THE CLERGYMAN’S VISIT TO THE VAULT.—RESCUE OF THE SEXTON.
“What the devil! Zounds!”
Yes; that was what the parson said. With all due respect for his cloth,
we cannot help recording the fact that the words at the commencement
of this chapter were precisely those that came from the lips of the
reverend gentleman upon the occasion of the sudden and rather alarming
irruption of the beadle and the bell-ringer into his breakfast parlour
at the parsonage.
“We beg your pardon, sir,” said the beadle, “but——”
“Yes, sir, we beg your pardon,” added the bell-ringer, “but——”
“What?” cried the parson, as he looked at the remains of his breakfast
lying upon the hearth-rug in most admired disorder at his feet.
“The bell, sir—the church—the gallery—a groan—a ghost—a lot of ghosts.”
Such were the incoherent words that came, thick as hail, from the
beadle and the bell-ringer. In vain the clergyman strove to get to the
rights of the story. He was compelled to wait until they were both very
nearly tired out, and then he said,—
“Very well, I don’t understand, so you may both go away again.”
“But, sir,——”
“But, sir,——”
“If one of you will speak while the other listens I will attend, and
not otherwise. This is Sunday morning, and I neither can, nor will
waste any more time upon you.”
Nothing is so terrible to a professed story teller, and the beadle was
something of that class, as to tell him you won’t listen to him, so Mr.
Dorey at once begged that Wiggins would either allow him to tell what
had happened, or tell it properly himself. Mr. Wiggins gave way, and
the beadle as diffusely as possible told the tale of the bell tolling,
and the visit to the church, with the awful adventure that there
occurred.
“What do you think of it, sir?” he concluded by asking.
“I have no opinion formed as yet,” replied the clergyman, “but I will
step down to the church now, and see.”
“You’ll take plenty o’ people with you, sir.”
“Oh dear no, I shall go alone. I don’t gather from what you have said
that there is any danger. Your own fears, too, I am inclined to think,
have much exaggerated the whole affair. I dare say it will turn out, as
most of such alarms usually do, some very simple affair indeed.”
The parson took his hat, and walked away to the church as coolly as
possible, leaving Mr. Dorey and Mr. Wiggins to stare at each other, and
to wonder at a temerity they could not have thought it possible for any
human being to have practised.
But the clergyman was supported by a power of which they knew
little—the power of knowledge, which enabled him at once in his own
mind to divide the probable from the impossible, and therefore was it
that he walked down to the church fully prepared to hear from somebody
a very natural explanation of the mysterious bell-ringing in the night,
which was the only circumstance that made him think that there was
anything to explain, for he had heard that himself.
When he reached the sacred building, he found the door open, as the
beadle and the bell-ringer had left it, and the moment he got into the
body of the church, he heard a voice say,—
“Help! help! will nobody help me?”
“Yes,” he replied, “of course, I will.”
“Oh! thank Heaven!”
“Where are you?”
“Here, sir, I think that’s your voice, Mr. Bevan.”
“Ah, and I think that’s your voice, Will Stephens; I thought this would
turn out some very ordinary piece of business, so you are up stairs;
and did you ring the bell in the night?”
“I did, sir.”
“Just so—come down then.”
“I’m afraid I can’t, sir, without some help. I have had a very bad
fall, and although, thank God, no bones are broken, I am sadly shaken
and bruised, so that it is with great pain, sir, I can crawl along,
and as for getting down the stairs, why—I—I rather think I couldn’t by
myself, if there was a hundred pound note waiting for me below, just
for the trouble of fetching, sir.”
“Very well, I’m coming, don’t move.”
Mr. Bevan ascended the staircase, and without “a bit of pride,” as Will
Stephens said afterwards, in telling the story, helped the bruised
sexton down the gallery steps to the body of the church, and then
he made him sit down on one of the forms, and tell him all that had
happened, which Will did from first to last, quite faithfully, not
even omitting how he had stayed rather late at the ale-house, and how
terrified he had been by the curious events that took place while he
was in the church, ending by his fall from the stairs leading up to
the belfry.
“Will, Will,” said Mr. Bevan, “the ringing of the bell is good proof
that you have been in the belfry, but you will scarcely expect me to
believe the remainder of your dream.”
“Dream, sir?”
“Yes, to be sure. You surely don’t think now, in broad daylight, that
it is anything else, do you?”
