THE FUNERAL OF THE STRANGER OF THE INN.—THE POPULAR COMMOTION, AND
MRS. CHILLINGWORTH’S APPEAL TO THE MOB.—THE NEW RIOT.—THE HALL IN
DANGER.
As yet the town was quiet; and, though there was no appearance of riot
or disturbance, yet the magistracy had taken every precaution they
deemed needful, or their position and necessities warranted, to secure
the peace of the town from the like disturbance to that which had been,
of late, a disgrace and terror of peaceably-disposed persons.
The populace were well advertised of the fact, that the body of the
stranger was to be buried that morning in their churchyard; and that,
to protect the body, should there be any necessity for so doing, a
large body of constables would be employed.
There was no disposition to riot; at least, none was visible. It
looked as if there was some event about to take place that was highly
interesting to all parties, who were peaceably assembling to witness
the interment of nobody knew who.
The early hour at which persons were assembling, at different points,
clearly indicated that there was a spirit of curiosity about the
town, so uncommon that none would have noticed it but for the fact of
the crowd of people who hung about the streets, and there remained,
listless and impatient.
The inn, too, was crowded with visitors, and there were many who, not
being blessed with the strength of purse that some were, were hanging
about in the distance, waiting and watching the motions of those who
were better provided.
“Ah!” said one of the visitors, “this is a disagreeable job in your
house, landlord.”—“Yes, sir; I’d sooner it had happened elsewhere, I
assure you. I know it has done me no good.”
“No; no man could expect any, and yet it is none the less unfortunate
for that.”—“I would sooner anything else happen than that, whatever it
might be. I think it must be something very bad, at all events; but I
dare say I shall never see the like again.”
“So much the better for the town,” said another; “for, what with
vampyres and riots, there has been but little else stirring than
mischief and disturbances of one kind and another.”
“Yes; and, what between Varneys and Bannerworths, we have had but
little peace here.”
“Precisely. Do you know it’s my opinion that the least thing would
upset the whole town. Any one unlucky word would do it, I am sure,”
said a tall thin man.
“I have no doubt of it,” said another; “but I hope the military would
do their duty under such circumstances, for people’s lives and property
are not safe in such a state of things.”—“Oh, dear no.”
“I wonder what has become of Varney, or where he can have gone
to.”—“Some thought he must have been burned when they burned his
house,” replied the landlord.
“But I believe it generally understood he’s escaped, has he not? No
traces of his body were found in the ruins.”—“None. Oh! he’s escaped,
there can be no doubt of that. I wish I had some fortune depending upon
the fact; it would be mine, I am sure.”
“Well, the lord keep us from vampyres and such-like cattle,” said an
old woman. “I shall never sleep again in my bed with any safety. It
frightens one out of one’s life to think of it. What a shame the men
didn’t catch him and stake him!”
The old woman left the inn as soon as she had spoke this Christian
speech.
“Humane!” said a gentleman, with a sporting coat on. “The old woman is
no advocate for half measures!”
“You are right, sir,” said the landlord; “and a very good look-out she
keeps upon the pot, to see it’s full, and carefully blows the froth
off!”—“Ah! I thought as much.”
“How soon will the funeral take place, landlord?” inquired a person,
who had at that moment entered the inn.—“In about an hour’s time, sir.”
“Oh! the town seems pretty full, though it is very quiet. I suppose it
is more as a matter of curiosity people congregate to see the funeral
of this stranger?”
“I hope so, sir.”
“The time is wearing on, and if they don’t make a dust, why then the
military will not be troubled.”
“I do not expect anything more, sir,” said the landlord; “for you see
they must have had their swing out, as the saying is, and be fully
satisfied. They cannot have much more to do in the way of exhibiting
their anger or dislike to vampyres—they all have done enough.”
“So they have—so they have.”
“Granted,” said an old man with a troublesome cough; “but when did you
ever know a mob to be satisfied? If they wanted the moon and got it,
they’d find out it would be necessary to have the stars also.”
