CHAPTER CXCIX.
[Chapter 216]
THE HORRORS OF THE GRAVE. —A FRIGHTFUL ADVENTURE.
One would have thought that young Ringwood might with effect and with
discretion have disclosed his plan of watching in the old church to one of the
brothers of Clara, but he shrunk from doing that.
In the first place he thought he should be put down as a visionary, and
as one who was disposed to insult the memory of Clara by imagining that the
story of the sexton could be true, and in the second place, if anything did
happen, he was afraid that the feelings of the brother might clash with his.
"No," he said, "I will go alone—I will not rest again until I have
thoroughly satsified myself that this tale is but a fabrication of the fancy.
Oh, Clara! can it be possible—no, no. The thought is by far too—too
horrible."
It may really be considered a fortunate thing that the communication of
the clergyman was made in the evvening, for had it been earlier in the day,
the hours of frightful anxiety which Ringwood would have endured until the
night came must have been most painful.
As it was, however, the hours that would elapse ere he could venture to
go to the church on his strange and melancholy errand were not many, and they
passed the more quickly, that during some of them, he was making up his mind
as to what he should do.
"Yes, Clara, my best beloved Clara," he said, "I will rescue your sweet
memory from this horrible doubt that is cast upon it, or I will join you in
the tomb. Welcome, a thousand times welcome death, rather than that I should
live to think that you are—God, no—no! I cannot pronounce the dreadful
word. Oh, what evil times are these, and what a world of agony do I endure.
But courage, courage; let fancy sleep, I must not allow my imagination to
become sufficiently excited to play me any pranks to-night. Be still my
heart, and let me go upon this expedition as a spectator merely. Time enough
will it be to become an actor, when I know more, if indeed there be more to
know."
The clergyman sent the key, according to his promise, by a confidential
servant, who had orders to ask for Mr. Ringwood and to give it into his own
hands, so that the young man was fully prepared to go, when the proper time
should arrive for him to start upon his expedition.
He purposely kept very much out of the way of Sir George Crofton and his
two sons during the remainder of the evening, for such was the ingenuous
nature of young Ringwood, and so unused was he to place any curb upon his
speech, that he dreaded letting slip some information regarding his intention
to keep watch in the old church that night; in such a case it would have been
difficult to refuse company.
Sir George took the advice of the clergyman and said nothing to any one
of the dreadful communication that had been made to him. But he could not
conceal from the family and his servants, that some unusual grief was preying
upon him, beyond even the sadness that had remained after the death of his
daughter. He retired to rest unusually early, that he might escape their
curious and inquiring glances.
The clock struck eleven.
"It is time," said Ringwood, as he sprung from his seat in his bed-room.
"It is time. For the love of thee, my Clara, I go to brave this adventure,
Mine are you in death as in life. My heart is widowed, and can know no other
love."
He armed himself with a pair of loaded pistols, for he made up his mind
that if any trickery was at the bottom of the proceeding, the authors of such
a jest should pay dearly for their temerity, and then cautiously descending
from his bed-room, he crossed the dining-room, and passing through a
conservatory, easily made his way out of the house, and into a flower-garden
that was beyond.
He thought that if he went out of the grounds by the way of the porter's
lodge, it might excite some remark, his not returning again, so he went to a
part of the wall which he knew was low and rugged.
"There," he said, "I can easily climb over, and by getting into the
meadows make my way into the road."
This, to a young man, was not by any means a difficult matter, and he in
a few minutes more found himself quite free of the house and grounds, and
making his way very rapidly towards the church, the tower of which, he could
just see.
The night was again a cloudy one; although nothing had as yet fallen, the
wind was uncertain, and no one could with any safety have ventured to predict
whether it would be fair, or rain. Of the two, certainly, Ringwood would have
prefered
moonlight, for he wished in the church to be able to see well
about him, without thinking of the necessity of a light.
"No," he said, as he pursued his way, "I must have no light; that would
ruin all."
By the time he reached the church, he had a better opinion of the
weather, and from a faint sort of halo that was in the sky, he was led to
believe that the moon's light would soon be visible, and enable him to see
everything that might take place.
The key that the parson had given him opened the same little door by
which Will Stephens, the sexton, had entered, and there was no difficulty in
turning the lock, for it was frequently used.
The young man paused for a moment, debating with himself, whether he
should fasten the door securely on the inner side, or leave it open, and at
last he thought, that considering all things, the latter was the best course
to pursue."
