Penny Dreadful Multipack Vol. 1 (Illustrated. Annotated. 'Wagner The Wehr-Wolf,' 'Varney The Vampire,' 'The Mysteries of London Vol. 1' + Bonus Features) (Penny Dreadful Multipacks) (98 page)

"Here
he is," said the admiral, who at that moment had opened the door of the
breakfast room. "Here he is, so now fire away, and don't spare the
enemy."

"And
Charles?" said Flora, "where is Charles?"

"D—n
Charles!" cried the admiral, who had not been much accustomed to control
his feelings.

"Hush!
hush!" said Henry; "my dear sir, hush! do not indulge now in any
invectives. Flora, here are three letters; you will see that the one which is
unopened is addressed to yourself. However, we wish you to read the whole three
of them, and then to form your own free and unbiased opinion."

Flora
looked as pale as a marble statue, when she took the letters into her hands.
She let the two that were open fall on the table before her, while she eagerly
broke the seal of that which was addressed to herself.

Henry,
with an instinctive delicacy, beckoned every one present to the window, so that
Flora had not the pain of feeling that any eyes were fixed upon her but those
of her mother, who had just come into the room, while she was perusing those
documents which told such a tale of heartless dissimulation.

"My
dear child," said Mrs. Bannerworth, "you are ill."

"Hush!
mother—hush!" said Flora, "let me know all."

She
read the whole of the letters through, and then, as the last one dropped from
her grasp, she exclaimed,—

"Oh,
God! oh, God! what is all that has occurred compared to this?
Charles—Charles—Charles!"

"Flora!"
exclaimed Henry, suddenly turning from the window. "Flora, is this worthy
of you?"

"Heaven
now support me!"

"Is
this worthy of the name you bear Flora? I should have thought, and I did hope,
that woman's pride would have supported you."

"Let
me implore you," added Marchdale, "to summon indignation to your aid,
Miss Bannerworth."

"Charles—Charles—Charles!"
she again exclaimed, as she wrung her hands despairingly.

"Flora,
if anything could add a sting to my already irritated feelings," said
Henry, "this conduct of yours would."

"Henry—brother,
what mean you? Are you mad?"

"Are
you, Flora?"

"God,
I wish now that I was."

"You
have read those letters, and yet you call upon the name of him who wrote them
with frantic tenderness."

"Yes,
yes," she cried; "frantic tenderness is the word. It is with frantic
tenderness I call upon his name, and ever will.—Charles! Charles!—dear
Charles!"

"This
surpasses all belief," said Marchdale.

"It
is the frenzy of grief," added George; "but I did not expect it of
her. Flora—Flora, think again."

"Think—think—the
rush of thought distracts. Whence came these letters?—where did you find these
most disgraceful forgeries?"

"Forgeries!"
exclaimed Henry; and he staggered back, as if someone had struck him a blow.

"Yes,
forgeries!" screamed Flora. "What has become of Charles Holland? Has
he been murdered by some secret enemy, and then these most vile fabrications
made up in his name? Oh, Charles, Charles, are you lost to me for ever?"

"Good
God!" said Henry; "I did not think of that"

"Madness!—madness!"
cried Marchdale.

"Hold!"
shouted the admiral. "Let me speak to her."

He
pushed every one aside, and advanced to Flora. He seized both her hands in his
own, and in a tone of voice that was struggling with feeling, he cried,—

"Look
at me, my dear; I'm an old man old enough to be your grandfather, so you
needn't mind looking me steadily in the face. Look at me, I want to ask you a
question."

Flora
raised her beautiful eyes, and looked the old weather-beaten admiral full in
the face.

Oh!
what a striking contrast did those two persons present to each other. That
young and beautiful girl, with her small, delicate, childlike hands clasped,
and completely hidden in the huge ones of the old sailor, the white, smooth
skin contrasting wonderfully with his wrinkled, hardened features.

"My
dear," he cried, "you have read those—those d——d letters, my
dear?"

"I
have, sir."

"And
what do you think of them?"

"They
were not written by Charles Holland, your nephew."

A
choking sensation seemed to come over the old man, and he tried to speak, but
in vain. He shook the hands of the young girl violently, until he saw that he
was hurting her, and then, before she could be aware of what he was about, he
gave her a kiss on the cheek, as he cried,—

"God
bless you—God bless you! You are the sweetest, dearest little creature that
ever was, or that ever will be, and I'm a d——d old fool, that's what I am.
These letters were not written by my nephew, Charles. He is incapable of
writing them, and, d—n me, I shall take shame to myself as long as I live for
ever thinking so."

