by Hall, Ian
"That's uncommonly true," remarked the admiral.
"Will you walk in, sir?" said Henry, courteously. "Any friend of Charles Holland is most welcome here. You will have much to excuse us for, because we are deficient in servants at present, in consequence of some occurrences in our family, which your nephew has our full permission to explain to you in full."
"Oh, very good, I tell you what it is, all of you, what I've seen of you, d -- -e, I like, so here goes. Come along, Jack."
The admiral walked into the house, and as he went, Charles Holland said to him, --
"How came you to know I was here, uncle?"
"Some fellow wrote me a despatch."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, saying as you was a going to marry some odd sort of fish as it wasn't at all the thing to introduce into the family."
"Was -- was a vampyre mentioned?"
"That's the very thing."
"Hush, uncle -- hush."
"What for?"
"Do not, I implore, hint at such at thing before these kind friends of mine. I will take an opportunity within the next hour of explaining all to you, and you shall form your own kind and generous judgment upon circumstances in which my honour and my happiness are so nearly concerned."
"Gammon," said the admiral.
"What, uncle?"
"Oh, I know you want to palaver me into saying it's all right. I suppose if my judgment and generosity don't like it, I shall be an old fool, and a cursed goose?"
"Now, uncle."
"Now, nevey."
"Well, well -- no more at present. We will talk over this at leisure. You promise me to say nothing about it until you have heard my explanation, uncle?"
"Very good. Make it as soon as you can, and as short as you can, that's all I ask of you."
"I will, I will."
Charles was to the full as anxious as his uncle could be to enter upon the subject, some remote information of which, he felt convinced, had brought the old man down to the Hall. Who it could have been that so far intermeddled with his affairs as to write to him, he could not possibly conceive.
A very few words will suffice to explain the precise position in which Charles Holland was. A considerable sum of money had been left to him, but it was saddled with the condition that he should not come into possession of it until he was one year beyond the age which is usually denominated that of discretion, namely, twenty-one. His uncle, the admiral, was the trustee of his fortune, and he, with rare discretion, had got the active and zealous assistance of a professional gentleman of great honour and eminence to conduct the business for him.
This gentleman had advised that for the two years between the ages of twenty and twenty-two, Charles Holland should travel, inasmuch as in English society he would find himself in an awkward position, being for one whole year of age, and yet waiting for his property.
Under such circumstances, reasoned the lawyer, a young man, unless he is possessed of a very rare discretion indeed, is almost sure to get fearfully involved with money-lenders. Being of age, his notes, and bills, and bonds would all be good, and he would be in a ten times worse situation than a wealthy minor.
All this was duly explained to Charles, who, rather eagerly than otherwise, caught at the idea of a two years wander on the continent, where he could visit so many places, which to a well read young man like himself, and one of a lively imagination, were full of the most delightful associations.
But the acquaintance with Flora Bannerworth effected a great revolution in his feelings. The dearest, sweetest spot on earth became that which she inhabited. When the Bannerworths left him abroad, he knew not what to do with himself. Everything, and every pursuit in which he had before taken a delight, became most distasteful to him. He was, in fact, in a short time, completely "used up," and then he determined upon returning to England, and finding out the dear object of his attachment at once. This resolution was no sooner taken, than his health and spirits returned to him, and with what rapidity he could, he now made his way to his native shores.
The two years were so nearly expired, that he made up his mind he would not communicate either with his uncle, the admiral, or the professional gentleman upon whose judgment he set so high and so just a value. And at the Hall he considered he was in perfect security from any interruption, and so he would have been, but for that letter which was written to Admiral Bell, and signed Josiah Crinkles, but which Josiah Crinkles so emphatically denied all knowledge of. Who wrote it, remains at present one of those mysteries which time, in the progress of our narrative, will clear up.
The opportune, or rather the painful juncture at which Charles Holland had arrived at Bannerworth Hall, we are well cognisant of. Where he expected to find smiles he found tears, and the family with whom he had fondly hoped he should pass a time of uninterrupted happiness, he found plunged in the gloom incidental to an occurrence of the most painful character.
Our readers will perceive, too, that coming as he did with an utter disbelief in the vampyre, Charles had been compelled, in some measure, to yield to the overwhelming weight of evidence which had been brought to bear upon the subject, and although he could not exactly be said to believe in the existence and the appearance of the vampyre at Bannerworth Hall, he was upon the subject in a most painful state of doubt and indecision.
Charles now took an opportunity to speak to Henry privately, and inform him exactly how he stood with his uncle, adding --
"Now, my dear friend, if you forbid me, I will not tell my uncle of this sad affair, but I must own I would rather do so fully and freely, and trust to his own judgment upon it."
"I implore you to do so," said Henry. "Conceal nothing. Let him know the precise situation and circumstances of the family by all means. There is nothing so mischievous as secrecy: I have the greatest dislike of it. I beg you tell him all."
"I will; and with it, Henry, I will tell him that my heart is irrevocably Flora's."
