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) (100 page)

THE VISIT OF FLORA TO THE VAMPYRE.—THE OFFER.—THE SOLEMN
ASSEVERATION.

Admiral
Bell had, of course, nothing particular to communicate to Flora in the walk he
induced her to take with him in the gardens of Bannerworth Hall, but he could
talk to her upon a subject which was sure to be a welcome one, namely, of
Charles Holland.

And
not only could he talk to her of Charles, but he was willing to talk of him in
the style of enthusiastic commendation which assimilated best with her own
feelings. No one but the honest old admiral, who was as violent in his likes
and his dislikes as any one could possibly be, could just then have conversed
with Flora Bannerworth to her satisfaction of Charles Holland.

He
expressed no doubts whatever concerning Charles's faith, and to his mind, now
that he had got that opinion firmly fixed in his mind, everybody that held a
contrary one he at once denounced as a fool or a rogue.

"Never
you mind, Miss Flora," he said; "you will find, I dare say, that all
will come right eventually. D—n me! the only thing that provokes me in the whole
business is, that I should have been such an old fool as for a moment to doubt
Charles."

"You
should have known him better, sir."

"I
should, my dear, but I was taken by surprise, you see, and that was wrong, too,
for a man who has held a responsible command."

"But
the circumstances, dear sir, were of a nature to take every one by
surprise."

"They
were, they were. But now, candidly speaking, and I know I can speak candidly to
you; do you really think this Varney is the vampyre?"

"I
do."

"You
do? Well, then, somebody must tackle him, that's quite clear; we can't put up
with his fancies always."

"What
can be done?"

"Ah,
that I don't know, but something must be done, you know. He wants this place;
Heaven only knows why or wherefore he has taken such a fancy to it; but he has
done so, that is quite clear. If it had a good sea view, I should not be so
much surprised; but there's nothing of the sort, so it's no way at all better
than any other shore-going stupid sort of house, that you can see nothing but
land from."

"Oh,
if my brother would but make some compromise with him to restore Charles to us
and take the house, we might yet be happy."

"D—n
it! then you still think that he has a hand in spiriting away Charles?"

"Who
else could do so?"

"I'll
be hanged if I know. I do feel tolerably sure, and I have good deal of reliance
upon your opinion, my dear; I say, I do feel tolerably sure: but, if I was d——d
sure, now, I'd soon have it out of him."

"For
my sake, Admiral Bell, I wish now to extract one promise from you."

"Say
your say, my dear, and I'll promise you."

"You
will not then expose yourself to the danger of any personal conflict with that
most dreadful man, whose powers of mischief we do not know, and therefore
cannot well meet or appreciate."

"Whew!
is that what you mean?"

"Yes;
you will, I am sure, promise me so much."

"Why,
my dear, you see the case is this. In affairs of fighting, the less ladies
interfere the better."

"Nay,
why so?"

"Because—because,
you see, a lady has no reputation for courage to keep up. Indeed, it's rather
the other way, for we dislike a bold woman as much as we hold in contempt a
cowardly man."

"But
if you grant to us females that in consequence of our affections, we are not
courageous, you must likewise grant how much we are doomed to suffer from the
dangers of those whom we esteem."

"You
would be the last person in the world to esteem a coward."

"Certainly.
But there is more true courage often in not fighting than in entering into a
contest."

"You
are right enough there, my dear."

"Under
ordinary circumstances, I should not oppose your carrying out the dictates of
your honour, but now, let me entreat you not to meet this dreadful man, if man
he can be called, when you know not how unfair the contest may be."

"Unfair?"

"Yes.
May he not have some means of preventing you from injuring him, and of
overcoming you, which no mortal possesses?"

"He
may."

"Then
the supposition of such a case ought to be sufficient ground for at once
inducing you to abandon all idea of meeting with him."

"My
dear, I'll consider of this matter."

"Do
so."

"There
is another thing, however, which now you will permit me to ask of you as a
favour."

"It
is granted ere it is spoken."

