Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
"The
devil!"
"It
is a fact, sir."
"Whew!"
whistled Jack; "she might bite us all, and we should be a whole ship's
crew o'
wamphighers
. There
would be a confounded go!"
"It's
not pleasant," said the admiral, as he rose from his chair, and paced to
and fro in the room, "it's not pleasant. Hang me up at my own yard-arm if
it is."
"Who
said it was?" cried Jack.
"Who
asked you, you brute?"
"Well,
sir," added Mr. Crinkles, "I have given you all the information I
can; and I can only repeat what I before had the honour of saying more at
large, namely, that I am your humble servant to command, and that I shall be
happy to attend upon you at any time."
"Thank
ye—thank ye, Mr.—a—a—"
"Crinkles."
"Ah,
Crinkles. You shall hear from me again, sir, shortly. Now that I am down here,
I will see to the very bottom of this affair, were it deeper than fathom ever
sounded. Charles Holland was my poor sister's son; he's the only relative I
have in the wide world, and his happiness is dearer to my heart than my
own."
Crinkles
turned aside, and, by the twinkle of his eyes, one might premise that the
honest little lawyer was much affected.
"God
bless you, sir," he said; "farewell."
"Good
day to you."
"Good-bye,
lawyer," cried Jack. "Mind how you go. D—n me, if you don't seem a
decent sort of fellow, and, after all, you may give the devil a clear berth,
and get into heaven's straits with a flowing sheet, provided as you don't,
towards the end of the voyage, make any lubberly blunders."
The
old admiral threw himself into a chair with a deep sigh.
"Jack,"
said he.
"Aye,
aye, sir."
"What's
to be done now?"
Jack
opened the window to discharge the superfluous moisture from an enormous quid
he had indulged himself with while the lawyer was telling about the vampyre,
and then again turning his face towards his master, he said,—
"Do!
What shall we do? Why, go at once and find out Charles, our
nevy
, and ask him all about it,
and see the young lady, too, and lay hold o' the
wamphigher
if we can, as well,
and go at the whole affair broadside to broadside, till we make a prize of all
the particulars, after which we can turn it over in our minds agin, and see
what's to be done."
"Jack,
you are right. Come along."
"I
knows I am. Do you know now which way to steer?"
"Of
course not. I never was in this latitude before, and the channel looks
intricate. We will hail a pilot, Jack, and then we shall be all right, and if
we strike it will be his fault."
"Which
is a mighty great consolation," said Jack. "Come along."
THE MEETING OF THE LOVERS IN THE GARDEN.—AN AFFECTING
SCENE.—THE SUDDEN APPEARANCE OF SIR FRANCIS VARNEY.
Our
readers will recollect that Flora Bannerworth had made an appointment with
Charles Holland in the garden of the hall. This meeting was looked forward to
by the young man with a variety of conflicting feelings, and he passed the
intermediate time in a most painful state of doubt as to what would be its
result.
The
thought that he should be much urged by Flora to give up all thoughts of making
her his, was a most bitter one to him, who loved her with so much truth and
constancy, and that she would say all she could to induce such a resolution in
his mind he felt certain. But to him the idea of now abandoning her presented
itself in the worst of aspects.
"Shall
I," he said, "sink so low in my own estimation, as well as in hers,
and in that of all honourable-minded persons, as to desert her now in the hour
of affliction? Dare I be so base as actually or virtually to say to her,
'Flora, when your beauty was undimmed by sorrow—when all around you seemed life
and joy, I loved you selfishly for the increased happiness which you might
bestow upon me; but now the hand of misfortune presses heavily upon you—you are
not what you were, and I desert you? Never—never—never!"
Charles
Holland, it will be seen by some of our more philosophic neighbours, felt more
acutely than he reasoned; but let his errors of argumentation be what they may,
can we do other than admire the nobility of soul which dictated such a self
denying generous course as that he was pursuing?
As
for Flora, Heaven only knows if at that precise time her intellect had
completely stood the test of the trying events which had nearly overwhelmed it.
The
two grand feelings that seemed to possess her mind were fear of the renewed
visit of the vampyre, and an earnest desire to release Charles Holland from his
repeated vows of constancy towards her.
Feeling,
generosity, and judgment, all revolted holding a young man to such a destiny as
hers. To link him to her fate, would be to make him to a real extent a sharer
in it, and the more she heard fall from his lips in the way of generous
feelings of continued attachment to her, the more severely did she feel that he
would suffer most acutely if united to her.
