The Penny Dreadfuls MEGAPACK™ (121 page)

He took from his pocket a small bottle, and, raising the head of the feeble and wounded man, he poured some portion of the contents into his mouth, and watched him swallow it.

The other looked on in silence, and then they both slowly left the dreary dungeon.

* * * *

The wind rose, and the night had deepened into the utmost darkness. The blackness of a night, unillumined by the moon, which would not now rise for some hours, was upon the ancient ruins. All was calm and still, and no one would have supposed that aught human was within those ancient, dreary looking walls.

Time will show who it was who lay in that unwholesome dungeon, as well as who were they who visited him so mysteriously, and retired again with feelings of such evident disappointment with the document it seemed of such importance, at least to one of them, to get that unconscious man to sign.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE VISIT OF FLO
RA TO THE VAMPIRE.—THE OFFER.—THE SOLEMN ASSEVERATION.

Admiral Bell had, of course, nothing particular to communicate to Flora in the walk he induced her to take with him in the gardens of Bannerworth Hall, but he could talk to her upon a subject which was sure to be a welcome one, namely, of Charles Holland.

And not only could he talk to her of Charles, but he was willing to talk of him in the style of enthusiastic commendation which assimilated best with her own feelings. No one but the honest old admiral, who was as violent in his likes and his dislikes as any one could possibly be, could just then have conversed with Flora Bannerworth to her satisfaction of Charles Holland.

He expressed no doubts whatever concerning Charles’s faith, and to his mind, now that he had got that opinion firmly fixed in his mind, everybody that held a contrary one he at once denounced as a fool or a rogue.

“Never you mind, Miss Flora,” he said; “you will find, I dare say, that all will come right eventually. Damn me! The only thing that provokes me in the whole business is, that I should have been such an old fool as for a moment to doubt Charles.”

“You should have known him better, sir.”

“I should, my dear, but I was taken by surprise, you see, and that was wrong, too, for a man who has held a responsible command.”

“But the circumstances, dear sir, were of a nature to take every one by surprise.”

“They were, they were. But now, candidly speaking, and I know I can speak candidly to you; do you really think this Varney is the vampire?”

“I do.”

“You do? Well, then, somebody must tackle him, that’s quite clear; we can’t put up with his fancies always.”

“What can be done?”

“Ah, that I don’t know, but something must be done, you know. He wants this place; Heaven only knows why or wherefore he has taken such a fancy to it; but he has done so, that is quite clear. If it had a good sea view, I should not be so much surprised; but there’s nothing of the sort, so it’s no way at all better than any other shore-going stupid sort of house, that you can see nothing but land from.”

“Oh, if my brother would but make some compromise with him to restore Charles to us and take the house, we might yet be happy.”

“Damn it! then you still think that he has a hand in spiriting away Charles?”

“Who else could do so?”

“I’ll be hanged if I know. I do feel tolerably sure, and I have good deal of reliance upon your opinion, my dear; I say, I do feel tolerably sure: but, if I was damned sure, now, I’d soon have it out of him.”

“For my sake, Admiral Bell, I wish now to extract one promise from you.”

“Say your say, my dear, and I’ll promise you.”

“You will not then expose yourself to the danger of any personal conflict with that most dreadful man, whose powers of mischief we do not know, and therefore cannot well meet or appreciate.”

“Whew! is that what you mean?”

“Yes; you will, I am sure, promise me so much.”

“Why, my dear, you see the case is this. In affairs of fighting, the less ladies interfere the better.”

“Nay, why so?”

“Because—because, you see, a lady has no reputation for courage to keep up. Indeed, it’s rather the other way, for we dislike a bold woman as much as we hold in contempt a cowardly man.”

“But if you grant to us females that in consequence of our affections, we are not courageous, you must likewise grant how much we are doomed to suffer from the dangers of those whom we esteem.”

“You would be the last person in the world to esteem a coward.”

“Certainly. But there is more true courage often in not fighting than in entering into a contest.”

