by Oscar Wilde
“Ay, Charles; and then I was the bane of your existence, because I filled you with apprehension?”
“For a time, dearest; and then came the antidote; for when exhausted alike in mind and body—when lying helpless, with chains upon my limbs—when expecting death at every visit of those who had dragged me from light and from liberty, and from love; it was but the thought of thy beauty and thy affection that nerved me, and gave me a hope even amidst the cruellest disaster.”
“And then—and then, Charles?”
“You were my blessing, as you have ever been—as you are, and as you will ever be—my own Flora, my beautiful—my true!”
We won’t go so far as to say it is the fact; but, from a series of singular sounds which reached even to the passage of the cottage, we have our own private opinion to the effect, that Charles began kissing Flora at the top of her forehead, and never stopped, somehow or another, till he got down to her chin—no, not her chin—her sweet lips—he could not get past them. Perhaps it was wrong; but we can’t help it—we are faithful chroniclers. Reader, if you be of the sterner sex, what would you have done?—if of the gentler, what would you have permitted?
CHAPTER LXXV.
MUTUAL EXPLANATIONS, AND THE VISIT TO THE RUINS.
During the next hour, Charles informed Flora of the whole particulars of his forcible abduction; and to his surprise he heard, of course, for the first time, of those letters, purporting to be written by him, which endeavoured to give so bad an aspect to the fact of his sudden disappearance from Bannerworth Hall.
Flora would insist upon the admiral, Henry, and the rest of the family, hearing all that Charles had to relate concerning Mr. Marchdale; for well she knew that her mother, from early associations, was so far impressed in the favour of that hypocritical personage, that nothing but damning facts, much to his prejudice, would suffice to convince her of the character he really was.
But she was open to conviction, and when she really found what a villain she had cherished and given her confidence to, she shed abundance of tears, and blamed herself exceedingly as the cause of some of the misfortunes which had fallen upon her children.
“Very good,” said the admiral; “I ain’t surprised a bit. I knew he was a vagabond from the first time I clapped eyes upon him. There was a down look about the fellow’s figure-head that I didn’t like, and be hanged to him, but I never thought he would have gone the length he has done. And so you say you’ve got him safe in the ruins, Charles?”
“I have, indeed, uncle.”
“And then there let him remain, and a good place, too, for him.”
“No, uncle, no. I’m sure you speak without thought. I intend to release him in a few hours, when I have rested from my fatigues. He could not come to any harm if he were to go without food entirely for the time that I leave him; but even that he will not do, for there is bread and water in the dungeon.”
“Bread and water! that’s too good for him. But, however, Charles, when you go to let him out, I’ll go with you, just to tell him what I think of him, the vagabond.”
“He must suffer amazingly, for no doubt knowing well, as he does, his own infamous intentions, he will consider that if I were to leave him to starve to death, I should be but retailing upon him the injuries he would have inflicted upon me.”
“The worst of it is,” said the admiral, “I can’t think what to do with him.”
“Do nothing, uncle, but just let him go; it will be a sufficient punishment for such a man to feel that, instead of succeeding in his designs, he has only brought upon himself the bitterest contempt of those whom he would fain have injured. I can have no desire for revenge on such a man as Marchdale.”
“You are right, Charles,” said Flora; “let him go, and let him go with a feeling that he has acquired the contempt of those whose best opinions might have been his for a far less amount of trouble than he has taken to acquire their worst.”
Excitement had kept up Charles to this point, but now, when he arose and expressed his intention of going to the ruins, for the purpose of releasing Marchdale, he exhibited such unequivocal symptoms of exhaustion and fatigue that neither his uncle nor Flora would permit him to go, so, in deference to them, he gave up the point, and commissioned the admiral and Jack, with Henry, to proceed to the place, and give the villain his freedom; little suspecting what had occurred since he had himself left the neighbourhood of those ruins.
Of course Charles Holland couldn’t be at all accountable for the work of the elements, and it was not for him to imagine that when he left Marchdale in the dungeon that so awful a catastrophe as that we have recorded to the reader was to ensue.
The distance to the ruins was not so great from this cottage even as it was from Bannerworth Hall, provided those who went knew the most direct and best road to take; so that the admiral was not gone above a couple of hours, and when he returned he sat down and looked at Charles with such a peculiar expression, that the latter could not for the life of him tell what to make of it.
“Something has happened, uncle,” he said, “I am certain; tell me at once what it is.”
“Oh! nothing, nothing,” said the admiral, “of any importance.”
“Is that what you call your feelings?” said Jack Pringle. “Can’t you tell him as there came on a squall last night, and the ruins have come in with a dab upon old Marchdale, crushing his guts, so that we smelt him as soon as we got nigh at band?”
“Good God!” said Charles, “has such a catastrophe occurred?”
“Yes, Charles, that’s just about the catastrophe that has occurred. He’s dead; and rum enough it is that it should happen on the very night that you escaped.”
“Rum!” said Jack, suddenly; “my eye, who mentions rum? What a singular sort of liquor rum must be. I heard of a chap as used to be fond of it once on board a ship; I wonder if there’s any in the house.”
