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For a brief space let us return to Flora Bannerworth, who had suffered so much on account of her affections, as well as on account of the mysterious attack that had been made upon her by the reputed vampyre.
After leaving Bannerworth Hall for a short time, she seemed to recover her spirits; but this was a state of things which did not last, and only showed how fallacious it was to expect that, after the grevious things that had happened, she would rapidly recover her equanimity.
It is said, by learned physiologists, that two bodily pains cannot endure at the same space of time in the system; and, whether it be so or not, is a question concerning which it would be foreign to the nature of our work, to enter into anything like an elaborate disquisition.
Certainly, however, so far as Flora Bannerworth was concerned, she seemed inclined to show that, mentally, the observation was a true one, for that, now she became released from a continued dread of the visits of the vampyre, her mind would, with more painful interest than ever, recur to the melancholy condition, probably, of Charles Holland, if he were alive, and to soul-harrowing reflections concerning him, if he were dead.
She could not, and she did not, believe, for one moment, that his desertion of her had been of a voluntary character. She knew, or fancied she knew, him by far too well for that; and she more than once expressed her opinion, to the effect that she was perfectly convinced his disappearance was a part and parcel of all that train of circumstances which had so recently occurred, and produced such a world of unhappiness to her, as well as to the whole of the Bannerworth family.
"If he had never loved me," she said to her brother Henry, "he would have been alive and well; but he has fallen a victim to the truth of a passion, and to the constancy of an affection which, to my dying day, I will believe in."
Now that Mr. Marchdale had left the place there was no one to dispute this proposition with Flora, for all, as well as she, were fully inclined to think well of Charles Holland.
It was on the very morning which preceded that evening when Sir Francis Varney called upon Charles Holland in the manner we have related, with the gratifying news that, upon certain conditions, he might be released, that Flora Bannerworth, when the admiral came to see them, spoke to him of Charles Holland, saying, --
"Now, sir, that I am away from Bannerworth Hall, I do not, and cannot feel satisfied; for the thought that Charles may eventually come back, and seek us there, still haunts me. Fancy him, sir, doing so and seeing the place completely deserted."
"Well, there's something in that," said the admiral; "but, however, he's hardly such a goose, if it were so to happen, to give up the chase -- he'd find us out somehow."
"You think he would, sir? or, do you not think that despair would seize upon him, and that, fancying we had all left the spot for ever, he might likewise do so; so that we should lose him more effectually than we have done at present?"
"No; hardly," said the admiral; "he wouldn't be such a goose as that. Why, when I was of his age, if I had secured the affections of a young girl like you, I'd have gone over all the world, but I'd have found out where she was; and what I mean to say is, if he's half such a goose as you think him, he deserves to lose you."
"Did you not tell me something, sir, of Mr. Chillingworth talking of taking possession of the Hall for a brief space of time?"
"Why, yes, I did; and I expect he is there now; in fact, I'm sure he's there, for he said he would be."
"No, he ain't," said Jack Pringle, at that moment entering the room; "you're wrong again, as you always are, somehow or other."
"What, you vagabond, are you here, you mutinous rascal?" -- "Ay, ay, sir; go on; don't mind me. I wonder what you'd do, sir, if you hadn't somebody like me to go on talking about."
"Why, you infernal rascal, I wonder what you'd do if you had not an indulgent commander, who puts up even with real mutiny, and says nothing about it. But where have you been? Did you go as I directed you, and take some provisions to Bannerworth Hall?" -- "Yes, I did; but I brought them back again; there's nobody there, and don't seem likely to be, except a dead body."
"A dead body! Whose body can that be?" -- "Tom somebody; for I'm d -- -- d if he ain't a great he cat."
"You scoundrel, how dare you alarm me in such a way? But do you meant to tell me that you did not see Dr. Chillingworth at the Hall?" -- "How could I see him, if he wasn't there?"
"But he was there; he said he would be there." -- "Then he's gone again, for there's nobody there that I know of in the shape of a doctor. I went through every part of the ship -- I mean the house -- and the deuce a soul could I find; and as it was rather lonely and uncomfortable, I came away again. 'Who knows,' thought I, 'but some blessed vampyre or another may come across me.'"
"This won't do," said the old admiral, buttoning up his coat to the chin; "Bannerworth Hall must not be deserted in this way. It is quite clear that Sir Francis Varney and his associates have some particular object in view in getting possession of the place. Here, you Jack." -- "Ay, ay, sir."
"Just go back again, and stay at the Hall till somebody comes to you. Even such a stupid hound as you will be something to scare away unwelcome visitors. Go back to the Hall, I say. What are you staring at?" -- "Back to Bannerworth Hall!" said Jack. "What! just where I've come from; all that way off, and nothing to eat, and, what's worse, nothing to drink. I'll see you d -- -- d first."
The admiral caught up a table-fork, and made a rush at Jack; but Henry Bannerworth interfered.
"No, no," he said, "admiral, no, no -- not that. You must recollect that you yourself have given the, no doubt, faithful fellow of yours liberty to do and say a great many things which don't look like good service; but I have no doubt, from what I have seen of his disposition, that he would risk his life rather than that you should come to any harm.
"Ay, ay," said Jack; "he quite forgets when the bullets were scuttling our nobs off Cape Ushant, when that big Frenchman had hold of him by the skirf of his neck, and began pummelling his head, and the lee scuppers were running with blood, and a bit of Joe Wiggins's brains had come slap in my eye, while some of Jack Marling's guts were hanging round my neck like a nosegay, all in consequence of grape-shot -- then he didn't say as I was a swab, when I came up, and bored a hole in the Frenchman's back with a pike. Ay, it's all very well now, when there's a peace, and no danger, to call Jack Pringle a lubberly rascal, and mutinous. I'm blessed if it ain't enough to make an old pair of shoes faint away."
"Why, you infernal scoundrel," said the admiral, "nothing of the sort ever happened, and you know it. Jack, you're no seaman." -- "Werry good," said Jack; "then, if I ain't no seaman, you are what shore-going people calls a jolly fat old humbug."
"Jack, hold your tongue," said Henry Bannerworth; "you carry these things too far. You know very well that your master esteems you, and you should not presume too much upon that fact." -- "My master!" said Jack; "don't call him my master. I never had a master, and don't intend. He's my admiral if you like; but an English sailor don't like a master."
"I tell you what it is, Jack," said the admiral; "you've got your good qualities, I admit." -- "Ay, ay, sir -- that's enough; you may as well leave off well while you can."
"But I'll just tell you what you resemble more than anything else." -- "Chew me up! what may that be, sir?"
"A French marine." -- "A what! A French marine! Good-bye. I wouldn't say another word to you, if you was to pay me a dollar a piece. Of all the blessed insults rolled into one, this here's the worstest. You might have called me a marine, or you might have called me a Frenchman; but to make out that I'm both a marine and a Frenchman, d -- me, if it isn't enough to make human nature stand on an end! Now, I've done with you."
"And a good job, too," said the admiral. "I wish I'd thought of it before. You're worse than a third day's ague, or a hot and a cold fever in the tropics." -- "Very good," said Jack; "I only hope Providence will have mercy upon you, and keep an eye upon you when I'm gone, otherwise, I wonder what will become of you? It wasn't so when young Belinda, who you took off the island of Antiggy, in the Ingies, jumped overboard, and I went arter her in a heavy swell. Howsumdever, never mind, you shook hands with me then; and while a bushel of the briney was weeping out of the corner of each of your blinkers, you says, says you, -- "
"Hold!" cried the admiral, "hold! I know what I said, Jack. It's cut a fathom deep in my memory. Give us your fist, Jack, and -- and -- " -- "Hold yourself," said Jack; "I know what you're going to say, and I won't hear you say it -- so there's an end of it. Lor bless you! I knows you, I ain't a going to leave you. Don't be afraid; I only works you up, and works you down again, just to see if there's any of that old spirit in you when we was aboard the Victory. Don't you recollect, admiral?"
"Yes -- yes; enough, Jack." -- "Why, let me see -- that was a matter of forty years ago, nearly, when I was a youngster."
"There -- there, Jack -- that'll do. You bring the events of other years fresh upon my memory. Peace -- peace. I have not forgotten; but still, to hear what you know of them, if recited, would give the old man a pang." -- "A pang," said Jack; "I suppose that's some dictionary word for a punch in the eye. That would be mutiny with a vengeance; so I'm off."
"Go, go." -- "I'm a going; and just to please you, I'll go to the Hall, so you sha'n't say that you told me to do anything that I didn't."
Away went Jack, whistling an air, that might have been popular when he and the admiral were young, and Henry Bannerworth could not but remark that an appearance of great sadness came over the old man, when Jack was gone.
"I fear, sir," he said, "That heedless sailor has touched upon some episode in your existence, the wounds of which are still fresh enough to give you pain." -- "It is so," said the admiral; "just look at me, now. Do I look like the hero of a romantic love story?"
"Not exactly, I admit." -- "Well, notwithstanding that, Jack Pringle has touched a chord that vibrates in my heart yet," replied the admiral.
"Have you any objection to tell me of it?" -- "None, whatever; and perhaps, by the time I have done, the doctor may have found his way back again, or Jack may bring us some news of him. So here goes for a short, but true yarn."
--
Just at this moment Flora Bannerworth stole into the room from whence she had departed a short time since; but when she saw that old Admiral Bell was looking so exceedingly serious, and apparently about to address Henry upon some very important subject, she would have retired, but he turned towards her, and said, --
"My story, my dear, I've no objection to your hearing, and, like all women folks, a love story never comes amiss to you: so you may as well stay and hear it." -- "A love story," said Flora; "you tell a love story, sir?"
"Yes, my dear, and not only tell it, but be the hero of it, likewise; ain't you astonished?" -- "I am, indeed."
"Well, you'll be more astonished then before I've done; so just listen. As Jack Pringle says, it was the matter of about somewhere forty years ago, that I was in command of the Victory frigate, which was placed upon the West Indian station, during a war then raging, for the protection of our ports and harbours in that vicinity. We'd not a strong force in that quarter, therefore, I had to cut about from place to place, and do the best I could. After a time, though, I rather think that we frightened off the enemy; during which time I chiefly anchored off the island of Antigua, and was hospitably received at the house of a planter, of the name of Marchant, who, in fact, made his house my home, and introduced me to all the elite of the society of the island. Ah! Miss Flora, you've no idea, to look at me now, what I was then; I held a captain's commission, and was nearly the youngest man in the service, with such a rank. I was as slender, ay, as a dancing master. These withered and bleached locks were black as the raven's plume. Ay, ay, but no matter: the planter had a daughter."
"And you loved her?" said Flora -- "Loved her," said the old man, and the flush of youthful animation came to his countenance; "I loved her, do you say! I adored her; I worshipped her; she was to me -- but what a d -- -- d old fool I am; we'll skip that if you please."
