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) (167 page)

"That
is very true. Has anything been done to-night?"

"Nothing,"
said one.

"Only
three half crowns," said the other; "that is the extent of the common
purse to-night."

"And
I," said the third, "I have got a bottle of bad gin from the Cat and
Cabbage-stump."

"How
did you manage it?"

"Why,
this way. I went in, and had some beer, and you know I can give a long yarn
when I want; but it wants only a little care to deceive these knowing countrymen,
so I talked and talked, until they got quite chatty, and then I put the gin in
my pocket."

"Good."

"Well,
then, the loaf and beef I took out of the safe as I came by, and I dare say
they know they have lost it by this time."

"Yes,
and so do we. I expect the gin will help to digest the beef, so we mustn't
complain of the goods."

"No;
give us another glass, Jim."

Jim
held the glass towards him, when the doctor, animated by the spirit of
mischief, took a good sized pebble, and threw it into the glass, smashing it,
and spilling the contents.

In a
moment there was a change of scene; the men were all terrified, and started to
their feet, while a sudden gust of wind caused their light to go out; at the
same time their tent-cloth was thrown down by the wind, and fell across their
heads.

"Come
along," said the doctor.

There
was no need of saying so, for in a moment the three were as if animated by one
spirit, and away they scudded across the fields, with the speed of a race
horse.

In a
few minutes they were better than half a mile away from the spot.

"In
absence of all authentic information," said the doctor, speaking as well
as he could, and blowing prodigiously between each word, as though he were
fetching breath all the way from his heels, "I think we may conclude we
are safe from them. We ought to thank our stars we came across them in the way
we did."

"But,
doctor, what in the name of Heaven induced you to make such a noise, to
frighten them, in fact, and to tell them some one was about?"

"They
were too much terrified to tell whether it was one, or fifty. By this time they
are out of the county; they knew what they were talking about."

"And
perhaps we may meet them on the road where we are going, thinking it a rare
lonely spot where they can hide, and no chance of their being found out."

"No,"
said the doctor; "they will not go to such a place; it has by far too bad
a name for even such men as those to go near, much less stop in."

"I
can hardly think that," said Charles Holland, "for these fellows are
too terrified for their personal safety, to think of the superstitious fears
with which a place may be regarded; and these men, in such a place as the one
you speak of, they will be at home."

"Well,
well, rather than be done, we must fight for it; and when you come to consider
we have one pick and two shovels, we shall be in full force."

"Well
said, doctor; how far have we to go?"

"Not
more than a quarter of a mile."

They
pursued their way through the fields, and under the hedge-rows, until they came
to a gate, where they stopped awhile, and began to consult and to listen.

"A
few yards up here, on the left," said the doctor; "I know the spot;
besides, there is a particular mark. Now, then, are you all ready?"

"Yes,
all."

"Here,"
said the doctor, pointing out the marks by which the spot might be recognized;
"here is the spot, and I think we shall not be half a foot out of our
reckoning."

"Then
let us begin instanter," said Henry, as he seized hold of the pickaxe, and
began to loosen the earth by means of the sharp end.

"That
will do for the present," said Chillingworth; "now let me and Charles
take a turn with our shovels, and you will get on again presently. Throw the
earth up on the bank in one heap, so that we can put it on again without
attracting any attention to the spot by its being left in clods and
uneven."

"Exactly,"
said Henry, "else the body will be discovered."

They
began to shovel away, and continued to do so, after it had been picked up,
working alternately, until at length Charles stuck his pick-axe into something
soft, and upon pulling it up, he found it was the body.

A
dreadful odour now arose from the spot, and they were at no loss to tell where
the body lay. The pick-axe had stuck into the deceased's ribs and clothing, and
thus lifted it out of its place.

"Here
it is," said the doctor; "but I needn't tell you that; the
charnel-house smell is enough to convince you of the fact of where it is."

"I
think so; just show a light upon the subject, doctor, and then we can see what
we are about—do you mind, doctor—you have the management of the lantern, you
know?"

"Yes,
yes," said Chillingworth; "I see you have it—don't be in a hurry, but
do things deliberately and coolly whatever you do—you will not be so liable to
make mistakes, or to leave anything undone."

"There
will be nothing of any use to you here, doctor, in the way of dissection, for
the flesh is one mass of decay. What a horrible sight, to be sure!"

