THE MEETING BY MOONLIGHT IN THE PARK.—THE TURRET WINDOW IN THE
HALL.—THE LETTERS.
The old admiral showed such a strong disposition to take offence at
Charles if he should presume, for a moment, to doubt the truth of the
narrative that was thus communicated to him, that the latter would not
anger him by so doing, but confined his observations upon it to saying
that he considered it was very wonderful, and very extraordinary, and
so on, which very well satisfied the old man.
The day was now, however, getting far advanced, and Charles Holland
began to think of his engagement with the vampyre. He read and read
the letter over and over again, but he could not come to a correct
conclusion as to whether it intended to imply that he, Sir Francis
Varney, would wish to fight him at the hour and place mentioned, or
merely give him a meeting as a preliminary step.
He was rather, on the whole, inclined to think that some explanation
would be offered by Varney, but at all events he persevered in his
determination of going well armed, lest anything in the shape of
treachery should be intended.
As nothing of any importance occurred now in the interval of time till
nearly midnight, we will at once step to that time, and our readers
will suppose it to be a quarter to twelve o’clock at night, and
young Charles Holland on the point of leaving the house, to keep his
appointment by the pollard oak, with the mysterious Sir Francis Varney.
He placed his loaded pistols conveniently in his pocket, so that at a
moment’s notice he could lay hands on them, and then wrapping himself
up in a travelling cloak he had brought with him to Bannerworth Hall,
he prepared to leave his chamber.
The moon still shone, although now somewhat on the wane, and although
there were certainly many clouds in the sky they were but of a light
fleecy character, and very little interrupted the rays of light that
came from the nearly full disc of the moon.
From his window he could not perceive the spot in the park where he
was to meet Varney, because the room in which he was occupied not a
sufficiently high place in the house to enable him to look over a belt
of trees that stopped the view. From almost any of the upper windows
the pollard oak could be seen.
It so happened now that the admiral had been placed in a room
immediately above the one occupied by his nephew, and, as his mind
was full of how he should manage with regard to arranging the
preliminaries of the duel between Charles and Varney on the morrow, he
found it difficult to sleep; and after remaining in bed about twenty
minutes, and finding that each moment he was only getting more and
more restless, he adopted a course which he always did under such
circumstances.
He rose and dressed himself again, intending to sit up for an hour and
then turn into bed and try a second time to get to sleep. But he had no
means of getting a light, so he drew the heavy curtain from before the
window, and let in as much of the moonlight as he could.
This window commanded a most beautiful and extensive view, for from it
the eye could carry completely over the tops of the tallest trees, so
that there was no interruption whatever to the prospect, which was as
extensive as it was delightful.
Even the admiral, who never would confess to seeing much beauty in
scenery where water formed not a large portion of it, could not resist
opening his window and looking out, with a considerable degree of
admiration, upon wood and dale, as they were illuminated by the moon’s
rays, softened, and rendered, if anything, more beautiful by the light
vapours, through which they had to struggle to make their way.
Charles Holland, in order to avoid the likelihood of meeting with any
one who would question him as to where he was going, determined upon
leaving his room by the balcony, which, as we are aware, presented
ample facilities for his so doing.
He cast a glance at the portrait in the panel before he left the
apartment, and then saying—
“For you, dear Flora, for you I essay this meeting with the fearful
original of that portrait,” he immediately opened his window, and
stepped out on to the balcony.
Young and active as was Charles Holland, to descend from that balcony
presented to him no difficulty whatever, and he was, in a very few
moments, safe in the garden of Bannerworth Hall.
He never thought, for a moment, to look up, or he would, in an instant,
have seen the white head of his old uncle, as it was projected over the
sill of the window of his chamber.
[Illustration: The admiral watches Charles’s midnight departure from
the Hall.]
The drop of Charles from the balcony of his window, just made
sufficient noise to attract the admiral’s attention, and, then, before
he could think of making any alarm, he saw Charles walking hastily
across a grass plot, which was sufficiently in the light of the moon to
enable the admiral at once to recognise him, and leave no sort of doubt
as to his positive identity.
Of course, upon discovering that it was Charles, the necessity for
making an alarm no longer existed, and, indeed, not knowing what it
was that had induced him to leave his chamber, a moment’s reflection
suggested to him the propriety of not even calling to Charles, lest he
should defeat some discovery which he might be about to make.
“He has heard something, or seen something,” thought the admiral, “and
is gone to find out what it is. I only wish I was with him; but up here
I can do nothing at all, that’s quite clear.”
Charles, he saw, walked very rapidly, and like a man who has some fixed
destination which he wishes to reach as quickly as possible.
When he dived among the trees which skirted one side of the flower
gardens, the admiral was more puzzled than ever, and he said—
“Now where on earth is he off to? He is fully dressed, and has his
cloak about him.”