"Nay, nay," said Flora; "that is what I want to hear." -- "I haven't the least doubt of that, in the world; but that's just what you won't hear; none of your nonsense, Miss Flora; the old man may be a fool, but he isn't quite an idiot."
"He's neither," said Flora; "true feelings can never disgrace any one." -- "Perhaps not; but, however, to make a long story short, somehow or other, one day, Belinda was sitting alone, and I rudely pounced upon her; I rather think then I must have said something that I oughtn't to have said, for it took her so aback; I was forced, somehow or other, to hold her up, and then I -- I -- yes; I'm sure I kissed her; and so, I told her I loved her; and then, what do you think she said?"
"Why," said Flora, "that she reciprocated the passion." -- "D -- n my rags," said Jack, who at that moment came into the room, "I suppose that's the name of some shell or other."
"You here, you villain!" said the admiral; "I thought you were gone." -- "So I was," said Jack, "but I came back for my hat, you see."
Away he went again, and the admiral resumed his story.
"Well, Miss Flora," he said, "you haven't made a good guess, as she didn't say anything at all, she only clung to me like some wild bird to its mother's breast, and cried as if her heart would break." -- "Indeed!"
"Yes; I didn't know the cause of her emotion, but at last I got it out of her." -- "What was it?"
"Oh, a mere trifle; she was already married to somebody else, that's all; some d -- -- d fellow, who had gone trading about the islands, a fellow she didn't care a straw about, that was old enough to be her father."
"And you left her?" -- "No, I didn't. Guess again. I was a mad-headed youngster. I only felt -- I didn't think. I persuaded her to come away with me. I took her aboard my ship, and set sail with her. A few weeks flew like hours; but one day we were hailed by a vessel, and when we neared her, she manned a boat and brought a letter on board, addressed to Belinda. It was from her father, written in his last moments. It began with a curse and ended with a blessing. There was a postscript in another hand, to say the old man died of grief. She read it by my side on the quarter-deck. It dropped from her grasp, and she plunged into the sea. Jack Pringle went after her; but I never saw her again."
"Gracious Heavens! what a tragedy!" -- "Yes, tolerable," said the old man.
He arose and took his hat and placed it on his head. He gave the crown of it a blow that sent it nearly over his eyes. He thrust his hands deep into his breeches pockets, clenched his teeth, and muttered something inaudible as he strode from the apartment.
"Who would have thought, Henry," said Flora, "that such a a man as Admiral Bell had been the hero of such an adventure?" -- "Ay, who indeed; but it shows that we never can judge from appearances, Flora; and that those who seem to us the most heart-whole may have experienced the wildest vicissitudes of passion."
"And we must remember, likewise, that this was forty years ago, Henry, which makes a material difference in the state of the case as regards Admiral Bell."
"It does indeed -- more than half a lifetime; and yet how evident it was that his old feelings clung to him. I can well imagine the many hours of bitter regret which the memory of this his lost love must have given him."
"True -- true." I can feel something for him; for have I not lost one who loved me -- a worse loss, too, than that which Admiral Bell relates; for am I not a prey to all the horrors of uncertainty? Whereas, he knew the worst, and that, at all events, death had claimed its victim, leaving nothing to conjecture in the shape of suffering, so that the mind had nothing to do but to recover slowly, but surely, as it would, from the shock which it had received."
"That is worse than you, Flora; but rather would I have you cherish hope of soon beholding Charles Holland, probably alive and well, than fancy any great disaster has come over him."
"I will endeavour to do so," replied Flora.
"I long to hear what has become of Dr. Chillingworth. His disappearance is most singular; for I fully suspected that he had some particular object in view in getting possession for a short time of Bannerworth Hall; but now, from Jack Pringle's account, he appears not to be in it, and, in fact, to have disappeared completely from the sight of all who knew him."
"Yes," said Flora; "but he may have done that, brother, still in furtherance of his object."
"It may be so, and I will hope that it is so. Keep yourself close, sister, and see no one, while I proceed to his house to inquire if they have heard anything of him. I will return soon, be assured; and, in the meantime, should you see my brother, tell him I shall be at home in an hour or so, and not to leave the cottage; for it is more than likely that the admiral has gone to Bannerworth Hall, so that you may not see anything of him for some time."
--
Varney the vampyre left the dungeon of Charles Holland amid the grey ruins, with a perfect confidence the young man would keep his word, and not attempt to escape from that place until the time had elapsed which he had dictated to him.
And well might he have that confidence, for having once given his word that he would remain until he heard the clock strike two from a neighbouring church, Charles Holland never dreamt for a moment of breaking it.
To be sure it was a weary time to wait when liberty appeared before him; but he was the soul of honour, and the least likely man in all the world to infringe in the slightest upon the condition which he had, of his own free will, acceded to.
Sir Francis Varney walked rapidly until he came nearly to the outskirts of the town, and then he slackened his pace, proceeding more cautiously, and looking carefully about him, as if he feared to meet any one who might recognize him.
He had not proceeded far in this manner, when he became conscious of the cautious figure of a man gliding along in the opposite direction that which he was taking.
A suspicion struck him, from the general appearance, that it was Marchdale, and if so, he wondered to see him abroad at such a time. Still he would not be quite certain; but he hurried forward, so as to meet the advancing figure, and then his suspicions were confirmed; and Marchdale with some confusion in his looks and manners, accosted him.
"Ah, Sir Francis Varney," he said, "you are out late." -- "Why, you know I should be out late," said Varney, "and you likewise know the errand upon which I was to be out."
"Oh, I recollect; you were to release your prisoner." -- "Yes, I was."
"And have you done so?" -- "Oh, no."
"Oh, indeed. I -- I am glad you have taken better thought of it. Good night -- good night; we shall meet to-morrow." -- "Adieu," said Sir Francis Varney; and he watched the retreating figure of Marchdale, and then he added, in a low tone to himself, --
"I know his object well. His craven spirit shrinks at the notion, a probable enough one, I will admit, that Charles Holland has recognised him, and that, if once free, he would denounce him to the Bannerworths, holding him up to scorn in his true colours, and bringing down upon his head, perhaps, something more than detestation and comtempt. The villain! he is going now to take the life of the man whom he considers chained to the ground. Well, well, they must fight it out together. Charles Holland is sufficiently free to take his own part, although Marchdale little thinks such is the case."
Marchdale walked on for some little distance, and then he turned and looked after Sir Francis Varney.
"Indeed!" he said; "so you have not released him to-night, but I know well will do so soon. I do not, for my part, admire this romantic generosity which sets a fox free at the moment that he's the most dangerous. It's all very well to be generous, but it is better to be just first, and that I consider means looking after one's self first. I have a poniard here which will soon put an end to the troubles of the prisoner in his dungeon -- its edge is keen and sharp, and will readily find a way to his heart."
He walked on quite exultingly and carelessly now, for he had got into the open country, and it was extremely unlikely that he would meet anybody on his road to the ruins.
It did not take many minutes sharp walking now to bring him close to the spot which he intended should become such a scene of treacherous slaughter, and just then he heard from afar off something like the muttering of thunder, as if Heaven itself was proclaiming its vengeance against the man who had come out to slay one of its best and noblest creatures.
"What is that?" said Marchdale, shrinking back a moment; "what is that -- an approaching storm? It must be so, for, now I recollect me, the sun set behind a bank of clouds of a fiery redness, and as the evening drew in there was every appearance in the heavens of some ensuing strife of the elements."
He listened for a few moments, and fixed his eyes intently in the direction of the horizon from where the muttering sounds had proceeded.
He had not long to wait before he saw a bright flash of blue lightning, which for one instant illumined the sky; then by the time he could have counted twelve there came the thunder which the flash preceded, and he felt terribly anxious to complete his enterprize, so that he might get back to the town and be safely housed before the storm, which was evidently approaching, should burst upon him.
"It is sweeping on apace," he said; "why did I not come earlier?"
Even as he spoke he plunged among the recesses of the ruins, and searching about for the old stone which covered the entrance to the dungeon, he was surprised to find it rolled from its place and the aperture open.
"What is the meaning of this?" he said; "how negligent of Sir Francis Varney; or perhaps, after all, he was only jesting with me, and let the prisoner go. If that should be the case, I am foiled indeed; but surely he could not be so full of indiscretion."
Again came a dazzling flash of lightning, which now, surrounded by the ruins as he was, made him shrink back and cover his eyes for a moment; and then followed a peal of thunder with not half the duration of time between it and the flash which had characterized the previous electric phenomenon.
"The storm approaches fast," said Marchdale; "I must get my work done quickly, if indeed my victim be here, which I begin seriously to doubt."
He descended the intricate winding passage to the vault below, which served the purpose of a dungeon, and when he got very nearly into the depth of the recesses, he called aloud, saying, --
"Ho! what ho! is there any one here?" -- "Yes," said Charles Holland, who fancied it might be his former visitor returned. "Have you come to repent of your purpose?"
"Ah!" said Marchdale to himself, "Sir Francis, after all, has told me the truth -- the prisoner is still here."
The light from without was not near sufficient to send the least ray into the depths of that dungeon; so that Marchdale, when he entered the place, could see nothing but an absolute blackness.
It was not so, however, with Charles Holland, whose eyes had been now so long accustomed to the place that he could see in it as if a dim twilight irradiated it, and he at once, in his visitor, saw his worst foe, and not the man who had comparatively set him free.
He saw, too, that the hand of his visitor grasped a weapon, which Marchdale thought that, favoured by the darkness, he might carry openly in perfect security.
"Where are you?" said Marchdale; "I cannot see you." -- "Here!" said Charles, "you may feel my grip;" and he sprung upon him in an instant.
The attack was so sudden and so utterly unexpected, that Marchdale was thrown backwards, and the dagger wrested from his grasp, during the first impulse which Charles Holland had thrown into his attack.
Moreover, his head struck with such violence against the earthen floor, that it produced a temporary confusion of his faculties, so that, had Charles Holland been so inclined, he might, with Marchdale's own weapon, have easily taken his life.
The young man did, on the impulse of the moment, raise it in his hand, but, on the impulse of another thought, he cast it from him, exclaiming --
"No, no! not that; I should be as bad as he, or nearly so. This villain has come to murder me, but yet I will not take his life for the deed. What shall I do with him? Ha! a lucky thought -- chains!"
He dragged Marchdale to the identical spot of earth on which he had lain so long; and, as Sir Francis Varney had left the key of the padlock which bound the chains together in it, he, in a few moments, had succeeded in placing the villain Marchdale in the same durance from which he had himself shortly since escaped.
"Remain there," he said, "until some one comes to rescue you. I will not let you starve to death, but I will give you a long fast; and, when I come again, it shall be along with some of the Bannerworth family, to show them what a viper they have fostered in their hearts."
Marchdale was just sufficiently conscious now to feel all the realities of his situation. In vain he attempted to rise from his prostrate position. The chains did their duty, keeping down a villain with the same means that they had held in ignominious confinment a true man.