“That’s uncommonly true,” said the landlord. “I shouldn’t be surprised
if they didn’t do something worse than ever.”—“Nothing more likely,”
said the little old man. “I can believe anything of a mob—anything—no
matter what.”
The inn was crowded with visitors, and several extra hands were
employed to wait upon the customers, and a scene of bustle and activity
was displayed that was never before seen. It would glad the heart of a
landlord, though he were made of stone, and landlords are usually of
much more malleable materials than that.
However, the landlord had hardly time to congratulate himself, for
the bearers were come now, and the undertaker and his troop of
death-following officials.
There was a stir among the people, who began now to awaken from the
lethargy that seemed to have come over them while they were waiting
for the moment when it should arrive, that was to place the body under
the green sod, against which so much of their anger had been raised.
There was a decent silence that pervaded the mob of individuals who had
assembled.
Death, with all its ghastly insignia, had an effect even upon the
unthinking multitude, who were ever ready to inflict death or any
violent injury upon any object that came in their way—they never
hesitated; but even these, now the object of their hatred was no more,
felt appalled.
’Tis strange what a change comes over masses of men as they gaze upon
a dead body. It may be that they all know that to that complexion they
must come at last. This may be the secret of the respect offered to the
dead.
The undertakers are men, however, who are used to the presence of
death—it is their element; they gain a living by attending upon the
last obsequies of the dead; they are used to dead bodies, and care
not for them. Some of them are humane men, that is, in their way; and
even among them are men who wouldn’t be deprived of their joke as they
screwed down the last screw. They could not forbear, even on this
occasion, to hold their converse when left alone.
“Jacobs,” said one who was turning a long screw, “Jacobs, my boy,
do you take the chair to-night?”—“Yes,” said Jacobs who was a long
lugubrious-looking man, “I do take the chair, if I live over this
blessed event.”
“You are not croaking, Jacobs, are you? Well, you are a lively
customer, you are.”—“Lively—do you expect people to be lively when
they are full dressed for a funeral? You are a nice article for your
profession. You don’t feel like an undertaker, you don’t.”
“Don’t, Jacobs, my boy. As long as I look like one when occasion
demands; when I have done my job I puts my comfort in my pocket, and
thinks how much more pleasanter it is to be going to other people’s
funerals than to our own, and then only see the difference as regards
the money.”
“True,” said Jacobs with a groan; “but death’s a melancholy article, at
all events.”—“So it is.”
“And then when you come to consider the number of people we have
buried—how many have gone to their last homes—and how many more will
go the same way.”—“Yes, yes; that’s all very well, Jacobs. You are
precious surly this morning. I’ll come to-night. You’re brewing a
sentimental tale as sure as eggs is eggs.”
“Well, that is pretty certain; but as I was saying how many more are
there——”
“Ah, don’t bother yourself with calculations that have neither
beginning nor end, and which haven’t one point to go. Come, Jacobs,
have you finished yet?”—“Quite,” said Jacobs.
They now arranged the pall, and placed all in readiness, and returned
to a place down stairs where they could enjoy themselves for an odd
half hour, and pass that time away until the moment should arrive when
his reverence would be ready to bury the deceased, upon consideration
of the fees to be paid upon the occasion.
The tap-room was crowded, and there was no room for the men, and they
were taken into the kitchen, where they were seated, and earnestly at
work, preparing for the ceremony that had so shortly to be performed.
“Any better, Jacobs?”—“What do you mean?” inquired Jacobs, with a
groan. “It’s news to me if I have been ill.”
“Oh, yes, you were doleful up stairs, you know.”—“I’ve a proper regard
for my profession—that’s the difference between you and I, you know.”
“I’ll wager you what you like, now, that I’ll handle a corpse and drive
a screw in a coffin as well as you, now, although you are so solid and
miserable.”—“So you may—so you may.”
“Then what do you mean by saying I haven’t a proper regard for my
profession?”—“I say you haven’t, and there’s the thing that shall prove
it—you don’t look it, and that’s the truth.”
