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) (103 page)

Oh!
could she have imagined but for one moment that he was there, with what an eagerness
of terror would she have flown back again to the shelter of those walls, where
at least was to be found some protection from the fearful vampyre's embrace,
and where she would be within hail of friendly hearts, who would stand boldly
between her and every thought of harm.

But
she knew it not, and onwards she went until the very hem of her garment touched
the face of Sir Francis Varney.

And
he was terrified—he dared not move—he dared not speak! The idea that she had
died, and that this was her spirit, come to wreak some terrible vengeance upon
him, for a time possessed him, and so paralysed with fear was he, that he could
neither move nor speak.

It
had been well if, during that trance of indecision in which his coward heart
placed him, Flora had left the place, and again sought her home; but unhappily
such an impulse came not over her; she sat upon that rustic seat, where she had
reposed when Charles had clasped her to his heart, and through her very dream
the remembrance of that pure affection came across her, and in the tenderest
and most melodious accents, she said,—

"Charles!
Charles! and do you love me still? No—no; you have not forsaken me. Save me,
save me from the vampyre!"

She
shuddered, and Sir Francis Varney heard her weeping.

"Fool
that I am," he muttered, "to be so terrified. She sleeps. This is one
of the phases which a disordered imagination oft puts on. She sleeps, and
perchance this may be an opportunity of further increasing the dread of my
visitation, which shall make Bannerworth Hall far too terrible a dwelling-place
for her; and well I know, if she goes, they will all go. It will become a
deserted house, and that is what I want. A house, too, with such an evil
reputation, that none but myself, who have created that reputation, will venture
within its walls:—a house, which superstition will point out as the abode of
evil spirits;—a house, as it were, by general opinion, ceded to the vampyre.
Yes, it shall be my own; fit dwelling-place for a while for me. I have sworn it
shall be mine, and I will keep my oath, little such as I have to do with
vows."

He
rose, and moved slowly to the narrow entrance of the summer-house; a movement
he could make, without at all disturbing Flora, for the rustic seat, on which
she sat, was at its further extremity. And there he stood, the upper part of
his gaunt and hideous form clearly defined upon the now much lighter sky, so
that if Flora Bannerworth had not been in that trance of sleep in which she
really was, one glance upward would let her see the hideous companion she had,
in that once much-loved spot—a spot hitherto sacred to the best and noblest
feelings, but now doomed for ever to be associated with that terrific spectre
of despair.

But
she was in no state to see so terrible a sight. Her hands were over her face,
and she was weeping still.

"Surely,
he loves me," she whispered; "he has said he loved me, and he does
not speak in vain. He loves me still, and I shall again look upon his face, a
Heaven to me! Charles! Charles! you will come again? Surely, they sin against
the divinity of love, who would tell me that you love me not!"

"Ha!"
muttered Varney, "this passion is her first, and takes a strong hold on
her young heart—she loves him—but what are human affections to me? I have no
right to count myself in the great muster-roll of humanity. I look not like an
inhabitant of the earth, and yet am on it. I love no one, expect no love from
any one, but I will make humanity a slave to me; and the lip-service of them
who hate me in their hearts, shall be as pleasant jingling music to my ear, as
if it were quite sincere! I will speak to this girl; she is not mad—perchance
she may be."

There
was a diabolical look of concentrated hatred upon Varney's face, as he now
advanced two paces towards the beautiful Flora.

THE THREAT.—ITS CONSEQUENCES.—THE RESCUE, AND SIR FRANCIS
VARNEY'S DANGER.

Sir
Francis Varney now paused again, and he seemed for a few moments to gloat over
the helpless condition of her whom he had so determined to make his victim;
there was no look of pity in his face, no one touch of human kindness could be
found in the whole expression of those diabolical features; and if he delayed
making the attempt to strike terror into the heart of that unhappy, but
beautiful being, it could not be from any relenting feeling, but simply, that
he wished for a few moments to indulge his imagination with the idea of
perfecting his villany more effectually.

Alas!
and they who would have flown to her rescue,—they, who for her would have
chanced all accidents, ay, even life itself, were sleeping, and knew not of the
loved one's danger. She was alone, and far enough from the house, to be driven
to that tottering verge where sanity ends, and the dream of madness, with all
its terrors, commences.

But
still she slept—if that half-waking sleep could indeed be considered as any
thing akin to ordinary slumber—still she slept, and called mournfully upon her
lover's name; and in tender, beseeching accents, that should have melted even
the stubbornest hearts, did she express her soul's conviction that he loved her
still.

The
very repetition of the name of Charles Holland seemed to be galling to Sir
Francis Varney. He made a gesture of impatience, as she again uttered it, and
then, stepping forward, he stood within a pace of where she sat, and in a
fearfully distinct voice he said,—

"Flora
Bannerworth, awake! awake! and look upon me, although the sight blast and drive
you to despair. Awake! awake!"

