Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
"I
did. At some moments, and viewing his face in some particular lights, it showed
much more strongly than at others. My impression was that he could, when he
liked, look much more like the portrait on the panel than when he allowed his
face to assume its ordinary appearance."
"Probably
such an impression would be produced upon your mind," said Charles,
"by some accidental expression of the countenance which even he was not
aware of, and which often occurs in families."
"It
may be so."
"Of
course you did not hint, sir, at what has passed here with regard to him?"
said Henry.
"I
did not. Being, you see, called in professionally, I had no right to take
advantage of that circumstance to make any remarks to him about his private
affairs."
"Certainly
not."
"It
was all one to me whether he was a vampyre or not, professionally, and however
deeply I might feel, personally, interested in the matter, I said nothing to
him about it, because, you see, if I had, he would have had a fair opportunity
of saying at once, 'Pray, sir, what is that to you?' and I should have been at
a loss what to reply."
"Can
we doubt," said Henry, "but that this very wound has been inflicted
upon Sir Francis Varney, by the pistol-bullet which was discharged at him by
Flora?"
"Everything
leads to such an assumption certainly," said Charles Holland.
"And
yet you cannot even deduce from that the absolute fact of Sir Francis Varney
being a vampyre?"
"I
do not think, Mr. Chillingworth," said Marchdale, "anything would
convince you but a visit from him, and an actual attempt to fasten upon some of
your own veins."
"That
would not convince me," said Chillingworth.
"Then
you will not be convinced?"
"I
certainly will not. I mean to hold out to the last. I said at the first, and I
say so still, that I never will give way to this most outrageous superstition."
"I
wish I could think with you," said Marchdale, with a shudder; "but
there may be something in the very atmosphere of this house which has been
rendered hideous by the awful visits that have been made to it, which forbids
me to disbelieve in those things which others more happily situated can hold at
arm's length, and utterly repudiate."
"There
may be," said Henry; "but as to that, I think, after the very
strongly expressed wish of Flora, I will decide upon leaving the house."
"Will
you sell it or let it?"
"The
latter I should much prefer," was the reply.
"But
who will take it now, except Sir Francis Varney? Why not at once let him have
it? I am well aware that this does sound odd advice, but remember, we are all
the creatures of circumstances, and that, in some cases where we least like it,
we must swim with the stream."
"That
you will not decide upon, however, at present," said Charles Holland, as
he rose.
"Certainly
not; a few days can make no difference."
"None
for the worse, certainly, and possibly much for the better."
"Be
it so; we will wait."
"Uncle,"
said Charles, "will you spare me half an hour of your company?"
"An
hour, my boy, if you want it," said the admiral, rising from his chair.
"Then
this consultation is over," said Henry, "and we quite understand that
to leave the Hall is a matter determined on, and that in a few days a decision
shall be come to as to whether Varney the Vampyre shall be its tenant or
not."
THE ADMIRAL'S ADVICE TO CHARLES HOLLAND.—THE CHALLENGE TO THE
VAMPYRE.
When
Charles Holland got his uncle into a room by themselves, he said,—
"Uncle,
you are a seaman, and accustomed to decide upon matters of honour. I look upon
myself as having been most grievously insulted by this Sir Francis Varney. All
accounts agree in representing him as a gentleman. He goes openly by a title,
which, if it were not his, could easily be contradicted; therefore, on the
score of position in life, there is no fault to find with him. What would you
do if you were insulted by a gentleman?"
The
old admiral's eyes sparkled, and he looked comically in the face of Charles, as
he said,—
"I
know now where you are steering."
"What
would you do, uncle?"
"Fight
him!"
"I
knew you would say so, and that's just what I want to do as regards Sir Francis
Varney."
"Well,
my boy, I don't know that you can do better. He must be a thundering rascal,
whether he is a vampyre or not; so if you feel that he has insulted you, fight
him by all means, Charles."
"I
am much pleased, uncle, to find that you take my view of the subject,"
said Charles. "I knew that if I mentioned such a thing to the
Bannerworths, they would endeavour all in their power to pursuade me against
it."
"Yes,
no doubt; because they are all impressed with a strange fear of this fellow's
vampyre powers. Besides, if a man is going to fight, the fewer people he
mentions it to most decidedly the better, Charles."
"I
believe that is the fact, uncle. Should I overcome Varney, there will most
likely be at once an end to the numerous and uncomfortable perplexities of the
Bannerworths as regards him; and if he overcome me, why, then, at all events, I
shall have made an effort to rescue Flora from the dread of this man."
"And
then he shall fight me," added the admiral, "so he shall have two
chances, at all events, Charles."
