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 remembrances 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.”
“Flora, this is madness. Think again, dear Flora. Misfortunes for a
time will hover over the best and most fortunate of us; but, like the
clouds that now obscure the sweet sunshine, will pass away, and leave
no trace behind them. The sunshine of joy will shine on you again.”
There was a small break in the clouds, like a window looking into
Heaven. From it streamed one beam of sunlight, so bright, so dazzling,
and so beautiful, that it was a sight of wonder to look upon. It fell
upon the face of Flora; it warmed her cheek; it lent lustre to her pale
lips and tearful eyes; it illumined that little summer-house as if it
had been the shrine of some saint.
“Behold!” cried Charles, “where is your omen now?”
“God of Heaven!” cried Flora; and she stretched out her arms.
[Illustration: A beam of sunlight illuminates Flora, Charles, and the
house.]
“The clouds that hover over your spirit now,” said Charles, “shall pass
away. Accept this beam of sunlight as a promise from God.”
“I will—I will. It is going.”
“It has done its office.”
The clouds closed over the small orifice, and all was gloom again as
before.
“Flora,” said Charles, “you will not ask me now to leave you?”
She allowed him to clasp her to his heart. It was beating for her, and
for her only.
“You will let me, Flora, love you still?”
Her voice, as she answered him, was like the murmur of some distant
melody the ears can scarcely translate to the heart.
“Charles we will live, love, and die together.”
And now there was a wrapt stillness in that summer-house for many
minutes—a trance of joy. They did not speak, but now and then she would
look into his face with an old familiar smile, and the joy of his heart
was near to bursting in tears from his eyes.
• • • • •
A shriek burst from Flora’s lips—a shriek so wild and shrill that
it awakened echoes far and near. Charles staggered back a step, as
if shot, and then in such agonised accents as he was long indeed in
banishing the remembrance of, she cried,—
“The vampyre! the vampyre!”