The Penny Dreadfuls MEGAPACK™

by Oscar Wilde

  “Good evening, Miss Bannerworth,” said Sir Francis, bowing to her, and then to her mother, Mrs. Bannerworth; “and you, Mr. Holland, I see, have been out enjoying the free breeze that plays over the hot fields. It must be refreshing.”

  “It is so, sir,” said Charles. “I wish we could make you a partaker in our walks.”

  “I wish you could with all my heart,” said Varney.

  “Sir Francis,” said Flora, “must be a prisoner for some short time longer yet.”

  “I ought not to consider it in any such light. It is not imprisonment. I have taken sanctuary. It is the well spring of life to me,” said Varney.

  “I hope it may prove so; but how do you find yourself this evening, Sir Francis Varney?”

  “Really, it is difficult to say—I fluctuate. At times, I feel as though I should drop insensible on the earth, and then I feel better than I have done for some time previously.”

  “Doctor Chillingworth will be here bye and bye, no doubt; and he must see what he can do for you to relieve you of these symptoms,” said Flora.

  “I am much beholden to you—much beholden to you; but I hope to be able to do without the good doctor’s aid in this instance, though I must admit I may appear ungrateful.”

  “Not at all—not at all.”

  “Have you heard any news abroad today?” inquired Varney.

  “None, Sir Francis—none; there is nothing apparently stirring; and now, go out when you would, you would find nothing but what was old, quiet, and familiar.”

  “We cannot wish to look upon anything with mere charms for a mind at ease, than we can see under such circumstances; but I fear there are some few old and familiar features that I should find sad havoc in.”

  “You would, certainly, for the burnings and razings to the ground of some places, have made some dismal appearances; but time may efface that, and then the evil may die away, and the future will become the present, should we be able to allay popular feeling.”

  “Yes,” said Sir Francis; “but popular prejudices, or justice, or feeling, are things not easily assuaged. The people when once aroused go on to commit all kinds of excess, and there is no one point at which they will step short of the complete extirpation of some one object or other that they have taken a fancy to hunt.”

  “The hubbub and excitement must subside.”

  “The greater the ignorance the more persevering and the more brutal they are,” said Sir Francis; “but I must not complain of what is the necessary consequence of their state.”

  “It might be otherwise.”

  “So it might, and no mischief arise either; but as we cannot divert the stream, we may as well bend to the force of a current too strong to resist.”

  “The moon is up,” said Flora, who wished to turn the conversation from that to another topic. “I see if yonder through the trees; it rises red and large—it is very beautiful—and yet there is not a cloud about to give it the colour and appearance it now wears.”

  “Exactly so,” said Sir Francis Varney; “but the reason is the air is filled with a light, invisible vapour, that has the effect you perceive. There has been much evaporation going on, and now it shows itself in giving the moon that peculiar large appearance and deep colour.”

  “Ay, I see; it peeps through the trees, the branches of which cut it up into various portions. It is singular, and yet beautiful, and yet the earth below seems dark.”

  “It is dark; you would be surprised to find it so if you walked about. It will soon be lighter than it is at this present moment.”

  “What sounds are those?” inquired Sir Francis Varney, as he listened attentively.

  “Sounds! What sounds?” returned Henry.

  “The sounds of wheels and horses’ feet,” said Varney.

  “I cannot even hear them, much less can I tell what they are,” said Henry.

  “Then listen. Now they come along the road. Cannot you hear them now?” said Varney.

  “Yes, I can,” said Charles Holland; “but I really don’t know what they are, or what it can matter to us; we don’t expect any visitors.”

  “Certainly, certainly,” said Varney. “I am somewhat apprehensive of the approach of strange sounds.”

  “You are not likely to be disturbed here,” said Charles.

  “Indeed; I thought so when I had succeeded in getting into the house near the town, and so far from believing it was likely I should be discovered, that I sat on the house-top while the mob surrounded it.”

  “Did you not hear them coming?”

  “I did.”

  “And yet you did not attempt to escape from them?”

  “No, I could not persuade them I was not there save by my utter silence. I allowed them to come too close to leave myself time to escape—besides, I could hardly persuade myself there could be any necessity for so doing.”

  “It was fortunate it was as it happened afterwards, that you were able to reach the wood, and get out of it unperceived by the mob.”

  “I should have been in an unfortunate condition had I been in their hands long. A man made of iron would not be able to resist the brutality of those people.”

  As they were speaking, a gig, with two men, drove up, followed by one on horseback. They stopped at the garden-gate, and then tarried to consult with each other, as they looked at the house.

  “What can they want, I wonder?” inquired Henry; “I never saw them before.”

  “Nor I,” said Charles Holland.

  “Do you not know them at all?” inquired Varney.

  “No,” replied Flora; “I never saw them, neither can I imagine what is their object in coming here.”

  “Did you ever see them before?” inquired Henry of his mother, who held up her hand to look more carefully at the strangers; then, shaking her head, she declared she had never seen such persons as those.

