THE FATE OF SIR GEORGE.—THE CROSS ROAD.
Sir George, when he saw the crowd of persons, seemed to have some
undefined idea that they were enemies, but this would not have
been productive of any serious consequences, if it had not most
unfortunately happened that a most formidable weapon was within his
grasp.
That weapon consisted of one of the long iron crowbars which had been
successfully used by his own sons in order to force a passage to the
family vault, where such horrors had been witnessed.
Suddenly, then, seizing this weapon, which, in the hands of a ferocious
man was a most awful one, he swung it once round his head, and then
rushed upon those he considered his foes.
He dealt but three blows, and at each of those one of the assailants
fell lifeless in the church porch.
To resist, or to attempt to contend with a man so armed, and apparently
possessed of such preternatural strength, was what some of the party
wished, and accordingly a free passage was left for him, and he rushed
out of the church into the night air shouting for vengeance, and still
at interval, accusing himself of being a vampyre, as most dangerous
theme to touch upon, considering the then state of feeling in that
little district.
Anxiety for the safety of Sir George induced his sons and Mr. Bevan
to rush after him, regardless of all other consequences, so that
the church, the vaults, and everything they contained, were left to
the mercy of a mob infuriated by superstition, rendered still more
desperate by the loss of three of their number in so sudden and
exampled a manner.
They opposed no obstacle to the leaving of those persons, who thus for
dearer considerations abandoned the old church, but they rushed with
wild shouts and gesticulations into the building.
“The vampyre, the vampyre,” cried the blacksmith, “death to the
vampyre—death and destruction to the vampyre.”
“Hurrah!” cried another, “to the vaults this way to Sir George
Crofton’s vault.”
There seemed to be little doubt now, but that this disorderly rabble
would execute summary vengeance upon the supposed nocturnal disturber
of the peace of the district.
Ever and anon, too, as these shouts of discord, and of threatening
vengeance, rose upon the night air, there would come the distant
muttering of thunder, for the storm had not yet ceased, although its
worst fury had certainly passed away.
Dark and heavy clouds were sweeping up from the horizon, and it seemed
to be tolerably evident that some heavy deluge of rain would eventually
settle the fury of the elements, and reconcile the discord of wind and
electricity.
Several of the rioters were provided with links and matches, so that
in a few moments the whole interior of the church was brilliantly
illuminated, while at the same time it presented a grotesque
appearance, in consequence of the unsteady and wavering flame from the
links, throw myriads of dancing shadows upon the walls.
There would have been no difficulty under any ordinary circumstances
in finding the entrance to the vault, where the dead of the Crofton
family should have lain in peace, but now since the large flagstone
that covered the entrance to that receptacle of the grave was removed,
it met their observation at once.
It was strange now to perceive how, for a moment, superstition having
led them on so far, the same feeling should induce them to pause, ere
they ventured to make their way down these gloomy steps.
It was a critical moment, and probably if any one or two had taken
a sudden panic, the whole party might have left the church with
precipitation, having done a considerable amount of mischief, and yet
as it is so usual with rioters, having left their principal object
unaccomplished.
The blacksmith put an end to this state of indecision, for, seizing a
link from the man who was nearest to him, he darted down the steps,
exclaiming as he did so,—
“Whoever’s afraid, need not follow me.”
This was a taunt they were not exactly prepared to submit to, and
the consequence was, that in a very few moments the ancient and time
honoured vault of the Crofton’s was more full of the living than of the
dead.
The blacksmith laid his hand upon Clara’s coffin.
“Here it is,” he said, “I know the very pattern of the cloth, and the
fashion of the nails, I saw it at Grigson’s the undertaker’s before it
was taken to the Grange.”
“Is she there—is she there,” cried half a dozen voices at once.
Even the blacksmith hesitated a moment ere he removed the lid from
the receptacle of death, but when he did so, and his eyes fell upon
the face of the presumed vampyre, he seemed rejoiced to find in the
appearances then exhibited some sort of justification for the act of
violence of which already he had been the instigator.
“Here you are,” he said, “look at the bloom upon her lips, why her
cheeks are fresher and rosier than ever they were while she was alive,
a vampyre my mates, this is a vampyre, or may I never break bread
again; and now what’s to be done?”
“Burn her, burn her,” cried several.
“Well,” said the blacksmith, “mind its as you like. I’ve brought you
here, and shown you what it is, and now you can do what you like, and
of course I’ll lend you a hand to do it.”
Any one who had been very speculative in this affair, might have
detected in these last words of the blacksmith, something like an
inclination to creep out of the future consequences of what might next
be done, while at the same time shame deterred him from exactly leaving
his companions in the lurch.
After some suggestions then, and some argumentation as to the
probability or possibility of interruption—the coffin itself, was
with its sad and wretched occupant, lifted from the niche where it
should have remained until that awful day when the dead shall rise for
judgment, and carried up the steps into the church, from thence they
passed into the graveyard, but scarcely had they done so, when the
surcharged clouds burst over their heads, and the rain came down in
perfect torrents.
