 Chapter 203 of Varney the Vampire, Volume 3. The Disappointment at the Grange, The News of Despair, The Finding of the Body It was a fine old place, the Grange, viewed from what aspect he might, and had not the mind of Varney the Vampire been so fearfully irritated by the circumstances of his horrible existence, he must have paused to admire it. It was one of those ancient English edifices, which alas are fast disappearing from the face of once merry England. Railways have gone tearing and screaming through the old parks and shady glens. Alas, all is altered now, and for the sake of getting to some abominable place such as Manchester or Birmingham in a very short space of time, many a lonely spot of nature's own creating is marred by noise and smoke. So, said Varney, this then is the home of these young men who have done me such an injury as to rescue me from the sea. He ground his teeth together as he spoke, and it was quite clear that he felt disposed to consider that a most deadly injury had been done to him by Edwin and Charles Crofton, who had only followed the proper dictates of humanity in rescuing him from the waves. It should go hard with me, added Varney, but I will teach such meddling fools to leave the great sea in charge of its dead. Oh, had I but been allowed to remain until now, which but for these officious persons might still have been the case, I should have sunk deep, deep into the yellow sands, and there rotted. His passion as he uttered these words had in it something fearful, but in a few moments the external symptoms of it passed away, and he walked slowly and to all appearance calmly enough towards the Grange. The distance he had to go was still as before a deceiving one, for he had to wind round a clump of trees before he really got to the gate, which appeared to be just in sight, but at length he reached it and paused as he saw an old man who was a kind of border there. Is this Sir George Crofton's, he said, and he threw into his voice all that silvery softness which at times had been so fascinating to the Bannerworth family. It is, sir. Will you announce me? I do not leave this gate, sir, but if you go down this avenue, you will reach the mansion, and some of the servants will attend to you. Varney walked on. The avenue was one formed by two stately rows of chestnuts, the spreading branches of which met overhead, forming a beautiful canopy, and notwithstanding that they were so near the sea, that fold of vegetation, these trees were, in good truth, most luxuriantly beautiful. There was a time, muttered Varney, when I should have admired such a spot as this, but all that has long since passed away. I am that which I am. He now arrived in front of the house itself, and being perceived by one of the domestics, he was politely asked what he wanted. Say that Mr. Smith is here, was the message that Varney gave. The servant had already heard that such was the name of the person who had been rescued from the sea by his young masters, Edwin and Charles. He now hastened with the information to the drawing room where the family was assembled. Oh, if you please, sir, he has come. Who has come? The drowned man, Mr. Smith. Admit him instantly. The servant ran back to Varney, and then politely ushered him into the large, really handsome row, in which the family sat awaiting his arrival, with no small share of curiosity. What the sexton had said of him had excited much speculation, and the eagerness to see a man who was, as it were, a present from the sea was extreme. Mr. Smith announced the servant, and Varney, with one of his courtly bows, and a smile that was half hideous, half-charbing, entered. There was a decided effect produced by his appearance, and perhaps that effect is best described by the word awe. They all seemed as if they were in the presence of something very peculiar, if not something very superior. Sir George Crofton broke the rather awkward silence that ensued by addressing his visitor with all the frankness that was part of his nature. Sir, he said, I am glad to see you, and hope you will make yourself as much at home as if you were in a house of your own. Sir, said Varney, you know how much I owe your family already, and I fear to increase the heavy debt of gratitude. Oh, you are welcome, most welcome. Stay here as long as you like. We are rather dull at times in this isolated house, and the arrival of an intelligent guest is always an event. Varney bowed, and Edwin advanced. Mr. Smith, he said, I suppose I may almost call myself an old acquaintance. And I, said Charles. Gentlemen, if you be those to whom I am indebted for my preservation, I owe you my warmest thanks. Oh, think nothing of it, Sir George. It was not at all likely that my two boys would see a fellow creature in such a situation, and not dead or alive, take possession of it. Your recovery is the only remarkable thing in the whole affair. Very remarkable, said Varney. They waited a moment, as if he was expected to make some sort of explanation of that part of the business. But as he did not, Sir George said, you have no idea how you became resuscitated? Not the least. Well, that is strange indeed. Perhaps the good fellow who afforded me immediate shelter applied before that some means of recovery and suspended vitality. Oh no, Will Stevens is to the full as much surprised as anyone. But however I dare say to you, Sir, that is not the most entertaining subject in the world, so we will say no more about it. Except that we are very glad to have a living guest instead of a dead one. I much fear from what I have heard, said Varney, that I shall be intruding at a time like this into your family's circle. Oh, you allude to the marriage today of one of my daughters, and that puts me in mind of really quite an omission on my part, Mr. Smith. My daughters, Clara and Emma. The vampire bowed low, and the young ladies went with established grace through the ceremony of the introduction to the remarkable personage before them. At this moment there came upon the ears of all assembled there, the sound of hurried footsteps, and a servant without any ceremony burst into the apartment exclaiming, Oh, Sir George, oh, Sir. What is it? Speak. Oh, oh, they have found him, killed in the ravine. Who? Who? Mr. Ringwood, as was to be married. My daughter. Clara uttered a cry of despair and sank into a chair in a state of insensibility. The scene of confusion and general consternation that now ensued baffles all description, and the only person who looked calm and collected upon the occasion was Mr. Smith. Although it was not the insulting calmness of seeming indifference. In a few minutes, however, Sir George himself recovered from the first shock which the intelligence had given to him, and he said, Where is he? Where is he? Let me to the spot. And allow me, Sir, to accompany you, said Barney. Believe me, I feel deeply for the family misfortune. Let me be useful. Thank you, Sir. Thank you. Edwin, Charles, come with me and this gentleman, and we will see if this dreadful report be true. Let us hope that fear and ignorance have exaggerated a very simple affair into so seemingly dreadful a circumstance. Leaving Clara to the care of her sister and some of the female domestics of the Grange who were hastily summoned to attend upon her, the little party consisting of Sir George, his two sons, Barney, and several of the men's servants turned from the Grange in the direction of the ravine. Their intimate acquaintance with all the neighborhood enabled them to reach the place much sooner than Barney thought it possible to do. As they came within sight of the spot where the accident had occurred, they saw a crowd of villagers and fishermen assembled. They quickened their pace and forcing through the throng, Sir George Crofton saw his intended son-in-law to all the parents lying dead and bleeding on the sands. Such a sight was enough for a moment to paralyze every faculty, and it really had for a time that effect upon Sir George. End of Chapter 203 Recording by Donald Finch dafinch.com Chapter 204 of Barney the Vampire Volume 3 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Donald Finch Barney the Vampire Volume 3 by Thomas Prescott-Prest Chapter 204 The sick chamber at the Grange the night. Is he dead? Is he dead? cried Sir George. We don't know, sir, replied one of the fishermen. Some of us think he is, and some of us think he is not. What is to be done? Have him taken at once to the Grange, Father, said Charles, and let us get medical assistance. Who knows, but the affair may turn out in reality