THE COMMUNICATIONS TO THE LOVER.—THE HEART’S DESPAIR.
Consternation is sympathetic, and any one who had looked upon the
features of Charles Holland, now that he was seated with Henry
Bannerworth, in expectation of a communication which his fears told him
was to blast all his dearest and most fondly cherished hopes for ever,
would scarce have recognised in him the same young man who, one short
hour before, had knocked so loudly, and so full of joyful hope and
expectation, at the door of the hall.
But so it was. He knew Henry Bannerworth too well to suppose that any
unreal cause could blanch his cheek. He knew Flora too well to imagine
for one moment that caprice had dictated the, to him, fearful words of
dismissal she had uttered to him.
Happier would it at that time have been for Charles Holland had she
acted capriciously towards him, and convinced him that his true heart’s
devotion had been cast at the feet of one unworthy of so really noble
a gift. Pride would then have enabled him, no doubt, successfully to
resist the blow. A feeling of honest and proper indignation at having
his feelings trifled with, would, no doubt, have sustained him, but,
alas! the case seemed widely different.
True, she implored him to think of her no more—no longer to cherish
in his breast the fond dream of affection which had been its guest
so long; but the manner in which she did so brought along with it an
irresistible conviction, that she was making a noble sacrifice of
her own feelings for him, from some cause which was involved in the
profoundest mystery.
But now he was to hear all. Henry had promised to tell him, and as he
looked into his pale, but handsomely intellectual face, he half dreaded
the disclosure he yet panted to hear.
“Tell me all, Henry—tell me all,” he said. “Upon the words that come
from your lips I know I can rely.”
“I will have no reservations with you,” said Henry, sadly. “You
ought to know all, and you shall. Prepare yourself for the strangest
revelation you ever heard.”
“Indeed!”
“Ay. One which in hearing you may well doubt; and one which, I hope,
you will never find an opportunity of verifying.”
“You speak in riddles.”
“And yet speak truly, Charles. You heard with what a frantic vehemence
Flora desired you to think no more of her?”
“I did—I did.”
“She was right. She is a noble-hearted girl for uttering those words. A
dreadful incident in our family has occurred, which might well induce
you to pause before uniting your fate with that of any member of it.”
“Impossible. Nothing can possibly subdue the feelings of affection I
entertain for Flora. She is worthy of any one, and, as such, amid all
changes—all mutations of fortune, she shall be mine.”
“Do not suppose that any change of fortune has produced the scene you
were witness to.”
“Then, what else?”
“I will tell you, Holland. In all your travels, and in all your
reading, did you ever come across anything about vampyres?”
“About what?” cried Charles, drawing his chair forward a little. “About
what?”
“You may well doubt the evidence of your own ears, Charles Holland,
and wish me to repeat what I said. I say, do you know anything about
vampyres?”
Charles Holland looked curiously in Henry’s face, and the latter
immediately added,—
“I can guess what is passing in your mind at present, and I do not
wonder at it. You think I must be mad.”
“Well, really, Henry, your extraordinary question——”
“I knew it. Were I you, I should hesitate to believe the tale; but the
fact is, we have every reason to believe that one member of our own
family is one of those horrible preternatural beings called vampyres.”
“Good God, Henry, can you allow your judgment for a moment to stoop to
such a supposition?”
“That is what I have asked myself a hundred times; but, Charles
Holland, the judgment, the feelings, and all the prejudices, natural
and acquired, must succumb to actual ocular demonstration. Listen to
me, and do not interrupt me. You shall know all, and you shall know it
circumstantially.”
Henry then related to the astonished Charles Holland all that had
occurred, from the first alarm of Flora, up to that period when he,
Holland, caught her in his arms as she was about to leave the room.
“And now,” he said, in conclusion, “I cannot tell what opinion you may
come to as regards these most singular events. You will recollect that
here is the unbiased evidence of four or five people to the facts, and,
beyond that, the servants, who have seen something of the horrible
visitor.”
“You bewilder me, utterly,” said Charles Holland.
“As we are all bewildered.”
