by Oscar Wilde
“‘I know also you want it; how is the child, is she quite well?’—‘Yes, quite.’
“‘Where is she?’ inquired I, looking round the room, but I didn’t see her; she used to be up.—‘She has gone to bed,’ she said.
“‘It is very early.’—‘Yes, but she cried so for food that I was obliged to get her to sleep to forget her hunger: poor thing, she has wanted bread very badly.’
“‘Poor thing!’ I said, ‘let her be awakened and partake of what I have brought home.’
“With that my wife waked her up, and the moment she opened her eyes she again began to cry for food, which I immediately gave her and saw her devour with the utmost haste and hunger. The sight smote my heart, and my wife sat by watching, and endeavouring to prevent her from eating so fast.
“‘This is bad,’ I said.—‘Yes, but I hope it may be the worst,’ she replied, in a deep and hollow voice.
“‘Lizzy,’ I exclaimed, ‘what is the matter—are you ill?’—‘Yes, very ill.’
“‘What is the matter with you? For God’s sake tell me,’ I said, for I was alarmed.—‘I am very ill,’ she said, ‘very ill indeed; I feel my strength decreasing every day. I must drink.’
“You, too, want food?’—‘I have and perhaps do, though the desire to eat seems almost to have left me.’
“‘For Heaven’s sake eat,’ said I; ‘I will bring you home something more by tomorrow; eat and drink Lizzy. I have suffered; but for you and your child’s sake, I will do my best.’—‘Your best,’ she said, ‘will kill us both; but, alas, there is no other aid at hand. You may one day, however, come here too late to find us living.’
“‘Say no more, Lizzy, you know not my feelings when you speak thus; alas, I have no hope—no aid—no friend.’—‘No,’ she replied, ‘your love of gaming drove them from you, because they would not aid a gambler.’
“‘Say no more, Lizzy,’ I said; ‘if there be not an end to this life soon, there will be an end to me. In two days more I shall return to you. Good bye; God bless you. Keep up your heart and the child.’—‘Good bye,’ she said, sorrowfully. She shed tears, and wrung her hands bitterly. I hastened away—my heart was ready to burst, and I could not speak.
“I walked about to recover my serenity, but could not do so sufficiently well to secure anything like an appearance that would render me fit to go to the gaming-house. That night I remained away, but I could not avoid falling into a debauch to drown my misfortunes, and shift the scene of misery that was continually before my eyes.”
* * * *
“The next night I was at the gaming-house. I went there in better than usual spirits. I saw, I thought, a change in fortune, and hailed that as the propitious moment of my life, when I was to rise above my present misfortunes.
“I played and won—played and lost—played and won, and then lost again; thus I went on, fluctuating more and more, until I found I was getting money in my pocket. I had, at one moment more than three hundred pounds in my pocket, and I felt that then was my happy moment—then the tide of fortune was going in my favour. I ought to have left off with that—to have been satisfied with such an amount of money; but the demon of avarice seemed to have possessed me, and I went on and on with fluctuating fortune, until I lost the whole of it.
“I was mad—desperate, and could have destroyed myself; but I thought of the state my wife and child were in; I thought that that night they would want food; but they could not hurt for one day—they must have some, or would procure some.
“I was too far gone to be able to go to them, even if I were possessed of means; but I had none, and daylight saw me in a deep sleep, from which I awoke not until the next evening let in, and then I once more determined that I would make a desperate attempt to get a little money. I had always paid, and thought my word would be taken for once; and, if I won, all well and good; if not, then I was no worse off than before.
“This was easy to plan, but not to execute. I went there, but there were none present in whom I had sufficient interest to dare make the attempt. I walked about, and felt in a most uncomfortable state. I feared I should not succeed at all, then what was to become of me—of my wife and child? This rendered me almost mad. I could not understand what I was to do, what to attempt, or where to go. One or two persons came up, and asked me if I were ill. My answers were, that I was well enough. Good God! how far from the truth was that; but I found I must place more control on my feelings, else I should cause much conversation, and then I should lose all hope of recovering myself, and all prospect of living, even.
“At length some one did come in, and I remarked I had been there all the evening and had not played. I had an invitation to play with him, which ended, by a little sleight of hand, in my favour; and on that I had calculated as much as on any good fortune I might meet. The person I played with observed it not, and, when we left off playing, I had some six or seven pounds in pocket. This, to me, was a very great sum; and, the moment I could decently withdraw myself, I ran off home.
“I was fearful of the scene that awaited me. I expected something; worse than I had yet seen. Possibly Lizzy might be angry, and scold as well as complain. I therefore tapped at the door gently, but heard no one answer; but of this I took no notice, as I believed that they might be, and were, most probably, fast asleep. I had provided myself with a light, and I therefore opened the door, which was not fastened.
“‘Lizzy!’ said I, ‘Lizzy!’ There was no answer given, and I paused. Everything was as still as death. I looked on the bed—there lay my wife with her clothes on.
“‘Lizzy! Lizzy!’ said I. But still she did not answer me.
