Vampires 3

by J. R. Rain

  "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 d——d 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 to-morrow 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.

  "The time has come," said Sir Francis. "The time has come. He will surely soon be here. Hark! hark!"

  Slowly and distinctly he counted the strokes of the clock, and, when they had ceased, he exclaimed, with sudden surprise—

  "Eleven! But eleven! How have I been deceived. I thought the hour of midnight was at hand."

  He hastily consulted the watch he wore, and then he indeed found, that whatever he had been looking forward to with dread for some time past, as certain to ensue, at or about twelve o clock, had yet another hour in which to prey upon his imagination.

  "How could I have made so grievous an error?" he exclaimed. "Another hour of suspense and wonder as to whether that man be among the living or the dead. I have thought of raising my hand against his life, but some strange mysterious feeling has always staid me; and I have let him come and go freely, while an opportunity might well have served me to put such a design into execution. He is old, too—very old, and yet he keeps death at a distance. He looked pale, but far from unwell or failing, when last I saw him. Alas! a whole hour yet to wait. I would that this interview were over."

  That extremely well known and popular disease called the fidgets, now began, indeed, to torment Sir Francis Varney. He could not sit—he could not walk, and, somehow or another, he never once seemed to imagine that from the wine cup he should experience any relief, although, upon a side table, there stood refreshments of that character. And thus some more time passed away, and he strove to cheat it of its weariness by thinking of a variety of subjects; but as the fates would have it, there seemed not one agreeable reminiscence in the mind of that most inexplicable man, and the more he plunged into the recesses of memory the more uneasy, not to say almost terrified, he looked and became. A shuddering nervousness came across him, and, for a few moments, be sat as if he were upon the point of fainting. By a vigorous effort, however, he shook this off, and then placing before him the watch, which now indicated about the quarter past eleven, he strove with a calmer aspect to wait the coming of him whose presence, when he did come, would really be a great terror, since the very thought beforehand produced so much hesitation and apparent dismay.

  In order too, if possible, then to further withdraw himself from a too painful consideration of those terrors, which in due time the reader will be acquainted with the cause of, he took up a book, and plunging at random into its contents, he amused his mind for a time with the following brief narrative:—

  The wind howled round the gable ends of Bridport House in sudden and furious gusts, while the inmates sat by the fire-side, gazing in silence upon the blazing embers of the huge fire that shed a red and bright light all over the immense apartment in which they all sat.

  It was an ancient looking place, very large, end capable of containing a number of guests. Several were present.

  An aged couple were seated in tall high straight-backed chairs. They were the owners of that lordly mansion, and near them sat two young maidens of surpassing beauty; they were dissimilar, and yet there was a slight likeness, but of totally different complexions.

  The one had tresses of raven black; eyebrows, eyelashes, and eyes were all of the same hue; she was a beautiful and proud-looking girl, her complexion clear, with the hue of health upon her cheeks, while a smile played around her lips. The glance of the eye was sufficient to thrill through the whole soul.

  The other maiden was altogether different; her complexion altogether fairer—her hair of sunny chestnut, and her beautiful hazel eyes were shaded by long brown eyelashes, while a playful smile also lit up her countenance. She was the younger of the two.

  The attention of the two young maidens had been directed to the words of the aged owner of the house, for he had been speaking a few moments before.

  There were several other persons present, and at some little distance were many of the domestics who were not denied the privilege of warmth and rest in the presence of their master.

  These were not the times, when, if servants sat down, they were deemed idle; but the daily task done, then the evening hour was spent by the fire-side.

  "The wind howls and moans," said an aged domestic, "in an awful manner. I never heard the like."

  "It seems as though same imprisoned spirit was waiting for the repose that had been denied on earth," said the old lady as she shifted her seat and gazed steadily on the fire.

  "Ay," said her aged companion, "it is a windy night, and there will be a storm before long, or I'm mistaken."

  "It was just such a night as that my son Henry left his home," said Mrs. Bradley, "just such another—only it had the addition of sleet and rain."

  The old man sighed at the mention of his son's name, a tear stood in the eyes of the maidens, while one looked silently at the other, and seemed to exchange glances.

  "I would that I might again see him before my body seeks its final home in the cold remorseless grave."

  "Mother," said the fairest of the two maidens, "do not talk thus, let us hope that we yet may have many years of happiness together."

  "Many, Emma?"

  "Yes, mamma, many."

  "Do you know that I am very old, Emma, very old indeed, considering what I have suffered, such a life of sorrow and ill health is at least equal to thirty years added to my life."

  "You may have deceived yourself, aunt," said the other maiden; "at all events, you cannot count upon life as certain, for the strongest often go first, while those who seem much more likely to fall, by care, as often live in peace and happiness."

  "But I lead no life of peace and happiness, while Henry Bradley is not here; besides, my life might be passed without me seeing him again."

  "It is now two years since he was here last," said the old man,

  "This night two years was the night on which he left."

  "This night two years?"

  "Yes."

  "It was this night two years," said one of the servant men, "because old Dame Poutlet had twins on that night."

  "A memorable circumstance."

  "And one died at a twelvemonth old," said the man; "and she had a dream which foretold the event."

  "Ay, ay."

  "Yes, and moreover she's had the same dream again last Wednesday was a week," said the man.

  "And lost the other twin?"

  "Yes sir, this morning."

  "Omens multiply," said the aged man; "I would that it would seem to indicate the return of Henry to his home."