by Oscar Wilde
“I will not; I have no secrets from those I love.”
“Indeed, you will find soon the expediency of a few at least; but if you will not, I cannot urge it longer. Do as your wayward woman’s nature prompts you.”
There was a slight, but a very slight, tone of aggravation in these words, and the manner in which they were uttered.
As he spoke, he moved from the door towards the window, which opened into a kitchen garden. Flora shrunk as far from him as possible, and for a few moments they regarded each other in silence.
“Young blood,” said Varney, “mantles in your veins.”
She shuddered with terror.
“Be mindful of the condition I have proposed to you. I covet Bannerworth Hall.”
“I—I hear.”
“And I must have it. I will have it, although my path to it be through a sea of blood. You understand me, maiden? Repeat what has passed between us or not, as you please. I say, beware of me, if you keep not the condition I have proposed.”
“Heaven knows that this place is becoming daily more hateful to us all,” said Flora.
“Indeed!”
“You well might know so much. It is no sacrifice to urge it now. I will urge my brother.”
“Thanks—a thousand thanks. You may not live to regret even having made a friend of Varney—”
“The vampire!” said Flora.
He advanced towards her a step, and she involuntarily uttered a scream of terror.
In an instant his hand clasped her waist with the power of an iron vice; she felt hit hot breath flushing on her cheek. Her senses reeled, and she found herself sinking. She gathered all her breath and all her energies into one piercing shriek, and then she fell to the floor. There was a sudden crash of broken glass, and then all was still.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE CONFERENCE BETWEEN THE UNCLE AND NEPHEW, AND THE ALARM.
Meanwhile Charles Holland had taken his uncle by the arm, and led him into a private room.
“Dear uncle,” he said, “be seated, and I will explain everything without reserve.”
“Seated!—nonsense! I’ll walk about,” said the admiral. “Damn me! I’ve no patience to be seated, and very seldom had or have. Go on now, you young scamp.”
“Well—well; you abuse me, but I am quite sure, had you been in my situation, you would have acted precisely as I have done.”
“No, I shouldn’t.”
“Well, but, uncle—”
“Don’t think to come over me by calling me uncle. Hark you, Charles—from this moment I won’t be your uncle any more.”
“Very well, sir.”
“It ain’t very well. And how dare you, you buccaneer, call me sir, eh? I say, how dare you?”
“I will call you anything you like.”
“But I won’t be called anything I like. You might as well call me at once Morgan, the Pirate, for he was called anything he liked. Hilloa, sir! how dare you laugh, eh? I’ll teach you to laugh at me. I wish I had you on board ship—that’s all, you young rascal. I’d soon teach you to laugh at your superior officer, I would.”
“Oh, uncle, I did not laugh at you.”
“What did you laugh at, then?”
“At the joke.”
“Joke. Damn me, there was no joke at all!”
“Oh, very good.”
“And it ain’t very good.”
Charles knew very well that, this sort of humour, in which was the old admiral, would soon pass away, and then that he would listen to him comfortably enough; so he would not allow the least exhibition of petulance or mere impatience to escape himself, but contented himself by waiting until the ebullition of feeling fairly worked itself out.
“Well, well,” at length said the old man, “you have dragged me here, into a very small and a very dull room, under pretence of having something to tell me, and I have heard nothing yet.”
“Then I will now tell you,” said Charles. “I fell in love—”
“Bah!”
“With Flora Bannerworth, abroad; she is not only the most beautiful of created beings—”
“Bah!”
“But her mind is of the highest order of intelligence, honour, candour, and all amiable feelings—”
“Bah!”
“Really, uncle, if you say ‘Bah!’ to everything, I cannot go on.”
“And what the deuce difference, sir, does it make to you, whether I say ‘Bah!’ or not?”
“Well, I love her. She came to England, and, as I could not exist, but was getting ill, and should, no doubt, have died if I had not done so, I came to England.”
“But damn me, I want to know about the mermaid.”
“The vampire, you mean, sir?”
“Well, well, the vampire.”
“Then, uncle, all I can tell you is, that it is supposed a vampire came one night and inflicted a wound upon Flora’s neck with his teeth, and that he is still endeavouring to renew his horrible existence from the young, pure blood that flows through her veins.”
“The devil he is!”
“Yes. I am bewildered, I must confess, by the mass of circumstances that have combined to give the affair a horrible truthfulness. Poor Flora is much injured in health and spirits; and when I came home, she, at once, implored me to give her up, and think of her no more, for she could not think of allowing me to unite my fate with hers, under such circumstances.”
“She did?”
“Such were her words, uncle. She implored me—she used that word, ‘implore’—to fly from her, to leave her to her fate, to endeavour to find happiness with some one else.”
“Well?”
“But I saw her heart was breaking.”
“What o’ that?”
“Much of that, uncle. I told her that when I deserted her in the hour of misfortune that I hoped Heaven would desert me. I told her that if her happiness was wrecked, to cling yet to me, and that with what power and what strength God had given me, I would stand between her and all ill.”
“And what then?”