And
she was right. The very generosity of feeling which would have now prompted
Charles Holland to lead Flora Bannerworth to the altar, even with the marks of
the vampyre's teeth upon her throat, gave an assurance of a depth of feeling
which would have made him an ample haven in all her miseries, in all her
distresses and afflictions.
What
was familiarly in the family at the Hall called the garden, was a semicircular
piece of ground shaded in several directions by trees, and which was
exclusively devoted to the growth of flowers. The piece of ground was nearly
hidden from the view of the house, and in its centre was a summer-house, which
at the usual season of the year was covered with all kinds of creeping plants
of exquisite perfumes, and rare beauty. All around, too, bloomed the fairest
and sweetest of flowers, which a rich soil and a sheltered situation could
produce.
Alas!
though, of late many weeds had straggled up among their more estimable floral
culture, for the decayed fortunes of the family had prevented them from keeping
the necessary servants, to place the Hall and its grounds in a state of
neatness, such as it had once been the pride of the inhabitants of the place to
see them. It was then in this flower-garden that Charles and Flora used to
meet.
As
may be supposed, he was on the spot before the appointed hour, anxiously
expecting the appearance of her who was so really and truly dear to him. What
to him were the sweet flowers that there grew in such happy luxuriance and
heedless beauty? Alas, the flower that to his mind was fairer than them all,
was blighted, and in the wan cheek of her whom he loved, he sighed to see the
lily usurping the place of the radiant rose.
"Dear,
dear Flora," he ejaculated, "you must indeed be taken from this
place, which is so full of the most painful remembrance; now, I cannot think
that Mr. Marchdale somehow is a friend to me, but that conviction, or rather
impression, does not paralyze my judgment sufficiently to induce me not to
acknowledge that his advice is good. He might have couched it in pleasanter
words—words that would not, like daggers, each have brought a deadly pang home
to my heart, but still I do think that in his conclusion he was right."
A
light sound, as of some fairy footstep among the flowers, came upon his ears,
and turning instantly to the direction from whence the sound proceeded, he saw
what his heart had previously assured him of, namely, that it was his Flora who
was coming.
Yes,
it was she; but, ah, how pale, how wan—how languid and full of the evidences of
much mental suffering was she. Where now was the elasticity of that youthful
step? Where now was that lustrous beaming beauty of mirthfulness, which was
wont to dawn in those eyes?
Alas,
all was changed. The exquisite beauty of form was there, but the light of joy
which had lent its most transcendent charms to that heavenly face, was gone.
Charles was by her side in a moment. He had her hand clasped in his, while his
disengaged one was wound tenderly around her taper waist.
"Flora,
dear, dear Flora," he said, "you are better. Tell me that you feel
the gentle air revives you?"
She
could not speak. Her heart was too full of woe.
"Oh;
Flora, my own, my beautiful," he added, in those tones which come so
direct from the heart, and which are so different from any assumption of
tenderness. "Speak to me, dear, dear Flora—speak to me if it be but a
word."
"Charles,"
was all she could say, and then she burst into a flood of tears, and leant so
heavily upon his arm, that it was evident but for that support she must have
fallen.
Charles
Holland welcomed those, although, they grieved him so much that he could have
accompanied them with his own, but then he knew that she would be soon now more
composed, and that they would relieve the heart whose sorrows called them into
existence.
He
forbore to speak to her until he found this sudden gush of feeling was
subsiding into sobs, and then in low, soft accents, he again endeavoured to
breathe comfort to her afflicted and terrified spirit.
"My
Flora," he said, "remember that there are warm hearts that love you.
Remember that neither time nor circumstance can change such endearing affection
as mine. Ah, Flora, what evil is there in the whole world that love may not
conquer, and in the height of its noble feelings laugh to scorn."
"Oh,
hush, hush, Charles, hush."
"Wherefore,
Flora, would you still the voice of pure affection? I love you surely, as few
have ever loved. Ah, why would you forbid me to give such utterance as I may to
those feelings which fill up my whole heart?"
"No—no—no."
"Flora,
Flora, wherefore do you say no?"
"Do
not, Charles, now speak to me of affection or love. Do not tell me you love me
now."
"Not
tell you I love you! Ah, Flora, if my tongue, with its poor eloquence to give
utterance to such a sentiment, were to do its office, each feature of my face
would tell the tale. Each action would show to all the world how much I loved
you."
"I
must not now hear this. Great God of Heaven give me strength to carry out the
purpose of my soul."
"What
purpose is it, Flora, that you have to pray thus fervently for strength to
execute? Oh, if it savour aught of treason against love's majesty, forget it.
