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) (138 page)

"Heavens!
and how did you escape such a death from such people, Arthur?"—"By
adopting such a device as that I wear. The Knight of the Green Shield I'm
called."

"I
saw you to-day in the tournament."—"And there my tired and jaded
horse gave way; but to-morrow I shall have, I hope, a different fortune."

"I
hope so too."—"I will try; my arm has been good in battle, and I see
not why it should be deficient in peaceful jousts."

"Certainly
not. What fortune have you met with since you left England?"—"I was
of course known but to a few; among those few were the general under whom I
served and my more immediate officers, who I knew would not divulge my
secret."

"And
they did not?"—"No; kept it nobly, and kept their eyes upon me in
battle; and I have reaped a rich harvest in force, honour, and riches, I assure
you."

"Thank
Heaven!" said Bertha.—"Bertha, if I be conqueror, may I claim you in
the court-yard before all the spectators?"

"You
may," said Bertha, and she hung her head.—"Moreover," said Sir
Arthur, "you will not make a half promise, but when I demand you, you will
at once come down to me and accept me as your husband; if I be the victor then
he cannot object to the match."

"But
he will have many friends, and his intended bride will have many more, so that
you may run some danger among so many enemies."—"Never fear for me,
Bertha, because I shall have many friends of distinction there too—many old
friends who are tried men in battle, and whose deeds are a glory and honour to
them; besides, I shall have my commander and several gentlemen who would at
once interfere in case any unfair advantage was attempted to be taken of my
supposed weakness."

"Have
you a fresh horse?" inquired Bertha.—"I have, or shall have by the
morning; but promise me you will do what I ask you, and then my arm will be
nerved to its utmost, and I am sure to be victorious."

"I
do promise," said Bertha; "I hope you may be as successful as you
hope to be, Arthur; but suppose fortune should declare against you; suppose an
accident of any kind were to happen, what could be done then?"—"I
must be content to hide myself for ever afterwards, as a defeated knight; how
can I appear before your friends as the claimant of your hand?"

"I
will never have any other."—"But you will be forced to accept this
Guthrie de Beaumont, your father's chosen son-in-law."

"I
will seek refuge in a cloister."—"Will you fly with me, Bertha, to
some sequestered spot, where we can live in each others society?"

"Yes,"
said Bertha, "anything, save marriage with Guthrie de
Beaumont."—"Then await the tournament of to-morrow," said Sir
Arthur, "and then this may be avoided; in the meantime, keep up a good
heart and remember I am at hand."

These
two lovers parted for the present, after a protracted interview, Bertha to her
chamber, and the Knight of the Green Shield to his tent.

The
following morning was one of great preparation; the lists had been enlarged,
and the seats made more commodious, for the influx of visitors appeared to be
much greater than had been anticipated.

Moreover,
there were many old warriors of distinction to be present, which made the
bridegroom look pale and feel uncomfortable as to the results of the
tournament. The tilting was to begin at an early hour, and then the feasting
and revelry would begin early in the evening, after the tilting had all passed
off.

In
that day's work there were many thrown from their saddles, and many broke their
lances. The bridegroom tilted with several knights, and came off victorious, or
without disadvantage to either.

The
green knight, on the contrary, tilted with but few, and always victorious, and
such matches were with men who had been men of some name in the wars, or at
least in the tilt yard.

The
sports drew to a close, and when the bridegroom became the challenger, the
Knight of the Green Shield at once rode out quietly to meet him. The encounter
could not well be avoided, and the bridegroom would willingly have declined the
joust with a knight who had disposed of his enemies so easily, and so
unceremoniously as he had.

The
first encounter was enough; the bridegroom was thrown to a great distance, and
lay insensible on the ground, and was carried out of the field. There was an
immediate sensation among the friends of the bridegroom, several of whom rode
out to challenge the stranger knight for his presumption.

In
this, however, they had misreckoned the chances, for the challenged accepted
their challenges with alacrity and disposed of them one by one with credit to
himself until the day was concluded. The stranger was then asked to declare who
he was, upon which he lifted his visor, and said,

"I
am Sir Arthur Home, and claim the Lady Bertha as my bride, by the laws of arms,
and by those of love."

Again
the tent was felled, and again the hostelry was tenanted by the soldier, who
declared for one side and then for the other, as the cups clanged and jingled
together.

"Said
I not," exclaimed one of the troopers, "that the knight with a green
shield was a good knight?"—"You did," replied the other.

"And
you knew who he was?" said another of the troopers.—"Not I, comrades;
I had seen him fight in battle, and, therefore, partly guessed how it would be
if he had any chance with the bridegroom. I'm glad he has won the lady."

It
was true, the Lady Bertha was won, and Sir Arthur Home claimed his bride, and
then they attempted to defeat his claim; yet Bertha at once expressed herself
in his favour, to strongly that they were, however reluctantly compelled, to
consent at last.

At
this moment, a loud shout as from a multitude of persons came upon their ears
and Flora started from her seat in alarm. The cause of the alarm we shall
proceed to detail.

