by Bram Stoker
“Henry — brother, what mean you? Are you mad?”
“Are you, Flora?”
“God, I wish now that I was.”
“You have read those letters, and yet you call upon the name of him who wrote them with frantic tenderness.”
“Yes, yes,” she cried; “frantic tenderness is the word. It is with frantic tenderness I call upon his name, and ever will. — Charles! Charles! — dear Charles!”
“This surpasses all belief,” said Marchdale.
“It is the frenzy of grief,” added George; “but I did not expect it of her. Flora — Flora, think again.”
“Think — think — the rush of thought distracts. Whence came these letters? — where did you find these most disgraceful forgeries?”
“Forgeries!” exclaimed Henry; and he staggered back, as if some one bad struck him a blow.
“Yes, forgeries!” screamed Flora. “What has become of Charles Holland? Has he been murdered by some secret enemy, and then these most vile fabrications made up in his name? Oh, Charles, Charles, are you lost to me for ever?”
“Good God!” said Henry; “I did not think of that”
“Madness! — madness!” cried Marchdale.
“Hold!” shouted the admiral. “Let me speak to her.”
He pushed every one aside, and advanced to Flora. He seized both her hands in his own, and in a tone of voice that was struggling with feeling, he cried, —
“Look at me, my dear; I’m an old man old enough to be your grandfather, so you needn’t mind looking me steadily in the face. Look at me, I want to ask you a question.”
Flora raised her beautiful eyes, and looked the old weather-beaten admiral full in the face.
Oh! what a striking contrast did those two persons present to each other. That young and beautiful girl, with her small, delicate, childlike hands clasped, and completely hidden in the huge ones of the old sailor, the white, smooth skin contrasting wonderfully with his wrinkled, hardened features.
“My dear,” he cried, “you have read those — those d — — d letters, my dear?”
“I have, sir.”
“And what do you think of them?”
“They were not written by Charles Holland, your nephew.”
A choking sensation seemed to come over the old man, and he tried to speak, but in vain. He shook the hands of the young girl violently, until he saw that he was hurting her, and then, before she could be aware of what he was about, he gave her a kiss on the cheek, as he cried, —
“God bless you — God bless you! You are the sweetest, dearest little creature that ever was, or that ever will be, and I’m a d — — d old fool, that’s what I am. These letters were not written by my nephew, Charles. He is incapable of writing them, and, d — n me, I shall take shame to myself as long as I live for ever thinking so.”
“Dear sir,” said Flora, who somehow or another did not seem at all offended at the kiss which the old man had given her; “dear sir, how could you believe, for one moment, that they came from him? There has been some desperate villany on foot. Where is he? — oh, find him, if he be yet alive. If they who have thus striven to steal from him that honour, which is the jewel of his heart, have murdered him, seek them out, sir, in the sacred name of justice, I implore you.”
“I will — I will. I don’t renounce him; he is my nephew still — Charles Holland — my own dear sister’s son; and you are the best girl, God bless you, that ever breathed. He loved you — he loves you still; and if he’s above ground, poor fellow, he shall yet tell you himself he never saw those infamous letters.”
“You — you will seek for him?” sobbed Flora, and the tears gushed from her eyes. “Upon you, sir, who, as I do, feel assured of his innocence, I alone rely. If all the world say he is guilty, we will not think so.”
“I’m d — — d if we do.”
Henry had sat down by the table, and, with his hands clasped together, seemed in an agony of thought.
He was now roused by a thump on the back by the admiral, who cried, —
“What do you think, now, old fellow? D — n it, things look a little different now.”
“As God is my judge,” said Henry, holding up his hands, “I know not what to think, but my heart and feelings all go with you and with Flora, in your opinion of the innocence of Charles Holland.”
“I knew you would say that, because you could not possibly help it, my dear boy. Now we are all right again, and all we have got to do is to find out which way the enemy has gone, and then give chase to him.”
“Mr. Marchdale, what do you think of this new suggestion,” said George to that gentleman.
“Pray, excuse me,” was his reply; “I would much rather not be called upon to give an opinion.”
“Why, what do you mean by that?” said the admiral.
“Precisely what I say, sir.”
“D — n me, we had a fellow once in the combined fleets, who never had an opinion till after something had happened, and then he always said that was just what he thought.”
“I was never in the combined, or any other fleet, sir,” said Marchdale, coldly.
“Who the devil said you were?” roared the admiral.
Marchdale merely hawed.
“However,” added the admiral, “I don’t care, and never did, for anybody’s opinion, when I know I am right. I’d back this dear girl here for opinions, and good feelings, and courage to express them, against all the world, I would, any day. If I was not the old hulk I am, I would take a cruise in any latitude under the sun, if it was only for the chance of meeting with just such another.”
“Oh, lose no time!” said Flora. “If Charles is not to be found in the house, lose no time in searching for him, I pray you; seek him, wherever there is the remotest probability he may chance to be. Do not let him think he is deserted.”
“Not a bit of it,” cried the admiral. “You make your mind easy, my dear. If he’s above ground, we shall find him out, you may depend upon it. Come along master Henry, you and I will consider what had best be done in this uncommonly ugly matter.”