very different from what it first appeared. He may only be stunned by a fall. I hope to heaven it may be so. Can you, among you, my men, make anything like a litter to carry him on? This was soon done. Some of the loose seats from some boats close at hand, and a rough cloak or two, made a capital couch for the dead or wounded man, as the case might be. They lifted him carefully into it, and then four of them lifted the rude but easy and appropriate conveyance, and carried him towards the hall. How could this have happened, said Sir George? Perhaps I may be able to throw some light upon it, said Barney. As I came here to your hospitable house, a horse without a rider, but comparison for one passed me furiously. That must have been his horse, then, said Charles. He may depend, Father. He was riding on to see Clara before the hour appointed for their marriage, and he has met with this accident. Come, there is some consolation in that. A fall from his horse is not likely to kill him. Where is Edwin? Oh, he went off at once for Dr. North, and no doubt he will get to the Grange about as soon as we shall. That was right. That was right. I really have been taken so much by surprise that I hardly know what I am about. It was very right of Edwin. Nothing of any importance now passed in the way of conversation, nor did any incident worth recording take place until the melancholy little procession reached the Grange. And by the advice of Barney, the unbridled group was carried direct to a bedchamber before he was removed from the litter on which he had been carried. The operation was scarcely performed, and he laid upon a bed when Dr. North came, having mounted his horse upon hearing the information from Edwin that he was wanted in a case of such great emergency at the Grange and ridden hard all the way. He was at once introduced to his patient and upon a cursory examination, he said. This is a concussion of the brain, but don't let that alarm you. It may be very slight, although it certainly has an awkward sound, and a little rest and bloodletting may put him all to rights. This was to some extent cheering, and the doctor at once proceeded to bleed his patient. As the ruddy stream fell into a crystal goblet, the young man gradually opened his eyes and looked round him with a bewildered glare. Dark in the room, said Dr. North. He is right enough, but he must be kept quiet for a day or two at all events. What has happened, said the wounded man. Nothing particular, replied Dr. North. Nothing particular. You have had a fall from your horse. Clara. Ah, I know, and now listen to me. If you remain quiet and don't speak, you will see Clara soon. But if you are willful and disobey orders, you will bring on a brain fever, and you won't see her at all in this world. So now you can judge for yourself. You are rather harsh, said Sir George. Pardon me, Sir, I am not. There is nothing like making a patient thoroughly understand his own position. And I give this young gentleman credit for sufficient wisdom to enable him to profit by what I say to him. Mr. Ringwood donned. There, you see, all is right. Now he will go to sleep, and as all will depend upon the state in which he awakens. I will, if you please, wait here, unless I should be urgently sent for from home, for I have left word where I am. Pardon me, Doctor, for finding any fault with you. Don't mention it. What I said did sound harsh. Sir George went now at once to the room where his daughter Clara had been taken to, for the purpose of informing her of the hopeful state of affairs. He found her just recovered from her swoon, so that recollection had not yet sufficiently returned to give her all the agony of thinking that the news, so heedlessly and so suddenly communicated by the servant, might be true in its full intensity. My dear, you must not distress yourself, said Sir George. Ringwood is riding over here, it seems, to see you, and his horse getting rested as thrown in. Doctor North says there is nothing particular of the matter, and that after a little rest he will recover. Clara tried to speak, but she could not. She burst into tears. Ah, said the old nurse who was attending her, and who had been in her family many years. Ah, poor dear, she will be all right now. I was just wishing that she would have a good cry. It does any one a world of good it does. What an agitating night and day this has been, to be sure, said Sir George. First the terror of losing both my boys, then the return with the dead man, who, so oddly, comes to life again. Then this dreadful accident to Ringwood, upon my word, the incidents of a whole year have been crammed into a few hours. I only hope this is the last of it. And I shall see him again, Father, sobbed Clara. Of course you will. You? You have sent him home very carefully? Home? No. He is here under this roof, and here he shall stay till he recovers, poor lad. Oh dear no, I never thought of sending him home. But I must send someone, by the by, with the news of what has happened. This is well thought of. The knowledge that her lover and her affianced husband was doing well, and that he was under the same roof with her, gave Clara the most unalloyed satisfaction. And she recovered rapidly her good and healthful looks. It was duly explained to her that she must not go near Ringwood to disturb him, as rest was so very essential to his recovery, so she did not attempt it. The whole household was commanded to be unusually quiet, and never had the grains before presented such a collection of creeping domestics, for they went up and downstairs like so many cats. Clara did not omit to thank Mr. Smith for the assistance he had rendered them in this evil emergency, and Dr. North stood with the family in the dining room waiting, perhaps with greater anxiety than he chose to express, the awaking of his patient. The servant was left in the adjoining chamber to that occupied by Ringwood, who was told to bring to the dining room the first intimation that the wounded man was living. About two hours elapsed when the servant came in with an air of a fright. Dr. North sprang to his feet in a moment. What is it? Is he awake? Not exactly awake, sir, but he is speaking in his sleep. And it's all about a, uh, a what? A vampire. Stuff. Well, sir, he's having some horrid dream, I can tell you. And he said, keep off the vampire, savor, oh, savor from the vampire. Oh, singular, said Varney. What an absurd belief that is, a vampire. What on earth could have put such a thing in his head, I wonder? I will go to him, said Dr. North. If he should be very much disturbed, perhaps I shall think it preferable to awake him. But I can inform you all that such dreams show that there is much excitement going on in the brain. Then you do not consider the symptom favorable, doctor? Certainly not. Quite the reverse of favorable. Dr. North rose, and as Varney offered very politely to accompany him, he made no sort of objection. And they proceeded to the chamber of the bridegroom. During the time that the doctor had been in the society of Varney, he had been much pleased with him, for he found that he possessed a vast store of knowledge upon almost any subject that could be touched upon, besides no small amount of skill and theoretical information upon medical matters. So he let him come with him when perhaps he would have objected to anyone else. Varney the vampire could fascinate when he liked. When they reached the chamber, the young man was quiet. But in a few minutes he began to toss about his head and mutter in his sleep. The vampire, the dreadful vampire, oh, savor, help, help, help! This won't do, said the doctor. He went to the toilette table and procuring a large towel he soaked it well in cold water, and then wrapped it round the head of ringwood, and so carefully to his not to arouse him. The effect was almost instantaneous. The vexed sleeper relapsed into a much easier attitude. The breathing was more regular, and the distressing fancies that had tortured his fever brain were chased away. A simple plan, said Varney. Yes, but a most efficacious one. End of Chapter 205 of Varney the Vampire, Volume 3 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Varney the Vampire, Volume 3 by Thomas Prescott Press Chapter 205 A Midnight Alarm, The Chase, The Mystery Young Ringwood did awaken about two hours afterwards, and the state he was in, although not such as to create alarm, was not pleasing to Dr. North. That gentleman desired that he should be carefully watched and kept quiet while he went to his own house for some medicines. He