THE YOUNG LOVER’S MIDNIGHT WATCH.
Did the clergyman really think what he said? Had he no suspicions, that
after all there was a something more even than he was quite willing to
admit in the story told by Will Stephens?
We shall see in good time, but at all events one thing is evident, that
the parson thought it good sound policy, and it was, to endeavour to
nip the thing in the head, and by ascribing it to a dream, put it down
as a subject of speculation in the place.
He knew that nothing could be more dangerous than allowing any such
story to pass current as a wonderful fact, and well he knew that in a
short time, if such were the case, it would receive so many additions
and so many embellishments, that the mischief it might produce upon
the mind of an ignorant population might be extreme, and of a most
regretful character indeed.
All this he felt hourly, and therefore Will Stephens’ story was to be
put down as a dream.
Now Mr. Bevan, it will be recollected, had urged Will to keep his
own counsel, and to say nothing of the affair to any one, but he had
faint hopes only that Will would do that, very faint hopes indeed, for
after all he, Will, was the hero of the story, and there would be a
something extremely gratifying in telling it, and in stating what he
would have done, had not his foot slipped as he came down the narrow
stairs from the old belfry, and so completely stunned him by the fall.
Mr. Bevan therefore had very few if any compunctions in adopting the
course he did, which was, in the evening, when there was no service at
the church, to call at the Grange, to see Sir George Crofton upon the
subject.
Mr. Bevan was always a welcome guest at the Grange, and he was on those
intimate and good terms with the family, that he could always call
whenever he pleased, so that a mere announcement of his presence by no
means had the effect of preparing Sir George for any communication.
“Ah, Mr. Bevan,” he said, when the clergyman entered the room, “I am
glad to see you.”
“And I to see you, Sir George.”
“You come to a house of mourning, sir. But that will be the case here
for a long, long time. Time may and will, no doubt, do much to assuage
our grief, but the blow is as yet too recent.”
Tears started to the eyes of Sir George Crofton, as he made this
allusion to his daughter, and he turned his head aside to hide such
evidences of emotion from the parson, from whom, however, he need
have expected nothing but the most friendly sympathy that one human
being could bestow upon another. Mr. Bevan was a man of refinement and
consideration, and he let grief always have its way, seldom doing more
than merely throw out, in the form of a suggestion for consideration as
it were, that death was not the great evil it was thought to be.
In such a way he generally succeeded in bring persons smarting under
the infliction of the loss of dear friends and relations much sooner to
proper sense of the subject, than if he had indulged in all the canting
religious exhortations that some divines think applicable to such
occasions.
Sir George Crofton was alone, for his two sons had gone for a stroll in
the grounds. Ringwood who still remained with the family, was in the
library, where now he passed most of his time, in trying by reading to
withdraw his mind from a too painful and fixed contemplation of his
loss.
He was still weak, but might be considered now quite convalescent.
“Pray be seated, Mr. Bevan,” said Sir George. “Believe me, I take it
very kindly of you to come so often.”
“Pray dear sir, don’t say another word about it—I—I am very sorry to
feel myself obliged to allude to anything of an uncomfortable nature.”
“Think nothing of doing so, my friend. Think nothing of it, I have a
master grief which drowns all others.”
“But it is concerning that master grief, sir, that I come to speak.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, sir, will you kindly hear me?”
“Certainly, certainly.”
“You told me on the day following the melancholy death of your
daughter, as a friend, the peculiar circumstances attendant upon that
death. Now I do not mean to say that what I am going to relate to you
has any connection at all with those circumstances, nor would I tell
you what I come to tell at all, were I not fearful that the same story
with some of the usual exaggerations of ignorance would reach you from
other quarters, for it is not a matter consigned to my bosom only, or
there it should remain.”
“You alarm me.”
“That I feared, but deeply regret. Listen to me, and remember always as
you do so, that I think the whole affair is a mere dream—a disturbed
slumberer’s vision—nothing more.”
[Illustration: Mr. Bevan informs Sir George Crofton of the events in
the church.]
Sir George Crofton did listen with breathless eagerness, and Mr. Bevan,
without detracting anything or adding anything to the narrative of Will
Stephens, told him the whole story just as Will had told it to him,
concluding by saying,—
“That is all my dear sir, and I felt that my duty powerfully called
upon me to be your informant upon the subject, simply that we might be
forewarned against any coarse version of the story.”
Sir George drew a long breath.
“More horrors! More horrors!”
“Nay, why should you say that?”
“Is it not so?”
“Nay I have already given my opinion, by saying, that I look upon the
whole affair as but the phantasma of dream.”