It
was not the sound of the voice which aroused her from that strange slumber. It
is said that those who sleep in that eccentric manner, are insensible to
sounds, but that the lightest touch will arouse them in an instant; and so it
was in this case, for Sir Francis Varney, as he spoke, laid upon the hand of
Flora two of his cold, corpse-like looking fingers. A shriek burst from her
lips, and although the confusion of her memory and conceptions was immense, yet
she was awake, and the somnambulistic trance had left her.

"Help,
help!" she cried. "Gracious Heavens! Where am I?"

Varney
spoke not, but he spread out his long, thin arms in such a manner that he
seemed almost to encircle her, while he touched her not, so that escape became
a matter of impossibility, and to attempt to do so, must have been to have
thrown herself into his hideous embrace.

She
could obtain but a single view of the face and figure of him who opposed her
progress, but, slight as that view was, it more than sufficed. The very
extremity of fear came across her, and she sat like one paralysed; the only
evidence of existence she gave consisting in the words,—

"The
vampyre—the vampyre!"

"Yes,"
said Varney, "the vampyre. You know me, Flora Bannerworth—Varney, the
vampyre; your midnight guest at that feast of blood. I am the vampyre. Look
upon me well; shrink not from my gaze. You will do well not to shun me, but to
speak to me in such a shape that I may learn to love you."

Flora
shook as in a convulsion, and she looked as white as any marble statue.

"This
is horrible!" she said. "Why does not Heaven grant me the death I
pray for?"

"Hold!"
said Varney. "Dress not up in the false colours of the imagination that
which in itself is sufficiently terrific to need none of the allurements of
romance. Flora Bannerworth, you are persecuted—persecuted by me, the vampyre.
It is my fate to persecute you; for there are laws to the invisible as well as
the visible creation that force even such a being as I am to play my part in
the great drama of existence. I am a vampyre; the sustenance that supports this
frame must be drawn from the life-blood of others."

"Oh,
horror—horror!"

"But
most I do affect the young and beautiful. It is from the veins of such as thou
art, Flora Bannerworth, that I would seek the sustenance I'm compelled to
obtain for my own exhausted energies. But never yet, in all my long career—a
career extending over centuries of time—never yet have I felt the soft
sensation of human pity till I looked on thee, exquisite piece of excellence.
Even at the moment when the reviving fluid from the gushing fountain of your
veins was warming at my heart, I pitied and I loved you. Oh, Flora! even I can
now feel the pang of being what I am!"

There
was a something in the tone, a touch of sadness in the manner, and a deep
sincerity in these words, that in some measure disabused Flora of her fears.
She sobbed hysterically, and a gush of tears came to her relief, as, in almost
inarticulate accents, she said,—

"May
the great God forgive even you!"

"I
have need of such a prayer," exclaimed Varney—"Heaven knows I have
need of such a prayer. May it ascend on the wings of the night air to the
throne of Heaven. May it be softly whispered by ministering angels to the ear
of Divinity. God knows I have need of such a prayer!"

"To
hear you speak in such a strain," said Flora, "calms the excited
fancy, and strips even your horrible presence of some of its maddening
influence."

"Hush,"
said the vampire, "you must hear more—you must know more ere you speak of
the matters that have of late exercised an influence of terror over you."

"But
how came I here?" said Flora, "tell me that. By what more than
earthly power have you brought me to this spot? If I am to listen to you, why
should it not be at some more likely time and place?"

"I
have powers," said Varney, assuming from Flora's words, that she would
believe such arrogance—"I have powers which suffice to bend many purposes
to my will—powers incidental to my position, and therefore is it I have brought
you here to listen to that which should make you happier than you are."

"I
will attend," said Flora. "I do not shudder now; there's an icy
coldness through my veins, but it is the night air—speak, I will attend
you."

"I
will. Flora Bannerworth, I am one who has witnessed time's mutations on man and
on his works, and I have pitied neither; I have seen the fall of empires, and
sighed not that high reaching ambition was toppled to the dust. I have seen the
grave close over the young and the beautiful—those whom I have doomed by my
insatiable thirst for human blood to death, long ere the usual span of life was
past, but I never loved till now."

"Can
such a being as you," said Flora "be susceptible of such an earthly
passion?"

"And
wherefore not?"

"Love
is either too much of heaven, or too much of earth to find a home with
thee."

"No,
Flora, no! it may be that the feeling is born of pity. I will save you—I will
save you from a continuance of the horrors that are assailing you."

"Oh!
then may Heaven have mercy in your hour of need!"

"Amen!"

"May
you even yet know peace and joy above."

"It
is a faint and straggling hope—but if achieved, it will be through the
interposition of such a spirit as thine, Flora, which has already exercised so
benign an influence upon my tortured soul, as to produce the wish within my
heart, to do a least one unselfish action."

"That
wish," said Flora, "shall be father to the deed. Heaven has boundless
mercy yet."

