by Bram Stoker
“You have; and since you decline to make me the promise which I would fain have from you, to the effect that you would not mention me as one of the authors of your calamity, I must trust to your honour not to attempt revenge for what you have suffered.”
“That I will promise. There can be but little difficulty to any generous mind in giving up such a feeling. In consequence of your sparing me what you might still further have inflicted, I will let the past rest, and as if it had never happened really to me; and speak of it to others, but as a circumstance which I wish not to revert to, but prefer should be buried in oblivion.”
“It is well; and now I have a request to make of you, which, perhaps, you will consider the hardest of all.”
“Name it. I feel myself bound to a considerable extent to comply with whatever you may demand of me, that is not contrary to honourable principle.”
“Then it is this, that, comparatively free as you are, and in a condition, as you are, to assert your own freedom, you will not do so hastily, or for a considerable period; in fact, I wish and expect that you should wait yet awhile, until it shall suit me to say that it is my pleasure that you shall be free.”
“That is, indeed, a hard condition to man who feels, as you yourself remark, that he can assert his freedom. It is one which I have still a hope you will not persevere in.
“Nay, young man, I think that I have treated you with generosity, to make you feel that I am not the worst of foes you could have had. All I require of you is, that you should wait here for about an hour. It is now nearly one o’clock; will you wait until you hear it strike two before you actually make a movement to leave this place?”
Charles Holland hesitated for some moments, and then he said, —
“Do not fancy that I am not one who appreciates the singular trust you have reposed in me; and, however repugnant to me it may be to remain here, a voluntary prisoner, I am inclined to do so, if it be but to convince you that the trust you have reposed in me is not in vain, and that I can behave with equal generosity to you as you can to me.”
“Be it so,” said Sir Francis Varney; “I shall leave you with a full reliance that you will keep your word; and now, farewell. When you think of me, fancy me rather one unfortunate than criminal, and tell yourself that even Varney the vampyre had some traits in his character, which, although they might not raise your esteem, at all events did not loudly call for your reprobation.”
“I shall do so. Oh! Flora, Flora, I shall look upon you once again, after believing and thinking that I had bidden you a long and last adieu. My own beautiful Flora, it is joy indeed to think that I shall look upon that face again, which, to my perception, is full of all the majesty of loveliness.”
Sir Francis Varney looked coldly on while Charles uttered this enthusiastic speech.
“Remember,” he said, “till two o’clock;” and he walked towards the door of the dungeon. “You will have no difficulty in finding your way out from this place. Doubtless you already perceive the entrance by which I gained admission.”
“Had I been free,” said Charles, “and had the use of my limbs, I should, long ere this, have worked my way to life and liberty.”
“‘Tis well. Goodnight.”
Varney walked from the place, and just closed the door behind him. With a slow and stately step he left the ruins, and Charles Holland found himself once more alone, but in a much more enviable condition than for many weeks he could have called his.
CHAPTER LXVI.
FLORA BANNERWORTH’S APPARENT INCONSISTENCY. — THE ADMIRAL’S CIRCUMSTANCES AND ADVICE. — MR. CHILLINGWORTH’S MYSTERIOUS ABSENCE.
For a brief space let us return to Flora Bannerworth, who had suffered so much on account of her affections, as well as on account of the mysterious attack that had been made upon her by the reputed vampyre.
After leaving Bannerworth Hall for a short time, she seemed to recover her spirits; but this was a state of things which did not last, and only showed how fallacious it was to expect that, after the grievous things that had happened, she would rapidly recover her equanimity.
It is said, by learned physiologists, that two bodily pains cannot endure at the same space of time in the system; and, whether it be so or not, is a question concerning which it would be foreign to the nature of our work, to enter into anything like an elaborate disquisition.
Certainly, however, so far as Flora Bannerworth was concerned, she seemed inclined to show that, mentally, the observation was a true one, for that, now she became released from a continued dread of the visits of the vampyre, her mind would, with more painful interest than ever, recur to the melancholy condition, probably, of Charles Holland, if he were alive, and to soul-harrowing reflections concerning him, if he were dead.