“‘Well,’ said I, ‘she sleeps sound;’ and I walked towards the bed, and placed my hand upon her shoulder, and began to shake her, saying, as I did so—
“‘Lizzy! Lizzy! I’m come home.’ But still no answer, or signs of awaking.
“I went on the other side of the bed to look at her face, and some misgivings overtook me. I trembled much. She lay on the bed, with her back towards the spot where I stood.
“I came towards her face. My hand shook violently as I endeavoured to look at her. She had her eyes wide open, as if staring at me.
“‘Lizzy,’ said I. No answer was returned. I then placed my hand upon her cheek. It was enough, and I started back in great horror. She was dead!
“This was horror itself. I staggered back and fell into a chair. The light I placed down, Heaven knows how or why; but there I sat staring at the corpse of my unfortunate wife. I can hardly tell you the tremendous effect this had upon me. I could not move. I was fascinated to the spot. I could not move and could not turn.”
* * * *
“It was morning, and the rays of the sun illumined the apartment; but there sat I, still gazing upon the face of my unfortunate wife, I saw, I knew she was dead; but yet I had not spoken, but sat looking at her.
“I believe my heart was as cold as she was; but extreme horror and dread had dried up all the warm blood in my body, and I hardly think there was a pulsation left. The thoughts of my child never once seemed to cross my mind. I had, however, sat there long—some hours before I was discovered, and this was by the landlady.
“I had left the door open behind me, and she, in passing down, had the curiosity to peep, and saw me sitting in what she thought to be a very strange attitude, and could hear no sounds.
“After some time she discovered my wife was dead, and, for some time, she thought me so, too. However, she was convinced to the contrary, and then began to call for assistance. This awoke the child, which was nearly famished. The landlady, to become useful, and to awaken me from my lethargy, placed the child in my hands, telling me I was the best person now to take care of it.
“And so I was; there was no doubt of the truth of that, and I was compelled to acknowledge it. I felt much pride and pleasure in my daughter, and determined s
he should, if I starved, have the benefit of all I could do for her in the way of care, &c.”
* * * *
“The funeral over, I took my child and carried it to a school, where I left her, and paid in advance, promising to do so as often as the quarter came round. My wife I had seen buried by the hands of man, and I swore I would do the best for my child, and to keep this oath was a work of pleasure.
“I determined also I would never more enter a gaming-house, be the extremity what it might; I would suffer even death before I would permit myself to enter the house in which it took place.
“‘I will,’ I thought, ‘obtain some employment of some kind or other. I could surely obtain that. I have only to ask and I have it, surely—something, however menial, that would keep me and my child. Yes, yes—she ought, she must have her charges paid at once.”
“The effect of my wife’s death was a very great shock to me, and such a one I could not forget—one I shall ever remember, and one that at least made a lasting impression upon me.”
* * * *
“Strange, but true, I never entered a gambling-house; it was my horror and my aversion. And yet I could obtain no employment. I took my daughter and placed her at a boarding-school, and tried hard to obtain bread by labour; but, do what would, none could be had; if my soul depended upon it, I could find none. I cared not what it was—anything that was honest.
“I was reduced low—very low; gaunt starvation showed itself in my cheeks; but I wandered about to find employment; none could be found, and the world seemed to have conspired together to throw me back to the gaming-table.
“But this I would not. At last employment was offered; but what was it? The situation of common hangman was offered me. The employment was disgusting and horrible; but, at the same time, it was all I could get, and that was a sufficient inducement for me to accept of it. I was, therefore, the common executioner; and in that employment for some time earned a living. It was terrible; but necessity compelled me to accept the only thing I could obtain. You now know the reason why I became what I have told you.”
CHAPTER LXXIII.
THE VISIT OF THE VAMPIRE.—THE GENERAL MEETING.
The mysterious friend of Mr. Chillingworth finished his narrative, and then the doctor said to him—
“And that, then, is the real cause why you, a man evidently far above the position of life which is usually that of those who occupy the dreadful post of executioner, came to accept of it.”
“The real reason, sir. I considered, too, that in holding such a humiliating situation that I was justly served for the barbarity of which I had been guilty; for what can be a greater act of cruelty than to squander, as I did, in the pursuit of mad excitement, those means which should have rendered my home happy, and conduced to the welfare of those who were dependant upon me?”
“I do not mean to say that your self-reproaches are unjust altogether, but—What noise is that? do you hear anything?”—
“Yes—yes.”
“What do you take it to be?”
“It seemed like the footsteps of a number of persons, and it evidently approaches nearer and nearer. I know not what to think.”
“Shall I tell you?” said a deep-toned voice, and some one, through the orifice in the back of the summer-house, which, it will be recollected, sustained some damage at the time that Varney escaped from it, laid a hand upon Mr. Chillingworth’s shoulder. “God bless me!” exclaimed the doctor; “who’s that?” and he sprang from his seat with the greatest perturbation in the world.
“Varney, the vampire!” added the voice, and then both the doctor and his companion recognised it, and saw the strange, haggard features, that now they knew so well, confronting them. There was a pause of surprise, for a moment or two, on the part of the doctor, and then he said, “Sir Francis Varney, what brings you here? I conjure you to tell me, in the name of common justice and common feeling, what brings you to this house so frequently? You have dispossessed the family, whose property it is, of it, and you have caused great confusion and dismay over a whole county. I implore you now, not in the language of menace or as an enemy, but as the advocate of the oppressed, and one who desires to see justice done to all, to tell me what it is you require.”
