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) (164 page)

"I
had resolved, however, at first to try pacific measures, and accordingly, as
you are well aware, I made various proposals to you to purchase or to rent
Bannerworth Hall, the whole of which you rejected; so that I found myself
compelled to adopt the original means that had suggested themselves to me, and
endeavour to terrify you from the house.

"By
prowling about, I made myself familiar with the grounds, and with all the plan
of the residence, and then one night made my appearance in Flora's chamber by
the window."

"But
how do you account," said Charles Holland, "for your extraordinary
likeness to the portrait?"

"It
is partly natural, for I belong to a collateral branch of the family; and it
was previously arranged. I had seen the portrait in Marmaduke Bannerworth's
time, and I knew some of its peculiarities and dress sufficiently well to
imitate them. I calculated upon producing a much greater effect by such an
imitation; and it appears that I was not wrong, for I did produce it to the
full."

"You
did, indeed," said Henry; "and if you did not bring conviction to our
minds that you were what you represented yourself to be, you at least staggered
our judgments upon the occasion, and left us in a position of great doubt and
difficulty."

"I
did; I did all that, I know I did; and, by pursuing that line of conduct, I, at
last, I presume, entirely forced you from the house."

"That
you did."

"Flora
fainted when I entered her chamber; and the moment I looked upon her sweet
countenance my heart smote me for what I was about; but I solemnly aver, that
my lips never touched her, and that, beyond the fright, she suffered nothing
from Varney, the vampyre."

"And
have you succeeded," said Henry, "in your object now?"

"No;
the treasure has yet to be found. Mortimore, the hangman, followed me into the
house, guessing my intention, and indulging a hope that he would succeed in
sharing with me its proceeds. But he, as well as myself, was foiled, and
nothing came of the toilsome and anxious search but disappointment and
bitterness."

"Then
it is supposed that the money is still concealed?"

"I
hope so; I hope, as well, that it will be discovered by you and yours; for
surely none can have a better right to it than you, who have suffered so much
on its account."

"And
yet," remarked Henry, "I cannot help thinking it is too securely hidden
from us. The picture has been repeatedly removed from its place, and produced
no results; so that I fear we have little to expect from any further or more
protracted research."

"I
think," said Varney, "that you have everything to expect. The words
of the dying Marmaduke Bannerworth, you may depend, were not spoken in vain;
and I have every reason to believe that, sooner or later, you must, without
question, become the possessors of that sum."

"But
ought we rightly to hold it?"

"Who
ought more rightly to hold it?" said Varney; "answer me that."

"That's
a sensible enough idea of your's," said the admiral; "and if you were
twice over a vampyre, I would tell you so. It's a very sensible idea; I should
like to know who has more right to it than those who have had such a world of
trouble about it."

"Well,
well," said Henry, "we must not dispute, as yet, about a sum of money
that may really never come to hand. For my own part, I have little to hope for
in the matter; but, certainly, nothing shall be spared, on my part, to effect
such a thorough search of the Hall as shall certainly bring it to light, if it
be in existence."

"I
presume, Sir Francis Varney," said Charles Holland, "that you have
now completed your narrative?"

"I
have. After events are well known to you. And, now, I have but to lie down and
die, with the hope of finding that rest and consolation in the tomb which has
been denied me hitherto in this world. My life has been a stormy one, and full
of the results of angry passions. I do hope now, that, for the short time I
have to live, I shall know something like serenity, and die in peace."

"You
may depend, Varney, that, as long as you have an asylum with us," said the
admiral—"and that you may have as long as you like,—you may be at peace. I
consider that you have surrendered at discretion, and, under such
circumstances, an enemy always deserves honourable treatment, and always gets
it on board such a ship as this."

"There
you go again," said Jack, "calling the house a ship."

"What's
that to you, if I were to call it a bowsprit? Ain't I your captain, you lubber,
and so, sure to be right, while you are wrong, in the natural order of things?
But you go and lay down, Master Varney, and rest yourself, for you seem
completely done up."

Varney
did look fearfully exhausted; and, with the assistance of Henry and Charles, he
went into another apartment, and laid down upon a couch, showing great symptoms
of debility and want of power.

And
now it was a calm; Varney's stay at the cottage of the Bannerworths was productive
of a different mood of mind than ever he had possessed before. He looked upon
them in a very different manner to what he had been used to. He had, moreover,
considerably altered prospects; there could not be the same hopes and
expectations that he once had. He was an altered man. He saw in the
Bannerworths those who had saved his life, and who, without doubt, had
possessed an opinion, not merely obnoxious to him, but must have had some
fearful misgivings concerning his character, and that, too, of a nature that
usually shuts out all hope of being received into any family.

But,
in the hour of his need, when his life was in danger, no one else would have
done what they had done for him, especially when so relatively placed.

Moreover,
he had been concealed, when to do so was both dangerous and difficult; and then
it was done by Flora Bannerworth herself.

Time
flew by. The mode of passing time at the cottage was calm and serene. Varney
had seldom witnessed anything like it; but, at the same time, he felt more at
ease than ever he had; he was charmed with the society of Flora—in fact, with
the whole of the little knot of individuals who there collected together; from
what he saw he was gratified in their society; and it seemed to alleviate his
mental disquiet, and the sense he must feel of his own peculiar position. But
Varney became ill. The state of mind and body he had been in for some time past
might be the cause of it. He had been much harassed, and hunted from place to
place. There was not a moment in which his life was not in danger, and he had,
moreover, more than one case, received some bodily injuries, bruises, and
contusions of a desperate character; and yet he would take no notice of them,
but allow them to get well again, as best they could.

