THE NOBLE CONFIDENCE OF FLORA BANNERWORTH IN HER LOVER.—HER OPINION OF
THE THREE LETTERS.—THE ADMIRAL’S ADMIRATION.
To describe the feelings of Henry Bannerworth on the occasion of this
apparent defalcation from the path of rectitude and honour by his
friend, as he had fondly imagined Charles Holland to be, would be next
to impossible.
If, as we have taken occasion to say, it be a positive fact, that a
noble and a generous mind feels more acutely any heartlessness of this
description from one on whom it has placed implicit confidence, than
the most deliberate and wicked of injuries from absolute strangers, we
can easily conceive that Henry Bannerworth was precisely the person to
feel most acutely the conduct which all circumstances appeared to fix
upon Charles Holland, upon whose faith, truth, and honour, he would
have staked his very existence but a few short hours before.
With such a bewildered sensation that he scarcely knew where he walked
or whither to betake himself, did he repair to his own chamber, and
there he strove, with what energy he was able to bring to the task, to
find out some excuses, if he could, for Charles’s conduct. But he could
find none. View it in what light he would, it presented but a picture
of the most heartless selfishness it had ever been his lot to encounter.
The tone of the letters, too, which Charles had written, materially
aggravated the moral delinquency of which he had been guilty; better,
far better, had he not attempted an excuse at all than have attempted
such excuses as were there put down in those epistles.
A more cold blooded, dishonourable proceeding could not possibly be
conceived.
It would appear, that while he entertained a doubt with regard to the
reality of the visitation of the vampyre to Flora Bannerworth, he
had been willing to take to himself abundance of credit for the most
honourable feelings, and to induce a belief in the minds of all that an
exalted feeling of honour, as well as a true affection that would know
no change, kept him at the feet of her whom he loved.
Like some braggart, who, when there is no danger, is a very hero, but
who, the moment he feels convinced he will be actually and truly called
upon for an exhibition of his much-vaunted prowess, had Charles Holland
deserted the beautiful girl, who, if anything, had now certainly, in
her misfortunes, a far higher claim upon his kindly feeling than before.
Henry could not sleep, although, at the request of George, who offered
to keep watch for him the remainder of the night he attempted to do so.
He in vain said to himself, “I will banish from my mind this most
unworthy subject. I have told Admiral Bell that contempt is the only
feeling I can now have for his nephew, and yet I now find myself
dwelling upon him, and upon his conduct, with a perseverance which is a
foe to my repose.”
At length came the welcome and beautiful light of day, and Henry rose
fevered and unrefreshed.
His first impulse now was to hold a consultation with his brother
George, as to what was to be done, and George advised that Mr.
Marchdale, who as yet knew nothing of the matter, should be immediately
informed of it, and consulted, as being probably better qualified than
either of them to come to a just, a cool, and a reasonable opinion upon
the painful circumstance, which it could not be expected that either of
them would be able to view calmly.
“Let it be so, then,” said Henry; “Mr. Marchdale shall decide for us.”
They at once sought this friend of the family, who was in his own
bed-room, and when Henry knocked at the door, Marchdale opened it
hurriedly, eagerly inquiring what was the matter.
“There is no alarm,” said Henry. “We have only come to tell you of
a circumstance which has occurred during the night, and which will
somewhat surprise you.”
“Nothing calamitous, I hope?”
“Vexatious; and yet, I think it is a matter upon which we ought almost
to congratulate ourselves. Read those two letters, and give us your
candid opinion upon them.”
Henry placed in Mr. Marchdale’s hands the letter addressed to himself,
as well as that to the admiral.
Marchdale read them both with marked attention, but he did not exhibit
in his countenance so much surprise as regret.
When he had finished, Henry said to him,—
“Well, Marchdale, what think you of this new and extraordinary episode
in our affairs?”
“My dear young friends,” said Marchdale, in a voice of great emotion,
“I know not what to say to you. I have no doubt but that you are both
of you much astonished at the receipt of these letters, and equally so
at the sudden absence of Charles Holland.”
“And are not you?”
“Not so much as you, doubtless, are. The fact is, I never did entertain
a favourable opinion of the young man, and he knew it. I have been
accustomed to the study of human nature under a variety of aspects; I
have made it a matter of deep, and I may add, sorrowful, contemplation,
to study and remark those minor shades of character which commonly
escape observation wholly. And, I repeat, I always had a bad opinion of
Charles Holland, which he guessed, and hence he conceived a hatred to
me, which more than once, as you cannot but remember, showed itself in
little acts of opposition and hostility.”
“You much surprise me.”
“I expected to do so. But you cannot help remembering that at one time
I was on the point of leaving here solely on his account.”
