THE RETURN FROM THE VAULT.—THE ALARM, AND THE SEARCH AROUND THE HALL.
It so happened that George and Henry Bannerworth, along with Mr.
Marchdale, had just reached the gate which conducted into the garden of
the mansion when they all were alarmed by the report of a pistol. Amid
the stillness of the night, it came upon them with so sudden a shock,
that they involuntarily paused, and there came from the lips of each an
expression of alarm.
“Good heavens!” cried George, “can that be Flora firing at any
intruder?”
“It must be,” cried Henry; “she has in her possession the only weapons
in the house.”
Mr. Marchdale turned very pale, and trembled slightly, but he did not
speak.
“On, on,” cried Henry; “for God’s sake, let us hasten on.”
As he spoke, he cleared the gate at a bound, and at a terrific pace he
made towards the house, passing over beds, and plantations, and flowers
heedlessly, so that he went the most direct way to it.
Before, however, it was possible for any human speed to accomplish
even half of the distance, the report of the other shot came upon his
ears, and he even fancied he heard the bullet whistle past his head
in tolerably close proximity. This supposition gave him a clue to the
direction at all events from whence the shots proceeded, otherwise he
knew not from which window they were fired, because it had not occurred
to him, previous to leaving home, to inquire in which room Flora and
his mother were likely to be seated waiting his return.
He was right as regarded the bullet. It was that winged messenger of
death which had passed his head in such very dangerous proximity, and
consequently he made with tolerable accuracy towards the open window
from whence the shots had been fired.
The night was not near so dark as it had been, although even yet it was
very far from being a light one, and he was soon enabled to see that
there was a room, the window of which was wide open, and lights burning
on the table within. He made towards it in a moment, and entered it.
To his astonishment, the first objects he beheld were Flora and a
stranger, who was now supporting her in his arms. To grapple him by
the throat was the work of a moment, but the stranger cried aloud in a
voice which sounded familiar to Henry,—
“Good God, are you all mad?”
Henry relaxed his hold, and looked in his face.
“Gracious heavens, it is Mr. Holland!” he said.
“Yes; did you not know me?”
Henry was bewildered. He staggered to a seat, and, in doing so, he saw
his mother, stretched apparently lifeless upon the floor. To raise
her was the work of a moment, and then Marchdale and George, who had
followed him as fast as they could, appeared at the open window.
Such a strange scene as that small room now exhibited had never been
equalled in Bannerworth Hall. There was young Mr. Holland, of whom
mention has already been made, as the affianced lover of Flora,
supporting her fainting form. There was Henry doing equal service
to his mother; and on the floor lay the two pistols, and one of the
candles which had been upset in the confusion; while the terrified
attitudes of George and Mr. Marchdale at the window completed the
strange-looking picture.
“What is this—oh! what has happened?” cried George.
“I know not—I know not,” said Henry. “Some one summon the servants; I
am nearly mad.”
Mr. Marchdale at once rung the bell, for George looked so faint and
ill as to be incapable of doing so; and he rung it so loudly and so
effectually, that the two servants who had been employed suddenly upon
the others leaving came with much speed to know what was the matter.
“See to your mistress,” said Henry. “She is dead, or has fainted. For
God’s sake, let who can give me some account of what has caused all
this confusion here.”
“Are you aware, Henry,” said Marchdale, “that a stranger is present in
the room?”
He pointed to Mr. Holland as he spoke, who, before Henry could reply,
said,—
“Sir, I may be a stranger to you, as you are to me, and yet no stranger
to those whose home this is.”
“No, no,” said Henry, “you are no stranger to us, Mr. Holland, but are
thrice welcome—none can be more welcome. Mr. Marchdale, this is Mr
Holland, of whom you have heard me speak.”
“I am proud to know you, sir,” said Marchdale.
“Sir, I thank you,” replied Holland, coldly.
It will so happen; but, at first sight, it appeared as if those two
persons had some sort of antagonistic feeling towards each other, which
threatened to prevent effectually their ever becoming intimate friends.
The appeal of Henry to the servants to know if they could tell him what
had occurred was answered in the negative. All they knew was that they
had heard two shots fired, and that, since then, they had remained
where they were, in a great fright, until the bell was rung violently.
This was no news at all and, therefore, the only chance was, to wait
patiently for the recovery of the mother, or of Flora, from one or the
other of whom surely some information could be at once then procured.
Mrs. Bannerworth was removed to her own room, and so would Flora have
been; but Mr. Holland, who was supporting her in his arms, said,—
“I think the air from the open window is recovering her, and it is
likely to do so. Oh, do not now take her from me, after so long an
absence. Flora, Flora, look up; do you not know me? You have not yet
given me one look of acknowledgement. Flora, dear Flora!”
The sound of his voice seemed to act as the most potent of charms in
restoring her to consciousness; it broke through the death-like trance
in which she lay, and, opening her beautiful eyes, she fixed them upon
his face, saying,—
“Yes, yes; it is Charles—it is Charles.”
She burst into a hysterical flood of tears, and clung to him like some
terrified child to its only friend in the whole wide world.
