CHAPTER XII.
CHARLES HOLLAND'S SAD FEELINGS.--THE PORTRAIT.--THE OCCURRENCE OF THENIGHT AT THE HALL.
Charles Holland wished to be alone, if ever any human being had wishedfervently to be so. His thoughts were most fearfully oppressive.
The communication that had been made to him by Henry Bannerworth, hadabout it too many strange, confirmatory circumstances to enable him totreat it, in his own mind, with the disrespect that some mere freak of adistracted and weak imagination would, most probably, have received fromhim.
He had found Flora in a state of excitement which could arise only fromsome such terrible cause as had been mentioned by her brother, and thenhe was, from an occurrence which certainly never could have entered intohis calculations, asked to forego the bright dream of happiness which hehad held so long and so rapturously to his heart.
How truly he found that the course of true love ran not smooth; and yethow little would any one have suspected that from such a cause as thatwhich now oppressed his mind, any obstruction would arise.
Flora might have been fickle and false; he might have seen some otherfairer face, which might have enchained his fancy, and woven for him anew heart's chain; death might have stepped between him and therealization of his fondest hopes; loss of fortune might have made thelove cruel which would have yoked to its distresses a young andbeautiful girl, reared in the lap of luxury, and who was not, even bythose who loved her, suffered to feel, even in later years, any of thepinching necessities of the family.
All these things were possible--some of them were probable; and yet noneof them had occurred. She loved him still; and he, although he hadlooked on many a fair face, and basked in the sunny smiles of beauty,had never for a moment forgotten her faith, or lost his devotion to hisown dear English girl.
Fortune he had enough for both; death had not even threatened to rob himof the prize of such a noble and faithful heart which he had won. But ahorrible superstition had arisen, which seemed to place at once animpassable abyss between them, and to say to him, in a voice ofthundering denunciation,--
"Charles Holland, will you have a vampyre for your bride?"
The thought was terrific. He paced the gloomy chamber to and fro withrapid strides, until the idea came across his mind that by so doing hemight not only be proclaiming to his kind entertainers how much he wasmentally distracted, but he likewise might be seriously distractingthem.
The moment this occurred to him he sat down, and was profoundly stillfor some time. He then glanced at the light which had been given to him,and he found himself almost unconsciously engaged in a mentalcalculation as to how long it would last him in the night.
Half ashamed, then, of such terrors, as such a consideration would seemto indicate, he was on the point of hastily extinguishing it, when hehappened to cast his eyes on the now mysterious and highly interestingportrait in the panel.
The picture, as a picture, was well done, whether it was a correctlikeness or not of the party whom it represented. It was one of thosekind of portraits that seem so life-like, that, as you look at them,they seem to return your gaze fully, and even to follow you with theireyes from place to place.
By candle-light such an effect is more likely to become striking andremarkable than by daylight; and now, as Charles Holland shaded his owneyes from the light, so as to cast its full radiance upon the portrait,he felt wonderfully interested in its life-like appearance.
"Here is true skill," he said; "such as I have not before seen. Howstrangely this likeness of a man whom I never saw seems to gaze uponme."
Unconsciously, too, he aided the effect, which he justly enough calledlife-like, by a slight movement of the candle, such as any one notblessed with nerves of iron would be sure to make, and such a movementmade the face look as if it was inspired with vitality.
Charles remained looking at the portrait for a considerable period oftime. He found a kind of fascination in it which prevented him fromdrawing his eyes away from it. It was not fear which induced him tocontinue gazing on it, but the circumstance that it was a likeness ofthe man who, after death, was supposed to have borrowed so new and sohideous an existence, combined with its artistic merits, chained him tothe spot.
"I shall now," he said, "know that face again, let me see it where Imay, or under what circumstances I may. Each feature is now indeliblyfixed upon my memory--I never can mistake it."
He turned aside as he uttered these words, and as he did so his eyesfell upon a part of the ornamental frame which composed the edge of thepanel, and which seemed to him to be of a different colour from thesurrounding portion.
Curiosity and increased interest prompted him at once to make a closerinquiry into the matter; and, by a careful and diligent scrutiny, he wasalmost induced to come to the positive opinion, that it no very distantperiod in time past, the portrait had been removed from the place itoccupied.
When once this idea, even vague and indistinct as it was, in consequenceof the slight grounds he formed it on, had got possession of his mind,he felt most anxious to prove its verification or its fallacy.
He held the candle in a variety of situations, so that its light fell indifferent ways on the picture; and the more he examined it, the more hefelt convinced that it must have been moved lately.