Henry and George followed the admiral from the breakfast-room, leaving Marchdale there, who looked serious and full of melancholy thought.
It was quite clear that he considered Flora had spoken from the generous warmth of her affection as regarded Charles Holland, and not from the convictions which reason would have enforced her to feel.
When he was now alone with her and Mrs. Bannerworth, he spoke in a feeling and affectionate tone regarding the painful and inexplicable events which had transpired.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
MR. MARCHDALE’S EXCULPATION OF HIMSELF. — THE SEARCH THROUGH THE GARDENS. — THE SPOT OF THE DEADLY STRUGGLE. — THE MYSTERIOUS PAPER.
It was, perhaps, very natural that, with her feelings towards Charles Holland, Flora should shrink from every one who seemed to be of a directly contrary impression, and when Mr. Marchdale now spoke, she showed but little inclination to hear what he had to say in explanation.
The genuine and unaffected manner, however, in which he spoke, could not but have its effect upon her, and she found herself compelled to listen, as well as, to a great extent, approve of the sentiments that fell from his lips.
“Flora,” he said, “I beg that you will here, in the presence of your mother, give me a patient hearing. You fancy that, because I cannot join so glibly as the admiral in believing that these letters are forgeries, I must be your enemy.”
“Those letters,” said Flora, “were not written by Charles Holland.”
“That is your opinion.”
“It is more than an opinion. He could not write them.”
“Well, then, of course, if I felt inclined, which Heaven alone knows I do not, I could not hope successfully to argue against such a conviction. But I do not wish to do so. All I want to impress upon you is, that I am not to be blamed for doubting his innocence; and, at the same time, I wish to assure you that no one in this house would fe
el more exquisite satisfaction than I in seeing it established.”
“I thank you for so much,” said Flora; “but as, to my mind, his innocence has never been doubted, it needs to me no establishing.”
“Very good. You believe these letters forgeries?”
“I do.”
“And that the disappearance of Charles Holland is enforced, and not of his own free will?”
“I do.”
“Then you may rely upon my unremitting exertions night and day to find him and any suggestion you can make, which is likely to aid in the search, shall, I pledge myself, be fully carried out.”
“I thank you, Mr. Marchdale.”
“My dear,” said the mother, “rely on Mr. Marchdale.”
“I will rely on any one who believe Charles Holland innocent of writing those odious letters, mother — I rely upon the admiral. He will aid me heart and hand.”
“And so will Mr. Marchdale.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“And yet doubt it, Flora,” said Marchdale, dejectedly. “I am very sorry that such should be the case; I will not, however, trouble you any further, nor, give me leave to assure you, will I relax in my honest endeavours to clear up this mystery.”
So saying, Mr. Marchdale bowed, and left the room, apparently more vexed than he cared to express at the misconstruction which had been put upon his conduct and motives. He at once sought Henry and the admiral, to whom he expressed his most earnest desire to aid in attempting to unravel the mysterious circumstances which had occurred.
“This strongly-expressed opinion of Flora,” he remarked, “is of course amply sufficient to induce us to pause before we say one word more that shall in any way sound like a condemnation of Mr. Holland. Heaven forbid that I should.”
“No,” said the admiral; “don’t.”
“I do not intend.”
“I would not advise anybody.”
“Sir, if you use that as a threat — ”
“A threat?”
“Yes; I must say, it sounded marvellously like one.”
“Oh, dear, no — quite a mistake. I consider that every man has a fair right to the enjoyment of his opinion. All I have to remark is, that I shall, after what has occurred, feel myself called upon to fight anybody who says those letters were written by my nephew.”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Ah, indeed.”
“You will permit me to say such is a strange mode of allowing every one the free enjoyment of his opinion.”
“Not at all.”
“Whatever pains and penalties may be the result, Admiral Bell, of differing with so infallible authority as yourself, I shall do so whenever my judgment induces me.”
“You will?”
“Indeed I will.”
“Very good. You know the consequences.”
“As to fighting you, I should refuse to do so.”
“Refuse?”
“Yes; most certainly.”
“Upon what ground?”
“Upon the ground that you were a madman.”
“Come,” now interposed Henry, “let me hope that, for my sake as well as for Flora’s, this dispute will proceed no further.”
“I have not courted it,” said Marchdale. “I have much temper, but I am not a stick or a stone.”
“D — — e, if I don’t think,” said the admiral, “you are a bit of both.”
“Mr. Henry Bannerworth,” said Marchdale, “I am your guest, and but for the duty I feel in assisting in the search for Mr. Charles Holland, I should at once leave your house.”
“You need not trouble yourself on my account,” said the admiral; “if I find no clue to him in the neighbourhood for two or three days, I shall be off myself.”
“I am going,” said Henry, rising, “to search the garden and adjoining meadows; if you two gentlemen choose to come with me, I shall of course be happy of your company; if, however, you prefer remaining here to wrangle, you can do so.”
