The Penny Dreadfuls MEGAPACK™

by Oscar Wilde

  As She walked with a listless air up and down the chamber, the Door caught her eye conducting to that which had been her Mother’s. She remembered that Elvira’s little Library was arranged there, and thought that She might possibly find in it some Book to amuse her till Leonella should arrive. Accordingly She took her Taper from the table, passed through the little Closet, and entered the adjoining apartment. As She looked around her, the sight of this room brought to her recollection a thousand painful ideas. It was the first time of her entering it since her Mother’s death. The total silence prevailing through the chamber, the Bed despoiled of its furniture, the cheerless hearth where stood an extinguished Lamp, and a few dying Plants in the window which, since Elvira’s loss, had been neglected, inspired Antonia with a melancholy awe. The gloom of night gave strength to this sensation. She placed her light upon the Table, and sank into a large chair, in which She had seen her Mother seated a thousand and a thousand times. She was never to see her seated there again! Tears unbidden streamed down her cheek, and She abandoned herself to the sadness which grew deeper with every moment.

  Ashamed of her weakness, She at length rose from her seat: She proceeded to seek for what had brought her to this melancholy scene. The small collection of Books was arranged upon several shelves in order. Antonia examined them without finding any thing likely to interest her, till She put her hand upon a volume of old Spanish Ballads. She read a few Stanzas of one of them: They excited her curiosity. She took down the Book, and seated herself to peruse it with more ease. She trimmed the Taper, which now drew towards its end, and then read the following Ballad.

  ALONZO THE BRAVE, AND FAIR IMOGINE

  A Warrior so bold, and a Virgin so bright

  Conversed, as They sat on the green:

  They gazed on each other with tender delight;

  Alonzo the Brave was the name of the Knight,

  The Maid’s was the Fair Imogine.

  ‘And Oh!’ said the Youth, ‘since to-morrow I go

  To fight in a far distant land,

  Your tears for my absence soon leaving to flow,

  Some Other will court you, and you will bestow

  On a wealthier Suitor your hand.’

  ‘Oh! hush these suspicions,’ Fair Imogine said,

  ‘Offensive to Love and to me!

  For if ye be living, or if ye be dead,

  I swear by the Virgin, that none in your stead

  Shall Husband of Imogine be.

  ‘If e’er I by lust or by wealth led aside

  Forget my Alonzo the Brave,

  God grant, that to punish my falsehood and pride

  Your Ghost at the Marriage may sit by my side,

  May tax me with perjury, claim me as Bride,

  And bear me away to the Grave!’

  To Palestine hastened the Hero so bold;

  His Love, She lamented him sore:

  But scarce had a twelve-month elapsed, when behold,

  A Baron all covered with jewels and gold

  Arrived at Fair Imogine’s door.

  His treasure, his presents, his spacious domain

  Soon made her untrue to her vows:

  He dazzled her eyes; He bewildered her brain;

  He caught her affections so light and so vain,

  And carried her home as his Spouse.

  And now had the Marriage been blest by the Priest;

  The revelry now was begun:

  The Tables, they groaned with the weight of the Feast;

  Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased,

  When the Bell of the Castle told,—‘One!’

  Then first with amazement Fair Imogine found

  That a Stranger was placed by her side: His air was terrific;

  He uttered no sound; He spoke not, He moved not,

  He looked not around,

  But earnestly gazed on the Bride.

  His vizor was closed, and gigantic his height;

  His armour was sable to view:

  All pleasure and laughter were hushed at his sight;

  The Dogs as They eyed him drew back in affright,

  The Lights in the chamber burned blue!

  His presence all bosoms appeared to dismay;

  The Guests sat in silence and fear.

  At length spoke the Bride, while She trembled;

  ‘I pray, Sir Knight, that your Helmet aside you would lay,

  And deign to partake of our chear.’

  The Lady is silent: The Stranger complies.

  His vizor lie slowly unclosed:

  Oh! God! what a sight met Fair Imogine’s eyes!

