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) (13 page)

FLORA FRANCATELLI—THE THREE NUNS—THE
CHAIR

Nisida
 
regained her apartment, by the
private staircase, without any molestation. Having laid aside her male attire,
she assumed a loose wrapper, and then, throwing herself into an armchair, gave
way to her reflections.

These were apparently of no
pleasurable nature; for they were frequently interrupted by convulsive starts
and rapid glancings around the room—as if she were fearful lest some terrible
specter were present to scare her.

Once or twice her eyes lingered
on her mother’s portrait; and then profound sighs escaped her bosom.

Presently the beautiful Flora
Francatelli entered the apartment; but Nisida made her a sign of dismissal.

The maiden withdrew; and we must
now follow her to her own chamber.

On reaching her bedroom, Flora
did not immediately retire to rest. She felt that she should not sleep, even
were she to seek her pillow: for she had much—very much to ponder upon!

There was a marked, undisguised
reserve about her mistress which materially affected her. Although she could
not control
 
 her affections,
yet she felt as if she were acting with duplicity toward the Lady Nisida in
having listened to the love-tale of Francisco, and, retaining that revelation
of his affection a secret in her own breast.

Yet—had he not implored, had he
not enjoined her to keep that avowal to herself? Yes, and when she looked at
the matter, as it were, face to face, she could not justly reproach
herself:—nevertheless, that secret love weighed upon her conscience like a
crime!

She could not understand
wherefore Nisida’s manner had changed toward her. Francisco had assuredly made
no communication to his sister; and nothing had transpired to excite a
suspicion of the real truth in her mind. Still there
 
was
 
a coolness on the part of that
lady:—or might it not be that Flora’s imagination deceived her?

There was another, and even a
more serious cause of grief weighing upon her mind. Dispatches had been
received from the nobleman in whose suit her brother Alessandro had repaired to
Constantinople; and the secretary of the council of Florence had intimated to
Signora Francatelli (Flora’s aunt) that Alessandro had abjured the faith of his
forefathers and had embraced the Mussulman creed. It was also stated that the
young man had entered the service of grand vizier; but whether he had become a
renegade through love for some Turkish maiden, or with the hope of ameliorating
his condition in a worldly point of view, whether, indeed, self-interest or a
conscientious belief in the superiority of the Moslem doctrines over those of
Christianity, had swayed Alessandro, no one could say.

His aunt was almost heart-broken
at the news. Father Marco, through whose influence he had obtained the post of
secretary to the Florentine Envoy, was shocked and grieved; and Flora was not
the less afflicted at an event which, as she had been taught to believe, must
inevitably place her much-loved brother beyond the hope of spiritual salvation.

Amidst the gloomy reflections
excited by the Lady Nisida’s coolness, and the disagreeable tidings which had
been received concerning her brother, there was nevertheless one gleam of
consolation for Flora Francatelli.

This was the love which Francisco
entertained for her, and which she so tenderly, so sincerely reciprocated.

Yes, a maiden’s first love is
ever a source of solace amidst the gloom of affliction; because it is so
intimately intertwined with hope! For the soul of the innocent, artless girl
who fondly loves, soars aloft in a heaven of her own creation, dove-like on the
wings of faith!

It was already late when Flora
began to unbraid and set at liberty her dark brown tresses, preparatory to
retiring to rest, when a low knock at the chamber-door startled her in the
midst of her occupation.

Thinking it might be the Lady
Nisida who required her attendance she hastened to open the door; and
immediately three women, dressed in religious habits and having black veils
 
 thrown over their heads so as
completely to conceal their faces, entered the room.

Flora uttered a faint scream—for
the sudden apparition of those specter-like figures, at such a late hour of the
night, was well calculated to alarm even a person of maturer age and stronger
mind than Signora Francatelli.

“You must accompany us, young
lady,” said the foremost nun, advancing toward her. “And beware how you create
any disturbance—for it will avail you nothing.”

“Whither am I to be conducted?”
asked Flora, trembling from head to foot.

“That we cannot inform you,” was
the reply. “Neither must you know at present; and therefore our first duty is
to blindfold you.”

“Pity me—have mercy upon me!”
exclaimed Flora, throwing herself on her knees before the nun who addressed her
in so harsh, so stern a manner. “I am a poor, unprotected girl: have mercy upon
me!”

But the three nuns seized upon
her; and while one held the palm of her hand forcibly over her mouth so as to
check her utterance, the others hastily blindfolded her.

Flora was so overcome by this
alarming proceeding, that she fainted.

When she came to her senses, she
found herself lying on a hard and sorry couch in a large apartment, almost
entirely denuded of furniture and lighted by a feebly-burning lamp suspended to
the low ceiling.

