University of Virginia Library

104. CHAPTER CIV.

THE BONE-HOUSE OF THE CHURCHYARD OF ANDERBURY. —THE RESUSCITATION. —THE FIGHT, AND THE ESCAPE OF THE DEAD. —THE BOAT, AND THE VAIN PURSUIT.

The coroner, after the inquest was over, issued his precept for the interment of the body of the man who was found in the ice-well of Anderbury House, and whose body was deposited at the bone-house in Anderbury churchyard.

There was an end now to these proceedings, though it was much too fresh in people's minds to enable them to forget it; yet, once the coroner's inquiry over, it usually happens that a feeling of satiety, arising from excitement, in the first place, or following that excitement, and induced by the knowledge that all is done that can be towards unravelling the mystery that had caused such a sensation, takes place.

The town of Anderbury was first subsiding to its original quietude, and the only indication of any excitement was that among a few old topers, who met in the early part of the evening, to discuss anything that there might be stirring to talk about, and to do that required but little inducement, to talk being their principal, not to say only, amusement; indeed, to have deprived them of that would have been to have deprived them of nearly their only inducement to work and to live, that they may indulge in their evening conversations at the alehouse.

There was a very general belief among such people that, as the whole affair was unexplained, that it was mysterious, and the nods and winks were numerous; indeed, it was thought that there was more than the usual amount of mystery. However, this has its limit, and when all is said that can be said, there must be an end to the discussion, which is usually dropped for want of fuel to feed it. * * * *

That night the baron sat alone in his apartment, apparently buried in deep thought; but, now and then, he might have been seen to lift up his eyes towards the east, as if watching for something, and then he would cast them towards a magnificent timepiece on the mantelpiece, and then he would again relapse into thoughfulness.

There were several such fits as these, that were broken in the same manner as before, and, at length, the arose and took a small book off one of the tables, and examined a certain page and a certain column, and then he half-muttered to himself,

"Yes—yes; it is as I thought—the moon will rise in about an hour and a half; that will do. I will now go to the bone-house, and there watch the body, and ascertain if my fears are correct; if not, I shall be well repaid for my trouble; and should they be, why, I must endeavour to make the affair take the best turn I can. I must try and prevent the completion of my own deed from being disturbed in its integrity. The dead must remain so; and, if not, to that condition he must return, and lie where no moon's ray will reach him."

He arose, and, wrapping his cloak around him, went to the door of his apartment, and paused, as if listening.

"No one is stirring," he muttered; "no one is about."

He stole softly out of the apartment, and descended the stairs, making his way towards a small private door, which opened into the garden, which he secured behind him.

Then he walked rapidly but softly through the garden, which he quitted by another private door, and which he also secured after him; and then proceeded quickly and silently towards the church yard of Anderbury church, which was but ill-qualified to keep intruders out of it, seeing that there was but a low wall and a hedge for the purpose of a fence, which could at various places be easily scaled; indeed, there are few country churchyards that cannot be so entered; and it does not appear usually the practice to endeavour to keep out human beings, but rather to keep the yard clear of all brute intruders, for it was open to all who should choose to come.

The scene was not very distinct; the moon was not yet risen, and darkness reigned upon the earth; he could see but a short way, and he cared but little for that.

"If darkness prevents my seeing, it also prevents others seeing me; therefore, it is welcome. The moon will rise soon enough to aid me in my watch, and if it rise not at all, it would be agreeably satifactory, seeing that there would be no probability of what I suspect happening without her rays."

He hurried onwards towards the churchyard. The sea was close by, and the night breeze, as if swept across the face of the ocean, gave the indistinct roar, which never ceases, but only increases and abates as a storm or calm prevails at the time, and as the wind increases or diminishes, thus increasing or diminishing the intensity of the roar; but it never entirely ceases at any time.

The baron made his way towards the churchyard by an unfrequented path that was well know to him; but as he was about to get over a stile into a field, he thought he heard a voice speaking on the other side of the hedge.

He paused a moment, and crept along the hedge, until he came to the spot where the voice seemed to come from, and then he paused, until he heard them speak again.

"I tell you what it is, Jack; it's a very strange affair—a very strange thing, indeed."

