THE GRAND CONSULTATION AT THE ALE-HOUSE.—THE AWFUL SUGGESTION.
Sir George Crofton and his family could form no idea, owing to not
being in a position to know, of the state of excitement produced in the
village by the mysterious and frightful attack which had been made upon
the widow’s daughter.
When people are very much absorbed with their own grief, they are apt
to set a lighter value upon those of others, and thus it was that the
family of the Croftons was so entirely taken up with what itself felt
and had to do that there was little room for sympathy with others.
Mr. Bevan likewise, from his peculiar and respectable position, was not
likely to be made the depository of gossiping secrets; the inhabitants
of that little place were in the habit of approaching him with respect,
so that, although, as we are aware, he had heard from Will Stephens,
the sexton, a full and particular account of what had happened to him
in the old church, and was likewise cognizant of the story of the
midnight attack upon the widow’s daughter, he was not fully aware of
the startling effect which those circumstances had had upon the small
population of that fishing village.
We are bound to believe that if he had had any idea of the real result
of those operations or of what was contemplated as their result—he
would have done his best to adopt some course to prevent any disastrous
collision.
We, however, with all the data and materials of this most singular
narrative before us, are enabled to detail to the reader facts and
occurrences as they took place actually, without waiting the arrival of
those periods at which they reached the knowledge of those actors in
the gloomy drama of real life.
Our readers, then, will please to know that the excitement among
the inhabitants of the place was of that violent and overbearing
description, that all the occupations of the villagers were abandoned,
and a spirit of idleness, sadly suggestive of mischief, began to be
prevalent among them.
This feeling was increased by frequent visits to the ale-house, the
liquor of which was well esteemed by Will Stephens, as may be readily
imagined; and towards evening the large old-fashioned parlour of that
place of entertainment became crowded with a motley assemblage, whose
sole purpose in meeting together was to drink strong ale, and discuss
the irritating and exciting subject of the appearance of the vampyre in
the village.
This discussion, from being at first a sober, serious, and alarmed one,
became noisy and violent; and at length a blacksmith, who was a great
man in the politics of the place, and who of all things in the world
most admired to hear his own voice, rose and addressed his compeers in
something of a set speech.
“Listen to me,” he said; “are we to have the blood sucked out of all
our bodies by a lot of vampyres? Is our wives and daughters to be
murdered in the middle of the night?”
“No, no, no,” cried many voices; “certainly not.”
“Is we to be made into victims, or isn’t we? What’s Sir George Crofton
and his family to us? To be sure he’s the landlord of some of us, and a
very good landlord he is, too, as long as we pay our rent.”
“Hear, hear, hear.”
“But there’s no saying how long he might be so, if we didn’t.”
“Bravo, Dick!” cried the master of the place, handing the orator a pot;
“bravo, Dick! take a pull at that, old fellow.”
“Thank you, Muggins. Now, what I proposes is—”
“Stand on a chair, and let’s all hear you.”
“Thank you,” said the blacksmith; and getting upon a chair, he was
about to commence again, when some one advised him to get upon the
table, but in an effort to accomplish that feat, he unfortunately trod
upon what was a mere flap of the table, which had not sufficient power
to support his weight, and down he came amid an assemblage of pots,
jugs, and glasses, which made a most alarming crash.
This roused the fury of the landlord, who had no idea of being made
such a sufferer in the transaction, and he accordingly began to declaim
heavily at his loss.
A dispute arose as to how he was to be repaid, and it was finally
settled that a general subscription would be the best mode of
reimbursing him.
If anything was wanting to work up the feelings of the topers at
the public-house to the highest pitch of aggravation, it certainly
was their having to disburse for breakages a sum of money which, if
liquefied, would have trickled most luxuriously down their throats.
They were consequently ripe and ready for anything which promised
vengeance upon anybody.
The blacksmith was not discomfited by his fall. When is a man who is
fond of hearing himself talk discomfited by anything? and he soon
resumed his oration in the following words:—
“Is we to be put upon in this kind of way? Why, we shan’t be able to
sleep in our beds. All I asks is, is we to put up with it?”
“But what are we to do?” said one.
“Ah! there’s the question,” said the blacksmith, “I don’t know exactly.”
“Let’s ask old Timothy Brown,” said the butcher, “he’s the oldest man
here.”
This was assented to; and accordingly the individual mentioned was
questioned as to his ideas of the way of avoiding the alarming
catastrophe which seemed to be impending over them. He advised them to
wait patiently till the next night, and keep awake till the unwelcome
nocturnal visitor made its appearance, when whoever it might visit was
boldly to assail it, without any fear of the consequences to himself,
till further assistance could be procured. After Timothy Brown had
delivered himself of this piece of advice, a dead silence ensued among
the late boisterous company. There were many dissenters, and a few who
seemed in favour of a trial of the practicability of the plan. Both
parties seemed to give some consideration to the proposition, and they
were by far too much engaged in thinking of the advice which had been
given them, to pay much attention to the quarter from whence it had
emanated; more particularly, too, as from his age and infirmities,
he was incapacitated from carrying it out or from giving any active
assistance to those who were disposed to do so.
A great many efforts were made to get him to say more, particularly
with reference to the case under consideration, as being no common one,
but the octogenarian had made his effort, and he only replied to the
remonstrances of those who, alternately by coaxing and bullying, strove
to get information from him, by a vacant stare.
“It’s of no use,” said the butcher, “you’ll get nothing more now from
old Timothy; he’s done up now, that’s quite clear, and ten to one if
the excitement of to-night won’t go a good way towards slaughtering him
before his time.”
“Well, it may be so,” cried the blacksmith, “but still it’s good
advice, and as I said before it comes to this—is we to be afraid to lay
down in our beds at night, or isn’t we?”
Before any reply could be made to this interrogatory, the old clock
that was in the public-house parlour struck the hour of eleven, and
another peal of thunder seemed to be answering to the tinkling sounds.
“It’s a rough night,” said one, “I thought there would be a storm
before morning by the look of the sun at setting—it went down with a
strange fiery redness behind a bank of clouds. I move for going home.”
“Who talks of going home,” cried the blacksmith, “when vampires are
abroad? hasn’t old Timothy said, that a stormy night was the very one
to settle the thing in.”
“No,” cried another, “he did not say night at all.”
“I don’t care whether he said night or day; I’ve made up my mind to
do something; there’s no doubt about it but that a vampyre is about
the old church. Who’ll come with me and ferret it out? it will be good
service done to everybody’s fireside.”