Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
"It
is misfortune and distress that tries love," said Charles. "It is
thus that the touchstone is applied to see if it be current gold indeed, or
some base metal, which by a superficial glitter imitates it."
"And
your love is indeed true gold."
"I
am unworthy of one glance from those dear eyes if it were not."
"Oh,
if we could but go from here I think then we might be happy. A strong
impression is upon my mind, and has been so for some time, that these
persecutions to which I have been subjected are peculiar to this house."
"Think
you so?"
"I
do, indeed!"
"It
may be so, Flora. You are aware that your brother has made up his mind that he
will leave the Hall."
"Yes,
yes."
"And
that only in deference to an expressed wish of mine he put off the carrying
such a resolve into effect for a few days."
"He
said so much."
"Do
not, however, imagine, dearest Flora, that those few days will be idly
spent."
"Nay,
Charles, I could not imagine so."
"Believe
me, I have some hopes that in that short space of time I shall be able to
accomplish yet something which shall have a material effect upon the present
posture of affairs."
"Do
not run into danger, Charles."
"I
will not. Believe me, Flora, I have too much appreciation of the value of an
existence which is blessed by your love, to encounter any needless risks."
"You
say needless. Why do you not confide in me, and tell me if the object you have
in view to accomplish in the few days delay is a dangerous one at all."
"Will
you forgive me, Flora, if for once I keep a secret from you?"
"Then,
Charles, along with the forgiveness I must conjure up a host of
apprehensions."
"Nay,
why so?"
"You
would tell me if there were no circumstances that you feared would fill me with
alarm."
"Now,
Flora, your fears and not your judgment condemn me. Surely you cannot think me
so utterly heedless as to court danger for danger's sake."
"No,
not so—"
"You
pause."
"And
yet you have a sense of what you call honour, which, I fear, would lead you
into much risk."
"I
have a sense of honour; but not that foolish one which hangs far more upon the
opinions of others than my own. If I thought a course of honour lay before me,
and all the world, in a mistaken judgment, were to condemn it as wrong, I would
follow it."
"You
are right, Charles; you are right. Let me pray of you to be careful, and, at
all events, to interpose no more delay to our leaving this house than you shall
feel convinced is absolutely necessary for some object of real and permanent
importance."
Charles
promised Flora Bannerworth that for her sake, as well as his own, he would be
most specially careful of his safety; and then in such endearing conversation
as may be well supposed to be dictated by such hearts as theirs another happy
hour was passed away.
They
pictured to themselves the scene where first they met, and with a world of
interest hanging on every word they uttered, they told each other of the first
delightful dawnings of that affection which had sprung up between them, and
which they fondly believed neither time nor circumstance would have the power
to change or subvert.
In
the meantime the old admiral was surprised that Charles was so patient, and had
not been to him to demand the result of his deliberation.
But
he knew not on what rapid pinions time flies, when in the presence of those
whom we love. What was an actual hour, was but a fleeting minute to Charles
Holland, as he sat with Flora's hand clasped in his, and looking at her sweet
face.
At
length a clock striking reminded him of his engagement with his uncle, and he
reluctantly rose.
"Dear
Flora," he said, "I am going to sit up to watch to-night, so be under
no sort of apprehension."
"I
will feel doubly safe," she said.
"I
have now something to talk to my uncle about, and must leave you."
Flora
smiled, and held out her hand to him. He pressed it to his heart. He knew not
what impulse came over him then, but for the first time he kissed the cheek of
the beautiful girl.
With
a heightened colour she gently repulsed him. He took a long lingering look at
her as he passed out of the room, and when the door was closed between them,
the sensation he experienced was as if some sudden cloud had swept across the
face of the sun, dimming to a vast extent its precious lustre.
A
strange heaviness came across his spirits, which before had been so
unaccountably raised. He felt as if the shadow of some coming evil was resting
on his soul—as if some momentous calamity was preparing for him, which would
almost be enough to drive him to madness, and irredeemable despair.
"What
can this be," he exclaimed, "that thus oppresses me? What feeling is
this that seems to tell me, I shall never again see Flora Bannerworth?"
Unconsciously
he uttered these words, which betrayed the nature of his worst forebodings.
"Oh,
this is weakness," he then added. "I must fight out against this; it
is mere nervousness. I must not endure it, I will not suffer myself thus to
become the sport of imagination. Courage, courage, Charles Holland. There are
real evils enough, without your adding to them by those of a disordered fancy.
Courage, courage, courage."
THE ADMIRAL'S OPINION.—THE REQUEST OF CHARLES.
Charles
then sought the admiral, whom he found with his hands behind him, pacing to and
fro in one of the long walks of the garden, evidently in a very unsettled state
of mind. When Charles appeared, he quickened his pace, and looked in such a
state of unusual perplexity that it was quite ridiculous to observe him.
"I
suppose, uncle, you have made up your mind thoroughly by this time?"
"Well,
I don't know that."
"Why,
you have had long enough surely to think over it. I have not troubled you
soon."