"Dear
sir," said Flora, who somehow or another did not seem at all offended at
the kiss which the old man had given her; "dear sir, how could you
believe, for one moment, that they came from him? There has been some desperate
villany on foot. Where is he?—oh, find him, if he be yet alive. If they who
have thus striven to steal from him that honour, which is the jewel of his
heart, have murdered him, seek them out, sir, in the sacred name of justice, I
implore you."

"I
will—I will. I don't renounce him; he is my nephew still—Charles Holland—my own
dear sister's son; and you are the best girl, God bless you, that ever
breathed. He loved you—he loves you still; and if he's above ground, poor
fellow, he shall yet tell you himself he never saw those infamous
letters."

"You—you
will seek for him?" sobbed Flora, and the tears gushed from her eyes.
"Upon you, sir, who, as I do, feel assured of his innocence, I alone rely.
If all the world say he is guilty, we will not think so."

"I'm
d——d if we do."

Henry
had sat down by the table, and, with his hands clasped together, seemed in an
agony of thought.

He
was now roused by a thump on the back by the admiral, who cried,—

"What
do you think, now, old fellow? D—n it, things look a little different
now."

"As
God is my judge," said Henry, holding up his hands, "I know not what
to think, but my heart and feelings all go with you and with Flora, in your
opinion of the innocence of Charles Holland."

"I
knew you would say that, because you could not possibly help it, my dear boy.
Now we are all right again, and all we have got to do is to find out which way
the enemy has gone, and then give chase to him."

"Mr.
Marchdale, what do you think of this new suggestion," said George to that
gentleman.

"Pray,
excuse me," was his reply; "I would much rather not be called upon to
give an opinion."

"Why,
what do you mean by that?" said the admiral.

"Precisely
what I say, sir."

"D—n
me, we had a fellow once in the combined fleets, who never had an opinion till
after something had happened, and then he always said that was just what he
thought."

"I
was never in the combined, or any other fleet, sir," said Marchdale,
coldly.

"Who
the devil said you were?" roared the admiral.

Marchdale
merely hawed.

"However,"
added the admiral, "I don't care, and never did, for anybody's opinion,
when I know I am right. I'd back this dear girl here for opinions, and good
feelings, and courage to express them, against all the world, I would, any day.
If I was not the old hulk I am, I would take a cruise in any latitude under the
sun, if it was only for the chance of meeting with just such another."

"Oh,
lose no time!" said Flora. "If Charles is not to be found in the
house, lose no time in searching for him, I pray you; seek him, wherever there
is the remotest probability he may chance to be. Do not let him think he is
deserted."

"Not
a bit of it," cried the admiral. "You make your mind easy, my dear.
If he's above ground, we shall find him out, you may depend upon it. Come along
master Henry, you and I will consider what had best be done in this uncommonly
ugly matter."

Henry
and George followed the admiral from the breakfast-room, leaving Marchdale
there, who looked serious and full of melancholy thought.

It
was quite clear that he considered Flora had spoken from the generous warmth of
her affection as regarded Charles Holland, and not from the convictions which
reason would have enforced her to feel.

When
he was now alone with her and Mrs. Bannerworth, he spoke in a feeling and
affectionate tone regarding the painful and inexplicable events which had
transpired.

MR. MARCHDALE'S EXCULPATION OF HIMSELF.—THE SEARCH THROUGH
THE GARDENS.—THE SPOT OF THE DEADLY STRUGGLE.—THE MYSTERIOUS PAPER.

It
was, perhaps, very natural that, with her feelings towards Charles Holland,
Flora should shrink from every one who seemed to be of a directly contrary
impression, and when Mr. Marchdale now spoke, she showed but little inclination
to hear what he had to say in explanation.

The
genuine and unaffected manner, however, in which he spoke, could not but have
its effect upon her, and she found herself compelled to listen, as well as, to
a great extent, approve of the sentiments that fell from his lips.

"Flora,"
he said, "I beg that you will here, in the presence of your mother, give
me a patient hearing. You fancy that, because I cannot join so glibly as the
admiral in believing that these letters are forgeries, I must be your
enemy."

"Those
letters," said Flora, "were not written by Charles Holland."

"That
is your opinion."

"It
is more than an opinion. He could not write them."

"Well,
then, of course, if I felt inclined, which Heaven alone knows I do not, I could
not hope successfully to argue against such a conviction. But I do not wish to
do so. All I want to impress upon you is, that I am not to be blamed for
doubting his innocence; and, at the same time, I wish to assure you that no one
in this house would feel more exquisite satisfaction than I in seeing it
established."

