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) (86 page)

The
two years were so nearly expired, that he made up his mind he would not
communicate either with his uncle, the admiral, or the professional gentleman
upon whose judgment he set so high and so just a value. And at the Hall he
considered he was in perfect security from any interruption, and so he would
have been, but for that letter which was written to Admiral Bell, and signed
Josiah Crinkles, but which Josiah Crinkles so emphatically denied all knowledge
of. Who wrote it, remains at present one of those mysteries which time, in the
progress of our narrative, will clear up.

The
opportune, or rather the painful juncture at which Charles Holland had arrived
at Bannerworth Hall, we are well cognisant of. Where he expected to find smiles
he found tears, and the family with whom he had fondly hoped he should pass a
time of uninterrupted happiness, he found plunged in the gloom incidental to an
occurrence of the most painful character.

Our
readers will perceive, too, that coming as he did with an utter disbelief in
the vampyre, Charles had been compelled, in some measure, to yield to the
overwhelming weight of evidence which had been brought to bear upon the subject,
and although he could not exactly be said to believe in the existence and the
appearance of the vampyre at Bannerworth Hall, he was upon the subject in a
most painful state of doubt and indecision.

Charles
now took an opportunity to speak to Henry privately, and inform him exactly how
he stood with his uncle, adding—

"Now,
my dear friend, if you forbid me, I will not tell my uncle of this sad affair,
but I must own I would rather do so fully and freely, and trust to his own
judgment upon it."

"I
implore you to do so," said Henry. "Conceal nothing. Let him know the
precise situation and circumstances of the family by all means. There is
nothing so mischievous as secrecy: I have the greatest dislike to it. I beg you
tell him all."

"I
will; and with it, Henry, I will tell him that my heart is irrevocably
Flora's."

"Your
generous clinging to one whom your heart saw and loved, under very different
auspices," said Henry, "believe me, Charles, sinks deep into my
heart. She has related to me something of a meeting she had with you."

"Oh,
Henry, she may tell you what I said; but there are no words which can express
the depth of my tenderness. 'Tis only time which can prove how much I love
her."

"Go
to your uncle," said Henry, in a voice of emotion. "God bless you, Charles.
It is true you would have been fully justified in leaving my sister; but the
nobler and the more generous path you have chosen has endeared you to us
all."

"Where
is Flora now?" said Charles.

"She
is in her own room. I have persuaded her, by some occupation, to withdraw her
mind from a too close and consequently painful contemplation of the distressing
circumstances in which she feels herself placed."

"You
are right. What occupation best pleases her?"

"The
pages of romance once had a charm for her gentle spirit."

"Then
come with me, and, from among the few articles I brought with me here, I can
find some papers which may help her to pass some merry hours."

Charles
took Henry to his room, and, unstrapping a small valise, he took from it some
manuscript papers, one of which he handed to Henry, saying—

"Give
that to her: it contains an account of a wild adventure, and shows that human
nature may suffer much more—and that wrongfully too—than came ever under our
present mysterious affliction."

"I
will," said Henry; "and, coming from you, I am sure it will have a
more than ordinary value in her eyes."

"I
will now," said Charles, "seek my uncle. I will tell him how I love
her; and at the end of my narration, if he should not object, I would fain
introduce her to him, that he might himself see that, let what beauty may have
met his gaze, her peer he never yet met with, and may in vain hope to do
so."

"You
are partial, Charles."

"Not
so. 'Tis true I look upon her with a lover's eyes, but I look still with those of
truthful observation."

"Well,
I will speak to her about seeing your uncle, and let you know. No doubt, he
will not be at all averse to an interview with any one who stands high in your
esteem."

The
young men now separated—Henry, to seek his beautiful sister; and Charles, to
communicate to his uncle the strange particulars connected with Varney, the
Vampyre.

FLORA IN HER CHAMBER.—HER FEARS.—THE MANUSCRIPT.—AN
ADVENTURE.

Henry
found Flora in her chamber. She was in deep thought when he tapped at the door
of the room, and such was the state of nervous excitement in which she was that
even the demand for admission made by him to the room was sufficient to produce
from her a sudden cry of alarm.

"Who—who
is there?" she then said, in accents full of terror.

"'Tis
I, dear Flora," said Henry.

She
opened the door in an instant, and, with a feeling of grateful relief,
exclaimed—

"Oh,
Henry, is it only you?"

"Who
did you suppose it was, Flora?"

She
shuddered.

"I—I—do
not know; but I am so foolish now, and so weak-spirited, that the slightest
noise is enough to alarm me."

"You
must, dear Flora, fight up, as I had hoped you were doing, against this
nervousness."

"I
will endeavour. Did not some strangers come a short time since, brother?"