returned as soon as he possibly could, and administered such remedies as he considered the urgency of the case required, and having, as he always made a practice of doing, left word at his own house where he was, he offered to remain at the range the whole of the night. It was scarcely necessary to say that such an offer was most gratefully accepted. Clara was profuse in her acknowledgments of the doctor's kindness, and they all passed the evening together in the large dining-room to which Varney was first introduced. Not, however, for a long time had so gloomy an evening been passed at the Granges that. Nobody was in spirits, and although there was a great deal of conversation, it somehow assumed always a very somber shape, let it commence on what subject it might. Half past ten o'clock was the usual hour at which the family retired for the night, and it was quite a relief to everyone when that hour came, and Sir George ordered lights for the bed chambers. Clara, indeed, being much oppressed, had retired some time before, and so had Emma, so that there were none but gentlemen in the dining-room at half past ten. I have ordered a bed to be prepared for you close to your patients, said Sir George to Dr. North. Oh, thank you, but I shall only lie down in my clothes, a couch would have done just as well. I am used to sitting up all night upon occasion. No doubt, but I hope you will not be disturbed, and that tomorrow morning we shall have a better account of your patient. I hope so, too, a good calm night's rest may do much. You speak doubtingly. Why, in these cases, it is difficult to know the extent of injury. There is no fracture of the skull, but it is as yet impossible to say what amount of shaking he has had. Well, we can but hope for the best. Mr. Smith, although we retire at this early hour, there is no sort of occasion for you to do so. Order what winds you please, and sit as long as you please. By no means, Sir George, I am a great patron of early hours myself. Varney was shown into a bedroom which was upon the same floor with those of the family, and which formed one of a range of chambers, all opening from a corridor that ran the entire length of the house, and which in the daytime was lighted by a very large, handsome window at one end while at the other was a broad flight of stairs ascending from the lower part of the house. The sisters occupied contiguous chambers, and then there was an empty room, and next to that again was the bedroom in which was Ringwood, and then Dr. North's. Exactly opposite was Varney's room, and close at hand slept the sons, while Sir George himself occupied a room at the furthest corner of the corridor. Emma made Clara an offer to sleep with her that night, as she was in grief and anxiety, but this Clara would not permit, for she could not think of sacrificing her sister's repose to attend upon her. No, Emma, she said, I will hope for the best and strive to rest. They bade each other affectionately good night, and shortly afterwards retired to their separate apartments. By eleven o'clock all was still in the house. Dr. North had begged a book from the library, for he thought it likely enough that he should not be able to get much repose, and with that he sat in his room, the only one as he thought, in all the house who was not in bed. He continued reading for about an hour, and then, after visiting his patient and finding him asleep, he thought it would be just as well for him to pull off his boots and his coat, and lie down on the bed to snatch a few hours' sleep. He performed all the operations, but the final one, the sleeping, for scarcely had he lain down when he heard a soft, sliding sort of noise close to the room door, he thought, and he sprung up in a sitting posture to listen to it. Who's there? he cried. There was no answer, and jumping off his bed, he took the light which he had not put out and opened his door. All was deserted and still in the corridor. Imagination, or some accidental noise that I am not familiar with, said the doctor as he closed his door again. Down he laid himself, and he was just upon the point of getting to sleep, when he heard a scratching sound as he thought upon the very panel of the door of his room. Up he sprang again, and this time without the delay of asking who was there, he opened his door, and looked out into the corridor, holding the light above his head so as to diffuse its rays as much as possible. But he saw no one, and all the other doors were close shut. A plague take it, he said. I may keep myself at this sort of thing all night, if I am foolish enough. It is a cat perhaps, for all I know. However it may scratch away, I won't move again. Shutting the door he laid down, now fully determined that he would not move, unless something very much out of the common way indeed should take place. Again he started. There was a curious sound about the lock of his door, and he listened intently. Now what on earth can that be? All was still, and he nearly dropped asleep. Twice however he thought he heard the sound again, but he would not move, and in a few minutes more he was enjoying a sound repose. How long this repose lasted he had no means of telling, for he was suddenly awakened by such a cry that at first he lay overpowered completely by it and unable to move. It was a loud shrieking cry, such as might come from anyone in a most dreadful agony. Good heaven! he cried. What's that? Now Dr. North was not a fearful man nor a nervous one, and he soon recovered. Besides, such a cry as that, he knew very well, must have the effect of arousing everybody in the house, so he sprung out of his bed and rushed to the door. It was fast. In vain he tried the lock and hammered at it and pushed. The door was a thick and heavy one, and it was quite clear he was a prisoner. This was serious, and he cried out. Help! Help! Here! Undo the door! Undo the door! Who has locked me in? He heard the scraping of feet, the sound of voices, the ringing of bells, and all the symptoms of a suddenly disturbed and alarmed household, but nobody paid any attention to him. He dragged on his boots in order that he might be able to keep up a constant kicking on the lower part of his door, and he did keep it up with a vengeance. At length he heard voices close to his door, and someone cried. Open the door, sir! Open the door! Open it yourself! said Dr. North. You have fastened it on the outside, I suppose. There was some further running about, and then with a crash the door was forced open with a crowbar, and upon emerging from the apartment the doctor found assembled in the corridor the whole family, with the exception of the two girls, and several servants half-dressed bearing lights. What's the matter? cried Sir George. What's the matter? Ah! the doctor said. That's what I want to know. Yes, why, why you made all the disturbance. I beg your pardon. There was a scream came from somewhere, and when I tried to come out to find what it was my room door was fast. That's all I know about it. Bang, bang, bang, bang came now a sound. Bang, bang, bang, and all eyes were turned in the direction of the chamber occupied by Mr. Smith, and they heard his voice from within, shouting in loud and frightened tones. Help! Help! Is it fire? Open my door! Help! Help! Do you lock in your guests here? Help! Why, God bless me, said Dr. North. That gentleman is locked in likewise. But it can't be, said Sir George, for all the keys of these doors are in the library in a drawer. The fact is we none of us fasten up our bedrooms, and the keys were all removed years ago. Help! Help! Help! cried Mr. Smith. Break the door open, said Sir George. This is inexplicable to me. I cannot make it out in the least. The same crowbar that had been brought by one of the servants to bear upon the door of Dr. North's room was now applied to that of Mr. Smith, and it soon yielded to the force of the lever that was used with strength and judgment. Mr. Smith partially dressed and with a rather terrified look emerged. Good God, he said, I wish you wouldn't lock me in. What has happened? I heard a shriek that woke me up as if the last trumpet had sounded. My daughters, are they safe? cried Sir George. He flew to the door of Clara's room. It yielded to his touch. Clara, Clara, he called. I am paralyzed, said Dr. North, and so are you, sir, come in. He seized a light from one of the servants, and with a pre-sentiment that there was to be found a solution of, at all events, the mystery of the dreadful shriek that had alarmed all the house, he dashed into the chamber of the