FAMILY TROUBLES.—THE HOUSE OF MOURNING.
It was too true. It was not the mere appearance of death, but the
reality of the fell destroyer that the Crofton family had to mourn.
She who, but a few short hours since, was in all the bloom of apparent
health, and youth, and beauty was now no more.
The poor father, the sisterless sister, the astonished, indignant, and
agonised brothers formed a group that was too sad to contemplate.
As they gazed upon the wreck of her whom they had all loved so fondly,
they could scarcely believe that death had indeed claimed her as her
own; they
“Thought her more beautiful than death,”
and could not, as they gazed tremblingly upon her still form, bring
themselves to believe that she had indeed gone from them for ever.
Dr. North, however, soon put all doubt upon the subject to rest by an
announcement that her spirit had really fled. In vain he tried all the
means that his art suggested. That mysterious and mighty something
which we call life, which we miss and yet see no loss, which is so
great, yet so evanescent and impalpable, was gone.
“Come away,” he said, “we can do no good here now. Come away, all of
you!”
“Oh, no, no,” cried Sir George. “Why should we leave my child?”
“That,” said the doctor, as he pointed to the corpse, “that is not your
child.”
The old man shuddered, and with an aspect upon his face, as if ten
years of added age had at least passed over him in those few moments,
he suffered them to lead him from the room. They all passed down stairs
again, leaving Emma in her own chamber along with the female servants,
so hastily again called up to remain with her.
When the dining-room was reached once more, Mr. Smith, who bore all the
appearance of being quite thunder-struck by what had passed, spoke in
the most feeling manner, saying,—
“This is truly one of the most affecting circumstances I ever remember.
It is dreadful; a young girl to be at once snatched from a circle
of admiring and loving friends in this manner, is too sad a picture
for any one with a heart to feel for the distresses of others to
contemplate. What, sir, is your opinion,” to Dr. North, “of the actual
cause of death?”
“The shock to the nervous system I suspect has induced some sudden
action of the heart that has been too much for vitality.”
“Dreadful!”
“Alas, alas!” sobbed Sir George. “What have I done, that Heaven should
thus launch against me the bolts of its bitterest vengeance? Why should
I be robbed of my child? Surely there were angels enough in Heaven
without taking mine from me.”
“Hush, hush,” said Dr. North; “you are in grief, sir, and know not what
you say. These were not else the words that would fall from the lips of
such a man as you are.”
The bereaved father was silent, and the sons looked at him with
countenances in which dismay was most strongly pictured. They seemed
as if as yet they had not become fully alive to the loss they had
sustained, or of what had really happened within the once happy
domestic circle, of which the fairest portion was now so ruthlessly
dragged from them.
“It is like a dream,” said Edwin, addressing his brother Charles in a
whisper. “It is much more like a dream than aught else in the world.”
“It is, it is. Oh, tell me that this is not real.”
“It is too real,” said the doctor, “you must bow with what amount of
resignation you can call to your aid to that stroke of destiny which
you cannot control; you should consider that as regards her who has
gone from you, that she is now no object of pity. Death is an evil
to you in your loss, but it is the end of all evil and pain to her;
and then again, she has but gone a few years, after all, earlier than
usual, for how long shall we—ay, the best and strongest of us—be behind
her?”
This was consolation of the right sort, and was sure to have its effect
upon persons in the habit of conversing coolly and calmly upon general
subjects, so that in a short time, the father even felt much better,
and although the sons were quite convinced of their loss they no longer
looked at each other with such bewildered aspects, but exhibited the
rational grief of men.
Charles spoke after a time with great energy, saying,—
“It is true that we may call our reason to our aid, and contrive to rid
ourselves of our grief in a great measure; but there is another duty we
have to perform, and that is, to diligently inquire why and how it was,
that our sister got this horrible fright, that has had the effect of
hurrying her into eternity.”
“Yes, brother,” said Edwin, “you are right! our sister’s memory shall
be vindicated, and woe be to him who has brought this desolation and
grief upon us.”
Sir George looked from one of his sons to the other, but said nothing;
he appeared to be prostrated too much by his feelings, and the doctor
strongly urging him to retire to rest, he shortly did so, where we will
leave him for a time, hoping that he will find the oblivion of sleep
creep over him, and
“Knit up the ravelled sleeve of care.”
“Now,” said Dr. North, “here we are four men with cool heads, and
active enough judgments. For God’s sake, let us try to come to some
sort of conclusion about this dreadful affair. What do you say,
Charles?”
“In the first place, I should recommend that the house be searched
diligently, in order that we may see if any stranger is in it, or
discover any means by which an entrance to the premises has been
effected. We don’t know but that after all some robbery may be the aim,
and that the fright of our sister which has had so fatal an effect, may
be the consequence merely of the appearance of a thief in her room.
“Agreed,” said Edwin, “let the search of the house be our first step.”
Two of the new servants were summoned with lights, and the party of
four proceeded to an examination of the house, which on account of its
size was not a very short process, for there was so many staircases
and rooms opening the one into the other, that the hiding places were
numerous enough.
