Complete Works of Bram Stoker (550 page)

“Villain, monster, vampyre!” he shrieks, “I have thee now;” and locked in a deadly embrace, they roll upon the damp earth, struggling for life together.

It is mid-day at Bannerworth Hall, and Flora is looking from the casement anxiously expecting the arrival of her brothers. She had seen, from some of the topmost windows of the Hall, that the whole neighbourhood had been in a state of commotion, but little did she guess the cause of so much tumult, or that it in any way concerned her.

She had seen the peasantry forsaking their work in the fields and the gardens, and apparently intent upon some object of absorbing interest; but she feared to leave the house, for she had promised Henry that she would not do so, lest the former pacific conduct of the vampyre should have been but a new snare, for the purpose of drawing her so far from her home as to lead her into some danger when she should be far from assistance.

And yet more than once was she tempted to forget her promise, and to seek the open country, for fear that those she loved should be encountering some danger for her sake, which she would willingly either share with them or spare them.

The solicitation, however, of her brother kept her comparatively quiet; and, moreover, since her last interview with Varney, in which, at all events, he had shown some feeling for the melancholy situation to which, he had reduced her, she had been more able to reason calmly, and to meet the suggestions of passion and of impulse with a sober judgment.

About midday, then, she saw the domestic party returning  —  that party, which now consisted of her two brothers, the admiral, Jack Pringle, and Mr. Chillingworth. As for Mr. Marchdale, he had given them a polite adieu on the confines of the grounds of Bannerworth Hall, stating, that although he had felt it to be his duty to come forward and second Henry Bannerworth in the duel with the vampyre, yet that circumstance by no means obliterated from his memory the insults he had received from Admiral Bell, and, therefore, he declined going to Bannerworth Hall, and bade them a very good morning.

To all this, Admiral Bell replied that he might go and be d  —    —  d, if he liked, and that he considered him a swab and a humbug, and appealed to Jack Pringle whether he, Jack, ever saw such a sanctified looking prig in his life.

“Ay, ay,” says Jack.

This answer, of course, produced the usual contention, which lasted them until they got fairly in the house, where they swore at each other to an extent that was enough to make any one’s hair stand on end, until Henry and Mr. Chillingworth interfered, and really begged that they would postpone the discussion until some more fitting opportunity.

The whole of the circumstances were then related to Flora; who, while she blamed her brother much for fighting the duel with the vampyre, found in the conduct of that mysterious individual, as regarded the encounter, yet another reason for believing him to be strictly sincere in his desire to save her from the consequences of his future visits.

Her desire to leave Bannerworth Hall consequently became more and more intense, and as the admiral really now considered himself the master of the house, they offered no amount of opposition to the subject, but merely said,  — 

“My dear Flora, Admiral Bell shall decide in all these matters, now. We know that he is our sincere friend; and that whatever he says we ought to do, will be dictated by the best possible feelings towards us.”

“Then I appeal to you, sir,” said Flora, turning to the admiral.

“Very good,” replied the old man; “then I say  —  ”

“Nay, admiral,” interrupted Mr. Chillingworth; “you promised me, but a short time since, that you would come to no decision whatever upon this question, until you had heard some particulars which I have to relate to you, which, in my humble opinion, will sway your judgment.”

“And so I did,” cried the admiral; “but I had forgotten all about it. Flora, my dear, I’ll be with you in an hour or two. My friend, the doctor, here, has got some sow by the ear, and fancies it’s the right one; however, I’ll hear what he has got to say, first, before we come to a conclusion. So, come along, Mr. Chillingworth, and let’s have it out at once.”

“Flora,” said Henry, when the admiral had left the room, “I can see that you wish to leave the Hall.”

“I do, brother; but not to go far  —  I wish rather to hide from Varney than to make myself inaccessible by distance.”

“You still cling to this neighbourhood?”

“I do, I do; and you know with what hope I cling to it.”

“Perfectly; you still think it possible that Charles Holland may be united to you.”

“I do, I do.”

“You believe his faith.”

“Oh, yes; as I believe in Heaven’s mercy.”

