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) (64 page)
Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
*****
At an early hour on the ensuing
morning, Francisco di Riverola and his beautiful, blushing bride quitted the
chamber where they had passed the night in each other’s arms, and repaired to
the apartment where so many terrible mysteries had been revealed to them, and
so many dreadful incidents had occurred on the preceding day. Hand in hand they
had traversed the passages and the corridors leading to that room in which they
had left Christian Rosencrux with the dead Wagner and the dying Nisida; hand in
hand and silently they went—that fine young noble and charming bride!
On reaching the door of the
chamber, Francisco knocked gently; and the glance of intelligence which passed
between himself and Flora showed that each was a prey to the same breathless
suspense; the same mingled feelings of bright hopes and vague fears. In a few
moments the door was slowly opened; and the venerable old man appeared, his
countenance wearing a solemn and mournful aspect. Then Francisco and the young
countess knew that all was over; and tears started into their eyes.
Christian Rosencrux beckoned them
to advance toward the bed, around which the curtains were drawn closer; and as
they entered the room, the rapid and simultaneous glances which they cast
toward the spot where Fernand Wagner fell down and surrendered up his breath,
showed them that the corpse had been removed. Approaching the bed with slow and
measured steps, Rosencrux drew aside the drapery; and for a moment Francisco
and Flora shrank back from the spectacle which met their view; but at the next
instant they advanced to the couch, and contemplated with mournful attention
the scene presented to them. For there—upon that couch—side by side, lay
Fernand Wagner and Nisida of Riverola—stiff, motionless, cold.
“Grieve not for her loss,
children,” said Christian Rosencrux; “she has gone to a happier realm—for the
sincere repentance which she manifested in her last hours has atoned for all
the evil she wrought in her lifetime. From the moment, young lady, when she
banished from her soul the rancor long harbored there against thee—from the
instant that she received thee in her arms, and called thee sister—the blessing
of Heaven was vouchsafed unto her. She was penitent, very penitent, while I
administered to her the consolations of religion, and a complete change came
over her mind. Grieve not, then, for her; happy on earth she never could have
been again—but happy in heaven she doubtless now is!”
Francisco and the young countess
knelt by the side of the couch, and prayed for a long time in silence, with
their faces buried in their hands. When they again raised their heads, and
glanced around, the venerable old man no longer met their eyes. Christian
Rosencrux had departed, leaving Francisco and Flora
in complete ignorance of his
name; but they experienced a secret conviction that he was something more than
an ordinary mortal; and the remembrance of the blessing which he had bestowed
upon them the preceding day, shed a soothing and holy influence over their
minds.
Little now remains to be said; a
few brief observations and a rapid glance at the eventual fortunes and fates of
the leading characters in the tale, will acquit us of our task. Nisida and
Wagner were entombed in the same vault; and their names were inscribed upon the
same mural tablet. The funeral was conducted with the utmost privacy—and the
mourners were few, but their grief was sincere. And among them was Dr. Duras,
who had loved Nisida as if she had been his own child. On the night following
the one on which these obsequies took place, another funeral procession
departed from the Riverola Palace to the adjacent church; and two coffins were
on this occasion, as on the former, consigned to the family tomb. But the
ceremony was conducted with even more privacy than the first; and one mourner
alone was present. This was Francisco himself; and thus did he perform the sad
duty of interring in sacred ground the remains of his ill-fated mother
Vitangela and her brother Eugenio. The manuscript of the late Count of Riverola
was burnt; the closet which so long contained such fearful mysteries was walled
up; the chamber where so many dreadful incidents had occurred was never used
during the lifetime of Francisco and Flora. The grand vizier remained with his
army a few days beneath the walls of Florence: and during that time Isaachar
ben Solomon so far recovered his health and strength, under the skillful care
of an Egyptian physician, as to be able to visit his dwelling in the suburb of
Alla Croce, and secure the immense wealth which he had amassed during a long
life of activity and financial prosperity.