"I
thank you for so much," said Flora; "but as, to my mind, his
innocence has never been doubted, it needs to me no establishing."

"Very
good. You believe these letters forgeries?"

"I
do."

"And
that the disappearance of Charles Holland is enforced, and not of his own free
will?"

"I
do."

"Then
you may rely upon my unremitting exertions night and day to find him and any
suggestion you can make, which is likely to aid in the search, shall, I pledge
myself, be fully carried out."

"I
thank you, Mr. Marchdale."

"My
dear," said the mother, "rely on Mr. Marchdale."

"I
will rely on any one who believe Charles Holland innocent of writing those
odious letters, mother—I rely upon the admiral. He will aid me heart and
hand."

"And
so will Mr. Marchdale."

"I
am glad to hear it."

"And
yet doubt it, Flora," said Marchdale, dejectedly. "I am very sorry
that such should be the case; I will not, however, trouble you any further,
nor, give me leave to assure you, will I relax in my honest endeavours to clear
up this mystery."

So
saying, Mr. Marchdale bowed, and left the room, apparently more vexed than he
cared to express at the misconstruction which had been put upon his conduct and
motives. He at once sought Henry and the admiral, to whom he expressed his most
earnest desire to aid in attempting to unravel the mysterious circumstances
which had occurred.

"This
strongly-expressed opinion of Flora," he remarked, "is of course
amply sufficient to induce us to pause before we say one word more that shall
in any way sound like a condemnation of Mr. Holland. Heaven forbid that I
should."

"No,"
said the admiral; "don't."

"I
do not intend."

"I
would not advise anybody."

"Sir,
if you use that as a threat—"

"A
threat?"

"Yes;
I must say, it sounded marvellously like one."

"Oh,
dear, no—quite a mistake. I consider that every man has a fair right to the
enjoyment of his opinion. All I have to remark is, that I shall, after what has
occurred, feel myself called upon to fight anybody who says those letters were
written by my nephew."

"Indeed,
sir!"

"Ah,
indeed."

"You
will permit me to say such is a strange mode of allowing every one the free
enjoyment of his opinion."

"Not
at all."

"Whatever
pains and penalties may be the result, Admiral Bell, of differing with so
infallible authority as yourself, I shall do so whenever my judgment induces
me."

"You
will?"

"Indeed
I will."

"Very
good. You know the consequences."

"As
to fighting you, I should refuse to do so."

"Refuse?"

"Yes;
most certainly."

"Upon
what ground?"

"Upon
the ground that you were a madman."

"Come,"
now interposed Henry, "let me hope that, for my sake as well as for
Flora's, this dispute will proceed no further."

"I
have not courted it," said Marchdale. "I have much temper, but I am
not a stick or a stone."

"D——e,
if I don't think," said the admiral, "you are a bit of both."

"Mr.
Henry Bannerworth," said Marchdale, "I am your guest, and but for the
duty I feel in assisting in the search for Mr. Charles Holland, I should at
once leave your house."

"You
need not trouble yourself on my account," said the admiral; "if I
find no clue to him in the neighbourhood for two or three days, I shall be off
myself."

"I
am going," said Henry, rising, "to search the garden and adjoining
meadows; if you two gentlemen choose to come with me, I shall of course be happy
of your company; if, however, you prefer remaining here to wrangle, you can do
so."

This
had the effect, at all events, of putting a stop to the dispute for the
present, and both the admiral and Mr. Marchdale accompanied Henry on his
search. That search was commenced immediately under the balcony of Charles
Holland's window, from which the admiral had seen him emerge.

There
was nothing particular found there, or in the garden. Admiral Bell pointed out
accurately the route he had seen Charles take across the grass plot just before
he himself left his chamber to seek Henry.

Accordingly,
this route was now taken, and it led to a low part of the garden wall, which
any one of ordinary vigour could easily have surmounted.

"My
impression is," said the admiral, "that he got over here."

"The
ivy appears to be disturbed," remarked Henry.

"Suppose
we mark the spot, and then go round to it on the outer side?" suggested
George.

This
was agreed to; for, although the young man might have chosen rather to clamber
over the wall than go round, it was doubtful if the old admiral could
accomplish such a feat.

The
distance round, however, was not great, and as they had cast over the wall a
handful of flowers from the garden to mark the precise spot, it was easily
discoverable.

The
moment they reached it, they were panic-stricken by the appearances which it
presented. The grass was for some yards round about completely trodden up, and
converted into mud. There were deep indentations of feet-marks in all
directions, and such abundance of evidence that some most desperate struggle
had recently taken place there, that the most sceptical person in the world
could not have entertained any doubt upon the subject.