After a few moments’ reflection he decided that, having seen something
suspicious, Charles must have got up, and dressed himself, to fathom it.
The moment this idea became fairly impressed upon his mind, he left his
bedroom, and descended to where one of the brothers he knew was sitting
up, keeping watch during the night. It was Henry who was so on guard;
and when the admiral came into the room, he uttered an expression of
surprise to find him up, for it was now some time past twelve o’clock.
“I have come to tell you that Charles has left the house,” said the
admiral.
“Left the house?”
“Yes; I saw him just now go across the garden.”
“And you are sure it was he?”
“Quite sure. I saw him by the moonlight cross the green plot.”
“Then you may depend he has seen or heard something, and gone alone to
find out what it is rather than give any alarm.”
“That is just what I think.”
“It must be so. I will follow him, if you can show me exactly which way
he went.”
“That I can easily. And in case I should have made any mistake, which
it is not at all likely, we can go to his room first and see if it is
empty.”
“A good thought, certainly; that will at once put an end to all doubt
upon the question.”
They both immediately proceeded to Charles’s room, and then the
admiral’s accuracy of identification of his nephew was immediately
proved by finding that Charles was not there, and that the window was
wide open.
“You see I am right,” said the admiral.
“You are,” cried Henry; “but what have we here?”
“Where?”
“Here on the dressing-table. Here are no less than three letters, all
laid as it on purpose to catch the eye of the first one who might enter
the room.”
“Indeed!”
“You perceive them?”
Henry held them to the light, and after a moment’s inspection of them,
he said, in a voice of much surprise,—
“Good God! what is the meaning of this?”
“The meaning of what?”
“The letters are addressed to parties in the house here. Do you not
see?”
“To whom?”
“One to Admiral Bell——”
“The deuce!”
“Another to me, and the third to my sister Flora. There is some new
mystery here.”
The admiral looked at the superscription of one of the letters which
was handed to him in silent amazement. Then he cried,—
“Set down the light, and let us read them.”
Henry did so, and then they simultaneously opened the epistles which
were severally addressed to them. There was a silence, as of the very
grave, for some moments, and then the old admiral staggered to a seat,
as he exclaimed,—
“Am I dreaming—am I dreaming?”
“Is this possible?” said Henry, in a voice of deep emotion, as he
allowed the note addressed to him to drop on to the floor.
“D—n it, what does yours say?” cried the old admiral, in a louder tone.
“Read it—what says yours?”
“Read it—I’m amazed.”
The letters were exchanged, and read by each with the same breathless
attention they had bestowed upon their own; after which, they both
looked at each other in silence, pictures of amazement, and the most
absolute state of bewilderment.
Not to keep our readers in suspense, we at once transcribe each of
these letters.
The one to the admiral contained these words,—
“+My dear Uncle+,
“Of course you will perceive the prudence of keeping this
letter to yourself, but the fact is, I have now made up my mind
to leave Bannerworth Hall.
“Flora Bannerworth is not now the person she was when first I
knew her and loved her. Such being the case, and she having
altered, not I, she cannot accuse me of fickleness.
“I still love the Flora Bannerworth I first knew, but I cannot
make my wife one who is subject to the visitations of a vampyre.
“I have remained here long enough now to satisfy myself that
this vampyre business is no delusion. I am quite convinced
that it is a positive fact, and that, after death, Flora will
herself become one of the horrible existences known by that
name.
“I will communicate to you from the first large city on the
continent whither I am going, at which I make any stay, and in
the meantime, make what excuses you like at Bannerworth Hall,
which I advise you to leave as quickly as you can, and believe
me to be, my dear uncle, yours truly,
“+Charles Holland+.”
Henry’s letter was this:—
“+My dear Sir+,
“If you calmly and dispassionately consider the painful and
distressing circumstances in which your family are placed,
I am sure that, far from blaming me for the step which this
note will announce to you I have taken, you will be the first
to give me credit for acting with an amount of prudence and
foresight which was highly necessary under the circumstances.
“If the supposed visits of a vampyre to your sister Flora had
turned out, as first I hoped they would, a delusion, and been
in any satisfactory manner explained away I should certainly
have felt pride and pleasure in fulfilling my engagement to
that young lady.
“You must, however, yourself feel that the amount of evidence
in favour of a belief that an actual vampyre has visited Flora,
enforces a conviction of its truth.
“I cannot, therefore, make her my wife under such very singular
circumstances.
“Perhaps you may blame me for not taking at once advantage of
the permission given me to forego my engagement when first I
came to your house; but the fact is, I did not then in the
least believe in the existence of the vampyre, but since a
positive conviction of that most painful fact has now forced
itself upon me, I beg to decline the honour of an alliance
which I had at one time looked forward to with the most
considerable satisfaction.