When the day of the grand
vizier’s departure arrived, he took a tender farewell of his sister Flora and
his aunt, both of whom he loaded with the most costly presents; and in return,
he received from Francisco a gift of several horses of rare breed and immense
value. Nor did this species of interchange of proofs of attachment end here,
for every year, until Ibrahim’s death, did that great minister and the Count of
Riverola forward to each other letters and rich presents—thus maintaining to
the end that friendship which had commenced in the Island of Rhodes, and which
was cemented by the marriage of Francisco and Flora. Isaachar ben Solomon and
Manuel d’Orsini accompanied the grand vizier to Constantinople, and were
treated by him with every mark of distinction. But the Jew never completely
recovered from the tortures which he had endured in the prison of the
inquisition; and in less than two years from the date of his release, he died
in the arms of the marquis, to whom he left the whole of his immense fortune.
Manuel d’Orsini abjured Christianity, and entered the Ottoman service, in which
his success was brilliant and his rise rapid, thanks to the favor of the grand
vizier. The reader of Ottoman history will find the name of Mustapha Pasha
frequently mentioned with honor in the reign
of
Solyman the Magnificent—and Mustapha Pasha, beglerbeg of the mighty province of
Anatolia, was once Manuel d’Orsini.
For nearly sixteen years did
Ibrahim Pasha govern the Ottoman realms in the name of the sultan: for nearly
sixteen years did he hold the imperial seals which had been intrusted to him at
a period when the colossal power of the empire seemed tottering to its fall.
During that interval he raised the Ottoman name to the highest pinnacle of
glory—extended the dominions of his master—and shook the proudest thrones in
Christendom to their foundation. Ferdinand, King of Hungary, called him
“brother,” and the Emperor Charles the Fifth of Germany styled him “cousin” in
the epistolary communications which passed between them. But a Greek who had
long, long cherished a deadly hatred against the puissant grand vizier, at last
contrived to enter the service of the sultan in the guise of a slave; and this
man, succeeding in gaining that monarch’s ear, whispered mysterious warnings
against the ambition of Ibrahim. Solyman became alarmed; and, opening his eyes
to the real position of affairs, perceived that the vizier was indeed far more
powerful than himself. This was enough to insure the immediate destruction of a
Turkish minister.
Accordingly, one evening, Ibrahim
was invited to dine with the sultan, and to sleep at the imperial palace. Never
had Solyman appeared more attached to his favorite than on this occasion and
Ibrahim retired to a chamber prepared for him, with a heart elated by the
caresses bestowed upon him by his imperial master. But in the dead of night he
was awakened by the entrance of several persons into the room; and starting up
with terror, the grand vizier beheld
four black slaves
, headed by a
Greek, creep snake-like toward his couch. And that Greek’s countenance,
sinister and menacing, was immediately recognized by the affrighted
Ibrahim—though more than fifteen years had elapsed since he had set eyes upon
those features. Short and ineffectual was the struggle against the messengers
of death; the accursed bowstring encircled the neck of the unhappy Ibrahim, and
at the moment when the vindictive Greek drew tight the fatal noose, the last
words which hissed in the ears of the grand vizier, were—“The wrongs of Calanthe
are avenged!”
Thus perished the most powerful
minister that ever held the imperial seals of Ottoman domination;—and the
long-pent-up but never subdued vindictive feelings of Demetrius were assuaged
at length! Dame Francatelli had long been numbered with those who were gone to
their eternal homes when the news of the death of Ibrahim Pasha reached
Florence. But the Count and Countess of Riverola shed many, many tears at the
sad and untimely fate of the grand vizier.
Time, however, smooths down all
grief; and happiness again returned to the Riverola Palace. For when Francisco
and Flora looked around them and beheld the smiling progeny which had blessed
their union,—when they experienced the sweet solace of each other’s sympathy,
the outpourings of two hearts which beat as one, ever in unison, and filled
with a mutual love which
time
impaired not,—then they remembered that it was useless and wrong to repine
against the decrees of Providence; and, in this trusting faith in Heaven and in
the enjoyment of each other’s unwearying affection, they lived to a good old
age—dying at length in the arms of their children.
THE END
The unprecedented success of the romance of "Varney the Vampyre,"
leaves the Author but little to say further, than that he accepts that success
and its results as gratefully as it is possible for any one to do popular
favours.