"Nay,
uncle, that would, you know, scarcely be fair. Besides, if I should fall, I
solemnly bequeath Flora Bannerworth to your good offices. I much fear that the
pecuniary affairs of poor Henry,—from no fault of his, Heaven knows,—are in a
very bad state, and that Flora may yet live to want some kind and able
friend."
"Never
fear, Charles. The young creature shall never want while the old admiral has
got a shot in the locker."
"Thank
you, uncle, thank you. I have ample cause to know, and to be able to rely upon
your kind and generous nature. And now about the challenge?"
"You
write it, boy, and I'll take it."
"Will
you second me, uncle?"
"To
be sure I will. I wouldn't trust anybody else to do so on any account. You
leave all the arrangements with me, and I'll second you as you ought to be
seconded."
"Then
I will write it at once, for I have received injuries at the hands of that man,
or devil, be he what he may, that I cannot put up with. His visit to the
chamber of her whom I love would alone constitute ample ground of action."
"I
should say it rather would, my boy."
"And
after this corroborative story of the wound, I cannot for a moment doubt that
Sir Francis Varney is the vampyre, or the personifier of the vampyre."
"That's
clear enough, Charles. Come, just you write your challenge, my boy, at once,
and let me have it."
"I
will, uncle."
Charles
was a little astonished, although pleased, at his uncle's ready acquiescence in
his fighting a vampyre, but that circumstance he ascribed to the old man's
habits of life, which made him so familiar with strife and personal contentions
of all sorts, that he did not ascribe to it that amount of importance which
more peaceable people did. Had he, while he was writing the note to Sir Francis
Varney, seen the old admiral's face, and the exceedingly cunning look it wore,
he might have suspected that the acquiescence in the duel was but a seeming
acquiescence. This, however, escaped him, and in a few moments he read to his
uncle the following note:—
"To SIR FRANCIS VARNEY.
"Sir,—The
expressions made use of towards me by you, as well as general circumstances,
which I need not further allude to here, induce me to demand of you that
satisfaction due from one gentleman to another. My uncle, Admiral Bell, is the
bearer of this note, and will arrange preliminaries with any friend you may
choose to appoint to act in your behalf. I am, sir, yours, &c.
"CHARLES HOLLAND."
"Will
that do?" said Charles.
"Capital!"
said the admiral.
"I
am glad you like it."
"Oh,
I could not help liking it. The least said and the most to the purpose, always
pleases me best; and this explains nothing, and demands all you want—which is a
fight; so it's all right, you see, and nothing can be possibly better."
Charles
did glance in his uncle's face, for he suspected, from the manner in which
these words were uttered, that the old man was amusing himself a little at his
expense. The admiral, however, looked so supernaturally serious that Charles
was foiled.
"I
repeat, it's a capital letter," he said.
"Yes,
you said so."
"Well,
what are you staring at?"
"Oh,
nothing."
"Do
you doubt my word?"
"Not
at all, uncle; only I thought there was a degree of irony in the manner in
which you spoke."
"None
at all, my boy. I never was more serious in all my life."
"Very
good. Then you will remember that I leave my honour in this affair completely
in your hands."
"Depend
upon me, my boy."
"I
will, and do."
"I'll
be off and see the fellow at once."
The
admiral bustled out of the room, and in a few moments Charles heard him calling
loudly,—
"Jack—Jack
Pringle, you lubber, where are you?—Jack Pringle, I say."
"Ay,
ay, sir," said Jack, emerging from the kitchen, where he had been making
himself generally useful in assisting Mrs. Bannerworth, there being no servant
in the house, to cook some dinner for the family.
"Come
on, you rascal, we are going for a walk."
"The
rations will be served out soon," growled Jack.
"We
shall be back in time, you cormorant, never fear. You are always thinking of
eating and drinking, you are, Jack; and I'll be hanged if I think you ever
think of anything else. Come on, will you; I'm going on rather a particular
cruise just now, so mind what you are about."
"Aye,
aye, sir," said the tar, and these two originals, who so perfectly understood
each other, walked away, conversing as they went, and their different voices
coming upon the ear of Charles, until distance obliterated all impression of
the sound.
Charles
paced to and fro in the room where he had held this brief and conclusive conversation
with his uncle. He was thoughtful, as any one might well be who knew not but
that the next four-and-twenty hours would be the limit of his sojourn in this
world.
"Oh,
Flora—Flora!" he at length said, "how happy we might to have been
together—how happy we might have been! but all is past now, and there seems
nothing left us but to endure. There it but one chance, and that is in my
killing this fearful man who is invested with so dreadful an existence. And if
I do kill him in fair and in open fight, I will take care that his mortal frame
has no power again to revisit the glimpses of the moon."