She could not, and she did not, believe, for one moment, that his desertion of her had been of a voluntary character. She knew, or fancied she knew, him by far too well for that; and she more than once expressed her opinion, to the effect that she was perfectly convinced his disappearance was a part and parcel of all that train of circumstances which had so recently occurred, and produced such a world of unhappiness to her, as well as to the whole of the Bannerworth family.
“If he had never loved me,” she said to her brother Henry, “he would have been alive and well; but he has fallen a victim to the truth of a passion, and to the constancy of an affection which, to my dying day, I will believe in.”
Now that Mr. Marchdale had left the place there was no one to dispute this proposition with Flora, for all, as well as she, were fully inclined to think well of Charles Holland.
It was on the very morning which preceded that evening when Sir Francis Varney called upon Charles Holland in the manner we have related, with the gratifying news that, upon certain conditions, he might be released, that Flora Bannerworth, when the admiral came to see them, spoke to him of Charles Holland, saying, —
“Now, sir, that I am away from Bannerworth Hall, I do not, and cannot feel satisfied; for the thought that Charles may eventually come back, and seek us there, still haunts me. Fancy him, sir, doing so, and seeing the place completely deserted.”
“Well, there’s something in that,” said the admiral; “but, however, he’s hardly such a goose, if it were so to happen, to give up the chase — he’d find us out somehow.”
“You think he would, sir? or, do you not think that despair would seize upon him, and that, fancying we had all left the spot for ever, he might likewise do so; so that we should lose him more effectually than we have done at present?”
“No; hardly,” said the admiral; “he couldn’t be such a goose as that. Why, when I was of his age, if I had secured the affections of a young girl like you, I’d have gone over all the world, but I’d have found out where she was; and what I mean to say is, if he’s half such a goose as you think him, he deserves to lose you.”
“Did you not tell me something, sir, of Mr. Chillingworth talking of taking possession of the Hall for a brief space of time?”
“Why, yes, I did; and I expect he is there now; in fact, I’m sure he’s there, for he said he would be.”
“No, he ain’t,” said Jack Pringle, at that moment entering the room; “you’re wrong again, as you always are, somehow or other.”
“What, you vagabond, are you here, you mutinous rascal?” — ”Ay, ay, sir; go on; don’t mind me. I wonder what you’d do, sir, if you hadn’t somebody like me to go on talking about”
“Why, you infernal rascal, I wonder what you’d do if you had not an indulgent commander, who puts up even with real mutiny, and says nothing about it. But where have you been? Did you go as I directed you, and take some provisions to Bannerworth Hall?”
“Yes, I did; but I brought them back again; there’s nobody there, and don’t seem likely to be, except a dead body.”
“A dead body! Whose body can that be!” — ”Tom somebody; for I’m d — — d if it ain’t a great he cat.”
“You scoundrel, how dare
you alarm me in such a way? But do you mean to tell me that you did not see Dr. Chillingworth at the Hall?” — ”How could I see him, if he wasn’t there?”
“But he was there; he said he would be there.” — ”Then he’s gone again, for there’s nobody there that I know of in the shape of a doctor. I went through every part of the ship — I mean the house — and the deuce a soul could I find; so as it was rather lonely and uncomfortable, I came away again. ‘Who knows,’ thought I, ‘but some blessed vampyre or another may come across me.’”
“This won’t do,” said the old admiral, buttoning up his coat to the chin; “Bannerworth Hall must not be deserted in this way. It is quite clear that Sir Francis Varney and his associates have some particular object in view in getting possession of the place. Here, you Jack.” — ”Ay, ay, sir.”
“Just go back again, and stay at the Hall till somebody comes to you. Even such a stupid hound as you will be something to scare away unwelcome visitors. Go back to the Hall, I say. What are you staring at?” — ”Back to Bannerworth Hall!” said Jack. “What! just where I’ve come from; all that way off, and nothing to eat, and, what’s worse, nothing to drink. I’ll see you d — — d first.”
