Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
Could
anything be possibly more full of horror than such a thought? Death, let it
come in any shape it may, is yet a most repulsive and unwelcome guest; but,
when it comes, so united with all that can add to its terrors, it is enough to
drive reason from its throne, and fill the mind with images of absolute horror.
Tired
of shrieking, for his parched lips and clogged tongue would scarcely now permit
him to utter a sound higher than a whisper. Marchdale lay, listening to the
furious storm without, in the last abandonment of despair.
"Oh!
what a death is this," he groaned. "Here, alone—all alone—and
starvation to creep on me by degrees, sapping life's energies one by one.
Already do I feel the dreadful sickening weakness growing on me. Help, oh! help
me Heav—no, no! Dare I call on Heaven to help me? Is there no fiend of darkness
who now will bid me a price for a human soul? Is there not one who will do
so—not one who will rescue me from the horror that surrounds me, for Heaven
will not? I dare not ask mercy there."
The
storm continued louder and louder. The wind, it is true, was nearly hushed, but
the roar and the rattle of the echo-awakening thunder fully made up for its
cessation, while, now and then, even there, in that underground abode, some
sudden reflection of the vivid lightning's light would find its way, lending, for
a fleeting moment, sufficient light to Marchdale, wherewith he could see the
gloomy place in which he was.
At
times he wept, and at times he raved, while ever and anon he made such frantic
efforts to free himself from the chains that were around him, that, had they
not been strong, he must have succeeded; but, as it was, he only made deep
indentations into his flesh, and gave himself much pain.
"Charles
Holland!" he shouted; "oh! release me! Varney! Varney! why do you not
come to save me? I have toiled for you most unrequitedly—I have not had my
reward. Let it all consist in my release from this dreadful bondage. Help!
help! oh, help!"
There
was no one to hear him. The storm continued, and now, suddenly, a sudden and a
sharper sound than any awakened by the thunder's roar came upon his startled
ear, and, in increased agony, he shouted,—
"What
is that? oh! what is that? God of heaven, do my fears translate that sound
aright? Can it be, oh! can it be, that the ruins which have stood for so many a
year are now crumbling down before the storm of to-night?"
The
sound came again, and he felt the walls of the dungeon in which he was shake.
Now there could be no doubt but that the lightning had struck some part of the
building, and so endangered the safety of all that was above ground. For a
moment there came across his brain such a rush of agony, that he neither spoke
nor moved. Had that dreadful feeling continued much longer, he must have lapsed
into insanity; but that amount of mercy—for mercy it would have been—was not
shown to him. He still felt all the accumulating horrors of his situation, and
then, with such shrieks as nothing but a full appreciation of such horrors
could have given him strength to utter, he called upon earth, upon heaven and
upon all that was infernal, to save him from his impending doom.
All
was in vain. It was an impending doom which nothing but the direct
interposition of Heaven could have at all averted; and it was not likely that
any such perversion of the regular laws of nature would take place to save such
a man as Marchdale.
Again
came the crashing sound of falling stones, and he was certain that the old
ruins, which had stood for so many hundred years the storm, and the utmost
wrath of the elements, was at length yielding, and crumbling down.
What
else could he expect but to be engulphed among the fragments—fragments still
weighty and destructive, although in decay. How fearfully now did his horrified
imagination take in at one glance, as it were, a panoramic view of all his past
life, and how absolutely contemptible, at that moment, appeared all that he had
been striving for.
But
the walls shake again, and this time the vibration is more fearful than before.
There is a tremendous uproar above him—the roof yields to some superincumbent pressure—there
is one shriek, and Marchdale lies crushed beneath a mass of masonry that it
would take men and machinery days to remove from off him.
All
is over now. That bold, bad man—that accomplished hypocrite—that mendacious,
would-be murderer was no more. He lies but a mangled, crushed, and festering
corpse.
May
his soul find mercy with his God!
