THE DISAPPOINTMENT AT THE GRANGE.—THE NEWS OF DESPAIR.—THE
FINDING OF THE BODY.
It was a fine old place the Grange, view it from what aspect you
might, and had not the mind of Varney, the vampyre, been so fearfully
irritated by the circumstances of his horrible existence, he must have
paused to admire it.
It was one of those ancient English edifices, which, alas, are fast
disappearing from the face of once merry England. Railways have gone
tearing and screaming through the old parks and shady glens. Alas, all
is altered now, and for the sake of getting to some abominable place,
such as Manchester, or Birmingham, in a very short space of time, many
a lonely spot of nature’s own creating is marred by noise and smoke.
“So,” said Varney, “this then is the home of these young men who have
done me such an injury as to rescue me from the sea.”
He ground his teeth together as he spoke, and it was quite clear that
he felt disposed to consider that a most deadly injury had been done
to him by Edwin and Charles Crofton, who had only followed the proper
dictates of humanity in rescuing him from the waves.
“It shall go hard with me,” added Varney, “but I will teach such
meddling fools to leave the great sea in charge of its dead. Oh, had
I but been allowed to remain until now, which but for these officious
persons might still have been the case, I should have sunk deep—deep
into the yellow sands, and there rotted.”
His passion as he uttered these words had in it something fearful, but
in a few moments the external symptoms of it passed away, and he walked
slowly and to all appearance calmly enough towards the Grange.
The distance he had to go was still as before, a deceiving one, for he
had to wind round a clump of trees before he really got to the gate,
which appeared to be just in sight, but at length he reached it, and
paused as he saw an old man, who was a kind of warder there.
“Is this Sir George Crofton’s?” he said, and he threw into his voice
all that silvery softness which at times had been so fascinating to the
Bannerworth family.
“It is, sir.”
“Will you announce me?”
“I do not leave this gate, sir, but if you go down this avenue, you
will reach the mansion, and some of the servants will attend to you.”
Varney walked on.
The avenue was one formed by two stately rows of chestnuts, the
spreading branches of which met over head, forming a beautiful
canopy, and notwithstanding that they were so near the sea—that foe to
vegetation, these trees were in good truth most luxuriantly beautiful.
“There was a time,” muttered Varney, “when I should have admired such a
spot as this, but all that has long since passed away. I am that which
I am.”
He now arrived in front of the house itself, and being perceived by one
of the domestics, he was politely asked what he wanted.
“Say that Mr. Smith is here,” was the message that Varney gave.
The servant had already heard that such was the name of the person who
had been rescued from the sea by his young masters Edwin and Charles,
he now hastened with the information to the drawing-room, where the
family was assembled.
“Oh, if you please, sir, he has come.”
“Who has come?”
“The drowned man, Mr. Smith.”
“Admit him instantly.”
The servant ran back to Varney, and then politely ushered him into
the large really handsome room, in which the family sat awaiting his
arrival with no small share of curiosity. What the sexton had said of
him had excited much speculation, and the eagerness to see a man who
was, as it were, a present from the sea, was extreme.
“Mr. Smith,” announced the servant; and Varney with one of his courtly
bows, and a smile that was half hideous, half charming, entered.
There was a decided effect produced by his appearance, and perhaps that
effect is best described by the word awe. They all seemed as if they
were in the presence of something very peculiar, if not something very
superior.
Sir George Crofton broke the rather awkward silence that ensued by
addressing his visitor with all the frankness that was a part of his
nature.
“Sir,” he said, “I am glad to see you and hope you will make yourself
as much at home as if you were in a house of your own.”
“Sir,” said Varney, “you know how much I owe your family already, and I
fear to increase the heavy debt of gratitude.”
“Oh, you are welcome, most welcome. Stay here as long as you like; we
are rather dull at times in this isolated house, and the arrival of an
intelligent guest is always an event.”
Varney bowed, and Edwin advanced.
“Mr. Smith,” he said, “I suppose I may almost call myself an old
acquaintance.”
“And I,” said Charles.
“Gentlemen, if you be those to whom I am indebted for my preservation,
I owe you my warmest thanks.”
“Oh, think nothing of it,” said Sir George; “it was not at all likely
that my two boys would see a fellow creature in such a situation, and
not, dead or alive, take possession of him. Your recovery is the only
remarkable thing in the whole affair.”
“Very remarkable,” said Varney.
They waited a moment as if he was expected to make some sort of
explanation of that part of the business, but as he did not, Sir George
said—
“You have no idea of how you became resuscitated.”
“Not the least.”
“Well, that is strange indeed.”
“Perhaps the good fellow who afforded me an immediate shelter, applied
before that, some means of recovering suspended vitality.”
“Oh no. Will Stephens is to the full as much surprised as any one. But,
however, I dare say, to you, sir, that is not the most entertaining
subject in the world, so we will say no more about it, except that we
are very glad to have a living guest instead of a dead one.”
“I much fear, from what I have heard,” said Varney, “that I shall be
intruding at a time like this into your family circle.”
“Oh, you allude to the marriage to-day of one of my daughters, and that
puts me in mind of really quite an omission on my part. Mr. Smith—my
daughters, Clara and Emma.”
The vampyre bowed low, and the young ladies went with established grace
through the ceremony of the introduction to the remarkable personage
before them.
At this moment there came upon the ears of all assembled there the
sound of hurried footsteps, and a servant without any ceremony burst
into the apartment, exclaiming—
“Oh, Sir George—Oh, oh, sir—”
“What is it? Speak!”
“Oh, oh. They have found him—killed in the ravine.”
“Who, who?”
“Mr. Ringwood, as was to be married—”
“My daughter.”
Clara uttered a cry of despair, and sank into a chair in a state of
insensibility. The scene of confusion and general consternation that
now ensued baffles all description, and the only person who looked calm
and collected upon the occasion was Mr. Smith, although it was not the
insulting calmness of seeming indifference.
In a few minutes, however, Sir George himself recovered from the first
shock which the intelligence had given to him, and he said,—
“Where is he? Where is he? Let me to the spot.”
“And allow me, sir, to accompany you,” said Varney. “Believe me, sir, I
feel deeply for the family misfortune. Let me be useful.”
“Thank you, sir, thank you—Edwin, Charles, come with me and this
gentleman, and we will see if this dreadful report be true. Let us hope
that fear and ignorance have exaggerated a very simple affair into so
seemingly dreadful a circumstance.
Leaving Clara to the care of her sister and some of the female
domestics of the Grange, who were hastily summoned to attend upon her,
the little party, consisting of Sir George, his two sons, Varney, and
several of the men-servants, turned from the Grange in the direction of
the ravine.
Their intimate acquaintance with all the neighbourhood enabled them to
reach the place much sooner than Varney thought it possible to do, and
as they came within sight of the spot where the accident had occurred,
they saw a crowd of villagers and fishermen assembled.
They quickened their pace, and forcing through the throng, Sir George
Crofton saw his intended son-in-law, to all appearance, lying dead and
bleeding on the sands.
Such a sight was enough, for a moment, to paralyse every faculty, and
it really had, for a time, that effect upon Sir George.