“You were so.”
“Indeed I should have done so, but that I reasoned with myself upon the
subject, and subdued the impulse of the anger which some years ago,
when I had not seen so much of the world, would have guided me.”
“But why did you not impart to us your suspicions? We should at least,
then, have been prepared for such a contingency as has occurred.”
“Place yourself in my position, and then ask yourself what you would
have done. Suspicion is one of those hideous things which all men
should be most specially careful not only how they entertain at all,
but how they give expression to. Besides, whatever may be the amount of
one’s own internal conviction with regard to the character of any one,
there is just a possibility that one may be wrong.”
“True, true.”
“That possibility ought to keep any one silent who has nothing but
suspicion to go upon, however cautious it may make him, as regards
his dealings with the individual. I only suspected from little minute
shades of character, that would peep out in spite of him, that Charles
Holland was not the honourable man he would fain have had everybody
believe him to be.”
“And had you from the first such a feeling?”
“I had.”
“It is very strange.”
“Yes; and what is more strange still, is that he from the first seemed
to know it; and despite a caution which I could see he always kept
uppermost in his thoughts, he could not help speaking tartly to me at
times.”
“I have noticed that,” said George.
“You may depend it is a fact,” added Marchdale, “that nothing so much
excites the deadly and desperate hatred of a man who is acting a
hypocritical part, as the suspicion, well grounded or not, that another
sees and understands the secret impulses of his dishonourable heart.”
“I cannot blame you, or any one else, Mr. Marchdale,” said Henry, “that
you did not give utterance to your secret thoughts, but I do wish that
you had done so.”
“Nay, dear Henry,” replied Mr. Marchdale, “believe me, I have made this
matter a subject of deep thought, and have abundance of reasons why I
ought not to have spoken to you upon the subject.”
“Indeed!”
“Indeed I have, and not among the least important is the one, that if
I had acquainted you with my suspicions, you would have found yourself
in the painful position of acting a hypocritical part yourself towards
this Charles Holland, for you must either have kept the secret that he
was suspected, or you must have shewn it to him by your behaviour.”
“Well, well. I dare say, Marchdale, you acted for the best. What shall
we do now?”
“Can you doubt?”
“I was thinking of letting Flora at once know the absolute and complete
worthlessness of her lover, so that she could have no difficulty in
at once tearing herself from him by the assistance of the natural
pride which would surely come to her aid, upon finding herself so much
deceived.”
“The test may be possible.”
“You think so?”
“I do, indeed.”
“Here is a letter, which of course remains unopened, addressed to
Flora by Charles Holland. The admiral rather thought it would hurt her
feelings to deliver her such an epistle, but I must confess I am of a
contrary opinion upon that point, and think now the more evidence she
has of the utter worthlessness of him who professed to love her with
so much disinterested affection, the better it will be for her.”
“You could not, possibly, Henry, have taken a more sensible view of the
subject.”
“I am glad you agree with me.”
“No reasonable man could do otherwise, and from what I have seen of
Admiral Bell, I am sure, upon reflection, he will be of the same
opinion.”
“Then it shall be so. The first shock to poor Flora may be severe,
but we shall then have the consolation of knowing that it is the only
one, and that in knowing the very worst, she has no more on that score
to apprehend. Alas, alas! the hand of misfortune now appears to have
pressed heavily upon us indeed. What in the name of all that is unlucky
and disastrous, will happen next, I wonder?”
“What can happen?” said Marchdale; “I think you have now got rid of the
greatest evil of all—a false friend.”
“We have, indeed.”
“Go, then, to Flora; assure her that in the affection of others who
know no falsehood, she will find a solace from every ill. Assure her
that there are hearts that will place themselves between her and every
misfortune.”
Mr. Marchdale was much affected as he spoke. Probably he felt deeper
than he chose to express the misfortunes of that family for whom he
entertained so much friendship. He turned aside his head to hide the
traces of emotion which, despite even his great powers of self-command,
would shew themselves upon his handsome and intelligent countenance.
Then it appeared as if his noble indignation had got, for a few brief
moments, the better of all prudence, and he exclaimed,—
“The villain! the worse than villain! who would, with a thousand
artifices, make himself beloved by a young, unsuspecting, and beautiful
girl, but then to leave her to the bitterness of regret, that she had
ever given such a man a place in her esteem. The heartless ruffian!”
“Be calm, Mr. Marchdale, I pray you be calm,” said George; “I never saw
you so much moved.”
“Excuse me,” he said, “excuse me; I am much moved, and I am human. I
cannot always, let me strive my utmost, place a curb upon my feelings.”