The
storm, from this moment, seemed to relax in its violence, as if it had
accomplished a great purpose, and, consequently, now, need no longer "vex
the air with its boisterous presence." Gradually the thunder died away in
the distance. The wind no longer blew in blustrous gusts, but, with a gentle
murmuring, swept around the ancient pile, as if singing the requiem of the dead
that lay beneath—that dead which mortal eyes were never to look upon.
THE MEETING OF CHARLES AND FLORA.
Charles
Holland followed Jack Pringle for some time in silence from Bannerworth Hall;
his mind was too full of thought concerning the past to allow him to indulge in
much of that kind of conversation in which Jack Pringle might be fully
considered to be a proficient.
As
for Jack, somehow or another, he had felt his dignity offended in the garden of
Bannerworth Hall, and he had made up his mind, as he afterwards stated in his
own phraseology, not to speak to nobody till somebody spoke to him.
A
growing anxiety, however, to ascertain from one who had seen her lately, how
Flora had borne his absence, at length induced Charles Holland to break his
self-imposed silence.
"Jack,"
he said, "you have had the happiness of seeing her lately, tell me, does
Flora Bannerworth look as she was wont to look, or have all the roses faded
from her cheeks?"
"Why,
as for the roses," said Jack, "I'm blowed if I can tell, and seeing
as how she don't look at me much, I doesn't know nothing about her; I can tell
you something, though, about the old admiral that will make you open your
eyes."
"Indeed,
Jack, and what may that be?"
"Why,
he's took to drink, and gets groggy about every day of his life, and the most
singular thing is, that when that's the case with the old man, he says it's
me."
"Indeed,
Jack! taken to drinking has my poor old uncle, from grief, I suppose, Jack, at
my disappearance."
"No,
I don't think it's grief," said Jack; "it strikes me it's
rum-and-water."
"Alas,
alas, I never could have imagined he could have fallen into that habit of
yours; he always seemed so far from anything of this kind."
"Ay,
ay, sir," said Jack, "I know'd you'd be astonished. It will be the
death of him, that's my opinion; and the idea, you know, Master Charles, of
accusing me when he gets drunk himself."
"I
believe that is a common delusion of intemperate persons," said Charles.
"Is
it, sir; well, it's a very awkward I thing, because you know, sir, as well as most
people, that I'm not the fellow to take a drop too much."
"I
cannot say, Jack, that I know so much, for I have certainly heard my uncle
accuse you of intoxication."
"Lor',
sir, that was all just on account of his trying it hisself; he was a thinking on
it then, and wanted to see how I'd take it."
"But
tell me of Flora; are you quite certain that she has had no more alarms from
Varney?"
"What,
that ere vampyre fellow? not a bit of it, your honour. Lor' bless you, he must
have found out by some means or another that I was on the look out, and that
did the business. He'll never come near Miss Flora again, I'll be bound, though
to be sure we moved away from the Hall on account of him; but not that I saw
the good of cruising out of one's own latitude, but somehow or another you see
the doctor and the admiral got it into their heads to establish a sort of
blockade, and the idea of the thing was to sail away in the night quite quiet,
and after that take up a position that would come across the enemy on the larboard
tack, if so be as he made his appearance."
"Oh,
you allude to watching the Hall, I presume?"
"Ay,
ay, sir, just so; but would you believe it, Master Charlie, the admiral and the
doctor got so blessed drunk that I could do nothing with 'em."
"Indeed!"
"Yes,
they did indeed, and made all kinds of queer mistakes, so that the end of all
that was, that the vampyre did come; but he got away again."
"He
did come then; Sir Francis Varney came again after the house was presumed to be
deserted?"
"He
did, sir."
"That
is very strange; what on earth could have been his object? This affair is most
inexplicably mysterious. I hope the distance, Jack, is not far that you're
taking me, for I'm incapable of enduring much fatigue."
