The Penny Dreadfuls MEGAPACK™ (171 page)

“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-WA
TCH 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.

Not a sound, for a considerable time, disturbed the intense stillness of the place; but, now, suddenly, Mr. Chillingworth thought he heard a hammering, as if some one was at work in one of the rooms of the Hall.

“What can be the meaning of that?” he said, and he was about to proceed at once to the interior of the building, through the same window which had enabled the hangman to gain admittance, when he heard his own name pronounced by some one at the back of the garden fence, and upon casting his eyes in that direction, he, to his great relief, saw the admiral and Henry Bannerworth.

“Come round to the gate,” said the doctor. “I am more glad to see you than I can tell you just now. Do not make more noise than you can help; but, come round to the gate at once.”

They obeyed the injunction with alacrity, and when the doctor had admitted them, the admiral said, eagerly—

“You don’t mean to tell us that he is here?”

“No, no, not Varney; but he is not the only one who has taken a great affection for Bannerworth Hall; you may have another tenant for it, and I believe at any price you like to name.”

“Indeed!”

“Hush! creep along close to the house, and then you will not be seen. There! do you hear that noise in the hall?”

“Why it sounds,” said the admiral, “like the ship’s carpenter at work.”

“It does, indeed, sound like a carpenter; it’s only the new tenant making, I dare say, some repairs.”

“Damn his impudence!”

“Why, it certainly does look like a very cool proceeding, I must admit.”

“Who, and what is he?”

“Who he is now, I cannot tell you, but he was once the hangman of London, at a time when I was practising in the metropolis, and so I became acquainted with him. He knows Sir Francis Varney, and, if I mistake not, has found out the cause of that mysterious personage’s great attachment to Bannerworth Hall, and has found the reasons so cogent, that he has got up an affection for it himself.”

“To me,” said Henry, “all this is as incomprehensible as anything can possibly be. What on earth does it all mean?”

“My dear Henry,” said the doctor, “will you be ruled by me?”

“I will be ruled by any one whom I know I can trust; for I am like a man groping his way in the dark.”

“Then allow this gentleman who is carpentering away so pleasantly within the house, to do so to his heart’s content, but don’t let him leave it. Show yourselves now in the garden, he has sufficient prudence to know that three constitute rather fearful odds against one, and so he will be careful, and remain where he is. If he should come out, we need not let him go until we thoroughly ascertain what he has been about.”

“You shall command the squadron, doctor,” said the admiral, “and have it all your own way, you know, so here goes! Come along, Henry, and let’s show ourselves; we are both armed too!”

They walked out into the centre of the garden, and they were soon convinced that the hangman saw them, for a face appeared at the window, and was as quickly withdrawn again.

“There,” said the doctor, “now he knows he is a prisoner, and we may as well place ourselves in some position which commands a good view of the house, as well as of the garden gate, and so see if we cannot starve him out, though we may be starved out ourselves.”

“Not at all!” said Admiral Bell, producing from his ample pockets various parcels—“we came to bring you ample supplies.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; we have been as far as the ruins.”

“Oh, to release Marchdale. Charles told me how the villain had fallen into the trap he had laid for him.”