"Very
good. Now you must not be offended with what I am going to say, because,
however it may touch that very proper pride which you, and such as you, are
always sure to possess, you are fortunately at all times able to call
sufficient judgment to your aid to enable you to see what is really offensive
and what is not."

"You
alarm me by such a preface."

"Do
I? then here goes at once. Your brother Henry, poor fellow, has enough to do,
has he not, to make all ends meet."

A
flush of excitement came over Flora's cheek as the old admiral thus bluntly
broached a subject of which she already knew the bitterness to such a spirit as
her brother's.

"You
are silent," continued the old man; "by that I guess I am not wrong
in my I supposition; indeed it is hardly a supposition at all, for Master
Charles told me as much, and no doubt he had it from a correct quarter."

"I
cannot deny it, sir."

"Then
don't. It ain't worth denying, my dear. Poverty is no crime, but, like being
born a Frenchman, it's a d——d misfortune."

Flora
could scarcely refuse a smile, as the nationality of the old admiral peeped out
even in the midst of his most liberal and best feelings.

"Well,"
he continued, "I don't intend that he shall have so much trouble as he has
had. The enemies of his king and his country shall free him from his
embarrassments."

"The
enemies?"

"Yes;
who else?"

"You
speak in riddles, sir."

"Do
I? Then I'll soon make the riddles plain. When I went to sea I was worth
nothing—as poor as a ship's cat after the crew had been paid off for a month.
Well, I began fighting away as hard and fast as I could, and the more I fought,
and the more hard knocks I gave and took, the more money I got."

"Indeed."

"Yes;
prize after prize we hauled into port, and at last the French vessels wouldn't
come out of their harbours."

"What
did you do then?"

"What
did we do then? Why what was the most natural thing in the whole world for us
to do, we did."

"I
cannot guess."

"Well,
I am surprised at that. Try again."

"Oh,
yes; I can guess now. How could I have been so dull? You went and took them
out."

"To
be sure we did—to be sure we did, my dear; that's how we managed them. And, do
you see, at the end of the war I found myself with lots of prize money, all
wrung from old England's enemies, and I intend that some of it shall find it's
way to your brother's pocket; and you see that will bear out just what I said,
that the enemies of his king and his country shall free him from his
difficulties—don't you see?"

"I
see your noble generosity, admiral."

"Noble
fiddlestick! Now I have mentioned this matter to you, my dear, and I don't so
much mind talking to you about such matters as I should to your brother, I want
you to do me the favour of managing it all for me."

"How,
sir?"

"Why,
just this way. You must find out how much money will free your brother just now
from a parcel of botherations that beset him, and then I will give it to you,
and you can hand it to him, you see, so I need not say anything about it; and
if he speaks to me on the subject at all, I can put him down at once by saying,
'avast there, it's no business of mine.'"

"And
can you, dear admiral, imagine that I could conceal the generous source from
where so much assistance came?"

"Of
course; it will come from you. I take a fancy to make you a present of a sum of
money; you do with it what you please—it's yours, and I have no right and no
inclination to ask you what use you put it to."

Tears
gushed from the eyes of Flora as she tried to utter some word, but could not.
The admiral swore rather fearfully, and pretended to wonder much what on earth
she could be crying for. At length, after the first gush of feeling was over,
she said,—

"I
cannot accept of so much generosity, sir—I dare not"

"Dare
not!"

"No;
I should think meanly of myself were I to take advantage of the boundless
munificence of your nature."

"Take
advantage! I should like to see anybody take advantage of me, that's all."

"I
ought not to take the money of you. I will speak to my brother, and well I know
how much he will appreciate the noble, generous offer, my dear sir."

"Well,
settle it your own way, only remember I have a right to do what I like with my
own money."

"Undoubtedly."

"Very
good. Then as that is undoubted, whatever I lend to him, mind I give to you, so
it's as broad as it's long, as the Dutchman said, when he looked at the new
ship that was built for him, and you may as well take it yourself you see, and
make no more fuss about it."