"For
thy sweet sake, I will believe so much, Flora Bannerworth; it is a condition
with my hateful race, that if we can find one human heart to love us, we are
free. If, in the face of Heaven, you will consent to be mine, you will snatch
me from a continuance of my frightful doom, and for your pure sake, and on your
merits, shall I yet know heavenly happiness. Will you be mine?"

A
cloud swept from off the face of the moon, and a slant ray fell upon the
hideous features of the vampire. He looked as if just rescued from some
charnel-house, and endowed for a space with vitality to destroy all beauty and
harmony in nature, and drive some benighted soul to madness.

"No,
no, no!" shrieked Flora, "never!"

"Enough,"
said Varney, "I am answered. It was a bad proposal. I am a vampyre
still."

"Spare
me! spare me!"

"Blood!"

Flora
sank upon her knees, and uplifted her hands to heaven. "Mercy,
mercy!" she said.

"Blood!"
said Varney, and she saw his hideous, fang-like teeth. "Blood! Flora
Bannerworth, the vampyre's motto. I have asked you to love me, and you will
not—the penalty be yours."

"No,
no!" said Flora. "Can it be possible that even you, who have already
spoken with judgment and precision, can be so unjust? you must feel that, in
all respects, I have been a victim, most gratuitously—a sufferer, while there
existed no just cause that I should suffer; one who has been tortured, not from
personal fault, selfishness, lapse of integrity, or honourable feelings, but
because you have found it necessary, for the prolongation of your terrific
existence, to attack me as you have done. By what plea of honour, honesty, or
justice, can I be blamed for not embracing an alternative which is beyond all
human control?—I cannot love you."

"Then
be content to suffer. Flora Bannerworth, will you not, even for a time, to save
yourself and to save me, become mine?"

"Horrible
proposition!"

"Then
am I doomed yet, perhaps, for many a cycle of years, to spread misery and desolation
around me; and yet I love you with a feeling which has in it more of
gratefulness and unselfishness than ever yet found a home within my breast. I
would fain have you, although you cannot save me; there may yet be a chance,
which shall enable you to escape from the persecution of my presence."

"Oh!
glorious chance!" said Flora. "Which way can it come? tell me how I
may embrace it, and such grateful feelings as a heart-stricken mourner can
offer to him who has rescued her from her deep affliction, shall yet be
yours."

"Hear
me, then, Flora Bannerworth, while I state to you some particulars of
mysterious existence, of such beings as myself, which never yet have been
breathed to mortal ears."

Flora
looked intently at him, and listened, while, with a serious earnestness of
manner, he detailed to her something of the physiology of the singular class of
beings which the concurrence of all circumstances tended to make him appear.

"Flora,"
he said, "it is not that I am so enamoured of an existence to be prolonged
only by such frightful means, which induces me to become a terror to you or to
others. Believe me, that if my victims, those whom my insatiable thirst for
blood make wretched, suffer much, I, the vampyre, am not without my moments of
unutterable agony. But it is a mysterious law of our nature, that as the period
approaches when the exhausted energies of life require a new support from the
warm, gushing fountain of another's veins, the strong desire to live grows upon
us, until, in a paroxysm of wild insanity, which will recognise no obstacles,
human or divine, we seek a victim."

"A
fearful state!" said Flora.

"It
is so; and, when the dreadful repast is over, then again the pulse beats
healthfully, and the wasted energies of a strange kind of vitality are restored
to us, we become calm again, but with that calmness comes all the horror, all
the agony of reflection, and we suffer far more than tongue can tell."

"You
have my pity," said Flora; "even you have my pity."

"I
might well demand it, if such a feeling held a place within your breast. I
might well demand your pity, Flora Bannerworth, for never crawled an abject
wretch upon the earth's rotundity, so pitiable as I."

"Go
on, go on."

"I
will, and with such brief conclusions as I may. Having once attacked any human
being, we feel a strange, but terribly impulsive desire again to seek that
person for more blood. But I love you, Flora; the small amount of sensibility
that still lingers about my preternatural existence, acknowledges in you a pure
and better spirit. I would fain save you."

"Oh!
tell me how I may escape the terrible infliction."

"That
can only be done by flight. Leave this place, I implore you! leave it as
quickly as the movement may be made. Linger not—cast not one regretful look
behind you on your ancient home. I shall remain in this locality for years. Let
me lose sight of you, I will not pursue you; but, by force of circumstances, I
am myself compelled to linger here. Flight is the only means by which you may
avoid a doom as terrific as that which I endure."

"But
tell me," said Flora, after a moment's pause, during which she appeared to
be endeavouring to gather courage to ask some fearful question; "tell me
if it be true that those who have once endured the terrific attack of a
vampyre, become themselves, after death, one of that dread race?"

"It
is by such means," said Varney, "that the frightful brood increases;
but time and circumstances must aid the development of the new and horrible
existence. You, however, are safe."