He was in a perfect agony, inasmuch as he considered that he would be allowed to remain there to starve to death, thus achieving for himself a more horrible death than any he had ever thought of inflicting.
"Villain!" exclaimed Charles Holland, "you shall there remain; and, let you have what mental sufferings you may, you richly deserve them."
He heeded not the cries of Marchdale -- he heeded not his imprecations any more than he did his prayers; and the arch hypocrite used both in abundance. Charles was but too happy once more to look upon the open sky, although it was then in darkness, to heed anything that Marchdale, in the agony to which he was now reduced, might feel inclined to say; and, after glancing around him for some few moments, when he was free of the ruins, and inhaling with exquisite delight the free air of the surrounding meadows, he saw, by the twinkling of the lights, in which direction the town lay, and knowing that by taking a line in that path, and then after a time diverging a little to the right, he should come to Bannerworth Hall, he walked on, never in his whole life probably feeling such an enjoyment of the mere fact of existence as at such a moment as that of exquisite liberty.
Our readers may with us imagine what it is to taste the free, fresh air of heaven, after being long pent up, as he, Charles Holland, had been, in a damp, noisome dungeon, teeming with unwholesome exhalations. They may well suppose with what an amount of rapture he now found himself unrestrained in his movements by those galling fetters which had hung for so long a period upon his youthful limbs, and which, not unfrequently in the despair of his heart, he had thought he should surely die in.
And last, although not least in his dear esteem, did the rapturous thought of once more looking in the sweet face of her he loved come cross him with a gust of delight.
"Yes!" he exclaimed, as he quickened his pace; "yes! I shall be able to tell Flora Bannerworth how well and how truly I love her. I shall be able to tell her that, in my weary and hideous imprisonment, the thought alone of her has supported me."
As he neared the Hall, he quickened his pace to such an extent that soon he was forced to pause altogether, as the exertion he had undertaken pretty plainly told him that the emprisonment, scanty diet, and want of exercise, which had been his portion for some time past, had most materially decreased his strength.
His limbs trembled, and a profuse persperation bedewed his brow, although the night was rather cold otherwise.
"I am very weak," he said; "and much I wonder now that I succeeded in overcoming that villain Marchdale; who, if I had not done so, would most assuredly have murdered me."
And it was a wonder; for Marchdale was not an old man, although he might be considered certainly as past the prime of life, and he was of a strong and athletic build. But it was the suddenness of this attack upon him which had given Charles Holland the great advantage, and had caused the defeat of the ruffian who came bent on one of the most cowardly and dastardly murders that could be committted -- namely, upon an unoffending man, whom he supposed to be loaded with chains, and incapable of making the least efficient resistance.
Charles soon again recovered sufficient breath and strength to proceed towards the Hall, and now warned, by the exhaustion which had come over him that he had not really anything like strength enough to allow him to proceed rapidly, he walked with slow and deliberate steps.
This mode of proceeding was more favourable to reflection than the wild, rapid one which he had at first adopted, and in all the glowing colours of youthful and ingenious fancy did he depict to himself the surprise and the pleasure that would beam in the countenance of his beloved Flora when she should find him once again by her side.
Of course, he, Charles, could know nothing of the contrivances which had been resorted to, and which the reader may lay wholly to the charge of Marchdale, to blacken his character, and to make him appear faithless to the love he had professed.
Had he known this, it is probable that indignation would have added wings to his progress, and he would not have been able to proceed at the leisurely pace he felt that his state of physical weakness dictated to him.
And now he saw the topmost portion of Bannerworth Hall pushing out from amongst the trees with which the ancient pile was so much surrounded, and the sight of the home of his beloved revived him, and quickened the circulation of the warm blood in the veins.
"I shall behold her now," he said -- "I shall behold her now! A few minutes more, and I shall hold her to my heart -- that heart which has been ever hers, and which carried her image enshrined in its deepest recesses, even into the gloom of a dungeon!"
But let us, while Charles Holland is indulging in these delightful anticipations -- anticipations which, we regret, in consequence of the departure of the Bannerworths from the Hall, will not be realized so soon as he supposes -- look back upon the discomfited hypocrite and villain, Marchdale, who occupies his place in the dungeon of the old ruins.
Until Charles Holland actually had left the strange, horrible, and cell-like place, he could scarcely make up his mind that the young man entertained a serious intention of leaving him there.
Perhaps he did not think any one could be so cruel and so wicked as he himself; for the reader will no doubt recollect that his, Marchdale's, counsel to Varney, was to leave Charles Holland to his fate, chained down as he was in the dungeon, and that fate would have been the horrible one of being starved to death in the course of a few days.
When now, however, he felt confident that he was deserted -- when he heard the sound of Charles Holland's retreating footsteps slowly dying away in the distance, until not the faintest echo of them reached his ears, he despaired indeed; and the horror he experienced during the succeeding ten minutes, might be considered an ample atonement for some of his crimes. His brain was in a complete whirl; nothing of a tangible nature, but that he was there, chained down, and left to starve to death, came across his intellect. Then a kind of madness, for a moment or two, took possession of him; he made a tremendous effort to burst asunder the bands that held him.
But it was in vain. The chains -- which had been placed upon Charles Holland during the first few days of his confinement, when he had a little recovered from the effects of the violence which had been committed upon him at the time when he was captured -- effectually resisted Marchdale.
They even cut into his flesh, inflicting upon him some grevious wounds; but that was all he achieved by his great effort to free himself, so that, after a few moments, bleeding and in great pain, he, with a deep groan, desisted from the fruitless efforts he had better not to have commenced.
Then he remained silent for a time, but it was not the silence of reflection; it was that of exhaustion, and, as such, was not likely to last long; nor did it, for, in the course of another five minutes, he called out loudly.
Perhaps he thought there might be a remote chance that some one traversing the meadows would hear him; and yet, if he had duly considered the matter, which he was not in a fitting frame of mind to do, he would have recollected that, in choosing a dungeon among the underground vaults of these ruins, he had, by experiment, made certain that no cry, however loud, from where he lay, could reach the upper air. And thus had this villain, by the very cautions which he had himself taken to ensure the safe custody of another, been his own greatest enemy.
"Help! help! help!" he cried frantically. "Varney! Charles Holland! have mercy upon me, and do not leave me here to starve! Help, oh, Heaven! Curses on all your heads -- curses! Oh, mercy -- mercy -- mercy!"
In suchlike incoherent expressions did he pass some hours, until, what with exhaustion and a raging thirst that came over him, he could not utter another word, but lay the very picture of despair and discomfited malice and wickedness.
--
Gladly we turn from such a man as Marchdale to a consideration of the beautiful and accomplished Flora Bannerworth, to whom we may, without destroying in any way the interest of our plot, predict a much happier destiny than, probably, at that time, she considers as at all likely to be hers.
She certainly enjoyed, upon her first removal from Bannerworth Hall, greater serenity of mind than she had done there; but, as we have already remarked of her, the more her mind was withdrawn, by change of scene, from the horrible considerations which the attack of the vampyre had forced upon her, the more she reverted to the fate of Charles Holland, which was still shrouded in so much gloom.
She would sit and converse with her mother upon that subject until she worked up her feelings to a most uncomfortable pitch of excitement, and then Mrs. Bannerworth would get her younger brother to join them, who would occasionally read to her some compositions of his own, or of some favourite writer whom he thought would amuse her.
It was on the very evening when Sir Francis Varney had made up his mind to release Charles Holland, that young Bannerworth read to his sister and his mother the following little chivalric incident, which he told them he himself had collated from authentic sources: --
"The knight with the green shield," exclaimed one of a party of men-at-arms, who were drinking together at an ancient hostel, not far from Shrewsbury -- "the knight with the green shield is as good a knight as ever buckled on a sword, or wore spurs." -- "Then how comes it that he is not one of the victors in the day's tournament?" exclaimed another. -- "By the bones of Alfred!" said a third, "a man must be judged of by his deserts, and not by the partiality of his friends. That's my opinion, friends." -- "And mine too," said another.
"That is all very true, and my opinion would go with yours, too; but not in this instance. Though you may accuse me of partiality, yet I am not so; for I have seen some of the victors of to-day by no means forward in the press of battle -- men who, I will not say feared danger, but who liked it not so well but they avoided it as much as possible."
"Ay, marry, and so have I. The reason is, 'tis much easier to face a blunted lance, than one with a spear-head; and a man may practise the one and thrive in it, but not the other; for the best lance in the tournament is not always the best arm in the battle."
"And that is the reason of my saying the knight with the green shield was a good knight. I have seen him in the midst of the melee, when men and horses have been hurled to the ground by the shock; there he has behaved himself like a brave knight, and has more than once been noticed for it."
"But how came he to be so easily over thrown to-day? That speaks something." -- "His horse is an old one."
"So much the better," said another; "he's used to his work, and as cunning as an old man." -- "But he has been wounded more than once, and is weakened very much; besides, I saw him lose his footing, else he had overthrown his opponent."
"He did not seem distressed about his accident at all events, but sat contented in the tent." -- "He knows well that those who know him will never attribute his misadventure either to want of courage or conduct; moreover, he seems to be one of those who care but little for the opinion of men who care nothing for him."
"And he's right. Well, dear comrades, the health of Green Knight, or the Knight with a Green Shield, for that's his name or the designation he chooses to go by." -- "A health to the Knight with the Green Shield!" shouted the men-at-arms, as they lifted their cups on high.
"Who is he?" inquired one of the men-at-arms, of him who had spoken favourably of the stranger. -- "I don't know."
"And yet you spoke favourably of him but a few seconds back, and said what a brave knight he was!" -- "And so I uphold him to be; but, I tell you what, friend, I would do as much for the greatest stranger I ever met. I have seen him fight where men and horses have bit the dust in hundreds; and that, in my opinion, speaks out for the man and warrior; he who cannot, then, fight like a soldier, have better tilt at home in the castle-yard, and there win ladies' smiles, but not the commendation of the leader of the battle."
"That's true; I myself recollect very well Sir Hugh de Colbert, a very accomplished knight in the castle-yard; but his men were as fine a set of fellows as ever crossed a horse, to look at, but they proved deficient at the moment of trial; they were broken, and fled in a moment, and scarce one of them received a scratch."
"Then they hadn't stood the shock of the foeman?" -- "No; that's certain."
"But still I should like to know the knight, -- to know his name very well." -- "I know it not; he has some reason for keeping it secret, I suppose; but his deeds will not shame it, be it what it may. I can bear witness to more than one foeman falling beneath his battle-axe."
"Indeed!" -- "Yes; and he took a banner from the enemy in the last battle that was fought."
"Ah, well! he deserves a better fortune to-morrow. Who is to be the bridegroom of the beautiful Bertha, daughter of Lord de Cauci?" -- "That will have to be decided: but it is presumed that Sir Guthrie de Beaumont is the intended."