"Not
a great way, your honour; keep two points to the westward, and sail straight
on; we'll soon come to port. My eye, won't there be a squall when you get in. I
expect as Miss Flora will drop down as dead as a herring, for she doesn't think
you're above the hatches."
"A
good thought, Jack; my sudden appearance may produce alarm. When we reach the
place of abode of the Bannerworths, you shall precede me, and prepare them in
some measure for my reception."
"Very
good, sir; do you see that there little white cottage a-head, there in the
offing?"
"Yes,
yes; is that the place?"
"Yes,
your honour, that's the port to which we are bound."
"Well,
then, Jack, you hasten a-head, and see Miss Flora, and be sure you prepare her
gently and by degrees, you know, Jack, for my appearance, so that she shall not
be alarmed."
"Ay,
ay, sir, I understand; you wait here, and I'll go and do it; there would be a
squall if you were to make your appearance, sir, all at once. She looks upon
you as safely lodged in Davy's locker; she minds me, all the world, of a girl I
knew at Portsmouth, called Bet Bumplush. She was one of your delicate little
creatures as don't live long in this here world; no, blow me; when I came home
from a eighteen months' cruise, once I seed her drinking rum out of a quart
pot, so I says, 'Hilloa, what cheer?' And only to think now of the wonderful
effect that there had upon her; with that very pot she gives the fellow as was
standing treat a knobber on the head as lasted him three weeks. She was too
good for this here world, she was, and too rummantic. 'Go to blazes,' she says
to him, 'here's Jack Pringle come home.'"
"Very
romantic indeed," said Charles.
"Yes,
I believe you, sir; and that puts me in mind of Miss Flora and you."
"An
extremely flattering comparison. Of course I feel much obliged."
"Oh,
don't name it, sir. The British tar as can't oblige a feller-cretor is unworthy
to tread the quarter-deck, or to bear a hand to the distress of a woman."
"Very
well," said Charles. "Now, as we are here, precede me, if you please,
and let me beg of you to be especially cautious in your manner of announcing
me."
"Ay,
ay, sir," said Jack: and away he walked towards the cottage, leaving
Charles some distance behind.
Flora
and the admiral were sitting together conversing. The old man, who loved her as
if she had been a child of his own, was endeavouring, to the extent of his
ability, to assuage the anguish of her thoughts, which at that moment chanced
to be bent upon Charles Holland.
"Nevermind,
my dear," he said; "he'll turn up some of these days, and when he
does, I sha'n't forget to tell him that it was you who stood out for his
honesty and truth, when every one else was against him, including myself, an
old wretch that I was."
"Oh,
sir, how could you for one moment believe that those letters could have been
written by your nephew Charles? They carried, sir, upon the face of them their
own refutation; and I'm only surprised that for one instant you, or any one who
knew him, could have believed him capable of writing them."
"Avast,
there," said the admiral; "that'll do. I own you got the better of
the old sailor there. I think you and Jack Pringle were the only two persons
who stood out from the first."
"Then
I honour Jack for doing so."
"And
here he is," said the admiral, "and you'd better tell him. The
mutinous rascal! he wants all the honour he can get, as a set-off against his
drunkenness and other bad habits."
Jack
walked into the room, looked about him in silence for a moment, thrust his
hands in his breeches pockets, and gave a long whistle.
"What's
the matter now?" said the admiral.
"D—me,
if Charles Holland ain't outside, and I've come to prepare you for the blessed
shock," said Jack. "Don't faint either of you, because I'm only going
to let you know it by degrees, you know."
A
shriek burst from Flora's lips, and she sprung to the door of the apartment.
"What!"
cried the admiral, "my nephew—my nephew Charles! Jack, you rascal, if
you're joking, it's the last joke you shall make in this world; and if it's
true, I—I—I'm an old fool, that's all."
"Ay,
ay, sir," said Jack; "didn't you know that afore?"
"Charles—Charles!"
cried Flora. He heard the voice. Her name escaped his lips, and rang with a
pleasant echo through the house.