Henry
was the first to break the silence with which they each regarded the broken
ground.

"This
is conclusive to my mind," he said, with a deep sigh. "Here has poor
Charles been attacked."

"God
keep him!" exclaimed Marchdale, "and pardon me my doubts—I am now
convinced."

The
old admiral gazed about him like one distracted. Suddenly he cried—

"They
have murdered him. Some fiends in the shape of men have murdered him, and
Heaven only knows for what."

"It
seems but too probable," said Henry. "Let us endeavour to trace the
footsteps. Oh! Flora, Flora, what terrible news this will be to you."

"A
horrible supposition comes across my mind," said George. "What if he
met the vampyre?"

"It
may have been so," said Marchdale, with a shudder. "It is a point
which we should endeavour to ascertain, and I think we may do so."

"How!"

"By
some inquiry as to whether Sir Francis Varney was from home at midnight last
night."

"True;
that might be done."

"The
question, suddenly put to one of his servants, would, most probably, be
answered as a thing of course."

"It
would."

"Then
that shall be decided upon. And now, my friends, since you have some of you
thought me luke-warm in this business, I pledge myself that, should it be
ascertained that Varney was from home at midnight last evening, I will defy him
personally, and meet him hand to hand."

"Nay,
nay," said Henry, "leave that course to younger hands."

"Why
so?"

"It
more befits me to be his challenger."

"No,
Henry. You are differently situated to what I am."

"How
so?"

"Remember,
that I am in the world a lone man; without ties or connexions. If I lose my
life, I compromise no one by my death; but you have a mother and a bereaved
sister to look to who will deserve your care."

"Hilloa,"
cried the admiral, "what's this?"

"What?"
cried each, eagerly, and they pressed forward to where the admiral was stooping
to the ground to pick up something which was nearly completely trodden into the
grass.

He
with some difficulty raised it. It was a small slip of paper, on which was some
writing, but it was so much covered with mud as not to be legible.

"If
this be washed," said Henry, "I think we shall be able to read it
clearly."

"We
can soon try that experiment," said George. "And as the footsteps, by
some mysterious means, show themselves nowhere else but in this one particular
spot, any further pursuit of inquiry about here appears useless."

"Then
we will return to the house," said Henry, "and wash the mud from this
paper."

"There
is one important point," remarked Marchdale, "which it appears to me
we have all overlooked."

"Indeed!"

"Yes."

"What
may that be?"

"It
is this. Is any one here sufficiently acquainted with the handwriting of Mr.
Charles Holland to come to an opinion upon the letters?"

"I
have some letters from him," said Henry, "which we received while on
the continent, and I dare say Flora has likewise."

"Then
they should be compared with the alleged forgeries."

"I
know his handwriting well," said the admiral. "The letters bear so
strong a resemblance to it that they would deceive anybody."

"Then
you may depend," remarked Henry, "some most deep-laid and desperate
plot is going on."

"I
begin," added Marchdale, "to dread that such must be the case. What
say you to claiming the assistance of the authorities, as well as offering a
large reward for any information regarding Mr. Charles Holland?"

"No
plan shall be left untried, you may depend."

They
had now reached the house, and Henry having procured some clean water,
carefully washed the paper which had been found among the trodden grass. When
freed from the mixture of clay and mud which had obscured it, they made out the
following words,—

"—it
be so well. At the next full moon seek a convenient spot, and it can be done.
The signature is, to my apprehension, perfect. The money which I hold, in my
opinion, is much more in amount than you imagine, must be ours; and as
for—"

Here
the paper was torn across, and no further words were visible upon it.

Mystery
seemed now to be accumulating upon mystery; each one, as it showed itself
darkly, seeming to bear some remote relation to what preceded it; and yet only
confusing it the more.

That
this apparent scrap of a letter had dropped from some one's pocket during the
fearful struggle, of which there were such ample evidences, was extremely
probable; but what it related to, by whom it was written, or by whom dropped,
were unfathomable mysteries.

In
fact, no one could give an opinion upon these matters at all; and after a
further series of conjectures, it could only be decided, that unimportant as
the scrap of paper appeared now to be, it should be preserved, in case it
should, as there was a dim possibility that it might become a connecting link
in some chain of evidence at another time.

"And
here we are," said Henry, "completely at fault, and knowing not what
to do."

"Well,
it is a hard case," said the admiral, "that, with all the will in the
world to be up and doing something, we are lying here like a fleet of ships in
a calm, as idle as possible."

"You
perceive we have no evidence to connect Sir Francis Varney with this affair,
either nearly or remotely," said Marchdale.