  “I dare say not,” said Charles Holland. “They certainly are not gentlemen; but here they come; there is some mistake, I daresay—they don’t want to come here.”

  As they spoke, the two strangers got down; after picking up a topcoat they had let fall, they turned round, and deliberately put it into the chaise again; they walked up the path to the door, at which they knocked.

  The door was opened by the old woman, when the two men entered.

  “Does Francis Beauchamp live here?”

  “Eh?” said the old woman, who was a little deaf, and she put her hand behind her ear to catch the sounds more distinctly—“eh?—who did you say?”

  Sir Francis Varney started as the sounds came upon his ear, but he sat still an attentive listener.

  “Are there any strangers in the house?” inquired the other officer, impatiently. “Who is here?”

  “Strangers!” said the old woman; “you are the only strangers that I have seen here.”

  “Come,” said the officer to his companion, “come this way; there are people in this parlour. Our business must be an apology for any rudeness we may commit.”

  As he spoke he stepped by the old woman, and laying his hand upon the handle of the door, entered the apartment, at the same time looking carefully around the room as if he expected some one.

  “Ladies,” said the stranger, with an off-hand politeness that had something repulsive in it, though it was meant to convey a notion that civility was intended; “ladies, I beg pardon for intruding, but I am looking for a gentleman.”

  “You shall hear from me again soon,” said Sir Francis, in an almost imperceptible whisper.

  “What is the object of this intrusion?” demanded Henry Bannerworth, rising and confronting the stranger. “This is a strange introduction.”

  “Yes, but not an unusual one,” said the stranger, “in these cases—being unavoidable, at the least.”

  “Sir,” said Charles Holland, “if you cannot
explain quickly your business here, we will proceed to take those measures which will at least rid ourselves of your company.”

  “Softly, sir. I mean no offence—not the least; but I tell you I do not come for any purpose that is at all consonant to my wishes. I am a Bow-street officer in the execution of my duty—excuse me, therefore.”

  “Whom do you want?”

  “Francis Beauchamp; and, from the peculiarity of the appearance of this individual here, I think I may safely request the pleasure of his company.”

  Varney now rose, and the officer made a rush at him, when he saw him do so, saying—

  “Surrender in the king’s name.”

  Varney, however, paid no attention to that, but rushed past, throwing his chair down to impede the officer, who could not stay himself, but fell over it, while Varney made a rush towards the window, which he cleared at one bound, and crossing the road, was lost to sight in a few seconds, in the trees and hedges on the other side.

  “Accidents will happen,” said the officer, as he rose to his feet; “I did not think the fellow would have taken the window in that manner; but we have him in view, and that will be enough.”

  “In heaven’s name,” said Henry, “explain all about this; we cannot understand one word of it—I am at a loss to understand one word of it.”

  “We will return and do so presently,” said the officer as he dashed out of the house after the fugitive at a rapid and reckless speed, followed by his companion.

  The man who had been left with the chaise, however, was the first in the chase; seeing an escape from the window, he immediately guessed that he was the man wanted, and, but for an accident, he would have met Varney at the gate, for, as he was getting out in a hurry, his foot became entangled with the reins, and he fell to the ground, and Varney at the same moment stepped over him.

  “Curse his infernal impudence, and damn these reins!” muttered the man in a fury at the accident, and the aggravating circumstance of the fugitive walking over him in such a manner, and so coolly too—it was vexing.

  The man, however, quickly released himself, and rushed after Varney across the road, and kept on his track for some time. The moon was still rising, and shed but a gloomy light around. Everything was almost invisible until you came close to it. This was the reason why Varney and his pursuer met with several severe accidents—fumbles and hard knocks against impediments which the light and the rapid flight they were taking did not admit of their avoiding very well.

  They went on for some time, but it was evident Varney knew the place best, and could avoid what the man could not, and that was the trees and the natural impediments of the ground, which Varney was acquainted with.

  For instance, at full speed across a meadow, a hollow would suddenly present itself, and to an accustomed eye the moonlight might enable it to be distinguished at a glance what it was, while to one wholly unaccustomed to it, the hollow would often look like a hillock by such a light. This Varney would clear at a bound, which a less agile and heavier person would step into, lifting up his leg to meet an impediment, when he would find it come down suddenly some six or eight inches lower than he anticipated, almost dislocating his leg and neck, and producing a corresponding loss of breath, which was not regained by the muttered curse upon such a country where the places were so uneven.

  Having come to one of these places, which was a little more perceptible than the others, he made a desperate jump, but he jumped into the middle of the hole with such force that he sprained his ankle, besides sinking into a small pond that was almost dry, being overgrown with rushes and aquatic plants.

  “Well?” said the other officer coming up—“well?”

  “Well, indeed!” said the one who came first; “it’s anything but well. Damn all country excursions say I.”

  “Why, Bob, you don’t mean to say as how you are caught in a rat-trap?”

  “Oh, you be damned! I am, ain’t I?”