Love is a gift from Heaven. The greatest and the most glorious gift it ever
bestowed upon its creatures. Heaven will not aid you in repudiating that which
is the one grand redeeming feature that rescues human nature from a world of
reproach."
Flora
wrung her hands despairingly as she said,—
"Charles,
I know I cannot reason with you. I know I have not power of language, aptitude
of illustration, nor depth of thought to hold a mental contention with
you."
"Flora,
for what do I contend?"
"You,
you speak of love."
"And
I have, ere this, spoken to you of love unchecked."
"Yes,
yes. Before this."
"And
now, wherefore not now? Do not tell me you are changed."
"I
am changed, Charles. Fearfully changed. The curse of God has fallen upon me, I
know not why. I know not that in word or in thought I have done evil, except
perchance unwittingly, and yet—the vampyre."
"Let
not that affright you."
"Affright
me! It has killed me."
"Nay,
Flora,—you think too much of what I still hope to be susceptible of far more
rational explanation."
"By
your own words, then, Charles, I must convict you. I cannot, I dare not be
yours, while such a dreadful circumstance is hanging over me, Charles; if a
more rational explanation than the hideous one which my own fancy gives to the
form that visits me can be found, find it, and rescue me from despair and from
madness."
They
had now reached the summer-house, and as Flora uttered these words she threw
herself on to a seat, and covering her beautiful face with her hands, she
sobbed convulsively.
"You
have spoken," said Charles, dejectedly. "I have heard that which you
wished to say to me."
"No,
no. Not all, Charles."
"I
will be patient, then, although what more you may have to add should tear my
very heart-strings."
"I—I
have to add, Charles," she said, in a tremulous voice, "that justice,
religion, mercy—every human attribute which bears the name of virtue, calls
loudly upon me no longer to hold you to vows made under different
auspices."
"Go
on, Flora."
"I
then implore you, Charles, finding me what I am, to leave me to the fate which
it has pleased Heaven to cast upon me. I do not ask you, Charles, not to love
me."
"'Tis
well. Go on, Flora."
"Because
I should like to think that, although I might never see you more, you loved me
still. But you must think seldom of me, and you must endeavour to be happy with
some other—"
"You
cannot, Flora, pursue the picture you yourself would draw. These words come not
from your heart."
"Yes—yes—yes."
"Did
you ever love me?"
"Charles,
Charles, why will you add another pang to those you know must already rend my
heart?"
"No,
Flora, I would tear my own heart from my bosom ere I would add one pang to
yours. Well I know that gentle maiden modesty would seal your lips to the soft
confession that you loved me. I could not hope the joy of hearing you utter
these words. The tender devoted lover is content to see the truthful passion in
the speaking eyes of beauty. Content is he to translate it from a thousand
acts, which, to eyes that look not so acutely as a lover's, bear no
signification; but when you tell me to seek happiness with another, well may
the anxious question burst from my throbbing heart of, 'Did you ever love me,
Flora?'"
Her
senses hung entranced upon his words. Oh, what a witchery is in the tongue of
love. Some even of the former colour of her cheek returned as forgetting all
for the moment but that she was listening to the voice of him, the thoughts of
whom had made up the day dream of her happiness, she gazed upon his face.
His
voice ceased. To her it seemed as if some music had suddenly left off in its
most exquisite passage. She clung to his arm—she looked imploringly up to him.
Her head sunk upon his breast as she cried,
"Charles,
Charles, I did love you. I do love you now."
"Then
let sorrow and misfortune shake their grisly locks in vain," he cried.
"Heart to heart—hand to hand with me, defy them."
He
lifted up his arms towards Heaven as he spoke, and at the moment came such a
rattling peal of thunder, that the very earth seemed to shake upon its axis.
A
half scream of terror burst from the lips of Flora, as she cried,—
"What
was that?"
"Only
thunder," said Charles, calmly.
"'Twas
an awful sound."
"A
natural one."
"But
at such a moment, when you were defying Fate to injure us. Oh! Charles, is it
ominous?"
"Flora,
can you really give way to such idle fancies?"
"The
sun is obscured."
"Ay,
but it will shine all the brighter for its temporary eclipse. The thunder-storm
will clear the air of many noxious vapours; the forked lightning has its uses
as well as its powers of mischief. Hark! there again!"
Another
peal, of almost equal intensity to the other, shook the firmament. Flora
trembled.
"Charles,"
she said, "this is the voice of Heaven. We must part—we must part for
ever. I cannot be yours."