THE FUNERAL OF THE STRANGER OF THE INN.—THE POPULAR COMMOTION,
AND MRS. CHILLINGWORTH'S APPEAL TO THE MOB.—THE NEW RIOT.—THE HALL IN DANGER.

As
yet the town was quiet; and, though there was no appearance of riot or
disturbance, yet the magistracy had taken every precaution they deemed needful,
or their position and necessities warranted, to secure the peace of the town
from the like disturbance to that which had been, of late, a disgrace and
terror of peaceably-disposed persons.

The
populace were well advertised of the fact, that the body of the stranger was to
be buried that morning in their churchyard; and that, to protect the body,
should there be any necessity for so doing, a large body of constables would be
employed.

There
was no disposition to riot; at least, none was visible. It looked as if there
was some event about to take place that was highly interesting to all parties,
who were peaceably assembling to witness the interment of nobody knew who.

The
early hour at which persons were assembling, at different points, clearly
indicated that there was a spirit of curiosity about the town, so uncommon that
none would have noticed it but for the fact of the crowd of people who hung
about the streets, and there remained, listless and impatient.

The
inn, too, was crowded with visitors, and there were many who, not being blessed
with the strength of purse that some were, were hanging about in the distance,
waiting and watching the motions of those who were better provided.

"Ah!"
said one of the visitors, "this is a disagreeable job in your house,
landlord."—"Yes, sir; I'd sooner it had happened elsewhere, I assure
you. I know it has done me no good."

"No;
no man could expect any, and yet it is none the less unfortunate for
that."—"I would sooner anything else happen than that, whatever it
might be. I think it must be something very bad, at all events; but I dare say
I shall never see the like again."

"So
much the better for the town," said another; "for, what with vampyres
and riots, there has been but little else stirring than mischief and
disturbances of one kind and another."

"Yes;
and, what between Varneys and Bannerworths, we have had but little peace
here."

"Precisely.
Do you know it's my opinion that the least thing would upset the whole town.
Any one unlucky word would do it, I am sure," said a tall thin man.

"I
have no doubt of it," said another; "but I hope the military would do
their duty under such circumstances, for people's lives and property are not
safe in such a state of things."—"Oh, dear no."

"I
wonder what has become of Varney, or where he can have gone
to."—"Some thought he must have been burned when they burned his
house," replied the landlord.

"But
I believe it generally understood he's escaped, has he not? No traces of his
body were found in the ruins."—"None. Oh! he's escaped, there can be
no doubt of that. I wish I had some fortune depending upon the fact; it would
be mine, I am sure."

"Well,
the lord keep us from vampyres and suchlike cattle," said an old woman.
"I shall never sleep again in my bed with any safety. It frightens one out
of one's life to think of it. What a shame the men didn't catch him and stake
him!"

The
old woman left the inn as soon as she had spoke this Christian speech.

"Humane!"
said a gentleman, with a sporting coat on. "The old woman is no advocate
for half measures!"

"You
are right, sir," said the landlord; "and a very good look-out she
keeps upon the pot, to see it's full, and carefully blows the froth
off!"—"Ah! I thought as much."

"How
soon will the funeral take place, landlord?" inquired a person, who had at
that moment entered the inn.—"In about an hour's time, sir."

"Oh!
the town seems pretty full, though it is very quiet. I suppose it is more as a
matter of curiosity people congregate to see the funeral of this
stranger?"

"I
hope so, sir."

"The
time is wearing on, and if they don't make a dust, why then the military will
not be troubled."

"I
do not expect anything more, sir," said the landlord; "for you see
they must have had their swing out, as the saying is, and be fully satisfied.
They cannot have much more to do in the way of exhibiting their anger or
dislike to vampyres—they all have done enough."

"So
they have—so they have."

"Granted,"
said an old man with a troublesome cough; "but when did you ever know a
mob to be satisfied? If they wanted the moon and got it, they'd find out it
would be necessary to have the stars also."

"That's
uncommonly true," said the landlord. "I shouldn't be surprised if
they didn't do something worse than ever."—"Nothing more
likely," said the little old man. "I can believe anything of a
mob—anything—no matter what."

The
inn was crowded with visitors, and several extra hands were employed to wait
upon the customers, and a scene of bustle and activity was displayed that was
never before seen. It would glad the heart of a landlord, though he were made
of stone, and landlords are usually of much more malleable materials than that.

However,
the landlord had hardly time to congratulate himself, for the bearers were come
now, and the undertaker and his troop of death-following officials.

There
was a stir among the people, who began now to awaken from the lethargy that
seemed to have come over them while they were waiting for the moment when it
should arrive, that was to place the body under the green sod, against which so
much of their anger had been raised. There was a decent silence that pervaded
the mob of individuals who had assembled.

Death,
with all its ghastly insignia, had an effect even upon the unthinking
multitude, who were ever ready to inflict death or any violent injury upon any
object that came in their way—they never hesitated; but even these, now the
object of their hatred was no more, felt appalled.

'Tis
strange what a change comes over masses of men as they gaze upon a dead body.
It may be that they all know that to that complexion they must come at last.
This may be the secret of the respect offered to the dead.