For a moment she thought she was
laboring under the influence of a hideous dream; but, glancing around, she
started with affright, and a scream burst from her lips, when she beheld the
three nuns standing by the bed.

“Why have you brought me hither?”
she demanded, springing from the couch, and addressing the recluses with
frantic wildness.

“To benefit you in a spiritual
sense,” replied the one who had before acted as spokeswoman: “to purge your
mind of those mundane vanities which have seized upon it, and to render you
worthy of salvation. Pray, sisters—pray for this at present benighted
creature!”

Then, to the surprise of the
young maiden, the three nuns all fell upon their knees around her, and began to
chant a solemn hymn in most lugubrious notes.

They had thrown aside their
veils, and the flickering light of the dim lamp gave a ghastly and unearthly
appearance to their pale and severe countenances. They were all three elderly
persons: and their aspect was of that cold, forbidding nature, which precludes
hope on the part of any one who might have to implore mercy.

The young maiden was
astounded—stupefied—she knew not what to conjecture. Where was she? who were
those nuns that had treated her so harshly? why was she brought to that cold,
cheerless apartment? what meant the hymn that seemed chanted expressly on her
account?

 She could not bear up
against the bewilderment and alarm produced by these questions which she asked
herself, and none of which she could solve. An oppressive sensation came over
her; and she was about to sink back upon the couch from which she had risen,
when the hymn suddenly ceased—the nuns rose from their suppliant posture—and the
foremost, addressing the poor girl in a reproachful tone, exclaimed, “Oh!
wicked—worldly-minded creature, repent—repent—repent!”

There was something so awful—so
appalling—in this strange conduct on the part of the nuns, that Flora began to
doubt whether she were not laboring under some terrible delusion. She feared
lest her senses were leaving her: and, covering her face with her hands, so as
to close her eyes against external objects, she endeavored to look inward, as
it were, and scrutinize her own soul.

But she was not allowed time to
reflect; for the three nuns seized upon her, the foremost saying, “You must
come with us!”

“Mercy! mercy!” screamed the
wretched girl, vainly struggling in the powerful grasp of the recluses.

Her long hair, which she had unbraided
before she was carried off from the Riverola mansion, floated over her
shoulders, and enhanced the expression of ineffable despair which her pallid
countenance now wore.

Wildly she glanced around, as she
was being hurried from the room; and frantic screams escaped her lips. But
there was no one nigh to succor—no one to melt at the outbursts of her anguish!

The three nuns dragged, rather
than conducted her to an adjacent apartment, which was lighted by a lamp of
astonishing brilliancy, and hung in a skylight raised above the roof.

On the floor, immediately beneath
this lamp, stood an armchair of wicker-work; and from this chair two stout
cords ascended to the ceiling, through which they passed by means of two holes
perforated for the purpose.

When Flora was dragged by the
nuns to the immediate vicinity of the chair, which her excited imagination
instantly converted into an engine of torture, that part of the floor on which
the chair stood seemed to tremble and oscillate beneath her feet, as if it were
a trap-door.

The most dreadful sensations now
came over her: she felt as if her brain was reeling—as if she must go mad.

A fearful scream burst from her
lips, and she struggled with the energy of desperation, as the nuns endeavored
to thrust her into the chair.

“No—no!” she exclaimed,
frantically; “you shall not torture me—you dare not murder me! What have I done
to merit this treatment! Mercy! mercy!”

But her cries and her struggles
were alike useless; for she was now firmly bound to the chair, into which the
nuns had forced her to seat herself.

Then commenced the maddening
scene which will be found in the ensuing chapter.

THE DESCENT—THE CHAMBER OF PENITENCE

Having
 
bound Flora Francatelli to the
chair in the manner just described, the three nuns fell back a few paces, and
the wretched girl felt the floor giving way under her.

A dreadful scream burst from her
lips, as slowly—slowly the chair sank down, while the working of hidden
machinery in the roof, and the steady, monotonous revolution of wheels, sounded
with ominous din upon her ears.

An icy stream appeared to pour
over her soul; wildly she cast around her eyes, and then more piercing became
her shrieks, as she found herself gradually descending into what seemed to be a
pit or well—only that it was square instead of round.

The ropes creaked—the machinery
continued its regular movement, and the lamp fixed in the skylight overhead
became less and less brilliant.

And bending over the mouth of
this pit into which she was descending were the three nuns—standing motionless
and silent like hideous specters, on the brink of the aperture left by the
square platform or trap, whereon the chair was fixed.

“Mercy! Mercy!” exclaimed Flora,
in a voice expressive of the most acute anguish.