At length, however, they were not only satisfied that no one was
concealed on the premises, but likewise that all the fastenings were
quite secure, and had been made so before the servants retired to rest.
The mystery therefore was rather increased.
Had there not been the collateral evidence of Emma and the singular
fact of the fastening up of the doors of the doctor’s and Mr. Smith’s
bed-chambers, no doubt the whole affair would have rested where it was,
and have been put down as a remarkable death arising from the influence
of a dream.
But that was out of the question—somebody had been seen, and whether
that somebody was really not an inhabitant of this world was the
question.
In the midst of all this, the day began to dawn.
Sir George had had no sleep, but he had done himself some good in the
solitude of his own chamber. He had prayed long and earnestly, and
his prayers had had the effect which they almost invariably have upon
all imaginative persons, namely, of bringing him an amount of mental
calmness, peace, and resignation, highly desirable in his circumstances.
The breakfast table was laid in silence by the servants, and when Sir
George met his sons and his guests, he spoke calmly enough, saying to
them,—
“You will no more hear from me the accents of grief or of despair. I
accept what consolation I can find, but as a man, and a father I will
have justice; my child has been terrified to death, and I will find
who has done the deed, for let him be whom he may, he is as much her
murderer as though he had plunged a dagger in her heart.”
“It is so,” said Mr. Smith.
“Being so, then let him beware.”
Varney thought that as the father uttered these last words, he glanced
in a peculiar manner at him, but he was not quite sure that such was
the case. Had he been sure, perhaps, he would have taken other steps
than he did.
Little more passed during the breakfast, but when that meal was over,
Sir George said,—
“Edwin, we are but dull and poor company to Mr. Smith; it will amuse
him, perhaps, if you take him through the grounds, and show him the
estate.”
Edwin made no objection, and as the thing was put in the shape of an
amusement to him, Varney could only say some civil things, and rise to
go.
“I regret,” he said, “to be of so much trouble.”
“Not at all,” said Edwin, “no trouble, sir; my own mind, God knows,
wants something to distract it from too close a contemplation of its
own thoughts. If you will accompany me in a walk over the estate, it
will, perhaps, put me into better spirits.”
They left the room, and when they were gone, Sir George Crofton rose
and shut the door, fastening it on the inside carefully, rather to
the surprise of the doctor and his son Charles, who looked at him in
silence.
“Charles,” he then said, “and you, doctor, I have something particular
to say to you.”
“What is it? What is it?”
“God forgive me if I am wrong, but I suspect our guest?”
“Mr. Smith?”
“Yes, I don’t like his looks at all; now we know nothing of him but
from his own report; we have searched the house right through, or at
least you have, you tell me, and found nothing. He is the only stranger
within our doors. Perhaps it is uncharitable to suspect him, but I
cannot help it, the thought came too strongly upon me last night, as I
was alone in my chamber, for me to overcome it. I have now spoken to
you both frankly, and tell me what are your thoughts.”
“I don’t like him,” said Charles.
“He is a singular man,” said Dr. North.
“What—what now if he were—were—”
“Why do you hesitate, father? what would you say?”
“Go on, sir,” said Dr. North, with a nod, that signified, I know very
well what you are going to say. “Go on, sir.”
“What, then, if it were really true, that there were such things, and
he is a vampyre?”
Edwin sprang to his feet in surprise, and said,—
“Good God! you put a frightful idea into my brain that will now never
leave it. A vampyre?”
“Heaven forbid,” added Sir George, “that I should say such a thing
heedlessly, or that I should take upon myself to assert that such is
the case; I merely throw it out as a supposition—a horrible one, I
grant, but yet one that perhaps deserves some consideration.”
“Get rid of him,” said Dr. North.
“It is difficult after telling him he was welcome to stay, to now
tell him that we want him to go. I would much prefer watching him
closely, and endeavouring by such means, either to confirm or to do
away entirely with my suppositions. And you can take an opportunity of
speaking to Edwin upon the subject, quietly and carefully.”
“I will, father.”
“Then we can be all upon the alert; but above all things I charge you
say nothing to Emma of the really terrific idea. Only I should say that
to-night it is in the direction of her chamber that I would wish to
keep the closest watch.”
“And that, too, without her knowing it,” said the doctor. “If she
is aware of anything of the sort, there is no knowing what tricks
her imagination might play her, and now, Sir George, I must say
that I take the greatest interest in the matter, and will with your
permission remain here until I am sent for. Poor Ringwood still remains
insensible, and I take it that under the circumstances that it is
really a mercy, for what a sad communication has to be made to him,
when he does recover sufficiently to hear it.”
“Sad, indeed.”
It was now finally agreed among them that there was to be no variation
whatever in their conduct towards Mr. Smith, but that after they had
taken leave of him for the night, and had all gone to bed, they should
each glide out of his chamber, and wait at the extreme end of the
corridor in silence, to mark if anything should happen.
This was duly announced to Edwin, who with a shudder announced that he
had his suspicions, too, of Mr. Smith, so he of course came into the
scheme at once; and now they waited rather anxiously for the night to
come again.