"Your generous clinging to one whom your heart saw and loved, under very different auspices," said Henry, "believe me, Charles, sinks deep into my heart. She has related to me something of a meeting she had with you."
"Oh, Henry, she may tell you what I said; but there are no words which can express the depth of my tenderness. 'Tis only time which can prove how much I love her."
"Go to your uncle," said Henry, in a voice of emotion. "God bless you, Charles. It is true you would have been fully justified in leaving my sister; but the nobler and the more generous path you have chosen has endeared you to us all."
"Where is Flora now?" said Charles.
"She is in her own room. I have persuaded her, by some occupation, to withdraw her mind from a too close and consequently painful contemplation of the distressing circumstances in which she feels herself placed."
"You are right. What occupation best pleases her?"
"The pages of a romance once had charms for her gentle spirit."
"Then come with me, and, from among the few articles I brought with me here, I can find some papers which may help her to pass some merry hours."
Charles took Henry to his room, and, unstrapping a small valise, he took from it some manuscript paper, one of which he handed to Henry, saying, --
"Give that to her: it contains an account of a wild adventure, and shows that human nature may suffer much more -- and that wrongfully too -- than came ever under our present mysterious affliction."
"I will," said Henry; "and, coming from you, I am sure it will have a more than ordinary value in her eyes."
"I will now," said Charles, "seek my uncle. I will tell him how I love her; and at the end of my narration, if he should not object, I would fain introduce her to him, that he might himself see that, let what beauty may have met his gaze, her peer he never yet met with, and may in vain hope to do so."
"You are partial, Charles."
"Not so. 'Tis true I look upon her with a lover's eyes, but I look still with those of truthful observation."
"
Well, I will speak to her about seeing your uncle, and let you know. No doubt, he will not be at all averse to an interview with any one who stands high in your esteem."
The young men now separated -- Henry, to seek his beautiful sister; and Charles, to communicate to his uncle the strange particulars connected with Varney, the Vampyre.
--
CHAPTER 19
FLORA IN HER CHAMBER
HER FEARS
THE MANUSCRIPT
AN ADVENTURE
Henry found Flora in her chamber. She was in deep thought when he tapped at the door of the room, and such was the state of nervous excitement in which she was that even the demand for admission made by him to the room was sufficient to produce from her a sudden cry of alarm.
"Who -- who is there?" she then said, in accents full of terror.
"'Tis I, dear Flora," said Henry.
She opened the door in an instant, and, with a feeling of grateful relief, exclaimed, --
"Oh, Henry, is it only you?"
"Who did you suppose it was, Flora?"
She shuddered.
"I -- I -- do not know; but I am so foolish now, and so weak-spirited, that the slightest noise is enough to alarm me."
"You must, dear Flora, fight up, as I had hoped you were doing, against this nervousness."
"I will endeavour. Did not some strangers come a short time since, brother?"
"Strangers to us, Flora, but not to Charles Holland. A relative of his -- an uncle whom he much respects, has found him out here, and has now come to see him."
"And to advise him," said Flora as she sunk into a chair, and wept bitterly; "to advise him, of course, to desert, as he would a pestilence, a vampyre bride."
"Hush, hush! for the sake of Heaven, never make use of such a phrase, Flora. You know not what a pang it brings to my heart to hear you."
"Oh, forgive me, brother."
"Say no more of it, Flora. Heed it not. It may be possible -- in fact, it may well be supposed as more than probable -- that the relative of Charles Holland may shrink from sanctioning the alliance, but do you rest securely in the possession of the heart which I feel convinced is wholly yours, and which, I am sure, would break ere it surrendered you."
A smile of joy came across Flora's pale but beautiful face, as she cried, --
"And you, dear brother -- you think so much of Charles's faith?"
"As heaven is my judge, I do."
"Then I will bear up with what strength God may give me against all things that seek to depress me; I will not be conquered."
"You are right, Flora; I rejoice to find in you such a disposition. Here is some manuscript which Charles thinks will amuse you, and he bade me ask you if you would be introduced to his uncle."
"Yes, yes -- willingly."
"I will tell him so; I know he wishes it, and I will tell him so. Be patient, dear Flora, and all may yet be well."
"But, brother, on your sacred word, tell me do you not think this Sir Francis Varney is the vampyre?"
"I know not what to think, and do not press me for a judgment now. He shall be watched."
Henry left his sister, and she sat for some moments in silence with the papers before her that Charles had sent her.
"Yes," she then said, gently, "he loves me -- Charles loves me; I ought to be very, very happy. He loves me. In those words are concentrated a whole world of joy -- Charles loves me -- he will not forsake me. Oh, was there ever such dear love -- such fond devotion? -- never, never. Dear Charles. He loves me -- he loves me!"
The very repetition of these words had a charm for Flora -- a charm which was sufficient to banish much sorrow; even the much-dreaded vampyre was forgotten while the light of love was beaming up on her, and she told herself, --
"He is mine! -- he is mine! He loves me truly."
