THE EXPLANATION.—MARCHDALE’S ADVICE.—THE PROJECTED REMOVAL, AND THE
ADMIRAL’S ANGER.
This extremely sudden movement on the part of Varney was certainly
as unexpected as it was decisive. Henry had imagined, that by taking
possession of the only entrance to the summer-house, he must come
into personal conflict with the being who had worked so much evil for
him and his; and that he should so suddenly have created for himself
another mode of exit, certainly never occurred to him.
“For Heaven’s sake, Flora,” he said, “unhand me; this is a time for
action.”
“But, Henry, Henry, hear me.”
“Presently, presently, dear Flora; I will yet make another effort to
arrest the headlong flight of Varney.”
He shook her off, perhaps with not more roughness than was necessary
to induce her to forego her grasp of him, but in a manner that
fully showed he intended to be free; and then he sprang through the
same aperture whence Varney had disappeared, just as George and Mr.
Marchdale arrived at the door of the summer-house.
It was nearly morning, so that the fields were brightening up with the
faint radiance of the coming day; and when Henry reached a point which
he knew commanded an extensive view, he paused, and ran his eye eagerly
along the landscape, with a hope of discovering some trace of the
fugitive.
Such, however, was not the case; he saw nothing, heard nothing of Sir
Francis Varney; and then he turned, and called loudly to George to
join him, and was immediately replied to by his brother’s presence,
accompanied by Marchdale.
Before, however, they could exchange a word, a rattling discharge
of fire-arms took place from one of the windows, and they heard the
admiral, in a loud voice, shouting,—
“Broadside to broadside! Give it them again, Jack! Hit them between
wind and water!”
Then there was another rattling discharge, and Henry exclaimed,—
“What is the meaning of that firing?”
“It comes from the admiral’s room,” said Marchdale. “On my life, I
think the old man must be mad. He has some six or eight pistols ranged
in a row along the window-sill, and all loaded, so that by the aid
of a match they can be pretty well discharged as a volley, which he
considers the only proper means of firing upon the vampyre.”
“It is so,” replied George; “and, no doubt, hearing an alarm, he has
commenced operations by firing into the enemy.”
“Well, well,” said Henry; “he must have his way. I have pursued Varney
thus far, and that he has again retreated to the wood, I cannot doubt.
Between this and the full light of day, let us at least make an effort
to discover his place of retreat. We know the locality as well as he
can possibly, and I propose now that we commence an active search.”
“Come on, then,” said Marchdale. “We are all armed; and I, for one,
shall feel no hesitation in taking the life, if it be possible to do
so, of that strange being.”
“Of that possibility you doubt?” said George, as they hurried on across
the meadows.
“Indeed I do, and with reason too. I’m certain that when I fired at
him before I hit him; and besides, Flora must have shot him upon the
occasion when we were absent, and she used your pistols Henry, to
defend herself and her mother.”
“It would seem so,” said Henry; “and disregarding all present
circumstances, if I do meet him, I will put to the proof whether he be
mortal or not.”
The distance was not great, and they soon reached the margin of the
wood; they then separated agreeing to meet within it, at a well-spring,
familiar to them all; previous to which each was to make his best
endeavour to discover if any one was hidden among the bush-wood or in
the hollows of the ancient trees they should encounter on their line of
march.
The fact was, that Henry finding that he was likely to pass an
exceedingly disturbed, restless night, through agitation of spirits,
had, after tossing to and fro on his couch for many hours, wisely at
length risen, and determined to walk abroad in the gardens belonging to
the mansion, in preference to continuing in such a state of fever and
anxiety, as he was in, in his own chamber.
Since the vampyre’s dreadful visit, it had been the custom of both the
brothers, occasionally, to tap at the chamber door of Flora, who, at
her own request, now that she had changed her room, and dispensed with
any one sitting up with her, wished occasionally to be communicated
with by some member of the family.
Henry, then, after rapidly dressing, as he passed the door of her
bedroom, was about to tap at it, when to his surprise he found it open,
and upon hastily entering it he observed that the bed was empty, and a
hasty glance round the apartment convinced him that Flora was not there.
Alarm took possession of him, and hastily arming himself, he roused
Marchdale and George, but without waiting for them to be ready to
accompany him, he sought the garden, to search it thoroughly in case
she should be anywhere there concealed.
Thus it was he had come upon the conference so strangely and so
unexpectedly held between Varney and Flora in the summer-house. With
what occurred upon that discovery the readers are acquainted.
Flora had promised George that she would return immediately to the
house, but when, in compliance with the call of Henry, George and
Marchdale had left her alone, she felt so agitated and faint that she
began to cling to the trellis work of the little building for a few
moments before she could gather strength to reach the mansion.
Two or three minutes might thus have elapsed, and Flora was in such a
state of mental bewilderment with all that had occurred, that she could
scarce believe it real, when suddenly a slight sound attracted her
attention, and through the gap which had been made in the wall of the
summer-house, with an appearance of perfect composure, again appeared
Sir Francis Varney.
“Flora,” he said, quietly resuming the discourse which had been broken
off, “I am quite convinced now that you will be much the happier for
the interview.”
“Gracious Heaven!” said Flora, “whence have you come from?”
