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, upon 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 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.”
“Had I been free,” said Charles, “and had the use of my limbs, I
should, long ere this, have worked my way to life and liberty.”
“’Tis well. Goodnight.”
Varney walked from the place, and just closed the door behind him. With
a slow and stately step he left the ruins, and Charles Holland found
himself once more alone, but in a much more enviable condition than for
many weeks he could have called his.