"Ah! but should he not prove the victor?" -- "It's understood; because it's known he is intended by the parents of the lady, and none would be ungallant enough to prevail against him, -- save on such conditions as would not endanger the fruits of the victory."
"No?" -- "Certainly not; they would lay the trophies at the foot of the beauty worshipped by the knights at the tournament."
"So, triumphant or not, he's to be the bridegroom; bearing off the prize of valour whether or no, -- in fact deserve her or not, -- that's the fact." -- "So it is; so it is."
"And a shame, too, friends; but so it is now; but yet, if the knight's horse recovers from the strain, and is fit for work to-morrow, it strikes me that the Green Shield will give some work to the holiday knight." * * * *
There had been a grand tournament held near Shrewsbury Castle, in honour of the intended nuptials of the beautiful Lady Bertha de Cauci. She was the only daughter of the Earl de Cauci, a nobleman of some note; he was one of an ancient and unblemished name, and of great riches.
The lady was beautiful, but, at the same time, she was an unwilling bride, -- every one could see that; but the bridegroom cared not for that. There was a settled sorrow on her brow, -- a sorrow that seemed sincere and lasting; but she spoke not of it to any one, -- her lips were seldom parted. She loved another. Yes; she loved one who was far away, fighting in the wars of his country, -- one who was not so rich in lands as her present bridegroom.
When he left her, she remembered his promise; it was, to fight on till he earned a fortune, or name that should give him some right to claim her hand, even from her imperious father. But alas! he came not; and what could she do against the commands of one who would be obeyed? Her mother, too, was a proud, haughty woman, one whose sole anxiety was to increase the grandeur and power of her house by such connections.
Thus it was pressed on by circumstances, she could no longer hold out, more especially as she heard nothing of her knight. She knew not where he was, or indeed if he were living or dead. She knew not he was never named. This last circumstance, indeed, gave her pain; for it assured her that he whom she loved had been unable to signalize himself from among other men. That, in fact, he was unknown in the annals of fame, as well as the probability that he had been slain in some of the earlier skirmishes of the war. This, if it had happened, caused her some pain to think upon; but such events were looked upon with almost indifference by females, save in such cases where their affections were engaged, as on this occasion. But the event was softened by the fact that men were continually falling by the hand of man in such encounters, but at the same time it was considered an honourable and praiseworthy death for a soldier. He was wounded, but not with the anguish we now hear of; for the friends were consoled by the reflection that the deceased warrior died covered with glory.
Bertha, however, was young, and as yet she knew not the cause of her absent knight's silence, or why he had not been heard of among the most forward in the battle.
"Heaven's will be done," she exclaimed; "what can I do? I must submit to my father's behests; but my future life will be one of misery and sorrow."
She wept to think of the past, and to dream of the future; both alike were sorrowful to think upon -- no comfort in the past and no joy in the future.
Thus she wept and sorrowed on the night of the first tournament; there was to be a second, and that was to be the grand one, where her intended bridegroom was to show himself off in her eyes, and take his part in the sport. * * * *
Bertha sat late -- she sat sorrowing by the light of the lamps and the flickering flame of the fire, as it rose and fell on the hearth and threw dancing shadows on the walls.
"Oh, why, Arthur Home, should you thus be absent? Absent, too, at such a time when you are more needed than ever. Alas, alas! you may no longer be in the land of the living. Your family is great and your name known -- your own has been spoken with commendation from the lips of your friend; what more of fame do you need? but I am speaking without purpose. Heaven have mercy on me."
As she spoke she looked up and saw one of her women in waiting standing by.
"Well, what would you?" -- "My lady, there is one who would speak with you," said the hand-maiden.
"With me?" -- "Yes, my lady; be named you the Lady Bertha de Cauci."
"Who and what is he?" she inquired, with something like trepidation, of the maiden. -- "I know not, my lady."
"But gave he not some token by which I might known who I admit to my chamber?" -- "None," replied the maiden.
"And what does he bear by way of distinguishing himself? What crest or device doth he bear?" -- "Merely a green shield."
"The unsuccessful knight in the tournament to-day. Heaven's! what can he desire with me; he is not -- no, no, it cannot be." -- "Will you admit him, lady?"
"Indeed, I known not what to do; but yet he may have some intelligence to give me. Yes, yes, admit him; but first throw some logs on the fire."
The attendant did as she was desired, and then quitted the room for the purpose of admitting the stranger knight with the green shield. In a few moments she could hear the stride of the knight as he neared the apartment, and she thought the step was familiar to her ear -- she thought it was the step of Sir Arthur Home, her lover. She waited anxiously to see the door open, and then the stranger entered. His form and bearing was that of her lover, but his visor was down, and she was unable to distinguish the features of the stranger.
His armour was such as had seen many a day's hard wear, and there were plenty of marks of the battle about him. His travel-worn accoutrements were altogether such as bespoke service in the field.
"Sir, you desired to see me; say wherefore you do so, and if it is news you bring." The knight answered not, but pointed to the female attendant, as if he desired she would withdraw. "You may retire," said Bertha; "be within call, and let me know if I am threatened with interruption."
The attendant retired, and then the knight and lady were left alone. The former seemed at a loss how to break silence for some moments, and then he said, --
"Lady -- " -- "Oh, Heavens! 'tis he!" exclaimed Bertha, as she sprang to her feet; "it is Sir Arthur Home!"
"It is," exclaimed the knight, pulling up his visor, and dropping on one knee he encircled his arm round the waist of the lady, and at the same moment he pressed her lips to his own.
The first emotion of joy and surprise over, Bertha checked her transports, and chid the knight for his boldness.
"Nay, chide me not, dear Bertha; I am what I was when I left you, and hope to find you the same."
"Am I not?" said Bertha. -- "Truly I know not, for you seem more beautiful than you were then; I hope that is the only change."
"If there be a change, it is only such as you see. Sorrow and regret form the principal causes." -- "I understand you."
"My intended nuptials -- " -- "Yes, I have heard all. I came here but late in the morning; and my horse was jaded and tired, and my impatience to attend the tournament caused me a disaster which it is well it came not on the second day."
"It is, dear Arthur. How is it I never heard your name mentioned, or that I received no news from any one about you during the wars that have ended?" -- "I had more than one personal enemy, Bertha; men who would have been glad to see me fall, and who, in default of that, would not have minded bribing an assassin to secure my death for them at any risk whatever."
"Heavens! and how did you escape such a death from such people, Arthur?" -- "By adopting such a device as that I wear. The Knight of the Green Shield I'm called."
"I saw you to-day in the tournament." -- "And there my tired and jaded horse gave way; but to-morrow I shall have, I hope, a different fortune."
"I hope so too." -- "I will try; my arm has been good in battle, and I see not why it should be deficient in peaceful jousts."
"Certainly not. What fortune have you met with since you left England?" -- "I was of course known but to a few; among those few were the general under whom I served and my more immediate officers, who I knew would not divulge my secret."
"And they did not?" -- "No; kept it nobly, and kept their eyes upon me in battle; and I have reaped a rich harvest in fame, honour, and riches, I assure you."
"Thank Heaven!" said Bertha. -- "Bertha, if I be conqueror, may I claim you in the court-yard before all the spectators?"
"You may," said Bertha, and she hung her head. -- "Moreover," said Sir Arthur, "you will not make a half promise, but when I demand you, you will at once come down to me and accept me as your husband; if I be the victor then he cannot object to the match."
"But he will have many friends, and his intended bridegroom will have many more, so that you may run some danger among so many enemies." -- "Never fear for me, Bertha, because I shall have many friends of distinction there too -- many old friends who are tried men in battle, and whose deeds are a glory and honour to them; besides, I shall have my commander and several gentlemen who would at once interfere in case any unfair advantage was attempted to be taken of my supposed weakness."
"Have you a fresh horse?" inquired Bertha. -- "I have, or shall have by the morning; but promise me you will do what I ask you, and then my arm will be nerved to its utmost, and I am sure to be victorious."
"I do promise," said Bertha; "I hope you may be as successful as you hope to be, Arthur; but suppose fortune should declare against you; suppose an accident of any kind were to happen, what could be done then?" -- "I must be content to hide myself for ever afterwards, as a defeated knight; how can I appear before your friends as the claimant of your hand?"
"I will never have any other." -- "But you will be forced to accept this Guthrie de Beaumont, your father's chosen son-in-law."
"I will seek refuge in a cloister." -- "Will you fly with me, Bertha, to some sequestered spot, where we can live in each others society?"
"Yes," said Bertha, "anything, save marriage with Guthrie de Beaumont." -- "Then await the tournament of to-morrow," said Sir Arthur, "and then this may be avoided; in the meantime, keep up a good heart and remember I am at hand."
* * * *
These two lovers parted for the present, after a protracted interview, Bertha to her chamber, and the Knight of the Green Shield to his tent.
The following morning was one of great preparation; the lists had been enlarged, and the seats made more commodious, for the influx of visitors appeared to be much greater than had been anticipated.
Moreover, there were many old warriors of distinction to be present, which made the bridegroom look pale and feel uncomfortable as to the results of the tournament. The tilting was to begin at an early hour, and then the feasting and the revelry would begin early in the evening, after the tilting had all passed off.
In that day's work there were many thrown from their saddles, and many broke their lances. The bridegroom tilted with several knights, and came off victorious, or without disadvantage to either.
The green knight, on the contrary, tilted with but few, and always victorious, and such matches were with men who had been men of some name in the wars, or at least in the tilt yard.
The sports drew to a close, and when the bridegroom became the challenger, the Knight of the Green Shield at once rode out quietly to meet him. The encounter could not well be avoided, and the bridegroom would willingly have declined the joust with a knight who had disposed of his enemies so easily, and so unceremoniously as he had.
The first encounter was enough; the bridegroom was thrown to a great distance, and lay insensible on the ground, and was carried out of the field. There was an immediate sensation among the friends of the bridegroom, several of whom rode out to challenge the stranger knight for his presumption.
In this, however, they had misreckoned the chances, for the challenged accepted their challenges with alacrity and disposed of them one by one with credit to himself until the day was concluded. The stranger was then asked to declare who he was, upon which he lifted his visor and said,
"I am Sir Arthur Home, and claim the Lady Bertha as my bride, by the laws of arms, and by those of love." * * * *
Again the tent was felled, and again the hostelry was tenanted by the soldier, who declared for one side and then for the other, as the cups clanged and gingled together.
"Said I not," exclaimed one of the troopers, "that the knight with a green shield was a good knight?" -- "You did," replied the other.
"And you knew who he was?" said another of the troopers. -- "Not I, comrades; I had seen him fight in battle, and, therefore, partly guessed how it would be if he had any chance with the bridegroom. I'm glad he has won the lady."
It was true, the Lady Bertha was won, and Sir Arthur Home claimed his bride, and then they attempted to defeat his claim; yet Bertha at once expressed herself in his favour, so strongly that they were, however reluctantly compelled, to consent at last.