“No!” said the admiral; “but there’s a fine pump of spring water outside if you feel a little thirsty, Jack; and I’ll engage it shall do you more good than all the rum in the world.”
“Uncle,” said Charles, “I’m glad to hear you make that observation.”
“What for?”
“Why, to deal candidly with you, uncle, Jack informed me that you had lately taken quite a predilection for drinking.”
“Me!” cried the admiral; “why the infernal rascal, I’ve had to threaten him with his discharge a dozen times, at least, on that very ground, and no other.”
“There’s somebody calling me,” said Jack. “I’m a coming! I’m a coming!” and, so he bolted out of the room, just in time to escape an inkstand, which the admiral caught up and flung after him.
“I’ll strike that rascal off the ship’s books this very day,” muttered Admiral Bell. “The drunken vagabond, to pretend that I take anything, when all the while it’s himself!”
“Well, well, I ought certainly to have suspected the quarter from whence the intelligence came; but he told it to me so circumstantially, and with such an apparent feeling of regret for the weakness into which he said you had fallen, that I really thought there might be some truth in it.”
“The rascal! I’ve done with him from this moment; I have put up with too much from him for years past.”
“I think now that you have given him a great deal of liberty, and that, with a great deal more he has taken, makes up an amount which you find it difficult to endure.”
“And I won’t endure it.”
“Let me talk to him, and I dare say I shall be able to convince him that he goes too far, and when he finds that such is the case he will mend.”
“Speak to him, if you like, but I have done with such a mutinous rascal, I have. You can take him into your service, if you like, till you get tired of him; and that won’t be very long.”
“Well, well, we shall see. Jack will apologise to
you I have no doubt; and then I shall intercede for him, and advise you to give him another trial.”
“If you get him into the apology, then there’s no doubt about me giving him another trial. But I know him too well for that; he’s as obstinate as a mule, he is, and you won’t get a civil word out of him; but never mind that, now. I tell you what, Master Charley, it will take a good lot of roast beef to get up your good looks again.”
“It will, indeed, uncle; and I require, now, rest, for I am thoroughly exhausted. The great privations I have undergone, and the amount of mental excitement which I have experienced, in consequence of the sudden and unexpected release from a fearful confinement, have greatly weakened all my energies. A few hours’ sleep will make quite a different being of me.”
“Well, my boy, you know best,” returned the admiral; “and I’ll take care, if you sleep till tomorrow, that you sha’n’t be disturbed. So now be off to bed at once.”
The young man shook his uncle’s hand in a cordial manner, and then repaired to the apartment which had been provided for him.
Charles Holland did, indeed, stand in need of repose; and for the first time now for many days he laid down with serenity at his heart, and slept for many hours. And was there not now a great and a happy change in Flora Bannerworth! As if by magic, in a few short hours, much of the bloom of her before-fading beauty returned to her. Her step again recovered its springy lightness; again she smiled upon her mother, and suffered herself to talk of a happy future; for the dread even of the vampire’s visitations had faded into comparative insignificance against the heart’s deep dejection which had come over her at the thought that Charles Holland must surely be murdered, or he would have contrived to come to her.
And what a glorious recompense she had now for the trusting confidence with which she had clung to a conviction of his truth! Was it not great, now, to feel that when he was condemned by others, and when strong and unimpeachable evidence seemed to be against him, she had clung to him and declared her faith in his honour, and wept for him instead of condemning?
Yes, Flora; you were of that order of noble minds that, where once confidence is given, give it fully and completely, and will not harbour a suspicion of the faith of the loved one, a happy disposition when verified, as in this instance, by an answering truthfulness.
But when such a heart trusts not with judgment—when that pure, exalted, and noble confidence is given to an object unworthy of it—then comes, indeed, the most fearful of all mental struggles; and if the fond heart, that has hugged to its inmost core so worthless a treasure, do not break in the effort to discard it, we may well be surprised at the amount of fortitude that has endured so much.
Although the admiral had said but little concerning the fearful end Marchdale had come to, it really did make some impression upon him; and, much as he held in abhorrence the villany of Marchdale’s conduct, he would gladly in his heart have averted the fate from him that he had brought upon himself.
On the road to the ruins, he calculated upon taking a different kind of vengeance.
When they had got some distance from the cottage, Admiral Bell made a proposal to Henry to be his second while he fought Marchdale, but Henry would not hear of it for a moment.
“My dear sir,” he said, “could I, do you think, stand by and see a valuable, revered, and a respected life like yours exposed to any hazard merely upon the chance of punishing a villain? No, no; Marchdale is too base now to be met in honourable encounter. If he is dealt with in any way let it be by the laws.”
This was reasonable enough, and after some argument the admiral coincided in it, and then they began to wonder how, without Charles, they should be able to get an entrance to the dungeons, for it had been his intention originally, had he not felt so fatigued, to go with them.