After a time, she turned to the manuscript which her brother had brought her, and, with a far greater concentration of mind than she had thought it possible she could bring to it, considering the many painful subjects of contemplation that she might have occupied herself with, she read the pages with very great pleasure and interest.
The tale was one which chained her attention both by its incidents and the manner of its recital. It commenced as follows, and was titled, "Hugo de Verole; or, the Double Plot."
In a very mountainous part of Hungary lived a nobleman whose paternal estates covered many a mile of rock and mountain land, as well as some fertile valleys, in which reposed a hardy and contented peasantry.
The old Count Hugo de Verole had quitted life early, and had left his only son, the then Count Hugo de Verole, a boy of scarcely ten years, under the guardianship of his mother, an arbitrary and unscrupulous woman.
The count, her husband, had been one of those quiet, even-tempered men, who have no desire to step beyond the sphere in which they are placed; he had no cares, save those included in the management of his estate, the prosperity of his serfs, and the happiness of those around him.
His death caused much lamentation throughout his domains, it was so sudden and unexpected, being in the enjoyment of his health and strength until a few hours previous, and then his energies became prostrated by pain and disease. There was a splendid funeral ceremony, which, according the usages of his house, took place by torch-light.
So great and rapid were the ravages of disease, that the count's body quickly became a mass of corruption. All were amazed at the phenomena, and were heartily glad when the body was disposed of in the place prepared for its reception in the vaults of his own castle. The guests who came to witness the funeral, and attend the count's obsequies, and to condole with the widow on the loss she had sustained, were entertained sumptuously for many days.
The widow sustained her part well. She was inconsolable for the loss of her husband, and mourned his death bitterly. Her grief appeared profound, but she, with difficulty, subdued it to within decent bounds, that she might not offend any of her numerous guests.
However, they left her with the assurances of their profound regard, and then when they were gone, when the last guest had departed, and were no longer visible to the eye of the countess, as she gazed from the battlements, then her behaviour changed totally.
She descended from the battlements, and then with an imperious gesture she gave her orders that all the gates of the castle should be closed, and a watch set.
All signs of mourning she ordered to be laid on one side save her own, which she wore, and then she retired to her own apartment, where she remained unseen.
Here the countess remained in profound meditation for nearly two days, during which time the attendants believed she was praying for the welfare of the soul of their deceased master, and they feared she would starve herself to death if she remained any longer.
Just as they had assembled together for the purpose of either recalling her from her vigils or breaking open the door, they were amazed to see the countess open the room-door, and stand in the midst of them.
"What do you here?" she demanded, in a stern voice.
"We came, my lady, to see -- see -- if -- if you are well."
"And why?"
"Because we hadn't seen your ladyship these two days, and we thought that your grief was so excessive that we feared some harm might befall you."
The countess's brows contracted for a few seconds, and she was about to make a hasty reply, but she conquered the desire to do so, and merely said, --
"I am not well, I am faint; but, had I been dying, I should not have thanked you for interfering to prevent me; however, you acted for the best, but do so no more. Now prepare me some food."
The servants, thus dismissed, repaired to their stations, but with such degree of alacrity, that they sufficiently showed how much they feared their mistress.
The young count, who was only in his sixth year, knew little about the loss he had sustained; but after a day or two's grief, there was an end of his sorrow for the time.
That night there came to the castle-
gate a man dressed in a black cloak, attended by a servant. They were both mounted on good horses, and they demanded to be admitted to the presence of the Countess de Hugo de Verole.
The message was carried to the countess, who started, but said, --
"Admit the stranger."
Accordingly the stranger was admitted, and shown into the apartment where the countess was sitting.
At a signal the servants retired, leaving the countess and the stranger alone. It was some moments ere they spoke, and then the countess said in a low tone, --
"You are come?"
"I am come."
"You cannot now, you see, perform your threat. My husband, the count, caught a putrid disease, and he is no more."
"I cannot indeed do what I intended, inform your husband of your amours; but I can do something as good, and which will give you as much annoyance."
"Indeed."
"Aye, more, if will cause you to be hated. I can spread reports."
"You can."
"And these may ruin you."
"They may."
"What do you intend to do? Do you intend that I shall be an enemy or a friend? I can be either, according to my will."
"What, do you desire to be either?" inquired the countess, with a careless tone.
"If you refuse my terms, you can make me an implacable enemy, and if you grant them, you can make me a useful friend and auxiliary," said the stranger.
"What would you do if you were my enemy?" inquired the countess.
"It is hardly my place," said the stranger, "to furnish you with a knowledge of my intentions, but I will say this much, that the bankrupt Count of Morven is your lover."
"Well?"
"And in the second place, that you were the cause of the death of your husband."
"How dare you, sir -- "
"I dare say so much, and I dare say, also, that the Count of Morven bought you the drug of me, and that he gave it to you, and that you gave it to the count your husband."
"And what could you do if you were my friend?" inquired the countess, in the same tone, and without emotion.