[Illustration: Flora clings to Charles.]
“Oh, my dear friends,” cried Charles Holland, “do not deceive me; has
Flora been ill?”
“We have all been ill,” said George.
“All ill?”
“Ay, and nearly mad,” exclaimed Harry.
Holland looked from one to the other in surprise, as well he might,
nor was that surprise at all lessened when Flora made an effort to
extricate herself from his embrace, as she exclaimed,—
“You must leave me—you must leave me, Charles, for ever! Oh! never,
never look upon my face again!”
“I—I am bewildered,” said Charles.
“Leave me, now,” continued Flora; “think me unworthy; think what you
will, Charles, but I cannot, I dare not, now be yours.”
“Is this a dream?”
“Oh, would it were. Charles, if we had never met, you would be
happier—I could not be more wretched.”
“Flora, Flora, do you say these words of so great cruelty to try my
love?”
“No, as Heaven is my judge, I do not.”
“Gracious Heaven, then, what do they mean?”
Flora shuddered, and Henry, coming up to her, took her hand in his
tenderly, as he said,—
“Has it been again?”
“It has.”
“You shot it?”
“I fired full upon it, Henry, but it fled.”
“It did—fly?”
“It did, Henry, but it will come again—it will be sure to come again.”
“You—you hit it with the bullet?” interposed Mr. Marchdale. “Perhaps
you killed it?”
“I think I must have hit it, unless I am mad.”
Charles Holland looked from one to the other with such a look of
intense surprise, that George remarked it, and said at once to him,—
“Mr. Holland, a full explanation is due to you, and you shall have it.”
“You seem the only rational person here,” said Charles. “Pray what is
it that everybody calls ‘_it_?’”
“Hush—hush!” said Henry; “you shall hear soon, but not at present.”
“Hear me, Charles,” said Flora. “From this moment mind, I do release
you from every vow, from every promise made to me of constancy and
love; and if you are wise, Charles, and will be advised, you will now
this moment leave this house never to return to it.”
“No,” said Charles—“no; by Heaven I love you, Flora! I have come to say
again all that in another clime I said with joy to you. When I forget
you, let what trouble may oppress you, may God forget me, and my own
right hand forget to do me honest service.”
“Oh! no more—no more!” sobbed Flora.
“Yes, much more, if you will tell me of words which shall be stronger
than others in which to paint my love, my faith, and my constancy.”
“Be prudent,” said Henry. “Say no more.”
“Nay, upon such a theme I could speak for ever. You may cast me off,
Flora; but until you tell me you love another, I am yours till the
death, and then with a sanguine hope at my heart that we shall meet
again, never, dearest, to part.”
Flora sobbed bitterly.
“Oh!” she said, “this is the unkindest blow of all—this is worse than
all.”
“Unkind!” echoed Holland.
“Heed her not,” said Henry; “she means not you.”
“Oh, no—no!” she cried. “Farewell, Charles—dear Charles.”
“Oh, say that word again!” he exclaimed, with animation. “It is the
first time such music has met my ears.”
“It must be the last.”
“No, no—oh, no.”
“For your own sake I shall be able now, Charles, to show you that I
really loved you.”
“Not by casting me from you?”
“Yes, even so. That will be the way to show you that I love you.”
She held up her hands wildly, as she added, in an excited voice,—
“The curse of destiny is upon me! I am singled out as one lost and
accursed. Oh, horror—horror! would that I were dead!” Charles
staggered back a pace or two until he came to the table, at which he
clutched for support. He turned very pale as he said, in a faint voice,—
“Is—is she mad, or am I?”
“Tell him I am mad, Henry,” cried Flora. “Do not, oh, do not make his
lonely thoughts terrible with more than that. Tell him I am mad.”
“Come with me,” whispered Henry to Holland. “I pray you come with me at
once, and you shall know all.”
“I—will.”
“George, stay with Flora for a time. Come, come, Mr. Holland, you
ought, and you shall know all; then you can come to a judgment for
yourself. This way, sir. You cannot, in the wildest freak of your
imagination, guess that which I have now to tell you.”
Never was mortal man so utterly bewildered by the events of the last
hour of his existence as was now Charles Holland, and truly he might
well be so. He had arrived in England, and made what speed he could to
the house of a family whom he admired for their intelligence, their
high culture, and in one member of which his whole thoughts of domestic
happiness in this world were centered, and he found nothing but
confusion, incoherence, mystery, and the wildest dismay.
Well might he doubt if he were sleeping or waking—well might he ask if
he or they were mad.
And now, as, after a long, lingering look of affection upon the pale,
suffering face of Flora, he followed Henry from the room, his thoughts
were busy in fancying a thousand vague and wild imaginations with
respect to the communication which was promised to be made to him.
But, as Henry had truly said to him, not in the wildest freak of
his imagination could he conceive of any thing near the terrible
strangeness and horror of that which he had to tell him, and
consequently he found himself closeted with Henry in a small private
room, removed from the domestic part of the hall, to the full in as
bewildered a state as he had been from the first.