The admiral caught up a table-fork, and made a rush at Jack; but Henry Bannerworth interfered.
“No, no,” he said, “admiral; no, no — not that. You must recollect that you yourself have given this, no doubt, faithful fellow of your’s liberty to do and say a great many things which don’t look like good service; but I have no doubt, from what I have seen of his disposition, that he would risk his life rather than, that you should come to any harm.”
“Ay, ay,” said Jack; “he quite forgets when the bullets were scuttling our nobs off Cape Ushant, when that big Frenchman had hold of him by the skirf of his neck, and began pummelling his head, and the lee scuppers were running with blood, and a bit of Joe Wiggins’s brains had come slap in my eye, while some of Jack Marling’s guts was hanging round my neck like a nosegay, all in consequence of grape-shot — then he didn’t say as I was a swab, when I came up, and bored a hole in the Frenchman’s back with a pike. Ay, it’s all very well now, when there’s peace, and no danger, to call Jack Pringle a lubberly rascal, and mutinous. I’m blessed if it ain’t enough to make an old pair of shoes faint away.”
“Why, you infernal scoundrel,” said the admiral, “nothing of the sort ever happened, and you know it. Jack, you’re no seaman.” — ”Werry good,” said Jack; “then, if I ain’t no seaman, you are what shore-going people calls a jolly fat old humbug.”
“Jack, hold your tongue,” said Henry Bannerworth; “you carry these things too far. You know very well that your master esteems you, and you should not presume too much upon that fact.” — ”My master!” said Jack; “don’t call him my master. I never had a master, and don’t intend. He’s my admiral, if you like; but an English sailor don’t like a master.”
“I tell you what it is, Jack,” said the admiral; “you’ve got your good qualities, I admit.” — ”Ay, ay, sir — that’s enough; you may as well leave off well while you can.”
“But I’ll just tell you what you resemble more than anything else.” — ”Chew me up! what may that be, sir?”
“A French marine.” — ”A what! A French marine! Good-bye. I wouldn’t say another word to you, if you was to pay me a dollar a piece. Of all the blessed insults rolled into one, this here’s the worstest. You might have called me a marine, or you might have called me a Frenchman, but to make out that I’m both a marine and a Frenchman, d — me, if it isn’t enough to make human nature stand on an end! Now, I’ve done with you.”
“And a good job, too,” said the admiral. “I wish I’d thought of it before. You’re worse than a third day’s ague, or a hot and a cold fever in the tropics.” — ”Very good,” said Jack; “I only hope Providence will have mercy upon you, and keep an eye upon you when I’m gone, otherwise, I wonder what will become of you? It wasn’t so when young Belinda, who you took off the island of Antiggy, in the Ingies, jumped overboard, and I went after her in a heavy swell. Howsomdever, never mind, you shook hands with me then; and while a bushel of the briny was weeping out of the corner of each of your blinkers, you says, says you, — ”
“Hold!” cried the admiral, “hold! I know what I said, Jack. It’s cut a fathom deep in my memory. Give us your fist, Jack, and — and — ” — ”Hold yourself,” said Jack; “I know what you’re going to say, and I won’t hear you say it — so there’s an end of it. Lor bless you! I knows you. I ain’t a going to leave you. Don’t be afraid; I only works you up, and works you down again, just to see if there’s any of that old spirit in you when we was aboard the Victory. Don’t you recollect, admiral?”
“Yes — yes; enough, Jack.” — ”Why, let me see — that was a matter of forty years ago, nearly, when I was a youngster.”
“There — there, Jack — that’ll do. You bring the events of other years fresh upon my memory. Peace — peace. I have not forgotten; but still, to hear what you know of them, if recited, would give the old man a pang.” — ”A pang,” said Jack; “I suppose that’s some dictionary word for a punch in the eye. That would be mutiny with a vengeance; so I’m off.”
“Go, go.” — ”I’m a going; and just to please you, I’ll go to the Hall, so you sha’n’t say that you told me to do anything that I didn’t.”
