THE AWFUL SUPPOSITION.—A RESOLUTION.
It was with some reluctance that the clergyman spoke.
“Sir,” he said to the old baronet, “and you, my young gentleman, I
am afraid—very much afraid, that I am doing anything but right in
countenancing a supposition so utterly at variance with all my own
notions and feelings; but my abhorrence of a secret impels me to speak.
“Say on, sir—say on,” cried Sir George. “Perhaps we are better prepared
to hear what you have to tell, than you imagine.”
After this Mr. Bevan had less reluctance to speak, he said,—
“I was aware, although you all were not, that Mr. Ringwood intended
to keep watch last night in the church, in order to test the truth of
what had been told by Will Stephens, the sexton. I did all I could to
persuade him from making the attempt, but when I found that nothing
else would satisfy him, I thought it prudent to give him the means of
carrying out what had become such a fixed intention with him, that to
oppose it was to do far more mischief than to grant it all the aid I
had in my power to do.”
Sir George gave a nod of assent.
“He went there,” continued Mr. Bevan, “with a private key of my own,
and took his place in the church.”
“I wish, sir, you had been with him,” said Edwin.
“Yes,” added Charles. “If you, with your cool, calm, unbiased judgment
had been there, we should have been much better able to come to a
correct conclusion about what occurred; for that something did occur,
or was supposed by Ringwood to do so, we can well guess.”
“I wish, indeed, I had been there,” said Mr. Bevan, “but he begged so
earnestly to be allowed to go alone, that I had not the heart to refuse
him.”
“And what happened, sir?”
“I will tell you. I gave him a key which admitted him to the church, by
the small private entrance, at which I usually go in myself; in fact,
it was my own private key, for I at times visit the church, and wish to
do so, when I am not expected by those who have the ordinary charge of
it.”
“We have heard as much.”
“No doubt. Well, then, I say I gave him that key, but it was my
sympathy with his evident distress rather than my judgment which
consented to do so, and I had hardly done it, when I began to busy
myself with conjectures, and to deeply regret that I had yielded to
him so easily. ‘What if he, in his excited and grief-stricken state of
mind, should come to some serious mischief?’ I said to myself, ‘should
not I be very much to blame? Would not all prudent persons say that I
did very wrong to send a man in such a condition of mind into a church
at midnight, alone?’”
“Your motives and your known character, sir, would protect you,” said
Charles.
“I hope so,” continued Mr. Bevan. “I think it would from all other
charges, but imprudence; and if any great mischance had befallen
Ringwood, I should not so readily have forgiven myself, as others might
have been induced to forgive me.”
“I understand that feeling,” said Sir George.
“Well, then, with such sensations tugging at my heart, no wonder I
could not rest, and so at a little after twelve, I rose, and hastily
dressing myself, I left my house as noiselessly as possible, and made
my way towards the church. The moon’s light was at that time obscured,
but every spot was so familiar to me, that I was able to go with
speed, and I soon reached the venerable building. I walked round it,
until I came to the door, the key of which I had given to Mr. Ringwood;
it was open, but the moment I crossed the threshold, I stumbled on his
insensible form.”
“Go on! go on! He had seen something terrible,” gasped Sir George; “I
am nerved, I think, for the very worst; I pray you, sir, go on, and
tell me all.”
“I will, Sir George, because I feel convinced it is my duty to conceal
nothing in this transaction, and because I think you had better more
calmly and dispassionately, and without exaggeration, hear from me all
that is to be told.”
“That is a good reason, sir,” said Edwin. “We should, of course, hear
all from other sources, and probably, with all the aids that a feeling
for the marvellous could append to it.”
“That is my impression. When, then, I stumbled over a person lying just
within the little private door of the church, I had no immediate means
of knowing who it was; I tell you it was Ringwood, because I afterwards
discovered as much. I had the means of getting a light; when I did so,
I found Ringwood lying in a swoon, while at the same time, I could not
but notice a large bruise upon his forehead.
“Of course, my first duty was to look after him, instead of troubling
myself about his assailant, and having placed him in as convenient a
posture as I could, I hurried home again, and roused up my servants.
With their assistance I got him to my house, and placed him in bed.”
“And did you search the church, sir?”
“I did. I went back and searched it thoroughly, but found nothing at
all suspicious. Everything was in its right place, and I could not
account for the affair at all, because of the wound that Ringwood had.
I was most anxious to hear from him that he had had a fall.”
“But—but,” said Sir George, falteringly, “he told a different story.”
“He did.”
“A story which you will not keep from us.”