The
undertakers are men, however, who are used to the presence of death—it is their
element; they gain a living by attending upon the last obsequies of the dead;
they are used to dead bodies, and care not for them. Some of them are humane
men, that is, in their way; and even among them are men who wouldn't be
deprived of the joke as they screwed down the last screw. They could not
forbear, even on this occasion, to hold their converse when left alone.

"Jacobs,"
said one who was turning a long screw, "Jacobs, my boy, do you take the
chair to-night?"—"Yes," said Jacobs who was a long
lugubrious-looking man, "I do take the chair, if I live over this blessed
event."

"You
are not croaking, Jacobs, are you? Well, you are a lively customer, you
are."—"Lively—do you expect people to be lively when they are full
dressed for a funeral? You are a nice article for your profession. You don't
feel like an undertaker, you don't."

"Don't,
Jacobs, my boy. As long as I look like one when occasion demands; when I have
done my job I puts my comfort in my pocket, and thinks how much more pleasanter
it is to be going to other people's funerals than to our own, and then only see
the difference as regards the money."

"True,"
said Jacobs with a groan; "but death's a melancholy article, at all
events."—"So it is."

"And
then when you come to consider the number of people we have buried—how many
have gone to their last homes—and how many more will go the same
way."—"Yes, yes; that's all very well, Jacob. You are precious surly
this morning. I'll come to-night. You're brewing a sentimental tale as sure as
eggs is eggs."

"Well,
that is pretty certain; but as I was saying how many more are there—"

"Ah,
don't bother yourself with calculations that have neither beginning nor end,
and which haven't one point to go. Come, Jacob, have you finished
yet?"—"Quite," said Jacob.

They
now arranged the pall, and placed all in readiness, and returned to a place
down stairs where they could enjoy themselves for an odd half hour, and pass
that time away until the moment should arrive when his reverence would be ready
to bury the deceased, upon consideration of the fees to be paid upon the
occasion.

The
tap-room was crowded, and there was no room for the men, and they were taken
into the kitchen, where they were seated, and earnestly at work, preparing for
the ceremony that had so shortly to be performed.

"Any
better, Jacobs?"—"What do you mean?" inquired Jacobs, with a groan.
"It's news to me if I have been ill."

"Oh,
yes, you were doleful up stairs, you know."—"I've a proper regard for
my profession—that's the difference between you and I, you know."

"I'll
wager you what you like, now, that I'll handle a corpse and drive a screw in a
coffin as well as you, now, although you are so solid and
miserable."—"So you may—so you may."

"Then
what do you mean by saying I haven't a proper regard for my
profession?"—"I say you haven't, and there's the thing that shall
prove it—you don't look it, and that's the truth."

"I
don't look like an undertaker! indeed I dare say I don't if I ain't dressed
like one."—"Nor when you are," reiterated Jacob.

"Why
not, pray?"—"Because you have always a grin on your face as broad as
a gridiron—that's why."

This
ended the dispute, for the employer of the men suddenly put his head in,
saying,—

"Come,
now, time's up; you are wanted up stairs, all of you. Be quick; we shall have
his reverence waiting for us, and then we shall lose his recommendation."

"Ready
sir," said the round man, taking up his pint and finishing it off at a
draught, at the same moment he thrust the remains of some bread and cheese into
his pocket.

Jacob,
too, took his pot, and, having finished it, with great gravity followed the
example of his more jocose companion, and they all left the kitchen for the
room above, where the corpse was lying ready for interment.

There
was an unusual bustle; everybody was on the tip-top of expectation, and
awaiting the result in a quiet hurry, and hoped to have the first glimpse of
the coffin, though why they should do so it was difficult to define. But in
this fit of mysterious hope and expectation they certainly stood.

"Will
they be long?" inquired a man at the door of one inside,—"will they
be long before they come?"—"They are coming now," said the man.
"Do you all keep quiet; they are knocking their heads against the top of
the landing. Hark! There, I told you so."

The
man departed, hearing something, and being satisfied that he had got some
information.

"Now,
then," said the landlord, "move out of the way, and allow the corpse
to pass out. Let me have no indecent conduct; let everything be as it should
be."

The
people soon removed from the passage and vicinity of the doorway, and then the
mournful procession—as the newspapers have it—moved forward. They were heard
coming down stairs, and thence along the passage, until they came to the
street, and then the whole number of attendants was plainly discernible.

How
different was the funeral of one who had friends. He was alone; none followed,
save the undertaker and his attendants, all of whom looked solemn from habit
and professional motives. Even the jocose man was as supernaturally solemn as
could be well imagined; indeed, nobody knew he was the same man.

"Well,"
said the landlord, as he watched them down the street, as they slowly paced
their way with funereal, not sorrowful, solemnity—"well, I am very glad
that it is all over."

"It
has been a sad plague to you," said one.

"It
has, indeed; it must be to any one who has had another such a job as this. I
don't say it out of any disrespect to the poor man who is dead and gone—quite
the reverse; but I would not have such another affair on my hands for
pounds."