“I don’t look like an undertaker! indeed I dare say I don’t if I ain’t
dressed like one.”—“Nor when you are,” reiterated Jacobs.
“Why not, pray?”—“Because you have always a grin on your face as broad
as a gridiron—that’s why.”
This ended the dispute, for the employer of the men suddenly put his
head in, saying,—
“Come, now, time’s up; you are wanted up stairs, all of you. Be quick;
we shall have his reverence waiting for us, and then we shall lose his
recommendation.”
“Ready sir,” said the round man, taking up his pint and finishing it
off at a draught, at the same moment he thrust the remains of some
bread and cheese into his pocket.
Jacobs, too, took his pot, and, having finished it, with great gravity
followed the example of his more jocose companion, and they all left
the kitchen for the room above, where the corpse was lying ready for
interment.
There was an unusual bustle; everybody was on the tip-top of
expectation, and awaiting the result in a quiet hurry, and hoped to
have the first glimpse of the coffin, though why they should do so
it was difficult to define. But in this fit of mysterious hope and
expectation they certainly stood.
“Will they be long?” inquired a man at the door of one inside,—“will
they be long before they come?”—“They are coming now,” said the man.
“Do you all keep quiet; they are knocking their heads against the top
of the landing. Hark! There, I told you so.”
The man departed, hearing something, and being satisfied that he had
got some information.
“Now, then,” said the landlord, “move out of the way, and allow the
corpse to pass out. Let me have no indecent conduct; let everything be
as it should be.”
The people soon removed from the passage and vicinity of the doorway,
and then the mournful procession—as the newspapers have it—moved
forward. They were heard coming down stairs, and thence along the
passage, until they came to the street, and then the whole number of
attendants was plainly discernible.
How different was the funeral of one who had friends. He was alone;
none followed, save the undertaker and his attendants, all of whom
looked solemn from habit and professional motives. Even the jocose man
was as supernaturally solemn as could be well imagined; indeed, nobody
knew he was the same man.
“Well,” said the landlord, as he watched them down the street, as they
slowly paced their way with funereal, not sorrowful, solemnity—“well, I
am very glad that it is all over.”
“It has been a sad plague to you,” said one.
“It has, indeed; it must be to any one who has had another such a job
as this. I don’t say it out of any disrespect to the poor man who is
dead and gone—quite the reverse; but I would not have such another
affair on my hands for pounds.”
“I can easily believe you, especially when we come to consider the
disagreeables of a mob.”
“You may say that. There’s no knowing what they will or won’t do,
confound them! If they’d act like men, and pay for what they have, why,
then I shouldn’t care much about them; but it don’t do to have other
people in the bar.”
“I should think not, indeed; that would alter the scale of your
profits, I reckon.”
“It would make all the difference to me. Business,” added the landlord,
“conducted on that scale, would become a loss; and a man might as well
walk into a well at once.”
“So I should say. Have many such occurrences as these been usual in
this part of the country?” inquired the stranger.
“Not usual at all,” said the landlord; “but the fact is, the whole
neighbourhood has run distracted about some superhuman being they call
a vampyre.”
“Indeed!”—“Yes; and they suspected the unfortunate man who has been
lying up-stairs, a corpse, for some days.”
“Oh, the man they have just taken in the coffin to bury?” said the
stranger.—“Yes, sir, the same.”
“Well, I thought perhaps somebody of great consequence had suddenly
become defunct.”—“Oh, dear no; it would not have caused half the
sensation; people have been really mad.”
“It was a strange occurrence, altogether, I believe, was it?” inquired
the stranger.—“Indeed it was, sir. I hardly know the particulars, there
have been so many tales afloat; though they all concur in one point,
and that is, it has destroyed the peace of one family.”
“Who has done so?”—“The vampyre.”
“Indeed! I never heard of such an animal, save as a fable, before; it
seems to me extraordinary.”
“So it would do to any one, sir, as was not on the spot, to see it; I’m
sure I wouldn’t.”
