Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
"How?"
"Thus,
brother. It is said—and well may I who have been subject to an attack of such a
nature, tremble to repeat the saying—that those who have been once subject to
the visitations of a vampyre, are themselves in a way to become one of the
dreadful and maddening fraternity."
"I
have heard so much, sister," replied Henry.
"Yes;
and therefore who knows but that Sir Francis Varney may, at one time, have been
as innocent as we are ourselves of the terrible and fiendish propensity which
now makes him a terror and a reproach to all who know him, or are in any way
obnoxious to his attacks."
"That
is true."
"There
may have been a time—who shall say there was not?—when he, like me, would have
shrunk, with a dread as great as any one could have experienced, from the
contamination of the touch even of a vampyre."
"I
cannot, sister, deny the soundness of your reasoning," said Henry, with a
sigh; "but I still no not see anything, even from a full conviction that
Varney is unfortunate, which should induce us to tolerate him."
"Nay,
brother, I said not tolerate. What I mean is, that even with the horror and
dread we must naturally feel at such a being, we may afford to mingle some
amount of pity, which shall make us rather seek to shun him, than to cross his
path with a resolution of doing him an injury."
"I
perceive well, sister, what you mean. Rather than remain here, and make an
attempt to defy Sir Francis Varney, you would fly from him, and leave him
undisputed master of the field."
"I
would—I would."
"Heaven
forbid that I or any one should thwart you. You know well, Flora, how dear you
are to me; you know well that your happiness has ever been to us all a matter
which has assumed the most important of shapes, as regarded our general
domestic policy. It is not, therefore, likely now, dear sister, that we should
thwart you in your wish to remove from here."
"I
know, Henry, all you would say," remarked Flora, as a tear started to her
eyes. "I know well all you think, and, in your love for me, I likewise
know well I rely for ever. You are attached to this place, as, indeed, we all
are, by a thousand happy and pleasant associations; but listen to me further,
Henry, I do not wish to wander far."
"Not
far, Flora?"
"No.
Do I not still cling to a hope that Charles may yet appear? and if he do so, it
will assuredly be in this neighbourhood, which he knows is native and most dear
to us all."
"True."
"Then
do I wish to make some sort of parade, in the way of publicity, of our leaving
the Hall."
"Yes,
yes."
"And
yet not go far. In the neighbouring town, for example, surely we might find
some means of living entirely free from remark or observation as to who or what
we were."
"That,
sister, I doubt. If you seek for that species of solitude which you
contemplate, it is only to be found in a desert."
"A
desert?"
"Yes;
or in a large city."
"Indeed!"
"Ay,
Flora; you may well believe me, that it is so. In a small community you can
have no possible chance of evading an amount of scrutiny which would very soon
pierce through any disguise you could by any possibility assume."
"Then
there is no resource. We must go far."
"Nay,
I will consider for you, Flora; and although, as a general principle, what I
have said I know to be true, yet some more special circumstance may arise that
may point a course that, while it enables us, for Charles Holland's sake, to
remain in this immediate neighbourhood, yet will procure to us all the secrecy
we may desire."
"Dear—dear
brother," said Flora, as she flung herself upon Henry's neck, "you
speak cheeringly to me, and, what is more, you believe in Charles's
faithfulness and truth."
"As
Heaven is my judge, I do."
"A
thousand, thousand thanks for such an assurance. I know him too well to doubt,
for one moment, his faith. Oh, brother! could he—could Charles Holland, the
soul of honour, the abode of every noble impulse that can adorn humanity—could
he have written those letters? No, no! perish the thought!"
"It
has perished."
"Thank
God!"
"I
only, upon reflection, wonder how, misled for the moment by the concurrence of
a number of circumstances, I could ever have suspected him."
"It
is like your generous nature, brother to say so; but you know as well as I,
that there has been one here who has, far from feeling any sort of anxiety to
think as well as possible of poor Charles Holland, has done all that in him lay
to take the worst view of his mysterious disappearance, and induce us to do the
like."
"You
allude to Mr. Marchdale?"
"I
do."
"Well,
Flora, at the same time that I must admit you have cause for speaking of Mr.
Marchdale as you do, yet when we come to consider all things, there may be
found for him excuses."
"May
there?"
"Yes,
Flora; he is a man, as he himself says, past the meridian of life, and the
world is a sad as well as a bad teacher, for it soon—too soon, alas! deprives
us of our trusting confidence in human nature."
"It
may be so; but yet, he, knowing as he did so very little of Charles Holland,
judged him hastily and harshly."
"You
rather ought to say, Flora, that he did not judge him generously."
"Well,
be it so."
"And
you must recollect, when you say so, that Marchdale did not love Charles
Holland."
"Nay,
now," said Flora, while there flashed across her cheek, for a moment, a
heightened colour, "you are commencing to jest with me, and, therefore, we
will say no more. You know, dear Henry, all my hopes, my wishes, and my
feelings, and I shall therefore leave my future destiny in your hands, to
dispose of as you please. Look yonder!"
"Where?"
"There.
Do you not see the admiral and Mr. Chillingworth walking among the trees?"
"Yes,
yes; I do now."
"How
very serious and intent they are upon the subject of their discourse. They seem
quite lost to all surrounding objects. I could not have imagined any subject
that would so completely have absorbed the attention of Admiral Bell."
"Mr.
Chillingworth had something to relate to him or to propose, of a nature which,
perchance, has had the effect of enchaining all his attention—he called him
from the room."