“But—but, gracious Heaven! it cannot be.”
“It is.”
“No—no. There is—there must be yet some dreadful mistake.”
“Can you start any supposition by which we can otherwise explain any of
the phenomena I have described to you? If you can, for Heaven’s sake do
so, and you will find no one who will cling to it with more tenacity
than I.”
“Any other species or kind of supernatural appearance might admit of
argument; but this, to my perception, is too wildly improbable—too much
at variance with all we see and know of the operations of nature.”
“It is so. All that we have told ourselves repeatedly, and yet is all
human reason at once struck down by the few brief words of—‘We have
seen it.’”
“I would doubt my eyesight.”
“One might; but many cannot be labouring under the same delusion.”
“My friend, I pray you, do not make me shudder at the supposition that
such a dreadful thing as this is at all possible.”
“I am, believe me, Charles, most unwilling to oppress anyone with the
knowledge of these evils; but you are so situated with us, that you
ought to know, and you will clearly understand that you may, with
perfect honour, now consider yourself free from all engagements you
have entered into with Flora.”
“No, no! By Heaven, no!”
“Yes, Charles. Reflect upon the consequences now of a union with such a
family.”
“Oh, Henry Bannerworth, can you suppose me so dead to all good feeling,
so utterly lost to honourable impulses, as to eject from my heart her
who has possession of it entirely, on such a ground as this?”
“You would be justified.”
“Coldly justified in prudence I might be. There are a thousand
circumstances in which a man may be justified in a particular course of
action, and that course yet may be neither honourable nor just. I love
Flora; and were she tormented by the whole of the supernatural world,
I should still love her. Nay, it becomes, then, a higher and a nobler
duty on my part to stand between her and those evils, if possible.”
“Charles—Charles,” said Henry, “I cannot of course refuse to you my
meed of praise and admiration for your generosity of feeling; but,
remember, if we are compelled, despite all our feelings and all our
predilections to the contrary, to give in to a belief in the existence
of vampyres, why may we not at once receive as the truth all that is
recorded of them?”
“To what do you allude?”
“To this. That one who has been visited by a vampyre, and whose blood
has formed a horrible repast for such a being, becomes, after death,
one of the dreadful race, and visits others in the same way.”
“Now this must be insanity,” cried Charles.
“It bears the aspect of it, indeed,” said Henry; “oh, that you could by
some means satisfy yourself that I am mad.”
“There may be insanity in this family,” thought Charles, with such an
exquisite pang of misery, that he groaned aloud.
“Already,” added Henry, mournfully, “already the blighting influence
of the dreadful tale is upon you, Charles. Oh, let me add my advice to
Flora’s entreaties. She loves you, and we all esteem you; fly, then,
from us, and leave us to encounter our miseries alone. Fly from us,
Charles Holland, and take with you our best wishes for happiness which
you cannot know here.”
“Never,” cried Charles; “I devote my existence to Flora. I will not
play the coward, and fly from one whom I love, on such grounds. I
devote my life to her.”
Henry could not speak for emotion for several minutes, and when at
length, in a faltering voice, he could utter some words, he said,—
“God of heaven, what happiness is marred by these horrible events? What
have we all done to be the victims of such a dreadful act of vengeance?”
“Henry, do not talk in that way,” cried Charles. “Rather let us bend
all our energies to overcoming the evil, than spend any time in useless
lamentations. I cannot even yet give in to a belief in the existence of
such a being as you say visited Flora.”
“But the evidences.”
“Look you here, Henry; until I am convinced that some things have
happened which it is totally impossible could happen by any human means
whatever, I will not ascribe them to supernatural influence.”
“But what human means, Charles, could produce what I have now narrated
to you?”
“I do not know, just at present, but I will give the subject the most
attentive consideration. Will you accommodate me here for a time?”
“You know you are as welcome here as if the house were your own, and
all that it contains.”
“I believe so, most truly. You have no objection, I presume, to my
conversing with Flora upon this strange subject?”
“Certainly not. Of course you will be careful to say nothing which can
add to her fears.”
