THE MIDNIGHT HOUR.—THE STONE SLAB.—THE VAMPIRE.
Yes, it was twelve o’clock, that mysterious hour at which it is
believed by many that,
“Graves give up their dead,
And many a ghost in church-yard decay,
Rise from their cold, cold bed
To make night horrible with wild vagary.”
Twelve, that hour when all that is human feels a sort of irksome dread,
as if the spirits of those who have gone from the great world were too
near, loading the still night air with the murky vapours of the grave.
A chilliness came over Ringwood and he fancied a strange kind of light
was in the church, making objects more visible than in their dim and
dusky outlines they had been before.
“Why do I tremble?” he said, “why do I tremble? Clouds pass away from
before the moon, that is all. Soon there may be a bright light here,
and lo, all is still; I hear nothing but my own breathing; I see
nothing but what is common and natural. Thank heaven, all will pass
away in quiet. There will be no horror to recount—no terrific sight to
chill my blood. Rest Clara, rest in Heaven.”
Ten minutes passed away, and there was no alarm; how wonderfully
relieved was Ringwood. Tears came to his eyes, but there were the
natural tears of regret, such as he had shed before for her who had
gone from him to the tomb, and left no trace behind, but in the hearts
of those who loved her.
“Yes,” he said, mournfully “she has gone from me, but I love her still.
Still does the fond remembrance of all that she was to me, linger at
my heart. She is my own, my beautiful Clara, as she ever was, and as,
while life remains, to me she ever will be.”
At the moment that he uttered these words a slight noise met his ears.
In an instant he sprung to his feet in the pulpit, and looked anxiously
around him.
“What was that?” he said. “What was that?”
All was still again, and he was upon the point of convincing himself,
that the noise was either some accidental one, or the creation of his
own fancy, when it came again.
He had no doubt this time. It was a perceptible, scraping, strange
sort of sound, and he turned his whole attention to the direction
from whence it came. With a cold creeping chill through his frame, he
saw that that direction was the one where was the family vault of the
Croftons, the last home of her whom he held still in remembrance, and
whose memory was so dear to him.
He felt the perspiration standing upon his brow, and if the whole world
had been the recompense to him for moving away from where he was he
could not have done so. All he could do was to gaze with bated breath,
and distended eyes upon the aisle of the church from whence the sound
came.
That something of a terrific nature was now about to exhibit itself,
and that the night would not go off without some terrible and
significant adventure to make it remembered he felt convinced. All he
dreaded was to think for a moment what it might be.
His thoughts ran on Clara, and he murmured forth in the most agonising
accents,—
“Anything—any sight but the sight of her. Oh, no, no, no!”
But it was not altogether the sight of her that he dreaded; oh no, it
was the fact that the sight of her on such an occasion would bring the
horrible conviction with it, that there was some truth in the dreadful
apprehension that he had of the new state of things that had ensued
regarding the after death condition of that fair girl.
[Illustration: The appearance of the resuscitated maiden.]
The noise increased each moment, and finally there was a sudden crash.
“She comes! she comes!” gasped Ringwood.
He grasped the front of the pulpit with a frantic violence, and then
slowly and solemnly there crossed his excited vision a figure all
clothed in white. Yes, white flowing vestments, and he knew by their
fashion that they were not worn by the living, and that it was some
inhabitant of the tomb that he now looked upon.
He did not see the face. No, that for a time was hidden from him, but
his heart told him who it was. Yes, it was his Clara.
It was no dream. It was no vision of a too excited fancy, for until
those palpable sounds, and that most fearfully palpable form crossed
his sight, he was rather inclined to go the other way, and to fancy
what the sexton had reported was nothing but a delusion of his
overwrought brain. Oh, that he could but for one brief moment have
found himself deceived.
“Speak!” he gasped; “speak! speak!”
There was no reply.
“I conjure you, I pray you though the sound of your voice should hurl
me to perdition—I implore you, speak.”