young girl followed by the father. End of Chapter 205 Chapter 206 of Varni the Vampire Volume 3 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Varni the Vampire Volume 3 by Thomas Prescott-Prest Chapter 206 The sight of terror, the doctor's suspicions, the night watch The sight that met the eyes of the father in his daughter's chamber was, indeed, one calculated in every respect to strike him with horror and misery. Emma was lying insensible at the side of the bed, and Clara seemed to be dead, for she was ghastly pale, and there was blood upon her neck. The father staggered to a seat, but Dr. North at once rushed forward, and held the light to the eyes of Clara at the same time that he placed his finger on her wrist to note if there was any pulsation. Only a fainting fit, he said. But the blood, the, the blood, cried Sir George. That I know nothing about just at present, but let us see what's the matter here. He raised Emma from the floor, and found that she, too, had fainted, but as she appeared to be perfectly uninjured. She slightly recovered as he lifted her up, and he resigned her at once to the care of some of the female servants, who now made their appearance in the chamber all terribly alarmed at the shriek that had awakened them. This is strange, said Dr. North. Here is a small puncture upon the throat of your daughter Clara that almost looks like the mark of a tooth. A tooth? Yes, but of course that cannot be. Hear me, oh hear me! cried Emma at this moment. Horror, horror! What would you say, speak at once, and clear up this mystery if you can? What has happened? I heard a noise, and came from my own chamber to this. There was someone bending over the bed. Twas I who shrieked. You? Yes, oh yes, Twas I. I know not what then happened, for I either fell or was struck down, and I felt that my senses left me. What has happened? I too ask. Oh Clara, what was it? What was it? Imagination most likely, said the doctor, you had better go to your room again, Ms. Emma, for you are trembling with cold and apprehension. Perhaps in the morning all this affair will assume a different shape. At present we are all too much flurried to take proper cognizance of it. There your sister is rapidly recovering. How do you feel now, Ms. Clara? I, I, am mad. Oh foe, foe, nonsense. Oh God, help me, how horrifying! How more than dreadful, that awful face, those hideous teeth! I am mad, I am mad! Why, my dear child, you will drive me mad, cried Sir George. If you talk in such a strain, oh, let me beg of you not. Don't heed her, said Dr. North. This will soon pass away. Come, Ms. Clara, you must tell me freely as your medical man what has happened. Let us hear the full particulars, and then you know well that if any human means can aid you, you shall be aided. This calm mode of discourse had evidently a great effect upon her, and after the silence of a few moments, she spoke much more collectively than before, saying, Oh no, no, I cannot think it was a dream. What a dream! You, you shall hear, but do not drag me from my home and from all I love if I am mad. I pray you do not, I implore you. You are quite sane. Why, what a ridiculous girl you are, to be sure. Nobody wants to drag you from your home, and nobody will attempt such a thing, I assure you. You have only to tell us all, unreservedly, and you will then be quite safe. If you refuse us your confidence, how can we act for you in any way? This argument seemed to be effective, and to reach her understanding quite, so that after a shudder and a glance around her of great dread, and dismay, she spoke, saying in a low, faltering voice, Something came, something not quite human, yet having the aspect of a man, something that flew at me, and fastened its teeth upon my neck. Teeth, everybody says, teeth, exclaimed the father. Hush, said the doctor, with an admonitory wave of his hand, keep that a secret from her, whatever you do. I implore you, keep quiet on that head. Well, is that all, Clara? Yes, yes. Then it was a dream, and nothing else I can assure you, nothing but a dream. Make yourself comfortable, and think no more of it. I daresay you will have a quiet sleep now, after this. But you had better let your sister Emma lay with you, as your nerves are a little shattered. Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Oh, yes, yes. Emma, who truth to tell, was very little better than her sister, professed her readiness to stay, and the doctor giving Sir George a nod, as much to say, let no more be said about it just now, led the way from the room at once. When he reached the corridor, where Varney and the two sons were waiting, he said, We shall none of us after this, I am certain, feeling inclined to sleep. Suppose we go downstairs at once, and think and talk this matter over together. There is more in it, perhaps, than meets the eye. I will follow you in a moment, when I have just seen that my patient is all right. They all proceeded downstairs to the dining-room, and in a few minutes the doctor followed. Lights were procured, and they sat down, all looking at the doctor, who had taken the lead in the affair, and who evidently had some very disagreeable, if not very true, ideas upon the subject matter of the evening's disturbance. Well, doctor, said Sir George, we rely upon you to give us your opinion upon this business, and some insight into its meaning. In the first place, then, said the doctor, I don't understand it. Well, that's coming to the point. Stop a bit, it was no dream. You think not. Certainly not a dream. Two people don't dream of the same thing at the same time. I don't, of course, deny the possibility of such a thing, but it is too remarkable a coincidence to believe all at once. But Emma avows that she saw a somebody in her sister's room. Ah, said Sir George, she did. I had in my confusion forgotten that horrible confirmation of Clara's story. She did so, and before Clara was well recovered, too, so that she could not have put the idea into her head. Good God, what am I to think? For the love of heaven, some of you tell me what are your opinions upon this horrible affair, which looks so romantically unreal and yet so horribly real. I'll accept the doctor looked at each other in surprise. Well, he said, I will tell you what the thing suggests, not what it is, mind you, for the affair to me is too out of the way of natural causes to induce me to come to a positive conclusion. Before I speak, however, I should like to have your opinion, Mr. Smith. I am convinced it will be valuable. Really, I have formed none, replied Varney. I am only exceedingly surprised that somebody should have fastened me in my bedroom. I know that that circumstance gave me a terrible fright, for when I heard all the outcry and confusion, I thought the house was on fire. Ah, the locking of us in our rooms, too, said the doctor. There is another bit of reality. Who did that? It puzzles me beyond all comprehension, said Sir George, how the doors could be locked I cannot imagine, for as I told you, the keys are in a drawer in my library. At all events, the doors could not lock themselves with or without keys, said Charles, and that circumstance shows sufficiently evidently that someone has been at work in the business whom we have still to discover. True, said Mr. Smith. Well, gentlemen, added the doctor, I will tell you what I suggest, and that is contained in a letter written a long while ago by a distant relation of mine, likewise a surgeon. Mind, I do not, of course, pledge myself at the present time for the truth and accuracy of a man who was dead long before I was born. He might, too, have been a very superstitious man. But what did he suggest? He did more than suggest. He wrote for a medical publication of that day in account, only, of course, suppressing names of the appearance of a vampire. A what? A vampire? I have heard of such horrors, said Mr. Smith, but really at the present day no one can think of believing such things. Vampires, indeed. No, that is too great a claim upon one's credulity. These existences, or supposed existences, have gone the same way as the ghosts and so on. One would think so, but you shall hear. Sir George Crofton and his sons looked curious and thought that the doctor was going to draw upon his memory in the matter to which he alluded, but he took from his pocket a memorandum book and from it extracted some printed papers. The communication was so curious, he said, that I cut it out of the old volume in which it appeared and kept it ever since. Pray, said Mr. Smith, what was the name of your distant