CHAPTER CCIV.
[Chapter 221]
THE NIGHT WATCH. —THE VAULT.
It was each moment becoming a more difficult affair to carry on any
conversation in the public-house parlour, for not only did the thunder each
moment almost interrupt the speakers with its loud reverberations, but now and
then such a tremendous gust of wind would sweep round the house that it would
be quite impossible for any one to make himself heard amidst its loud howling
noise.
These were circumstances however, which greatly aided no doubt, in the
getting up of a superstitious feeling in the minds of the people there
assembled, which made them ripe for any proposition, which perhaps in their
soberer moments they would have regarded with considerable dismay; hence when
the blacksmith rushed to the door, crying, —
"Who will follow me to the old church and lay hold of the vampyre?" about
half-a-dozen of the boldest and most reckless, —and be it told to their
honour (if there be any honour in such an enterprise, which after all, was a
grossly selfish one,) they were the worst characters in the village —started
to their feet to accompany him thither.
There are many persons who waver about an enterprise, who will join it
when it has a show of force, and thus was it with this affair. The moment it
was found that the blacksmith's proposition had some half-dozen stout
adherents, he got as many more —some of whom joined him from curiosity, and
some from dread of being thought to lack courage by their companions if they
held off.
There was now a sufficiently large party to make a respectable
demonstration, and quite elated with his success, and caring little for the
land storm that was raging, the blacksmith, closely followed by the butcher,
who had no objection in life to the affair, especially as he was at variance
with the parson concerning the tithes of a little farm he kept, called out, —
"To the church—to the church!" and followed by the rabble, rushed
forward in the directon of the sacred edifice.
* * * * *
As the hour of eleven has struck, and as the reader is aware that at that
hour Sir George Crofton and his two sons, accompanied by Mr. Bevan, had agreed
to go to the church on their melancholy errand, we will leave the noisy
brawlers of the alehouse for the purpose of detailling the proceedings of
those whose fortunes we feel more closely interested in.
The baronet was by no means wavering in his determination,
notwithstanding it had been made at a time of unusual excitement, when second
thoughts might have been allowed to step in, and suggest some other course of
proceeding.
Now, Mr. Bevan was not without his own private hopes that such would be
the case; for what he dreaded above all other things was, the truth of the
affair, and that Sir George would have the horror of discovering that there
was much more in the popular superstition than, without ocular demonstration,
he would have been inclined to admit.
Although a man of education and of refined abilities, the evidence that
had already showed itself to him of the existence at all events of some
supernatural being, with powers analogous to those of the fabled vampyre, was
such that he could not wholly deny, withough stultifying his intellect, that
there might be such things.
It is a sad circumstance when the mind is, as it were, compelled to
receive undeniable evidence of a something which the judgment has the
strongest general reasons for disputing, and that was precisely the position
of Mr. Bevan, and a most unenviable one it was.
That night's proceedings, however, in the vault, he felt must put an end
to all doubts and perplexity upon the subject, and so with a fervent hope
that, in some, at present inexplicable manner, the thing would be found to be
a delusion, he waited more anxiously the arrival of the Croftons at the
parsonage.
At half past ten o'clock, instead of eleven, for as the evening advanced,
Sir George Crofton had shown such an amount of nervousness that his sons had
thought it would be better to bring him to the parsonage, they arrived, and
Mr. Bevan perceived at once what a remarkable effect grief and anxiety had
already had upon the features of the baronet.
He was a different man to what, but a few days since, he had been, and
more than ever the kind clergyman felt inclined to doubt the expediency of his
being present on such an occasion, and yet how to prevent him if he were
really determined, was a matter of no small difficulty.
"My dear friend," said Mr. Bevan, "will you pardon me if I make an effort
now to persuade you to abandon this enterprise?"
"I can pardon the effort easily," said Sir George Crofton, "because I
know it is dictated by the best of motives, but I would fain be spared it, for
I am determined."
"I will say no more, but only with deep sincerity hope that you may
return to your dwelling, each relieved from the load of anxiety that now
opresses you."
"I hope to Heaven it may be so."
"The night looks strange and still," said Charles, who wished to draw
his father's attention as much as possible from too close a contemplation of
the expedition on which they were bound.
