The Penny Dreadfuls MEGAPACK™

by Oscar Wilde

  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 today. 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; lam 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.”

  “Heavens! and how did you escape such a death from such people, Arthur?”

  “By adopting such a device as that I wear. The Knight of the Green Shield I’m called.”

  “I saw you today in the tournament.”

  “And there my tired and jaded horse gave way; but tomorrow I shall have, I hope, a different fortune.”

  “I hope so too.”

  “I will try; my arm has been good in battle, and I see not why it should be deficient in peaceful jousts.”

  “Certainly not. What fortune have you met with since you left England?”

  “I was of course known but to a few; among those few were the general under whom I served and my more immediate officers, who I knew would not divulge my secret.”

  “And they did not?”

  “No; kept it nobly, and kept their eyes upon me in battle; and I have reaped a rich harvest in force, honour, and riches, I assure you.”

  “Thank Heaven!” said Bertha.—“Bertha, if I be conqueror, may I claim you in the court-yard before all the spectators?”

  “You may,” said Bertha, and she hung her head.—“Moreover,” said Sir Arthur, “you will not make a half promise, but when I demand you, you will at once come down to me and accept me as your husband; if I be the victor then he cannot object to the match.”

  “But he will have many friends, and his intended bride will have many more, so that you may run some danger among so many enemies.”

  “Never fear for me, Bertha, because I shall have many friends of distinction there too—many old friends who are tried men in battle, and whose deeds are a glory and honou
r to them; besides, I shall have my commander and several gentlemen who would at once interfere in case any unfair advantage was attempted to be taken of my supposed weakness.”

  “Have you a fresh horse?” inquired Bertha.—“I have, or shall have by the morning; but promise me you will do what I ask you, and then my arm will be nerved to its utmost, and I am sure to be victorious.”

  “I do promise,” said Bertha; “I hope you may be as successful as you hope to be, Arthur; but suppose fortune should declare against you; suppose an accident of any kind were to happen, what could be done then?”

  “I must be content to hide myself for ever afterwards, as a defeated knight; how can I appear before your friends as the claimant of your hand?”

  “I will never have any other.”

  “But you will be forced to accept this Guthrie de Beaumont, your father’s chosen son-in-law.”

  “I will seek refuge in a cloister.”

  “Will you fly with me, Bertha, to some sequestered spot, where we can live in each others society?”

  “Yes,” said Bertha, “anything, save marriage with Guthrie de Beaumont.”

  “Then await the tournament of tomorrow,” said Sir Arthur, “and then this may be avoided; in the meantime, keep up a good heart and remember I am at hand.”

  * * * *

  These two lovers parted for the present, after a protracted interview, Bertha to her chamber, and the Knight of the Green Shield to his tent.

  The following morning was one of great preparation; the lists had been enlarged, and the seats made more commodious, for the influx of visitors appeared to be much greater than had been anticipated.

  Moreover, there were many old warriors of distinction to be present, which made the bridegroom look pale and feel uncomfortable as to the results of the tournament. The tilting was to begin at an early hour, and then the feasting and revelry would begin early in the evening, after the tilting had all passed off.

  In that day’s work there were many thrown from their saddles, and many broke their lances. The bridegroom tilted with several knights, and came off victorious, or without disadvantage to either.

  The green knight, on the contrary, tilted with but few, and always victorious, and such matches were with men who had been men of some name in the wars, or at least in the tilt yard.

  The sports drew to a close, and when the bridegroom became the challenger, the Knight of the Green Shield at once rode out quietly to meet him. The encounter could not well be avoided, and the bridegroom would willingly have declined the joust with a knight who had disposed of his enemies so easily, and so unceremoniously as he had.

  The first encounter was enough; the bridegroom was thrown to a great distance, and lay insensible on the ground, and was carried out of the field. There was an immediate sensation among the friends of the bridegroom, several of whom rode out to challenge the stranger knight for his presumption.

  In this, however, they had misreckoned the chances, for the challenged accepted their challenges with alacrity and disposed of them one by one with credit to himself until the day was concluded. The stranger was then asked to declare who he was, upon which he lifted his visor, and said,

  “I am Sir Arthur Home, and claim the Lady Bertha as my bride, by the laws of arms, and by those of love.”

  * * * *

  Again the tent was felled, and again the hostelry was tenanted by the soldier, who declared for one side and then for the other, as the cups clanged and jingled together.

  “Said I not,” exclaimed one of the troopers, “that the knight with a green shield was a good knight?”

  “You did,” replied the other.

  “And you knew who he was?” said another of the troopers.—“Not I, comrades; I had seen him fight in battle, and, therefore, partly guessed how it would be if he had any chance with the bridegroom. I’m glad he has won the lady.”

  It was true, the Lady Bertha was won, and Sir Arthur Home claimed his bride, and then they attempted to defeat his claim; yet Bertha at once expressed herself in his favour, to strongly that they were, however reluctantly compelled, to consent at last.