"It
is; but hasten the search."

"Well,
I must; though, to confess the truth, I'd sooner handle anything than
this."

"It
is not the most pleasant thing in the world, for there is no knowing what may
be the result—what creeping thing has made a home of it."

"Don't
mention anything about it."

Henry
and Charles Holland now began to search the pockets of the clothes of the dead
body, in one of which was something hard, that felt like a parcel.

"What
have you got there?" said Chillingworth, as he held his lantern up so that
the light fell upon the ghastly object that they were handling.

"I
think it is the prize," said Charles Holland; "but we have not got it
out yet, though I dare say it won't be long first, if this wind will but hold
good for about five minutes, and keep the stench down."

They
now tore open the packet and pulled out the papers, which appeared to have been
secreted upon his person.

"Be
sure there are none on any other part of the body," said Chillingworth,
"because what you do now, you had better do well, and leave nothing to
after thought, because it is frequently impracticable."

"The
advice is good," said Henry, who made a second search, but found nothing.

"We
had better re-bury him," said the doctor; "it had better be done
cleanly. Well, it is a sad hole for a last resting-place, and yet I do not know
that it matters—it is all a matter of taste—the fashion of the class, or the
particular custom of the country."

There
was but little to be said against such an argument, though the custom of the
age had caused them to look upon it more as a matter of feeling than in such a
philosophical sense as that in which the doctor had put it.

"Well,
there he is now—shovel the earth in, Charles," said Henry Bannerworth, as
he himself set the example, which was speedily and vigorously followed by
Charles Holland, when they were not long before the earth was thrown in and
covered up with care, and trodden down so that it should not appear to be
moved.

"This
will do, I think," said Henry.

"Yes;
it is not quite the same, but I dare say no one will try to make any
discoveries in this place; besides, if the rain continues to come down very
heavy, why, it will wash much of it away, and it will make it look all
alike."

There
was little inducement to hover about the spot, but Henry could not forbear
holding up the papers to the light of the lantern to ascertain what they were.

"Are
they all right?" inquired the doctor.

"Yes,"
replied Henry, "yes. The Dearbrook estate. Oh! yes; they are the papers I
am in want of."

"It
is singularly fortunate, at least, to be successful in securing them. I am very
glad a living person has possession of them, else it would have been very
difficult to have obtained it from them."

"So
it would; but now homeward is the word, doctor; and on my word there is reason
to be glad, for the rain is coming on very fast now, and there is no moon at
all—we had better step out."

They
did, for the three walked as fast as the nature of the soil would permit them,
and the darkness of the night.

TELLS WHAT BECAME OF THE SECOND VAMPYRE WHO SOUGHT VARNEY.

We
left the Hungarian nobleman swimming down the stream; he swam slowly, and used
but little exertion in doing so. He appeared to use his hands only as a means
of assistance.

The
stream carried him onwards, and he aided himself so far that he kept the middle
of the stream, and floated along.

Where
the stream was broad and shallow, it sometimes left him a moment or two,
without being strong enough to carry him onwards; then he would pause, as if
gaining strength, and finally he would, when he had rested, and the water came
a little faster, and lifted him, make a desperate plunge, and swim forward,
until he again came in deep water, and then he went slowly along with the
stream, as he supported himself.

It
was strange thus to see a man going down slowly, and without any effort
whatever, passing through shade and through moonlight—now lost in the shadow of
the tall trees, and now emerging into that part of the stream which ran through
meadows and cornfields, until the stream widened, and then, at length, a
ferry-house was to be seen in the distance.

Then
came the ferryman out of his hut, to look upon the beautiful moonlight scene.
It was cold, but pure, and brilliantly light. The chaste moon was sailing
through the heavens, and the stars diminished in their lustre by the power of
the luminous goddess of night.

There
was a small cottage—true, it was somewhat larger than was generally supposed by
any casual observer who might look at it. The place was rambling, and built
chiefly of wood; but in it lived the ferryman, his wife, and family; among
these was a young girl about seventeen years of age, but, at the same time,
very beautiful.

They
had been preparing their supper, and the ferryman himself walked out to look at
the river and the shadows of the tall trees that stood on the hill opposite.

While
thus employed, he heard a plashing in the water, and on turning towards the
quarter whence the sound proceeded for a few yards, he came to the spot where
he saw the stranger struggling in the stream.

