CHAPTER CXC.
[Chapter 207]
FAMILY TROUBLES. —THE HOUSE OF MOURNING.
It was too true. It was not the mere appearance of death, but the
reality of the fell destroyer that the Crofton family had to mourn. She who,
but a few short hours since, was in all the bloom of apparent health, and
youth, and beauty was now no more.
The poor father, the sisterless sister, the astonished, indignant, and
agonised brothers formed a group that was too sad to contemplate.
As they gazed upon the wreck of her whom they had all loved so fondly,
they could scarcely believe that death had indeed claimed her as her own; they
"Thought her more beautiful than death,"
and could not, as they gazed tremblingly upon her still form, bring themselves
to believe that she had indeed gone from them for ever.
Dr. North, however, soon put all doubt upon the subject to rest by an
announcement that her spirit had really fled. In vain he tried all the means
that his art suggested. That mysterious and mighty something which we call
life, which we miss and yet see no loss, which is so great, yet so evanescent
and impalpable, was gone.
"Come away," he said, "we can do no good here now. Come away, all of
you!"
"Oh, no, no," cried Sir George. "Why should we leave my child?"
"That," said the doctor, as he pointed to the corpse, "that is not your
child."
The old man shuddered, and with an aspect upon his face, as if ten years
of added age had at least passed over him in those few momemts, he suffered
them to lead him from the room. They all passed down stairs again, leaving
Emma in her own chamber along with the female servants, so hastily again
called up to remain with her.
When the dining-room was reached once more, Mr. Smith, who bore all the
appearance of being quite thunder-struck by what had passed, spoke in the most
feeling manner, saying, —
"This is truly one of the most affecting circumstances I ever remember.
It is dreadful; a young girl to be at once snatched from a circle of admiring
and loving friends in this manner, is too sad a picture for any one with a
heart to feel for the distresses of others to contemplate. What, sir, is your
opinion," to Dr. North, "of the actual cause of death?"
"The shock to the nervous system I suspect has induced some sudden action
of the heart that has been too much for vitality."
"Dreadful!"
"Alas, alas!" sobbed Sir George. "What have I done, that Heaven should
thus launch against me the bolts of its bitterest vengeance? Why should I be
robbed of my child? Surely there were angels enough in Heaven withoug taking
mine from me."
"Hush, hush," said Dr. North; "you are in grief, sir, and know not what
you say. These were not else the words that would fall from the lips of such
a man as you are."
The bereaved father was silent, and the sons looked at him with
countenances in which dismay was most strongly pictured. They seemed as if as
yet they had not become fully alive to the loss they had sustained, or of what
had really happened within the once happy domestic circle, of which the
fairest portion was now so ruthlessly dragged from them.
"It is like a dream," said Edwin, addressing his brother Charles in a
whisper. "It is much more like a dream than aught else in the world."
"It is, it is. Oh, tell me that this is not real."
"It is too real," said the doctor, "you must bow with what amount of
resignation you can call to your aid to that stroke of destiny which you
cannot control; you should consider that as regards her who has gone from you,
that she is now no object of pity. Death is an evil to you in your loss, but
it is the end of all evil and pain to her; and then again, she has but gone a
few years, after all, earlier than usual, for how long shall we—ay, the best
and strongest of us—be behind her?"
This was consolation of the right sort, and was sure to have its effect
upon persons in the habit of conversing coolly and calmly upon general
subjects, so that in a short time, the father even felt much better, and
although the sons were quite convinced of their loss they no longer looked at
each other with such bewildered aspects, but exhibited the rational grief of
men.
Charles spoke after a time with great energy, saying,—
"It is true that we may call our reason to our aid, and contrive to rid
ourselves of our grief in a great measure; but there is another duty we have
to perform, and that is, to diligently inquire why and how it was, that our
sister got this horrible fright, that has had the effect of hurrying her into
eternity."
"Yes, brother," said Edwin, "you are right! our sister's memory shall be
vindicated, and woe be to him who has brought this desolation and grief upon
us.
Sir George looked from one of his sons to the other, but said nothing; he
appeared to be prostrated too much by his feelings, and the doctor strongly
urging him to retire to rest, he shortly did so, where we will leave him for a
time, hoping that he will find the oblivion of sleep creep over him, and
"Knit up the ravelled sleeve of care."
"Now," said Dr. North, "here we are four men with cool heads, and active
enough judgments. For Gods's sake, let us try to come to some sort of
conclusion about this dreadful affair. What do you say, Charles?"
"In the first place, I should recommend that the house be searched
diligently, in order that we may see if any stranger is in it, or discover any
means by which an entrance to the premises has been effected. We don't know
but that after all some robbery may be the aim, and that the fright of our
sister which has had so fatal an effect, may be the consequence merely of the
appearance of a thief in her room.
"Agreed," said Edwin, "let the search of the house be our first step."
Two of the new servants were summoned with lights, and the party of four
proceeded to an examination of the house, which on account of its size was not
a very short process, for there was so many staircases and rooms opening the
one into the other, that the hiding places were numerous enough.
