Varney the Vampyre 25The Letter to Charles.—the Quarrel.—the Admiral’s Narrative.—the Midnight Meeting
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Literature · Horror
Varney the Vampyre 25
The Letter to Charles.—the Quarrel.—the Admiral’s Narrative.—the Midnight Meeting
RymerEnglish
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.”
