by Oscar Wilde
From out a portion of the ruins that was enveloped in the deepest gloom, there now glides a figure. It is of gigantic height, and it moves along with a slow and measured tread. An ample mantle envelopes the form, which might well have been taken for the spirit of one of the monks who, centuries since, had made that place their home.
It walked the whole length of the ample hall we have alluded to, and then, at the window from which had streamed the long flood of many coloured light, it paused.
For more than ten minutes this mysterious looking figure there stood.
At length there passed something on the outside of the window, that looked like the shadow of a human form.
Then the tall, mysterious, apparition-looking man turned, and sought a side entrance to the hall.
Then he paused, and, in about a minute, he was joined by another who must have been he who had so recently passed the stained glass window on the outer side.
There was a friendly salutation between these two beings, and they walked to the centre of the hall, where they remained for some time in animated conversation.
From the gestures they used, it was evident that the subject of their discourse was one of deep and absorbing interest to both. It was one, too, upon which, after a time, they seemed a little to differ, and more than once they each assumed attitudes of mutual defiance.
This continued until the sun had so completely sunk, that twilight was beginning sensibly to wane, and then gradually the two men appeared to have come to a better understanding, and whatever might be the subject of their discourse, there was some positive result evidently arrived at now.
They spoke in lower tones. They used less animated gestures than before; and, after a time, they both walked slowly down the hull towards the dark spot from whence the first tall figure had so mysteriously emerged.
* * * *
There it a dungeon—damp and full of the most unwholesome exhalations—deep under ground it seems, and, in its excavations, it would appear as if some small land springs had been liberated, for the earthen floor was one continued extent of moisture.
From the roof, too, came perpetually the dripping of water, which fell with sullen, startling splashes in the pool below.
At one end, and near to the roof—so near that to reach it, without the most efficient means from the inside, was a matter of positive impossibility—is a small iron grating, and not much larger than might be entirely obscured by any human face that might be close to it from the outside of the dungeon.
That dreadful abode is tenanted. In one corner, on a heap of straw, which appears freshly to have been cast into the place, lies a hopeless prisoner.
It is no great stretch of fancy to suppose, that it is from his lips came the sound of terror and of woe that had disturbed the repose of that lonely spot.
The prisoner is lying on his back; a rude bandage round his head, on which were numerous spots of blood, would seem to indicate that he had suffered personal injury in some recent struggle. His eyes were open. They were fixed desparingly, perhaps unconsciously, upon that small grating which looked into the upper world.
That grating slants upwards, and looks to the west, so that any one confined in that dreary dungeon might be tantalized, on a sweet summer’s day, by seeing the sweet blue sky, and occasionally the white clouds flitting by in that freedom which he cannot hope for.
The carol of a bird, too, might reach him there. Alas! sad remembrance of life, and joy, and liberty.
But now all is deepening gloom. The prisoner sees nothing—hears nothing; and the sky is not quite dark. That small grating looks like a strange light-patch in the dungeon wall.
Hark! some footstep sounds upon his ear. The creaking of a door follows—a gleam of light shines into the dungeon, and the tall mysterious-looking figure in the cloak stands before the occupant of that wretched place.
Then comes in the other man, and he carries in his hand writing materials. He stoops to the stone couch on which the prisoner lies, and offers him a pen, as he raises him partially from the miserable damp pallet.
But there is no speculation in the eyes of that oppressed man. In vain the pen is repeatedly placed in his grasp, and a document of some length, written on parchment, spread out before him to sign. In vain is he held up now by both the men, who have thus mysteriously sought him in his dungeon; he has not power to do as they would wish him. The pen falls from his nerveless grasp, and, with a deep sigh, when they cease to hold him up, he falls heavily back upon the stone couch.
Then the two men looked at each other for about a minute silently; after which he who was the shorter of the two raised one hand, and, in a voice of such concentrated hatred and passion as was horrible to hear, he said—
“Damn!”
The reply of the other was a laugh; and then he took the light from the floor, and motioned the one who seemed so little able to control his feelings of bitterness and disappointment to leave the place with him.
With a haste and vehemence, then, which showed how much angered he was, the shorter man of the two now rolled up the parchment, and placed it in a breast-pocket of his coat.
He cast a withering look of intense hatred on the form of the nearly-unconscious prisoner, and then prepared to follow the other.
But when they reached the door of the dungeon, the taller man of the two paused, and appeared for a moment or two to be in deep thought; after which he handed the lamp he carried to his companion, and approached the pallet of the prisoner.
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 FLORA 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 sp
eak 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 bu
ilt 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.”