“I do not feel myself justified, as I have said, in keeping it from
you. This is it.”
The clergyman then related to the family of the Croftons what is
already known to the reader concerning the adventures of Ringwood in
the old church, and which that morning, upon his recovery, Ringwood had
told to him most circumstantially.
We need scarcely say that this recital was listened to with the most
agonised feelings. Poor Sir George appeared to be most completely
overcome by it. He trembled excessively, and could not command himself
sufficiently to speak.
The two brothers looked at each other in dismay.
“Now, I pray you all to consider this matter more calmly,” said Mr.
Bevan, “than you seem inclined to do.”
“Calmly,” gasped Sir George, “calmly.”
“Yes—what evidence have we after all that the whole affair is anything
more than a dream of Mr. Ringwood’s?”
“Does he doubt it?”
“No—I am bound to tell you that he does not; but we may well do so for
all that. He is the last person who is likely to give in to the opinion
that it is a mere vision, so strangely impressed as it is upon his
imagination. Recollect always that he went to the church prepared to
see something.”
“Oh, if we could but think it unreal,” said Sir George, glancing at
his sons, as if to gather their opinions of the matter from their
countenances.
“I will cling to such a thought,” said Charles, “until I am convinced
otherwise through the medium of my own senses.”
“And I,” said Edwin.
“You are right,” added Mr. Bevan, “I never in the whole course of my
experience heard of anything of which people should be so slow of
believing in, as this most uncomfortable affair. You now know all, and
it is for yourselves, of course, to make whatever determination you
think fit. If I might advise, it would be that you all take a short
tour, perhaps on the continent for a time.”
“Mr. Bevan,” said Sir George, in a kindly tone, “I am greatly obliged
to you. The suggestion I know springs from the very best and friendly
motives; but it carries with it a strong presumption that you really do
think there is something in all this affair which it would be as well
to have settled in my absence.”
The clergyman could not deny but that some such feeling was at the
bottom of his advice; but still he would not admit that he was at all
convinced of the reality of what was presumed to have happened, and a
short pause in the conversation ensued, after which Sir George spoke
with a solemn air of determination, saying to his sons, as well as to
his friend and pastor, Mr. Bevan,
“When I tell you that I have made a determination from which nothing
but the hand of heaven visiting me with death shall move me, I hope no
one here will try to dissuade me from carrying it out.”
After such an exordium it was a difficult thing to say anything to him,
so he continued,—
“My child was dear—very dear to me in life, and I have no superstitious
fears concerning one who held such a place in my affections. I am
resolved that to-night I will watch her poor remains, and at once
convince myself of a horror that may drive me mad or take a mountain of
grief and apprehension off my heart.”
“Father,” cried Charles, “you will allow me to accompany you.”
“And me,” added Edwin.
“My sons, you are both deeply interested in this matter—you would be
miserable while I was gone if you were not with me. Moreover, I will
not trust my own imagination entirely—we will all three go, and then we
cannot be deceived. This is my most solemn resolution.”
“I have only one thing to say regarding it,” said Mr. Bevan, “that is,
to prefer an earnest request that you will allow me to be one of the
party—you shall sit in a pew of the church, that shall command a view
of the whole building.”
“Accompany us, Mr. Bevan, if you will,” said Sir George, “but I sit in
no pew.”
“No pew?”
“No. But my child’s coffin, in the vault where repose the remains of
more than one of my race who had been dear to me in life, will I take
my place.”
There was an earnest resolved solemnity about Sir George’s manner,
which showed that he was not to be turned from his purpose, and Mr.
Bevan accordingly did not attempt to do so. He had done what he
scarcely expected, that is, got a consent to accompany him to the
night vigil, and at all events let what would happen, he as a more
disinterested party than the others, would be able, probably to
interfere and prevent any disastrous circumstances from arising.
“Say nothing of what has been determined on to any one,” said Sir
George, “keep it a profound secret, sir, and this night will put an end
to the agony of doubt.”
“Depend upon me. Will you come to my house at eleven o’clock, or shall
I come here?”
“We will come to you; it is in the way.”
Thus then the affair was settled, so far satisfactorily, that there
was to be a watch actually now in the vault, so that there could be no
delusion, no trick practised.—What will be the result will be shown
very shortly; in the meantime we cannot but tremble at what that
attached and nearly heart-broken father may have still to go through.
The excitement too in the village was immense; for the story of the
vampyre’s attack upon the young girl was fresh in everybody’s mouth,
and it lost nothing of its real horrors by the frequency with which it
was repeated, and the terror-stricken manner in which it was dilated
upon.