"So it is."

"And one I can't understand at all, though I have endeavoured to do all I can that way. I have thought the matter over very often; but it always comes to this—that it is a very strange affair."

"What can be the cause of it?"

"I don't know."

"Have you seen it?"

"I thought I did once," said the second; "but it was misty and dark; but I think I couldn't be mistaken."

"Nor I."

"You have see it oftener than I; have you not?"

"Yes—yes—I have, several times."

"How did you see it?"

"Why, thus: I was looking out for the lugger, and there away in the east I saw something white coming across the sea. It came very steady and slow, and looked small at first."

"Yes—yes."

"Well, then, after that it came closer and closer, until I saw it changed its shape to a gigantic woman."

"A woman!" exclaimed the other.

"Yes, or may be a man in a winding-sheet; that is most likely though, after all."

"I think so, too," he replied; "as sure as there are dead bodies in Anderbury churchyard, it forebodes some great evil—of that I am very well persuaded."

"What great evil do you think will happen?"

"How can I tell? I am no prophet. I cannot imagine in what shape it should come; but come it will depend upon it; if it comes not now, when it does come, remember my words."

"I will."

"And you will find them all true some day or other, if it don't come too soon to be pleasant; but I think something may happen to the lugger."

"She has not been seen these two days; and it is now past the time when she ought to have been in. Thus it was with the other lugger that the revenue cutter took."

"Did you see the apparition?"

"No; but there was a token, I believe; but I was not in those parts at that time."

"Well; but how did it happen that they let the lugger be taken by the king's men?"

"Oh! they couldn't well help it, you may depend upon that. She was coming from Cherbourg, laden with brandy and with lace, a good cargo, and worth something, I assure you."

"She must have been worth something."

"She was. Well, she had a very good run for a part of the way, when a fog came on. Well, it wasn't well understand what they were to do. Some were for putting back; others for standing where they were, and some few for running in shore.

"I shall run in shore," said the captain. "I know every hole upon the coast; and I know the exact spot where we are, and how to steer. I can run the vessel to an inch."

"And that inch may do the business for us all," said one of the crew; "but I'm ready."

"And I, too," said the captain; "and I will run her where there will be no chance of any meeting with the preventive people; but the fact is, we can neither see nor be seen; we are safe, boys. A good run on shore, and a swift voyage home."

"Huzza!" shouted the men; and the vessel was run towards the shore, and, at the same time, they were going under an easy sail safe and secure, and had no thought of any evil.

There was a look-out, at the same time we could not see two yards beyond the vessel. The watch was alert, but he could see nothing; but suddenly he called out, —

"Ship a-head! Port your helm!"

"What ship's that?" inquired a voice, and, in another moment, they found themselves alongside the revenue cutter, from whom they had so long and so often escaped.

"Board!" shouted the officer on board, and then he called upon our people to surrender; but the captain drew his sword, and called out to the crew to do as he did, and defend the ship; and as he spoke, he cut one man down, but was immediately met by a pistol-shot, which laid him dead on the deck.

After that there was no resistance; the men didn't want to endanger their lives by resisting men who were doing their duty, and protected by law; they were, moreover, out-numbered by the revenue people, and if they resisted, they would be liable to hanging, whereas they could but imprison them.

"They were all taken, and they were all imprisoned for different crimes— all, however, getting free after a term."

"Did that ruin the owners?"

"Oh! no; they calculated upon a loss now and then, and can well afford it too."

"Well, what do you think of the baron at Anderbury House?"

"Think! Why, think he's a trump. What a glorious haul there would be there, if we could get hold of it."

"How do you mean?"

"Why, the plate and other things that are valuable. Look you now, if we could load the lugger with the contents of the house, what would they not fetch in Paris?"

"We should not get it if we were to take it there."

"We should obtain a heavier profit than ever we should under any other circumstances; and I think it will be a very good plan, indeed, to take Anderbury House by storm. There's some thousands of pounds' worth of plate and jewellery there."

"So there is."

"Well, what do you say to make the attempt? Attempt, I say; but I shall not call it an attempt, for there will be no attempt at resistance—we shall have only to walk in and frighten a few servants; there will be nothing but to carry away what we can lay our hands on."

