Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
What
his object is, and what is the object of Marchdale, will, now that we have
progressed so far in our story, soon appear, and then much that is perfectly
inexplicable, will become clear and distinct, and we shall find that some strong
human motives are at the bottom of it all.
VARNEY'S VISIT TO THE DUNGEON OF THE LONELY PRISONER IN THE
RUINS.
Evident
it was that Marchdale was not near so scrupulous as Sir Francis Varney, in what
he chose to do. He would, without hesitation, have sacrificed the life of that
prisoner in the lonely dungeon, whom it would be an insult to the understanding
of our readers, not to presume that they had, long ere this, established in
their minds to be Charles Holland.
His
own safety seemed to be the paramount consideration with Marchdale, and it was
evident that he cared for nothing in comparison with that object.
It
says much, however, for Sir Francis Varney, that he did not give in to such a
blood-thirsty feeling, but rather chose to set the prisoner free, and run all
the chances of the danger to which he might expose himself by such a course of
conduct, than to insure safety, comparatively, by his destruction.
Sir
Francis Varney is evidently a character of strangely mixed feelings. It is quite
evident that he has some great object in view, which he wishes to accomplish
almost at any risk; but it is equally evident, at the same time, that he wishes
to do so with the least possible injury to others, or else he would never have
behaved as he had done in his interview with the beautiful and persecuted Flora
Bannerworth, or now suggested the idea of setting Charles Holland free from the
dreary dungeon in which he had been so long confined.
We
are always anxious and willing to give every one credit for the good that is in
them; and, hence, we are pleased to find that Sir Francis Varney, despite his
singular, and apparently preternatural capabilities, has something sufficiently
human about his mind and feelings, to induce him to do as little injury as
possible to others in the pursuit of his own objects.
Of
the two, vampyre as he is, we prefer him much to the despicable and
hypocritical, Marchdale, who, under the pretence of being the friend of the
Bannerworth family, would freely have inflicted upon them the most deadly
injuries.
It
was quite clear that he was most dreadfully disappointed that Sir Francis
Varney, would not permit him to take the life of Charles Holland, and it was
with a gloomy and dissatisfied air that he left the ruins to proceed towards
the town, after what we may almost term the altercation he had had with Varney
the vampyre upon that subject.
It
must not be supposed that Sir Francis Varney, however, was blind to the danger
which must inevitably accrue from permitting Charles Holland once more to
obtain his liberty.
What
the latter would be able to state would be more than sufficient to convince the
Bannerworths, and all interested in their fortunes, that something was going on
of a character, which, however, supernatural it might seem to be, still seemed
to have some human and ordinary objects for its ends.
Sir
Francis Varney thought over all this before he proceeded, according to his
promise, to the dungeon of the prisoner; but it would seem as if there was
considerable difficulty, even to an individual of his long practice in all
kinds of chicanery and deceit, in arriving at any satisfactory conclusion, as
to a means of making Charles Holland's release a matter of less danger to
himself, than it would be likely to be, if, unfettered by obligation, he was at
once set free.
At
the solemn hour of midnight, while all was still, that is, to say, on the night
succeeding the one, on which he had had the interview with Marchdale, we have
recorded, Sir Francis Varney alone sought the silent ruins. He was attired, as
usual, in his huge cloak, and, indeed, the chilly air of the evening warranted
such protection against its numerous discomforts.
Had
any one seen him, however, that evening, they would have observed an air of
great doubt, and irresolution upon his brow, as if he were struggling with some
impulses which he found it extremely difficult to restrain.
"I
know well," he muttered, as he walked among the shadow of the ruins,
"that Marchdale's reasoning is coldly and horribly correct, when he says
that there is danger in setting this youth free; but, I am about to leave this
place, and not to show myself for some time, and I cannot reconcile myself to
inflicting upon him the horror of a death by starvation, which must
ensue."
It
was a night of more than usual dullness, and, as Sir Francis Varney removed the
massy stone, which hid the narrow and tortuous entrance to the dungeons, a
chilly feeling crept over him, and he could not help supposing, that even then
Marchdale might have played him false, and neglected to supply the prisoner
food, according to his promise.
Hastily
he descended to the dungeons, and with a step, which had in it far less of
caution, than had usually characterised his proceedings, he proceeded onwards
until he reached that particular dungeon, in which our young friend, to whom we
wished so well, had been so long confined from the beautiful and cheering light
of day, and from all that his heart's best affections most cling to.
"Speak,"
said Sir Francis Varney, as he entered the dungeon—"If the occupant of
this dreary place live, let him answer one who is as much his friend as he has
been his enemy."
"I
have no friend," said Charles Holland, faintly; "unless it be one who
would come and restore me to liberty."
"And
how know you that I am not he?"
"Your
voice sounds like that of one of my persecutors. Why do you not place the
climax to your injuries by at once taking away life. I should be better pleased
that you would do so, than that I should wear out the useless struggle of existence
in so dreary and wretched an abode as this."
"Young
man," said Sir Francis Varney, "I have come to you on a greater
errand of mercy than, probably, you will ever give me credit for. There is one
who would too readily have granted your present request, and who would at once
have taken that life of which you profess to be so wearied; but which may yet
present to you some of its sunniest and most beautiful aspects."
"Your
tones are friendly," said Charles; "but yet I dread some new
deception. That you are one of those who consigned me by stratagem, and by
brute force, to this place of durance, I am perfectly well assured, and,
therefore, any good that may be promised by you, presents itself to me in a
very doubtful character."
"I
cannot be surprised," said Sir Francis Varney, "at such sentiments
arising from your lips; but, nevertheless, I am inclined to save you. You have
been detained here because it was supposed by being so, a particular object
would be best obtained by your absence. That object, however has failed,
notwithstanding, and I do not feel further inclined to protract your
sufferings. Have you any guess as to the parties who have thus confined
you?"—"I am unaccustomed to dissemble, and, therefore I will say at
once that I have a guess."
"In
which way does it tend?"—
"Against
Sir Francis Varney, called the vampyre."
"Does
it not strike you that this may be a dangerous candour?"—"It may, or
it may not be; I cannot help it. I know I am at the mercy of my foes, and I do
not believe that anything I can say or do will make my situation worse or
better."
"You
are much mistaken there. In other hands than mine, it might make it much worse;
but it happens to be one of my weaknesses, that I am charged with candour, and
that I admire boldness of disposition."—"Indeed! and yet can behave
in the manner you have done towards me."
"Yes.
There are more things in heaven and on earth than are dreamt of in your
philosophy. I am the more encouraged to set you free, because, if I procure
from you a promise, which I intend to attempt, I am inclined to believe that
you will keep it."—"I shall assuredly keep whatever promise I may
make. Propound your conditions, and if they be such as honour and honesty will
permit me to accede to, I will do so willingly and at once. Heaven knows I am
weary enough of this miserable imprisonment."
"Will
you promise me then, if I set you free, not to mention your suspicions that it
is to Sir Francis Varney you owe this ill turn, and not to attempt any act of
vengeance against him as a retaliation for it."—"I cannot promise so
much as that. Freedom, indeed, would be a poor boon, if I were not permitted
freely to converse of some of the circumstances connected with my
captivity."
"You
object?"—"I do to the former of your propositions, but not to the
latter. I will promise not to go at all out of my way to execute any vengeance
upon you; but I will not promise that I will not communicate the circumstances
of my forced absence from them, to those friends whose opinion I so much value,
and to return to whom is almost as dear to me as liberty itself."
Sir
Francis Varney was silent for a few moments, and then he said, in a tone of
deep solemnity,—
"There
are ninety-nine persons out of a hundred who would take your life for the
independence of your tongue; but I am as the hundredth one, who looks with a
benevolent eye at your proceedings. Will you promise me, if I remove the
fetters which now bind your limbs, that you will make no personal attack upon
me; for I am weary of personal contention, and I have no disposition to endure
it. Will you make me this promise?"—"I promise?"—"I
will."
Without
another word, but trusting implicitly to the promise which had been given to
him, Sir Francis Varney produced a small key from his pocket, and unlocked with
it a padlock which confined the chains about the prisoner.
With
ease, Charles Holland was then enabled to shake them off, and then, for the
first time, for some weeks, he rose to his feet, and felt all the exquisite
relief of being comparatively free from bondage.
"This
is delightful, indeed," he said.
"It
is," said Sir Francis Varney—"it is but a foretaste of the happiness
you will enjoy when you are entirely free. You see that I have trusted
you."
"You
have trusted me as you might trust me, and you perceive that I have kept my
word."
"You
have; and since you decline to make me the promise which I would fain have from
you, to the effect that you would not mention me as one of the authors of your
calamity, I must trust to your honour not to attempt revenge for what you have
suffered."
"That
I will promise. There can be but little difficulty to any generous mind in
giving up such a feeling. In consequence of your sparing me what you might
still further have inflicted, I will let the past rest, and as if it had never
happened really to me; and speak of it to others, but as a circumstance which I
wish not to revert to, but prefer should be buried in oblivion."
"It
is well; and now I have a request to make of you, which, perhaps, you will
consider the hardest of all."
"Name
it. I feel myself bound to a considerable extent to comply with whatever you
may demand of me, that is not contrary to honourable principle."
"Then
it is this, that, comparatively free as you are, and in a condition, as you
are, to assert your own freedom, you will not do so hastily, or for a
considerable period; in fact, I wish and expect that you should wait yet
awhile, until it shall suit me to say that it is my pleasure that you shall be
free."
"That
is, indeed, a hard condition to man who feels, as you yourself remark, that he
can assert his freedom. It is one which I have still a hope you will not
persevere in.
"Nay,
young man, I think that I have treated you with generosity, to make you feel
that I am not the worst of foes you could have had. All I require of you is,
that you should wait here for about an hour. It is now nearly one o'clock; will
you wait until you hear it strike two before you actually make a movement to
leave this place?"
Charles
Holland hesitated for some moments, and then he said,—
"Do
not fancy that I am not one who appreciates the singular trust you have reposed
in me; and, however repugnant to me it may be to remain here, a voluntary
prisoner, I am inclined to do so, if it be but to convince you that the trust
you have reposed in me is not in vain, and that I can behave with equal
generosity to you as you can to me."
"Be
it so," said Sir Francis Varney; "I shall leave you with a full
reliance that you will keep your word; and now, farewell. When you think of me,
fancy me rather one unfortunate than criminal, and tell yourself that even
Varney the vampyre had some traits in his character, which, although they might
not raise your esteem, at all events did not loudly call for your
reprobation."
"I
shall do so. Oh! Flora, Flora, I shall look upon you once again, after
believing and thinking that I had bidden you a long and last adieu. My own
beautiful Flora, it is joy indeed to think that I shall look upon that face
again, which, to my perception, is full of all the majesty of loveliness."
Sir
Francis Varney looked coldly on while Charles uttered this enthusiastic speech.
"Remember,"
he said, "till two o'clock;" and he walked towards the door of the
dungeon. "You will have no difficulty in finding your way out from this
place. Doubtless you already perceive the entrance by which I gained
admission."