"I
will consider," said Flora, with much emotion—"between this time and
the same hour to-morrow I will consider, sir, and if you can find any words
more expressive of heartfelt gratitude than others, pray imagine that I have
used them with reference to my own feelings towards you for such an unexampled
offer of friendship."

"Oh,
bother—stuff."

The
admiral now at once changed the subject, and began to talk of Charles—a most
grateful theme to Flora, as may well be supposed. He related to her many little
particulars connected with him which all tended to place his character in a
most amiable light, and as her ears drank in the words of commendation of him
she loved, what sweeter music could there be to her than the voice of that old
weather-beaten rough-spoken man.

"The
idea," he added, to a warm eulogium he had uttered concerning
Charles—"the idea that he could write those letters my dear, is quite
absurd."

"It
is, indeed. Oh, that we could know what had become of him!"

"We
shall know. I don't think but what he's alive. Something seems to assure me
that we shall some of these days look upon his face again."

"I
am rejoiced to hear you say so."

"We
will stir heaven and earth to find him. If he were killed, do you see, there
would have been some traces of him now at hand; besides, he would have been
left lying where the rascals attacked him."

Flora
shuddered.

"But
don't you fret yourself. You may depend that the sweet little cherub that sits
up aloft has looked after him."

"I
will hope so."

"And
now, my dear, Master Henry will soon be home, I am thinking, and as he has
quite enough disagreeables on his own mind to be able to spare a few of them,
you will take the earliest opportunity, I am sure, of acquainting him with the
little matter we have been talking about, and let me know what he says."

"I
will—I will."

"That's
right. Now, go in doors, for there's a cold air blowing here, and you are a
delicate plant rather just now—go in and make yourself comfortable and easy.
The worst storm must blow over at last."

SIR FRANCIS VARNEY AND HIS MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.—THE STRANGE
CONFERENCE.

Sir
Francis Varney is in what he calls his own apartment. It is night, and a dim
and uncertain light from a candle which has been long neglected, only serves to
render obscurity more perplexing. The room is a costly one. One replete with
all the appliances of refinement and luxury which the spirit and the genius of
the age could possibly supply him with, but there is upon his brow the marks of
corroding care, and little does that most mysterious being seem to care for all
the rich furnishing of that apartment in which he sits.

His
cadaverous-looking face is even paler and more death-like-looking than usual;
and, if it can be conceived possible that such an one can feel largely
interested in human affairs, to look at him, we could well suppose that some
interest of no common magnitude was at stake.

Occasionally,
too, he muttered some unconnected words, no doubt mentally filling up the gaps,
which rendered the sentences incomplete, and being unconscious, perhaps, that
he was giving audible utterance to any of his dark and secret meditations.

At
length he rose, and with an anxious expression of countenance, he went to the window,
and looked out into the darkness of the night. All was still, and not an object
was visible. It was that pitchy darkness without, which, for some hours, when
the moon is late in lending her reflected beams, comes over the earth's
surface.

"It
is near the hour," he muttered. "It is now very near the hour; surely
he will come, and yet I know not why I should fear him, although I seem to
tremble at the thought of his approach. He will surely come. Once a year—only
once does he visit me, and then 'tis but to take the price which he has
compelled me to pay for that existence, which but for him had been long since
terminated. Sometimes I devoutly wish it were."

With
a shudder he returned to the seat he had so recently left, and there for some
time he appeared to meditate in silence.

Suddenly
now, a clock, which was in the hall of that mansion he had purchased, sounded
the hour loudly.

"The
time has come," said Sir Francis. "The time has come. He will surely
soon be here. Hark! hark!"

Slowly
and distinctly he counted the strokes of the clock, and, when they had ceased,
he exclaimed, with sudden surprise—

"Eleven!
But eleven! How have I been deceived. I thought the hour of midnight was at
hand."

He
hastily consulted the watch he wore, and then he indeed found, that whatever he
had been looking forward to with dread for some time past, as certain to ensue,
at or about twelve o clock, had yet another hour in which to prey upon his
imagination.