"That will do—anything that will pay."

The baron had been an attentive listener. He had, moreover, had some thoughts in his own mind of jumping over the hedge, and seizing the two men; but, upon second thoughts, he belived that this was the worst that could be done.

"I will frighten them, and thus prevent them from putting their designs into practice to my damage."

The baron silently collected several large stones and clods of earth into one space, and then he peeped through the hedge. He saw where they lay, and took up two clods, pitched one on each of their heads, and then he said, when they started up, —

"Miserable sinners! the eye of Heaven is upon you; go your ways and repent while there is time."

The men were for a moment horrified, and stood still, chained to the spot; but suddenly they were released, and in a moment they rushed from the spot with the fleetness of deer.

The baron watched them out of sight, and then he muttered to himself, —

"'Tis well; they are now out of sight; they are gone, and they will make no attempt upon Anderbury House, I'll warrant them they think their design will be penetrated by others, and they will suffer for it should they attempt it. I trust I can make a very good resistance; however, it is worth thinking off."

He paused a few moments longer, and then turned towards the churchyard.

He pursued his way, however, thoughtfully; every now and then, however, he looked around to ascertain if any one were present, but he was satisfied there was none, and thus he was quite and entirely alone in his walk.

There was now light enough to enable him to distinguish objects at a short distance, and he quickened his pace, as he thought of the moon's rising; but a few minutes brought him into view of the church of Anderbury.

The old church was seen to advantage at such an hour, for as the sky was cloudless, and the stars were out, the tapering spire looked like some great and gigantic indication raised there for some purpose pointing heavenward.

There was a deep gloom surrounding the whole place, for there was not a shadow cast by any one object, neither had the church one side that was lighter than the other.

In a very short time the baron reached the charnel-house, or the bone-house, as it was more usually called. It was a small place, attached to the church itself. The wants of the population were not great; and, therefore, all these public places were built with the view only of a limited use.

It was large enough for all purposes, and as large as it is usual for them to be in such places; and the baron, before he attempted to enter the place, took a walk all the way round, to ascertain if there was any one lurking about; but finding none, he returned to the door of the charnel-house with the full intention of going in.

However, there was no key, and he could not, therefore, enter it by the usual way, and he must find some other.

"There is sure to be something or other," he muttered, "to cause a temporary stop to one's career in some place or other; but I will not be deterred by such a trifle—there is a place in the roof somewhere here, I think, where I can get in with but little trouble."

The baron looked about for a place that would enable him to climb up, but he suddenly withdrew his hand, exclaiming, —

"Hilloa! what have we here?"

It was soon settled, and the baron held up between him and the light the key of the charnel-house, which he had found as he put his fingers into a niche to assist him in lifting himself up to the roof.

"This is lucky, and will save me much trouble; but I have not much time to spare."

He put the key into the lock, and found it fitted the lock, and he in another moment opened the door of the charnel-house, and entered its unwholesome precincts.

There were but few who would have entered that place at that hour, knowing, too, that a man was lying dead that had died a violent death; few, indeed, would have done so, but the baron was himself above such considerations; and besides, he had an object in view, which was of some importance.

He desired to watch the body of the murdered man —he desired to stay there, and watch the effects of the moon's rays upon it. He now smelt where he was, for there was that fetid smell of death, which always hangs about the bone-house, which is a receptacle of all the mortal remains of man, which have been once cast into the grave, for which their friends have paid large fees — as well for the ceremony, as for the quiet enjoyment of the home of death; but which bargain must be continually violated, and the bones of a man's ancestor, instead of ornamenting some museum, or his carcass doing some good by way of instruction, lie rotting in the grave-yard, till the sexton digs up the same ground and takes fresh his fees, but burning the bones of the former.

The baron entered the receptacle of the remains of mortality. One after the other have men's bones been thrown in here, or, perhaps they have been mixed together, so that it would have puzzled an angel to have separated them from each other.

What more could mortals expect? their bones, at least, will form a fuel to be sure; but very indifferent fuel, too.