  What words can express her dismay and surprize,

  When a Skeleton’s head was exposed.

  All present then uttered a terrified shout;

  All turned with disgust from the scene.

  The worms, They crept in, and the worms, They crept out,

  And sported his eyes and his temples about,

  While the Spectre addressed Imogine.

  ‘Behold me, Thou false one! Behold me!’ He cried;

  ‘Remember Alonzo the Brave!

  God grants, that to punish thy falsehood and pride

  My Ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side,

  Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as Bride

  And bear thee away to the Grave!’

  Thus saying, his arms round the Lady He wound,

  While loudly She shrieked in dismay;

  Then sank with his prey through the wide-yawning ground:

  Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found,

  Or the Spectre who bore her away.

  Not long lived the Baron; and none since that time

  To inhabit the Castle presume:

  For Chronicles tell, that by order sublime

  There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime,

  And mourns her deplorable doom.

  At midnight four times in each year does her Spright

  When Mortals in slumber are bound,

  Arrayed in her bridal apparel of white,

  Appear in the Hall with the Skeleton-Knight,

  And shriek, as He whirls her around.

  While They drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave,

  Dancing round them the Spectres are seen:

  Their liquor is blood, and this horrible Stave

  They howl.—‘To the health of Alonzo the Brave,

  And his Consort, the False Imogine!’

  The perusal of this story was ill-calculated to dispel Antonia’s melancholy. She had naturally a strong inclination to the marvellous; and her Nurse, who believed firmly in Apparitions, had related to her when an Infant so many horrible adventures of this kind, that all Elvira’s attempts had failed to eradicate their impressions from her Daughter’s mind. Antonia still nourished a superstitious prejudice in her bosom: She was often susceptible of terrors which, when She discovered their natural and insignificant cause, made her blush at her own weakness. With such a turn of mind, the adventure which She had just been reading sufficed to give her apprehensions the alarm. The hour and the scene combined to authorize them. It was the dead of night: She was alone, and in the chamber once occupied by her deceased Mother. The weather was comfortless and stormy: The wind howled around the House, the doors rattled in their frames, and the heavy rain pattered against the windows. No other sound was heard. The Taper, now burnt down to the socket, sometimes flaring upwards shot a gleam of light through the room, then sinking again seemed upon the point of expiring. Antonia’s heart throbbed with agitation: Her eyes wandered fearfully over the objects around her, as the trembling flame illuminated them at intervals. She attempted to rise from her seat; But her limbs trembled so violently that She was unable to proceed. She then called Flora
, who was in a room at no great distance: But agitation choaked her voice, and her cries died away in hollow murmurs.

  She passed some minutes in this situation, after which her terrors began to diminish. She strove to recover herself, and acquire strength enough to quit the room: Suddenly She fancied, that She heard a low sigh drawn near her. This idea brought back her former weakness. She had already raised herself from her seat, and was on the point of taking the Lamp from the Table. The imaginary noise stopped her: She drew back her hand, and supported herself upon the back of a Chair. She listened anxiously, but nothing more was heard.

  ‘Gracious God!’ She said to herself; ‘What could be that sound? Was I deceived, or did I really hear it?’

  Her reflections were interrupted by a noise at the door scarcely audible: It seemed as if somebody was whispering. Antonia’s alarm increased: Yet the Bolt She knew to be fastened, and this idea in some degree reassured her. Presently the Latch was lifted up softly, and the Door moved with caution backwards and forwards. Excess of terror now supplied Antonia with that strength, of which She had till then been deprived. She started from her place and made towards the Closet door, whence She might soon have reached the chamber where She expected to find Flora and Dame Jacintha. Scarcely had She reached the middle of the room when the Latch was lifted up a second time. An involuntary movement obliged her to turn her head. Slowly and gradually the Door turned upon its hinges, and standing upon the Threshold She beheld a tall thin Figure, wrapped in a white shroud which covered it from head to foot.