It would appear as if, in its removal, a piece of the old oaken carvedframework of the panel had been accidentally broken off, which causedthe new look of the fracture, and that this accident, from the nature ofthe broken bit of framing, could have occurred in any other way thanfrom an actual or attempted removal of the picture, he felt wasextremely unlikely.
He set down the candle on a chair near at hand, and tried if the panelwas fast in its place. Upon the very first touch, he felt convinced itwas not so, and that it easily moved. How to get it out, though,presented a difficulty, and to get it out was tempting.
"Who knows," he said to himself, "what may be behind it? This is an oldbaronial sort of hall, and the greater portion of it was, no doubt,built at a time when the construction of such places as hidden chambersand intricate staircases were, in all buildings of importance,considered a disiderata."
That he should make some discovery behind the portrait, now became anidea that possessed him strongly, although he certainly had no definitegrounds for really supposing that he should do so.
Perhaps the wish was more father to the thought than he, in the partialstate of excitement he was in, really imagined; but so it was. He feltconvinced that he should not be satisfied until he had removed thatpanel from the wall, and seen what was immediately behind it.
After the panel containing the picture had been placed where it was, itappeared that pieces of moulding had been inserted all around, which hadhad the effect of keeping it in its place, and it was a fracture of oneof these pieces which had first called Charles Holland's attention tothe probability of the picture having been removed. That he should haveto get two, at least, of the pieces of moulding away, before he couldhope to remove the picture, was to him quite apparent, and he wasconsidering how he should accomplish such a result, when he was suddenlystartled by a knock at his chamber door.
Until that sudden demand for admission at his door came, he scarcelyknew to what a nervous state he had worked himself up. It was an oddsort of tap--one only--a single tap, as if some one demanded admittance,and wished to awaken his attention with the least possible chance ofdisturbing any one else.
"Come in," said Charles, for he knew he had not fastened his door; "comein."
There was no reply, but after a moment's pause, the same sort of low tapcame again.
Again he cried "come in," but, whoever it was, seemed determined thatthe door should be opened for him, and no movement was made from theoutside. A third time the tap came, and Charles was very close to thedoor when he heard it, for with a noiseless step he had approached itintending to open it. The instant this third mysterious demand foradmission came, he did open it wide. There was no one there! In aninstant he crossed the
threshold into the corridor, which ran right andleft. A window at one end of it now sent in the moon's rays, so that itwas tolerably light, but he could see no one. Indeed, to look for anyone, he felt sure was needless, for he had opened his chamber-dooralmost simultaneously with the last knock for admission.
"It is strange," he said, as he lingered on the threshold of his roomdoor for some moments; "my imagination could not so completely deceiveme. There was most certainly a demand for admission."
Slowly, then, he returned to his room again, and closed the door behindhim.
"One thing is evident," he said, "that if I am in this apartment to besubjected to these annoyances, I shall get no rest, which will soonexhaust me."
This thought was a very provoking one, and the more he thought that heshould ultimately find a necessity for giving up that chamber he hadhimself asked as a special favour to be allowed to occupy, the morevexed he became to think what construction might be put upon his conductfor so doing.
"They will all fancy me a coward," he thought, "and that I dare notsleep here. They may not, of course, say so, but they will think that myappearing so bold was one of those acts of bravado which I have notcourage to carry fairly out."
Taking this view of the matter was just the way to enlist a young man'spride in staying, under all circumstances, where he was, and, with aslight accession of colour, which, even although he was alone, wouldvisit his cheeks, Charles Holland said aloud,--
"I will remain the occupant of this room come what may, happen what may.No terrors, real or unsubstantial, shall drive me from it: I will bravethem all, and remain here to brave them."
Tap came the knock at the door again, and now, with more an air ofvexation than fear, Charles turned again towards it, and listened. Tapin another minute again succeeded, and much annoyed, he walked close tothe door, and laid his hand upon the lock, ready to open it at theprecise moment of another demand for admission being made.
He had not to wait long. In about half a minute it came again, and,simultaneously with the sound, the door flew open. There was no one tobe seen; but, as he opened the door, he heard a strange sound in thecorridor--a sound which scarcely could be called a groan, and scarcely asigh, but seemed a compound of both, having the agony of the onecombined with the sadness of the other. From what direction it came hecould not at the moment decide, but he called out,--
"Who's there? who's there?"
The echo of his own voice alone answered him for a few moments, and thenhe heard a door open, and a voice, which he knew to be Henry's, cried,--
"What is it? who speaks?"
