68.
Chapter LXVIII.
MARCHDALE'S ATTEMPTED VILLANY, AND ITS RESULT.
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.
—
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