Here, however, the baron entered, and stepped lightly into the place. It was an uncomfortable place at best —cold, cheerless, very bare, save of such things as would remind one of the sexton's duty, and of the nature of the place in which he was.

The first thing the baron did, was to look towards the place where the window was placed, but no light came in. He advanced to it, and gazed out upon the night.

"Well, well," he muttered, "the moon is just rising; there will be time enough, and I can remain in this place as long as any of its rays penetrate the windows."

He paused a few moments, during which he looked out upon the country; but all was wrapped up in gloom and darkness, save where some of the moon's beams fell, and then there could be seen some dark spots more prominent than the rest; and then, after awhile, he could distinguish between the different objects, though he could not always tell their different parts.

"Well," he muttered, "I am here now, and am housed. Faugh! how the place smells. I shall never be able to remain here. I shall never get the scent from my nostrils."

He turned from the window, and examined the place. It was a square room, with bare walls. A few shelves, and some odd lumber thrown into one corner, a ladder, some tools, trestles, and a lot of rubbish in the shape of old pieces of coffins, bones, and other matters that belonged to a churchyard. There was very little in all this, to make the place at all likely to become popular with anybody.

The shell in which the man had been placed was, form some cause or other, upset from off the trestles, and the body had rolled out. It lay in all its ghastly proportions at full length upon the ground, somewhat on one side, and looking towards the window. The posture shewed the body was deprived of life. It was still and motionless —not a sound or motion escaped the lips of the baron, as he gazed upon the victim of the ice-well.

Well did the baron mark the position of the body, and marvel at the singularity of the accident which had exposed the body in the way in which it laid.

"I wonder what could have been the cause of such an accident? Who could have thought it would have happened? I am sure I never could have expected it should have happened."

He took one of the trestles that lay near the body, and placed it so that he could gaze upon the corpse, and out at the window, alternately, without any disturbance to himself.

"Here I can watch the progress of the moon," he thought, "and the body, too; and if I find my conjectures are right, I will soon prevent his quitting this place, and put him in such a position as shall preclude the possibilty of the revivifying powers of the moon ever reaching him again. He shall lie till corruption visits his body, and then a return to life be impossible."

Thus muttered the baron, as he gazed fixedly at the body of the man, who had met his death in the manner related, and of whom the baron entertained some singular suspicions.

The moon was rising above the horizon, and shed a soft light over the fields and woods. It was strange and silent, save when the church clock struck out the hours as they fled.

It was a strange sound, and almost startled the baron to hear the hour come booming through the building, and gave such a sound, that it broke the awful stillness of the night which reigned; the moon all the while rising higher and higher in the heavens, until its beams came very near the window.

The baron's patience became somewhat impaired; he saw that the time would soon arrive, when his curiosity must be satisfied, and when the truth would at once break in upon him.

"Can it be," he muttered, "that the dead should ever again rise to communicate with the world, and live to lead a loathsome life? Impossible! and yet 'tis said so by many, who assert they speak but the evidence of their own senses; if it is to be depended upon at all, it will be as well for me as they.

"Why should I not be satisfied as well as they are? I have, moreover, more than ordinary motives for satisfaction. The human bloodsucker shall not live. I am resolved upon that."

The moonbeams now entered the window of the charnel-house. At first it was but a pencil ray, so small and minute, that the baron himself could scarce perceive it; but he did see it, and kept his eye intently fixed upon it, watching its increase in size and change of position with intense excitement.

There was the moon rising high in the heaven, with all its myriads of stars, and black canopy, studding the vault with innumerable gems; and as it rose, so it gave a far greater change to the aspect of the landscape than would have been expected.

The whole side of the charnel-house was illuminated by the moon's rays, but they fell aslant and only entered the window in one direction, which cast them on one side, near where the baron sat.

He could now see how the place was furnished; the significant appurtenances of the charnel-house were easily discernible, and would have given a melancholy turn to the thoughts of anybody who might have examined them; but not so the baron —he was by far too excited to heed them, though he honoured them with a passing glance.

They are used by the sexton in the prosecution of his business, in the performance of his duties; therefore, there need be but little attention paid to them; they cannot harm any one, but are the means of frightening fools.

