by Bram Stoker
Tears gushed from the admiral’s eyes and the sight of the noble old man’s emotion did much to calm the anger of Henry which, although he said but little, was boiling at his heart like a volcano.
“Admiral Bell,” he said, “you have nothing to do with this business; we can not blame you for the heartlessness of another. I have but one favour to ask of you.”
“What — what can I do?”
“Say no more about him at all.”
“I can’t help saying something about him. You ought to turn me out of the house.”
“Heaven forbid! What for?”
“Because I’m his uncle — his d — — d old fool of an uncle, that always thought so much of him.”
“Nay, my good sir, that was a fault on the right side, and cannot discredit you. I thought him the most perfect of human beings.”
“Oh, if I could but have guessed this.”
“It was impossible. Such duplicity never was equalled in this world — it was impossible to foresee it.”
“Hold — hold! did he give you fifty pounds?”
“What?”
“Did he give you fifty pounds?”
“Give me fifty pounds! Most decidedly not; what made you think of such a thing?”
“Because to-day he borrowed fifty pounds of me, he said, to lend to you.”
“I never heard of the transaction until this moment.”
“The villain!”
“No, doubt, sir, he wanted that amount to expedite his progress abroad.”
“Well, now, damme, if an angel had come to me and said ‘Hilloa! Admiral Bell, your nephew, Charles Holland, is a thundering rogue,’ I should have said ‘You’re a liar!’”
“This is fighting against facts, my dear sir. He is gone — mention him no more; forget him, as I shall endeavour myself to do, and persuade my poor sister to do.”
“Poor girl! what can we say to her?”
“Nothing, but give her all the letters, and let her be at once satisfied of the worthlessness of him she loved.”
“The best way. Her woman’s pride will then come to her help.”
“I hope it will. She is of an honourable race, and I am sure she will not condescend to shed a tear for such a man as Charles Holland has proved himself to be.”
“D — n him, I’ll find him out, and make him fight you. He shall give you satisfaction.”
“No, no.”
“No? But he shall.”
“I cannot fight with him.”
“You cannot?”
“Certainly not. He is too far beneath me now. I cannot fight on honourable terms with one whom I despise as too dishonourable to contend with. I have nothing now but silence and contempt.”
“I have though, for I’ll break his neck when I see him, or he shall break mine. The villain! I’m ashamed to stay here, my young friend.”
“How mistaken a view you take of this matter, my dear sir. As Admiral Bell, a gentleman, a brave officer, and a man of the purest and most unblemished honour, you confer a distinction upon us by your presence here.”
The admiral wrung Henry by the hand, as he said, —
“To-morrow — wait till to-morrow; we will talk over this matter to morrow — I cannot to-night, I have not patience; but to-morrow, my dear boy, we will have it all out. God bless you. Good night.”
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE NOBLE CONFIDENCE OF FLORA BANNERWORTH IN HER LOVER. — HER OPINION OF THE THREE LETTERS. — THE ADMIRAL’S ADMIRATION.
To describe the feelings of Henry Bannerworth on the occasion of this apparent defalcation from the path of rectitude and honour by his friend, as he had fondly imagined Charles Holland to be, would be next to impossible.
If, as we have taken occasion to say, it be a positive fact, that a noble and a generous mind feels more acutely any heartlessness of this description from one on whom it has placed implicit confidence, than the most deliberate and wicked of injuries from absolute strangers, we can easily conceive that Henry Bannerworth was precisely the person to feel most acutely the conduct which all circumstances appeared to fix upon Charles Holland, upon whose faith, truth, and honour, he would have staked his very existence but a few short hours before.
With such a bewildered sensation that he scarcely knew where he walked or whither to betake himself, did he repair to his own chamber, and there he strove, with what energy he was able to bring to the task, to find out some excuses, if he could, for Charles’s conduct. But he could find none. View it in what light he would, it presented but a picture of the most heartless selfishness it had ever been his lot to encounter.
The tone of the letters, too, which Charles had written, materially aggravated the moral delinquency of which he had been guilty; belief, far better, had he not attempted an excuse at all than have attempted such excuses as were there put down in those epistles.
A more cold blooded, dishonourable proceeding could not possibly be conceived.
It would appear, that while he entertained a doubt with regard to the reality of the visitation of the vampyre to Flora Bannerworth, he had been willing to take to himself abundance of credit for the most honourable feelings, and to induce a belief in the minds of all that an exalted feeling of honour, as well as a true affection that would know no change, kept him at the feet of her whom he loved.
Like some braggart, who, when there is no danger, is a very hero, but who, the moment he feels convinced he will be actually and truly called upon for an exhibition of his much-vaunted prowess, had Charles Holland deserted the beautiful girl who, if anything, had now certainly, in her misfortunes, a far higher claim upon his kindly feeling than before.
Henry could not sleep, although, at the request of George, who offered to keep watch for him the remainder of the night he attempted to do so.
He in vain said to himself, “I will banish from my mind this most unworthy subject. I have told Admiral Bell that contempt is the only feeling I can now have for his nephew, and yet I now find myself dwelling upon him, and upon his conduct, with a perseverance which is a foe to my repose.”
At length came the welcome and beautiful light of day, and Henry rose fevered and unrefreshed.
His first impulse now was to hold a consultation with his brother George, as to what was to be done, and George advised that Mr. Marchdale, who as yet knew nothing of the matter, should be immediately informed of it, and consulted, as being probably better qualified than either of them to come to a just, a cool, and a reasonable opinion upon the painful circumstance, which it could not be expected that either of them would be able to view calmly.
“Let it be so, then,” said Henry; “Mr. Marchdale shall decide for us.”
They at once sought this friend of the family, who was in his own bed-room, and when Henry knocked at the door, Marchdale opened it hurriedly, eagerly inquiring what was the matter.
“There is no alarm,” said Henry. “We have only come to tell you of a circumstance which has occurred during the night, and which will somewhat surprise you.”
“Nothing calamitous, I hope?”
“Vexatious; and yet, I think it is a matter upon which we ought almost to congratulate ourselves. Read those two letters, and give us your candid opinion upon them.”
Henry placed in Mr. Marchdale’s hands the letter addressed to himself, as well as that to the admiral.
Marchdale read them both with marked attention, but he did not exhibit in his countenance so much surprise as regret.
When he had finished, Henry said to him, —
“Well, Marchdale, what think you of this new and extraordinary episode in our affairs?”
“My dear young friends,” said Marchdale, in a voice of great emotion, “I know not what to say to you. I have no doubt but that you are both of you much astonished at the receipt of these letters, and equally so at the sudden absence of Charles Holland.”
“And are not you?”
“Not so much as you, doubtless, are. The fact is, I never did entertai
n a favourable opinion of the young man, and he knew it. I have been accustomed to the study of human nature under a variety of aspects; I have made it a matter of deep, and I may add, sorrowful, contemplation, to study and remark those minor shades of character which commonly escape observation wholly. And, I repeat, I always had a bad opinion of Charles Holland, which he guessed, and hence he conceived a hatred to me, which more than once, as you cannot but remember, showed itself in little acts of opposition and hostility.”
“You much surprise me.”
“I expected to do so. But you cannot help remembering that at one time I was on the point of leaving here solely on his account.”
“You were so.”
“Indeed I should have done so, but that I reasoned with myself upon the subject, and subdued the impulse of the anger which some years ago, when I had not seen so much of the world, would have guided me.”
“But why did you not impart to us your suspicions? We should at least, then, have been prepared for such a contingency as has occurred.”
“Place yourself in my position, and then yourself what you would have done. Suspicion is one of those hideous things which all men should be most specially careful not only how they entertain at all, but how they give expression to. Besides, whatever may be the amount of one’s own internal conviction with regard to the character of any one, there is just a possibility that one may be wrong.”
“True, true.”
“That possibility ought to keep any one silent who has nothing but suspicion to go upon, however cautious it may make him, as regards his dealings with the individual. I only suspected from little minute shades of character, that would peep out in spite of him, that Charles Holland was not the honourable man he would fain have had everybody believe him to be.”
“And had you from the first such a feeling?”
“I had.”
“It is very strange.”
“Yes; and what is more strange still, is that he from the first seemed to know it; and despite a caution which I could see he always kept uppermost in his thoughts, he could not help speaking tartly to me at times.”
“I have noticed that,” said George.
“You may depend it is a fact,” added Marchdale, “that nothing so much excites the deadly and desperate hatred of a man who is acting a hypocritical part, as the suspicion, well grounded or not, that another sees and understands the secret impulses of his dishonourable heart.”
“I cannot blame you, or any one else, Mr. Marchdale,” said Henry, “that you did not give utterance to your secret thoughts, but I do wish that you had done so.”
“Nay, dear Henry,” replied Mr. Marchdale, “believe me, I have made this matter a subject of deep thought, and have abundance of reasons why I ought not to have spoken to you upon the subject.”
“Indeed!”
“Indeed I have, and not among the least important is the one, that if I had acquainted you with my suspicions, you would have found yourself in the painful position of acting a hypocritical part yourself towards this Charles Holland, for you must either have kept the secret that he was suspected, or you must have shewn it to him by your behaviour.”
“Well, well. I dare say, Marchdale, you acted for the best. What shall we do now?”
“Can you doubt?”
“I was thinking of letting Flora at once know the absolute and complete worthlessness of her lover, so that she could have no difficulty in at once tearing herself from him by the assistance of the natural pride which would surely come to her aid, upon finding herself so much deceived.”
“The test may be possible.”
“You think so?”
“I do, indeed.”
“Here is a letter, which of course remains unopened, addressed to Flora by Charles Holland. The admiral rather thought it would hurt her feelings to deliver her such an epistle, but I must confess I am of a contrary opinion upon that point, and think now the more evidence she has of the utter worthlessness of him who professed to love her with so much disinterested affection, the better it will be for her.”
“You could not, possibly, Henry, have taken a more sensible view of the subject.”
“I am glad you agree with me.”
“No reasonable man could do otherwise, and from what I have seen of Admiral Bell, I am sure, upon reflection, he will be of the same opinion.”
“Then it shall be so. The first shock to poor Flora may be severe, but we shall then have the consolation of knowing that it is the only one, and that in knowing the very worst, she has no more on that score to apprehend. Alas, alas! the hand of misfortune now appears to have pressed heavily upon us indeed. What in the name of all that is unlucky and disastrous, will happen next, I wonder?”
“What can happen?” said Marchdale; “I think you have now got rid of the greatest evil of all — a false friend.”
“We have, indeed.”
“Go, then, to Flora; assure her that in the affection of others who know no falsehood, she will find a solace from every ill. Assure her that there are hearts that will place themselves between her and every misfortune.”
Mr. Marchdale was much affected as he spoke. Probably he felt deeper than he chose to express the misfortunes of that family for whom he entertained so much friendship. He turned aside his head to hide the traces of emotion which, despite even his great powers of self-command, would shew themselves upon his handsome and intelligent countenance. Then it appeared as if his noble indignation had got, for a few brief moments, the better of all prudence, and he exclaimed, —
“The villain! the worse than villain! who would, with a thousand artifices, make himself beloved by a young, unsuspecting, and beautiful girl, but then to leave her to the bitterness of regret, that she had ever given such a man a place in her esteem. The heartless ruffian!”
“Be calm, Mr. Marchdale, I pray you be calm,” said George; “I never saw you so much moved.”
“Excuse me,” he said, “excuse me; I am much moved, and I am human. I cannot always, let me strive my utmost, place a curb upon my feelings.”
“They are feelings which do you honour.”
“Nay, nay, I am foolish to have suffered myself to be led away into such a hasty expression of them. I am accustomed to feel acutely and to feel deeply, but it is seldom I am so much overcome as this.”
“Will you accompany us to the breakfast room at once, Mr. Marchdale, where we will make this communication to Flora; you will then be able to judge by her manner of receiving it, what it will be best to say to her.”
“Come, then, and pray be calm. The least that is said upon this painful and harassing subject, after this morning, will be the best.”
“You are right — you are right.”
Mr. Marchdale hastily put on his coat. He was dressed, with the exception of that one article of apparel, when the brothers came to his chamber, and then he came to the breakfast-parlour where the painful communication was to be made to Flora of her lover’s faithlessness.
Flora was already seated in that apartment. Indeed, she had been accustomed to meet Charles Holland there before others of the family made their appearance, but, alas! this morning the kind and tender lover was not there.
The expression that sat upon the countenances of her brothers, and of Mr. Marchdale, was quite sufficient to convince her that something more serious than usual had occurred, and she at the moment turned very pale. Marchdale observed this change of change of countenance in her, and he advanced towards her, saying, —
“Calm yourself, Flora, we have something to communicate to you, but it is a something which should excite indignation, and no other feeling, in your breast.”
“Brother, what is the meaning of this?” said Flora, turning aside from Marchdale, and withdrawing the hand which he would have taken.
“I would rather have Admiral Bell here before I say anything,” said Henry, “regarding a matter in which he cannot but feel much interested personally.”
“Here he
is,” said the admiral, who at that moment had opened the door of the breakfast room. “Here he is, so now fire away, and don’t spare the enemy.”
“And Charles?” said Flora, “where is Charles?”
“D — n Charles!” cried the admiral, who had not been much accustomed to control his feelings.
“Hush! hush!” said Henry; “my dear sir, bush! do not indulge now in any invectives. Flora, here are three letters; you will see that the one which is unopened is addressed to yourself. However, we wish you to read the whole three of them, and then to form your own free and unbiased opinion.”
Flora looked as pale as a marble statue, when she took the letters into her hands. She let the two that were open fall on the table before her, while she eagerly broke the seal of that which was addressed to herself.
Henry, with an instinctive delicacy, beckoned every one present to the window, so that Flora had not the pain of feeling that any eyes were fixed upon her but those of her mother, who had just come into the room, while she was perusing those documents which told such a tale of heartless dissimulation.
“My dear child,” said Mrs. Bannerworth, “you are ill.”
“Hush! mother — hush!” said Flora, “let me know all.”
She read the whole of the letters through, and then, as the last one dropped from her grasp, she exclaimed, —
“Oh, God! oh, God! what is all that has occurred compared to this? Charles — Charles — Charles!”
“Flora!” exclaimed Henry, suddenly turning from the window. “Flora, is this worthy of you?”
“Heaven now support me!”
“Is this worthy of the name you bear Flora? I should have thought, and I did hope, that woman’s pride would have supported you.”
“Let me implore you,” added Marchdale, “to summon indignation to your aid, Miss Bannerworth.”
“Charles — Charles — Charles!” she again exclaimed, as she wrung her hands despairingly.
“Flora, if anything could add a sting to my already irritated feelings,” said Henry, “this conduct of yours would.”
