You shall hear from me again, sir, shortly. Now that I am
down here, I will see to the very bottom of this affair, were it deeper
than fathom ever sounded. Charles Holland was my poor sister's son; he's
the only relative I have in the wide world, and his happiness is dearer
to my heart than my own." Crinkles turned aside, and, by the twinkle of his eyes, one might
premise that the honest little lawyer was much affected. "God bless you, sir," he said; "farewell." "Good day to you." "Good-bye, lawyer," cried Jack. "Mind how you go. D--n me, if you don't
seem a decent sort of fellow, and, after all, you may give the devil a
clear berth, and get into heaven's straits with a flowing sheet,
provided as you don't, towards the end of the voyage, make any lubberly
blunders." The old admiral threw himself into a chair with a deep sigh. "Jack," said he. "Aye, aye, sir." "What's to be done now?" Jack opened the window to discharge the superfluous moisture from an
enormous quid he had indulged himself with while the lawyer was telling
about the vampyre, and then again turning his face towards his master,
he said,--

"Do! What shall we do? Why, go at once and find out Charles, our _nevy_,
and ask him all about it, and see the young lady, too, and lay hold o'
the _wamphigher_ if we can, as well, and go at the whole affair
broadside to broadside, till we make a prize of all the particulars,
after which we can turn it over in our minds agin, and see what's to be
done." "Jack, you are right. Come along." "I knows I am. Do you know now which way to steer?" "Of course not. I never was in this latitude before, and the channel
looks intricate. We will hail a pilot, Jack, and then we shall be all
right, and if we strike it will be his fault." "Which is a mighty great consolation," said Jack. "Come along." CHAPTER XVI. THE MEETING OF THE LOVERS IN THE GARDEN.--AN AFFECTING SCENE.--THE
SUDDEN APPEARANCE OF SIR FRANCIS VARNEY. [Illustration]

Our readers will recollect that Flora Bannerworth had made an
appointment with Charles Holland in the garden of the hall. This meeting
was looked forward to by the young man with a variety of conflicting
feelings, and he passed the intermediate time in a most painful state of
doubt as to what would be its result. The thought that he should be much urged by Flora to give up all
thoughts of making her his, was a most bitter one to him, who loved her
with so much truth and constancy, and that she would say all she could
to induce such a resolution in his mind he felt certain. But to him the
idea of now abandoning her presented itself in the worst of aspects. "Shall I," he said, "sink so low in my own estimation, as well as in
hers, and in that of all honourable-minded persons, as to desert her now
in the hour of affliction? Dare I be so base as actually or virtually to
say to her, 'Flora, when your beauty was undimmed by sorrow--when all
around you seemed life and joy, I loved you selfishly for the increased
happiness which you might bestow upon me; but now the hand of misfortune
presses heavily upon you--you are not what you were, and I desert you? Never--never--never!" Charles Holland, it will be seen by some of our more philosophic
neighbours, felt more acutely than he reasoned; but let his errors of
argumentation be what they may, can we do other than admire the nobility
of soul which dictated such a self denying generous course as that he
was pursuing? As for Flora, Heaven only knows if at that precise time her intellect
had completely stood the test of the trying events which had nearly
overwhelmed it. The two grand feelings that seemed to possess her mind were fear of the
renewed visit of the vampyre, and an earnest desire to release Charles
Holland from his repeated vows of constancy towards her. Feeling, generosity, and judgment, all revolted holding a young man to
such a destiny as hers. To link him to her fate, would be to make him to
a real extent a sharer in it, and the more she heard fall from his lips
in the way of generous feelings of continued attachment to her, the more
severely did she feel that he would suffer most acutely if united to
her. And she was right. The very generosity of feeling which would have now
prompted Charles Holland to lead Flora Bannerworth to the altar, even
with the marks of the vampyre's teeth upon her throat, gave an assurance
of a depth of feeling which would have made him an ample haven in all
her miseries, in all her distresses and afflictions. What was familiarly in the family at the Hall called the garden, was a
semicircular piece of ground shaded in several directions by trees, and
which was exclusively devoted to the growth of flowers. The piece of
ground was nearly hidden from the view of the house, and in its centre
was a summer-house, which at the usual season of the year was covered
with all kinds of creeping plants of exquisite perfumes, and rare
beauty. All around, too, bloomed the fairest and sweetest of flowers,
which a rich soil and a sheltered situation could produce. Alas! though, of late many weeds had straggled up among their more
estimable floral culture, for the decayed fortunes of the family had
prevented them from keeping the necessary servants, to place the Hall
and its grounds in a state of neatness, such as it had once been the
pride of the inhabitants of the place to see them. It was then in this
flower-garden that Charles and Flora used to meet. As may be supposed, he was on the spot before the appointed hour,
anxiously expecting the appearance of her who was so really and truly
dear to him. What to him were the sweet flowers that there grew in such
happy luxuriance and heedless beauty? Alas, the flower that to his mind
was fairer than them all, was blighted, and in the wan cheek of her whom
he loved, he sighed to see the lily usurping the place of the radiant
rose. "Dear, dear Flora," he ejaculated, "you must indeed be taken from this
place, which is so full of the most painful remembrance; now, I cannot
think that Mr. Marchdale somehow is a friend to me, but that conviction,
or rather impression, does not paralyze my judgment sufficiently to
induce me not to acknowledge that his advice is good. He might have
couched it in pleasanter words--words that would not, like daggers, each
have brought a deadly pang home to my heart, but still I do think that
in his conclusion he was right." A light sound, as of some fairy footstep among the flowers, came upon
his ears, and turning instantly to the direction from whence the sound
proceeded, he saw what his heart had previously assured him of, namely,
that it was his Flora who was coming. [Illustration]

Yes, it was she; but, ah, how pale, how wan--how languid and full of the
evidences of much mental suffering was she. Where now was the elasticity
of that youthful step? Where now was that lustrous beaming beauty of
mirthfulness, which was wont to dawn in those eyes? Alas, all was changed.