of what you call honour, which, I fear, would lead you into much risk.”

  “I have a sense of honour; but not that foolish one which hangs far more upon the opinions of others than my own. If I thought a course of honour lay before me, and all the world, in a mistaken judgment, were to condemn it as wrong, I would follow it.”

  “You are right, Charles; you are right. Let me pray of you to be careful, and, at all events, to interpose no more delay to our leaving this house than you shall feel convinced is absolutely necessary for some object of real and permanent importance.”

  Charles promised Flora Bannerworth that for her sake, as well as his own, he would be most specially careful of his safety; and then in such endearing conversation as may be well supposed to be dictated by such hearts as theirs another happy hour was passed away.

  They pictured to themselves the scene where first they met, and with a world of interest hanging on every word they uttered, they told each other of the first delightful dawnings of that affection which had sprung up between them, and which they fondly believed neither time nor circumstance would have the power to change or subvert.

  In the meantime the old admiral was surprised that Charles was so patient, and had not been to him to demand the result of his deliberation.

  But he knew not on what rapid pinions time flies, when in the presence of those whom we love. What was an actual hour, was but a fleeting minute to Charles Holland, as he sat with Flora’s hand clasped in his, and looking at her sweet face.

  At length a clock striking reminded him of his engagement with his uncle, and he reluctantly rose.

  “Dear Flora,” he said, “I am going to sit up to watch to-night, so be under no sort of apprehension.”

  “I will feel doubly safe,” she said.

  “I have now something to talk to my uncle about, and must leave you.”

  Flora smiled, and held out her hand to him. He pressed it to his heart. He knew not what impulse came over him then, but for the first time he kissed the cheek of the beautiful girl.

  With a heightened colour she gently repulsed him. He took a long lingering look at her as he passed out of the room, and when the door was closed between them, the sensation he experienced was as if some sudden cloud had swept across the face of the sun, dimming to a vast extent its precious lustre.

  A strange heaviness came across his spirits, which before had been so unaccountably raised. He felt as if the shadow of some coming evil was resting on his soul — as if some momentous calamity was preparing for him, which would almost be enough to drive him to madness, and irredeemable despa
ir.

  “What can this be,” he exclaimed, “that thus oppresses me? What feeling is this that seems to tell me, I shall never again see Flora Bannerworth?”

  Unconsciously he uttered these words, which betrayed the nature of his worst forebodings.

  “Oh, this is weakness,” he then added. “I must fight out against this; it is mere nervousness. I must not endure it, I will not suffer myself thus to become the sport of imagination. Courage, courage, Charles Holland. There are real evils enough, without your adding to them by those of a disordered fancy. Courage, courage, courage.”

  CHAPTER XXV.

  THE ADMIRAL’S OPINION. — THE REQUEST OF CHARLES.

  Charles then sought the admiral, whom he found with his hands behind him, pacing to and fro in one of the long walks of the garden, evidently in a very unsettled state of mind. When Charles appeared, he quickened his pace, and looked in such a state of unusual perplexity that it was quite ridiculous to observe him.

  “I suppose, uncle, you have made up your mind thoroughly by this time?”

  “Well, I don’t know that.”

  “Why, you have had long enough surely to think over it. I have not troubled you soon.”

  “Well, I cannot exactly say you have, but, somehow or another, I don’t think very fast, and I have an unfortunate propensity after a time of coming exactly round to where I began.”

  “Then, to tell the truth, uncle, you can come to no sort of conclusion.”

  “Only one.”

  “And what may that be?”

  “Why, that you are right in one thing, Charles, which is, that having sent a challenge to this fellow of a vampyre, you must fight him.”

  “I suspect that that is a conclusion you had from the first, uncle?”

  “Why so?”

  “Because it is an obvious and a natural one. All your doubts, and trouble, and perplexities, have been to try and find some excuse for not entertaining that opinion, and now that you really find it in vain to make it, I trust that you will accede as you first promised to do, and not seek by any means to thwart me.”

  “I will not thwart you, my boy, although in my opinion you ought not to fight with a vampyre.”

  “Never mind that. We cannot urge that as a valid excuse, so long as he chooses to deny being one. And after all, if he be really wrongfully suspected, you must admit that he is a very injured man.”

  “Injured! — nonsense. If he is not a vampyre, he’s some other out-of-the-way sort of fish, you may depend. He’s the oddest-looking fellow ever I came across in all my born days, ashore or afloat.”

  “Is he?”

  “Yes, he is: and yet, when I come to look at the thing again in my mind, some droll sights that I have seen come across my memory. The sea is the place for wonders and for mysteries. Why, we see more in a day and a night there, than you landsmen could contrive to make a whole twelvemonth’s wonder of.”

  “But you never saw a vampyre, uncle?”

  “Well, I don’t know that. I didn’t know anything about vampyres till I came here; but that was my ignorance, you know. There might have been lots of vampyres where I’ve been, for all I know.”

  “Oh, certainly; but as regards this duel, will you wait now until to-morrow morning, before you take any further steps in the matter?”

  “Till to-morrow morning?”

  “Yes, uncle.”

  “Why, only a little while ago, you were all eagerness to have something done off-hand.”

  “Just so; but now I have a particular reason for waiting until to-morrow morning.”

  “Have you? Well, as you please, boy — as you please. Have everything your own way.”

