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) (259 page)

THE MYSTERIOUS INSTRUCTIONS

AT the expiration of ten days from the mysterious accouchement of
Ellen Monroe, Richard Markham returned home.
    It was late at night when he alighted at his dwelling; but, as
he had written two days previously to say when his arrival might be expected,
Mr. Monroe and Whittingham were sitting up to receive him.
    Richard's countenance was mournful; and he wore a black
crape round his hat.
    "You have lost a kind friend, Richard," said Mr.
Monroe. "Your hasty letter acquainted us with the fact of Mr. Armstrong's
death; but you gave us no details connected with that event."
    "I will now tell you all that has occurred," said
Richard. "You need not leave the room, Whittingham: you knew Mr.
Armstrong, and will be, no doubt, interested in the particulars of his last
moments."
    "I knowed him for a staunched and consisting. man in
his demmycratical opinions," answered Whittinghain; "and what's more
comportant, he thought well of you, Master Richard."
    "He was an excellent man!" observed Markham,
wiping away a tear.
    "Worth a thousand Ilchesters, and ten thousand
wulgarians which calls butlers
 
tulips
," added Whittingham,
dogmatically.
    "I will tell you the particulars of his death,"
continued Richard, after a pause. "You remember that I received a letter
from Mr. Armstrong, written in a hurried manner, and desiring me to repair to
him in Boulogne, where he was detained by an accident which, he feared, might proved
fatal. I posted to Dover, which town I reached at about five in the evening;
and I found that no packet would leave for France until the following morning.
The condition of my friend, as I judged of it by his note, seemed too serious
to allow me to delay I accordingly hired a vessel, and proceeded without loss
of time to Boulogne, where I arrived at eleven that same night, after a
tolerably rough passage. I hurtled to the hotel at which my friend was staying,
and the card of which he had enclosed in his letter. I found him in bed,
suffering from a fearful accident caused by the overturning of the chaise in
which he had arrived at Boulogne from Paris, on his way to England. No limbs
were broken: but he had sustained internal injuries of a most serious nature. A
nurse was seated at his bed-side; and his medical attendant visited him every
two or three hours, He was delighted to see me - wept - and said frequently,
even up to the moment of his decease, 'Richard, this is very - very kind of
you.' I sat up with him all that night, in spite of his entreaties that I would
retire to rest; and from the first moment that I set my eyes upon him in that
room, I felt convinced he would never leave it alive. I need not tell you that
I did all I could to solace and render comfortable the man who had selected me,
of all his acquaintances, to receive his last breath. I considered myself
honoured by that mark of friendship; and I moreover remembered that he had
believed in my innocence when I first told him my sad tale within the walls of
Newgate. I never left him, save for one hour, from the instant I arrived in
Boulogne until that of his death."
    "Poor Master Richard," said Whittingham, surveying
the young man with affectionate admiration.
    "I said that I left him for one hour," continued
Markham: "that was the evening before his death. Five days after my
arrival, he called me to his bed-side, and said, 'Richard, I feel that my hours
are numbered. You heard what my physician observed ere now; and I am not the
man to delude myself with vain and futile hope. I repeat  -my moments are
now numbered. Leave me alone, Richard, for one hour; that I may commune with
myself.' This desire was sacred; and I immediately obeyed it. But I remained
away only just one hour, and then hastened back to him. He was very faint and
languid; and I saw, with much surprise, that he had been writing. I sat down by
his bed-aide, and took his emaciated hand. He pressed mine, and said in a slow
and calm tone,- 'Richard, I need not recall to your mind under what
circumstances we first met I heard your tale; I knew that you were innocent. I
could read your heart. In an hour I understood all your good qualities. I
formed a friendship for you; and in the name of that friendship, listen to the
last words of a dying man.' He paused for a few moments, and then continued
thus :- 'When I am no more, you will take possession of the few effects that I
have with me here. In my desk you will find a sum sufficient to pay all the
expenses incurred by my illness and to meet the cost of my interment. I desire
to be buried in the Protestant cemetery in the neighbourhood of Boulogne: you
and the physician will attend me to my grave. The funeral must be of the most
humble description. Do not neglect this desire on my part. I have been all my
life opposed to pomp and ostentation, and shall scarcely wish any display to
mark my death.' He paused again; and I gave him some refreshing beverage. He
then proceeded :- 'Beneath my pillow, Richard,  there is a paper in a
sealed envelope. After my death you will open that envelope and read what is
written within it. And now I must exact from you a solemn promise - a promise
made to a dying man - a promise which I am not ashamed to ask, and which you
need not fear to give, especially as it relates eventually to yourself. I
require you to pledge yourself most sacredly that you will obey to the very
letter the directions which are written within that envelope, and which relate
to the papers that the envelope contains.' I readily gave the promise required.
He then directed me to take the sealed packet from beneath his pillow, and
retain it safely about my person. He shortly after sank into a deep slumber -
from which he never awoke. His spirit glided imperceptibly away!"
   