"Henry," said Charles.
"Yes--yes--yes."
"I fear I have disturbed you."
"You have been disturbed yourself, or you would not have done so. Ishall be with you in a moment."
Henry closed his door before Charles Holland could tell him not to cometo him, as he intended to do, for he felt ashamed to have, in a mannerof speaking, summoned assistance for so trifling a cause of alarm asthat to which he had been subjected. However, he could not go to Henry'schamber to forbid him from coming to his, and, more vexed than before,he retired to his room again to await his coming.
He left the door open now, so that Henry Bannerworth, when he had got onsome articles of dress, walked in at once, saying,--
"What has happened, Charles?"
"A mere trifle, Henry, concerning which I am ashamed you should havebeen at all disturbed."
"Never mind that, I was wakeful."
"I heard a door open, which kept me listening, but I could not decidewhich door it was till I heard your voice in the corridor."
"Well, it was this door; and I opened it twice in consequence of therepeated taps for admission that came to it; some one has been knockingat it, and, when I go to it, lo! I can see nobody."
"Indeed!"
"Such is the case."
"You surprise me."
"I am very sorry to have disturbed you, because, upon such a ground, Ido not feel that I ought to have done so; and, when I called out in thecorridor, I assure you it was with no such intention."
"Do not regret it for a moment," said Henry; "you were quite justifiedin making an alarm on such an occasion."
"It's strange enough, but still it may arise from some accidental cause;admitting, if we did but know it, of some ready enough explanation."
"It may, certainly, but, after what has happened already, we may wellsuppose a mysterious connexion between any unusual sight or sound, andthe fearful ones we have already seen."
"Certainly we may."
"How earnestly that strange portrait seems to look upon us, Charles."
"It does, and I have been examining it carefully. It seems to have beenremoved lately."
"Removed!"
"Yes, I think, as far as I can judge, that it has been taken from itsframe; I mean, that the panel on which it is painted has been takenout."
"Indeed!"
"If you touch it you will find it loose, and, upon a close examination,you will perceive that a piece of the moulding which holds it in itsplace has been chipped off, which is done in such a place that I thinkit could only have arisen during the removal of the picture."
"You must be mistaken."
"I cannot, of course, take upon myself, Henry, to say precisely such isthe case," said Charles.
"But there is no one here to do so."
"That I cannot say. Will you permit me and assist me to remove it? Ihave a great curiosity to know what is behind it."
"If you have, I certainly will do so. We thought of taking it awayaltogether, but when Flora left this room the idea was given up asuseless. Remain here a few moments, and I will endeavour to findsomething which shall assist us in its removal."
Henry left the mysterious chamber in order to search in his own for somemeans of removing the frame-work of the picture, so that the panel wouldslip easily out, and while he was gone, Charles Holland continued gazingupon it with greater interest, if possible, than before.
In a few minutes Henry returned, and although what he had succeeded infinding were very inefficient implements for the purpose, yet with thisaid the two young men set about the task.
It is said, and said truly enough, that "where there is a will there isa way," and although the young men had no tools at all adapted for thepurpose, they did succeed in removing the moulding from the sides of thepanel, and then by a little tapping at one end of it, and using a knifeat a lever at the other end of the panel, they got it fairly out.
Disappointment was all they got for their pains. On the other side therewas nothing but a rough wooden wall, against which the finer and morenicely finished oak panelling of the chamber rested.
"There is no mystery here," said Henry.
"None whatever," said Charles, as he tapped the wall with his knuckles,and found it all hard and sound. "We are foiled."
"We are indeed."
"I had a strange presentiment, now," added Charles, "that we should makesome discovery that would repay us for our trouble. It appears, however,that such is not to be the case; for you see nothing presents itself tous but the most ordinary appearances."
"I perceive as much; and the panel itself, although of more thanordinary thickness, is, after all, but a bit of planed oak, andapparently fashioned for no other object than to paint the portrait on."
"True. Shall we replace it?"
Charles reluctantly assented, and the picture was replaced in itsoriginal position. We say Charles reluctantly assented, because,although he had now had ocular demonstration that there was reallynothing behind the panel but the ordinary woodwork which might have beenexpected from the construction of the old house, yet he could not, evenwith such a fact staring him in the face, get rid entirely of thefeeling that had come across him, to the effect that the picture hadsome mystery or another.
"You are not yet satisfied," said Henry, as he observed the doubtfullook of Charles Holland's face.
"My dear friend," said Ch
arles, "I will not deceive you. I am muchdisappointed that we have made no discovery behind that picture."
