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) (102 page)

THE STRANGE INTERVIEW.—THE CHASE THROUGH THE HALL.

It
was with the most melancholy aspect that anything human could well bear, that
Sir Francis Varney took his lonely walk, although perhaps in saying so much,
probably we are instituting a comparison which circumstances scarcely empower
us to do; for who shall say that that singular man, around whom a very
atmosphere of mystery seemed to be perpetually increasing, was human?

Averse
as we are to believe in the supernatural, or even to invest humanity with any
preternatural powers, the more than singular facts and circumstances surrounding
the existence and the acts of that man bring to the mind a kind of shuddering
conviction, that if he be indeed really mortal he still must possess some
powers beyond ordinary mortality, and be walking the earth for some unhallowed
purposes, such as ordinary men with the ordinary attributes of human nature can
scarcely guess at.

Silently
and alone he took his way through that beautiful tract of country,
comprehending such picturesque charms of hill and dale which lay between his
home and Bannerworth Hall. He was evidently intent upon reaching the latter
place by the shortest possible route, and in the darkness of that night, for
the moon had not yet risen, he showed no slight acquaintance with the
intricacies of that locality, that he was at all enabled to pursue so
undeviatingly a tract as that which he took.

He
muttered frequently to himself low, indistinct words as he went, and chiefly
did they seem to have reference to that strange interview he had so recently
had with one who, from some combination of circumstances scarcely to be guessed
at, evidently exercised a powerful control over him, and was enabled to make a
demand upon his pecuniary resources of rather startling magnitude.

And
yet, from a stray word or two, which were pronounced more distinctly, he did
not seem to be thinking in anger over that interview; but it would appear that
it rather had recalled to his remembrance circumstances of a painful and a
degrading nature, which time had not been able entirely to obliterate from his
recollection.

"Yes,
yes," he said, as he paused upon the margin of the wood, to the confines
of which he, or what seemed to be he, had once been chased by Marchdale and the
Bannerworths—"yes, the very sight of that man recalls all the frightful
pageantry of a horrible tragedy, which I can never—never forget. Never can it
escape my memory, as a horrible, a terrific fact; but it is the sight of this
man alone that can recall all its fearful minutiae to my mind, and paint to my
imagination, in the most vivid colours, every, the least particular connected
with that time of agony. These periodical visits much affect me. For months I
dread them, and for months I am but slowly recovering from the shocks they give
me. 'But once more,' he says—'but once more,' and then we shall not meet again.
Well, well; perchance before that time arrives, I may be able to possess myself
of those resources which will enable me to forestall his visit, and so at least
free myself from the pang of expecting him."

He
paused at the margin of the wood, and glanced in the direction of Bannerworth
Hall. By the dim light which yet showed from out the light sky, he could
discern the ancient gable ends, and turret-like windows; he could see the well
laid out gardens, and the grove of stately firs that shaded it from the
northern blasts, and, as he gazed, a strong emotion seemed to come over him,
such as no one could have supposed would for one moment have possessed the
frame of one so apparently unconnected with all human sympathies.

"I
know this spot well," he said, "and my appearance here on that
eventful occasion, when the dread of my approach induced a crime only second to
murder itself, was on such a night as this, when all was so still and calm
around, and when he who, at the merest shadow of my presence, rather chose to
rush on death than be assured it was myself. Curses on the circumstances that
so foiled me! I should have been most wealthy. I should have possessed the
means of commanding the adulation of those who now hold me but cheaply; but
still the time may come. I have a hope yet, and that greatness which I have
ever panted for, that magician-like power over my kind, which the possession of
ample means alone can give, may yet be mine."

Wrapping
his cloak more closely around him, he strode forward with that long, noiseless
step which was peculiar to him. Mechanically he appeared to avoid those
obstacles of hedge and ditch which impeded his pathway. Surely he had come that
road often, or he would not so easily have pursued his way. And now he stood by
the edge of a plantation which in some measure protected from trespassers the
more private gardens of the Hall, and there he paused, as if a feeling of
irresolution had come over him, or it might be, as indeed it seemed from his
subsequent conduct, that he had come without any fixed intention, or if with a
fixed intention, without any regular plan of carrying it into effect.

Did
he again dream of intruding into any of the chambers of that mansion, with the
ghastly aspect of that terrible creation with which, in the minds of its
inhabitants, he seemed to be but too closely identified? He was pale,
attenuated, and trembled. Could it be that so soon it had become necessary to
renew the life-blood in his veins in the awful manner which it is supposed the
vampyre brood are compelled to protract their miserable existence?

It
might be so, and that he was even now reflecting upon how once more he could
kindle the fire of madness in the brain of that beautiful girl, who he had
already made so irretrievably wretched.

He
leant against an aged tree, and his strange, lustrous-looking eyes seemed to
collect every wandering scintillation of light that was around, and to shine
with preternatural intensity.

"I
must, I will," he said, "be master of Bannerworth Hall. It must come
to that. I have set an existence upon its possession, and I will have it; and
then, if with my own hands I displace it brick by brick and stone by stone, I
will discover that hidden secret which no one but myself now dreams of. It
shall be done by force or fraud, by love or by despair, I care not which; the
end shall sanctify all means. Ay, even if I wade through blood to my desire, I
say it shall be done."

There
was a holy and a still calmness about the night much at variance with the storm
of angry passion that appeared to be momentarily gathering power in the breast
of that fearful man. Not the least sound came from Bannerworth Hall, and it was
only occasionally that from afar off on the night air there came the bark of
some watchdog, or the low of distant cattle. All else was mute save when the
deep sepulchral tones of that man, if man he was, gave an impulse to the soft
air around him.