And stretching forth her snowy
arms (for it was round the waist and by the feet that she was fastened to the
chair), she convulsively placed her open palms against the wooden walls of the
pit, as if she could by that spasmodic movement arrest the descent of the
terrible apparatus that was bearing her down into that hideous, unknown gulf!
But the walls were smooth and even, and presented nothing whereon she could fix
her grasp.

Her brain reeled, and for a few
minutes she sat motionless, in dumb, inert despair.

Then again, in obedience to some
mechanical impulse, she glanced upward; the light of the lamp was now dimly
seen, like the sun through a dense mist—but the dark figures were still bending
over the brink of the abyss, thirty yards above.

The descent was still progressing
and the noise of the machinery still reached her ears, with buzzing, humming,
monotonous indistinctness.

She shrieked not now—she screamed
not any more; but it was not resignation that sealed her lips;—it was despair!

Suddenly she became aware of the
gradual disappearance of the three nuns; as she descended, the wall seemed to
rise slowly upward and cover them from her view.

Then, for an instant there was a
slight shock given to the platform whereon the chair was placed—as if it rested
on something beneath.

But no;—the fearful descent still
went on—for, when she again stretched forth her hand to touch the walls, they
appeared to be slowly rising—rising!

She was now involved in almost
total darkness; but far—far
 
 overhead
the dim luster of the lamp was seen; and the four walls of the gulf now
appeared to touch the ceiling of the room above, and to inclose that faint but
still distinct orb within the narrow space thus shut in.

The noise of the machinery also
reached her still—but merely with a humming sound that was only just audible.

For an instant she doubted
whether she was still descending; but, alas! when her arms were a third time
convulsively stretched forth, her fair hands felt the walls slipping away from
her touch—gliding upward, as it were, with steady emotion.

Then she knew that the descent
had not ceased.

But whither was she going? to
what awful depth was she progressing?

Already she conjectured, was she
at least sixty yards beneath that dim yellow orb which every instant appeared
to shine as through a deeper, deepening mist.

For what fate was she reserved?
and where was she?

Suddenly it struck her that she
was an inmate of the Carmelite Convent; for the rumors alluded to in a
preceding chapter had often met her ears; and her imagination naturally associated
them with the occurrences of that dreadful night.

The piercing shrieks—the noise of
machinery—the disappearance from time to time of some member of that monastic
institution, all the incidents, in fine, to which those rumors had ever
pointed, now seemed to apply to her own case.

These reflections flashed, with
lightning rapidity, through her brain, and paralyzed her with horror.

Then she lost all further power
of thought; and though not absolutely fainting, she was stunned and stupefied
with the tremendous weight of overwhelming despair.

How long she remained in this
condition she knew not; but she was suddenly aroused by the opening of a low
door in the wall in front of her.

Starting as from a dreadful
dream, she stretched forth her arms, and became aware that the descent had
stopped; and at the same moment she beheld a nun, bearing a lamp, standing on
the threshold of the door which had just opened.

“Sister, welcome to the chamber
of penitence!” said the recluse, approaching the terrified Flora.

Then, placing the lamp in a niche
near the door, the nun proceeded to remove the cords which fastened the young
maiden to the chair.

Flora rose, but fell back again
on the seat—for her limbs were stiff in consequence of the length of time they
had been retained in one position. The nun disappeared by the little door for a
few minutes; and, on her return, presented the wretched girl a cup of cold
water. Flora swallowed the icy beverage, and felt refreshed.

Then, by the light of the lamp in
the niche, she hastily examined the countenance of the nun; but its expression
was cold—repulsive—stern: and Flora knew that it was useless to seek to make a
friend of her.

 A frightful sense of
loneliness, as it were, struck her like an ice-shaft penetrating to her very
soul; and clasping her hands together, she exclaimed: “Holy Virgin! protect
me!”

“No harm will befall you,
daughter,” said the nun, “if you manifest contrition for past errors and a
resolution to devote your future years to the service of Heaven.”

“My past errors!” repeated Flora,
with mingled indignation and astonishment. “I am not aware that I ever injured
a living soul by a word or deed—nor entertained a thought for which I need to
blush! Neither have I neglected those duties which manifest the gratitude of mortals
for the bounties bestowed upon them by Providence.”

“Ah! daughter,” exclaimed the
nun, “you interpret not your own heart rightly. Have you never abandoned
yourself to those carnal notions—those hopes—those fears—those dreams of
happiness—which constitute the passion which the world calls love?”

Flora started, and a blush
mantled on her cheeks, before so pale!

“You see that I have touched a
chord which vibrates to your heart’s core, daughter,” continued the nun, on
whom that sudden evidence of emotion was not lost. “You have suffered yourself
to be deluded by the whisperings of that feeling whose tendency was to wean
your soul from Heaven.”

“And is it possible that a pure
and virtuous love can be construed into a crime?” demanded the young maiden,
her indignation overpowering her fears.