This had the effect, at all events, of putting a stop to the dispute for the present, and both the admiral and Mr. Marchdale accompanied Henry on his search. That search was commenced immediately under the balcony of Charles Holland’s window, from which the admiral had seen him emerge.
There was nothing particular found there, or in the garden. Admiral Bell pointed out accurately the route he had seen Charles take across the grass plot just before he himself left his chamber to seek Henry.
Accordingly, this route was now taken, and it led to a low part of the garden wall, which any one of ordinary vigour could easily have surmounted.
“My impression is,” said the admiral, “that he got over here.”
“The ivy appears to be disturbed,” remarked Henry.
“Suppose we mark the spot, and then go round to it on the outer side?” suggested George.
This was agreed to; for, although the young man might have chosen rather to clamber over the wall than go round, it was doubtful if the old admiral could accomplish such a feat.
The distance round, however, was not great, and as they had cast over the wall a handful of flowers from the garden to mark the precise spot, it was easily discoverable.
The moment they reached it, they were panic-stricken by the appearances which it presented. The grass was for some yards round about completely trodden up, and converted into mud. There were deep indentations of feet-marks in all directions, and such abundance of evidence that some most desperate struggle had recently taken place there, that the most sceptical person in the world could not have entertained any doubt upon the subject.
Henry was the first to break the silence with which they each regarded the broken ground.
“This is conclusive to my mind,” he said, with a deep sigh. “Here has poor Charles been attacked.”
“God keep him!” exclaimed Marchdale, “and pardon me my doubts — I am now convinced.”
The old admiral gazed about him like one distracted. Suddenly he cried —
“They have murdered him. Some fiends in the shape of men have murdered him, and Heaven only knows for what.”
“It seems but too probable,” said Henry. “Let us endeavour to trace the footsteps. Oh! Flora, Flora, what terrible news this will be to you.”
“A horrible supposition comes across my mind,” said George. “What if he met the vampyre?”
“It may have been so,” said Marchdale, with a shudder. “It is a point which we should endeavour to ascertain, and I think we may do so.”
“How!”
“By some inquiry as to whether Sir Francis Varney was from home at midnight last night.”
“True; that might be done.”
“The question, suddenly put to one of his servants, would, most probably, be answered as a thing of course.”
“It would.”
“Then that shall be decided upon. And now, my friends, since you have some of you thought me luke-warm in this business, I pledge myself that, should it be ascertained that Varney was from home at midnight last evening, I will defy him personally, and meet him hand to hand.”
“Nay, nay,” said Henry, “leave that course to younger hands.”
“Why so?”
“It more befits me to be his challenger.”
“No, Henry. You are differently situated to what I am.”
“How so?”
“Remember, that I am in the world a lone man; without ties or connexions. If I lose my life, I compromise no one by my death; but you have a mother and a bereaved sister to look to who will deserve your care.”
“Hilloa,” cried the admiral, “what’s this?”
“What?” cried each, eagerly, and they pressed forward to where the admiral was stooping to the ground to pick up something which was nearly completely trodden into the grass.
He with some difficulty raised it. It was a small slip of paper, on which was some writing, but it was so much covered with mud as not to be legible.
“If this be washed,” said
Henry, “I think we shall be able to read it clearly.”
“We can soon try that experiment,” said George. “And as the footsteps, by some mysterious means, show themselves nowhere else but in this one particular spot, any further pursuit of inquiry about here appears useless.”
“Then we will return to the house,” said Henry, “and wash the mud from this paper.”
“There is one important point,” remarked Marchdale, “which it appears to me we have all overlooked.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes.”
“What may that be?”
“It is this. Is any one here sufficiently acquainted with the handwriting of Mr. Charles Holland to come to an opinion upon the letters?”
“I have some letters from him,” said Henry, “which we received while on the continent, and I dare say Flora has likewise.”
“Then they should be compared with the alleged forgeries.”
“I know his handwriting well,” said the admiral. “The letters bear so strong a resemblance to it that they would deceive anybody.”
“Then you may depend,” remarked Henry, “some most deep-laid and desperate plot is going on.”
“I begin,” added Marchdale, “to dread that such must be the case. What say you to claiming the assistance of the authorities, as well as offering a large reward for any information regarding Mr. Charles Holland?”
“No plan shall be left untried, you may depend.”
They had now reached the house, and Henry having procured some clean water, carefully washed the paper which had been found among the trodden grass. When freed from the mixture of clay and mud which had obscured it, they made out the following words, —
“ — it be so well. At the next full moon seek a convenient spot, and it can be done. The signature is, to my apprehension, perfect. The money which I hold, in my opinion, is much more in amount than you imagine, must be ours; and as for — ”
Here the paper was torn across, and no further words were visible upon it.
Mystery seemed now to be accumulating upon mystery; each one, as it showed itself darkly, seeming to bear some remote relation to what preceded it; and yet only confusing it the more.
That this apparent scrap of a letter had dropped from some one’s pocket during the fearful struggle, of which there were such ample evidences, was extremely probable; but what it related to, by whom it was written, or by whom dropped, were unfathomable mysteries.