At this moment, a loud shout as from a multitude of persons came upon their ears and Flora started from her seat in alarm. The cause of the alarm we shall proceed to detail.
--
A yet the town was quiet; and, though there was no appearance of riot or disturbance, yet the magistracy had taken every precaution they deemed needful, or their position and necessities warranted, to secure the peace of the town from the like disturbance to that which had been, of late, a disgrace and terror of peaceably-disposed persons.
The populace were well advertised of the fact, that the body of the stranger was to be buried that morning in their churchyard; and that, to protect the body, should there be any necessity for so doing, a large body of constables would be employed.
There was no disposition to riot; at least, none was visible. It looked as if there was some event about to take place that was highly interesting to all parties, who were peaceably assembling to witness the interment of nobody knew who.
The early hour at which persons were assembling, at different points, clearly indicated that there was a spirit of curiosity about the town, so uncommon that none would have noticed it but for the fact of the crowd of people who hung about the streets, and there remained, listless and impatient.
The inn, too, was crowded with visitors, and there were many who, not being blessed with the strength of purse that some were, were hanging about in the distance, waiting and watching the moitions of those who were better provided.
"Ah!" said one of the visitors, "this is a disagreeable job in your house, landlord." -- "Yes, sir; I'd sooner it had happened elsewhere, I assure you. I know it has done me no good."
"No; no man could expect any, and yet it is none the less unfortunate for that." -- "I would sooner anything else happen than that, whatever it might be. I think it must be something very bad, at all events; but I dare say I shall never see the like again."
"So much the better for the town," said another; "for, what with vampyres and riots, there has been but little else stirring than mischief and disturbances of one kind or another."
"Yes; and, what between Varneys and Bannerworths, we have had but little peace here."
"Precisely. Do you know it's my opinion that the least thing would upset the whole town. Any one unlucky word would do it, I am sure," said a tall thin man.
"I have no doubt of it," said another; "but I hope the military would do their duty under such circumstances, for people's lives and property are not safe in such a state of things." -- "Oh, dear no."
"I wonder what has become of Varney, or where he can have gone to." -- "Some thought he must have been burned when they burned his house," replied the landlord.
"But I believe it generally understood he's escaped, has he not? No traces of his body were found in the ruins." -- "None. Oh! he's escaped, there can be no doubt of that. I wish I had some fortune depending upon the fact; it would be mine, I am sure."
"Well, the lord keep us from vampyres and such-like cattle," said an old woman. "I shall never sleep again in my bed with any safety. It frightens one out of one's life to think of it. What a shame the men didn't cath him and stake him!"
The old woman left the inn as soon as she had spoke this Christian speech.
"Humane!" said a gentleman, with a sporting coat on. "The old woman is no advocate for half measures!"
"You are right, sir," said the landlord; "and a very good look-out she keeps upon the pot, to see it's full, and carefully blows the froth off!" -- "Ah! I thought as much."
"How soon will the funeral take place, landlord?" inquired a person, who had at that moment entered the inn. -- "In about an hour's time, sir."
"Oh! the town seems pretty full, though it is very quiet. I suppose it is more as a matter of curiosity people congregate to see the funeral of this stranger?"
"I hope so, sir."
"The time is wearing on, and if they don't make a dust, why then the military will not be troubled."
"I do not expect anything more, sir," said the landlord; "for you see they must have had their swing out, as the saying is, and be fully satisfied. They cannot have much more to do in the way of exhibiting their anger or dislike to vampyres -- they all have done enough."
"So they have -- so they have."
"Granted," said an old man with a troublesome cough; "but when did you ever know a mob to be satisfied? If they wanted the moon and got it, they'd find out it would be necessary to have the stars also."
"That's uncommonly true," said the landlord. "I shouldn't be surprised if they didn't do something worse than ever." -- "Nothing more likely," said the little old man. "I can believe anything of a mob -- anything -- no matter what."
The inn was crowded with visitors, and several extra hands were employed to wait upon the customers, and a scene of bustle and activity was displayed that was never before seen. It would glad the heart of a landlord, though he were made of stone, and landlords are usually of much more malleable materials than that.
However, the landlord had hardly time to congratulate himself, for the bearers were come now, and the undertaker and his troop of death-following officials.
There was a stir among the people, who began now to awaken from the lethargy that seemed to have come over them while they were waiting for the moment when it should arrive, that was to place the body under the green sod, against which so much of their anger had been raised. There was a decent silence that pervaded the mob of individuals who had assembled.
Death, with all its ghastly insignia, had an effect even upon the unthinking multitude, who were ever ready to inflict death or any violent injury upon any object that came in their way -- they never hesitated; but even these, now the object of their hatred was no more, felt appalled.
'Tis strange what a change comes over masses of men as they gaze upon a dead body. It may be that they all know that to that complexion they must come at last. This may be the secret of the respect offered to the dead.
The undertakers are men, however, who are used to the presence of death -- it is their element; they gain a living by attending upon the last obsequies of the dead; they are used to dead bodies, and care not for them. Some of them are humane men, that is, in their way; and even among them are men who wouldn't be deprived of their joke as they screwed down the last screw. They could not forbear, even on this occasion, to hold their converse when left alone.
"Jacobs," said one who was turning a long screw, "Jacobs, my boy, do you take the chair to-night?" -- "Yes," said Jacobs, who was a long lugubrious-looking man, "I do take the chair, if I live over this blessed event."
"You are not croaking, Jacobs, are you? Well you are a lively customer, you are." -- "Lively -- do you expect people to be lively when they are full dressed for a funeral? You are a nice article for your profession. You don't feel like an undertaker, you don't."
"Don't, Jacobs, my boy. As long as I look like one when occasion demands; when I have done my job I puts my comfort in my pocket, and thinks how much more pleasanter it is to be going to other people's funerals than to our own, and then only see the difference as regards the money."
"True," said Jacobs with a groan; "but death's a melancholy article, at all events." -- "So it is."
"And then when you come to consider the number of people we have buried -- how many have gone to their last homes -- and how many more will go the same way." -- "Yes, yes; that's all very well, Jacob. You are precious surly this morning. I'll come to-night. You're brewing a sentimental tale as sure as eggs is eggs."
"Well, that is pretty certain; but as I was saying how many more are there -- "
"Ah, don't bother yourself with calculations that have neither beginning nor end, and which haven't one point to go. Come, Jacob, have you finished yet?" -- "Quite," said Jacob.
They now arranged the pall, and placed all in readiness, and returned to a place down stairs where they could enjoy themselves for an odd half hour, and pass that time away until the moment should arrive when his reverence would be ready to bury the deceased, upon consideration of the fees to paid upon the occasion.
The tap-room was crowded, and there was no room for the men, and they were taken into the kitchen, where they were seated, and earnestly at work, preparing bodily for the ceremony that had so shortly to be performed.
"Any better, Jacobs?" -- "What do you mean?" inquired Jacobs, with a groan. "It's news to me if I have been ill."
"Oh, yes, you were doleful up stairs, you know." -- "I've a proper regard for my profession -- that's the difference between you and I, you know."
"I'll wager you what you like, now, that I'll handle a corpse and drive a screw in a coffin as well as you, now, although you are so solid and miserable." -- "So you may -- so you may."
"Then what do you mean by saying I haven't a proper regard for my profession?" -- "I say you haven't, and there's the thing that shall prove it -- you don't look it, and that's the truth."
"I don't look like an undertaker! indeed I dare say I don't if I ain't dressed like one." -- "Nor when you are," reiterated Jacob.
"Why not, pray?" -- "Because you have always a grin on your face as broad as a gridiron -- that's why."
This ended the dispute, for the employer of the men suddenly put his head in, saying, --
"Come, now, time's up; you are wanted up stairs, all of you. Be quick; we shall have his reverence waiting for us, and then we shall lose his recommendation."
"Ready, sir," said the round man, taking up his pint and finishing it off as a draught, at the same moment he thrust the remains of some bread and cheese into his pocket.
Jacob, too, took his pot, and, having finished it, with great gravity followed the example of his more jocose companion, and they all left the kitchen for the room above, where the corpse was lying ready for interment.
There was an unusual bustle; everybody was on the tip-top of expectation, and awaiting the result in a quiet hurry, and hoped to have the first glimpse of the coffin, though why they should do so it was difficult to define. But in this fit of mysterious hope and expectation they certainly stood.
"Will they be long?" inquired a man at the door of one inside, -- "will they be long before they come?" -- "They are coming now," said the man. "Do you all keep quiet; they are knocking their heads against the top of the landing. Hark! There, I told you so."
The man departed, hearing something, and being satisfied that he had got some information.
"Now, then," said the landlord, "move out of the way, and allow the corpse to pass out. Let me have no indecent conduct; let everything be as it should be."
The people soon removed from the passage and vicinity of the doorway, and then the mournful procession -- as the newspapers have it -- moved forward. They were heard coming down stairs, and thence along the passage, until they came to the street, and then the whole number of attendants was plainly discernible.
How different was the funeral of one who had friends. He was alone; none followed, save the undertaker and his attendants, all of whom looked solemn from habit and professional motives. Even the jocose man was a supernaturally solemn as could be well imagined; indeed, nobody knew he was the same man.
"Well," said the landlord, as he watched them down the street, as they slowly paced their way with funeral, not sorrowful, solemnity -- "well, I am very glad that it is all over."
"It has been a sad plague to you," said one.
"It has, indeed; it must be to any one who has had another such a job as this. I don't say it out of any disrespect to the poor man who is dead and gone -- quite the reverse; but I would not have such another affair on my hands for pounds."
"I can easily believe you, especially when we come to consider the disagreeables of a mob."
"You may say that. There's no knowing what they will or won't do, confound them! If they'd act like men, and pay for what they have, why, then I shouldn't care much about them; but it don't do to have other people in the bar."
"I should think not, indeed; that would alter the scale of your profits, I reckon."
"It would make all the difference to me. Business," added the landlord, "conducted on that scale, would become a loss; and a man might as well walk into a well at once."
"So I should say. Have many such occurrences as these been usual in this part of the country?" inquired the stranger.
"Not usual at all," said the landlord; "but the fact is, the whole neighbourhood has run distracted about some superhuman being they call a vampyre."
"Indeed!" -- "Yes; and they suspected the unfortunate man who has been lying up-stairs, a corpse, for some days."
"Oh, the man they have just taken in the coffin to bury?" said the stranger. -- "Yes, sir, the same."
"Well, I thought perhaps somebody of great consequence had suddenly become defunct." -- "Oh, dear no; it would not have caused half the sensation; people have been really mad."
"It was a strange occurrence, altogether, I believe, was it?" inquired the stranger. -- "Indeed it was, sir. I hardly know the particulars, there have been so many tales afloat; though they all concur in one point, and that is, it has destroyed the peace of one family."