“She—she fell upon my breast and wept and blessed me. Could I desert her—could I say to her, ‘My dear girl, when you were full of health and beauty, I loved you, but now that sadness is at your heart I leave you?’ Could I tell her that, uncle, and yet call myself a man?”
“No!” roared the old admiral, in a voice that made the room echo again; “and I tell you what, if you had done so, damn you, you puppy, I’d have braced you, and—and married the girl myself. I would, damn me, but I would.”
“Dear uncle!”
“Don’t dear me, sir. Talk of deserting a girl when the signal of distress, in the shape of a tear, is in her eye!”
“But I—”
“You are a wretch—a confounded lubberly boy—a swab—a damned bad grampus.”
“You mistake, uncle.”
“No, I don’t. God bless you, Charles, you shall have her—if a whole ship’s crew of vampires said no, you shall have her. Let me see her—just let me see her.”
The admiral gave his lips a vigorous wipe with his sleeve, and Charles said hastily—
“My dear uncle, you will recollect that Miss Bannerworth is quite a young lady.”
“I suppose she is.”
“Well, then, for God’s sake, don’t attempt to kiss her.”
“Not kiss her! damn me, they like it. Not kiss her, because she’s a young lady! Damn me, do you think I’d kiss a corporal of marines?”
“No, uncle; but you know young ladies are very delicate.”
“And ain’t I delicate—shiver my timbers, ain’t I delicate? Where is she? that’s what I want to know.”
“Then you approve of what I have done?”
“You are a young scamp, but you have got some of the old admiral’s
family blood in you, so don’t take any credit for acting like an honest man—you couldn’t help it.”
“But if I had not so acted,” said Charles, with a smile, “what would have become of the family blood, then?”
“What’s that to you? I would have disowned you, because that very thing would have convinced me you were an impostor, and did not belong to the family at all.”
“Well, that would have been one way of getting over the difficulty.”
“No difficulty at all. The man who deserts the good ship that carries him through the waves, or the girl that trusts her heart to him, ought to be chopped up into meat for wild monkeys.”
“Well, I think so to.”
“Of course you do.”
“Why, of course?”
“Because it’s so damned reasonable that, being a nephew of mine, you can’t possibly help it.”
“Bravo, uncle! I had no idea you were so argumentative.”
“Hadn’t you, spooney; you’d be an ornament to the gun-room, you would; but where’s the ‘young lady’ who is so infernal delicate—where is she, I say?”
“I will fetch her, uncle.”
“Ah, do; I’ll be bound, now, she’s one of the right build—a good figure-head, and don’t make too much stern-way.”
“Well, well, whatever you do, now don’t pay her any compliments, for your efforts in that line are of such a very doubtful order, that I shall dread to hear you.”
“You be off, and mind your own business; I haven’t been at sea forty years without picking up some out-and-out delicate compliments to say to a young lady.”
“But do you really imagine, now, that the deck of a man-of-war is a nice place to pick up courtly compliments in?”
“Of course I do. There you hear the best of language, damn me! You don’t know what you are talking about, you fellows that have stuck on shore all your lives; it’s we seamen who learn life.”
“Well, well—hark!”
“What’s that?”
“A cry—did you not hear a cry?”
“A signal of distress, by God!”
In their efforts to leave the room, the uncle and nephew for about a minute actually blocked up the door-way, but the superior bulk of the admiral prevailed, and after nearly squeezing poor Charles flat, he got out first.
But this did not avail him, for he knew not where to go. Now, the second scream which Flora had uttered when the vampire had clasped her waist came upon their ears, and, as they were outside the room, it acted well as a guide in which direction to come.
Charles fancied correctly enough at once that it proceeded from the room which was called “Flora’s own room,” and thitherward accordingly he dashed at tremendous speed.
Henry, however, happened to be nearer at hand, and, moreover, he did not hesitate a moment, because he knew that Flora was in her own room; so he reached it first, and Charles saw him rush in a few moments before he could reach the room.
The difference of time, however, was very slight, and Henry had only just raised Flora from the floor as Charles appeared.
“God of Heaven!” cried the latter, “what has happened?”
“I know not,” said Henry; “as God is my judge, I know not. Flora, Flora, speak to us! Flora! Flora!”
“She has fainted!” cried Charles. “Some water may restore her. Oh, Henry, Henry, is not this horrible?”
“Courage! courage!” said Henry although his voice betrayed what a terrible state of anxiety he was himself in; “you will find water in that decanter, Charles. Here is my mother, too! Another visit! God help us!”
Mrs. Bannerworth sat down on the edge of the sofa which was in the room, and could only wring her hands and weep.
“Avast!” cried the admiral, making his appearance. “Where’s the enemy, lads?”
“Uncle,” said Charles, “uncle, uncle, the vampire has been here again—the dreadful vampire!”
“Damn me, and he’s gone, too, and carried half the window with him. Look there!”
It was literally true; the window, which was a long latticed one, was smashed through.
“Help! oh, help!” said Flora, as the water that was dashed in her face began to recover her.
“You are safe!” cried Henry, “you are safe!”