A belief in the
existence of Vampyres first took its rise in Norway and Sweden, from whence it
rapidly spread to more southern regions, taking a firm hold of the imaginations
of the more credulous portion of mankind.
The following
romance is collected from seemingly the most authentic sources, and the Author
must leave the question of credibility entirely to his readers, not even
thinking that he is peculiarly called upon to express his own opinion upon the
subject.
Nothing has been
omitted in the life of the unhappy Varney, which could tend to throw a light
upon his most extraordinary career, and the fact of his death just as it is
here related, made a great noise at the time through Europe and is to be found
in the public prints for the year 1713.
With these few
observations, the Author and Publisher, are well content to leave the work in
the hands of a public, which has stamped it with an approbation far exceeding
their most sanguine expectations, and which is calculated to act as the
strongest possible incentive to the production of other works, which in a like,
or perchance a still further degree may be deserving of public patronage and
support.
To the whole of
the Metropolitan Press for their laudatory notices, the Author is peculiarly
obliged.
London
Sep. 1847
——"How graves give up their
dead.
And how the night air hideous
grows
With shrieks!"
MIDNIGHT.—THE HAIL-STORM.—THE DREADFUL VISITOR.—THE VAMPYRE.
The
solemn tones of an old cathedral clock have announced midnight—the air is thick
and heavy—a strange, death like stillness pervades all nature. Like the ominous
calm which precedes some more than usually terrific outbreak of the elements,
they seem to have paused even in their ordinary fluctuations, to gather a
terrific strength for the great effort. A faint peal of thunder now comes from
far off. Like a signal gun for the battle of the winds to begin, it appeared to
awaken them from their lethargy, and one awful, warring hurricane swept over a
whole city, producing more devastation in the four or five minutes it lasted,
than would a half century of ordinary phenomena.
It
was as if some giant had blown upon some toy town, and scattered many of the
buildings before the hot blast of his terrific breath; for as suddenly as that
blast of wind had come did it cease, and all was as still and calm as before.
Sleepers
awakened, and thought that what they had heard must be the confused chimera of
a dream. They trembled and turned to sleep again.
All
is still—still as the very grave. Not a sound breaks the magic of repose. What
is that—a strange, pattering noise, as of a million of fairy feet? It is
hail—yes, a hail-storm has burst over the city. Leaves are dashed from the
trees, mingled with small boughs; windows that lie most opposed to the direct
fury of the pelting particles of ice are broken, and the rapt repose that
before was so remarkable in its intensity, is exchanged for a noise which, in
its accumulation, drowns every cry of surprise or consternation which here and
there arose from persons who found their houses invaded by the storm.
Now
and then, too, there would come a sudden gust of wind that in its strength, as
it blew laterally, would, for a moment, hold millions of the hailstones
suspended in mid air, but it was only to dash them with redoubled force in some
new direction, where more mischief was to be done.
Oh,
how the storm raged! Hail—rain—wind. It was, in very truth, an awful night.
There
is an antique chamber in an ancient house. Curious and quaint carvings adorn
the walls, and the large chimney-piece is a curiosity of itself. The ceiling is
low, and a large bay window, from roof to floor, looks to the west. The window
is latticed, and filled with curiously painted glass and rich stained pieces,
which send in a strange, yet beautiful light, when sun or moon shines into the
apartment. There is but one portrait in that room, although the walls seem
panelled for the express purpose of containing a series of pictures. That
portrait is of a young man, with a pale face, a stately brow, and a strange
expression about the eyes, which no one cared to look on twice.
There
is a stately bed in that chamber, of carved walnut-wood is it made, rich in
design and elaborate in execution; one of those works of art which owe their
existence to the Elizabethan era. It is hung with heavy silken and damask
furnishing; nodding feathers are at its corners—covered with dust are they, and
they lend a funereal aspect to the room. The floor is of polished oak.
God!
how the hail dashes on the old bay window! Like an occasional discharge of
mimic musketry, it comes clashing, beating, and cracking upon the small panes;
but they resist it—their small size saves them; the wind, the hail, the rain,
expend their fury in vain.