"How
could I have made so grievous an error?" he exclaimed. "Another hour
of suspense and wonder as to whether that man be among the living or the dead.
I have thought of raising my hand against his life, but some strange mysterious
feeling has always staid me; and I have let him come and go freely, while an
opportunity might well have served me to put such a design into execution. He
is old, too—very old, and yet he keeps death at a distance. He looked pale, but
far from unwell or failing, when last I saw him. Alas! a whole hour yet to
wait. I would that this interview were over."

That
extremely well known and popular disease called the fidgets, now began, indeed,
to torment Sir Francis Varney. He could not sit—he could not walk, and, somehow
or another, he never once seemed to imagine that from the wine cup he should
experience any relief, although, upon a side table, there stood refreshments of
that character. And thus some more time passed away, and he strove to cheat it
of its weariness by thinking of a variety of subjects; but as the fates would
have it, there seemed not one agreeable reminiscence in the mind of that most
inexplicable man, and the more he plunged into the recesses of memory the more
uneasy, not to say almost terrified, he looked and became. A shuddering
nervousness came across him, and, for a few moments, he sat as if he were upon
the point of fainting. By a vigorous effort, however, he shook this off, and
then placing before him the watch, which now indicated about the quarter past
eleven, he strove with a calmer aspect to wait the coming of him whose presence,
when he did come, would really be a great terror, since the very thought
beforehand produced so much hesitation and apparent dismay.

In
order too, if possible, then to further withdraw himself from a too painful
consideration of those terrors, which in due time the reader will be acquainted
with the cause of, he took up a book, and plunging at random into its contents,
he amused his mind for a time with the following brief narrative:—

The
wind howled round the gable ends of Bridport House in sudden and furious gusts,
while the inmates sat by the fire-side, gazing in silence upon the blazing
embers of the huge fire that shed a red and bright light all over the immense
apartment in which they all sat.

It
was an ancient looking place, very large, end capable of containing a number of
guests. Several were present.

An
aged couple were seated in tall high straight-backed chairs. They were the
owners of that lordly mansion, and near them sat two young maidens of
surpassing beauty; they were dissimilar, and yet there was a slight likeness,
but of totally different complexions.

The
one had tresses of raven black; eyebrows, eyelashes, and eyes were all of the
same hue; she was a beautiful and proud-looking girl, her complexion clear,
with the hue of health upon her cheeks, while a smile played around her lips.
The glance of the eye was sufficient to thrill through the whole soul.

The
other maiden was altogether different; her complexion altogether fairer—her
hair of sunny chestnut, and her beautiful hazel eyes were shaded by long brown
eyelashes, while a playful smile also lit up her countenance. She was the
younger of the two.

The
attention of the two young maidens had been directed to the words of the aged
owner of the house, for he had been speaking a few moments before.

There
were several other persons present, and at some little distance were many of
the domestics who were not denied the privilege of warmth and rest in the
presence of their master.

These
were not the times, when, if servants sat down, they were deemed idle; but the
daily task done, then the evening hour was spent by the fire-side.

"The
wind howls and moans," said an aged domestic, "in an awful manner. I
never heard the like."

"It
seems as though some imprisoned spirit was waiting for the repose that had been
denied on earth," said the old lady as she shifted her seat and gazed
steadily on the fire.

"Ay,"
said her aged companion, "it is a windy night, and there will be a storm
before long, or I'm mistaken."

"It
was just such a night as that my son Henry left his home," said Mrs.
Bradley, "just such another—only it had the addition of sleet and
rain."

The
old man sighed at the mention of his son's name, a tear stood in the eyes of
the maidens, while one looked silently at the other, and seemed to exchange
glances.

"I
would that I might again see him before my body seeks its final home in the
cold remorseless grave."

"Mother,"
said the fairest of the two maidens, "do not talk thus, let us hope that
we yet may have many years of happiness together."

"Many,
Emma?"

"Yes,
mamma, many."

"Do
you know that I am very old, Emma, very old indeed, considering what I have
suffered, such a life of sorrow and ill health is at least equal to thirty
years added to my life."