  “You are very kind, uncle; and now I have another favour to ask of you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Why, you know that Henry Bannerworth receives but a very small sum out of the whole proceeds of the estate here, which ought, but for his father’s extravagance, to be wholly at his disposal.”

  “So I have heard.”

  “I am certain he is at present distressed for money, and I have not much. Will you lend me fifty pounds, uncle, until my own affairs are sufficiently arranged to enable you to pay yourself again?”

  “Will I! of course I will.”

  “I wish to offer that sum as an accommodation to Henry. From me, I dare say he will receive it freely, because he must be convinced how freely it is offered; and, besides, they look upon me now almost as a member of the family in consequence of my engagement with Flora.”

  “Certainly, and quite correct too: there’s a fifty-pound note, my boy; take it, and do what you like with it, and when you want any more, come to me for it.”

  “I knew I could trespass thus far on your kindness, uncle.”

  “Trespass! It’s no trespass at all.”

  “Well, we will not fall out about the terms in which I cannot help expressing my gratitude to you for many favours. To-morrow, you will arrange the duel for me.”

  “As you please. I don’t altogether like going to that fellow’s house again.”

  “Well, then, we can manage, I dare say, by note.”

  “Very good. Do so. He puts me in mind altogether of a circumstance that happened a good while ago, when I was at sea, and not so old a man as I am now.”

  “Puts you in mind of a circumstance, uncle?”

  “Yes; he’s something like a fellow that figured in an affair that I know a good deal about; only I do think as my chap was more mysterious by a d — — d sight than this one.”

  “Indeed!”

  “Oh, dear, yes. When anything happens in an odd way at sea, it is as odd again as anything that occurs on land, my boy, you may depend.”

  “Oh, you only fancy that, uncle, because you have spent so long a time at sea.”

  “No, I don’t imagine it, you rascal. What can you have on shore equal to what we have at sea? Why, the sights that come before us would make you landsmen’s hairs stand up on end, and never come down again.”

  “In the ocean, do you mean, that you see those sights, uncle?”

  “To be sure. I was once in the southern ocean, in a small frigate, looking out for a seventy-four we were to join company with, when a man at the mast-head sung out that he saw her on the larboard bow. Well, we thought it was all right enough, and made away that quarter, when what do you think it turned out to be?”

  “I really cannot say.”

  “The head of a fish.”

  “A fish!”

  “Yes! a d — — d deal bigger than the hull of a vessel. He was swimming along with his head just what I dare say he considered a shaving or so out of the water.”

  “But where were the sails, uncle?”

  “The sails?”

  “Yes; your man at the mast-head must have been a poor seaman not to have missed the sails.”

  “All, that’s one of your shore-going ideas, now. You know nothing whatever about it. I’ll tell you where the sails were, master Charley.”

  “Well, I should like to know.”

  “The spray, then, that he dashed up with a pair of fins that were close to his head, was in such a quantity, and so white, that they looked just like sails.”

  “Oh!”

  “Ah! you may say ‘oh!’ but we all saw him — the whole ship’s crew; and we sailed alongside of him for some time, till he got tired of us, and suddenly dived down, making such a vortex in the water, that the ship shook again, and seemed for about a minute as if she was inclined to follow him to the bottom of the sea.”

  “And what do you suppose it was, uncle?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Did you ever see it again?”

  “Never; though others have caught a glimpse of him now and then in the same ocean, but never came so near him as we did, that ever I heard of, at all events. They may have done so.”

  “It is singular!”

  “Singular or not, it’s a fool to what I can tell you. Why, I’ve seen things that, if
I were to set about describing them to you, you would say I was making up a romance.”

  “Oh, no; it’s quite impossible, uncle, any one could ever suspect you of such a thing.”

  “You’d believe me, would you?”

  “Of course I would.”

  “Then here goes. I’ll just tell you now of a circumstance that I haven’t liked to mention to anybody yet.”

  “Indeed! why so?”

  “Because I didn’t want to be continually fighting people for not believing it; but here you have it: — ”

  We were outward bound; a good ship, a good captain, and good messmates, you know, go far towards making a prosperous voyage a pleasant and happy one, and on this occasion we had every reasonable prospect of all.

  Our hands were all tried men — they had been sailors from infancy; none of your French craft, that serve an apprenticeship and then become land lubbers again. Oh, no, they were stanch and true, and loved the ocean as the sluggard loves his bed, or the lover his mistress.

  Ay, and for the matter of that, the love was a more enduring and a more healthy love, for it increased with years, and made men love one another, and they would stand by each other while they had a limb to lift — while they were able to chew a quid or wink an eye, leave alone wag a pigtail.

  We were outward bound for Ceylon, with cargo, and were to bring spices and other matters home from the Indian market. The ship was new and good — a pretty craft; she sat like a duck upon the water, and a stiff breeze carried her along the surface of the waves without your rocking, and pitching, and tossing, like an old wash-tub at a mill-tail, as I have had the misfortune to sail in more than once afore.

  No, no, we were well laden, and well pleased, and weighed anchor with light hearts and a hearty cheer.

  Away we went down the river, and soon rounded the North Foreland, and stood out in the Channel. The breeze was a steady and stiff one, and carried us through the water as though it had been made for us.

  “Jack,” said I to a messmate of mine, as he stood looking at the skies, then at the sails, and finally at the water, with a graver air than I thought was at all consistent with the occasion or circumstances.

  “Well,” he replied.