  This vision arrested her feet: She remained as if petrified in the middle of the apartment. The Stranger with measured and solemn steps drew near the Table. The dying Taper darted a blue and melancholy flame as the Figure advanced towards it. Over the Table was fixed a small Clock; The hand of it was upon the stroke of three. The Figure stopped opposite to the Clock: It raised its right arm, and pointed to the hour, at the same time looking earnestly upon Antonia, who waited for the conclusion of this scene, motionless and silent.

  The figure remained in this posture for some moments. The clock struck. When the sound had ceased, the Stranger advanced yet a few steps nearer Antonia.

  ‘Yet three days,’ said a voice faint, hollow, and sepulchral; ‘Yet three days, and we meet again!’

  Antonia shuddered at the words.

  ‘We meet again?’ She pronounced at length with difficulty: ‘Where shall we meet? Whom shall I meet?’

  The figure pointed to the ground with one hand, and with the other raised the Linen which covered its face.

  ‘Almighty God! My Mother!’

  Antonia shrieked, and fell lifeless upon the floor.

  Dame Jacintha who was at work in a neighbouring chamber, was alarmed by the cry: Flora was just gone down stairs to fetch fresh oil for the Lamp, by which they had been sitting. Jacintha therefore hastened alone to Antonia’s assistance, and great was her amazement to find her extended upon the floor. She raised her in her arms, conveyed her to her apartment, and placed her upon the Bed still senseless. She then proceeded to bathe her temples, chafe her hands, and use all possible means of bringing her to herself. With some difficulty She succeeded. Antonia opened her eyes, and looked round her wildly.

  ‘Where is She?’ She cried in a trembling voice; ‘Is She gone? Am I safe? Speak to me! Comfort me! Oh! speak to me for God’s sake!’

  ‘Safe from whom, my Child?’ replied the astonished Jacintha; ‘What alarms you? Of whom are you afraid?’

  ‘In three days! She told me that we should meet in three days! I heard her say it! I saw her, Jacintha, I saw her but this moment!’

  She threw herself upon Jacintha’s bosom.

  ‘You saw her? Saw whom?’

  ‘My Mother’s Ghost!’

  ‘Christ Jesus!’ cried Jacintha, and starting from the Bed, let fall Antonia upon the pillow, and fled in consternation out of the room.

  As She hastened down stairs, She met Flora ascending them.

  ‘Go to your Mistress, Flora,’ said She; ‘Here are rare doings! Oh! I am the most unfortunate Woman alive! My House is filled with Ghosts and dead Bodies, and the Lord knows what besides; Yet I am sure, nobody likes such company less than I do. But go your way to Donna Antonia, Flora, and let me go mine.’

  Thus saying, She continued her course to the Street door, which She opened, and without allowing herself time to throw on her veil, She made the best of her way to the Capuchin Abbey. In the meanwhile, Flora hastened to her Lady’s chamber, equally surprized and alarmed at Jacintha’s consternation. She found Antonia lying upon the bed insensible. She used the same means for her recovery that Jacintha had already employed; But finding that her Mistress only recovered from one fit to fall into another, She sent in all haste for a Physician. While expecting his arrival, She undrest Antonia, and conveyed her to Bed.

  Heedless of the storm, terrified almost out of her senses, Jacintha ran through the Streets, and stopped not till She reached the Gate of the Abbey. She rang loudly at the bell, and as soon as the Porter appeared, She desired permission to speak to the Superior. Ambrosio was then conferring with Matilda upon the means of procuring access to Antonia. The cause of Elvira’s death remaining unknown, He was convinced that crimes were not so swiftly followed by punishment, as his Instructors the Monks had taught him, and as till then He had himself believed. This persuasion made him resolve upon Antonia’s ruin, for the enjoyment of whose person dangers and difficulties only seemed to have increased his passion. The Monk had already made one attempt to gain admission to her presence; But Flora had refused him in such a manner as to convince him that all future endeavours must be vain. Elvira had confided her suspicions to that trusty Servant: She had desired her never to leave Ambrosio alone with her Daughter, and if possible to prevent their meeting altogether. Flora promised to obey her, and had executed her orders to the very letter. Ambrosio’s visit had been rejected that morning, though Antonia was ignorant of it. He saw that to obtain a sight of his Mistress by open means was out of the question; and both Himself and Matilda had consumed the night, in endeavouring to invent some plan, whose event might be more successful. Such was their employment, when a Lay-Brother entered the Abbot’s Cell, and informed him that a Woman calling herself Jacintha Zuniga requested audience for a few minutes.