"Strangers
to us, Flora, but not to Charles Holland. A relative of his—an uncle whom he
much respects, has found him out here, and has now come to see him."

"And
to advise him," said Flora, as she sunk into a chair, and wept bitterly;
"to advise him, of course, to desert, as he would a pestilence, a vampyre
bride."

"Hush,
hush! for the sake of Heaven, never make use of such a phrase, Flora. You know
not what a pang it brings to my heart to hear you."

"Oh,
forgive me, brother."

"Say
no more of it, Flora. Heed it not. It may be possible—in fact, it may well be
supposed as more than probable—that the relative of Charles Holland may shrink
from sanctioning the alliance, but do you rest securely in the possession of
the heart which I feel convinced is wholly yours, and which, I am sure, would
break ere it surrendered you."

A
smile of joy came across Flora's pale but beautiful face, as she cried,—

"And
you, dear brother—you think so much of Charles's faith?"

"As
Heaven is my judge, I do."

"Then
I will bear up with what strength God may give me against all things that seek
to depress me; I will not be conquered."

"You
are right, Flora; I rejoice to find in you such a disposition. Here is some
manuscript which Charles thinks will amuse you, and he bade me ask you if you
would be introduced to his uncle."

"Yes,
yes—willingly."

"I
will tell him so; I know he wishes it, and I will tell him so. Be patient, dear
Flora, and all may yet be well."

"But,
brother, on your sacred word, tell me do you not think this Sir Francis Varney
is the vampyre?"

"I
know not what to think, and do not press me for a judgment now. He shall be
watched."

Henry
left his sister, and she sat for some moments in silence with the papers before
her that Charles had sent her.

"Yes,"
she then said, gently, "he loves me—Charles loves me; I ought to be very,
very happy. He loves me. In those words are concentrated a whole world of
joy—Charles loves me—he will not forsake me. Oh, was there ever such dear
love—such fond devotion?—never, never. Dear Charles. He loves me—he loves
me!"

The
very repetition of these words had a charm for Flora—a charm which was
sufficient to banish much sorrow; even the much-dreaded vampyre was forgotten
while the light of love was beaming upon her, and she told herself,—

"He
is mine!—he is mine! He loves me truly."

After
a time, she turned to the manuscript which her brother had brought her, and,
with a far greater concentration of mind than she had thought it possible she
could bring to it, considering the many painful subjects of contemplation that
she might have occupied herself with, she read the pages with very great
pleasure and interest.

The
tale was one which chained her attention both by its incidents and the manner
of its recital. It commenced as follows, and was entitled, "Hugo de Verole;
or, the Double Plot."

In a
very mountainous part of Hungary lived a nobleman whose paternal estates
covered many a mile of rock and mountain land, as well as some fertile valleys,
in which reposed a hardy and contented peasantry. The old Count de Hugo de
Verole had quitted life early, and had left his only son, the then Count Hugo
de Verole, a boy of scarcely ten years, under the guardianship of his mother,
an arbitrary and unscrupulous woman.

The
count, her husband, had been one of those quiet, even-tempered men, who have no
desire to step beyond the sphere in which they are placed; he had no cares,
save those included in the management of his estate, the prosperity of his
serfs, and the happiness of those, around him.

His
death caused much lamentation throughout his domains, it was so sudden and
unexpected, being in the enjoyment of his health and strength until a few hours
previous, and then his energies became prostrated by pain and disease. There
was a splendid funeral ceremony, which, according to the usages of his house,
took place by torch-light.

So
great and rapid were the ravages of disease, that the count's body quickly
became a mass of corruption. All were amazed at the phenomena, and were
heartily glad when the body was disposed of in the place prepared for its
reception in the vaults of his own castle. The guests who came to witness the
funeral, and attend the count's obsequies, and to condole with the widow on the
loss she had sustained, were entertained sumptuously for many days.

The
widow sustained her part well. She was inconsolable for the loss of her
husband, and mourned his death bitterly. Her grief appeared profound, but she,
with difficulty, subdued it to within decent bounds, that she might not offend
any of her numerous guests.

However,
they left her with the assurances of their profound regard, and then when they
were gone, when the last guest had departed, and were no longer visible to the
eye of the countess, as she gazed from the battlements, then her behaviour
changed totally.

She
descended from the battlements, and then with an imperious gesture she gave her
orders that all the gates of the castle should be closed, and a watch set. All
signs of mourning she ordered to be laid on one side save her own, which she
wore, and then she retired to her own apartment, where she remained unseen.

Here
the countess remained in profound meditation for nearly two days, during which
time the attendants believed she was praying for the welfare of the soul of
their deceased master, and they feared she would starve herself to death if she
remained any longer.

Just
as they had assembled together for the purpose of either recalling her from her
vigils or breaking open the door, they were amazed to see the countess open the
room-door, and stand in the midst of them.