At length, however, they were not only satisfied that no one was
concealed on the premises, but likewise that all the fastenings were quite
secure, and had been made so before the servants retired to rest. The mystery
therefore was rather increased.
Had there not been the collateral evidence of Emma and the singular fact
of the fastening up of the doors of the doctor's and Mr. Smith's bed-chambers,
no doubt the whole affair would have rested where it was, and have been put
down as a remarkable death arising from the influence of a dream.
But that was out of the question —somebody had been seen, and whether
that somebody was really not an inhabitant of this world was the question.
In the midst of all this, the day began to dawn.
Sir George had had no sleep, but he had done himself some good in the
solitude of his own chamber. He had prayed long and earnestly, and his
prayers had had the effect which they almost invariably have upon all
imaginative persons, namely, of bringing him an amount of mental calmness,
peace, and resignation, highly desirable in his circumstances.
The breakfast table was laid in silence by the servants, and when Sir
George met his sons and his guests, he spoke calmly enough, saying to them, —
"You will no more hear from me the accents of grief or of despair. I
accept what consolation I can find, but as a man, and a father I will have
justice; my child has been terrified to death, and I will find who has done
the deed, for let him be whom he may, he is as much her murderer as though he
had plunged a dagger in her heart."
"It is so," said Mr. Smith.
"Being so, then let him beware."
Varney thought that as the father uttered these last words, he glanced
in a peculiar manner at him, but he was not quite sure that such was the case.
Had he been sure, perhaps, he would have taken other steps than he did.
Little more passed during the breakfast, but when the meal was over, Sir
George said, —
"Edwin, we are but dull and poor company to Mr. Smith; it will amuse him,
perhaps, if you take him through the grounds, and show him the estate."
Edwin made no objection, and as the thing was put in the shape of an
amusement to him, Varney could only say some civil things, and rise to go.
"I regret," he said, "to be of so much trouble."
"Not at all," said Edwin, "no trouble, sir; my own mind, God knows, wants
something to distract it from too close a contemplation of its own thoughts.
If you will accompany me in a walk over the estate, it will, perhaps, put me
into better spirits."
They left the room, and when they were gone, Sir George Crofton rose and
shut the door, fastening it on the inside carefully, rather to the surprise of
the doctor and his son Charles, who looked at him in silence.
"Charles," he then said, "and you, doctor, I have something particular to
say to you."
"What is it? What is it?"
"God forgive me if I am wrong, but I suspect our guest? [!]"
"Mr. Smith?"
"Yes, I don't like his looks at all; now we know nothing of him but from
his own report; we have searched the house right through, or at least you
have, you tell me, and found nothing. He is the only stranger within our
doors. Perhaps it is uncharitable to suspect him, but I cannot help it, the
thought came too strongly upon me last night, as I was alone in my chamber,
for me to overcome it. I have now spoken to you both frankly, and tell me
what are your thoughts."
"I don't like him," said Charles.
"He is a singular man," said Dr. North.
"What—what now if he were—were—"
"Why do you hesitate, father? what would you say?"
"Go on, sir," said Dr. North, with a nod, that signified, I know very
well what you are going to say. "Go on, sir."
"What, then, if it were really true, that there were such things, and he
is a vampyre?"
Edwin sprang to his feet in surprise, and said, —
"Good God! you put a frightful idea into my brain that will now never
leave it. A vampyre?"
"Heaven forbid," added Sir George, "that I should say such a thing
heedlessly, or that I should take upon myself to assert that such is the case;
I merely throw it out as a supposition—a horrible one, I grant, but yet one
that perhaps deserves some consideration."
"Get rid of him," said Dr. North.
"It is difficult after telling him he was welcome to stay, to now tell
him that we want him to go. I would much prefer watching him closely, and
endeavouring by such means, either to confirm or to do away entirely with my
suppositions. And you can take an opportunity of speaking to Edwin upon the
subject, quietly and carefully."
"I will, father."
"Then we can be all upon the alert; but above all things I charge you say
nothing to Emma of the really terrific idea. Only I should say that to-night
it is in the direction of her chamber that I would wish to keep the closest
watch.["]
"And that, too, without her knowing it," said the doctor. "If she is
aware of anything of the sort, there is no knowing what tricks her imagination
might play her, and now, Sir George, I must say that I take the greatest
interest in the matter, and will with your permission remain here until I am
sent for. Poor Ringwood still reminds insensible, and I take it that under
the circumstances that it is really a mercy, for what a sad communication has
to be made to him, when he does recover sufficiently to hear it."
"Sad, indeeed."
It was now finally agreed among them that there was to be no variation
whatever in their conduct towards Mr. Smith, but that after they had taken
leave of him for the night, and had all gone to bed, they should each glide
out of his chamber, and wait at the extreme end of the [corridor] in silence,
to mark if anything should happen.
This was duly announced to Edwin, who with a shudder announced that he
had his suspicions, too, of Mr. Smith, so he of course came into the scheme at
once; and now they waited rather anxiously for the night to come again.
—