To frighten the baron was, however, something more than a mere matter of course; his nerves were strung to the purpose with which he visited the place, and they were not to be disturbed by any insignia whatever. There were plenty of ghastly objects about; bones, legs, hands, arms, and even sculls, were lying about in profusion, or rather they were heaped up in one corner of the place, and there was an attempt to hide them by heaping up old boards in front of them, as if it were done on purpose to prevent the prying eye of man from peeping and seeing the secrets of the charnel-house.

It is strange, but true, being accustomed to such scenes as these causes a diminution of the awe and fear in which such things are usually held. Soldiers and sailors care not much for death; they are used to exposure, and the loss of life does not seem to them so terrible as to those who have never faced danger.

So with the sexton: he turns up the remains of mortality, as if they were so much rubbish, and never had been endowed with life; indeed, it is only necessary to become familiar with the remains of man, and then much of the awe and mystery attending them dies away.

What cares the grave-digger whether the burial service has been read over the remains or not? What cares he if the ground in which they have been placed is consecrated ground? He can't tell the difference, and it matters not to him; he is above such consideration, and so is he and his patrons, as to whether the spot in which the remains lie, has been bought and paid for long ago.

He has no objection to sell again that which has been sold, and that which has been used as the resting-place of some one or other. No matter, they say; the mystery, the freemasonry, and all, have been instituted for the multitude, and not for those who are behind the curtain, and pocket the fees; that is the great object of the conspirators.

However, here they were, all lumped up together, on one side, or rather in one corner, with a few boards thrown over them, as if to prevent their being seen by any incidental intruder.

Here the baron sat, watching the moonlight in its slow progress towards the dead body; and, as it crept towards the object, he felt more and more excited, but yet remained perfectly immoveable. He turned his eyes sometimes from the body to the streak of moonlight that passed through the small window, and then to the small window itself, from which he could see the moon himself, but that was fast rising too high, and was becoming invisible by changing its position, so that the baron could not see it.

"The moon travels fast," he muttered, "and a few more minutes will tell me what I am to expect."

As he spoke these words, he felt in his pocket, and appeared satisfied with what he found there —possibly some weapon. The moon's rays were now within an inch or so of the body, an all was as still and silent as the grave; no sound, no motion, not even a breath of air stirred to interrupt the silence and stillness of the scene; even the breathing of the baron himself was suppressed, and he strove to watch without motion.

The moonlight appeared to grow more brilliant, more beautifully white, and cast, as he thought, a stronger and more sickly light than usual into the charnel-house. There was nothing that he had ever before seen like it, and he looked around him more than once to assure himself that he was where he was, and that he was alone with the body in the bone-house.

At such moments the fancy is apt to play us strange freaks, and, if not a strong and nervous man —capable of throwing off any extraneous influence, why he would soon be bowed down by the weight of mental terror and agony — that is, nothing short of temporary madness, and which probably would make a permanent impression, and leave the seeds of mental disease for ever.

But the baron was not easily moved; he had not been brought up in schools where the mind is bound, enchained from infancy by artificial means, which seem to bind the powers of the mind in after years, and, in moments of doubt and difficulty, to render it dependent upon any extraneous circumstance, rather than itself.

However, there were few things thought of then by the baron, who sat intently watching the progress of the moon's beams towards the body, which was now touched by them.

The light fell strong, it edged the white garments that were thrown around the body; the baron watched more and more intently, and each moment lessened the space of time when the truth would come out —when he would be assured of the truth of his conjectures.

There was no ray on the body yet, but it slowly and slowly let the light approach the body; the edge was illumined, and then the moonbeams fell more and more upon it; gradually did they enlarge its surface till the whole body was in the light of the moon.

The baron's excitement and expectation were now at the highest, for the whole body was illuminated.

"Now!" he exclaimed, in a muttered whisper; "now is the moment."

No sooner was the whole of the body, the breast, and the face illumined, than there was a perceptible quiver through that form.

"Ha!" exclaimed the baron, with a start.

The features presented a ghastly spectacle; there was a peculiar sickly and horrible expression in the countenance, much of which was caused by the peculiar position in which it was placed; the peculiar colour of the moon's rays and the additional horrors of the place, all seemed to give an effect to an object peculiarly ghastly and horrible.