 
"Good old man!"
exclaimed Whittingham, applying his snow-white handkerchief to his eyes.
    "According to the French laws," continued Richard,
"interments must take place within forty-eight hours after death. The
funeral of Thomas Armstrong was humble and unostentatious as he desired. The
physician and myself alone followed him to the tomb. I then inspected his
papers; but found no will-no instructions how his property was to be disposed
of; and yet I knew that he was possessed of ample means. Having liquidated his
debts with a portion of the money I found in his desk, and which amounted to
about a hundred pounds, I gave the remainder to an English charity at Boulogne.
And now you are no doubt anxious to know the contents of that packet so
mysteriously delivered to me. When I broke the seal of the envelope, I found a
letter addressed thus :- '
To my dear friend Richard Markham
.' This
letter was sealed. I then examined the envelope. You shall yourselves see what
was written within it.
    Markham took a paper from his pocket, and handed it to
Monroe, who read its contents aloud as follows:-

    "
Richard, remember your solemn promise
to a dying man; for when I write this, I know you will not refuse to give me
that sacred pledge which I shall ask of you.
    "When you are destitute of all resources - when
adversity or a too generous heart shall have deprived you of all means of
subsistence - and when your own exertions fail to supply your wants, open the
enclosed letter.
    "But should no circumstances of any kind deprive you of
the little property which you now possess,- and should you not be plunged into
a state of need from which your own talents or exertions cannot relieve you -
then shall you open this letter upon the morning of the 10th, of July, 1843, on
which day you have told me that you are to meet your brother.
    "These directions I charge you to observe faithfully
and solemnly.
"THOMAS ARMSTRONG.
"

    "How very extraordinary!" ejaculated
Monroe.
    "Nevertheless, I have a presentiment that these
mysterious instructions intend some eventual good to you, Richard."
    "It's a fortin! -a fortin! depend upon it," said
the old butler.
    "Upon that head it is useless to speculate,"
observed Richard. "I shall obey to the very letter the directions of my
late friend, be their tendency what it may. And now that I have told you all
that concerns myself, allow me to ask how fares it with you here. Does Ellen's
health improve?"
    "For the last ten days she has been confined to her
bed," answered Monroe, tears starting to his eyes.
    "Confined to her bed!" cried Markham. "I hope
you have had proper medical advice?"
    "I wished to call in the aid of a physician," said
Monroe, "but Ellen would not permit me. She declared that she should soon
be better; she assured me that her illness was produced only by the privations
and mental tortures which she had undergone, poor creature! previous to our
taking up our abode in your hospitable dwelling; and then Marian was so kind
and attentive, and echoed every thing which Ellen advanced, so readily, that I
suffered myself to be over-persuaded."
    "You did wrong - you did wrong, Mr. Monroe,"
exclaimed Markham. "Your daughter should have had medical advice; and she
shall have it tomorrow."
    "She appears to be mending in health, though not in spirits,"
observed Monroe. " But my dear young friend, you shall have your own way;
and I thank you sincerely for the interest you show in behalf of one who is
dear - very dear to me."
    Richard pressed the hand of the old man, and retired to his
chamber, to seek that repose of which he stood so much in need after his
journey. But ere he sought his couch, be sate down and wrote the following note
to Count Alteroni, that it might be despatched to Richmond without delay in the
morning:- 

"Mr. Markham regrets to be the means of communicating news of
an afflicting nature to Count Alteroni; nor should he intrude himself again
upon Count Alteroni's notice, did he not feel himself urged by a solemn duty to
do so in the present instance. Count Alteroni's old and esteemed friend, Thomas
Armstrong, is no more. He departed this life four days ago, at
Boulogne-sur-Mer. Mr. Markham had the melancholy honour of closing the eyes of
a good man and true patriot, and of following his remains to the tomb."

THE MEDICAL MAN 

IN the morning, when Ellen awoke at about eight o'clock. the first
news she heard from Marian's lips was the return of Richard Markham.
    The first sentiment which this announcement excited in the
mind of the young lady, was one of extreme joy and thankfulness that her
accouchement should have occurred so prematurely, and thus have happened during
his absence; but this feeling was succeeded by one of vague alarm and undefined
dread, lest by some means or other her secret should transpire.
    This fear she expressed to Marian.
    "No, Miss - that is impossible," said the faithful
attendant. "The child is provided for; and the surgeon is totally ignorant
of the house to which he was brought the night the poor infant was born. How
could Mr. Markham discover your secret?"
    "It is perhaps my conscience, Marian, that alarms
me," returned Ellen; "but I confess that I tremble. Do you think that
Mr. Wentworth is to be relied upon, even if he should suspect or should ever
discover —"
    "Mr. Greenwood has purchased his silence, Miss. Do not
be down-hearted. I declare you are quite white in the face - and you seem to
tremble so, the bed shakes. Pray - dear Miss - don't give way to these idle
alarms!"
    "I shall be more composed presently, Marian."
    "And I will just step down stairs and get up your
breakfast."
    When Ellen was alone, she buried her face in the pillow and
wept bitterly; and from time to time her voice, almost choked with sobs, gave
utterance to the words- "My child! my child!"
    Oh! how happy would she have been, could she have proclaimed
herself a mother without shame and have spoken of her child to her father and
her friend without a blush.
    In a few minutes Marian returned to the room; and Ellen
hastened to assume an  air of composure. She wiped away her tears, and
sate up in the bed supported by pillows - for she was yet very weak and sickly
- to partake of some refreshment.
    "Mr. Markham is up and has already gone out," said
Marian, as she attended upon her lovely young patient. "He left word with
Whittingham to tell me that he should come up, and see you on his return in
half an hour."
    "I would that this first interview were over
Marian," exclaimed Ellen.
  
 
"So you said, Miss, in the morning after your accouchement,
when your father was coming up to see you; and yet all passed off well
enough."
    "Yes - but I felt that I blushed, and then grew deadly
pale again, at least ten times in a minute," observed Ellen.
    Marian said all she could to re-assure the young mother; and
when the invalid had partaken of some tea, the kind-hearted servant left her,
in order to attend to her own domestic duties down stairs.
    Ellen then fell into a mournful reverie, during which she
reviewed all the events of the last two years and a half of her life. She
pondered upon the hideous poverty in which she and her father had been plunged
in the court leading out of Golden Lane; she retrospected upon the strange
services she had rendered the statuary, the artist, the sculptor, and the
photographer; she thought of the old hag who had induced her to enter upon that
career; - and then she fixed her thoughts upon Greenwood and her child.
    She was thus mentally occupied when she heard footsteps
ascending the staircase; and immediately afterwards some one knocked at her
door.
    In a faint voice she said, "Come in."
    The door opened, and Richard Markham entered the apartment;
but, as he crossed the threshold, he turned and said to some one who remained
upon the landing, "Have the kindness to wait here one moment."
    He then advanced towards the bed, and took the young lady's
thin white hand.
    "Ellen," he exclaimed, " you have been very
ill."
    "Yes - very ill, Richard," returned the invalid,
casting down her eyes; "but I am better - oh! much, very much better now;
and, in a day or two, shall be quite well."
    "And yet you are very pale, and sadly altered,"
said Markham.
    "I can assure you that I am recovering fast. Indeed. I
should have risen to-day; but Marian persuaded me to keep my bed a short time
longer."
    "And you have had no medical advice, Ellen. I told your
father that he had done wrong —"
    "Oh! no, Richard," interrupted Ellen eagerly;
"he was anxious to call in the aid of a physician; but I was not so ill as
be thought."
    "Not ill!" ejaculated Markham. "You must have
been very - very ill."
    "But Marian was so kind to me."
    "No doubt! Nevertheless I have no confidence in the
nostrums and prescriptions of old servants and nurses; and human existence is too
serious a thing to be tampered with."
    "I assure you, Richard, that Marian has treated me most
judiciously; and I am now very nearly quite well."
    "Ah! Ellen," cried Markham, "I can read your
heart! "
    "You, Richard!" exclaimed the young lady, with a
cold shudder that seemed to terminate in a death-chill at the heart.
    "Yes," continued Markham, his voice assuming a
tone of melancholy interest; "I can well appreciate your motives in
combating the desire of your father to procure medical aid. You were afraid of
burdening me with an expense which you feared my restricted means would not
permit me to afford ;-  Oh! I understand your good feeling! But this was
wrong, Ellen; for I did not invite you to my house to deny to either yourself
or father the common attentions which I would bestow upon a stranger who fell
sick under my roof. No - thank God! I have yet enough left to meet casualties
like these."
    "Ah! Richard, how kind - how generous you are,"
said Ellen; "but I am now really much better ;- and to-morrow - to-morrow
I shall be quite well."
    "No - Ellen, you are very far from well," returned
Markham; "but you shall be well soon. I have been myself this morning to
procure you proper advice."
    "Advice?" repeated Ellen, mechanically.
    "Yes: there is a medical gentleman now waiting to see
you."
    With these words Richard hastened to the door, and said,
"Miss Monroe, sir, is now ready to receive you. I will leave you with
her."
    The medical man then entered the chamber; and Markham immediately
retired.
    The votary of Aesculapius was a man of apparently
five-and-twenty years of age - pale, but good. looking, with light hair, and a
somewhat melancholy expression of countenance. He was attired in deep black.
His manners were soft and pleasing; but his voice was mournful; and his
utterance slow, precise, and solemn.
    Approaching the couch, he took the hand of the invalid, and,
placing his fingers upon the pulse, said, "How long have you been ill,
Miss?"
    "Oh! sir - I am not ill now - I am nearly well - I
shall rise presently - the fresh air will do me good," exclaimed Ellen,
speaking with a rapidity, and almost an incoherence, which somewhat surprised
the medical man.
    "No, Miss," he said calmly, after a pause,
"you cannot leave your bed yet: you are in a state of fever. How long have
you been confined to your couch?"
    "How long? Oh! only a few days - but, I repeat, I am
better now."
    "How many days, Miss?" asked the medical man.
    "Ten or twelve, sir; and, therefore, you see that I
have kept my bed long enough."
    "What do you feel?" demanded the surgeon, seating
himself by the side of the invalid with the air of a man who is determined to
obtain answers to his questions.
    "I did feel unwell a few days ago, sir," said
Ellen; "but now-oh! now I am quite recovered."
    "Perhaps, miss, you will allow me to be the judge of
that. You are very feverish - your pulse is rapid. Have you been taking any
medicine?"
    "No - that is, a little cooling medicine which the
servant who attends upon me purchased. But why all these questions, since I
shall soon be well?"
    "Pardon me, Miss: you must have the kindness to answer
all my queries. If, however, you would prefer another medical adviser, I will
at once acquaint Mr. Markham with your desire, and will relieve you of my
presence."
    "No, sir - as well you as another," cried Ellen.
scarcely knowing what she said, and shrinking beneath the glance of mingled
curiosity and surprise which the surgeon cast upon her.
    "During your illness were you at all delirious?"
inquired the medical adviser.
    "Oh! no - I have not been so ill as you are led to
suppose. All I require is repose - rest - tranquility —"
    "And professional aid," added the surgeon.
"Now, I beg of you, Miss Monroe, to tell me without reserve what you feel.
How did your illness commence?"
    "Ah! sir, I scarcely know," replied Ellen. "
I have experienced great mental affliction; and that operated upon my
constitution, I suppose."
    "And you say that you have been confined to your bed nearly a
fortnight?"
    "Oh! no - not so long as that," said Ellen,
fearful of confirming the surgeon's impression that she had been very ill, and
consequently stood greatly in need of professional assistance: "not so
long as that! Ten days exactly."
    "Ten days!" repeated the medical man, as if struck
by the coincidence of this statement with something which at that moment
occurred to his memory; then glancing rapidly round the room, he started from
his chair, and said, "Ten days ago, Miss Monroe! And at what hour were you
taken ill?"
    "At what hour?" repeated the unhappy young lady,
who trembled for her secret.
    "Yes - at what hour?" demanded the surgeon, the
slow solemnity of his tone changing to a strange rapidity of utterance:
"was it not a little before midnight?"
    "Sir - what do you mean? why do you question me
thus?"
    "On that night," continued the surgeon, gazing
fixedly upon Ellen's countenance, "a man with his eyes blind-folded
—"
    "His eyes blindfolded?" repeated Ellen
mechanically, while a fearful shudder passed through her frame.
    "Led by a servant wearing a black veil —" 
    "A black veil?"
    "Entered this room —"
    "Ah! my God - spare me!"
    "And delivered a lady of a male child."
    "How do you know it, sir? who told you?"
    "That man was myself!" cried the surgeon
emphatically.
    "Oh! kill me  -kill me!" exclaimed Ellen, and
covering her face with her hands, she burst into an agony of tears and
heart-wrung sobs.
    "Yes," continued the surgeon, pacing the room, and
glancing rapidly on all sides: "there is the chest of drawers against
which I dashed my foot - here stood the bed - here the table - I sat down in
this chair - Oh! now I remember all!"
    And for some moments he walked up and down the room in
profound silence.
    Suddenly Ellen started up to a sitting posture in the bed,
and exclaimed. "My child, sir? Tell me - have you taken care of my
child?"
    "Yes - Miss - Madam," replied Mr. Wentworth,
"the little boy thrives well, although deprived of his natural
nourishment."
    "Thank you, sir - thank you at least for that
assurance," said Ellen. "Oh! sir - you cannot understand how deeply a
mother feels to be separated from her child !"
    "Poor girl," said the surgeon, in a compassion ate
tone; "you have then suffered very much?"
    "God alone knows what I have endured for months past,
mentally and bodily!" cried Ellen, clasping her hands together. "And
now you know all, sir - will you betray me? say, sir - will you betray
me?"
    Mr. Wentworth appeared to reflect deeply for some moments.
    Ellen awaited his reply in a state of the most agonising
suspense.
    "Miss Monroe," at length said Mr. Wentworth,
speaking in his usual solemn and grave tone, "you know your own affairs better
than I; but would it not be well to confide in those friends by whom you are
surrounded?"
    "I would die first - die by my own hand! answered Ellen
emphatically. "If you tell me that you will betray me - if you leave this
room to communicate my secret to Mr. Markham, who brought you hither, or to my
father - I will not hesitate a moment - I will throw myself from the window
—"
    "Calm, yourself, Miss Monroe. Your secret is safe in my
hands."
    "Oh! thank you, sir - a thousand times I thank
you," exclaimed Ellen. "There are circumstances which render it
necessary that this secret should not transpire - circumstances, not altogether
connected with my own shame, which I cannot, dare not reveal to you."
    "Enough, Miss Monroe - I do not seek to penetrate into
those mysteries. Your child is with me - I will be a father to him!"
    "And heaven will bless you!" said Ellen pressing
the surgeon's hand with the warmth of the most fervent gratitude.
    "In time you will be able to call at my house,"
observed Mr. Wentworth; "and you can see your son - you can watch his
growth - mark his progress —"
    "How kind you are! Oh! now I am rejoiced that you know
all!"
    "And no one will ever suspect the real motive of your
visits," continued the surgeon. " Mrs. Went worth shall call upon you
in a few days; and thus an acquaintance may be commenced. With reference to my
visit of this morning, I shall inform Mr. Markham that you will be convalescent
in a few days."
    Ellen once more expressed her sincere and heartfelt thanks
to the surgeon, who shortly took his leave of her, after strictly recommending
her to take the medicaments which he should mend in the course of the day.
    And now the recovery of the young invalid progressed
rapidly; and her own mind, relieved of many sources of anxiety and alarm, aided
nature in conducting her to convalescence; for she longed to behold and caress
her child!