“There is no time now for explanation,” said Varney, “if explanations were my full and free intent. You wished to know what noise was that you heard?”
“I did; can you inform me?”
“I can. The wild and lawless mob which you and your friends first induced to interfere in affairs far beyond their or your control, are now flushed with the desire of riot and of plunder. The noise you hear is that of their advancing footsteps; they come to destroy Bannerworth Hall.”
“Can that be possible? The Bannerworth family are the sufferers from all that has happened, and not the inflictors of suffering.”
“Ay, be it so; but he who once raises a mob has raised an evil spirit, which, in the majority of cases, it requires a far more potent spell than he is master of to quell again.”
“It is so. That is a melancholy truth; but you address me, Sir Francis Varney, as if I led on the mob, when in reality I have done all that lay in my power, from the very first moment of their rising on account of this affair, which, in the first instance, was your work, to prevent them from proceeding to acts of violence.”
“It may be so; but if you have now any regard for your own safety you will quit this place. It will too soon become the scene of a bloody contention. A large party of dragoons are even now by another route coming towards it, and it will be their duty to resist the aggressions of the mob; then should the rioters persevere, you can guess the result.”
“I can, indeed.”
“Retire then while you may, and against the bad deeds of Sir Francis Varney at all events place some of his good ones, that he may not seem wholly without one redeeming trait.”
“I am not accustomed,” said the doctor, “to paint the devil blacker than he really is; but yet the cruel persecutions that the Bannerworth family have endured call aloud for justice. You still, with a perseverance which shows you regardless of what others suffer so that you compass your own ends, hover round a spot which you have rendered desolate.”
“Hark, sir; do you not hear the tramp of horses’ feet?”
“I do.”
The noise made by the feet of the insurgents was now almost drowned in the louder and more rapid tramp of the horses’ feet of the advancing dragoons, and, in a few moments more, Sir Francis Varney waved his arm, exclaiming—
“They are here. Will you not consult your safety by flight?”
“No,” said Mr. Chillingworth’s companion; “we prefer remaining here at the risk even of whatever danger may accrue to us.”
“Fools, would you die in a chance melee between an infuriated populace and soldiery?”
“Do not leave,” whispered the ex-hangman to Mr. Chillingworth; “do not leave, I pray you. He only wants to have the Hall to himself.”
There could be no doubt now of the immediate appearance of the cavalry, and, before Sir Francis Varney could utter another word, a couple of the foremost of the soldiers cleared the garden fence at a part where it was low, and alighted not many feet from the summer-house in which this short colloquy was taking place. Sir Francis Varney uttered a bitter oath, and immediately disappeared in the gloom.
“What shall we do?” said the hangman.—“You can do what you like, but I shall avow my presence to the military, and claim to be on their side in the approaching contest, if it should come to one, which I sincerely hope it will not.”
The military detachment consisted of about twenty-five dragoons, who now were all in the gardens. An order was given by the officer in command for them to dismount, which was at once obeyed, and the horses were fastened by their bridles to the various trees with which the place abounded.
“They are going to oppose the mob on foot, with their carbines,” said the hangman; “there will be sad work here I am afraid.”
“Well, at all events,” said Mr. Chillingworth, “I shall decline acting the part of a spy here any longer; so here goes.”
“Hilloa! a friend—a friend here, in the summer-house!”
“Make it two friends,” cried the hangman, “if you please, while you are about it.”
A couple of the dragoons immediately appeared, and the doctor, with his companion, were marched, as prisoners, before the officer in command.
“What do you do here?” he said; “I was informed that the Hall was deserted. Here, orderly, where is Mr. Adamson, the magistrate, who came with me?”
“Close at hand sir, and he says he’s not well.”
“Well, or ill, he must come here, and do something with these people.”
A magistrate of the district who had accompanied the troops, and been accommodated with a seat behind one of the dragoons, which seemed very much to have disagreed with him, for he was as pale as death, now stepped forward.
“You know me, Mr. Adamson?” said the doctor; “I am Mr. Chillingworth.”
“Oh! yes; Lord bless you! how came you here?”
“Never mind that just now; you can vouch for my having no connection with the rioters.”
“Oh! dear, yes; certainly. This is a respectable gentleman, Captain Richardson, and a personal friend of mine.”
“Oh! very good.”
“And I,” said the doctor’s companion, “am likewise a respectable and useful member of society, and a great friend of Mr. Chillingworth.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said the captain in command, “you may remain here, if you like, and take the chances, or you may leave.”
They intimated that they preferred remaining, and, almost at the moment that they did so, a loud shout from many throats announced the near approach of the mob.—“Now, Mr. Magistrate, if you please,” said the officer; “you will be so good as to tell the mob that I am here with my troop, under your orders, and strongly advise them to be off while they can, with whole skins, for if they persevere in attacking the place, we must persevere in defending it; and, if they have half a grain of sense among them, they can surely guess what the result of that will be.”