“I-I don’t know, sir; of course, sir, if you say its a dream—why—why—”
“There, that will do. I will convince you that it was nothing more, or
else you will go disturbing the whole neighbourhood with this story,
that it is quite a mercy, I have first heard.”
“Convince me, sir?”
“Yes; come with me to the vault.”
Will Stephens shrunk from this proposal and his fear was so manifest,
that Mr. Bevan was, at all events, convinced that he had told him
nothing but what he himself believed, and accordingly he felt still
more anxious to rid Will of his nervous terror.
“You surely,” he said, “cannot be timid, while I am with you. Come at
once, and if you do not find that the late Miss Crofton, poor girl, is
quiet enough in her coffin, I promise you upon my sacred word, that I
will never cease investigating this affair, and bringing it to some
conclusion. Come at once, before any curious persons arrive at the
church.”
So urgent a request from the clergyman of the parish to Will Stephens,
the sexton of the parish, almost might be said to amount to a command,
so Will did not see how he could get out of it, without confessing an
amount of rank cowardice that even he shrunk from.
“Well, sir,” he said, “of course with you I can have no objection.”
“That’s right. Come along; there are means of getting a light in the
vestry; wait here a moment.”
Will would not wait; he stuck close by Mr. Bevan, who went into the
vestry, and soon procured a candle, lighted from materials he kept
there under lock and key; and they went together to the vault, the
stone of which was just as it had been left when Will emerged with so
much fright.
“I will go first,” said Mr. Bevan.
“Thank you, sir.”
The clergyman descended, and Will Stephens followed, trembling, about
two stairs behind him. Little did he expect when he emerged from that
vault previous to his adventures in the church, that he should revisit
it again so quickly. Indeed he had made a mental resolve that nothing
should induce him to go down those stairs again, and yet there he was
actually descending them.
So weak are the resolutions of mortals!
“Needs must,” thought Will, “when the——parson, I mean, drives!”
“Come on, Will,” said Mr. Bevan.
Will looked about him, but no coffin-lid was visible. There was Miss
Crofton’s coffin in its proper niche, with the lid on, and looking as
calm and undisturbed as any respectable coffin could look. Will was
amazed. He looked at the coffin, and he looked at the parson, and then
he looked uncommonly foolish.
“Never mind it, Will,” said Mr. Bevan, “never mind it, I say. The story
need go no further. You can keep your own counsel if you like. You have
come here under the influence of strong ale, and you have gone to sleep
most likely in this very vault, and in your sleep, having a very vivid
dream, you have walked up into the gallery, and thence into the belfry,
where no doubt you did ring the bell under the influence of your dream;
and then you fell down the belfry stairs, I believe, as you say you
did.”
“Ah!” said Will, “bless you, sir. It may be so, but——”
“You are not convinced.”
“Not quite, sir.”
“Well, Will, you are quite right never to pretend to be convinced when
you are not. I do not blame you for that, but in a short time, when the
effect of the affair has worn off, you will entertain my opinion.”
“I hope, sir, I may.”
“That will do. Now the stone must be put over this vault.”
“Sir, if you wouldn’t mind, sir.”
“What, Will?”
“Staying a moment or two, while I empty the bag of sawdust on the
floor, sir, I shan’t be a minute, no—not half a minute, and then I
shall have done with the vault altogether I hope, sir.”
“Very well.”
Will set to work, and although at any other time he would have been
rather ashamed of letting Mr. Bevan see what a wonderfully small
quantity of sawdust made up a guinea’s worth, superior considerations
now prevailed, and he would not have spared the clergyman’s company on
any account.
“Now I’ve done, sir.”
“Very well, follow me.”
Will did not like to ask the clergyman to follow him, so in that
difficulty, for as to his remaining behind it was out of the question,
he made a rush and reached the church before Mr. Bevan could ascend
two of the steps. When that gentleman did reach the church he made no
remark about the precipitancy, and apparent disrespect of Will, for
he put it down to its right cause, but he left the church in order to
make the usual preparations for the morning service, which would now
commence in an hour-and-a-half.
Will walked home with his empty bag, for the little exercise he had had
sufficed to convince him that he was not so much hurt as he thought,
and that the stiffness of his limbs would soon pass away.
“It’s all very well,” he said to himself, “for Mr. Bevan to talk about
dreams, but if that was one, nothing real, has ever, happened to me
yet, that’s all.”