The deluge was of so frightful, and continuous a character, that they
shrank back again beneath the shelter of the church porch, and there
waited until its first fury had passed away.
Such an even down storm seldom lasts long in our climate, and the
consequence was that in about ten minutes the shower had so far
subsided that although a continuous rain was falling it bore but a very
distant comparison to what had taken place.
“How are we to burn the body on such a night as this?”
“Aye, how indeed,” said another; “you could not so much as kindle a
fire, and if you did, it would not live many minutes.”
“I’ll tell you what to do at once,” said one who had as yet borne but a
quiet part in the proceedings; “I’ll tell you what to do at once, for I
saw it done myself; a vampyre is quite as secure buried in a cross-road
with a stake through its body, as if you burned it in all the fires in
the world; come on, the rain won’t hinder you doing that.”
This was a suggestion highly approved of, and the more so as there was
a cross road close at hand, so that the deed could be done quick,
and the parties dispersed to their respective homes, for already the
exertion they had taken, and the rain that had fallen, had had a great
effect in sobering them.
And even now the perilous and disgusting operation of destroying the
body, by fire or any other way, might have been abandoned, had any
one of the party suggested such a course—but the dread of a future
imputation of cowardice kept all silent.
Once more the coffin was raised by four of the throng, and carried
through the church-yard, which was now running in many little rivulets,
in consequence of the rain. The cross-road was not above a quarter of a
mile from the spot, and while those who were disengaged from carrying
the body, were hurrying away to get spades and mattocks, the others
walked through the rain, and finally paused at the place they though
suitable for that ancient superstitious rite, which it was thought
would make the vampyre rest in peace.
It is hard to suppose that Sir George Crofton, his sons, and Mr.
Bevan were all deceived concerning these symptoms of vitality which
they had observed in the corpse of Clara; but certainly now, there
was no appearance of anything of the kind, and the only suspicious
circumstances appeared to be the blood upon the lips, and the very
fresh-like appearance of the face.
If it were really a fact that the attack of Varney the Vampyre upon
this fair young girl had converted her into one of those frightful
existences, and that she had been about to leave her tomb for the
purpose of seeking a repast of blood, it would appear that the
intention had been checked and frustrated by the presence of Sir George
and his party in the vault.
At last a dozen men now arrived well armed with spades and picks, and
they commenced the work of digging a deep, rather than a capacious
grave, in silence.
A gloomy and apprehensive spirit seemed to come over the whole
assemblage, and the probability is that this was chiefly owing to
the fact that they now encountered no opposition, and that they were
permitted unimpeded to accomplish a purpose which had never yet been
attempted within the memory of any of the inhabitants of the place.
The grave was dug, and about two feet depth of soil was thrown in a
huge mound upon the surface; the coffin was lowered, and there lay the
corpse within that receptacle of poor humanity, unimprisoned by any lid
for that had been left in the vault, and awaiting the doom which they
had decreed upon it, but which they now with a shuddering horror shrunk
from performing.
A hedge-stake with a sharp point had been procured, and those who held
it looked around them with terrified countenances, while the few links
that had not been extinguished by the rain, shed a strange and lurid
glare upon all objects.
“It must be done,” said the blacksmith, “don’t let it be said that we
got thus far and then were afraid.”
“Do it then yourself,” said the man that held the stake, “I dare not.”
“Aye, do,” cried several voices; “you brought us here, why don’t you do
it—are you afraid after all your boasting.”
“Afraid—afraid of the dead; I’m not afraid of any of you that are
alive, and it’s not likely I’m going to be afraid of a dead body;
you’re a pretty set of cowards. I’ve no animosity against the girl,
but I want that we shall all sleep in peace, and that our wives
and children should not be disturbed nocturnally in their blessed
repose. I’ll do it if none of you’ll do it, and then you may thank me
afterwards for the act, although I suppose if I get into trouble I
shall have you all turn tail upon me.”
“No, we won’t—no, we won’t.”
“Well, well, here goes, whether you do or not. I—I’ll do it directly.”
“He shrinks,” cried one.
“No,” said another; “he’ll do it—now for it, stand aside.”
“Stand aside yourself—do you want to fall into the grave.”
The blacksmith shuddered as he held the stake in an attitude to pierce
the body, and even up to that moment it seemed to be a doubtful case,
whether he would be able to accomplish his purpose or not; at length,
when they all thought he was upon the point of abandoning his design,
and casting the stake away, he thrust it with tremendous force through
the body and the back of the coffin.
[Illustration: The blacksmith thrusts the stake through the body of the
vampyre.]
The eyes of the corpse opened wide—the hands were clenched, and a
shrill, piercing shriek came from the lips—a shriek that was answered
by as many as there were persons present, and then with pallid fear
upon their countenances they rushed headlong from the spot.