“They are feelings which do you honour.”
“Nay, nay, I am foolish to have suffered myself to be led away into
such a hasty expression of them. I am accustomed to feel acutely and to
feel deeply, but it is seldom I am so much overcome as this.”
“Will you accompany us to the breakfast room at once, Mr. Marchdale,
where we will make this communication to Flora; you will then be able
to judge by her manner of receiving it, what it will be best to say to
her.”
“Come, then, and pray be calm. The least that is said upon this painful
and harassing subject, after this morning, will be the best.”
“You are right—you are right.”
Mr. Marchdale hastily put on his coat. He was dressed, with the
exception of that one article of apparel, when the brothers came to his
chamber, and then he came to the breakfast-parlour where the painful
communication was to be made to Flora of her lover’s faithlessness.
Flora was already seated in that apartment. Indeed, she had been
accustomed to meet Charles Holland there before others of the family
made their appearance, but, alas! this morning the kind and tender
lover was not there.
The expression that sat upon the countenances of her brothers, and of
Mr. Marchdale, was quite sufficient to convince her that something more
serious than usual had occurred, and she at the moment turned very
pale. Marchdale observed this change of change of countenance in her,
and he advanced towards her, saying,—
“Calm yourself, Flora, we have something to communicate to you, but it
is a something which should excite indignation, and no other feeling,
in your breast.”
[Illustration: Flora’s agony on the disappearance of Charles Holland.]
“Brother, what is the meaning of this?” said Flora, turning aside from
Marchdale, and withdrawing the hand which he would have taken.
“I would rather have Admiral Bell here before I say anything,” said
Henry, “regarding a matter in which he cannot but feel much interested
personally.”
“Here he is,” said the admiral, who at that moment had opened the door
of the breakfast room. “Here he is, so now fire away, and don’t spare
the enemy.”
“And Charles?” said Flora, “where is Charles?”
“D—n Charles!” cried the admiral, who had not been much accustomed to
control his feelings.
“Hush! hush!” said Henry; “my dear sir, hush! do not indulge now in
any invectives. Flora, here are three letters; you will see that the
one which is unopened is addressed to yourself. However, we wish you
to read the whole three of them, and then to form your own free and
unbiased opinion.”
Flora looked as pale as a marble statue, when she took the letters into
her hands. She let the two that were open fall on the table before
her, while she eagerly broke the seal of that which was addressed to
herself.
Henry, with an instinctive delicacy, beckoned every one present to the
window, so that Flora had not the pain of feeling that any eyes were
fixed upon her but those of her mother, who had just come into the
room, while she was perusing those documents which told such a tale of
heartless dissimulation.
“My dear child,” said Mrs. Bannerworth, “you are ill.”
“Hush! mother—hush!” said Flora, “let me know all.”
She read the whole of the letters through, and then, as the last one
dropped from her grasp, she exclaimed,—
“Oh, God! oh, God! what is all that has occurred compared to this?
Charles—Charles—Charles!”
“Flora!” exclaimed Henry, suddenly turning from the window. “Flora, is
this worthy of you?”
“Heaven now support me!”
“Is this worthy of the name you bear, Flora? I should have thought,
and I did hope, that woman’s pride would have supported you.”
“Let me implore you,” added Marchdale, “to summon indignation to your
aid, Miss Bannerworth.”
“Charles—Charles—Charles!” she again exclaimed, as she wrung her hands
despairingly.
“Flora, if anything could add a sting to my already irritated
feelings,” said Henry, “this conduct of yours would.”
“Henry—brother, what mean you? Are you mad?”
“Are you, Flora?”
“God, I wish now that I was.”
“You have read those letters, and yet you call upon the name of him who
wrote them with frantic tenderness.”
“Yes, yes,” she cried; “frantic tenderness is the word. It is with
frantic tenderness I call upon his name, and ever will.—Charles!
Charles!—dear Charles!”
“This surpasses all belief,” said Marchdale.
“It is the frenzy of grief,” added George; “but I did not expect it of
her. Flora—Flora, think again.”
“Think—think—the rush of thought distracts. Whence came these
letters?—where did you find these most disgraceful forgeries?”
“Forgeries!” exclaimed Henry; and he staggered back, as if someone had
struck him a blow.
“Yes, forgeries!” screamed Flora. “What has become of Charles Holland?
Has he been murdered by some secret enemy, and then these most vile
fabrications made up in his name? Oh, Charles, Charles, are you lost to
me for ever?”
[Illustration: Flora disowns the letters of Charles Holland as being
forgeries.]
“Good God!” said Henry; “I did not think of that.”
“Madness!—madness!” cried Marchdale.
