THE LETTER TO CHARLES.—THE QUARREL.—THE ADMIRAL’S NARRATIVE.—THE
MIDNIGHT MEETING.
It was Charles Holland who now advanced hurriedly to meet the admiral.
The young man’s manner was anxious. He was evidently most intent
upon knowing what answer could be sent by Sir Francis Varney to his
challenge.
“Uncle,” he said, “tell me at once, will he meet me? You can talk of
particulars afterwards, but now tell me at once if he will meet me?”
“Why, as to that,” said the admiral, with a great deal of fidgetty
hesitation, “you see, I can’t exactly say.”
“Not say!”
“No. He’s a very odd fish. Don’t you think he’s a very odd fish, Jack
Pringle?”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“There, you hear, Charles, that Jack is of my opinion that your
opponent is an odd fish.”
“But, uncle, why trifle with my impatience thus? Have you seen Sir
Francis Varney?”
“Seen him. Oh, yes.”
“And what did he say?”
“Why, to tell the truth, my lad, I advise you not to fight with him at
all.”
“Uncle, is this like you? This advice from you, to compromise my
honour, after sending a man a challenge?”
“D—n it all, Jack, I don’t know how to get out of it,” said the
admiral. “I tell you what it is, Charles, he wants to fight with
swords; and what on earth is the use of your engaging with a fellow who
has been practising at his weapon for more than a hundred years?”
“Well, uncle, if any one had told me that you would be terrified by
this Sir Francis Varney into advising me not to fight, I should have
had no hesitation whatever in saying such a thing was impossible.”
“I terrified?”
“Why, you advise me not to meet this man, even after I have challenged
him.”
“Jack,” said the admiral, “I can’t carry it on, you see. I never could
go on with anything that was not as plain as an anchor, and quite
straightforward. I must just tell all that has occurred.”
“Ay, ay, sir. The best way.”
“You think so, Jack?”
“I know it is, sir, always axing pardon for having a opinion at all,
excepting when it happens to be the same as yourn, sir.”
“Hold your tongue, you libellous villain! Now, listen to me, Charles. I
got up a scheme of my own.”
Charles gave a groan, for he had a very tolerable appreciation of
his uncle’s amount of skill in getting up a scheme of any kind or
description.
“Now here am I,” continued the admiral, “an old hulk, and not fit for
use any more. What’s the use of me, I should like to know? Well, that’s
settled. But you are young and hearty, and have a long life before you.
Why should you throw away your life upon a lubberly vampyre?”
“I begin to perceive now, uncle,” said Charles, reproachfully, “why
you, with such apparent readiness, agreed to this duel taking place.”
“Well, I intended to fight the fellow myself, that’s the long and short
of it, boy.”
“How could you treat me so?”
“No nonsense, Charles. I tell you it was all in the family. I intended
to fight him myself. What was the odds whether I slipped my cable with
his assistance, or in the regular course a little after this? That’s
the way to argufy the subject; so, as I tell you, I made up my mind to
fight him myself.”
Charles looked despairingly, but said,—
“What was the result?”
“Oh, the result! D—n me, I suppose that’s to come. The vagabond won’t
fight like a Christian. He says he’s quite willing to fight anybody
that calls him out, provided it’s all regular.”
“Well—well.”
“And he, being the party challenged—for he says he never himself
challenges anybody, as he is quite tired of it—must have his choice of
weapons.”
“He is entitled to that; but it is generally understood now-a-days that
pistols are the weapons in use among gentlemen for such purposes.”
“Ah, but he won’t understand any such thing, I tell you. He will fight
with swords.”
“I suppose he is, then, an adept at the use of the sword?”
“He says he is.”
“No doubt—no doubt. I cannot blame a man for choosing, when he has
the liberty of choice, that weapon in the use of which he most
particularly, from practice, excels.”
“Yes; but if he be one half the swordsman he has had time enough,
according to all accounts, to be, what sort of chance have you with
him?”
“Do I hear you reasoning thus?”
“Yes, to be sure you do. I have turned wonderfully prudent, you see; so
I mean to fight him myself, and mind, now, you have nothing whatever to
do with it.”
“An effort of prudence that, certainly.”
“Well, didn’t I say so?”
“Come—come, uncle, this won’t do. I have challenged Sir Francis Varney,
and I must meet him with any weapon he may, as the challenged party,
choose to select. Besides, you are not, I dare say, aware that I am a
very good fencer, and probably stand as fair a chance as Varney in a
contest with swords.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, uncle. I could not be so long on the continent as I have been
without picking up a good knowledge of the sword, which is so popular
all over Germany.”
“Humph! but only consider, this d—d fellow is no less than a hundred
and fifty years old.”
“I care not.”
“Yes, but I do.”
“Uncle, uncle, I tell you I will fight with him; and if you do not
arrange matters for me so that I can have the meeting with this man,
which I have myself sought, and cannot, even if I wished, now recede
from with honour, I must seek some other less scrupulous friend to do
so.”
“Give me an hour or two to think of it, Charles,” said the admiral.
“Don’t speak to any one else, but give me a little time. You shall have
no cause of complaint. Your honour cannot suffer in my hands.”
“I will wait your leisure, uncle; but remember that such affairs as
these, when once broached, had always better be concluded with all
convenient dispatch.”
“I know that, boy—I know that.”
The admiral walked away, and Charles, who really felt much fretted at
the delay which had taken place, returned to the house.
He had not been there long, when a lad, who had been temporarily hired
during the morning by Henry to answer the gate, brought him a note,
saying,—
“A servant, sir, left this for you just now.”