“And I, Flora; I would not doubt him now for worlds; something even now seems to whisper to me that a brighter sun of happiness will yet dawn upon us, and that, when the mists which at present enshroud ourselves and our fortunes pass away, they will disclose a landscape full of beauty, the future of which shall know no pangs.”

“Yes, brother,” exclaimed Flora, enthusiastically; “this, after all, may be but some trial, grievous while it lasts, but yet tending eventually only to make the future look more bright and beautiful. Heaven may yet have in store for us all some great happiness, which shall spring clearly and decidedly from out these misfortunes.”

“Be it so, and may we ever thus banish despair by such hopeful propositions. Lean on my arm, Flora; you are safe with me. Come, dearest, and taste the sweetness of the morning air.”

There was, indeed now, a hopefulness about the manner in which Henry Bannerworth spoke, such as Flora had not for some weary months had the pleasure of listening to, and she eagerly rose to accompany him into the garden, which was glowing with all the beauty of sunshine, for the day had turned out to be much finer than the early morning had at all promised it would be.

“Flora,” he said, when they had taken some turns to and fro in the garden, “notwithstanding all that has happened, there is no convincing Mr. Chillingworth that Sir Francis Varney is really what to us he appears.”

“Indeed!”

“It is so. In the face of all evidence, he neither will believe in vampyres at all, nor that Varney is anything but some mortal man, like ourselves, in his thoughts, talents, feelings, and modes of life; and with no more power to do any one an injury than we have.”

“Oh, would that I could think so!”

“And I; but, unhappily, we have by far too many, and too conclusive evidences to the contrary.”

“We have, indeed, brother.”

“And though, while we respect that strength of mind in our friend which will not allow him, even almost at the last extremity, to yield to what appear to be stern facts, we may not ourselves be so obdurate, but may feel that we know enough to be convinced.”

“You have no doubt, brother?”

“Most reluctantly, I must confess, that I feel compelled to consider Varney as something more than mortal.”

“He must be so.”

“And now, sister, before we leave the place which has been a home to us from earliest life, let us for a few moments consider if there be any possible excuse for the notion of Mr. Chillingworth, to the effect that Sir Francis Varney wants possession of the house for some purpose still more inimical to our peace and prosperity than any he has yet attempted.”

“Has he such an opinion?”

“He has.”

“‘Tis very strange.”

“Yes, Flora; he seems to gather from all the circumstances, nothing but an overwhelming desire on the part of Sir Francis Varney to become the tenant of Bannerworth Hall.”

“He certainly wishes to possess it.”

“Yes; but can you, sister, in the exercise of any possible amount of fancy, imagine any motive for such an anxiety beyond what he alleges?”

“Which is merely that he is fond of old houses.”

“Precisely so. That is the reason, and the only one, that can be got from him. Heaven only knows if it be the true one.”

“It may be, brother.”

“As you say, it may; but there’s a doubt, nevertheless, Flora. I much rejoice that you have had an interview with this mysterious being, for you have certainty, since that time, been happier and more composed than I ever hoped to see you again.”

“I have indeed.”

“It is sufficiently perceivable.”

“Somehow, brother, since that interview, I have not had the same sort of dread of Sir Francis Varney which before made the very sound of his name a note of terror to me. His words, and all he said to me during that interview which took place so strangely between us, indeed how I know not, tended altogether rather to make him, to a certain extent, an object of my sympathies rather than my abhorrence.”

“That is very strange.”

“I own that it is strange, Henry; but when we come for but a brief moment to reflect upon the circumstances which have occurred, we shall, I think, be able to find some cause even to pity Varney the vampyre.”

“How?”

“Thus, brother. It is said  —  and well may I who have been subject to an attack of such a nature, tremble to repeat the saying  —  that those who have been once subject to the visitations of a vampyre, are themselves in a way to become one of the dreadful and maddening fraternity.”

“I have heard so much, sister,” replied Henry.