relation, the medical man? Chillingworth. Oh, indeed, an odd name, rather. I don't recollect ever hearing of it. No, sir, it is not likely you should. Dr. Chillingworth has been dead many years and no one else of his name is at present in the medical profession to my knowledge, but you shall hear at all events what he says about it. The doctor then opened the folded paper and read as follows. Notwithstanding the incredulity that has been shown regarding vampires, I am in a condition from my own knowledge to own the existence of one. I think he is dead now. His name was Varney, at least that was the name he went by, and he came strangely enough under my observation in connection with some dear friends of mine named B. Is that all? said Mr. Smith. Not quite, replied Dr. North. He goes on to say that but for touching the feeling of living persons, he could and would unfold some curious particulars respecting vampires, and that if he lived long enough he would perhaps do so, by which I suppose he meant if he outlived the parties whose feelings he was afraid of hurting by any premature disclosures. And, and, faltered Sir George, do you draw a conclusion from all that that my daughter has been visited by one of these persons? Surely not. Maybe, Sir George, I draw no conclusions at all. I merely throw out the matter for your consideration. It is always worthwhile considering these matters in every possible aspect. That is all. A most horrible aspect, said Sir George. Truly dreadful, said Mr. Smith. This shall be settled, said Charles. Edwin and I will take upon ourselves tomorrow night to set this question completely at rest. At this moment there was a loud cry of Help! Help! Help! in the voice of Emma, and they all rushed upstairs with great speed. Oh, this way, this way! she cried, meeting them at the head of the stairs. Come to Clara! They followed her, and when they reached the room, they found to their horror and surprise that Clara was dead. End of Chapter 206 Chapter 207 of Varney the Vampire, Volume 3 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Varney the Vampire, Volume 3 by Thomas Prescott Prest Chapter 207 Family Troubles, The House of Mourning It was too true. It was not the mere appearance of death, but the reality of the fell destroyer that the Crofton family had to mourn. She, who but a few short hours since, was in all the bloom of apparent health and youth and beauty, was now no more. The poor father, the sisterless sister, the astonished indignant and agonized brothers, formed a group that was too sad to contemplate. As they gazed upon the wreck of her whom they had all loved so fondly, they could scarcely believe that death had indeed claimed her as her own. They thought her more beautiful than death, and could not, as they gazed tremblingly upon her still form, bring themselves to believe that she had indeed gone from them forever. Dr. North, however, soon put all doubt upon the subject to rest by an announcement that her spirit had really fled. In vain he tried all the means that his art suggested, that mysterious and mighty something which we call life, which we miss and yet see no loss, which is so great yet so evanescent and impelpable, was gone. Come away, he said. We can do no good here now. Come away, all of you. Oh, no, no, cried Sir George. Why should we leave my child? That, said the doctor, as he pointed to the corpse, is not your child. The old man shuddered and with an aspect upon his face, as if ten years of added age had at least passed over him in those few moments, he suffered them to lead him from the room. They all passed downstairs again, leaving Emma in her own chamber, along with the female servants, so hastily again called up to remain with her. When the dining-room was reached once more, Mr. Smith, who bore all the appearance of being quite thunderstruck by what had passed, spoke in the most feeling manner, saying, This is truly one of the most affecting circumstances I ever remember. It is dreadful a young girl to be at once snatched from a circle of admiring and loving friends in this manner is too sad a picture for anyone with a heart to feel for the distresses of others to contemplate. What, sir, is your opinion, to Dr. North, of the actual cause of death? The shock to the nervous system I suspect has induced some sudden action of the heart, which has been too much for vitality. Dreadful. Alas, alas, sobbed sir George, what have I done that heaven should thus launch against me the bolts of its bitterest vengeance? Why should I be robbed of my child? Surely there were angels enough in heaven without taking mind from me. Hush, hush, said Dr. North, you are in grief, sir, and know not what you say. These were not else the words would fall from the lips of such a man as you are. The bereaved father was silent, and the sons looked at him with countenances in which dismay was most strongly pictured. They seemed as if as yet they had not become fully alive to the loss they had sustained or of what had really happened within the once happy domestic circle of which the fairest portion was now so ruthlessly dragged from them. It is like a dream, said Edwin, addressing his brother Charles in a whisper. It is much more like a dream than ought else in the world. It is, it is. Oh, tell me that this is not real. It is too real, said the doctor. You must file with what amount of resignation you can call to your aid to that stroke of destiny which you cannot control. You should consider that as regards her who has gone from you, that she is now no object of pity. Death is an evil to you in your loss, but it is the end of all evil and pain to her, and then again she has but gone a few years after all earlier than usual, for how long shall we, I, the best and strongest of us, be behind her? This was consolation of the right sort, and was sure to have its effect upon persons in the habit of conversing coolly and calmly upon general subjects so that in a short time the father even felt much better, and although the sons were quite convinced of their loss, they no longer looked at each other with such bewildered aspects, but exhibited the rational grief of men. Charles spoke after a time with great energy, saying, It is true that we may call our reason to our aid and contrive to rid ourselves of our grief in a great measure, but there is another duty we have to perform, and that is to diligently inquire why and how it was that our sister got this horrible fright that has had the effect of hurrying her into eternity. Yes, brother, said Edwin, you are right, our sister's memory shall be vindicated, and woe be to him who has brought this desolation and grief upon us. Sir George looked from one of his sons to the other, but said nothing. He appeared to be prostrated too much by his feelings, and the doctor strongly urging him to retire to rest, he shortly did so, where we will leave him for a time, hoping that he will find the oblivion of sleep creep over him, and knit up the raviled sleeve of care. Now, said Dr. North, here we are four men with cool heads and active enough judgments. For God's sake, let us try to come to some sort of conclusion about this dreadful affair. What do you say, Charles? In the first place, I should recommend that the house be searched diligently in order that we may see if any stranger is in it, or discover any means by which an entrance to the premises has been affected. We don't know but that after all some robbery may be the aim, and that the fright of our sister which has had so fatal an effect may be the consequence merely of the appearance of a thief in her room. Agreed, said Edwin, let the search of the house be our first step. Two of the new servants were summoned with lights, and the party of four proceeded to an examination of the house, which on account of its size was not a very short process, for there was so many staircases and rooms opening the one into the other that the hiding places were numerous enough. At length, however, they were not only satisfied that no one was concealed on the premises, but likewise that all the fastenings were quite secure, and had been made so before the servants retired to rest. The mystery, therefore, was rather increased. Had there not been the collateral evidence of Emma and the singular fact of the fastening up of the doors of the doctors and Mr. Smith's bed chambers, no doubt the whole affair would have rested where it was, and have been put down as a remarkable death arising from the influence of a dream. But that was out of the question, somebody had been seen, and