"Who had done so?" -- "The vampyre."
"Indeed! I never heard of such an animal, save as a fable, before; it seems to me extraordinary."
"So it would do to any one, sir, as was not on the spot, to see it; I'm sure I wouldn't." * * * * * *
In the meantime, the procession, short as it was of itself, moved along in slow time through a throng of people who ran out of their houses on either side of the way, and lined the whole length of the town.
Many of these closed in behind, and followed the mourners until they were near the church, and then they made a rush to get into the churchyard.
As yet all had been conducted with toerable propriety, the funeral met with no impediment. The presence of death among so many of them seemed some check upon the license of the mob, who bowed in silence to the majesty of death.
Who could bear ill-will against him who was now no more? Man, while he is man, is always the subject of hatred, fear, or love. Some one of these passions, in a modified state, exists in all men, and with such feelings they will regard each other; and it is barely possible that any one should not be the object of some of these, and hence the stranger's corpse was treated with respect.
In silence the body proceeded along the highway until it came to the churchyard, and followed by an immense multitude of people of all grades.
The authorities trembled; they knew not what all this portended. They thought it might pass off; but it might become a storm first; they hoped and feared by turns, till some of them fell sick with apprehension.
There was a deep silence observed by all those in the immediate vicinity of the coffin, but those farther in the rear found full expression for their feelings.
"Do you think," said an old man to another, "that he will come to life again, eh?" -- "Oh, yes, vampyres always do, and lay in the moonlight, and then they come to life again. Moonlight recovers a vampyre to life again."
"And yet the moonlight is cold." -- "Ah, but who's to tell what may happen to a vampyre, or what's hot or what's cold?"
"Certainly not; oh, dear, no." -- "And then they have permission to suck the blood of other people, to live themselves, and to make other people vampyres, too."
"The lord have mercy upon us!" -- "Ay, but they have driven a stake through this one, and he can't get in moonlight or daylight; it's all over -- he's certainly done for; we may congratulate ourselves on this point."
"So we may -- so we may."
They now neared the grave, the clergyman officiating as usual on such occasions. There was a large mob of persons on all sides, with serious faces, watching the progress of the ceremony, and who listened in quietness.
There was no sign of any disturbance amongst the people, and the authorities were well pleased; they congratulated themselves upon the quietness and orderliness of the assemblage.
The service was ended and the coffin lowered, and the earth was thrown on the coffin-lid with a hollow sound. Nobody could hear that sound unmoved. But in a short while the sound ceased as the grave became filled; it was then trodden carefully down.
There were no relatives there to feel affected at the last scene of all. They were far away, and, according to popular belief upon the subject, they must have been dead some ages. * * * * * *
The mob watched the last shovel-full of earth thrown upon the coffin, and witnessed the ramming down of the soil, and the heaping of it over at top to make the usual monument; for all this was done speedily and carefully, lest there should be any tendency to exhume the body of the deceased.
The people were now somewhat relieved, as to their state of solemnity and silence. They would all of them converse freely on the matter that had so long occupied their thoughts.
They seemed now let loose, and everybody found himself at liberty to say or do something, no matter if it were not very reasonable; that is not always required of human beings who have souls, or, at least, it is unexpected; and were it expected, the expectation would never be realized.
The day was likely to wear away without a riot, nay, even without a fight; a most extraordinary occurrence for such a place, under the existing circumstances; for of late the populace, or perhaps, the townspeople, were extremely pugnacious, and many were the disputes that were settled by the very satisfactory application of the knuckles to the head of the party holding a contrary opinion.
Thus it was they were ready to take fire, and a hubbub would be the result of the slightest provocation. But, on the present occasion, there was a remarkable dearth of all subjects of the nature described.
Who was to lead Israel out to battle? Alas! no one on the present occasion.
Such a one, however, appeared; at least, one who furnished a ready excuse for a disturbance.
Suddenly, Mrs. Chillingworth appeared in the midst of a large concourse of people. She had just left her house, which was close at hand; her eyes red with weaping, and her children around her on this occasion. The crowd made way for her, and gathered round her to see what was going to happen.
"Friends and neighbours," she said, "can any of you relieve the tears of a distressed wife and mother; have any of you seen anything of my husband, Mr. Chillingworth?"
"What the doctor?" exclaimed one. -- "Yes; Mr. Chillingworth, the surgeon. He has not been home two days and a night. I'm distracted! -- what can have become of him I don't know, unless -- "
Here Mrs. Chillingworth paused; and some person said, --
"Unless what, Mrs. Chillingworth? there are none but friends here, who wish the doctor well, and would do anything to serve him -- unless what? speak out."
"Unless he's been destroyed by the vampyre. Heaven knows what we may all come to! Here am I and my children deprived of our protector by some means which we cannot imagine. He never, in all his life, did the same before."
"He must have been spirited away by some of the vampyres. I'll tell you what, friend," said one to another, "that something must be done; nobody's safe in their bed."
"No; they are not, indeed. I think that all vampyres ought to be burned and a stake run through them, and then we should be safe."
"Ay; but you must destroy all those who are even suspected of being vampyres, or else one may do all the mischief." -- "So he might."
"Hurrah! shouted the mob. "Chillingworth for ever! We'll find the doctor somewhere, if we pull down the whole town."
"There was an immense commotion among the populace, who began to start throwing stones, and do all sorts of things without any particular object, and some, as they said, to find the doctor, or to show how willing they were to do so if they knew how.
Mrs. Chillingworth, however, kept on talking to the mob, who continued shouting; and the authorities anticipated an immediate outbreak of popular opinion, which is generally accompanied by some forcible demonstration, and on this occasion some one suggested the propriety of burning down Bannerworth Hall; because they had burned down the vampyre's house, and they might as well burn down that of the injured party, which was carried by acclamation; and with loud shouts they started on their errand.
"This was a mob's proceeding all over, and we regret very much to say, that it is very much the characteristic of English mobs. What an uncommonly strange thing it is that people in multitudes seem completely to get rid of all reason -- all honour -- all common ordinary honesty; while, if you were to take the same people singly, you would find that they were reasonable enough, and would shrink with a feeling quite approaching to horror from anything in the shape of very flagrant injustice.
This can only be accounted for by a piece of cowardice in the human race, which induces them when alone, and acting with the full responsibility of their actions, to shrink from what it is quite evident they have a full inclination to do, and will do when, having partially lost their individuality in a crowd, they fancy, that to a certain extent they can do so with impunity.
The burning of Sir Francis Varney's house, although it was one of those proceedings which would not bear the test of patient examination, was yet, when we take all the circumstances into consideration, an act really justifiable and natural in comparison with the one which was now meditated.
Bannerworth Hall had never been the residence even of any one who had done the people any injury or given them any offence, so that to let it become a prey to the flames was but a gratuitous act of mischief.
It was, however, or seemed to be, doomed, for all who have had any experience in mobs, must know how extremely difficult it is to withdraw them from any impulse once given, especially when that impulse, as in the present instance, is of a violent character.
"Down with Bannerworth Hall!" was the cry. "Burn it -- burn it," and augmented by fresh numbers each minute, the ignorant, and, in many respects, ruffianly assemblage, soon arrived within sight of what had been for so many years the bane of the Bannerworths, and whatever may have been the fault of some of that race, those faults had been of a domestic character, and not at all such as would interfere with the public weal.
The astonished, and almost worn-out authorities, hastily, now, after having disposed of their prisoners, collected together what troops they could, and by the time the misguided, or rather the not guided at all populace, had got half way to Bannerworth Hall, they were being outflanked by some of the dragoons, who, by taking a more direct route, hoped to reach Bannerworth Hall first, and so perhaps, by letting the mob see that it was defended, induce them to give up the idea of its destruction on account of the danger attendant upon the proceeding by far exceeding any of the anticipated delight of the disturbance.
--
When we praise our friend Mr. Chillingworth for not telling his wife where he was going, in pursuance of a caution and a discrimination so highly creditable to him, we are quite certain that he has no such excuse as regards the reader. Therefore we say at once that he had his own reasons now for taking up his abode at Bannerwoth Hall for a time. These reasons seemed to be all dependant upon the fact of having met the mysterious man at Sir Francis Varney's; and although we perhaps would have hoped that the doctor might have communicated to Henry Bannerworth all that he knew and all that he surmised, yet have we no doubt that what he keeps to himself he has good reasons for so keeping, and that his actions as regards it are founded upon some very just conclusions.
He has then made a determination to take possession of, and remain in, Bannerworth Hall according to the full and free leave which the admiral had given him so to do. What results he anticipated from so lonely and so secret a watch we cannot say, but probably they will soon exhibit themselves. It needed no sort of extraordinary discrimination for any one to feel at once that not the least good, in the way of an ambuscade, was likely to be effected by such persons as Admiral Bell or Jack Pringle. They were all very well when fighting should actually ensue, but they both were certainly remarkably and completely deficient in diplomatic skill, or in that sort of patience which should enable them at all to compete with the cunning, the skill, and the nice discrimination of such a man as Sir Francis Varney.
If anything were to be done in that way it was unquestionably to be done by some one alone, who, like the doctor, would, and could, remain profoundly quiet and await the issue of events, be they what they might, and probably remain a spy and attempt no overt act which should be of a hostile character. This unquestionably was the mode, and perhaps we should not be going too far when we say it was the only mode which could be with anything like safety relied upon as one likely to lead really to a discovery of Sir Francis Varney's motives in making such determined exertions to get possession of Bannerworth Hall.
That night was doomed to be a very eventful one, indeed; for on it had Charles Holland been, by a sort of wild impulsive generosity of Sir Francis Varney, rescued from the miserable dungeon in which he had been confined, and on that night, too, he, whom we cannot otherwise describe than as the villain Marchdale, had been, in consequence of the evil that he himself meditated, and the crime with which he was quite willing to stain his soul, been condemned to occupy Charles's position.
On that night, too, had the infuriated mob determined upon the destruction of Bannerworth Hall, and on that night was Mr. Chillingworth waiting with what patience he could exert, at the Hall, for whatever in the chapter of accidents might turn up of an advantageous character to that family in whose welfare and fortunes he felt so friendly and so deep an interest.
Let us look, then, at the worthy doctor as he keeps his solitary watch.
He did not, as had been the case when the admiral shared the place with him in the hope of catching Varney on that memorable occasion when he caught only his boot, sit in a room with a light and the means and appliances for making the night pass pleasantly away; but, on the contrary, he abandoned the house altogether, and took up a station in that summer-house which has been before mentioned as the scene of a remarkable interview between Flora Bannerworth and Varney the vampyre.
Alone and in the dark, so that he could not be probably seen, he watched that one window of the chamber where the first appearance of the hideous vampyre had taken place, and which seemed ever since to be the special object of his attack.
By remaining from twilight, and getting accustomed to the gradually increasing darkness of the place, no doubt the doctor was able to see well enough without the aid of any artificial light whether any one was in the place besides himself.