With
a strolling movement as if he were careless if he proceeded in that direction
or not, he still went onward toward the house, and now he stood by that little
summer-house once so sweet and so dear a retreat, in which the heart-stricken
Flora had held her interview with him whom she loved with a devotion unknown to
meaner minds.

This
spot scarcely commanded any view of the house, for so enclosed was it among
evergreens and blooming flowers, that it seemed like a very wilderness of
nature, upon which, with liberal hand, she had showered down in wild luxuriance
her wildest floral beauties.

In
and around that spot the night air was loaded with sweets. The mingled perfume
of many flowers made that place seem a very paradise. But oh, how sadly at
variance with that beauty and contentedness of nature was he who stood amidst
such beauty! All incapable as he was of appreciating its tenderness, or of
gathering the faintest moral from its glory.

"Why
am I here?" he said. "Here, without fixed design or stability of
purpose, like some miser who has hidden his own hoards so deeply within the
bowels of the earth he cannot hope that he shall ever again be able to bring
them to the light of day. I hover around this spot which I feel—which I
know—contains my treasure, though I cannot lay my hands upon it, or exult in
its glistening beauty."

Even
as he spoke he cowered down like some guilty thing, for he heard a faint
footstep upon the garden path. So light, so fragile was the step, that, in the
light of day, the very hum of summer insects would have drowned the noise; but
he heard it, that man of crime—of unholy and awful impulses. He heard it, and
he shrunk down among the shrubs and flowers till he was hidden completely from
observation amid a world of fragrant essences.

Was
it some one stealthily in that place even as he was, unwelcome or unknown? or
was it one who had observed him intrude upon the privacy of those now unhappy
precincts, and who was coming to deal upon him that death which, vampyre though
he might be, he was yet susceptible of from mortal hands?

The
footstep advanced, and lower down he shrunk until his coward-heart beat against
the very earth itself. He knew that he was unarmed, a circumstance rare with
him, and only to be accounted for by the disturbance of his mind consequent
upon the visit of that strange man to his house, whose presence had awakened so
many conflicting emotions.

Nearer
and nearer still came that light footstep, and his deep-seated fears would not
let him perceive that it was not the step of caution or of treachery, but owed
its lightness to the natural grace and freedom of movement of its owner.

The
moon must have arisen, although obscured by clouds, through which it cast but a
dim radiance, for the night had certainly grown lighter; so that although there
were no strong shadows cast, a more diffused brightness was about all things,
and their outlines looked not so dancing, and confused the one with the other.

He
strained his eyes in the direction whence the sounds proceeded, and then his
fears for his personal safety vanished, for he saw it was a female form that
was slowly advancing towards him.

His
first impulse was to rise, for with the transient glimpse he got of it, he knew
that it must be Flora Bannerworth; but a second thought, probably one of
intense curiosity to know what could possibly have brought her to such a spot
at such a time, restrained him, and he was quiet. But if the surprise of Sir
Francis Varney was great to see Flora Bannerworth at such a time in such a
place, we have no doubt, that with the knowledge which our readers have of her,
their astonishment would more than fully equal his; and when we come to
consider, that since that eventful period when the sanctity of her chamber had
been so violated by that fearful midnight visitant, it must appear somewhat
strange that she could gather courage sufficient to wander forth alone at such
an hour.

Had
she no dread of meeting that unearthly being? Did the possibility that she
might fall into his ruthless grasp, not come across her mind with a shuddering
consciousness of its probability? Had she no reflection that each step she
took, was taking her further and further from those who would aid her in all
extremities? It would seem not, for she walked onward, unheeding, and
apparently unthinking of the presence, possible or probable, of that bane of
her existence.

But
let us look at her again. How strange and spectral-like she moves along; there
seems no speculation in her countenance, but with a strange and gliding step,
she walks like some dim shadow of the past in that ancient garden. She is very
pale, and on her brow there is the stamp of suffering; her dress is a morning
robe, she holds it lightly round her, and thus she moves forward towards that
summer-house which probably to her was sanctified by having witnessed those
vows of pure affection, which came from the lips of Charles Holland, about
whose fate there now hung so great a mystery.

Has
madness really seized upon the brain of that beautiful girl? Has the strong
intellect really sunk beneath the oppressions to which it has been subjected?
Does she now walk forth with a disordered intellect, the queen of some
fantastic realm, viewing the material world with eyes that are not of earth;
shunning perhaps that which she should have sought, and, perchance, in her
frenzy, seeking that which in a happier frame of mind she would have shunned.

Such
might have been the impression of any one who had looked upon her for a moment,
and who knew the disastrous scenes through which she had so recently passed;
but we can spare our readers the pangs of such a supposition. We have bespoken
their love for Flora Bannerworth, and we are certain that she has it; therefore
would we spare them, even for a few brief moments, from imagining that cruel
destiny had done its worst, and that the fine and beautiful spirit we have so
much commended had lost its power of rational reflection. No; thank Heaven,
such is not the case. Flora Bannerworth is not mad, but under the strong
influence of some eccentric dream, which has pictured to her mind images which
have no home but in the airy realms of imagination. She has wandered forth from
her chamber to that sacred spot where she had met him she loved, and heard the
noblest declaration of truth and constancy that ever flowed from human lips.

Yes,
she is sleeping; but, with a precision such as the somnambulist so strangely
exerts, she trod the well-known paths slowly, but surely, toward that summer's
bower, where her dreams had not told her lay crouching that most hideous
spectre of her imagination, Sir Francis Varney. He who stood between her and
her heart's best joy; he who had destroyed all hope of happiness, and who had
converted her dearest affections into only so many causes of greater
disquietude than the blessings they should have been to her.