• • • • •
In the meantime, the procession, short as it was of itself, moved along
in slow time through a throng of people who ran out of their houses on
either side of the way, and lined the whole length of the town.
Many of these closed in behind, and followed the mourners until they
were near the church, and then they made a rush to get into the
churchyard.
As yet all had been conducted with tolerable propriety, the funeral met
with no impediment. The presence of death among so many of them seemed
some check upon the licence of the mob, who bowed in silence to the
majesty of death.
Who could bear ill-will against him who was now no more? Man, while
he is man, is always the subject of hatred, fear, or love. Some one
of these passions, in a modified state, exists in all men, and with
such feelings they will regard each other; and it is barely possible
that any one should not be the object of some of these, and hence the
stranger’s corpse was treated with respect.
In silence the body proceeded along the highway until it came to the
churchyard, and followed by an immense multitude of people of all
grades.
The authorities trembled; they knew not what all this portended.
They thought it might pass off; but it might become a storm first;
they hoped and feared by turns, till some of them fell sick with
apprehension.
There was a deep silence observed by all those in the immediate
vicinity of the coffin, but those farther in the rear found full
expression for their feelings.
“Do you think,” said an old man to another, “that he will come to life
again, eh?”—“Oh, yes, vampyres always do, and lay in the moonlight,
and then they come to life again. Moonlight recovers a vampyre to life
again.”
“And yet the moonlight is cold.”—“Ah, but who’s to tell what may happen
to a vampyre, or what’s hot or what’s cold?”
“Certainly not; oh, dear, no.”—“And then they have permission to suck
the blood of other people, to live themselves, and to make other people
vampyres, too.”
“The lord have mercy upon us!”—“Ay, but they have driven a stake
through this one, and he can’t get in moonlight or daylight; it’s all
over—he’s certainly done for; we may congratulate ourselves on this
point.”
“So we may—so we may.”
They now neared the grave, the clergyman officiating as usual on such
occasions. There was a large mob of persons on all sides, with serious
faces, watching the progress of the ceremony, and who listened in
quietness.
There was no sign of any disturbance amongst the people, and the
authorities were well pleased; they congratulated themselves upon the
quietness and orderliness of the assemblage.
The service was ended and the coffin lowered, and the earth was thrown
on the coffin-lid with a hollow sound. Nobody could hear that sound
unmoved. But in a short while the sound ceased as the grave became
filled; it was then trodden carefully down.
There were no relatives there to feel affected at the last scene of
all. They were far away, and, according to popular belief upon the
subject, they must have been dead some ages.
• • • • •
The mob watched the last shovel-full of earth thrown upon the coffin,
and witnessed the ramming down of the soil, and the heaping of it over
at top to make the usual monument; for all this was done speedily and
carefully, lest there should be any tendency to exhume the body of the
deceased.
The people were now somewhat relieved, as to their state of solemnity
and silence. They would all of them converse freely on the matter that
had so long occupied their thoughts.
They seemed now let loose, and everybody found himself at liberty to
say or do something, no matter if it were not very reasonable; that is
not always required of human beings who have souls, or, at least it
is unexpected; and were it expected, the expectation would never be
realized.
The day was likely to wear away without a riot, nay, even without a
fight; a most extraordinary occurrence for such a place under the
existing circumstances; for of late the populace, or, perhaps, the
townspeople, were extremely pugnacious, and many were the disputes that
were settled by the very satisfactory application of the knuckles to
the head of the party holding a contrary opinion.
Thus it was they were ready to take fire, and a hubbub would be the
result of the slightest provocation. But, on the present occasion,
there was a remarkable dearth of all subjects of the nature described.
Who was to lead Israel out to battle? Alas! no one on the present
occasion.
Such a one, however, appeared; at least, one who furnished a ready
excuse for a disturbance.
Suddenly, Mrs. Chillingworth appeared in the midst of a large concourse
of people. She had just left her house, which was close at hand, her
eyes red with weeping, and her children around her on this occasion.
The crowd made way for her, and gathered round her to see what was
going to happen.