"Yes;
I saw that he did. But see, they come towards us, and now we shall, probably,
hear what is the subject-matter of their discourse and consultation."
"We
shall."
Admiral
Bell had evidently seen Henry and his sister, for now, suddenly, as if not from
having for the first moment observed them, and, in consequence, broken off
their private discourse, but as if they arrived at some point in it which
enabled them to come to a conclusion to be communicative, the admiral came
towards the brother and sister.
"Well,"
said the bluff old admiral, when they were sufficiently near to exchange words,
"well, Miss Flora, you are looking a thousand times better than you
were."
"I
thank you, admiral, I am much better."
"Oh,
to be sure you are; and you will be much better still, and no sort of mistake.
Now, here's the doctor and I have both been agreeing upon what is best for you."
"Indeed!"
"Yes,
to be sure. Have we not, doctor?"
"We
have, admiral."
"Good;
and what, now, Miss Flora, do you suppose it is?"
"I
really cannot say."
"Why,
it's change of air, to be sure. You must get away from here as quickly as you
can, or there will be no peace for you."
"Yes,"
added Mr. Chillingworth, advancing; "I am quite convinced that change of
scene and change of place, and habits, and people, will tend more to your
complete recovery than any other circumstances. In the most ordinary cases of
indisposition we always find that the invalid recovers much sooner away from
the scene of his indisposition, than by remaining in it, even though its
general salubrity be much greater than the place to which he may be
removed."
"Good,"
said the admiral.
"Then
we are to understand," said Henry, with a smile, "that we are no
longer to be your guests, Admiral Bell?"
"Belay
there!" cried the admiral; "who told you to understand any such
thing, I should like to know?"
"Well,
but we shall look upon this house as yours, now; and, that being the case, if
we remove from it, of course we cease to be your guests any longer."
"That's
all you know about it. Now, hark ye. You don't command the fleet, so don't
pretend to know what the admiral is going to do. I have made money by knocking
about some of the enemies of old England, and that's the most gratifying manner
in the world of making money, so far as I am concerned."
"It
is an honourable mode."
"Of
course it is. Well, I am going to—what the deuce do you call it?"
"What?"
"That's
just what I want to know. Oh, I have it now. I am going to what the lawyers
call invest it."
"A
prudent step, admiral, and one which it is to be hoped, before now, has
occurred to you."
"Perhaps
it has and perhaps it hasn't; however, that's my business, and no one's else's.
I am going to invest my spare cash in taking houses; so, as I don't care a
straw where the houses may be situated, you can look out for one somewhere that
will suit you, and I'll take it; so, after all, you will be my guests there
just the same as you are here."
"Admiral,"
said Henry, "it would be imposing upon a generosity as rare as it is
noble, were we to allow you to do so much for us as you contemplate."
"Very
good."
"We
cannot—we dare not."
"But
I say you shall. So you have had your say, and I've had mine, after which, if
you please, Master Henry Bannerworth, I shall take upon myself to consider the
affair as altogether settled. You can commence operations as soon as you like.
I know that Miss Flora, here—bless her sweet eyes—don't want to stay at
Bannerworth Hall any longer than she can help it."
"Indeed
I was urging upon Henry to remove," said Flora; "but yet I cannot
help feeling with him, admiral, that we are imposing upon your goodness."
"Go
on imposing, then."
"But—"
"Psha!
Can't a man be imposed upon if he likes? D—n it, that's a poor privilege for an
Englishman to be forced to make a row about. I tell you I like it. I will be
imposed upon, so there's an end of that; and now let's come in and see what
Mrs. Bannerworth has got ready for luncheon."
It
can hardly be supposed that such a popular ferment as had been created in the
country town, by the singular reports concerning Varney the Vampyre, should
readily, and without abundant satisfaction, subside.
An
idea like that which had lent so powerful an impulse to the popular mind, was
one far easier to set going than to deprecate or extinguish. The very
circumstances which had occurred to foil the excited mob in their pursuit of
Sir Francis Varney, were of a nature to increase the popular superstition
concerning him, and to make him and his acts appear in still more dreadful
colours.
Mobs
do not reason very closely and clearly; but the very fact of the frantic flight
of Sir Francis Varney from the projected attack of the infuriated multitude,
was seized hold of as proof positive of the reality of his vampyre-like
existence.
Then,
again, had he not disappeared in the most mysterious manner? Had he not sought
refuge where no human being would think of seeking refuge, namely, in that old,
dilapidated ruin, where, when his pursuers were so close upon his track, he had
succeeded in eluding their grasp with a facility which looked as if he had
vanished into thin air, or as if the very earth had opened to receive him
bodily within its cold embraces?
It is
not to be wondered at, that the few who fled so precipitately from the ruin,
lost nothing of the wonderful story they had to tell, in the carrying it from
that place to the town. When they reached their neighbours, they not only told
what had really occurred, but they added to it all their own surmises, and the
fanciful creation of all their own fears, so that before mid-day, and about the
time when Henry Bannerworth was conversing so quietly in the gardens of the
Hall with his beautiful sister, there was an amount of popular ferment in the
town, of which they had no conception.
All
business was suspended, and many persons, now that once the idea had been
started concerning the possibility that a vampyre might have been visiting some
of the houses in the place, told how, in the dead of the night, they had heard
strange noises. How children had shrieked from no apparent cause—doors opened
and shut without human agency; and windows rattled that never had been known to
rattle before.