  Ambrosio was by no means disposed to grant the petition of his Visitor. He refused it positively, and bad the Lay-Brother tell the Stranger to return the next day. Matilda interrupted him.

  ‘See this Woman,’ said She in a low voice; ‘I have my reasons.’

  The Abbot obeyed her, and signified that He would go to the Parlour immediately. With this answer the Lay-Brother withdrew. As soon as they were alone Ambrosio enquired why Matilda wished him to see this Jacintha.

  ‘She is Antonia’s Hostess,’ replied Matilda; ‘She may possibly be of use to you: but let us examine her, and learn what brings her hither.’

  They proceeded together to the Parlour, where Jacintha was already waiting for the Abbot. She had conceived a great opinion of his piety and virtue; and supposing him to have much influence over the Devil, thought that it must be an easy matter for him to lay Elvira’s Ghost in the Red Sea. Filled with this persuasion She had hastened to the Abbey. As soon as She saw the Monk enter the Parlour, She dropped upon her knees, and began her story as follows.

  ‘Oh! Reverend Father! Such an accident! Such an adventure! I know not what course to take, and unless you can help me, I shall certainly go distracted. Well, to be sure, never was Woman so unfortunate, as myself! All in my power to keep clear of such abomination have I done, and yet that all is too little. What signifies my telling my beads four times a day, and observing every fast prescribed by the Calendar? What signifies my having made three Pilgrimages to St. James of Compostella, and purchased as many pardons from the Pope as would buy off Cain’s punishment? Nothing prospers with me! All goes wrong, a
nd God only knows, whether any thing will ever go right again! Why now, be your Holiness the Judge. My Lodger dies in convulsions; Out of pure kindness I bury her at my own expence; (Not that She is any Relation of mine, or that I shall be benefited a single pistole by her death: I got nothing by it, and therefore you know, reverend Father, that her living or dying was just the same to me. But that is nothing to the purpose; To return to what I was saying,) I took care of her funeral, had every thing performed decently and properly, and put myself to expence enough, God knows! And how do you think the Lady repays me for my kindness? Why truly by refusing to sleep quietly in her comfortable deal Coffin, as a peaceable well-disposed Spirit ought to do, and coming to plague me, who never wish to set eyes on her again. Forsooth, it well becomes her to go racketing about my House at midnight, popping into her Daughter’s room through the Keyhole, and frightening the poor Child out of her wits! Though She be a Ghost, She might be more civil than to bolt into a Person’s House, who likes her company so little. But as for me, reverend Father, the plain state of the case is this: If She walks into my House, I must walk out of it, for I cannot abide such Visitors, not I! Thus you see, your Sanctity, that without your assistance I am ruined and undone for ever. I shall be obliged to quit my House; Nobody will take it, when ’tis known that She haunts it, and then I shall find myself in a fine situation! Miserable Woman that I am! What shall I do! What will become of me!’

  Here She wept bitterly, wrung her hands, and begged to know the Abbot’s opinion of her case.

  ‘In truth, good Woman,’ replied He, ‘It will be difficult for me to relieve you without knowing what is the matter with you. You have forgotten to tell me what has happened, and what it is you want.’

  ‘Let me die’ cried Jacintha, ‘but your Sanctity is in the right! This then is the fact stated briefly. A lodger of mine is lately dead, a very good sort of Woman that I must needs say for her as far as my knowledge of her went, though that was not a great way: