Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
"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.
FLORA BANNERWORTH AND HER MOTHER.—THE EPISODE OF CHIVALRY.
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 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; 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."