“Friends and neighbours,” she said “can any of you relieve the tears
of a distressed wife and mother; have any of you seen anything of my
husband, Mr. Chillingworth?”
“What the doctor?” exclaimed one.—“Yes; Mr. Chillingworth, the surgeon.
He has not been home two days and a night. I’m distracted!—what can
have become of him I don’t know, unless——”
Here Mrs. Chillingworth paused, and some person said,—
“Unless what, Mrs. Chillingworth? there are none but friends here, who
wish the doctor well, and would do anything to serve him—unless what?
speak out.”
“Unless he’s been destroyed by the vampyre. Heaven knows what we may
all come to! Here am I and my children deprived of our protector by
some means which we cannot imagine. He never, in all his life, did the
same before.”
“He must have been spirited away by some of the vampyres. I’ll tell
you what, friend,” said one to another, “that something must be done;
nobody’s safe in their bed.”
“No; they are not, indeed. I think that all vampyres ought to be burned
and a stake run through them, and then we should be safe.”
“Ay; but you must destroy all those who are even suspected of being
vampyres, or else one may do all the mischief.”—“So he might.”
“Hurrah!” shouted the mob. “Chillingworth for ever! We’ll find the
doctor somewhere, if we pull down the whole town.”
There was an immense commotion among the populace, who began to start
throwing stones, and do all sorts of things without any particular
object, and some, as they said, to find the doctor, or to show how
willing they were to do so if they knew how.
Mrs. Chillingworth, however, kept on talking to the mob, who continued
shouting; and the authorities anticipated an immediate outbreak of
popular opinion, which is generally accompanied by some forcible
demonstration, and on this occasion some one suggested the propriety
of burning down Bannerworth Hall; because they had burned down the
vampyre’s house, and they might as well burn down that of the injured
party, which was carried by acclamation; and with loud shouts they
started on their errand.
This was a mob’s proceeding all over, and we regret very much to
say, that it is very much the characteristic of English mobs. What
an uncommonly strange thing it is that people in multitudes seem
completely to get rid of all reason—all honour—all common ordinary
honesty; while, if you were to take the same people singly, you would
find that they were reasonable enough, and would shrink with a feeling
quite approaching to horror from anything in the shape of very flagrant
injustice.
This can only be accounted for by a piece of cowardice in the human
race, which induces them when alone, and acting with the full
responsibility of their actions, to shrink from what it is quite
evident they have a full inclination to do, and will do when, having
partially lost their individuality in a crowd, they fancy, that to a
certain extent they can do so with impunity.
The burning of Sir Francis Varney’s house, although it was one of those
proceedings which would not bear the test of patient examination, was
yet, when we take all the circumstances into consideration, an act
really justifiable and natural in comparison with the one which was now
meditated.
Bannerworth Hall had never been the residence even of anyone who had
done the people any injury or given them any offence, so that to let it
become a prey to the flames was but a gratuitous act of mischief.
It was, however, or seemed to be, doomed, for all who have had any
experience in mobs, must know how extremely difficult it is to withdraw
them from any impulse once given, especially when that impulse, as in
the present instance, is of a violent character.
“Down with Bannerworth Hall!” was the cry. “Burn it—burn it,” and
augmented by fresh numbers each minute, the ignorant, and, in many
respects, ruffianly assemblage, soon arrived within sight of what had
been for so many years the bane of the Bannerworths, and whatever may
have been the fault of some of that race, those faults had been of a
domestic character, and not at all such as would interfere with the
public weal.
The astonished, and almost worn-out authorities, hastily, now, after
having disposed of their prisoners, collected together what troops
they could, and by the time the misguided, or rather the not guided
at all populace, had got halfway to Bannerworth Hall, they were being
outflanked by some of the dragoons, who, by taking a more direct route,
hoped to reach Bannerworth Hall first, and so perhaps, by letting the
mob see that it was defended, induce them to give up the idea of its
destruction on account of the danger attendant upon the proceeding by
far exceeding any of the anticipated delight of the disturbance.