"Well,
I cannot exactly say you have, but, somehow or another, I don't think very
fast, and I have an unfortunate propensity after a time of coming exactly round
to where I began."
"Then,
to tell the truth, uncle, you can come to no sort of conclusion."
"Only
one."
"And
what may that be?"
"Why,
that you are right in one thing, Charles, which is, that having sent a
challenge to this fellow of a vampyre, you must fight him."
"I
suspect that that is a conclusion you had from the first, uncle?"
"Why
so?"
"Because
it is an obvious and a natural one. All your doubts, and trouble, and
perplexities, have been to try and find some excuse for not entertaining that
opinion, and now that you really find it in vain to make it, I trust that you
will accede as you first promised to do, and not seek by any means to thwart
me."
"I
will not thwart you, my boy, although in my opinion you ought not to fight with
a vampyre."
"Never
mind that. We cannot urge that as a valid excuse, so long as he chooses to deny
being one. And after all, if he be really wrongfully suspected, you must admit
that he is a very injured man."
"Injured!—nonsense.
If he is not a vampyre, he's some other out-of-the-way sort of fish, you may
depend. He's the oddest-looking fellow ever I came across in all my born days,
ashore or afloat."
"Is
he?"
"Yes,
he is: and yet, when I come to look at the thing again in my mind, some droll
sights that I have seen come across my memory. The sea is the place for wonders
and for mysteries. Why, we see more in a day and a night there, than you landsmen
could contrive to make a whole twelvemonth's wonder of."
"But
you never saw a vampyre, uncle?"
"Well,
I don't know that. I didn't know anything about vampyres till I came here; but
that was my ignorance, you know. There might have been lots of vampyres where
I've been, for all I know."
"Oh,
certainly; but as regards this duel, will you wait now until to-morrow morning,
before you take any further steps in the matter?"
"Till
to-morrow morning?"
"Yes,
uncle."
"Why,
only a little while ago, you were all eagerness to have something done
off-hand."
"Just
so; but now I have a particular reason for waiting until to-morrow
morning."
"Have
you? Well, as you please, boy—as you please. Have everything your own
way."
"You
are very kind, uncle; and now I have another favour to ask of you."
"What
is it?"
"Why,
you know that Henry Bannerworth receives but a very small sum out of the whole
proceeds of the estate here, which ought, but for his father's extravagance, to
be wholly at his disposal."
"So
I have heard."
"I
am certain he is at present distressed for money, and I have not much. Will you
lend me fifty pounds, uncle, until my own affairs are sufficiently arranged to
enable you to pay yourself again?"
"Will
I! of course I will."
"I
wish to offer that sum as an accommodation to Henry. From me, I dare say he
will receive it freely, because he must be convinced how freely it is offered;
and, besides, they look upon me now almost as a member of the family in
consequence of my engagement with Flora."
"Certainly,
and quite correct too: there's a fifty-pound note, my boy; take it, and do what
you like with it, and when you want any more, come to me for it."
"I
knew I could trespass thus far on your kindness, uncle."
"Trespass!
It's no trespass at all."
"Well,
we will not fall out about the terms in which I cannot help expressing my
gratitude to you for many favours. To-morrow, you will arrange the duel for
me."
"As
you please. I don't altogether like going to that fellow's house again."
"Well,
then, we can manage, I dare say, by note."
"Very
good. Do so. He puts me in mind altogether of a circumstance that happened a
good while ago, when I was at sea, and not so old a man as I am now."
"Puts
you in mind of a circumstance, uncle?"
"Yes;
he's something like a fellow that figured in an affair that I know a good deal
about; only I do think as my chap was more mysterious by a d——d sight than this
one."
"Indeed!"
"Oh,
dear, yes. When anything happens in an odd way at sea, it is as odd again as
anything that occurs on land, my boy, you may depend."
"Oh,
you only fancy that, uncle, because you have spent so long a time at sea."
"No,
I don't imagine it, you rascal. What can you have on shore equal to what we
have at sea? Why, the sights that come before us would make you landsmen's
hairs stand up on end, and never come down again."
"In
the ocean, do you mean, that you see those sights, uncle?"
"To
be sure. I was once in the southern ocean, in a small frigate, looking out for
a seventy-four we were to join company with, when a man at the mast-head sung
out that he saw her on the larboard bow. Well, we thought it was all right
enough, and made away that quarter, when what do you think it turned out to
be?"
"I
really cannot say."
"The
head of a fish."
"A
fish!"
"Yes!
a d——d deal bigger than the hull of a vessel. He was swimming along with his
head just what I dare say he considered a shaving or so out of the water."
"But
where were the sails, uncle?"
"The
sails?"
"Yes;
your man at the mast-head must have been a poor seaman not to have missed the
sails."
"All,
that's one of your shore-going ideas, now. You know nothing whatever about it.
I'll tell you where the sails were, master Charley."
"Well,
I should like to know."
"The
spray, then, that he dashed up with a pair of fins that were close to his head,
was in such a quantity, and so white, that they looked just like sails."
"Oh!"