All was silent, and the figure in white moved on slowly but surely
towards the door of the church, but ere it passed out, it turned for
a moment, as if for the very purpose of removing from the mind of
Ringwood any lingering doubt as to its identity.
He then saw the face, oh, so well-known, but so pale. It was Clara
Crofton!
“’Tis she! ’tis she!” was all he could say.
It seemed, too, as if some crevice in the clouds had opened at the
moment, in order that he should with an absolute certainty see the
countenance of that solemn figure, and then all was more than usually
silent again. The door closed, and the figure was gone.
He rose in the pulpit, and clasped his hands. Irresolution seemed for
a few moments to sway him to and fro, and then he rushed down into the
body of the church.
“I’ll follow it,” he cried, “though it lead me to perdition. Yes, I’ll
follow it.”
He made his way to the door, and even as he went he shouted,—
“Clara! Clara! Clara!”
He reached the threshold of the ancient church; he gazed around him
distractedly, for he thought that he had lost all sight of the figure.
No—no, even in the darkness and against the night sky, he saw it once
again in its sad-looking death raiments. He dashed forward.
The moonbeams at this instant being freed from some dense clouds
that had interposed between them and this world, burst forth with
resplendent beauty.
There was not a tree, a shrub, nor a flower, but what was made distinct
and manifest, and with the church, such was the almost unprecedented
lustre of the beautiful planet, that even the inscriptions upon the old
tablets and tombs were distinctly visible.
Such a refulgence lasted not many minutes, but while it did, it was
most beautiful, and the gloom that followed it seemed doubly black.
“Stay, stay,” he shouted, “yet a moment, Clara; I swear that what you
are, that will I be. Take me over to the tomb with you, say but that it
is your dwelling-place, and I will make it mine, and declare it a very
palace of the affections.”
The figure glided on.
It was in vain that he tried to keep up with it. It threaded the
churchyard among the ancient tombs, with a gliding speed that soon
distanced him, impeded, as he continually was, by some obstacle or
another, owing to looking at the apparition he followed, instead of the
ground before him.
Still, on he went, heedless whether he was conveyed, for he might be
said to be dragged onward, so much were all his faculties both of mind
and body intent upon following the apparition of his beloved.
Once, and once only, the figure passed, and seemed to be aware that it
was followed for it flitted round an angle made by one of the walls of
the church, and disappeared from his eyes.
In another moment he had turned the same point.
“Clara, Clara!” he shouted. “’Tis I—you know my voice, Clara, Clara.”
She was not to be seen, and then the idea struck him that she must have
re-entered the church, and he too, turned, and crossed the threshold.
He lingered there for a moment or two, and the whole building echoed to
the name of Clara, as with romantic eagerness, he called upon her by
name to come forth to him.
Those echoes were the only reply.
Maddened—rendered desperate beyond all endurance, he went some distance
into the building in search of her, and again he called.
It was in vain; she had eluded him, and with all the carefulness and
all the energy and courage he had brought to bear upon that night’s
proceedings, he was foiled. Could anything be more agonising than this
to such a man as Ringwood—he who loved her so, that he had not shrunk
from her, even in death, although she had so shrunk from him.
“I will find her—I will question her,” he cried. “She shall not escape
me; living or dead, she shall be mine. I will wait for her, even in the
tomb.”
Before he carried out the intention of going actually into the vault
to await her return, he thought he would take one more glance at the
churchyard with the hope of seeing her there, as he could observe no
indications of her presence in the church.
With this view he proceeded to the door, and emerged into the dim
light. He called upon her again by name, and he thought he heard some
faint sound in the church behind him. To turn and make a rush into the
building was the work of a moment.
He saw something—it was black instead of white—a tall figure—it
advanced towards him, and with great force, before he was aware that an
attack was at all intended, it felled him to the ground.
The blow was so sudden, so unexpected, and so severe, that it struck
him down in a moment before he could be aware of it. To be sure, he had
arms with him, but the anxiety and agony of mind he endured that night,
since seeing the apparition come from the tomb had caused him to forget
them.