"You
may have deceived yourself, aunt," said the other maiden; "at all
events, you cannot count upon life as certain, for the strongest often go
first, while those who seem much more likely to fall, by care, as often live in
peace and happiness."

"But
I lead no life of peace and happiness, while Henry Bradley is not here;
besides, my life might be passed without me seeing him again."

"It
is now two years since he was here last," said the old man,

"This
night two years was the night on which he left."

"This
night two years?"

"Yes."

"It
was this night two years," said one of the servant men, "because old
Dame Poutlet had twins on that night."

"A
memorable circumstance."

"And
one died at a twelvemonth old," said the man; "and she had a dream
which foretold the event."

"Ay,
ay."

"Yes,
and moreover she's had the same dream again last Wednesday was a week,"
said the man.

"And
lost the other twin?"

"Yes
sir, this morning."

"Omens
multiply," said the aged man; "I would that it would seem to indicate
the return of Henry to his home."

"I
wonder where he can have gone to, or what he could have done all this time;
probably he may not be in the land of the living."

"Poor
Henry," said Emma.

"Alas,
poor boy! We may never see him again—it was a mistaken act of his, and yet he
knew not otherwise how to act or escape his father's displeasure."

"Say
no more—say no more upon that subject; I dare not listen to it. God knows I
know quite enough," said Mr. Bradley; "I knew not he would have taken
my words so to heart as he did."

"Why,"
said the old woman, "he thought you meant what you said."

There
was a long pause, during which all gazed at the blazing fire, seemingly wrapt
in their own meditation.

Henry
Bradley, the son of the apparently aged couple, had left that day two years,
and wherefore had he left the home of his childhood? wherefore had he, the heir
to large estates, done this?

He
had dared to love without his father's leave, and had refused the offer his
father made him of marrying a young lady whom he had chosen for him, but whom
he could not love.

It
was as much a matter of surprise to the father that the son should refuse, as
it was to the son that his father should contemplate such a match.

"Henry,"
said the father, "you have been thought of by me, I have made proposals
for marrying you to the daughter of our neighbour, Sir Arthur Onslow."

"Indeed,
father!"

"Yes;
I wish you to go there with me to see the young lady."

"In
the character of a suitor?"

"Yes,"
replied the father, "certainly; it's high time you were settled."

"Indeed,
I would rather not go, father; I have no intention of marrying just yet. I do
not desire to do so."

This
was an opposition that Mr. Bradley had not expected from his son, and which his
imperious temper could ill brook, and with a darkened brow he said,—

"It
is not much, Henry, that I trespass upon your obedience; but when I do so, I
expect that you will obey me."

"But,
father, this matter affects me for my whole life."

"That
is why I have deliberated so long and carefully over it."

"But
it is not unreasonable that I should have a voice in the affair, father, since
it may render me miserable."

"You
shall have a voice."

"Then
I say no to the whole regulation," said Henry, decisively.

"If
you do so you forfeit my protection, much more favour; but you had better
consider over what you have said. Forget it, and come with me."

"I
cannot."

"You
will not?"

"No,
father; I cannot do as you wish me; my mind is fully made up upon that
matter."

"And
so is mine. You either do as I would have you, or you leave the house, and seek
your own living, and you are a beggar."

"I
should prefer being such," said Henry, "than to marry any young lady,
and be unable to love her."

"That
is not required."

"No!
I am astonished! Not necessary to love the woman you marry!"

"Not
at all; if you act justly towards her she ought to be grateful; and it is all
that is requisite in the marriage state. Gratitude will beget love, and love in
one begets love in the other."

"I
will not argue with you, father, upon the matter. You are a better judge than
I; you have had more experience."

"I
have."

"And
it would be useless to speak upon the subject; but of this I can speak—my own
resolve—that I will not marry the lady in question."

The
son had all the stern resolve of the father, but he had also very good reasons
for what he did. He loved, and was beloved in return; and hence he would not
break his faith with her whom he loved.

To
have explained this to his father would have been to gain nothing except an
accession of anger, and he would have made a new demand upon his (the son's)
obedience, by ordering him to discard from his bosom the image that was there
indelibly engraven.