"Good
God!" he muttered to himself, as he saw the struggle continued; "good
God! he will sink and drown."

As he
spoke, he jumped into his boat and pushed it off, for the purpose of stopping
the descent of the body down the stream, and in a moment or two it came near to
him. He muttered,—

"Come,
come—he tries to swim; life is not gone yet—he will do now, if I can catch hold
of him. Swimming with one's face under the stream doesn't say much for his
skill, though it may account for the fact that he don't cry out."

As
the drowning man neared, the ferryman held on by the boat-hook, and stooping
down, he seized the drowning man by the hair of the head, and then paused.

After
a time, he lifted him up, and placed him across the edge of the boat, and then,
with some struggling of his own, he was rolled over into the boat.

"You
are safe now," muttered the ferryman.

The
stranger spoke not, but sat or leaned against the boat's head, sobbing and
catching at his breath, and spitting off his stomach the water it might be
presumed he had swallowed.

The
ferryman put back to the shore, when he paused, and secured his boat, and then
pulled the stranger out, saying,—

"Do
you feel any better now?"

"Yes,"
said the stranger; "I feel I am living—thanks to you, my good friend; I
owe you my life."

"You
are welcome to that," replied the ferryman; "it costs me nothing;
and, as for my little trouble, I should be sorry to think of that, when a
fellow-being's life was in danger."

"You
have behaved very well—very well, and I can do little more now than thank you,
for I have been robbed of all I possessed about me at the moment."

"Oh!
you have been robbed?"

"Aye,
truly, I have, and have been thrown into the water, and thus I have been nearly
murdered."

"It
is lucky you escaped from them without further injury," said the ferryman;
"but come in doors, you must be mad to stand here in the cold."

"Thank
you; your hospitality is great, and, at this moment, of the greatest importance
to me."

"Such
as we have," said the honest ferryman, "you shall be welcome to. Come
in—come in."

He
turned round and led the way to the house, which he entered, saying—as he
opened the small door that led into the main apartment, where all the family
were assembled, waiting for the almost only meal they had had that day, for the
ferryman had not the means, before the sun had set, of sending for food, and
then it was a long way before it could be found, and then it was late before
they could get it,—

"Wife,
we have a stranger to sleep with us to-night, and for whom we must prepare a
bed."

"A
stranger!" echoed the wife—"a stranger, and we so poor!"

"Yes;
one whose life I have saved, and who was nearly drowned. We cannot refuse
hospitality upon such an occasion as that, you know, wife."

The
wife looked at the stranger as he entered the room, and sat down by the fire.

"I
am sorry," he said, "to intrude upon you; but I will make you amends
for the interruption and inconvenience I may cause you; but it is too late to
apply elsewhere, and yet I am doubtful, if there were, whether I could go any
further."

"No,
no," said the ferryman; "I am sure a man who has been beaten and
robbed, and thrown into a rapid and, in some parts, deep stream, is not fit to
travel at this time of night."

"You
are lonely about here," said the stranger, as he shivered by the fire.

"Yes,
rather; but we are used to it."

"You
have a family, too; that must help to lighten the hours away, and help you over
the long evenings."

"So
you may think, stranger, and, at times, so it is; but when food runs short, it
is a long while to daylight, before any more money can be had. To be sure, we
have fish in the river, and we have what we can grow in the garden; but these
are not all the wants that we feel, and those others are sometimes pinching.
However, we are thankful for what we have, and complain but little when we can
get no more; but sometimes we do repine—though I cannot say we ought—but I am
merely relating the fact, whether it be right or wrong."

"Exactly.
How old is your daughter?"

"She
is seventeen come Allhallow's eve."

"That
is not far hence," said the stranger. "I hope I may be in this part
of the country—and I think I shall—I will on that eve pay you a visit; not one
on which I shall be a burden to you, but one more useful to you, and more
consonant to my character."

"The
future will tell us all about that," said the ferryman; "at present
we will see what we can do, without complaining, or taxing anybody."

The
stranger and the ferryman sat conversing for some time before the fire, and
then the latter pointed out to him which was his bed—one made up near the fire,
for the sake of its warmth; and then the ferryman retired to the next room, a
place which was merely divided by an imperfect partition.