"Night after night," he said, "will I watch here until I have succeeded in unravelling this mystery; for that there is some fearful and undreamt of mystery at the bottom of all these proceedings I am well convinced."
When he made such a determination as this, Dr. Chillingworth was not at all a likely man to break it, so there, looking like a modern statue in the arbour, he sat with his eyes fixed upon the balcony and the window of what used to be called Flora's room for some hours.
The doctor was a contemplative man, and therefore he did not so acutely feel the loneliness of his position as many persons would have done; moreover, he was decidedly not of a superstitious turn of mind, although certainly we cannot deny an imagination to him. However, if he really had harboured some strange fears and terrors they would have been excusable, when we consider how many circumstances had combined to make it almost a matter of demonstration that Sir Francis Varney was something more than mortal.
What quantities of subjects the doctor thought over during his vigil in that garden it is hard to say, but never in his whole life, probably, had he such a glorious opportunity for the most undisturbed contemplation of subjects requiring deep thought to analyze, than as he had then. At least he felt that since his marriage he had never been so thoroughly quiet, and left so completely to himself.
It is to be hoped that he succeeded in settling any medical points of a knotty character that might be hovering in his brain, and certain it is that he had become quite absorbed in an abstruse matter connected with physiology, when his ears were startled, and he was at once aroused to a full consciousness of where he was, and why he had come there, by the distant sound of a man's footstep.
It was a footstep which seemed to be that of a person who scarcely thought it at all necessary to use any caution, and the doctor's heart leaped within him as in the lowest possible whisper he said to himself, --
"I am successful -- I am successful. It is believed now that the Hall is deserted, and no doubt that is Sir Francis Varney come with confidence, to carry out his object in so sedulously attacking it, be that object what it may."
Elated with this idea, the doctor listened intently to the advancing footstep, which each moment sounded more clearly upon his ears.
It was evidently approaching from the garden entrance towards the house, and he thought, by the occasional deadened sound of the person's feet, be he whom he might, that he could not see his way very well, and, consequently, frequently strayed from the path, on to some of the numerous flowerbeds which were in the way.
"Yes," said the doctor, exultingly, "it must be Varney; and now I have but to watch him, and not to resist him; for what good on earth is it to stop him in what he wishes to do, and, by such means, never wrest his secret from him. The only way is to let him go on, and that will I do, most certainly."
Now he heard the indistinct muttering of the voice of some one, so low that he could not catch what words were uttered; but he fancied that, in the deep tones, he recognised, without any doubt, the voice of Sir Francis Varney.
"It must be he," he said, "it surely must be he. Who else would come here to disturb the solitude of an empty house? He comes! he comes!"
Now the doctor could see a figure emerge from behind some thick beeches, which had before obstructed his vision, and he looked scrutinisingly about, while some doubts stole slowly over his mind now as to whether it was the vampyre or not. The height was in favour of the supposition that it was none other than Varney; but the figure looked so much stouter, that Mr. Chillingworth felt a little staggered upon the subject, and unable wholly to make up his mind upon it.
The pausing of this visitor, too, opposite that window where Sir Francis Varney had made his attempts, was another strong reason why the doctor was inclined to believe it must be him, and yet he could not quite make up his mind upon the subject, so as to speak with certainty.
A very short time, however, indeed, must have sufficed to set such a question as that at rest; and patience seemed the only quality of mind necessary under those circumstances for Mr. Chillingworth to exert.
The visitor continued gazing either at that window, or at the whole front of the house, for several minutes, and then he turned away from a contemplation of it, and walked slowly along, parallel with the windows of that dining-room, one of which had been broken so completely on the occasion of the admiral's attempt to take the vampyre prisoner.
The moment the stranger altered his position, from looking at the window, and commenced walking away from it, Mr. Chillingworth's mind was made up. It was not Varney -- of that he felt now most positively assured, and could have no doubt whatever upon the subject.
The gait, the general air, the walk, all were different; and then arose the anxious question of who could it be that had intruded upon that lonely place, and what could be the object of any one else but Varney the vampyre to do so.
The stranger looked a powerful man, and walked with a firm tread, and, altogether, he was an opponent that, had the doctor been ever so belligerently inclined, it would have been the height of indiscretion for him to attempt to cope with.
It was a very vexatious thing, too, for any one to come there at such a juncture, perhaps only from motives of curiosity, or possibly just to endeavour to commit some petty depredations upon the deserted building, if possible; and mostly heartily did the doctor wish that, in some way, he could scare away the intruder.
The man walked along very slowly, indeed, and seemed to be quite taking his time in making his observations of the building; and this was the more provoking, as it was getting late, and, if having projected a visit at all, it would surely soon be made, and then, when he found any one there, of course, he would go.
Amazed beyond expression, the doctor felt about on the ground at his feet, until he found a tolerably large stone, which he threw at the stranger with so good an aim, that it hit him a smart blow on the back, which must have been anything but a pleasant surprise.
That it was a surprise, and that, too, a most complete one, was evident from the start which the man gave, and then he uttered a furious oath, and rubbed his back, as he glanced about him to endeavour to ascertain from whence the missile had come.
"I'll try him again with that," thought the doctor; "it may succeed in scaring him away;" and he stooped to search for another stone.
It was well that he did so at that precise moment; for, before he rose again, he heard the sharp report of a pistol, and a crashing sound among some of the old wood work of which the summer-house was composed, told him that a shot had there taken effect. Affairs were now getting much too serious; and, accordingly, Dr. Chillingworth thought that, rather than stay there to be made a target of, he would face the intruder.
"Hold -- hold!" he cried. "Who are you, and what do you mean by that?" -- "Oh! somebody is there," cried the man, as he advanced. "My friend, whoever you are, you were very foolish to throw a stone at me."
"And, my friend, whoever you are," responded the doctor, "you were very spiteful to fire a pistol bullet at me in consequence." -- "Not at all."
"But I say yes; for, probably, I can prove a right to be here, which you cannot." -- "Ah!" said the stranger, "that voice -- why -- you are Dr. Chillingworth?"
"I am; but I don't know you," said the doctor, as he emerged now from the summer-house, and confronted the stranger, who was within a few paces of the entrance to it. Then he started, as he added, --
"Yes, I do know you, though. How in the name of Heaven, came you here, and what purpose have you in so coming?"
"What purpose have you? Since we met at Varney's, I have been making some inquiries about this neighbourhood, and learn strange things." -- "That you may very easily do here; and, what is more extraordinary, the strange things are, for the most part, I can assure you, quite true."
The reader will, from what has been said, now readily recognise this man as Sir Francis Varney's mysterious visitor, to whom he gave, from some hidden cause or another, so large a sum of money, and between whom and Dr. Chillingworth a mutual recognition had taken place, on the occasion when Sir Francis Varney had, with such cool assurance, invited the admiral to breakfast with him at his new abode.
"You, however," said the man, "I have no doubt, are fully qualified to tell me of more than I have been able to learn from other people; and, first of all, let me ask you why you are here?" -- "Before I answer you that question, or any other," said the doctor, "let me beg of you to tell me truly, is Sir Francis Varney- -- "
The doctor whispered in the ear of the stranger some name, as if he feared, even there, in the silence of that garden, where everything conspired to convince him that he could not be overheard, to pronounce it in an audible tone.
"He is," said the other. -- "You have no manner of doubt of it?"
"Doubt? -- certainly not. What doubt can I have? I know it for a positive certainty, and he knows, of course, that I do know it, and has purchased my silence pretty handsomely, although I must confess that nothing but my positive necessities would have induced me to make the large demands upon him that I have, and I hope soon to be able to release him altogether from them."
The doctor shook his head repeatedly, as he said, --
"I suspected it; I suspected it, do you know, from the first moment that I saw you there in his house. His face haunted me ever since -- awfully haunted me; and yet, although I felt certain that I had once seen it under strange circumstances, I could not identify it with -- but no matter, no matter. I am waiting here for him."
"Indeed!" -- "Ay, that I am; and I flung a stone at you, not knowing you, with a hope that you would be, by such means, perhaps, scared away, and so leave the coast clear for him."
"Then you have an appointment with him?" -- "By no means; but he has made such repeated and determined attacks upon this house that the family who inhabited it were compelled to leave it, and I am here to watch him, and ascertain what can possibly be his object."
"It is as I suspected, then," muttered this man. "Confound him! Now can I read, as if in a book, most clearly, the game that he is playing!"
"Can you?" cried the doctor, energetically -- "can you? What is it? Tell me, for that is the very thing I want to discover." -- "You don't say so?"
"It is, indeed; and I assure you that it concerns the peace of a whole family to know it. You say you have made inquiries about this neighbourhood, and, if you have done so, you have discovered how the family of the Bannerworths have been persecuted by Varney, and how, in particular, Flora Bannerworth, a beautiful and intelligent girl, has been most cruelly made to suffer."
"I have heard all that, and I dare say with many exaggerations." -- "It would be difficult for any one really to exaggerate the horrors that have taken place in this house, so that any information which you can give respecting the motives of Varney will tend, probably, to restore peace to those who have been so cruelly persecuted, and be an act of kindness which I think not altogether inconsistent with your nature."
"You think so, and yet know who I am." -- "I do, indeed."
"And what I am. Why if I were to go into the market-place of yon town, and proclaim myself, would not all shun me -- ay, even the lowest and vilest; and yet you talk of an act of kindness not being altogether inconsistent with my nature!" -- "I do, because I know something more of you than many."
There was a silence of some moments' duration, and then the stranger spoke in a tone of voice which looked as if he were struggling with some emotion.
"Sir, you do know more of me than many. You know what I have been, and you know how I left an occupation which would have made me loathed. But you -- even you -- do not know what made me take to so terrible a trade." -- "I do not."
"Would it suit you for me now to tell you?" -- "Will you first promise me that you will do all you can for this persecuted family of the Bannerworths, in whom I take so strange an interest?"
"I will. I promise you that freely. Of my own knowledge, of course, I can say but little concerning them, but, upon that warranting, I well believe they deserve abundant sympathy, and from me they shall have it."
"A thousand thanks! With your assistance, I have little doubt of being able to extricate them form the tangled web of dreadful incidents which has turned them from their home; and now, whatever you may choose to tell me of the cause which drove you to be what you became, I shall listen to with abundant interest. Only let me beseech you to come into this summer-house, and to talk low."
"I will, and you can pursue your watch at the same time, while I beguile its weariness." -- "Be it so."
"You knew me years ago, when I had all the chances in the world of becoming respectable and respected. I did, indeed; and you may, therefore, judge of my surprise when, some years since, being in the metropolis, I met you, and you shunned my company." -- "Yes; but, at last, you found out why it was that I shunned your company."