whether that somebody was really not an inhabitant of this world was the question. In the midst of all this the day began to dawn. Sir George had had no sleep, but he had done himself some good in the solitude of his own chamber. He had prayed long and earnestly, and his prayers had had the effect which they almost invariably have upon all imaginative persons, namely of bringing him an amount of mental calmness, peace, and resignation highly desirable in his circumstances. The breakfast table was laid in silence by the servants, and when Sir George met his sons and his guests, he spoke calmly enough, saying to them, You will no more hear from me the accents of grief or of despair. I accept what consolation I can find, but as a man and a father I will have justice. My child has been terrified to death, and I will find who has done the deed, for let him be whom he may, he is as much her murderer as though he had plunged a dagger in her heart. It is so, said Mr. Smith. Being so, then let him beware. Varney thought that as the father uttered these last words, he glanced in a peculiar manner at him, but he was not quite sure that such was the case. Had he been sure, perhaps, he would have taken other steps than he did. Little more passed during the breakfast, but when the meal was over, Sir George said, Edwin, we are but dull and poor company to Mr. Smith. It will amuse him, perhaps, if you take him through the grounds and show him the estate. Edwin made no objection, and as the thing was put in the shape of an amusement to him, Varney could only say some civil things and rise to go. I regret, he said, to be of so much trouble. Not at all, said Edwin. No trouble, sir. My own mind, God knows, want something to distract it from too close a contemplation of its own thoughts. If you will accompany me in a walk over the estate, it will, perhaps, put me into better spirits. They left the room, and when they were gone, Sir George Crofton rose and shut the door, fastening it on the inside carefully, rather to the surprise of the doctor and his son Charles, who looked at him in silence. Charles, he then said, and you, doctor, I have something particular to say to you. What is it? What is it? God forgive me if I am wrong, but I suspect our guest. Mr. Smith? Yes, I don't like his looks at all. Now we know nothing of him but from his own report. We have searched the house right through, or at least you have, you tell me, and found nothing. He is the only stranger within our doors. Perhaps it is uncharitable to suspect him, but I cannot help it. The thought came too strongly upon me last night, as I was alone in my chamber, for me to overcome it. I have now spoken to you both, frankly, and tell me what are your thoughts. I don't like him, said Charles. He is a singular man, said Dr. North. What, what now, if he were, were— Why do you hesitate, father? What would you say? Go on, sir, said Dr. North, with a nod that signified, I know very well what you are going to say. Go on, sir. What then, if it were really true, that there were such things, and he is a vampire? Charles sprang to his feet in surprise and said, Good God, you put a frightful idea into my brain that will now never leave it, a vampire? Heaven forbid, said Sir George, that I should say such a thing heedlessly, or that I should take upon myself to assert that such is the case. I merely throw it out as a supposition, a horrible one I grant, but yet one that perhaps deserves some consideration. Get rid of him, said Dr. North. It is difficult after telling him that he is welcome to stay, to now tell him that we want him to go. I would much prefer watching him closely, and endeavouring by such means, either to confirm or do away entirely with my suspicions, and you can take an opportunity of speaking to Edwin upon the subject quietly and carefully. I will, father. Then we can be all upon the alert, but above all things I charge you to say nothing to Emma of the really terrific idea. Only I should say that tonight it is in the direction of her chamber that I would wish to keep the closest watch. And that, too, without her knowing it, said the doctor. If she is aware of anything of the sort, there is no knowing what tricks her imagination might play her. And now, Sir George, I must say that I take the greatest interest in the matter, and will with your permission remain here until I am sent for. Poor Ringwood still remains insensible, and I take it that under the circumstances that is really a mercy, for what a sad communication has to be made to him when he does recover sufficiently to hear it. Sad indeed. It was now finally agreed among them that there was to be no variation whatever in their conduct towards Mr. Smith, but that after they had taken leave of him for the night and had all gone to bed, they should each glide out of his chamber and wait at the extreme end of the corridor in silence to mark if anything should happen. This was duly announced to Edwin, who, with a shudder, announced that he had his suspicions, too, of Mr. Smith, so he, of course, came into the scheme at once, and now they waited rather anxiously for the night to come again. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Everything was now said and done that could induce a feeling in the mind of Varney that he was perfectly welcome at the Grange and to dispel the least idea of anything in the shape of supposition that he might have had that he was suspected, although he had not himself by word or look betrayed such a feeling. The day to all parties seemed a frightfully long one. Ringwood remained in the same state of unconsciousness as he had been in the day previous, and the only circumstance that served to break the monotony of the time was the arrival of some of his friends to see him. It is not essential to our story that we should take up space in detailing what they said and what they did, suffice it that all the brief was exhibited that was to be expected, and that finally they left the Grange with a conviction that the wounded man was in as kind hands as they could possibly wish him, and everything would be done that kindness and skill could suggest to recover him and preserve his life. Probably the dreadful catastrophe that had happened in the family of the Croftons had in effect in reconciling the ringwoods to the lesser calamity, for Dr. North gave them strong hopes of his ultimate recovery. And so the time passed on until the dim shadows of the evening began to creep over the landscape and the distant trees imperceptibly mingled together in a chaotic mass. The song of the birds was over, the herds and flocks had sought their shelter for the night, and a solemn and beautiful stillness was upon the face of nature. Assembled once more in the dining-room of the Grange were the Croftons, but not Emma she was in her chamber, the Doctor and Mr. Smith. Barney had exerted himself much to be entertaining, and yet not obtrusively so, as under the calamitous and extraordinary circumstances in which the family was placed, that would have been bad taste. But he led the conversation into the most interesting channels, and he charmed those who listened to him in spite of themselves. Dr. North was peculiarly pleased with so scientific a companion, and one who had traveled so much, for Barney spoke of almost every portion of the globe as familiar to him. In this kind of way the evening sped on, and more than once as Barney was giving some eloquent and comprehensive description of some natural phenomenon that he had witnessed in some other climb, not only were the suspicions entertained against him forgotten, but even the grief of the family faded away for a brief space before the charm of his discourse. At length the time for rest came. Sir George Rose and bowing to Barney said, Do not let our example influence you, sir, we retire now. I shall be glad to do so, said Barney, likewise. Last night was a disturbed as well as a melancholy one for all in this house. It was indeed. In another five minutes the dining-room was vacant, and all that could be heard in the house was the noise of putting up extra bars and shooting into their places long unused bolts in order that it should be quite beyond all doubt that no one could get into the premises. After that all was still. The moon was in her last quarter now, but only at the commencement of it, so if the night proved not to be cloudy it would be rather a brilliant one, which might or might not be of service to those who were going to watch in the corridor the proceedings of Mr. Smith. An hour elapsed