“Yes; and therefore who knows but that Sir Francis Varney may, at one time, have been as innocent as we are ourselves of the terrible and fiendish propensity which now makes him a terror and a reproach to all who know him, or are in any way obnoxious to his attacks.”

“That is true.”

“There may have been a time  —  who shall say there was not?  —  when he, like me, would have shrunk, with a dread as great as any one could have experienced, from the contamination of the touch even of a vampyre.”

“I cannot, sister, deny the soundness of your reasoning,” said Henry, with a sigh; “but I still no not see anything, even from a full conviction that Varney is unfortunate, which should induce us to tolerate him.”

“Nay, brother, I said not tolerate. What I mean is, that even with the horror and dread we must naturally feel at such a being, we may afford to mingle some amount of pity, which shall make us rather seek to shun him, than to cross his path with a resolution of doing him an injury.”

“I perceive well, sister, what you mean. Rather than remain here, and make an attempt to defy Sir Francis Varney, you would fly from him, and leave him undisputed master of the field.”

“I would  —  I would.”

“Heaven forbid that I or any one should thwart you. You know well, Flora, how dear you are to me; you know well that your happiness has ever been to us all a matter which has assumed the most important of shapes, as regarded our general domestic policy. It is not, therefore, likely now, dear sister, that we should thwart you in your wish to remove from here.”

“I know, Henry, all you would say,” remarked Flora, as a tear started to her eyes. “I know well all you think, and, in your love for me, I likewise know well I rely for ever. You are attached to this place, as, indeed, we all are, by a thousand happy and pleasant associations; but listen to me further, Henry, I do not wish to wander far.”

“Not far, Flora?”

“No. Do I not still cling to a hope that Charles may yet appear? and if he do so, it will assuredly be in this neighbourhood, which he knows is native and most dear to us all.”

“True.”

“Then do I wish to make some sort of parade, in the way of publicity, of our leaving the Hall.”

“Yes, yes.”

“And yet not go far. In the neighbouring town, for example, surely we might find some means of living entirely free from remark or observation as to who or what we were.”

“That, sister, I doubt. If you seek for that species of solitude which you contemplate, it is only to be found in a desert.”

“A desert?”

“Yes; or in a large city.”

“Indeed!”

“Ay, Flora; you may well believe me, that it is so. In a small community you can have no possible chance of evading an amount of scrutiny which would very soon pierce through any disguise you could by any possibility assume.”

“Then there is no resource. We must go far.”

“Nay, I will consider for you, Flora; and although, as a general principle, what I have said I know to be true, yet some more special circumstance may arise that may point a course that, while it enables us, for Charles Holland’s sake, to remain in this immediate neighbourhood, yet will procure to us all the secrecy we may desire.”

“Dear  —  dear brother,” said Flora, as she flung herself upon Henry’s neck, “you speak cheeringly to me, and, what is more, you believe in Charles’s faithfulness and truth.”

“As Heaven is my judge, I do.”

“A thousand, thousand thanks for such an assurance. I know him too well to doubt, for one moment, his faith. Oh, brother! could he  —  could Charles Holland, the soul of honour, the abode of every noble impulse that can adorn humanity  —  could he have written those letters? No, no! perish the thought!”

“It has perished.”

“Thank God!”

“I only, upon reflection, wonder how, misled for the moment by the concurrence of a number of circumstances, I could ever have suspected him.”

“It is like your generous nature, brother to say so; but you know as well as I, that there has been one here who has, far from feeling any sort of anxiety to think as well as possible of poor Charles Holland, has done all that in him lay to take the worst view of his mysterious disappearance, and induce us to do the like.”

“You allude to Mr. Marchdale?”

“I do.”

“Well, Flora, at the same time that I must admit you have cause for speaking of Mr. Marchdale as you do, yet when we come to consider all things, there may be found for him excuses.”

“May there?”

“Yes, Flora; he is a man, as he himself says, past the meridian of life, and the world is a sad as well as a bad teacher, for it soon  —  too soon, alas! deprives us of our trusting confidence in human nature.”

“It may be so; but yet, he, knowing as he did so very little of Charles Holland, judged him hastily and harshly.”