The
bed in that old chamber is occupied. A creature formed in all fashions of
loveliness lies in a half sleep upon that ancient couch—a girl young and
beautiful as a spring morning. Her long hair has escaped from its confinement
and streams over the blackened coverings of the bedstead; she has been restless
in her sleep, for the clothing of the bed is in much confusion. One arm is over
her head, the other hangs nearly off the side of the bed near to which she
lies. A neck and bosom that would have formed a study for the rarest sculptor
that ever Providence gave genius to, were half disclosed. She moaned slightly
in her sleep, and once or twice the lips moved as if in prayer—at least one
might judge so, for the name of Him who suffered for all came once faintly from
them.
She
has endured much fatigue, and the storm does not awaken her; but it can disturb
the slumbers it does not possess the power to destroy entirely. The turmoil of
the elements wakes the senses, although it cannot entirely break the repose
they have lapsed into.
Oh,
what a world of witchery was in that mouth, slightly parted, and exhibiting
within the pearly teeth that glistened even in the faint light that came from
that bay window. How sweetly the long silken eyelashes lay upon the cheek. Now
she moves, and one shoulder is entirely visible—whiter, fairer than the
spotless clothing of the bed on which she lies, is the smooth skin of that fair
creature, just budding into womanhood, and in that transition state which presents
to us all the charms of the girl—almost of the child, with the more matured
beauty and gentleness of advancing years.
Was
that lightning? Yes—an awful, vivid, terrifying flash—then a roaring peal of
thunder, as if a thousand mountains were rolling one over the other in the blue
vault of Heaven! Who sleeps now in that ancient city? Not one living soul. The
dread trumpet of eternity could not more effectually have awakened any one.
The
hail continues. The wind continues. The uproar of the elements seems at its
height. Now she awakens—that beautiful girl on the antique bed; she opens those
eyes of celestial blue, and a faint cry of alarm bursts from her lips. At least
it is a cry which, amid the noise and turmoil without, sounds but faint and
weak. She sits upon the bed and presses her hands upon her eyes. Heavens! what
a wild torrent of wind, and rain, and hail! The thunder likewise seems intent
upon awakening sufficient echoes to last until the next flash of forked
lightning should again produce the wild concussion of the air. She murmurs a
prayer—a prayer for those she loves best; the names of those dear to her gentle
heart come from her lips; she weeps and prays; she thinks then of what
devastation the storm must surely produce, and to the great God of Heaven she
prays for all living things. Another flash—a wild, blue, bewildering flash of
lightning streams across that bay window, for an instant bringing out every
colour in it with terrible distinctness. A shriek bursts from the lips of the
young girl, and then, with eyes fixed upon that window, which, in another
moment, is all darkness, and with such an expression of terror upon her face as
it had never before known, she trembled, and the perspiration of intense fear
stood upon her brow.
"What—what
was it?" she gasped; "real, or a delusion? Oh, God, what was it? A
figure tall and gaunt, endeavouring from the outside to unclasp the window. I
saw it. That flash of lightning revealed it to me. It stood the whole length of
the window."
There
was a lull of the wind. The hail was not falling so thickly—moreover, it now
fell, what there was of it, straight, and yet a strange clattering sound came
upon the glass of that long window. It could not be a delusion—she is awake,
and she hears it. What can produce it? Another flash of lightning—another
shriek—there could be now no delusion.
A
tall figure is standing on the ledge immediately outside the long window. It is
its finger-nails upon the glass that produces the sound so like the hail, now
that the hail has ceased. Intense fear paralysed the limbs of that beautiful
girl. That one shriek is all she can utter—with hands clasped, a face of
marble, a heart beating so wildly in her bosom, that each moment it seems as if
it would break its confines, eyes distended and fixed upon the window, she
waits, froze with horror. The pattering and clattering of the nails continue.
No word is spoken, and now she fancies she can trace the darker form of that
figure against the window, and she can see the long arms moving to and fro, feeling
for some mode of entrance. What strange light is that which now gradually
creeps up into the air? red and terrible—brighter and brighter it grows. The
lightning has set fire to a mill, and the reflection of the rapidly consuming
building falls upon that long window. There can be no mistake. The figure is
there, still feeling for an entrance, and clattering against the glass with its
long nails, that appear as if the growth of many years had been untouched. She
tries to scream again but a choking sensation comes over her, and she cannot.