“Flora,” said Charles; “you know my voice, dear Flora? Look up, and you will see there are none here but those who love you.”
Flora opened her eyes timidly as the said—
“Has it gone?”
“Yes, yes, dear,” said Charles. “Look around you; here are none but true friends.”
“And tried friends, my dear,” said Admiral Bell, “excepting me; and whenever you like to try me, afloat or ashore, damn me, shew me Old Nick himself, and I won’t shrink—yard arm and yard arm—grapnel to grapnel—pitch pots and grenades!”
“This is my uncle, Flora,” said Charles.
“I thank you, sir,” said Flora, faintly.
“All right!” whispered the admiral to Charles; “what a figure-head, to be sure! Poll at Swansea would have made just about four of her, but she wasn’t so delicate, damn me!”
“I should think not.”
“You are right for once in a way, Charley.”
“What was it that alarmed you?” said Charles, tenderly, as he now took one of Flora’s hands in his.
“Varney—Varney, the vampire.”
“Varney!” exclaimed Henry; “Varney here!”
“Yes, he came in at that door: and when I screamed, I suppose—for I hardly was conscious—he darted out through the window.”
“This,” said Henry, “is beyond all human patience. By Heaven! I cannot and will not endure it.”
“It shall be my quarrel,” said Charles; “I shall go at once and defy him. He shall meet me.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” said Flora, as she clung convulsively to Charles. “No, no; there is a better way.”
“What way?”
“The place has become full of terrors. Let us leave it. Let him, as he wishes, have it.”
“Let him have it?”
“Yes, yes. God knows, if it purchase an immunity from these visits, we may well be overjoyed. Remember that we have ample reason to believe him more than human. Why should you allow yourselves to risk a personal encounter with such a man, who might be glad to kill you that he might have an opportunity of replenishing his own hideous existence from your best heart’s blood?”
The young men looked aghast.
“Besides,” added Flora, “you cannot tell what dreadful powers of mischief he may have, against which human courage might be of no avail.”
“There is truth and reason,” said Mr. Marchdale, stepping forward, “in what Flora says.”
“Only let me come across him, that’s all,” said Admiral Bell, “and I’ll soon find out what he is. I suppose he’s some long slab of a lubber after all, ain’t he, with no strength.”
“His strength is immense,” said Marchdale. “I tried to seize him, and I fell beneath his arm as if I had been struck by the hammer of a Cyclops.”
“A what?” cried the admiral.
“A Cyclops.”
“Damn me, I served aboard the Cyclops eleven years, and never saw a very big hammer aboard of her.”
“What on earth is to be done?” said Henry.”
“Oh,” chimed in the admiral, “there’s always a bother about what’s to be done on earth. Now, at sea, I could soon tell you what was to be done.”
“We must hold a solemn consultation over this matter,” said Henry. “You are safe now, Flora.”
“Oh, be ruled by me. Give up the Hall.”
“You tremble.”
“I do tremble, brother, for what may yet ensue. I implore you to give up the Hall. It is but a terror to us now—giv
e it up. Have no more to do with it. Let us make terms with Sir Francis Varney. Remember, we dare not kill him.”
“He ought to be smothered,” said the admiral.
“It is true,” remarked Henry, “we dare not, even holding all the terrible suspicions we do, take his life.”
“By foul means certainly not,” said Charles, “were he ten times a vampire. I cannot, however, believe that he is so invulnerable as he is represented.”
“No one represents him here,” said Marchdale. “I speak, sir, because I saw you glance at me. I only know that, having made two unsuccessful attempts to seize him, he eluded me, once by leaving in my grasp a piece of his coat, and the next time he struck me down, and I feel yet the effects of the terrific blow.”
“You hear?” said Flora.
“Yes, I hear,” said Charles.
“For some reason,” added Marchdale, in a tone of emotion, “what I say seems to fall always badly upon Mr. Holland’s ear. I know not why; but if it will give him any satisfaction, I will leave Bannerworth Hall tonight.”
“No, no, no,” said Henry; “for the love of Heaven, do not let us quarrel.”
“Hear, hear,” cried the admiral. “We can never fight the enemy well if the ship’s crew are on bad terms. Come now, you Charles, this appears to be an honest, gentlemanly fellow—give him your hand.”
“If Mr. Charles Holland,” said Marchdale, “knows aught to my prejudice in any way, however slight, I here beg of him to declare it at once, and openly.”
“I cannot assert that I do,” said Charles.
“Then what the deuce do you make yourself so disagreeable for, eh?” cried the admiral.
“One cannot help one’s impression and feelings,” said Charles; “but I am willing to take Mr. Marchdale’s hand.”
“And I yours, young sir,” said Marchdale, “in all sincerity of spirit, and with good will towards you.”
They shook hands; but it required no conjuror to perceive that it was not done willingly or cordially. It was a handshaking of that character which seemed to imply on each side, “I don’t like you, but I don’t know positively any harm of you.”
“There now,” said the admiral, “that’s better.”
“Now, let us hold counsel about this Varney,” said Henry. “Come to the parlour all of you, and we will endeavour to come to some decided arrangement.”