  “Yes; but are you going to stop there, or coming out, eh? You’ll catch cold.”

  “I have sprained my ankle.”

  “Well?”

  “It ain’t well, I tell you; here have I a sprained foot, and my wind broken for a month at least. Why were you not quicker? If you had been sharper we should have had the gentleman, I’ll swear!”

  “I tumbled down over the chair, and he got out of the window, and I come out of the door.”

  “Well, I got entangled in the reins; but I got off after him, only his long legs carried him over everything. I tell you what, Wilkinson, if I were to be born again, and intended to be a runner, I would bespeak a pair of long legs.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I should be able to get along better. You have no idea of how he skimmed along the ground; it was quite beautiful, only it wasn’t good to follow it.”

  “A regular sky scraper!”

  “Yes, or something of that sort; he looked like a patent flying shadow.”

  “Well, get up and lead the way; we’ll follow you.”

  “I dare say you will—when I lead the way back there; for as to going out yonder, it is quite out of the question. I want supper tonight and breakfast tomorrow morning.”

  “Well, what has that to do with it?”

  “Just this much: if you follow any farther, you’ll get into the woods, and there you’ll be, going round and round, like a squirrel in a cage, without being able to get out, and you will there get none of the good things included under the head of those meals.”

  “I think so too,” said the third.

  “Well, then, let’s go back; we needn’t run, though it might be as well to do so.”

  “It would be anything but well. I don’t gallop back, depend upon it.”

  The three men now slowly returned from their useless chase, and re-trod the way they had passed once in such a hurry that they could hardly recognize it.

  “What a dreadful bump I came against that pole standing there,” said one.

  “Yes, and I came against a hedge-stake, that was placed so as the moon didn’t show any light on it. It came into the pit of my stomach. I never recollect such a pain in my life; for all the world like a hot coal being suddenly and forcibly intruded into your stomach.”

  “Well, here’s the road. I must go up to the house where I started him from. I promised them some explanation. I may as well go and give it to them at once.”

  “Do as you will. I will wait with the horse, else, perhaps, that Beauchamp will again return and steal him.”

  The officer who had first entered the house now returned to the Bannerworths, saying,

  “I promised you I would give you some explanation as to what you have witnessed.”

  “Yes,” said Henry; “we have been awaiting your return with some anxiety and curiosity. What is the meaning of all this? I am, as we are all, in perfect ignorance of the meaning of what took place.”

  “I will tell you. The person whom you have had here, and goes by the name of Varney, is named Francis Beauchamp.”

  “Indeed! Are you assured of this?”

  “Yes, perfectly assured of it; I have it in my warrant to apprehend him by either name.”

  “What crime had he been guilty of?”

  “I will tell you: he has been hanged.”

  “Hanged!” exclaimed all present.

  “What do you mean by that?” added Henry; “I am at a loss to understand what you can mean by saying he was hanged.”

  “What I say is literally true.”

  “Pray tell us all about it. We are much interested in the fact; go on, sir.”

  “Well, sir, then I believe it was for murder that Francis Beauchamp was hanged—yes, hanged; a common execution, before a multitude of people, collected to witness such an exhibition.”

  “Good God!” exclaimed Henry Bannerworth. “And was—but that
is impossible. A dead man come to life again! You must be amusing yourself at our expense.”

  “Not I,” replied the officer. “Here is my warrant; they don’t make these out in a joke.”

  And, as he spoke, he produced the warrant, when it was evident the officer spoke the truth.

  “How was this?”

  “I will tell you, sir. You see that this Varney was a regular scamp, gamester, rogue, and murderer. He was hanged, and hung about the usual time; he was cut down and the body was given to some one for dissection, when a surgeon, with the hangman, one Montgomery, succeeded in restoring the criminal to life.”

  “But I always thought they broke the neck when they were hanged; the weight of the body would alone do that.”

  “Oh, dear, no, sir,” said the officer; “that is one of the common every day mistakes; they don’t break the neck once in twenty times.”

  “Indeed!”

  “No; they die of suffocation only; this man, Beauchamp, was hanged thus, but they contrived to restore him, and then he assumed a new name, and left London.”

  “But how came you to know all this?”

  “Oh! it came to us, as many things usually do, in a very extraordinary manner, and in a manner that appears most singular and out of the way; but such it was.

  “The executioner who was the means of his being restored, or one of them, wished to turn him to account, and used to draw a yearly sum of money from him, as hush money, to induce them to keep the secret; else, the fact of his having escaped punishment would subject him to a repetition of the same punishment; when, of course, a little more care would be taken that he did not escape a second time.”

  “I dare say not.”

  “Well, you see, Varney, or rather Beauchamp, was to pay a heavy sum to this man to keep him quiet, and to permit him to enjoy the life he had so strangely become possessed of.”

  “I see,” said Holland.

  “Well, this man, Montgomery, had always some kind of suspicion that Varney would murder him.”

  “Murder him! and he the means of saving his life; surely he could not be so bad as that.”