THE SICK CHAMBER AT THE GRANGE.—THE NIGHT.
“Is he dead? Is he dead? cried Sir George.
“We don’t know, sir,” replied one of the fishermen; “some of us think
he is, and some of us think he is not.”
“What is to be done?”
“Have him taken at once to the Grange, father,” said Charles, “and
let us get medical assistance; who knows but the affair may turn out
in reality very different from what it first appeared. He may be only
stunned by a fall.”
“I hope to Heaven it may be so. Can you, among you, my men, make
anything like a litter to carry him on?”
This was soon done. Some of the loose seats from some boats close at
hand, and a rough cloak or two, made a capital couch for the dead or
wounded man, as the case might be. They lifted him carefully into
it, and then four of them lifted the rude but easy and appropriate
conveyance, and carried him towards the hall.
“How could this have happened?” said Sir George.
“Perhaps I may be able to throw some light upon it,” said Varney. “As
I came here to your hospitable house, a horse without a rider, but
caparisoned for one, passed me furiously.”
“That must have been his horse then,” said Charles. “You may depend,
father, he was riding on to see Clara before the hour appointed for
their marriage, and has met with this accident. Come, there is some
consolation in that. A fall from his horse is not likely to kill him.”
“Where is Edwin?”
“Oh, he went off at once for Dr. North, and no doubt he will get to the
Grange about as soon as we shall.”
“That was right—that was right. I really have been taken so much by
surprise that I hardly know what I am about. It was very right of
Edwin.”
Nothing of any importance now passed in the way of conversation, nor
did any incident worth recording take place until the melancholy little
procession reached the Grange, and by the advice of Varney, the young
bridegroom was carried direct to a bed-chamber before he was removed
from the litter on which he had been carried.
The operation was scarcely performed, and he laid upon a bed, when
Dr. North came, having mounted his horse upon hearing the information
from Edwin that he was wanted in a case of such great emergency at the
Grange, and ridden hard all the way.
He was at once introduced to his patient, and upon a cursory
examination, he said,—
“This is a concussion of the brain, but don’t let that alarm you. It
may be very slight, although it certainly has an awkward sound, and a
little rest and blood-letting may put him all to rights.”
This was to some extent cheering, and the doctor at once proceeded
to bleed his patient. As the ruddy stream fell into a crystal goblet,
the young man gradually opened his eyes, and looked round him with a
bewildered glare.
“Darken the room,” said Dr. North; “he is right enough, but he must be
kept quiet for a day or two at all events.”
“What has happened?” said the wounded man.
“Nothing particular,” replied Dr. North, “nothing particular. You have
had a fall from your horse.”
“Clara!”
“Ah, I know, and now listen to me. If you remain quiet and don’t speak,
you will see Clara soon; but if you are wilful and disobey orders, you
will bring on a brain fever and you won’t see her at all in this world;
so now you can judge for yourself.”
“You are rather harsh,” said Sir George.
“Pardon me sir, I am not. There is nothing like making a patient
thoroughly understand his own position; and I give this young gentleman
credit for sufficient wisdom to enable him to profit by what I say to
him.”
Mr. Ringwood nodded.
“There, you see, all’s right; now he will go to sleep, and as all will
depend upon the state in which he awakens, I will, if you please wait
here, unless I should be urgently sent for from home, for I have left
word where I am.”
“Pardon me, doctor, for finding any fault with you.”
“Don’t mention it; what I said did sound harsh.”
Sir George went now at once to the room where his daughter Clara
had been taken to, for the purpose of informing her of the hopeful
state of affairs. He found her just recovered from her swoon, so
that recollection had not yet sufficiently returned to give her all
the agony of thinking that the news so heedlessly and so suddenly
communicated by the servant might be true in its full intensity.
“My dear, you must not distress yourself,” said Sir George. “Ringwood
was riding over here, it seems, to see you, and his horse, getting
restive, has thrown him; Dr. North says, there is nothing particular
the matter, and that after a little rest he will recover.”
Clara tried to speak, but she could not—she burst into tears.
“Ah!” said the old nurse, who was attending her, and who had been in
her family many years, “ah, poor dear, she will be all right now. I was
just wishing that she would have a good cry; it does any one a world of
good, it does.”
[Illustration: The old nurse and Sir George comfort Clara.]
“What an agitating night and day this has been, to be sure,” said Sir
George. “First the terror of losing both my boys, then their return
with the dead man, who, so oddly comes to life again; Then this
dreadful accident to Ringwood; upon my word the incidents of a whole
year have been crammed into a few hours. I only hope this is the last
of it.”
“And I shall see him again, father,” sobbed Clara.
“Of course you will.”
“You—you have sent him home very carefully?”
“Home? no. He is here under this roof and here he shall stay till
he recovers, poor lad. Oh dear no, I never thought of sending him
home, but I must send some one, by-the-by, with the news of what has
happened. This is well thought of.”
The knowledge that her lover, and her affianced husband was doing
well, and that he was under the same roof with her, gave Clara the
most unalloyed satisfaction, and she recovered rapidly her good and
healthful looks. It was duly explained to her, that she must not go
near Ringwood to disturb him, as rest was so very essential to his
recovery; so she did not attempt it. The whole household was commanded
to be unusually quiet, and never had the Grange before presented such a
collection of creeping domestics, for they went up and down stairs like
so many cats.
Clara did not omit to thank Mr. Smith for the assistance he had
rendered them in this evil emergency, and Dr. North stood with the
family in the dining room waiting, perhaps with greater anxiety than he
chose to express, the awaking of his patient.
A servant was left in the adjoining chamber to that occupied by
Ringwood, who was told to bring to the dining-room the first intimation
that the wounded man was living.
About two hours elapsed when the servant came in with an air of
affright.
Dr. North sprang to his feet in a moment.
“What is it, is he awake?”
“Not exactly awake, sir, but he is speaking in his sleep, and it’s all
about a—a——”
“A what?”
“A vampyre.”
“Stuff.”
“Well, sir, he’s a having some horrid dream, I can tell you, sir,
and he said, ‘Keep off the vampyre; save her, oh, save her from the
vampyre!’”
“How singular!” said Varney, “what an absurd belief that is! A vampyre!
what on earth could have put such a thing in his head, I wonder?”
“I will go to him,” said Dr. North, “if he should be very much
disturbed, perhaps I shall think it preferable to awake him; but I can
inform you all that such dreams show that there is much excitement
going on in the brain.”
“Then you do not consider the symptom favourable, doctor?”
“Certainly not; quite the reverse of favourable.”
Dr. North rose, and as Varney offered very politely to accompany him,
he made no sort of objection, and they proceeded to the chamber of the
bridegroom.
During the time that the doctor had been in the society of Varney, he
had been much pleased with him, for he found that he possessed a vast
store of knowledge upon almost any subject that could be touched upon,
besides no small amount of skill and theoretical information upon
medical matters, so he let him come with him, when perhaps he would
have objected to any one else.
Varney the vampyre could fascinate when he liked.
When they reached the chamber the young man was quiet, but in a few
minutes he began to toss about his head, and mutter in his sleep,—
“The vampyre, the dreadful vampyre. Oh, save her! Help, help, help!”
“This won’t do,” said the doctor.
He went to the toilette table, and procuring a large towel he soaked
it well in cold water, and then wrapped it round the head of Ringwood,
and so carefully too as not to arouse him. The effect was almost
instantaneous. The vexed sleeper relapsed into a much easier attitude,
the breathing was more regular, and the distressing fancies that had
tortured his fevered brain were chased away.
“A simple plan,” said Varney.
“Yes, but a most efficacious one.”