"Ah!
you may say 'oh!' but we all saw him—the whole ship's crew; and we sailed
alongside of him for some time, till he got tired of us, and suddenly dived
down, making such a vortex in the water, that the ship shook again, and seemed
for about a minute as if she was inclined to follow him to the bottom of the
sea."
"And
what do you suppose it was, uncle?"
"How
should I know?"
"Did
you ever see it again?"
"Never;
though others have caught a glimpse of him now and then in the same ocean, but
never came so near him as we did, that ever I heard of, at all events. They may
have done so."
"It
is singular!"
"Singular
or not, it's a fool to what I can tell you. Why, I've seen things that, if I
were to set about describing them to you, you would say I was making up a
romance."
"Oh,
no; it's quite impossible, uncle, any one could ever suspect you of such a
thing."
"You'd
believe me, would you?"
"Of
course I would."
"Then
here goes. I'll just tell you now of a circumstance that I haven't liked to
mention to anybody yet."
"Indeed!
why so?"
"Because
I didn't want to be continually fighting people for not believing it; but here
you have it:—"
We
were outward bound; a good ship, a good captain, and good messmates, you know,
go far towards making a prosperous voyage a pleasant and happy one, and on this
occasion we had every reasonable prospect of all.
Our
hands were all tried men—they had been sailors from infancy; none of your
French craft, that serve an apprenticeship and then become land lubbers again.
Oh, no, they were stanch and true, and loved the ocean as the sluggard loves
his bed, or the lover his mistress.
Ay,
and for the matter of that, the love was a more enduring and a more healthy
love, for it increased with years, and made men love one another, and they
would stand by each other while they had a limb to lift—while they were able to
chew a quid or wink an eye, leave alone wag a pigtail.
We
were outward bound for Ceylon, with cargo, and were to bring spices and other
matters home from the Indian market. The ship was new and good—a pretty craft;
she sat like a duck upon the water, and a stiff breeze carried her along the
surface of the waves without your rocking, and pitching, and tossing, like an
old wash-tub at a mill-tail, as I have had the misfortune to sail in more than
once afore.
No,
no, we were well laden, and well pleased, and weighed anchor with light hearts
and a hearty cheer.
Away
we went down the river, and soon rounded the North Foreland, and stood out in
the Channel. The breeze was a steady and stiff one, and carried us through the
water as though it had been made for us.
"Jack,"
said I to a messmate of mine, as he stood looking at the skies, then at the
sails, and finally at the water, with a graver air than I thought was at all
consistent with the occasion or circumstances.
"Well,"
he replied.
"What
ails you? You seem as melancholy as if we were about to cast lots who should be
eaten first. Are you well enough?"
"I
am hearty enough, thank Heaven," he said, "but I don't like this
breeze."
"Don't
like the breeze!" said I; "why, mate, it is as good and kind a breeze
as ever filled a sail. What would you have, a gale?"
"No,
no; I fear that."
"With
such a ship, and such a set of hearty able seamen, I think we could manage to
weather out the stiffest gale that ever whistled through a yard."
"That
may be; I hope it is, and I really believe and think so."
"Then
what makes you so infernally mopish and melancholy?"
"I
don't know, but can't help it. It seems to me as though there was something
hanging over us, and I can't tell what."
"Yes,
there are the colours, Jack, at the masthead; they are flying over us with a
hearty breeze."
"Ah!
ah!" said Jack, looking up at the colours, and then went away without
saying anything more, for he had some piece of duty to perform.
I
thought my messmate had something on his mind that caused him to feel sad and
uncomfortable, and I took no more notice of it; indeed, in the course of a day
or two he was as merry as any of the rest, and had no more melancholy that I
could perceive, but was as comfortable as anybody.
We
had a gale off the coast of Biscay, and rode it out without the loss of a spar
or a yard; indeed, without the slightest accident or rent of any kind.
"Now,
Jack, what do you think of our vessel?" said I.
"She's
like a duck upon water, rises and falls with the waves, and doesn't tumble up
and down like a hoop over stones."
"No,
no; she goes smoothly and sweetly; she is a gallant craft, and this is her
first voyage, and I predict a prosperous one."
"I
hope so," he said.
Well,
we went on prosperously enough for about three weeks; the ocean was as calm and
as smooth as a meadow, the breeze light but good, and we stemmed along
majestically over the deep blue waters, and passed coast after coast, though
all around was nothing but the apparently pathless main in sight.
"A
better sailer I never stepped into," said the captain one day; "it
would be a pleasure to live and die in such a vessel."
Well,
as I said, we had been three weeks or thereabouts, when one morning, after the
sun was up and the decks washed, we saw a strange man sitting on one of the
water-casks that were on deck, for, being full, we were compelled to stow some
of them on deck.
You
may guess those on deck did a little more than stare at this strange and
unexpected apparition. By jingo, I never saw men open their eyes wider in all
my life, nor was I any exception to the rule. I stared, as well I might; but we
said nothing for some minutes, and the stranger looked calmly on us, and then
cocked his eye with a nautical air up at the sky, as if he expected to receive
a twopenny-post letter from St. Michael, or a
billet
doux
from the Virgin Mary.