“A love that is founded on, and
fostered by ambition is a sin,” replied the nun. “Marriage is doubtless an
institution ordained by Heaven; but it becomes a curse, and is repulsive to all
pious feelings, when it unites those whose passion is made up of sensuality and
selfishness.”

“You dare not impute such base
considerations to me!” exclaimed Flora, her cheeks again flushing, but with the
glow of conscious innocence shamefully outraged by the most injurious
suspicions.

“Nay, daughter,” continued the
nun, unmoved by the manner of the young maiden; “you are unable to judge
rightly of your own heart. You possess a confidence in integrity of purpose,
which is but a mental blindness on your part.”

“Of what am I accused? and wherefore
am I brought hither?” asked Flora, beginning to feel bewildered by the
sophistry that characterized the nun’s discourse.

“Those who are interested in your
welfare,” replied the nun evasively, “have consigned you to the care of persons
devoted to the service of Heaven, that your eyes may be opened to the vanity of
the path which you have been pursuing, but from which you are so happily
rescued.”

“And where am I? is this the
Convent of the Carmelites? why was I subjected to all the alarms—all the mental
tortures through which I have just passed?” demanded the young maiden, wildly
and rapidly.

“Think not that we have acted
toward you in a spirit of persecution,”
 
 said
the nun. “The mysteries which have alarmed you will be explained at a future
period, when your soul is prepared by penance, self-mortification, and prayer
to receive the necessary revelation. In the meantime, ask no questions, forget
the world, and resolve to embrace a life devoted to the service of Heaven.”

“To embrace a conventual existence!”
almost shrieked the wretched girl. “Oh! no, never!”

“Not many days will elapse ere
your mind will undergo a salutary change,” said the nun, composedly. “But if
you will follow me—as you appear to be somewhat recovered—I will conduct you to
your cell adjoining the Chamber of Penitence.”

Flora, perceiving that any
further attempt to reason with the recluse would be fruitlessly made, rose and
followed her into a narrow, dark passage, at the end of which was a door
standing half open.

The nun extinguished her lamp,
and led the way into a large apartment hung with black. At the further end
there was an altar, surmounted by a crucifix of ebony, and lighted up with four
wax candles, which only served to render the gloom of the entire scene more
apparent.

At the foot of the altar knelt
five women, half naked, and holding scourges in their hands.

“These are the penitents,”
whispered the nun to Flora. “Pause for a moment and contemplate them.”

A minute elapsed, during which
the five penitents remained motionless as statues, with their heads bowed upon
their bosoms, and their hands hanging down by their sides, as if those limbs
were lifeless—save in respect to the hands that held the scourges. But,
suddenly, one of them—a young and beautiful woman—exclaimed, in a tone of
piercing anguish, “It is my fault! it is my fault! it is my fault!”—and the
others took up the wail in voices equally characteristic of heartfelt woe.

Then they lacerated their
shoulders with the hard leathern thongs of their scourges; and a faintness came
over Flora Francatelli when she observed the blood appear on the back of the
young and beautiful penitent who had given the signal for this
self-mortification.

The nun, perceiving the effect
thus produced upon the maiden, touched her upon the shoulder as a signal to
follow whither she was about to lead; and, opening one of the several doors
communicating with the Chamber of Penitence, she said in a low whisper—“This is
your cell. May the Virgin bless you!”

Flora entered the little room
allotted to her, and the nun retired, simply closing, but not bolting the door
behind her.

A taper burnt before a crucifix
suspended to the wall; and near it hung a scourge, from which last mentioned
object Flora averted her eyes with horror.

A bed, a simple toilet-table, a
praying-desk, and a single chair, completed the furniture of the cell, which
was of very narrow dimensions.

Seating herself on the bed, Flora
burst into an agony of tears.

What would her aunt think when
she received the news of her
 
 disappearance?
for she could not suppose that any friendly feeling on the part of her
persecutors would induce them to adopt a course which might relieve that
much-loved relative’s mind concerning her. What would Francisco conjecture? Oh!
these thoughts were maddening!

Anxious to escape from them, if
possible, the almost heartbroken girl proceeded to lay aside her garments and
retire to rest.

Physical and mental exhaustion
cast her into a deep sleep; but the horrors of her condition pursued her even
in her dreams; so that when she awoke she was not startled to find herself in
that gloomy cell.

Casting her eyes around, she
observed two circumstances which showed her that some one had visited her room
during the hours she slept; for a new taper was burning before the crucifix, and
her own garments had been removed,—the coarse garb of a penitent now occupying
their place on the chair.

“Oh! is it possible that I am
doomed to bid farewell to the world forever?” exclaimed Flora, in a voice of
despair, as she clasped her hands convulsively together.