before there was any movement whatever, and then it was Dr. North who first, with great care, emerged from his room. He had drawn on his stockings over his shoes so that his footsteps might not be heard, and he took his station in a dark corner by the large window we have before spoken of as lighting the corridor. The moon was up, but it only shone in obliquely at the window, so that one side of the corridor was enveloped in the deepest gloom while on the other the pale rays fell. A few minutes more for half past eleven was the hour on which they had all agreed, and Sir George, with Edwin and Charles, joined the doctor, who merely nodded to them as they could faintly see him. Sir George spoke in a very faint whisper, saying, We are well armed. Good, replied the doctor in a similar cautious tone, but let me implore you to be careful how you use your arms. Do nothing hastily, I beg of you. You don't know what cause of regret the imprudence of a moment may give rise to. Depend upon us, we will be very careful indeed. That is right. We had better not talk, said Charles. These corridors carry sound sometimes too well. If we are to do any good, it must be by preserving the profoundest silence. This advice was too practical and evidently good to be neglected, and consequently they were all as still as they could be and stood like so many statues for the next half hour. They heard a clock that hung in the hall below strike the hour of twelve, and when the reverberations of sound were over, a stillness even more profound than before seemed to pervade the whole house. The half hour they had waited in such silence appeared to them to be of four times the usual length, and they were glad to hear twelve strike. Still they said nothing, for if silence before twelve o'clock was a thing to be desired, it was much more so after that hour, for it was then that the alarm of the preceding evening had taken place. Their watchfulness and their anxiety momentarily increased. The old clock in the hall chimed the quarter past twelve, and yet all was as still as the grave. Not the smallest sound disturbed the repose of the house. The moon had shifted round a little so that the gloom of the corridor was not so complete as it had been, and Dr. North was aware that in another hour the spot where they all stood would be visited by some rays which would render their concealment out of the question. But as yet all was right, and there was no need to shift their position in the least. Suddenly Sir George Crofton laid his hand upon the arm of the doctor, and an exclamation involuntarily escaped him, but not in a loud tone. Hush for God's sake! whispered the doctor. They had all heard a slight noise, like a cautious opening of a door. They looked eagerly in the direction from whence it came, and to their surprise they found it preceded from the chamber of the dead. Yes, the door of the room in which lay the corpse of Clara slowly opened. God of Heaven! said Sir George. Hush, hush! again whispered the doctor, and he held him by the arm compulsively. All was still. The door creaked upon its hinges a little. That was all. A quarter of an hour passed, and then Sir George was about to say something when he started as if a shock of electricity had been applied to him, for the door of Varney's room was swung wide open, and he appeared fully dressed. All the doors opening from the corridor creaked unless they were flung open smartly and quickly, and there could be no doubt but that Varney knew this, and hence the apparent precipitancy of his appearance. There he stood in the moonlight, close by the threshold of his room, gazing about him. He bent himself into an attitude of intense listening, and remained in it for some time, and then he, with slow sliding steps, made his way towards the door of Emma's room. His hand was actually upon the lock when Sir George, who could stand the scene no longer, leveled a pistol he had taken from his pocket, and without giving any intimation to those who were with him of what he was going to do, he pulled the trigger. The pistol only flashed without being fully discharged. How imprudent, said the doctor, you've done it now, follow me. He rushed forward, but he was too late. Varney had taken the alarm, and in a moment he regained his own room and fastened it securely on the inside. We must have him, cried Charles. He cannot escape from that room. There is no other door, and the window is a good thirty feet from the garden below. Alarm the servants, we will soon open his door. It can't be very secure, for the lock was broken last night. As he spoke, Charles made a vigorous effort to open the door, but it resisted as if it had been a part of the solid wall, while within the chamber all was perfectly still, as if Mr. Smith had quite satisfied himself by shutting out his assailants and meant to take no further notice of them. This is strange, said the doctor, but we shall soon find out what he means by it. The door must be forced as quickly as possible. Edwin ran downstairs by his father's orders to arouse some of the men's servants, besides getting some weapon or tool by the assistance of which the door might be forced, and he soon returned with several of the men, and one armed with the identical crowbar that had been used with such effect on the preceding evening. They brought lights with them, too, so that the capture of Mr. Smith appeared to be no longer a matter of doubt with such a force opposed to him. Now, cried Sir George, do not mind what mischief you do, my men, so that you break open the door of that room, and quickly, too. People somehow are always glad to be engaged in anything that has a destructive look about it, and when the servants heard that they might break away at the door as much as they liked, they set about it with a vengeance that promised soon to succeed in the object. The door yielded with a crash. Come on, come on, yield yourself, cried Sir George, and he rushed into the room followed by his sons and by Dr. North. There was no Mr. Smith there. Escaped, said Dr. North. Impossible, impossible, and yet this open window he must be lying dashed to pieces below, for no one could with safety drop or jump such a height. Run round to the garden some of you at once. Stop, said Charles. There is no occasion. He has had ample time to escape. Look here. Charles pointed out the end of a thick rope, firmly fastened to the ledge of the window, and by which it was quite clear anyone could safely descend into the garden, it only requiring a little nerve to do so with perfect ease. This has all been prepared, said Dr. North. Still, cried Sir George, we will not give the affair up. Mind I offer a reward of twenty guineas to any one of my household who succeeds in catching Mr. Smith. Lord, sir, what has he done? said a groom. Never you mind what he has done. Bring him in, and you shall have the reward. Very good, sir. Come on, Dick, and you, Harry, let's all go, and you know it will be all the pleasanter to share the reward among us. Come on! Thus stimulated by their companion, the servants ran out of the house into the moonlit park in search of Barney the Vampire. End of Chapter 208 Chapter 209 of Barney the Vampire, Volume 3 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Barney the Vampire, Volume 3 By Thomas Crescott Pressed Chapter 209 The Funeral, A Strange Incident It was all very well for Sir George Crofton to offer his twenty guineas for the taking of Mr. Smith, and nothing could be more legitimate than his servants making active exertions to endeavor to earn that amount of money, but the really succeeding in doing so was quite another thing. To be sure they went out into the park and did the best to catch him and being well acquainted with every turn and every pathway within it, they considered they had a fair chance of succeeding, but after their pains they were at length obliged to give up the affair as a bad job after an hour or two's most active search. While they were away though, there was something that occurred at the Grange, which gave a great additional shock to Sir George and his sons. It will not fail to be remembered that the first door they saw move while they were keeping watch and ward in the moonlit gallery was the door of the chamber in which lay the corpse of Clara, who had met with so melancholy an end. This circumstance recurred to them all with fearful force, when they felt convinced that the now more suspected Mr. Smith had really and truly made his escape. Upon proceeding to that room of the dead, Dr. North being first, they found