“You are right enough there, my dear.”

“Under ordinary circumstances, I should not oppose your carrying out the dictates of your honour, but now, let me entreat you not to meet this dreadful man, if man he can be called, when you know not how unfair the contest may be.”

“Unfair?”

“Yes. May he not have some means of preventing you from injuring him, and of overcoming you, which no mortal possesses?”

“He may.”

“Then the supposition of such a case ought to be sufficient ground for at once inducing you to abandon all idea of meeting with him.”

“My dear, I’ll consider of this matter.”

“Do so.”

“There is another thing, however, which now you will permit me to ask of you as a favour.”

“It is granted ere it is spoken.”

“Very good. Now you must not be offended with what I am going to say, because, however it may touch that very proper pride which you, and such as you, are always sure to possess, you are fortunately at all times able to call sufficient judgment to your aid to enable you to see what is really offensive and what is not.”

“You alarm me by such a preface.”

“Do I? then here goes at once. Your brother Henry, poor fellow, has enough to do, has he not, to make all ends meet.”

A flush of excitement came over Flora’s cheek as the old admiral thus bluntly broached a subject of which she already knew the bitterness to such a spirit as her brother’s.

“You are silent,” continued the old man; “by that I guess I am not wrong in my I supposition; indeed it is hardly a supposition at all, for Master Charles told me as much, and no doubt he had it from a correct quarter.”

“I cannot deny it, sir.”

“Then don’t. It ain’t worth denying, my dear. Poverty is no crime, but, like being born a Frenchman, it’s a damned misfortune.”

Flora could scarcely refuse a smile, as the nationality of the old admiral peeped out even in the midst of his most liberal and best feelings.

“Well,” he continued, “I don’t intend that he shall have so much trouble as he has had. The enemies of his king and his country shall free him from his embarrassments.”

“The enemies?”

“Yes; who else?”

“You speak in riddles, sir.”

“Do I? Then I’ll soon make the riddles plain. When I went to sea I was worth nothing—as poor as a ship’s cat after the crew had been paid off for a month. Well, I began fighting away as hard and fast as I could, and the more I fought, and the more hard knocks I gave and took, the more money I got.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes; prize after prize we hauled into port, and at last the French vessels wouldn’t come out of their harbours.”

“What did you do then?”

“What did we do then? Why what was the most natural thing in the whole world for us to do, we did.”

“I cannot guess.”

“Well, I am surprised at that. Try again.”

“Oh, yes; I can guess now. How could I have been so dull? You went and took them out.”

“To be sure we did—to be sure we did, my dear; that’s how we managed them. And, do you see, at the end of the war I found myself with lots of prize money, all wrung from old England’s enemies, and I intend that some of it shall find it’s way to your brother’s pocket; and you see that will bear out just what I said, that the enemies of his king and his country shall free him from his difficulties—don’t you see?”

“I see your noble generosity, admiral.”

“Noble fiddlestick! Now I have mentioned this matter to you, my dear, and I don’t so much mind talking to you about such matters as I should to your brother, I want you to do me the favour of managing it all for me.”

“How, sir?”

“Why, just this way. You must find out how much money will free your brother just now from a parcel of botherations that beset him, and then I will give it to you, and you can hand it to him, you see, so I need not say anything about it; and if he speaks to me on the subject at all, I can put him down at once by saying, ‘avast there, it’s no business of mine.’”

“And can you, dear admiral, imagine that I could conceal the generous source from where so much assistance came?”

“Of course; it will come from you. I take a fancy to make you a present of a sum of money; you do with it what you please—it’s yours, and I have no right and no inclination to ask you what use you put it to.”

Tears gushed from the eyes of Flora as she tried to utter some word, but could not. The admiral swore rather fearfully, and pretended to wonder much what on earth she could be crying for. At length, after the first gush of feeling was over, she said—

“I cannot accept of so much generosity, sir—I dare not”

“Dare not!”

“No; I should think meanly of myself were I to take advantage of the boundless munificence of your nature.”