His
escapes and injuries had made a deep impression upon his mind, and had no doubt
a corresponding effect upon his body, and Varney became very ill.

Flora
Bannerworth did all that could be done for one in his painful position, and
this greatly added to the depths of thought that occasionally beset him, and he
could scarcely draw one limb after the other.

He
walked from room to room in the twilight, at which time he had more liberty
permitted him than at any other, because there was not the same danger in his
doing so; for, if once seen, there could be no manner of doubt but he would
have been pursued until he was destroyed, when no other means of escape were at
hand; and Varney himself felt that there could be no chance of his again
escaping from them, for his physical powers were fast decaying; he was not, in
fact, the same man.

He
came out into the parlour from the room in which he had been seated during the
day. Flora and her mother were there, while Charles Holland and Henry
Bannerworth had both at that moment entered the apartment.

"Good
evening, Miss Bannerworth," said Sir Francis, bowing to her, and then to
her mother, Mrs. Bannerworth; "and you, Mr. Holland, I see, have been out
enjoying the free breeze that plays over the hot fields. It must be
refreshing."

"It
is so, sir," said Charles. "I wish we could make you a partaker in
our walks."

"I
wish you could with all my heart," said Varney.

"Sir
Francis," said Flora, "must be a prisoner for some short time longer
yet."

"I
ought not to consider it in any such light. It is not imprisonment. I have
taken sanctuary. It is the well spring of life to me," said Varney.

"I
hope it may prove so; but how do you find yourself this evening, Sir Francis
Varney?"

"Really,
it is difficult to say—I fluctuate. At times, I feel as though I should drop
insensible on the earth, and then I feel better than I have done for some time
previously."

"Doctor
Chillingworth will be here bye and bye, no doubt; and he must see what he can
do for you to relieve you of these symptoms," said Flora.

"I
am much beholden to you—much beholden to you; but I hope to be able to do
without the good doctor's aid in this instance, though I must admit I may
appear ungrateful."

"Not
at all—not at all."

"Have
you heard any news abroad to-day?" inquired Varney.

"None,
Sir Francis—none; there is nothing apparently stirring; and now, go out when
you would, you would find nothing but what was old, quiet, and familiar."

"We
cannot wish to look upon anything with mere charms for a mind at ease, than we
can see under such circumstances; but I fear there are some few old and
familiar features that I should find sad havoc in."

"You
would, certainly, for the burnings and razings to the ground of some places,
have made some dismal appearances; but time may efface that, and then the evil
may die away, and the future will become the present, should we be able to
allay popular feeling."

"Yes,"
said Sir Francis; "but popular prejudices, or justice, or feeling, are
things not easily assuaged. The people when once aroused go on to commit all
kinds of excess, and there is no one point at which they will step short of the
complete extirpation of some one object or other that they have taken a fancy
to hunt."

"The
hubbub and excitement must subside."

"The
greater the ignorance the more persevering and the more brutal they are,"
said Sir Francis; "but I must not complain of what is the necessary
consequence of their state."

"It
might be otherwise."

"So
it might, and no mischief arise either; but as we cannot divert the stream, we
may as well bend to the force of a current too strong to resist."

"The
moon is up," said Flora, who wished to turn the conversation from that to
another topic. "I see it yonder through the trees; it rises red and
large—it is very beautiful—and yet there is not a cloud about to give it the
colour and appearance it now wears."

"Exactly
so," said Sir Francis Varney; "but the reason is the air is filled
with a light, invisible vapour, that has the effect you perceive. There has
been much evaporation going on, and now it shows itself in giving the moon that
peculiar large appearance and deep colour."

"Ay,
I see; it peeps through the trees, the branches of which cut it up into various
portions. It is singular, and yet beautiful, and yet the earth below seems
dark."

"It
is dark; you would be surprised to find it so if you walked about. It will soon
be lighter than it is at this present moment."

"What
sounds are those?" inquired Sir Francis Varney, as he listened
attentively.

"Sounds!
What sounds?" returned Henry.

"The
sounds of wheels and horses' feet," said Varney.

"I
cannot even hear them, much less can I tell what they are," said Henry.

"Then
listen. Now they come along the road. Cannot you hear them now?" said
Varney.

"Yes,
I can," said Charles Holland; "but I really don't know what they are,
or what it can matter to us; we don't expect any visitors."

"Certainly,
certainly," said Varney. "I am somewhat apprehensive of the approach
of strange sounds."

"You
are not likely to be disturbed here," said Charles.

"Indeed;
I thought so when I had succeeded in getting into the house near the town, and
so far from believing it was likely I should be discovered, that I sat on the
house-top while the mob surrounded it."

"Did
you not hear them coming?"

"I
did."

"And
yet you did not attempt to escape from them?"

"No,
I could not persuade them I was not there save by my utter silence. I allowed
them to come too close to leave myself time to escape—besides, I could hardly
persuade myself there could be any necessity for so doing."

"It
was fortunate it was as it happened afterwards, that you were able to reach the
wood, and get out of it unperceived by the mob."

"I
should have been in an unfortunate condition had I been in their hands long. A
man made of iron would not be able to resist the brutality of those
people."