“I shall be most guarded, believe me. You say that your brother George,
Mr. Chillingworth, yourself, and this Mr. Marchdale, have all been
cognisant of the circumstances.”
“Yes—yes.”
“Then with the whole of them you permit me to hold free communication
upon the subject?”
“Most certainly.”
“I will do so then. Keep up good heart, Henry, and this affair, which
looks so full of terror at first sight, may yet be divested of some of
its hideous aspect.”
“I am rejoiced, if anything can rejoice me now,” said Henry, “to see
you view the subject with so much philosophy.”
“Why,” said Charles, “you made a remark of your own, which enabled me,
viewing the matter in its very worst and most hideous aspect, to gather
hope.”
“What was that?”
“You said, properly and naturally enough, that if ever we felt that
there was such a weight of evidence in favour of a belief in the
existence of vampyres that we are compelled to succumb to it, we might
as well receive all the popular feelings and superstitions concerning
them likewise.”
“I did. Where is the mind to pause, when once we open it to the
reception of such things?”
“Well, then, if that be the case, we will watch this vampyre and catch
it.”
“Catch it?”
“Yes; surely it can be caught; as I understand, this species of being
is not like an apparition, that may be composed of thin air, and
utterly impalpable to the human touch, but it consists of a revivified
corpse.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Then it is tangible and destructible. By Heaven! if ever I catch a
glimpse of any such thing, it shall drag me to its home, be that where
it may, or I will make it prisoner.”
“Oh, Charles! you know not the feeling of horror that will come across
you when you do. You have no idea of how the warm blood will seem to
curdle in your veins, and how you will be paralysed in every limb.”
“Did you feel so?”
“I did.”
“I will endeavour to make head against such feelings. The love of
Flora shall enable me to vanquish them. Think you it will come again
to-morrow?”
“I can have no thought the one way or the other.”
“It may. We must arrange among us all, Henry, some plan of watching
which, without completely prostrating our health and strength, will
always provide that one shall be up all night and on the alert.”
“It must be done.”
“Flora ought to sleep with the consciousness now that she has ever at
hand some intrepid and well-armed protector, who is not only himself
prepared to defend her, but who can in a moment give an alarm to us
all, in case of necessity requiring it.”
“It would be a dreadful capture to make to seize a vampyre,” said Henry.
“Not at all; it would be a very desirable one. Being a corpse
revivified, it is capable of complete destruction, so as to render it
no longer a scourge to any one.”
“Charles, Charles, are you jesting with me, or do you really give any
credence to the story?”
“My dear friend, I always make it a rule to take things at their worst,
and then I cannot be disappointed. I am content to reason upon this
matter as if the fact of the existence of a vampyre were thoroughly
established, and then to think upon what is best to be done about it.”
“You are right.”
“If it should turn out then that there is an error in the fact, well
and good—we are all the better off; but if otherwise, we are prepared,
and armed at all points.”
“Let it be so, then. It strikes me, Charles, that you will be the
coolest and the calmest among us all on this emergency; but the hour
now waxes late, I will get them to prepare a chamber for you, and at
least to-night, after what has occurred already, I should think we can
be under no apprehension.”
“Probably not. But, Henry, if you would allow me to sleep in that room
where the portrait hangs of him whom you suppose to be the vampyre, I
should prefer it.”
“Prefer it!”
“Yes; I am not one who courts danger for danger’s sake, but I would
rather occupy that room, to see if the vampyre, who perhaps has a
partiality for it, will pay me a visit.”
“As you please, Charles. You can have the apartment. It is in the same
state as when occupied by Flora. Nothing has been, I believe, removed
from it.”
“You will let me, then, while I remain here, call it my room?”
“Assuredly.”
This arrangement was accordingly made to the surprise of all the
household, not one of whom would, indeed, have slept, or attempted to
sleep there for any amount of reward. But Charles Holland had his own
reasons for preferring that chamber, and he was conducted to it in the
course of half an hour by Henry, who looked around it with a shudder,
as he bade his young friend good night.