“I shall be on the continent as fast as conveyances can take
me, therefore, should you entertain any romantic notions of
calling me to an account for a course of proceeding I think
perfectly and fully justifiable, you will not find me.
“Accept the assurances of my respect for yourself and pity for
your sister, and believe me to be, my dear sir, your sincere
friend,
“+Charles Holland+.”
These two letters might well make the admiral stare at Henry
Bannerworth, and Henry stare at him.
An occurrence so utterly and entirely unexpected by both of them, was
enough to make them doubt the evidence of their own senses. But there
were the letters, as a damning evidence of the outrageous fact, and
Charles Holland was gone.
It was the admiral who first recovered from the stunning effect of the
epistles, and he, with a gesture of perfect fury, exclaimed,—
“The scoundrel—the cold-blooded villain! I renounce him for ever! he is
no nephew of mine; he is some d—d imposter! Nobody with a dash of my
family blood in his veins would have acted so to save himself from a
thousand deaths.”
“Who shall we trust now,” said Henry, “when those whom we take to our
inmost hearts deceive us thus? This is the greatest shock I have yet
received. If there be a pang greater than another, surely it is to
be found in the faithlessness and heartlessness of one we loved and
trusted.”
“He is a scoundrel!” roared the admiral. “D—n him, he’ll die on a
dunghill, and that’s too good a place for him. I cast him off—I’ll
find him out, and old as I am, I’ll fight him—I’ll wring his neck, the
rascal; and, as for poor dear Miss Flora, God bless her! I’ll—I’ll
marry her myself, and make her an admiral.—I’ll marry her myself. Oh,
that I should be uncle to such a rascal!”
“Calm yourself,” said Henry, “no one can blame you.”
“Yes, you can; I had no right to be his uncle, and I was an old fool to
love him.”
The old man sat down, and his voice became broken with emotion as he
said,—
“Sir, I tell you I would have died willingly rather than this should
have happened. This will kill me now,—I shall die now of shame and
grief.”
Tears gushed from the admiral’s eyes and the sight of the noble old
man’s emotion did much to calm the anger of Henry which, although he
said but little, was boiling at his heart like a volcano.
“Admiral Bell,” he said, “you have nothing to do with this business;
we can not blame you for the heartlessness of another. I have but one
favour to ask of you.”
“What—what can I do?”
“Say no more about him at all.”
“I can’t help saying something about him. You ought to turn me out of
the house.”
“Heaven forbid! What for?”
“Because I’m his uncle—his d—d old fool of an uncle, that always
thought so much of him.”
“Nay, my good sir, that was a fault on the right side, and cannot
discredit you. I thought him the most perfect of human beings.”
“Oh, if I could but have guessed this.”
“It was impossible. Such duplicity never was equalled in this world—it
was impossible to foresee it.”
“Hold—hold! did he give you fifty pounds?”
“What?”
“Did he give you fifty pounds?”
“Give me fifty pounds! Most decidedly not; what made you think of such
a thing?”
“Because to-day he borrowed fifty pounds of me, he said, to lend to
you.”
“I never heard of the transaction until this moment.”
“The villain!”
“No, doubt, sir, he wanted that amount to expedite his progress abroad.”
“Well, now, damme, if an angel had come to me and said ‘Hilloa! Admiral
Bell, your nephew, Charles Holland, is a thundering rogue,’ I should
have said ‘You’re a liar!’”
“This is fighting against facts, my dear sir. He is gone—mention him no
more; forget him, as I shall endeavour myself to do, and persuade my
poor sister to do.”
“Poor girl! what can we say to her?”
“Nothing, but give her all the letters, and let her be at once
satisfied of the worthlessness of him she loved.”
“The best way. Her woman’s pride will then come to her help.”
“I hope it will. She is of an honourable race, and I am sure she will
not condescend to shed a tear for such a man as Charles Holland has
proved himself to be.”
“D—n him, I’ll find him out, and make him fight you. He shall give you
satisfaction.”
“No, no.”
“No? But he shall.”
“I cannot fight with him.”
“You cannot?”
“Certainly not. He is too far beneath me now. I cannot fight on
honourable terms with one whom I despise as too dishonourable to
contend with. I have nothing now but silence and contempt.”
“I have though, for I’ll break his neck when I see him, or he shall
break mine. The villain! I’m ashamed to stay here, my young friend.”
“How mistaken a view you take of this matter, my dear sir. As Admiral
Bell, a gentleman, a brave officer, and a man of the purest and most
unblemished honour, you confer a distinction upon us by your presence
here.”
The admiral wrung Henry by the hand, as he said,—
“To-morrow—wait till to-morrow; we will talk over this matter to
morrow—I cannot to-night, I have not patience; but to-morrow, my dear
boy, we will have it all out. God bless you. Good night.”