It is too dreadful—she tries to move—each limb seems weighed down by tons of
lead—she can but in a hoarse faint whisper cry,—
"Help—help—help—help!"
And
that one word she repeats like a person in a dream. The red glare of the fire
continues. It throws up the tall gaunt figure in hideous relief against the
long window. It shows, too, upon the one portrait that is in the chamber, and
that portrait appears to fix its eyes upon the attempting intruder, while the
flickering light from the fire makes it look fearfully lifelike. A small pane
of glass is broken, and the form from without introduces a long gaunt hand,
which seems utterly destitute of flesh. The fastening is removed, and one-half
of the window, which opens like folding doors, is swung wide open upon its
hinges.
And
yet now she could not scream—she could not move. "Help!—help!—help!"
was all she could say. But, oh, that look of terror that sat upon her face, it
was dreadful—a look to haunt the memory for a lifetime—a look to obtrude itself
upon the happiest moments, and turn them to bitterness.
The
figure turns half round, and the light falls upon the face. It is perfectly
white—perfectly bloodless. The eyes look like polished tin; the lips are drawn
back, and the principal feature next to those dreadful eyes is the teeth—the
fearful looking teeth—projecting like those of some wild animal, hideously,
glaringly white, and fang-like. It approaches the bed with a strange, gliding
movement. It clashes together the long nails that literally appear to hang from
the finger ends. No sound comes from its lips. Is she going mad—that young and
beautiful girl exposed to so much terror? she has drawn up all her limbs; she
cannot even now say help. The power of articulation is gone, but the power of
movement has returned to her; she can draw herself slowly along to the other
side of the bed from that towards which the hideous appearance is coming.
But
her eyes are fascinated. The glance of a serpent could not have produced a
greater effect upon her than did the fixed gaze of those awful,
metallic-looking eyes that were bent on her face. Crouching down so that the
gigantic height was lost, and the horrible, protruding, white face was the most
prominent object, came on the figure. What was it?—what did it want there?—what
made it look so hideous—so unlike an inhabitant of the earth, and yet to be on
it?
Now
she has got to the verge of the bed, and the figure pauses. It seemed as if
when it paused she lost the power to proceed. The clothing of the bed was now
clutched in her hands with unconscious power. She drew her breath short and
thick. Her bosom heaves, and her limbs tremble, yet she cannot withdraw her
eyes from that marble-looking face. He holds her with his glittering eye.
The
storm has ceased—all is still. The winds are hushed; the church clock proclaims
the hour of one: a hissing sound comes from the throat of the hideous being,
and he raises his long, gaunt arms—the lips move. He advances. The girl places
one small foot from the bed on to the floor. She is unconsciously dragging the
clothing with her. The door of the room is in that direction—can she reach it?
Has she power to walk?—can she withdraw her eyes from the face of the intruder,
and so break the hideous charm? God of Heaven! is it real, or some dream so
like reality as to nearly overturn the judgment for ever?
The
figure has paused again, and half on the bed and half out of it that young girl
lies trembling. Her long hair streams across the entire width of the bed. As
she has slowly moved along she has left it streaming across the pillows. The
pause lasted about a minute—oh, what an age of agony. That minute was, indeed,
enough for madness to do its full work in.
With
a sudden rush that could not be foreseen—with a strange howling cry that was
enough to awaken terror in every breast, the figure seized the long tresses of
her hair, and twining them round his bony hands he held her to the bed. Then
she screamed—Heaven granted her then power to scream. Shriek followed shriek in
rapid succession. The bed-clothes fell in a heap by the side of the bed—she was
dragged by her long silken hair completely on to it again. Her beautifully
rounded limbs quivered with the agony of her soul. The glassy, horrible eyes of
the figure ran over that angelic form with a hideous satisfaction—horrible
profanation. He drags her head to the bed's edge. He forces it back by the long
hair still entwined in his grasp. With a plunge he seizes her neck in his
fang-like teeth—a gush of blood, and a hideous sucking noise follows.
The girl has swooned, and the
vampyre is at his hideous repast!