“For me?” said Charles, as he glanced at the direction. “This is
strange, for I have no acquaintance about here. Does any one wait?”
“No, sir.”
The note was properly directed to him, therefore Charles Holland at
once opened it. A glance at the bottom of the page told him that it
came from his enemy, Sir Francis Varney, and then he read it with much
eagerness. It ran thus:—
“+Sir+,—Your uncle, as he stated himself to be, Admiral Bell,
was the bearer to me, as I understood him this day, of a
challenge from you. Owing to some unaccountable hallucination
of intellect, he seemed to imagine that I intended to set
myself up as a sort of animated target, for any one to shoot at
who might have a fancy so to do.
“According to this eccentric view of the case, the admiral had
the kindness to offer to fight me first, when, should he not
have the good fortune to put me out of the world, you were to
try your skill, doubtless.
“I need scarcely say that I object to these family
arrangements. You have challenged me, and, fancying the offence
sufficient, you defy me to mortal combat. If, therefore, I
fight with any one at all, it must be with you.
“You will clearly understand me, sir, that I do not accuse
you of being at all privy to this freak of intellect of your
uncle’s. He, no doubt, alone conceived it, with a laudable
desire on his part of serving you. If, however, to meet me, do
so to-night, in the middle of the park surrounding your own
friends estate.
“There is a pollard oak growing close to a small pool; you,
no doubt, have noticed the spot often. Meet me there, if you
please, and any satisfaction you like I will give you, at
twelve o’clock this night.
“Come alone, or you will not see me. It shall be at your own
option entirely, to convert the meeting into a hostile one or
not. You need send me no answer to this. If you are at the
place I mention at the time I have named, well and good. If you
an not, I can only, if I please, imagine that you shrink from a
meeting with
“+Francis Varney+.”
Charles Holland read this letter twice over carefully, and then folding
it up, and placing it in his pocket, he said,—
“Yes, I will meet him; he may be assured that I will meet him. He shall
find that I do not shrink from Francis Varney. In the name of honour,
love, virtue, and Heaven, I will meet this man, and it shall go hard
with me but I will this night wring from him the secret of what he
really is. For the sake of her who is so dear to me—for her sake, I
will meet this man, or monster, be he what he may.”
It would have been far more prudent had Charles informed Henry
Bannerworth or George of his determination to meet the vampyre that
evening, but he did not do so. Somehow he fancied it would be some
reproach against his courage if he did not go, and go alone, too, for
he could not help suspecting that, from the conduct of his uncle, Sir
Francis Varney might have got up an opinion inimical to his courage.
With all the eager excitement of youth, there was nothing that arrayed
itself to his mind in such melancholy and uncomfortable colours as an
imputation upon his courage.
“I will show this vampyre, if he be such,” he said, “that I am not
afraid to meet him, and alone, too, at his own hour—at midnight, even
when, if his preternatural powers be of more avail to him than at any
other time, he can attempt, if he dare, to use them.”
Charles resolved upon going armed, and with the greatest care he loaded
his pistols, and placed them aside ready for action, when the time
should come to set out to meet the vampyre at the spot in the park
which had been particularly alluded to in his letter.
This spot was perfectly well known to Charles; indeed, no one could
be a single day at Bannerworth Hall without noticing it, so prominent
an object was that pollard oak, standing, as it did, alone, with the
beautiful green sward all around it. Near to it was the pool which had
been mentioned, which was, in reality, a fish-pond, and some little
distance off commenced the thick plantation, among the intricacies
of which Sir Francis Varney, or the vampyre, had been supposed to
disappear, after the revivification of his body at the full of the moon.
This spot was in view of several of the windows of the house, so that
if the night should happen to be a very light one, and any of the
inhabitants of the Hall should happen to have the curiosity to look
from those particular windows, no doubt the meeting between Charles
Holland and the vampyre would be seen.
This, however, was a contingency which was nothing to Charles, whatever
it might be to Sir Francis Varney, and he scarcely at all considered
it as worth consideration. He felt more happy and comfortable now that
everything seemed to be definitively arranged by which he could come
to some sort of explanation with that mysterious being who had so
effectually, as yet, succeeded in destroying his peace of mind and his
prospects of happiness.
“I will this night force him to declare himself,” thought Charles.
“He shall tell me who and what he really is, and by some means I will
endeavour to put an end to those frightful persecutions which Flora has
suffered.”
This was a thought which considerably raised Charles’s spirits, and
when he sought Flora again, which he now did, she was surprised to see
him so much more easy and composed in his mind, which was sufficiently
shown by his manner, than he had been but so short a time before.
“Charles,” she said, “what has happened to give such an impetus to your
spirits?”
“Nothing, dear Flora, nothing; but I have been endeavouring to throw
from my mind all gloomy thoughts, and to convince myself that in the
future you and I, dearest, may yet be very happy.”
“Oh, Charles, if I could but think so.”
“Endeavour, Flora, to think so. Remember how much our happiness is
always in our own power, Flora, and that, let fate do her worst, so
long as we are true to each other, we have a recompense for every ill.”
“Oh, indeed, Charles, that is a dear recompense.”
“And it is well that no force of circumstances short of death itself
can divide us.”
“True, Charles, true, and I am more than ever now bound to look upon
you with a loving heart; for have you not clung to me generously under
circumstances which, if any at all could have justified you in rending
asunder every tie which bound us together, surely would have done so
most fully.”
“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.”