The body, after a few moments, as if awakening to life and recollection, lifted up its head, and turned over upon one side towards the moonlight; and then, after a moment, it looked up in the moon's rays, which seem to pour down upon the countenance that lifted up towards it.

The baron rose softly and stealthily.

"You shall feel that this is your last hour. The newly awakened life which feeds upon the blood of others, shall never exist to carry on its disgusting career."

As he muttered these thoughts to himself, he drew a short dagger from his pocket; at the same moment the figure turned its face towards him.

It gave a half unearthly scream, as its eyes met those of the baron's, who exclaimed,

"Now—now's the time—death to the monster."

As he spoke, he threw himself headlong on the prostrate form of the vampyre, for such it was; which, as he did so, endeavoured to rise up and escape. The baron, who had aimed a deadly blow at him, as he threw himself upon him, caused him to fall back again; but the fearful being had contrived to ward off the blow, either with its arms, or by means of shifting its position, or something of the sort; the baron missed the blow, and was now in a deadly struggle with the vampyre.

The struggle was fierce; no signs of shrinking on the part of the baron, who carried it on with the full intention of its ending fatally to his opponent, while he was exerting himself to escape the muscular grasp of the baron.

The baron, however, was not a match for the more than superhuman strength of the vampyre, who, endued with all the energy of love of a newly-acquired life, struggled with a desperation scarely to be conceived.

Had any one looked in, from without, upon the struggle that was going on within, they would have believed that some demons of the dead had suddenly become endued with the power of appearing upon earth, and had chosen that spot upon which they could exercise their malignity in combat with each other.

Suddenly, however, the baron was thrown with great force upon the ground, and he lay for a moment half stunned; then the vampyre, disengaged as he was, stopped to cast a magnificent look of triumph upon his fallen foe, and dashed out of the bone-house by the same entrance as that which afforded ingress to the place to the baron.

In another moment the baron rose up and rushed after the flying vampyre; his defeat by no means extinguishing his courage or ardour.

He soon caught sight of the vampyre as he was flying from the bone-house; indeed, the moonlight was now so strong, that it seemed almost day.

Every object, far or near, appeared distinct and observable; while the waves of the ocean appeared every now and then to throw off the silvery light, like a thousand moving mirrors.

Beautiful as the scene was, there was none there who stood to look upon it. The only living and breathing persons present, were those who were engaged in the chase. Not a soul, save these two, were about —none saw them —none witnessed the fearful efforts of the two.

The place looke like some spot of earth spoken of by the enchanters; all was motionless and still, save these two, and the ceaseless motion of the ocean waves.

The vampyre made for the shore, with the baron a short distance behind him. They strained every nerve; and the baron thought he should succeed in securing him on the beach.

There were some boats that were secured on the beach, and towards these the vampyre sped with the fleetness of the wind; and, no sooner did he reach one, than seizing its head, he caused it to run through the sand by the impetus he had acquired in running, and it was afloat in a moment.

There was no time to lose, for just as he had pushed into deep water, the baron had rushed down almost in time to seize the boat but missed it.

He then made for the boats, and succeeded in reaching one that was afloat, secured only by a rope.

In this he pushed out on the waves in pursuit of the object of his search. Away they both went; the sea was comparatively smooth; they both rowed with velocity, that promised much as regarded their capability as rowers.

The spray of the water was thrown up by their oars and by the boats' heads. The baron, however, had the worst of it; he rowed to disadvantage; because, every now and then, he had to turn his head to see which way the object of his pursuit was rowing; and, therefore, a loss of speed occurred; but yet he kept up well in the wake of the vampyre.

There was, however, no attention paid as to where he was going; as long as it was straight in the wake of the flying, he was satisfied. But he saw nothing else, nor looked at aught else; indeed, the world might have been there, and he would not have been aware of the fact. His whole faculties were bound up in the object before him, to reach which, he exerted his whole strength. However, upon looking up again, he could nowhere see the vampyre. He looked long and steadily in all quarters, but saw him not. He had eluded him.

—