However,
they all fell soundly asleep. The hours on that day had been longer than usual;
there was not that buoyancy of spirit; when they retired, they fell off into a
heavy, deep slumber.

From
this they were suddenly aroused by loud cries and piercing screams from one of
the family.

So
loud and shrill were the cries, that they all started up, terrified and
bewildered beyond measure, unable to apply their faculties to any one object.

"Help—help,
father!—help!" shrieked the voice of the young girl whom we have before
noticed.

The
ferryman jumped up, and rushed to the spot where his daughter lay.

"Fanny,"
he said—"Fanny, what ails thee—what ails thee? Tell me, my dear
child."

"Oh!"
she exclaimed, almost choked—"oh, father! are we all alone? I am
terrified."

"What
ails thee—what ails thee? Tell me what caused you to scream out in such a
manner?"

"I—I—that
is I, father, thought—but no, I am sure it was reality. Where is the
stranger?"

"A
light—a light!" shouted the fisherman.

In
another moment a light was brought him, and he discovered the stranger
reclining in his bed, but awake, and looking around him, as if in the utmost
amazement.

"What
has happened?" he said—"what has happened?"

"That
is more than I know as yet," the man replied. "Come, Fanny," he
added, "tell me what it is you fear. What caused you to scream out in that
dreadful manner?"

"Oh,
father—the vampyre!"

"Great
God! what do you mean, Fanny, by that?"

"I
hardly know, father. I was fast asleep, when I thought I felt something at my
throat; but being very sound asleep, I did not immediately awake. Presently I
felt the sharp pang of teeth being driven into the flesh of my neck—I awoke,
and found the vampyre at his repast. Oh, God! oh, God! what shall I do?"

"Stay,
my child, let us examine the wound," said the fisherman, and he held the
candle to the spot where the vampyre's teeth had been applied. There, sure
enough, were teeth marks, such as a human being's would make were they applied,
but no blood had been drawn therefrom.

"Come,
come, Fanny; so far, by divine Providence, you are not injured; another moment,
and the mischief would have been done entire and complete, and you would have
been his victim."

Then
turning to the stranger, he said,—

"You
have had some hand in this. No human being but you could come into this place.
The cottage door is secured. You must be the vampyre."

"I!"

"Yes;
who else could?"

"I!—As
Heaven's my judge—but there, it's useless to speak of it; I have not been out
of my bed. In this place, dark as it is, and less used to darkness than you, I
could not even find my way about.—It is impossible."

"Get
out of your bed, and let me feel," said the ferryman, peremptorily—"get
out, and I will soon tell."

The
stranger arose, and began to dress himself, and the ferryman immediately felt
the bed on which he had been lying; but it was ice cold—so cold that he started
upon his legs in an instant, exclaiming with vehemence,—

"It
is you, vile wretch! that has attempted to steal into the cottage of the poor
man, and then to rob him of his only child, and that child of her heart's
blood, base ingrate!"

"My
friend, you are wrong, entirely wrong. I am not the creature you believe me. I
have slept, and slept soundly, and awoke not until your daughter
screamed."

"Scoundrel!—liar!—base
wretch! you shall not remain alive to injure those who have but one life to
lose."

As he
spoke, the ferryman made a desperate rush at the vampyre, and seized him by the
throat, and a violent struggle ensued, in which the superior strength of the
ferryman prevailed, and he brought his antagonist to the earth, at the same
time bestowing upon him some desperate blows.

"Thou
shall go to the same element from which I took thee," said the ferryman,
"and there swim or sink as thou wilt until some one shall drag thee
ashore, and when they do, may they have a better return than I."

As he
spoke, he dragged along the stranger by main force until they came to the bank
of the river, and then pausing, to observe the deepest part, he said,—

"Here,
then, you shall go."

The
vampyre struggled, and endeavoured to speak, but he could not; the grasp at his
throat prevented all attempts at speech; and then, with a sudden exertion of
his strength, the ferryman lifted the stranger up, and heaved him some distance
into the river.

Then
in deep water sank the body.

The
ferryman watched for some moments, and farther down the stream he saw the body
again rise upon the current and struggling slightly, as for life—now whirled
around and around, and then carried forward with the utmost velocity.

This
continued as far as the moonlight enabled the ferryman to see, and then, with a
slow step and clouded brow, he returned to his cottage, which he entered, and
closed the door.