It
was strange to imagine that such was the force of many concurrent
circumstances, that a young man like Charles Holland, of first-rate abilities
and education, should find it necessary to give in so far to a belief which was
repugnant to all his best feelings and habits of thought, as to be reasoning
with himself upon the best means of preventing the resuscitation of the corpse
of a vampyre. But so it was. His imagination had yielded to a succession of
events which very few persons indeed could have held out against.
"I
have heard and read," he said, as he continued his agitated and uneasy
walk, "of how these dreadful beings are to be in their graves. I have
heard of stakes being driven through the body so as to pin it to the earth
until the gradual progress of decay has rendered its revivification a thing of
utter and total impossibility. Then, again," he added, after a slight
pause, "I have heard of their being burned, and the ashes gathered to the
winds of Heaven to prevent them from ever again uniting or assuming human
form."
These
were disagreeable and strange fancies, and he shuddered while he indulged in
them. He felt a kind of trembling horror come over him even at the thought of
engaging in conflict with a being, who perhaps, had lived more than a hundred
years.
"That
portrait," he thought, "on the panel, is the portrait of a man in the
prime of life. If it be the portrait of Sir Francis Varney, by the date which
the family ascribe to it he must be nearly one hundred and fifty years of age
now."
This
was a supposition which carried the imagination to a vast amount of strange
conjectures.
"What
changes he must have witnessed about him in that time," thought Charles.
"How he must have seen kingdoms totter and fall, and how many changes of
habits, of manners, and of customs must he have become a spectator of. Renewing
too, ever and anon, his fearful existence by such fearful means."
This
was a wide field of conjecture for a fertile imagination, and now that he was
on the eve of engaging with such a being in mortal combat, on behalf of her he
loved, the thoughts it gave rise to came more strongly and thickly upon him
than ever they had done before.
"But
I will fight him," he suddenly said, "for Flora's sake, were he a
hundred times more hideous a being than so many evidences tend to prove him. I
will fight with him, and it may be my fate to rid the world of such a monster
in human form."
Charles
worked himself up to a kind of enthusiasm by which he almost succeeded in
convincing himself that, in attempting the destruction of Sir Francis Varney,
he was the champion of human nature.
It
would be aside from the object of these pages, which is to record facts as they
occurred, to enter into the metaphysical course of reasoning which came across
Charles's mind; suffice it to say that he felt nothing shaken as regarded his
resolve to meet Varney the Vampyre, and that he made up his mind the conflict
should be one of life or death.
"It
must be so," he said. "It must be so. Either he or I must fall in the
fight which shall surely be."
He
now sought Flora, for how soon might he now be torn from her for ever by the
irresistible hand of death. He felt that, during the few brief hours which now
would only elapse previous to his meeting with Sir Francis Varney, he could not
enjoy too much of the society of her who reigned supreme in his heart, and held
in her own keeping his best affections.
But
while Charles is thus employed, let us follow his uncle and Jack Pringle to the
residence of Varney, which, as the reader is aware, was so near at hand that it
required not many minutes' sharp walking to reach it.
The
admiral knew well he could trust Jack with any secret, for long habits of discipline
and deference to the orders of superiors takes off the propensity to blabbing
which, among civilians who are not accustomed to discipline, is so very
prevalent. The old man therefore explained to Jack what he meant to do, and it
received Jack's full approval; but as in the enforced detail of other matters
it must come out, we will not here prematurely enter into the admiral's plans.
When
they reached the residence of Sir Francis Varney, they were received
courteously enough, and the admiral desired Jack to wait for him in the
handsome hall of the house, while he was shewn up stairs to the private room of
the vampyre.
"Confound
the fellow!" muttered the old admiral, "he is well lodged at all
events. I should say he was not one of those sort of vampyres who have nowhere
to go to but their own coffins when the evening comes."
The
room into which the admiral was shewn had green blinds to it, and they were all
drawn down. It is true that the sun was shining brightly outside, although
transiently, but still a strange green tinge was thrown over everything in the
room, and more particularly did it appear to fall upon the face of Varney,
converting his usually sallow countenance into a still more hideous and strange
colour. He was sitting upon a couch, and, when the admiral came in, he rose,
and said, in a deep-toned voice, extremely different to that he usually spoke
in,—
"My
humble home is much honoured, sir, by your presence in it."
"Good
morning," said the admiral. "I have come to speak to you, sir, rather
seriously."
"However
abrupt this announcement may sound to me," said Varney, "I am quite
sure I shall always hear, with the most profound respect, whatever Admiral Bell
may have to say."