“I have never left,” said Varney.
“But I saw you fly from this spot.”
“You did; but it was only to another immediately outside the summer
house. I had no idea of breaking off our conference so abruptly.”
“Have you anything to add to what you have already stated?”
“Absolutely nothing, unless you have a question to propose to me—I
should have thought you had, Flora. Is there no other circumstance
weighing heavily upon your mind, as well as the dreadful visitation I
have subjected you to?”
“Yes,” said Flora. “What has become of Charles Holland?”
“Listen. Do not discard all hope; when you are far from here you will
meet with him again.”
“But he has left me.”
“And yet he will be able, when you again encounter him, so far to
extenuate his seeming perfidy, that you shall hold him as untouched in
honour as when first he whispered to you that he loved you.”
“Oh, joy! joy!” said Flora; “by that assurance you have robbed
misfortune of its sting, and richly compensated me for all that I have
suffered.”
“Adieu!” said the vampyre. “I shall now proceed to my own home by a
different route to that taken by those who would kill me.”
“But after this,” said Flora, “there shall be no danger; you shall
be held harmless, and our departure from Bannerworth Hall shall be
so quick, that you will soon be released from all apprehension of
vengeance from my brother, and I shall taste again of that happiness
which I thought had fled from me for ever.”
“Farewell,” said the vampire; and folding his cloak closely around
him, he strode from the summer-house, soon disappearing from her sight
behind the shrubs and ample vegetation with which that garden abounded.
Flora sunk upon her knees, and uttered a brief, but heartfelt
thanksgiving to Heaven for this happy change in her destiny. The hue of
health faintly again visited her cheeks, and as she now, with a feeling
of more energy and strength than she had been capable of exerting for
many days, walked towards the house, she felt all that delightful
sensation which the mind experiences when it is shaking off the
trammels of some serious evil which it delights now to find that the
imagination has attired in far worse colours than the facts deserved.
It is scarcely necessary, after this, to say that the search in the
wood for Sir Francis Varney was an unproductive one, and that the
morning dawned upon the labours of the brother and of Mr. Marchdale,
without their having discovered the least indication of the presence of
Varney. Again puzzled and confounded, they stood on the margin of the
wood, and looked sadly towards the brightening windows of Bannerworth
Hall, which were now reflecting with a golden radiance the slant rays
of the morning sun.
“Foiled again,” remarked Henry, with a gesture of impatience; “foiled
again, and as completely as before. I declare that I will fight this
man, let our friend the admiral say what he will against such a measure
I will meet him in mortal combat; he shall consummate his triumph over
our whole family by my death, or I will rid the world and ourselves of
so frightful a character.”
“Let us hope,” said Marchdale, “that some other course may be adopted,
which shall put an end to these proceedings.”
“That,” exclaimed Henry, “is to hope against all probability; what
other course can be pursued? Be this Varney man or devil, he has
evidently marked us for his prey.”
“Indeed, it would seem so,” remarked George; “but yet he shall find
that we will not fall so easily; he shall discover that if poor Flora’s
gentle spirit has been crushed by these frightful circumstances, we are
of a sterner mould.”
“He shall,” said Henry; “I for one will dedicate my life to this
matter. I will know no more rest than is necessary to recruit my frame,
until I have succeeded in overcoming this monster; I will seek no
pleasure here, and will banish from my mind all else that may interfere
with that one fixed pursuit. He or I must fall.”
“Well spoken,” said Marchdale; “and yet I hope that circumstances may
occur to prevent such a necessity of action, and that probably you will
yet see that it will be wise and prudent to adopt a milder and a safer
course.”
“No, Marchdale, you cannot feel as we feel. You look on more as a
spectator, sympathising with the afflictions of either, than feeling
the full sting of those afflictions yourself.”
“Do I not feel acutely for you? I’m a lonely man in the world, and
I have taught myself now to centre my affections in your family; my
recollections of early years assist me in so doing. Believe me, both
of you, that I am no idle spectator of your griefs, but that I share
them fully. If I advise you to be peaceful, and to endeavour by the
gentlest means possible to accomplish your aims, it is not that I would
counsel you cowardice; but having seen so much more of the world than
either of you have had time or opportunity of seeing, I do not look so
enthusiastically upon matters, but, with a cooler, calmer judgment, I
do not say a better, I proffer to you my counsel.”
“We thank you,” said Henry; “but this is a matter in which action seems
specially called for. It is not to be borne that a whole family is to
be oppressed by such a fiend in human shape as that Varney.”
“Let me,” said Marchdale, “counsel you to submit to Flora’s decision
in this business; let her wishes constitute the rules of action. She
is the greatest sufferer, and the one most deeply interested in the
termination of this fearful business. Moreover, she has judgment and
decision of character—she will advise you rightly, be assured.”
“That she would advise us honourably,” said Henry, “and that we
should feel every disposition in the world to defer to her wishes our
proposition, is not to be doubted; but little shall be done without
her counsel and sanction. Let us now proceed homeward, for I am most
anxious to ascertain how it came about that she and Sir Francis Varney
were together in that summer-house at so strange an hour.”
They all three walked together towards the house, conversing in a
similar strain as they went.