"I do not wish," he said, "to stop any proceedings, so much as I wish to
see what they are. There shall therefore be every facility for any one coming
into the church, who may chance to have an intention so to do."
He still, it will be seen, clung a little to the hope that it was a
trick.
When he pushed open the door that was covered with green baize, he found
that in consequence of the cloth curtain being entirely drawn aside from
before the south window, that there was not near the amount of darkness within
the building that he had anticipated finding there.
When his eyes got a little accustomed to it, he could even see, dimly to
be sure, but still, sufficiently to distinguish the several shapes of the
well-known objects in the church. The pulpit, the communion table, the little
rails before it, and some of the old monuments against the walls.
The stone slab that covered the opening to the vault of the Crofton
family, had been before the commencement of the morning service properly
secured, so that that entrance could be walked over with perfect safety, and
Ringwood carefully ascertained that such was the fact.
"Surely, surely," he said, "it is as Mr. Bevan says. That man must have
come here half stupified by ale, and have gone to sleep, The only thing that
gives the slightest semblance to such a tale, is the adventure of that most
mysterious man who was reclaimed from the sea."
Yes, Ringwood was right. That was the circumstance, full of dread and
awful mystery as it was, which sufficed to make anything else probable, and
possible.
And what had become of him? Since the time when he made his escape from
the Grange, nothing had been seen or heard of him unless that were he indeed,
who was in the church pointing to the moonlight when the terrified Will
Stephens was there.
And yet Stephens, although he might be supposed to be in a position to
know him, did not recognise him, for we do not find in his account of the
affair that he made any mention of him, or insinuated any opinion even, that
the Mr. Smith of the bone-house, was the same person who had played so strange
a part in the church.
The reader will have his own opinion.
"Where shall I bestow myself," thought Ringwood, "I ought to be somewhere
from whence I can get a good view of the whole church."
After some little consideration, and looking about him as well as the
semi-darkness would permit him, he thought that he could not by any
possibility do better than get into the pulpit. From there he could readily
turn about in any direction from whence any noise might proceed, at the same
time, that it was something like a position which could not be very well
attacked except with fire arms, and if such weapons were used against him, he
should have the great advantage of seeing who was his assailant.
Accordingly he ascended the pulpit stairs, and soon ensconced himself in
that elevated place.
There was something very awful, and solemn, and yet beautiful about the
faint view he got of the old conventicle-looking church from its pulpit, and
irresistible had he chosen to resist it, there came to his lips a prayer to
Heaven for its aid, its protection, and its blessing upon his enterprise.
How much calmer, and happier he felt after that. How true it is, as
Prospero says, that prayer,
-—"Pierces so that it assaults
Mercy itself, and frees all faults."
Who is there in the wide world who has not felt the benign influence of
an appeal to the great Creator of all things, under circumstances of
difficulty, and of distress. Let us pity the heart, if there be such a one
in existence, that is callous to such a feeling.
But there are none. A reliance upon divine mercy is one of the
attributes of humanity, and may not be turned aside, by even all the
wickedness and the infidelity that may be arrrayed against it.
"All is still," murmured Ringwood. "The stillness of the very grave is
here, Oh, my Clara; methinks without a pang of mortal fear, I could converse
in such an hour as this, with thy pure and unsullied spirit!"
In the enthusiasm of the moment, no doubt, Ringwood could have done so,
and it is a wonder that his most excited imagination did not conjure up some
apparent semblance of the being whom he loved so devotedly, and whose image he
so fondly cherished, even although she had gone from him.
"Yes, my Clara," he cried, in tones of enthusiasm. "Come to me, come to
me, and you will not find that in life or in death the heart that is all your
own, will shrink from you!"
This species of mental exaltation was sure soon to pass away, and it did
so. The sound of his own voice convinced him of the impropiety of such
speeches, when he came there as an observer.
"Hush! hush!" he said. "Be still, be still."
It was evident to him that many clouds were careering over face of the
moon, for at times the church would get very dark indeed, and everything
assumed a pitchy blackness, and then again a soft kind of light would steal
in, and give the whole place a different aspect.
This continued for a long time, as he thought, and more than once he
tried to ascertain the progress of the hours by looking at his watch, but the
dim light baffled him.
"How long have I been here?" he asked himself; "I must not measure the
time by my feelings, else I should call it an age."
At that moment the old church clock began to chime, and having proclaimed
the four quarters past eleven, it with its deep-toned solemn bell struck the
hour of twelve —Ringwood carefully counted the strokes, so that, although it
was too dark to see his watch, he could not be deceived.
—