“Hold!” shouted the admiral. “Let me speak to her.”
He pushed every one aside, and advanced to Flora. He seized both her
hands in his own, and in a tone of voice that was struggling with
feeling, he cried,—
“Look at me, my dear; I’m an old man—old enough to be your grandfather,
so you needn’t mind looking me steadily in the face. Look at me, I want
to ask you a question.”
Flora raised her beautiful eyes, and looked the old weather-beaten
admiral full in the face.
Oh! what a striking contrast did those two persons present to each
other. That young and beautiful girl, with her small, delicate,
childlike hands clasped, and completely hidden in the huge ones of the
old sailor, the white, smooth skin contrasting wonderfully with his
wrinkled, hardened features.
“My dear,” he cried, “you have read those—those d——d letters, my dear?”
“I have, sir.”
“And what do you think of them?”
“They were not written by Charles Holland, your nephew.”
A choking sensation seemed to come over the old man, and he tried to
speak, but in vain. He shook the hands of the young girl violently,
until he saw that he was hurting her, and then, before she could be
aware of what he was about, he gave her a kiss on the cheek, as he
cried,—
“God bless you—God bless you! You are the sweetest, dearest little
creature that ever was, or that ever will be, and I’m a d——d old fool,
that’s what I am. These letters were not written by my nephew, Charles.
He is incapable of writing them, and, d—n me, I shall take shame to
myself as long as I live for ever thinking so.”
“Dear sir,” said Flora, who somehow or another did not seem at all
offended at the kiss which the old man had given her; “dear sir, how
could you believe, for one moment, that they came from him? There has
been some desperate villany on foot. Where is he?—oh, find him, if he
be yet alive. If they who have thus striven to steal from him that
honour, which is the jewel of his heart, have murdered him, seek them
out, sir, in the sacred name of justice, I implore you.”
“I will—I will. I don’t renounce him; he is my nephew still—Charles
Holland—my own dear sister’s son; and you are the best girl, God bless
you, that ever breathed. He loved you—he loves you still; and if he’s
above ground, poor fellow, he shall yet tell you himself he never saw
those infamous letters.”
“You—you will seek for him?” sobbed Flora, and the tears gushed from
her eyes. “Upon you, sir, who, as I do, feel assured of his innocence,
I alone rely. If all the world say he is guilty, we will not think so.”
“I’m d——d if we do.”
Henry had sat down by the table, and, with his hands clasped together,
seemed in an agony of thought.
He was now roused by a thump on the back by the admiral, who cried,—
“What do you think, now, old fellow? D—n it, things look a little
different now.”
“As God is my judge,” said Henry, holding up his hands, “I know not
what to think, but my heart and feelings all go with you and with
Flora, in your opinion of the innocence of Charles Holland.”
“I knew you would say that, because you could not possibly help it, my
dear boy. Now we are all right again, and all we have got to do is to
find out which way the enemy has gone, and then give chase to him.”
“Mr. Marchdale, what do you think of this new suggestion,” said George
to that gentleman.
“Pray, excuse me,” was his reply; “I would much rather not be called
upon to give an opinion.”
“Why, what do you mean by that?” said the admiral.
“Precisely what I say, sir.”
“D—n me, we had a fellow once in the combined fleets, who never had an
opinion till after something had happened, and then he always said that
was just what he thought.”
“I was never in the combined, or any other fleet, sir,” said Marchdale,
coldly.
“Who the devil said you were?” roared the admiral.
Marchdale merely hawed.
“However,” added the admiral, “I don’t care, and never did, for
anybody’s opinion, when I know I am right. I’d back this dear girl here
for opinions, and good feelings, and courage to express them, against
all the world, I would, any day. If I was not the old hulk I am, I
would take a cruise in any latitude under the sun, if it was only for
the chance of meeting with just such another.”
“Oh, lose no time!” said Flora. “If Charles is not to be found in
the house, lose no time in searching for him, I pray you; seek him,
wherever there is the remotest probability he may chance to be. Do not
let him think he is deserted.”
“Not a bit of it,” cried the admiral. “You make your mind easy, my
dear. If he’s above ground, we shall find him out, you may depend upon
it. Come along master Henry, you and I will consider what had best be
done in this uncommonly ugly matter.”
Henry and George followed the admiral from the breakfast-room, leaving
Marchdale there, who looked serious and full of melancholy thought.
It was quite clear that he considered Flora had spoken from the
generous warmth of her affection as regarded Charles Holland, and not
from the convictions which reason would have enforced her to feel.
When he was now alone with her and Mrs. Bannerworth, he spoke in a
feeling and affectionate tone regarding the painful and inexplicable
events which had transpired.