Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

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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 earthern 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 confinement 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 gush 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 imprisonment, 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 perspiration bedewed his brow,
although the night was rather cold than 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 his 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 committed--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 at 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 his veins.

"I shall behold her now," he said--"I shall behold her how! 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 grievous wounds;
but that was all he achieved by his great efforts 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 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 precautions 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.

CHAPTER LXIX.

FLORA BANNERWORTH AND HER MOTHER.--THE EPISODE OF CHIVALRY.

[Illustration]

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.

[Illustration]

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 had himself 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 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 canne he to be so easily overthrown 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 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, had 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 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 sealed 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; not 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; he 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 know 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--it cannot be."--"Will
you admit him, lady?"

"Indeed, I know 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 entered 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; lam 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 force, 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 bride 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."