"What
do you here?" she demanded, in a stern voice.

The
servants were amazed and terrified at her contracted brow, and forgot to answer
the question she put to them.

"What
do you do here?"

"We
came, my lady, to see—see—if—if you were well."

"And
why?"

"Because
we hadn't seen your ladyship these two days, and we thought that your grief was
so excessive that we feared some harm might befall you."

The
countess's brows contracted for a few seconds, and she was about to make a
hasty reply, but she conquered the desire to do so, and merely said,—

"I
am not well, I am faint; but, had I been dying, I should not have thanked you
for interfering to prevent me; however, you acted for the best, but do so no
more. Now prepare me some food."

The
servants, thus dismissed, repaired to their stations, but with such a degree of
alacrity, that they sufficiently showed how much they feared their mistress.

The
young count, who was only in his sixth year, knew little about the loss he had
sustained; but after a day or two's grief, there was an end of his sorrow for
the time.

That
night there came to the castle-gate a man dressed in a black cloak, attended by
a servant. They were both mounted on good horses, and they demanded to be
admitted to the presence of the Countess de Hugo de Verole.

The
message was carried to the countess, who started, but said,—

"Admit
the stranger."

Accordingly
the stranger was admitted, and shown into the apartment where the countess was
sitting.

At a
signal the servants retired, leaving the countess and the stranger alone. It
was some moments ere they spoke, and then the countess said in a low tone,—

"You
are come?"

"I
am come."

"You
cannot now, you see, perform your threat. My husband, the count, caught a
putrid disease, and he is no more."

"I
cannot indeed do what I intended, inform your husband of your amours; but I can
do something as good, and which will give you as much annoyance."

"Indeed."

"Aye,
more, it will cause you to be hated. I can spread reports."

"You
can."

"And
these may ruin you."

"They
may."

"What
do you intend to do? Do you intend that I shall be an enemy or a friend? I can
be either, according to my will."

"What,
do you desire to be either?" inquired the countess, with a careless tone.

"If
you refuse my terms, you can make me an implacable enemy, and if you grant
them, you can make me a useful friend and auxiliary," said the stranger.

"What
would you do if you were my enemy?" inquired the countess.

"It
is hardly my place," said the stranger, "to furnish you with a
knowledge of my intentions, but I will say this much, that the bankrupt Count
of Morven is your lover."

"Well?"

"And
in the second place, that you were the cause of the death of your
husband."

"How
dare you, sir—"

"I
dare say so much, and I dare say, also, that the Count of Morven bought the
drug of me, and that he gave it to you, and that you gave it to the count your
husband."

"And
what could you do if you were my friend?" inquired the countess, in the
same tone, and without emotion.

"I
should abstain from doing all this; should be able to put any one else out of
your way for you, when you get rid of this Count of Morven, as you assuredly
will; for I know him too well not to be sure of that."

"Get
rid of him!"

"Exactly,
in the same manner you got rid of the old count."

"Then
I accept your terms."

"It
is agreed, then?"

"Yes,
quite."

"Well,
then, you must order me some rooms in a tower, where I can pursue my studies in
quiet."

"You
will be seen—and noticed—all will be discovered."

"No,
indeed, I will take care of that, I can so far disguise myself that he will not
recognise me, and you can give out I am a philosopher or necromancer, or what
you will; no one will come to me—they will be terrified."

"Very
well."

"And
the gold?"

"Shall
be forthcoming as soon as I can get it. The count has placed all his gold in
safe keeping, and all I can seize are the rents as they become due."

"Very
well; but let me have them. In the meantime you must provide for me, as I have
come here with the full intention of staying here, or in some neighbouring
town."

"Indeed!"

"Yes;
and my servant must be discharged, as I want none here."

The
countess called to an attendant and gave the necessary orders, and afterwards
remained some time with the stranger, who had thus so unceremoniously thrust
himself upon her, and insisted upon staying under such strange and awful
circumstances.

The
Count of Morven came a few weeks after, and remained some days with the
countess. They were ceremonious and polite until they had a moment to retire
from before people, when the countess changed her cold disdain to a cordial and
familiar address.

"And
now, my dear Morven," she exclaimed, as soon as they were
unobserved—"and now, my dear Morven, that we are not seen, tell me, what
have you been doing with yourself?"

"Why,
I have been in some trouble. I never had gold that would stay by me. You know
my hand was always open."

"The
old complaint again."

"No;
but having come to the end of my store, I began to grow serious."

"Ah,
Morven!' said the countess, reproachfully.

"Well,
never mind; when my purse is low my spirits sink, as the mercury does with the
cold. You used to say my spirits were mercurial—I think they were."

"Well,
what did you do?"