"I did. You yourself told me once that I met you, and would not leave you, but insisted upon your dining with me. Then you told me, when you found that I would take no other course whatever, that you were no other than the -- the- -- " -- "Out with it! I can bear to hear it now better than I could then! I told you that I was the common hangman of London!"
"You did, I must confess, to my most intense surprise."
"Yes, and yet you kept to me; and, but that I respected you too much to allow you to do so, you would, from old associations, have countenanced me; but I could not, and I would not, let you do so. I told you then that, although I held the terrible office, that I had not been yet called upon to perform its loathsome functions. Soon -- soon -- come the first effort -- it was the last!"
"Indeed! You left the dreadful trade?" -- "I did -- I did. But what I want to tell you, for I could not then, was why I went ever to it. The wounds my heart had received were then too fresh to allow me to speak of them, but I will tell you now. The story is a brief one, Mr. Chillingworth. I pray you be seated."
--
"You will find that the time which elapsed since I last saw you in London, to have been spent in an eventful, varied manner." -- "You were in good circumstances then," said Mr. Chillingworth. -- "I was, but many events happened after that which altered the prospect; made it even more gloomy than you can well imagine: but I will tell you all candidly, and you can keep watch upon Bannerworth Hall at the same time. You are well aware that I was well to do, and had ample funds, and inclination to spend them." -- "I recollect: but you were married then, surely?" -- "I was," said the stranger, sadly, "I was married then." -- "And now?" -- "I am a widower." The stranger seemed much moved, but, after a moment or so, he resumed -- "I am a widower now; but how that event came about is partly my purpose to tell you. I had not married long -- that is very long -- for I have but one child, and she is not old, or of an age to know much more than what she may be taught; she is still in the course of education. I was early addicted to gamble; the dice had its charms, as all those who have ever engaged in play but too well know; it is perfectly fascinating." -- "So I have heard," said Mr. Chillingworth; "though, for myself, I found a wife and professional pursuits quite incompatible with any pleasure that took either time or resources." -- "It is so. I would I had never entered one of those houses where men are deprived of their money and their own free will, for at the gambling table you have no liberty, save that in gliding down the stream in company with others. How few have ever escaped destruction -- none, I believe -- men are perfectly fascinated; it is ruin alone that enables a man to see how he has been hurried onwards without thought or reflection; and how fallacious were all the hopes he ever entertained! Yes, ruin, and ruin alone, can do this; but alas! 'tis too late -- the evil is done. Soon after my marriage I fell in with a Chevalier St. John. He was a man of the world in every sense of the word, and one that was well versed in all the ways of society. I never met with any man who was so perfectly master of himself, and of perfect ease and self-confidence as he was. He was never at a loss, and, come what would, never betrayed surprise or vexation -- two qualities, he thought, never ought to be shown by any man who moved in society." -- "Indeed!" -- "He was a strange man -- a very strange man." -- "Did he gamble?" -- "It is difficult to give you a correct and direct answer. I should say he did, and yet he never lost or won much; but I have often thought he was more connected with those who did than was believed." -- "Was that a fact?" inquired Mr. Chillingworth. -- "You shall see as we go on, and be able to judge for yourself. I have thought he was. Well, he first took me to a handsome saloon, where gambling was carried on. We had been to the opera. As we came out, he recommended that we should sup at a house where he was well known, and where he was in the habit of spending his evenings after the opera, and before he retired. I agreed to this. I saw no reason why I should not. We went there, and bitterly have I repented of so doing for years since, and do to this day." -- "Your repentance has been sincere and lasting," said Mr. Chillingworth; "the one proves the other." -- "It does; but I thought not so then. The place was glittering, and the wine was good. It was a kind of earthly paradise; and when we had taken some wine, the chevalier said to me, --
"'I am desirous of seeing a friend backwards; he is at the hazard-table. Will you go with me?' -- I hesitated. I feared to see the place where a vice was carried on. I knew myself inclined to prudential motives. I said to him, -- 'No, St. John, I'll wait here for you; it may be as well -- the wine is good, and it will content me?'
"'Do so,' he said, smiling; 'but remember I seldom or never play myself, nor is there any reason why you should.' -- 'I'll go, but I will not play.' -- 'Certainly not; you are free alike to look on, play, or quit the place at any moment you please, and not be noticed, probably, by a single soul.'
"I arose, and we walked backwards, having called one of the men who were waiting about, but who were watchers and doorkeepers of the 'hell.' We were led along the passage, and passed through the pair of doors, which were well secured and rendered the possibility of a surprise almost impossible. After these dark places, we were suddenly let into a place where we were dazzled by the light and brilliancy of the saloon. It was not so large as the one we left, but it was superior to it in all its appointments.
"At first I could not well see who was, or who was not, in the room where we were. As soon, however, as I found the use of my eyes, I noticed many well-dressed men, who were busily engaged in play, and who took no notice of any one who entered. We walked about for some minutes without speaking to any one, but merely looking on. I saw men engaged in play; some with earnestness, others again with great nonchalance, and money changed hands without the least remark. There were but few who spoke, and only those in play. There was a hum of conversation; but you could not distinguish what was said, unless you paid some attention to, and was in close vicinity with, the individual who spoke.
"'Well,' said St. John, 'what do you think of this place?' -- 'Why,' I replied, 'I had no notion of seeing a place fitted up as this is.'
"'No; isn't it superb?' -- 'It is beautifully done. They have many visitors,' said I, 'many more than I could have believed.'
"'Yes, they are all bona fide players; men of stamp and rank -- none of your seedy legs who have only what they can cheat you out of.' -- 'Ah!' -- 'And besides,' he added, 'you may often form friendships here that lead to fortune hereafter. I do not mean in play, because there is no necessity for your doing so, or, if yo do so, in going above a stake which you know won't hurt you.' -- 'Exactly.'
"'Many men can never approach a table like this, and sit down to an hour's play, but, if they do, they must stake not only more than they can afford, but all their property, leaving themselves beggars.' 'They do?' said I.
"'But men who know themselves, their resources, and choose to indulge for a long time, many often come and lay the foundation to a very pretty fortune.'
"'Do you see your friend?' I inquired. -- 'No, I do not; but I will inquire if he has been here -- if not, we will go.'
"He left me for a moment or two to make some inquiry, and I stood looking at the table, where there were four players, and who seemed to be engaged at a friendly game; and when one party won they looked grave, and when the other party lost they smiled and looked happy. I walked away, as the chevalier did not return immediately to me; and then I saw a gentleman rise up from a table. He had evidently lost. I was standing by the seat, unconsciously holding the back of my hand. I sat down without thinking or without speaking, and found myself at the hazard table.
"'Do you play, sir?' -- 'Yes,' I said. I had hardly uttered the words when I was sorry for them; but I could not recall them. I sat down, and play at once commenced.
"In about ten or fifteen minutes, often losing and then winning, I found myself about a hundred and twenty pounds in pocket, clear gain by the play.
"'Ah!' said the chevalier, who came up at that moment, 'I thought you wouldn't play.' -- 'I really don't know how it happened,' said I, 'but I suddenly found myself here without any previous intention.'
"'You are not a loser, I hope?' -- 'Indeed I am not,' I replied; 'but not much a gainer.'
"'Nor need you desire to be. Do you desire to give your adversary his revenge now, or take another opportunity.' -- 'At another time,' I replied.
"'You will find me here the day after to-morrow, when I shall be at your service; then bowing, he turned away.
"'He is a very rich man whom you have been playing with,' said the chevalier. -- 'Indeed!'
"'Yes, and I have known him to lose for three days together; but you may take his word for any amount; he is a perfect gentleman and man of honour.' -- ''Tis well to play with such,' I replied; 'but I suppose you are about to leave.'
"'Yes, it grows late, and I have some business to transact to-morrow, so I must leave.' -- 'I will accompany you part of the way home.' said I, 'and then I shall have finished the night.'
"I did leave with him, and accompanied him home, and then walked to my own home. ****
"This was my first visit, and I thought a propitious beginning, but it was the more dangerous. Perhaps a loss might have effectually deterred me, but it doubtful to tell how certain events might have been altered. It is just possible that I might have been urged on by my desire to retrieve any loss I might have incurred, and so made myself at once the miserable being it took months to accomplish in bringing me to.
"I went the day but one after this, to meet the same individual at the gambling-table, and played some time with varied success, until I left off with a trifling loss upon the night's play, which was nothing of any consequence.
"Thus matters went on; I sometimes won and sometimes lost, until I won a few hundreds, and this determined me to play for higher stakes than any I had yet played for.
"It was no use going on in the peddling style I had been going on; I had won two hundred and fifty pounds in three months, and had I been less fearful I might have had twenty-five thousand pounds. Ah! I'll try my fortune at a higher game.
"Having once made this resolution, I was anxious to begin my new plan, which I hoped would have the effect of placing me far above my then present position in society, which was good, and with a little attention it would have made me an independent man; but then it required patience, and nothing more. However, the other method was so superior since it might all be done with good luck in a few months. Ah! good luck; how uncertain is good luck; how changeful is fortune; how soon is the best prospect blighted by the frosts of adversity. In less than a month I had lost more than I could pay, and then I gambled on for a living.
"My wife had but one child; her first and only one; an infant at her breast; but there was a change came over her; for one had come over me -- a fearful one it was too -- one not only in manner but in fortune too. She would beg me to come home early; to attend to other matters, and leave the dreadful life I was then leading.
"'Lizzy,' said I, 'we are ruined.' -- 'Ruined!' she exclaimed, and staggered back, until she fell into a seat. 'Ruined!'
"'Ay, ruined. It is a short word, but expressive.' -- 'No, no, we are not ruined. I know what you mean, you would say, we cannot live as we have lived; we must retrench, and so we will, right willingly.'
"'You much retrench most wonderfully,' I said, with desperate calmness, 'for the murder must out.' -- 'And so we will; but you will be with us; you will not go out night after night, ruining your health, our happiness, and destroying both peace and prospects.'
"'No, no, Lizzy, we have no chance of recovering ourselves; house and home -- all gone -- all, all.' -- 'My God!' she exclaimed.
"'Ay, rail on.' said I; 'you have cause enough; but, no matter -- we have lost all.' -- 'How -- how?'
"'It is useless to ask how; I have done, and there is an end of the matter; you shall know more another day; we must leave this house for a lodging.' -- 'It matters little,' she said; 'all may be won again, if you will but say you will quit the society of those who have ruined you.'
"'No one,' said I, 'has ruined me; I did it; it was no fault of any one else's; I have not that excuse.' -- 'I am sure you can recover.'
"'I may; some day fortune will shower her favours upon me, and I live on in that expectation.' -- 'You cannot mean that you will chance the gaming-table? for I am sure you must have lost all there?"
"'I have.' -- 'God help me,' she said; 'you have done your child a wrong, but you may repair it yet.'
"'Never!' -- ''Tis a long day! let me implore you, on my knees, to leave this place, and adopt some other mode of life; we can be careful; a little will do