"Heaven knows we have mysteries enough in our family," said Henry.
Even as he spoke they were both startled by a strange clattering noiseat the window, which was accompanied by a shrill, odd kind of shriek,which sounded fearful and preternatural on the night air.
"What is that?" said Charles.
"God only knows," said Henry.
The two young men naturally turned their earnest gaze in the directionof the window, which we have before remarked was one unprovided withshutters, and there, to their intense surprise, they saw, slowly risingup from the lower part of it, what appeared to be a human form. Henrywould have dashed forward, but Charles restrained him, and drawingquickly from its case a large holster pistol, he levelled it carefullyat the figure, saying in a whisper,--
"Henry, if I don't hit it, I will consent to forfeit my head."
He pulled the trigger--a loud report followed--the room was filled withsmoke, and then all was still. A circumstance, however, had occurred, asa consequence of the concussion of air produced by the discharge of thepistol, which neither of the young men had for the moment calculatedupon, and that was the putting out of the only light they there had.
In spite of this circumstance, Charles, the moment he had discharged thepistol, dropped it and sprung forward to the window. But here he wasperplexed, for he could not find the old fashioned, intricate fasteningwhich held it shut, and he had to call to Henry,--
"Henry! For God's sake open the window for me, Henry! The fastening ofthe window is known to you, but not to me. Open it for me."
Thus called upon, Henry sprung forward, and by this time the report ofthe pistol had effectually alarmed the whole household. The flashing oflights from the corridor came into the room, and in another minute, justas Henry succeeded in getting the window wide open, and Charles Hollandhad made his way on to the balcony, both George Bannerworth and Mr.Marchdale entered the chamber, eager to know what had occurred. To theireager questions Henry replied,--
"Ask me not now;" and then calling to Charles, he said,--"Remain whereyou are, Charles, while I run down to the garden immediately beneath thebalcony."
"Yes--yes," said Charles.
Henry made prodigious haste, and was in the garden immediately below thebay window in a wonderfully short space of time. He spoke to Charles,saying,--
"Will you now descend? I can see nothing here; but we will both make asearch."
George and Mr. Marchdale were both now in the balcony, and they wouldhave descended likewise, but Henry said,--
"Do not all leave the house. God only knows, now, situated as we are,what might happen."
"I will remain, then," said George. "I have been sitting up to-night asthe guard, and, therefore, may as well continue to do so."
Marchdale and Charles Holland clambered over the balcony, and easily,from its insignificant height, dropped into the garden. The night wasbeautiful, and profoundly still. There was not a breath of airsufficient to stir a leaf on a tree, and the very flame of the candlewhich Charles had left burning in the balcony burnt clearly andsteadily, being perfectly unruffled by any wind.
It cast a sufficient light close to the window to make everything veryplainly visible, and it was evident at a glance that no object wasthere, although had that figure, which Charles shot at, and no doubthit, been flesh and blood, it must have dropped immediately below.
As they looked up for a moment after a cursory examination of theground, Charles exclaimed,--
"Look at the window! As the light is now situated, you can see the holemade in one of the panes of glass by the passage of the bullet from mypistol."
They did look, and there the clear, round hole, without any starring,which a bullet discharged close to a pane of glass will make in it, wasclearly and plainly discernible.
"You must have hit him," said Henry.
"One would think so," said Charles; "for that was the exact place wherethe figure was."
"And there is nothing here," added Marchdale. "What can we think ofthese events--what resource has the mind against the most dreadfulsuppositions concerning them?"
Charles and Henry were both silent; in truth, they knew not what tothink, and the words uttered by Marchdale were too strikingly true todispute for a moment. They were lost in wonder.
"Human means against such an appearance as we saw to-night," saidCharles, "are evidently useless."
"My dear young friend," said Marchdale, with much emotion, as he graspedHenry Bannerworth's hand, and the tears stood in his eyes as he didso,--"my dear young friend, these constant alarms will kill you. Theywill drive you, and all whose happiness you hold dear, distracted. Youmust control these dreadful feelings, and there is but one chance that Ican see of getting now the better of these."
"What is that?"
"By leaving this place for ever."
"Alas! am I to be driven from the home of my ancestors from such a causeas this? And whither am I to fly? Where are we to find a refuge? Toleave here will be at once to break up the establishment which is nowheld together, certainly upon the sufferance of creditors, but still totheir advantage, inasmuch as I am doing what no one else would do,namely, paying away to within the scantiest pittance the whole proceedsof the estate that spreads around me."