In
another moment he was in the room, and had clasped her to his breast.
"My
own—my beautiful—my true!"
"Charles,
dear Charles!"
"Oh,
Flora, what have I not endured since last we met; but this repays me—more than
repays me for all."
"What
is the past now," cried Flora—"what are all its miseries placed
against this happy, happy moment?"
"D—me,
nobody thinks of me," said the admiral.
"My
dear uncle," said Charles, looking over Flora's shoulder, as he still held
her in his arms, "is that you?"
"Yes,
yes, swab, it is me, and you know it; but give us your five, you mutinous
vagabond; and I tell you what, I'll do you the greatest favour I've had an
opportunity of doing you some time—I'll leave you alone, you dog. Come along,
Jack."
"Ay,
ay, sir," said Jack; and away they went out of the apartment.
And
now those two loving hearts were alone—they who had been so long separated by
malignant destiny, once again were heart to heart, looking into each other's
faces with all the beaming tenderness of an affection of the truest, holiest
character.
The
admiral had done a favour to them both to leave them alone, although we much
doubt whether his presence, or the presence of the whole world, would have had
the effect of controlling one generous sentiment of noble feeling.
They
would have forgotten everything but that they were together, and that once
again each looked into the other's eyes with all the tenderness of a love purer
and higher than ordinarily belongs to mortal affections.
Language
was weak to give utterance to the full gust of happy feelings that now were
theirs. It was ecstasy enough to feel, to know that the evil fortune which had
so long separated them, depriving each existence of its sunniest aspect, was
over. It was enough for Charles Holland to feel that she loved him still. It
was enough for Flora Bannerworth to know, as she looked into his beaming
countenance, that that love was not misplaced, but was met by feelings such as
she herself would have dictated to be the inhabitants of the heart of him whom
she would have chosen from the mass of mankind as her own.
"Flora—dear
Flora," said Charles, "and you have never doubted me?"
"I've
never doubted, Charles, Heaven or you. To doubt one would have been, to doubt
both."
"Generous
and best of girls, what must you have thought of my enforced absence! Oh!
Flora, I was unjust enough to your truth to make my greatest pang the thought
that you might doubt me, and cast me from your heart for ever."
"Ah!
Charles, you ought to have known me better. I stood amid sore temptation to do
so much. There were those who would have urged me on to think that you had cast
me from your heart for ever. There were those ready and willing to place the
worst construction upon your conduct, and with a devilish ingenuity to strive
to make me participate in such a feeling; but, no, Charles, no—I loved you, and
I trusted you, and I could not so far belie my own judgment as to tell you
other than what you always seemed to my young fancy."
"And
you are right, my Flora, right; and is it not a glorious triumph to see that
love—that sentiment of passion—has enabled you to have so enduring and so noble
a confidence in aught human?"
"Ay,
Charles, it is the sentiment of passion, for our love has been more a sentiment
than a passion. I would fain think that we had loved each other with an
affection not usually known, appreciated, or understood, and so, in the vanity
of my best affections, I would strive to think them something exclusive, and
beyond the common feelings of humanity."
"And
you are right, my Flora; such love as yours is the exception; there may be
preferences, there may be passions, and there may be sentiments, but never,
never, surely, was there a heart like yours."
"Nay,
Charles, now you speak from a too poetical fancy; but is it possible that I
have had you here so long, with your hand clasped in mine, and asked you not
the causes of your absence?"
"Oh,
Flora, I have suffered much—much physically, but more mentally. It was the
thought of you that was at once the bane and the antidote of my
existence."
"Indeed,
Charles! Did I present myself in such contradictory colours to you?"
"Yes,
dearest, as thus. When I thought of you, sometimes, in the deep seclusion of a
dungeon, that thought almost goaded me to madness, because it brought with it
the conviction—a conviction peculiar to a lover—that none could so effectually
stand between you and all evil as myself."