“Oh! Mr. Bevan, do not trifle with me. Is that really and truly your
opinion, sir, or only said from kindness to me.”
“It is the best opinion that I can come to.”
“I thank you, sir; I thank you. Clara, Clara, my child, my child!”
The old man was overcome with grief, and at the interesting moment,
Ringwood entered the room, with a book in his hand. He was astonished,
as well he might be to see such a fearful relapse of grief on the part
of Sir George Crofton, and he looked from him to Mr. Bevan, and from
Mr. Bevan to him, for some few moments in silence, and then he said,—
“Surely all here have suffered enough, and there is no new calamity
come upon this house.”
“Tell him all,” cried Sir George; “tell him all. It is fit that he
should know; he is one of us now, he loved my child, and loves her
memory still. I pray you, Mr. Bevan, to tell all to Ringwood, for I
have not the heart to do so.”
“I wonder,” said Ringwood, calmly, “to hear you speak thus. I wonder to
see that any new grief can come so near to that which we have already
suffered. The image of my lost one fills up each crevice of my heart.
I shall listen to you Mr. Bevan with respect, but my grief, I fear is
selfish, and cannot feel more than its own miseries.”
Ringwood seemed to imagine that what the parson had to say referred to
something with which Clara had nothing to do; but when, as the story
proceeded, he found how intimately connected she was with the affair,
his cheek flushed for a moment, and then grew of a death-like paleness,
and he sat trembling and looking in the face of Mr. Bevan, as he
proceeded with his most strange relation.
When he had concluded Ringwood gave a deep groan.
“You are much affected, sir,” said Mr. Bevan.
“Crushed! crushed!” was the reply. “Oh God!”
“Nay now this is not manly, sir, you feel this thing too much; if you
are so crushed how can any one expect that from you is to proceed the
necessary exertion to prove that the story in all its particulars is
but a falsehood?”
Ringwood caught at this idea in a moment.
“Exertion from me?” he said. “What exertions would I not make to prove
such a horror to be but a creation of the fancy? What would I not do!
What would I not suffer? You have warned me, sir. Yes, I have a duty
to do—a duty to Clara’s memory; a duty to you Sir George, and a duty
to myself, for did I not love her, and does not her gentle image still
sit in my inmost heart enshrined? I will prove that this most monstrous
story is a delusion. Bear with me, gentlemen, I must think. To-morrow
you shall know more, but not until to-morrow.”
He rose, and left the room.
“What does he mean,” said Sir George, vacantly.
“I cannot tell you, sir; but wait until to-morrow. Perhaps by then
he may have proposed some plan of action, that you or I may not
think of. You will use your own discretion, about communicating the
strange affair to your sons or not, sir. Upon such a point as family
confidence, I never venture an opinion. Allow me to call upon you
to-morrow morning, sir, when I hope to find you in better spirits.”
The clergyman would not have been in such haste to leave Sir George;
but as he saw Ringwood leave the room; that young man made a sign to
him, that he wished to see him before he left, and accordingly Mr.
Bevan was anxious to know what it was he had to say to him.
When he left Sir George, he asked a servant where Mr. Ringwood was,
and being told he was in the library, Mr. Bevan, being quite familiar
with the house, followed him there at once, and found him pacing that
apartment in great agitation, and with disordered steps.
“Thank heaven you have come, sir,” cried Ringwood, “tell me, oh, tell
me, what would you advise me to do, Mr. Bevan.”
“I think,” replied the clergyman, “you have already half decided upon a
course.”
“I have, I have.”
“Then follow it, if it be such a one as in its result will produce a
conviction of the truth. Do not, Mr. Ringwood, allow anything to turn
you aside from a course which you feel to be right; you will always
find strength enough to persevere if you have that strong conviction
upon you. What is your plan?”
“It is this night to watch in the church?”
“Be it so; I will, if you like, keep watch with you.”
“Oh, no, no! let me be alone. All I ask of you, sir, is to provide me
with the means of getting into the sacred edifice at midnight.”
“That I will do. You shall have a private key that I have for my own
use; you can let yourself in without any one knowing of your presence.
But do you think you have nerve enough to go alone? If you have the
smallest doubt or hesitation, let me accompany you.”
“No, no—I thank you, but let me go alone, and say nothing of this to
Sir George. I had it in my mind when I told him I would speak to him
to-morrow about what you had communicated. I would fain, if these
horrors be really true, keep him in ignorance that I have verified
them. But if I keep my night watch quite undisturbed, then he shall
have the satisfaction of knowing that it has been so kept.
“You are right in that; I will send the key to you in the course of
another hour and remember I am at your service if you should alter your
mind, and wish for company. Do not hesitate about disturbing my rest.”