The admiral wrung Henry by the hand, as he said,--

"To-morrow--wait till to-morrow; we will talk over this matter to
morrow--I cannot to-night, I have not patience; but to-morrow, my dear
boy, we will have it all out. God bless you. Good night."

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE NOBLE CONFIDENCE OF FLORA BANNERWORTH IN HER LOVER.--HER OPINION OF
THE THREE LETTERS.--THE ADMIRAL'S ADMIRATION.

[Illustration]

To describe the feelings of Henry Bannerworth on the occasion of this
apparent defalcation from the path of rectitude and honour by his
friend, as he had fondly imagined Charles Holland to be, would be next
to impossible.

If, as we have taken occasion to say, it be a positive fact, that a
noble and a generous mind feels more acutely any heartlessness of this
description from one on whom it has placed implicit confidence, than the
most deliberate and wicked of injuries from absolute strangers, we can
easily conceive that Henry Bannerworth was precisely the person to feel
most acutely the conduct which all circumstances appeared to fix upon
Charles Holland, upon whose faith, truth, and honour, he would have
staked his very existence but a few short hours before.

With such a bewildered sensation that he scarcely knew where he walked
or whither to betake himself, did he repair to his own chamber, and
there he strove, with what energy he was able to bring to the task, to
find out some excuses, if he could, for Charles's conduct. But he could
find none. View it in what light he would, it presented but a picture of
the most heartless selfishness it had ever been his lot to encounter.

The tone of the letters, too, which Charles had written, materially
aggravated the moral delinquency of which he had been guilty; belief,
far better, had he not attempted an excuse at all than have attempted
such excuses as were there put down in those epistles.

A more cold blooded, dishonourable proceeding could not possibly be
conceived.

It would appear, that while he entertained a doubt with regard to the
reality of the visitation of the vampyre to Flora Bannerworth, he had
been willing to take to himself abundance of credit for the most
honourable feelings, and to induce a belief in the minds of all that an
exalted feeling of honour, as well as a true affection that would know
no change, kept him at the feet of her whom he loved.

Like some braggart, who, when there is no danger, is a very hero, but
who, the moment he feel