"Heed nothing but an escape from such horrors as seem to be accumulatingnow around you."
"If I were sure that such a removal would bring with it such acorresponding advantage, I might, indeed, be induced to risk all toaccomplish it."
"As regards poor dear Flora," said Mr. Marchdale, "I know not what tosay, or what to think; she has been attacked by a vampyre, and afterthis mortal life shall have ended, it is dreadful to think there may bea possibility that she, with all her beauty, all her excellence andpurity of mind, and all those virtues and qualities which should makeher the beloved of all, and which do, indeed, attach all hearts towardsher, should become one of that dreadful tribe of beings who cling toexistence by feeding, in the most dreadful manner, upon the life bloodof others--oh, it is too dreadful to contemplate! Too horrible--toohorrible!"
"Then wherefore speak of it?" said Charles, with some asperity. "Now, bythe great God of Heaven, who sees all our hearts, I will not give in tosuch a horrible doctrine! I will not believe it; and were death itselfmy portion for my want of faith, I would this moment die in my disbeliefof anything so truly fearful!"
"Oh, my young friend," added Marchdale, "if anything could add to thepangs which all who love, and admire, and respect Flora Bannerworth mustfeel at the unhappy condition in which she is placed, it would be thenoble nature of you, who, under happier auspices, would have been herguide through life, and the happy partner of her destiny."
"As I will be still."
"May Heaven forbid it! We are now among ourselves, and can talk freelyupon such a subject. Mr. Charles Holland, if you wed, you would lookforward to being blessed with children--those sweet ties which bind thesternest hearts to life with so exquisite a bondage. Oh, fancy, then,for a moment, the mother of your babes coming at the still hour ofmidnight to drain from their veins the very life blood she gave to them.To drive you and them mad with the expected horror of suchvisitations--to make your nights hideous--your days but so many hours ofmelancholy retrospection. Oh, you know not the world of terror, on theawful brink of which you stand, when you talk of making FloraBannerworth a wife."
"Peace! oh, peace!" said Henry.
"Nay, I know my words are unwelcome," continued Mr. Marchdale. "Ithappens, unfortunately for human nature, that truth and some of our bestand holiest feelings are too often at variance, and hold a sadcontest--"
"I will hear no more of this," cried Charles Holland.--"I will hear nomore."
"I have done," said Mr. Marchdale.
"And 'twere well you had not begun."
"Nay, say not so. I have but done what I considered was a solemn duty."
"Under that assum
ption of doing duty--a solemn duty--heedless of thefeelings and the opinions of others," said Charles, sarcastically, "moremischief is produced--more heart-burnings and anxieties caused, than byany other two causes of such mischievous results combined. I wish tohear no more of this."
"Do not be angered with Mr. Marchdale, Charles," said Henry. "He canhave no motive but our welfare in what he says. We should not condemn aspeaker because his words may not sound pleasant to our ears."
"By Heaven!" said Charles, with animation, "I meant not to be illiberal;but I will not because I cannot see a man's motives for activeinterference in the affairs of others, always be ready, merely onaccount of such ignorance, to jump to a conclusion that they must beestimable."
"To-morrow, I leave this house," said Marchdale.
"Leave us?" exclaimed Henry.
"Ay, for ever."
"Nay, now, Mr. Marchdale, is this generous?"
"Am I treated generously by one who is your own guest, and towards whomI was willing to hold out the honest right hand of friendship?"
Henry turned to Charles Holland, saying,--
"Charles, I know your generous nature. Say you meant no offence to mymother's old friend."
"If to say I meant no offence," said Charles, "is to say I meant noinsult, I say it freely."
"Enough," cried Marchdale; "I am satisfied."
"But do not," added Charles, "draw me any more such pictures as the oneyou have already presented to my imagination, I beg of you. From thestorehouse of my own fancy I can find quite enough to make me wretched,if I choose to be so; but again and again do I say I will not allow thismonstrous superstition to tread me down, like the tread of a giant on abroken reed. I will contend against it while I have life to do so."
"Bravely spoken."
"And when I desert Flora Bannerworth, may Heaven, from that moment,desert me!"
"Charles!" cried Henry, with emotion, "dear Charles, my more thanfriend--brother of my heart--noble Charles!"
"Nay, Henry, I am not entitled to your praises. I were base indeed to beother than that which I purpose to be. Come weal or woe--come what may,I am the affianced husband of your sister, and she, and she only, canbreak asunder the tie that binds me to her."
Varney the Vampire; Or, the Feast of Blood Page 14