"It does," said Edwin; "I should not be surprised at a storm, for there
is every indication of some distubance of the elements.
"Let it come," said Sir George, who fancied that in all those remarks he
detected nothing but a wish to withdraw him from his enterprise; "Let it come.
I have a duty to perform, and I will do it, though Heaven's thunders should
rock the very earth—the forked lightning is not launched at the father who
goes to watch at the grave of his child."
Charles and Edwin, upon finding that Sir George was in the mood to make a
misapplication of whatever was said to him, desisted from further remarks, but
left Mr. Bevan quietly to converse with him, in a calm and unirritating
manner.
It was the object of the clergyman to put off as much time as possible
before proceeding to the church, so that the period to be spent in the family
vault of the Croftons should be lessened as much as possible, for he felt
assured that each minute there wasted would be one of great agony to the
bereaved father, who would feel himself once again in such close approximation
to that daughter on whom he had placed some of his dearest affections.
Sir George, however, defeated this intention, by promply rising when his
watch told him that the hour of eleven had arrived, and it was in vain to
attempt to stultify him into a belief that he was wrong as regarded the time,
for the church was sufficiently near for them to hear the hour of eleven
pealed forth from its ancient steeple.
"Come," said Sir George, "the hour has arrived. I pray you do not delay.
I know you are all anxious and fearful concerning me, but I have a spirit of
resolution and firmness in this affair which shall yet stand me in good stead.
I shall not shrink, as you imagine I shall shrink. Come, then, at once—it
is suspense and delay which frets me, and not action."
These words enforced a better spirit into both his sons and Mr. Bevan,
and in a few moments the party of four, surely sufficiently strong to overcome
any unexpected obstacles, or to defeat any trickery that might be attempted to
be passed off upon them, proceeded towards the church.
It will be recollected that it was just a little after that time that the
storm commenced, and, in fact, the first clap of thunder, that seemed to shake
the heavens, took place just as they reached the old grave-yard adjoining to
the sacred building.
"There!" exclaimed Charles, "I thought that it would come."
"What matter?" said Sir George, "come on."
"Humour him in everything," said Mr. Bevan, "It is madness now to
contradict him—he will not recede under any circumstances."
The natural senses of Sir George Crofton appeared to be preternaturally
acute, for he turned sharply, and said quickly, but not unkindly, —
"No, he will not recede—come on."
After this, nothing was said until they reached the church door, and then
while Mr. Bevan was searching in his pockets for the little key which opened
the small private entrance, some vivid flashes of lightning lit up with
extraordinary brillancy the old gothic structure —the neighouring tombs and
the melancholy yew trees that waved their branches in the night air.
Perhaps the delay which ensued before Mr. Bevan cold find the key,
likewise arose from the wish to keep Sir George as short a time as possible
within the vault, but he at length produced it, for any further delay could
only be accounted for by saying that he had it not.
The small arched doorway was speedily cleared, and as another peal of
thunder broke over head in awful grandeur of sound, they entered the church.
Mr. Bevan took the precaution this time to close the door, so that there
could be no interruption from without.
"Now, Sir George," he said, "remember your promise. You are to come away
freely at the first dawn of day, and if nothing by then has occurred to
strengthen the frightful supposition which, I suppose I may say, we have all
indulged in, I do hope that for ever this subject will be erased from your
recollection."
"Be it so," said Sir George; "be it so."
Mr. Bevan then busied himself in lighting a lantern, and from beneath one
of the pews, where they were hidden, he procured a couple of crowbars, with
which to raise the stone that covered the entrance to the vault.
These preparations took up some little time, so that the old clock had
chimed the quarter past eleven, and must have been rapidly getting on to the
half-hour, before they stood in the aisle close to the vault.
"This marble slab," said Sir George, as he cast his eyes upon it, "always
hitherto has been cemented in its place. Why is it not so now?"
"Is it not?" said Mr. Bevan.
"No—lend me the light."
Mr. Bevan was averse to lending him the light, but he could not very well
refuse it; and when Sir George Crofton had looked more minutely at the marble
slab, he saw that it had been cemented, but that the cement was torn and
broken away, as if some violence had been used for the purpose of opening the
vault; but whether that violence came from within or without was a matter of
conjecture.
—