Away went Jack, whistling an air, that might have been popular when he and the admiral were young, and Henry Bannerworth could not but remark that an appearance of great sadness came over the old man, when Jack was gone.
“I fear, sir,” he said, “that heedless sailor has touched upon some episode in your existence, the wounds of which are still fresh enough to give you pain.” — ”It is so,” said the old admiral; “just look at me, now. Do I look like the here of a romantic love story?”
“Not exactly, I admit.” — ”Well, notwithstanding that, Jack Pringle has touched a chord that vibrates in my heart yet,” replied the admiral.
“Have you any objection to tell me of it?” — ”None, whatever; and perhaps, by the time I have done, the doctor may have found his way back again, or Jack may bring us some news of him. So here goes for a short, but a true yarn.”
CHAPTER LXVII.
THE ADMIRAL’S STORY OF THE BEAUTIFUL BELINDA.
Just at this moment Flora Bannerworth stole into the room from whence she had departed a short time since; but when she saw that old Admiral Bell was looking so exceedingly serious, and apparently about to address Henry upon some very important subject, she would have retired, but he turned towards her, and said, —
“My story, my dear, I’ve no objection to your hearing, and, like all women folks, a love story never comes amiss to you; so you may as well stay and hear it.” — ”A love story,” said Flora; “you tell a love story, sir?”
“Yes, my dear, and not only tell it, but be the hero of it, likewise; ain’t you astonished?” — ”I am, indeed.”
“Well, you’ll be more astonished then before I’ve done; so just listen. As Jack Pringle says, it was the matter of about somewhere forty years ago, that I was in command of the Victory frigate, which was placed upon the West Indian station, during a war then raging, for the protection of our ports and harbours in that vicinity. We’d not a strong force in that quarter, therefore, I had to cut about from place to place, and do the best I could. After a time, though, I rather think that we frightened off the enemy, during which time I chiefly anchored off the island of Antigua, and was hospitably received at the house of a planter, of the name of Marchant, who, in fact, made his house my home, and introduced me to all the elite of the society of the island. Ah! Miss Flora, you’ve no idea, to look at me now, what I was then; I held a captain’s commission, and was nearly the youngest man in the service, with such a rank. I was as slender, ay, as a dancing master. These withered and bleached locks were black as the raven’s plume. Ay, ay, but no matter: the planter had a daughter.”
“And you loved her?” said Flora — ”Loved her,” said the old man, and the flush of youthful animation come to his countenance; “loved her, do you say! I adored her; I worshipped her; she was to me — but what a d — — d old fool, I am; we’ll skip that if you please.”
“Nay, nay,” said Flora; “that is what I want to hear.” — ”I haven’t the least doubt of that, in the world; but that’s just what you won’t hear; none of your nonsense, Miss Flora; the old man may be a fool, but he isn’t quite an idiot.”
“He’s neither,” said Flora; “true feelings can never disgrace any one.” — ”Perhaps not; but, however, to make a long story short, somehow or other, one day, Belinda was sitting alone, and I rudely pounced upon her; I rather think then I must have said something that I oughtn’t to have said, for it took her so aback; I was forced, somehow or other, to hold her up, and then I — I — yes; I’m sure I kissed her; and so, I told her I loved her; and then, what do you think she said?”
“Why,” said Flora, “that she reciprocated the passion.” — ”D — n my rags,” said Jack, who at the moment came into the room, “I suppose that’s the name of some shell or other.”
“You here, you villain!” said the admiral; “I thought you were gone.” — ”So I was,” said Jack, “but I came back for my hat, you see.”
Away he went again, and the admiral resumed his story.
“Well, Miss Flora,” he said, “you haven’t made a good guess, as she didn’t say anything at all, she only clung to me like some wild bird to its mother’s breast, and cried as if her heart would break.” — ”Indeed!”
“Yes; I didn’t know the cause of her emotion, but at last I got it out of her.” — ”What was it?”
“Oh, a mere trifle; she was already married to somebody else, that’s all; some d — — d fellow, who had gone trading about the islands, a fellow she didn’t care a straw about, that was old enough to be her father.”