“Take advantage! I should like to see anybody take advantage of me, that’s all.”

“I ought not to take the money of you. I will speak to my brother, and well I know how much he will appreciate the noble, generous offer, my dear sir.”

“Well, settle it your own way, only remember I have a right to do what I like with my own money.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Very good. Then as that is undoubted, whatever I lend to him, mind I give to you, so it’s as broad as it’s long, as the Dutchman said, when he looked at the new ship that was built for him, and you may as well take it yourself you see, and make no more fuss about it.”

“I will consider,” said Flora, with much emotion—“between this time and the same hour tomorrow I will consider, sir, and if you can find any words more expressive of heartfelt gratitude than others, pray imagine that I have used them with reference to my own feelings towards you for such an unexampled offer of friendship.”

“Oh, bother—stuff.”

The admiral now at once changed the subject, and began to talk of Charles—a most grateful theme to Flora, as may well be supposed. He related to her many little particulars connected with him which all tended to place his character in a most amiable light, and as her ears drank in the words of commendation of him she loved, what sweeter music could there be to her than the voice of that old weather-beaten rough-spoken man.

“The idea,” he added, to a warm eulogium he had uttered concerning Charles—“the idea that he could write those letters my dear, is quite absurd.”

“It is, indeed. Oh, that we could know what had become of him!”

“We shall know. I don’t think but what he’s alive. Something seems to assure me that we shall some of these days look upon his face again.”

“I am rejoiced to hear you say so.”

“We will stir heaven and earth to find him. If he were killed, do you see, there would have been some traces of him now at hand; besides, he would have been left lying where the rascals attacked him.”

Flora shuddered.

“But don’t you fret yourself. You may depend that the sweet little cherub that sits up aloft has looked after him.”

“I will hope so.”

“And now, my dear, Master Henry will soon be home, I am thinking, and as he has quite enough disagreeables on his own mind to be able to spare a few of them, you will take the earliest opportunity, I am sure, of acquainting him with the little matter we have been talking about, and let me know what he says.”

“I will—I will.”

“That’s right. Now, go in doors, for there’s a cold air blowing here, and you are a delicate plant rather just now—go in and make yourself comfortable and easy. The worst storm must blow over at last.”

CHAPTER XXXI.

SIR FRANCIS VARNEY AND HIS MYSTERIOUS
VISITOR.—THE STRANGE CONFERENCE.

Sir Francis Varney is in what he calls his own apartment. It is night, and a dim and uncertain light from a candle which has been long neglected, only serves to render obscurity more perplexing. The room is a costly one. One replete with all the appliances of refinement and luxury which the spirit and the genius of the age could possibly supply him with, but there is upon his brow the marks of corroding care, and little does that most mysterious being seem to care for all the rich furnishing of that apartment in which he sits.

His cadaverous-looking face is even paler and more death-like-looking than usual; and, if it can be conceived possible that such an one can feel largely interested in human affairs, to look at him, we could well suppose that some interest of no common magnitude was at stake.

Occasionally, too, he muttered some unconnected words, no doubt mentally filling up the gaps, which rendered the sentences incomplete, and being unconscious, perhaps, that he was giving audible utterance to any of his dark and secret meditations.

At length he rose, and with an anxious expression of countenance, he went to the window, and looked out into the darkness of the night. All was still, and not an object was visible. It was that pitchy darkness without, which, for some hours, when the moon is late in lending her reflected beams, comes over the earth’s surface.

“It is near the hour,” he muttered. “It is now very near the hour; surely he will come, and yet I know not why I should fear him, although I seem to tremble at the thought of his approach. He will surely come. Once a year—only once does he visit me, and then ’tis but to take the price which he has compelled me to pay for that existence, which but for him had been long since terminated. Sometimes I devoutly wish it were.”

With a shudder he returned to the seat he had so recently left, and there for some time he appeared to meditate in silence.

Suddenly now, a clock, which was in the hall of that mansion he had purchased, sounded the hour loudly.