  At this moment, a loud shout as from a multitude of persons came upon their ears and Flora started from her seat in alarm. The cause of the alarm we shall proceed to detail.

  CHAPTER LXX.

  THE FUNERAL OF THE STRANGER OF THE INN.—THE POPULAR COMMOTION, AND MRS. CHILLINGWORTH’S APPEAL TO THE MOB.—THE NEW RIOT.—THE HALL IN DANGER.

  As yet the town was quiet; and, though there was no appearance of riot or disturbance, yet the magistracy had taken every precaution they deemed needful, or their position and necessities warranted, to secure the peace of the town from the like disturbance to that which had been, of late, a disgrace and terror of peaceably-disposed persons.

  The populace were well advertised of the fact, that the body of the stranger was to be buried that morning in their churchyard; and that, to protect the body, should there be any necessity for so doing, a large body of constables would be employed.

  There was no disposition to riot; at least, none was visible. It looked as if there was some event about to take place that was highly interesting to all parties, who were peaceably assembling to witness the interment of nobody knew who.

  The early hour at which persons were assembling, at different points, clearly indicated that there was a spirit of curiosity about the town, so uncommon that none would have noticed it but for the fact of the crowd of people who hung about the streets, and there remained, listless and impatient.

  The inn, too, was crowded with visitors, and there were many who, not being blessed with the strength of purse that some were, were hanging about in the distance, waiting and watching the motions of those who were better provided.

  “Ah!” said one of the visitors, “this is a disagreeable job in your house, landlord.”

  “Yes, sir; I’d sooner it had happened elsewhere, I assure you. I know it has done me no good.”

  “No; no man could expect any, and yet it is none the less unfortunate for that.”

  “I would sooner anything else happen than that, whatever it might be. I think it must be something very bad, at all events; but I dare say I shall never see the like again.”

  “So much the better for the town,” said another; “for, what with vampires and riots, there has been but little else stirring than mischief and disturbances of one kind and another.”

  “Yes; and, what between Varneys and Bannerworths, we have had but little peace here.”

  “Precisely. Do you know it’s my opinion that the least thing would upset the whole town. Any one unlucky word would do it, I am sure,” said a tall thin man.

  “I have no doubt of it,” said another; “but I hope the military would do their duty under such circumstances, for people’s lives and property are not safe in such a state of things.”

  “Oh, dear no.”

  “I wonder what has become of Varney, or where he can have gone to.”

  “Some thought he must have been burned when they burned his house,” replied the landlord.

  “But I believe it generally understood he’s escaped, has he not? No traces of his body were found in the ruins.”

  “None. Oh! he’s escaped, there can be no doubt of that. I wish I had some fortune depending upon the fact; it would be mine, I am sure.”

  “Well, the lord keep us from vampires and suchlike cattle,” said an old woman. “I shall never sleep again in my bed with any safety. It frightens one out of one’s life to think of it. What a shame the men didn’t catch him and stake him!”

  The old woman left the inn as soon as she had spoke this Christian speech.

  “Humane!” said a gentleman, with a sporting coat on. “The old woman is no advocate for half measures!”

  “You are right, sir,” said the landlord; “and a very
good look-out she keeps upon the pot, to see it’s full, and carefully blows the froth off!”

  “Ah! I thought as much.”

  “How soon will the funeral take place, landlord?” inquired a person, who had at that moment entered the inn.—“In about an hour’s time, sir.”

  “Oh! the town seems pretty full, though it is very quiet. I suppose it is more as a matter of curiosity people congregate to see the funeral of this stranger?”

  “I hope so, sir.”

  “The time is wearing on, and if they don’t make a dust, why then the military will not be troubled.”

  “I do not expect anything more, sir,” said the landlord; “for you see they must have had their swing out, as the saying is, and be fully satisfied. They cannot have much more to do in the way of exhibiting their anger or dislike to vampires—they all have done enough.”

  “So they have—so they have.”

  “Granted,” said an old man with a troublesome cough; “but when did you ever know a mob to be satisfied? If they wanted the moon and got it, they’d find out it would be necessary to have the stars also.”

  “That’s uncommonly true,” said the landlord. “I shouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t do something worse than ever.”

  “Nothing more likely,” said the little old man. “I can believe anything of a mob—anything—no matter what.”

  The inn was crowded with visitors, and several extra hands were employed to wait upon the customers, and a scene of bustle and activity was displayed that was never before seen. It would glad the heart of a landlord, though he were made of stone, and landlords are usually of much more malleable materials than that.

  However, the landlord had hardly time to congratulate himself, for the bearers were come now, and the undertaker and his troop of death-following officials.

  There was a stir among the people, who began now to awaken from the lethargy that seemed to have come over them while they were waiting for the moment when it should arrive, that was to place the body under the green sod, against which so much of their anger had been raised. There was a decent silence that pervaded the mob of individuals who had assembled.