As soon, however, as they got tolerably near to the ruins, they saw what had happened. Neither spoke, but they quickened their pace, and soon stood close to the mass of stone-work which now had assumed so different a shape to what it had a few short hours before.
It needed little examination to let them feel certain that whoever might have been in any of the underground dungeons must have been crushed to death.
“Heaven have mercy upon his soul!” said Henry.
“Amen!” said the admiral.
They both turned away, and for some time they neither of them spoke, for their thoughts were full of reflection upon the horrible death which Marchdale must have endured. At length the admiral said—
“Shall we tell this or not?”
“Tell it at once,” said Henry; “let us have no secrets.”
“Good. Then I will not make one you may depend. I only wish that while he was about it, Charley could have popped that rascal Varney as well in the dungeon, and then there would have been an end and a good riddance of them both.”
CHAPTER LXXVI.
THE SECOND NIGHT-WATCH OF MR. CHILLINGWORTH AT THE HALL.
The military party in the morning left Bannerworth Hall, and the old place resumed its wonted quiet. But Dr. Chillingworth found it difficult to get rid of his old friend, the hangman, who seemed quite disposed to share his watch with him.
The doctor, without being at all accused of being a prejudiced man, might well object to the continued companionship of one, who, according to his own account, was decidedly no better than he should be, if he were half so good.
Moreover, it materially interfered with the proceedings of our medical friend, whose object was to watch the vampire with all imaginable quietness and secrecy, in the event of his again visiting Bannerworth Hall.
“Sir,” he said, to the hangman, “now that you have so obligingly related to me your melancholy history, I will not detain you.”
“Oh, you are not detaining me.”
“Yes, but I shall probably remain here for a considerable time.”
“I have nothing to do; and one place is about the same as another to me.”
“Well, then, if I must speak plainly, allow me to say, that as I came here upon a very important and special errand, I desire most particularly to be left alone. Do you understand me now?”
“Oh! ah!—I understand; you want me to go?”
“Just so.”
“Well, then, Dr. Chillingworth, allow me to tell you, I have come here on a very special errand likewise.”
“You have?”
“I have. I have been putting one circumstance to another, and drawing a variety of conclusions from a variety of facts, so that I have come to what I consider an important resolve, namely, to have a good look at Bannerworth Hall, and if I continue to like it as well as I do now, I should like to make the Bannerworth family an offer for the purchase of it.”
“The devil you would! Why all the world seems mad upon the project of buying this old building, which really is getting into such a state of dilapidation, that it cannot last many years longer.”
“It is my fancy.”
“No, no; there is something more in this than meets the eye. The same reason, be it what may, that has induced Varney the vampire to become so desirous of possessing the Hall, actuates you.”
“Possibly.”
“And what is that reason? You may as well be candid with me.”
“Yes, I will, and am. I like the picturesque aspect of the place.”
“No, you know that that is a disingenuous answer, that you know well. It is not the aspect of the old Hall that has charms for you. But I feel, only from your conduct, more than ever convinced, that some plot is going on, having the accomplishment of some great object as its climax, a something of which you have guessed.”
“How much you are mistaken!”
“No, I am certain I am right; and I shall immediately advise the Bannerworth family to return, and to take up their abode again here, in order to put an end to the hopes which you, or Varney, or any
one else may have, of getting possession of the place.”
“If you were a man,” said the hangman, “who cared a little more for yourself, and a little less for others, I would make a confidant of you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, I mean, candidly, that you are not selfish enough to be entitled to my confidence.”
“That is a strange reason for withholding confidence from any man.”
“It is a strange reason; but, in this case, a most abundantly true one. I cannot tell you what I would tell you, because I cannot make the agreement with you that I would fain make.”
“You talk in riddles.”
“To explain which, then, would be to tell my secret.”
Dr. Chillingworth was, evidently, much annoyed, and yet he was in an extremely helpless condition; for as to forcing the hangman to leave the Hall, if he did not feel disposed to do so, that was completely out of the question, and could not be done. In the first place, he was a much more powerful man than the doctor, and in the second, it was quite contrary to all Mr. Chillingworth’s habits, to engage in anything like personal warfare.
He could only, therefore, look his vexation, and say—
“If you are determined upon remaining, I cannot help it; but, when some one, as there assuredly will, comes from the Bannerworths, here, to me, or I shall be under the necessity of stating candidly that you are intruding.”
“Very good. As the morning air is keen, and as we now are not likely to be as good company to each other as we were, I shall go inside the house.”
This was a proposition which the doctor did not like, but he was compelled to submit to it; and he saw, with feelings of uneasiness, the hangman make his way into the Hall by one of the windows.
Then Dr. Chillingworth sat down to think. Much he wondered what could be the secret of the great desire which Varney, Marchdale, and even this man had, all of them to be possessors of the old Hall.
That there was some powerful incentive he felt convinced, and he longed for some conversation with the Bannerworths, or with Admiral Bell, in order that he might state what had now taken place. That some one would soon come to him, in order to bring fresh provisions for the day, he was certain, and all he could do, in the interim, was, to listen to what the hangman was about in the Hall.
