THE HUNT OF THE VAMPYRE.
All these occurrences which have taken a considerable time in telling,
occurred as simultaneously, that although it would appear Mr. Bevan
and Charles Crofton, rather neglected Sir George and Edwin who were
still in the vault, they had really not had time to think of them, to
say nothing of making any effort to extricate them from the frightful
situation in which they were placed.
Probably, after procuring a light, Mr. Bevan would have rushed to their
rescue had not that incessant knocking at the church door suggested
a new and more horrible danger, still, from the evil passions of an
infuriated multitude.
“Oh, Mr. Charles,” he said, “if we could but get your father away from
the church, there is no knowing what an amount of misery he might be
spared.”
“Misery, sir; surely there is no more misery in store for us—have we
not suffered enough—more than enough. Oh, Mr. Bevan we have fallen upon
evil times, and I dread to think, what will yet be the end of those
most frightful transactions.”
The knocking at the church door continued violently, and Charles
indicated a wish to proceed there to ascertain what it was, but Mr.
Bevan stopped him, saying,—
“No, Charles—no—let them be, I hardly think they will venture to break
into the sacred edifice, but whether they do or not, remember that
your duty and mine, yours being the duty of a son, and mine that of a
friend, should take us now to your father’s vault.”
“That is true, sir,” said Charles, “lead on I will follow you.”
Mr. Bevan, who had all the intellectual courage of a man of education,
and of regular habits, led the way again to the vault, with the light
in his hand. It was a great relief that the insane and horrible laugh
of Sir George Crofton had ceased, the best friend of any man could
almost have wished him dead, ere their ears had drunk in such horrible
sounds.
The shouts and cries from without now became incessant, and it seemed
as if some weapon had been procured, wherewith to hammer violently upon
the church door, for the strokes were regular and incessant, and it
was evident that if they continued long that frail defence against the
incursions of the rabble rout without must soon give way.
The only effect, however, which these sounds had upon Mr. Bevan was to
make him hasten his progress towards the vault, for anything in the
shape of a collision between those who wanted to take the church by
storm, and Sir George Crofton, was indeed most highly to be deprecated.
The steps were not many in number, and once again the clergyman and
Charles Crofton stood upon the sawdust that covered the flooring of the
vault.
At first, in consequence of the flaring of the light, the state of
affairs in that dismal region could not be ascertained; but as soon
as they could get a view, they found Sir George lying apparently in a
state of insensibility across the coffin of his daughter Clara, while
Edwin was in a swoon close to his feet.
“Sir George, Sir George,” cried Mr. Bevan, “arouse yourself; it is
necessary that you leave this place at once.”
The baronet got up and glanced at the intruders. Charles uttered a deep
groan, for the most superficial observation of his father’s face was
sufficient to convince him that reason had fled, and that wildness had
set up his wild dominion in his brain.
“Father—father,” he cried, “speak to me, and dissipate a frightful
thought.”
“What would you have of me,” said Sir George; “I am a vampyre, and
this is my tomb—you should see me in the rays of the cold moon gliding
’twixt earth and heaven, and panting for a victim. I am a vampyre.”
At this moment Edwin seemed to be partially recovering, for his eyes
opened as he lay upon the floor, and he looked around him with a
bewildered gaze, which soon settled into one of more intelligence as
memory resumed her sway, and he recollected the various circumstances
that had brought him into his present position.
“Rouse yourself, Edwin, rouse yourself,” cried Mr. Bevan, “you must aid
us to remove your father.”
“Do you talk of me?” said Sir George, “know you not that I am one of
those supernatural existences known as the death and despair-dealing
vampyres—it’s time I took my nightly prowl to look for victims. I must
have blood—I must have blood.”
“Gracious Heaven! he raves,” said Charles.
“Heed him not,” said Mr. Bevan—“heed him not, and touch him not, so
that he leave the place—when we have him once clear of the church we
can procure assistance, and take him to his own home.
“Edwin,” whispered Charles, “what of our sister.”
Edwin shook his head and shuddered. “I know nothing but that I
saw her—oh, horrible sight, rising from her coffin, and then in a
convulsion of terror my senses fled—a frightful ringing laugh came on
my ears, and from that time till now, be the period long or short, I
have been blessed by a death-like trance.”
“Blessed indeed,” said Mr. Bevan; “tarry one moment.”
Sir George Crofton was ascending the steps of the vault, but his two
sons paused for an instant at the request of Mr. Bevan, and then the
latter approaching Clara’s coffin slightly removed the lid, and was
gratified as far as any feeling could be considered gratification
under such circumstances, to find that the corpse occupied an ordinary
position in its narrow resting place.
“All’s right,” he said, “let us persuade ourselves that this too has
been but a dream, that we have been deceived, and that imagination has
played us tricks it is accustomed to play to those who give it the rein
at such hours as these—let us think and believe anything rather than
that what we have seen to-night is real.”
As he spoke these words, he ascended hastily the steps in pursuit of
Sir George, who, by this time had alone reached the top.
The heavy strokes against the door of the church had ceased, but an odd
sort of scraping, rattling sound at the lock convinced the clergyman
that a workman of more skill than he who had wielded the hammer, was
now at work, endeavouring to force an entrance.
“Oh, if we could but get out,” he said, “by the small private entrance,
all might be well; Charles, urge your father, I pray you.”
Charles did so to the best of his ability, but the blacksmith who had
originally incited the crowd to attack the church, in order to get
possession of the body of the vampyre, had sent to his workshop for the
tools of his craft, and soon quietly accomplished by skill what brute
force would have been a long time about, namely, the opening of the
church-door.
It was flung wide open, before Sir George Crofton and his sons could
reach the small private entrance, of which Mr. Bevan had the key.
The sight of the multitude of persons, for they looked such crowds in
the church porch, materially increased the incipient sadness of the
bereaved father.