some difficulty in opening the door, but upon using force they succeeded, when to their absolute horror they saw that the dead body was lying upon the floor close to the door and that it had been the obstruction to moving it. Dr. North would feign have spared the feelings of Sir George this affecting sight, but the baronet was so close behind him that he could not do so. Oh, God! cried the father. My child, my child! Take your father away, boys, for heaven's sake! said Dr. North to the two young men. This is no sight for him to see. It appeared, too, as if it was no sight for anyone to see unmoved, for both Charles and Edwin stood like statues gazing at it and for a time incapable of motion. My sister, is it indeed my sister? said Charles. The doctor fairly closed the door upon them all and turned them so out of the room. Then he, having professionally lost all dread of the dead, lifted the body upon the bed again and disposed of it properly, after which, without saying a word, he walked down to the dining-room. Tell me, tell me, said Sir George, what does all this mean? Do not ask me, replied Dr. North. I cannot tell you. I confess I do not know what advice to give you or indeed what to say to you. The old man rested his head upon his hands and wept bitterly, while his two sons sat looking at each other perfectly aghast and unable to think anything of a rational import concerning the most mysterious proceedings that had taken place. Let our readers then suppose that a week has passed by and that the morning has arrived when the body of Clara is to be placed in a vault appropriated as the resting place of the Croftons beneath the church that was close at hand. During that time nothing whatever had been heard of Mr. Smith. He seemed to have completely disappeared from the neighborhood as well as from the Grange House. Fortunately, although Sir George had offered twenty guineas for the apprehension of Mr. Smith to his servants, he had said nothing of the cause why he offered such a reward, and the neighborhood was left to its own conjectures upon the subject. Those conjectures were, of course, sufficiently numerous, but it was quite agreed between Sir George, Dr. North, and the two sons that nothing more should be said upon the subject. They, of course, did not wish to fill the ear of idle curiosity with such a tale as they might tell, but had a thousand reasons each good and substantial of its kind for withholding. Young Ringwood was sufficiently recovered to be about and to have told him the story that widowed his heart. He fell into a profound melancholy which nothing could alleviate, and as his recovery went on he asked permission to remain at the Grange. Sir George, and indeed all the Crofton family, gladly pressed him to remain with them as long as he would do so, for it was some alleviation of their own distress to have him about them. He begged permission to be present at the funeral, and it is of that funeral we have now to speak, for it took place on that day week in which the vampire had first taken up his dreadful residence at the old Grange House, where all before had been so happy. The church, as we have remarked, was not very distant, and a mournful procession it was, consisting of the funeral equipages, followed by Sir George Crofton's carriage, that at twelve o'clock in the day started to place the youngest and the fairest of the name of Crofton that had ever reposed in the family vault. The whole neighborhood was in a state of commotion, and by the time the funeral courtage reached the churchyard, there was not a person capable of being out for some miles around that was not congregated about the spot. The old church bell told a melancholy welcome to the procession, and the clergyman met the corpse at the entrance of the graveyard and proceeded it to the church, where it was placed by the altar while he made an impressive prayer. This brief ceremony over, the coffin was carried to the part of one of the aisles, where upon the removal of a large stone slab, the resting place of the Crofton's was visible. I have not looked upon these stone steps, said Sir George, since my poor wife went down there in the sleep of death. Compose yourself, whispered Dr. North, who was present. You ought not, Sir, to have been present at such a scene as this. Nay, it surely was my duty to follow my own child to her last resting place. The body was lowered into the vault, and the funeral service was read impressively over the cold and still remains of Clara. All is over, said the doctor. Yes, faltered Sir George. All is over. Farewell, my dear child, but not along farewell to thee. This blow has nearly stricken me into the grave. Leaning on the arm of his son Charles, who as well as Edwin was deeply affected, the old man now allowed himself to be led from the church. He met at the door Will Stevens, the sexton, who seemed desirous of speaking to him. What is it, Will? Will your honour have some fresh sawdust put down in the vault? It wants it, Sir George. There ain't been any put in for many a long day. Very well, it will be ready for me when I go. It won't be long before the vault is again open. Oh, do not say that, Father, said Edwin. Do not leave us. Think that if you have lost one child who loved you, you have others who ought to be as dear to you. That's right, Edwin, said the doctor. Sir George made no distinct reply to this, but he pressed the hand of his son and looked kindly upon him to signify that he felt the full justice of what he had just said, so they had hopes that time would soon produce its usual effects upon that feeling which of all others is, while it lasts, the most poignant at the same time that it is the most evanescent, grief for the dead. And well it is that it should be so, otherwise we should be a world of weepers and mourners, for who is there that has not felt the pang of losing some fond heart in which we have garnered up the best affections of human nature? Emma, since her sister's death, had been terribly broken down in spirit, and when they all got home to the Grange, they found her looking so ill that the old baronet took Dr. North on one side and said to him in tones expressive of the deepest anguish, Am I to lose both my girls? Oh, no, no, certainly not, was the decided reply. Why, my old friend, you used to be a man of great moral courage. Where has it all gone to now? It is in the grave of my child. Calm, calm, you must for your own sake, as well as for the sake of others who are near and dear to you, rouse yourself from the state of mental torpor, as I may call it. You can do so, and it is worthy of you to make the effort. Only think what would have been your situation if you had but one child, and that had been snatched away from you. But you have yet three to comfort you, and yet you talk despairingly, as if every tie that bound you to the world had been suddenly burst asunder. After this, Sir George Crofton was almost ashamed to make such an exhibition of his grief, and whatever his thoughts were he kept them to himself, as well as exercising a much greater control over his voice and the external expression of his feelings which were still busy at his heart. The despondency of Ringwood was great. He could not help fancy that if he had not met with the unlucky accident in the ravine, Clara would have been saved, and in some obscure way to his mind, the circumstances seemed to be connected together. He could not account, either, for the loss of her miniature, which he had been in the habit of wearing, but which he missed upon his convalescence, so that he was irresistibly led to the conclusion that some unfriendly hands had been about him during his insensibility. So highly did he prize the miniature that he offered to some of money exceeding its intrinsic value by twenty times for its recovery, and pledged himself to make no inquiry as to how it came into the possession of the party who should restore it to him. But for all that it was not forthcoming. The reader of this narrative knows very well in whose possession it was. Barney the Vampire had possessed himself of it in the ravine when he saw the young bridegroom lying insensible at his feet, and he kept it, although why he did so does not as yet appear, for surely the sight of it could only remind him of one of his victims. But then Barney had other thoughts and feelings than he used to have. Alas, what a thousand pitties it was that the ocean had presented him to the two brothers. Why did he not sink? Why did not some wave hide him from their observation? What misery would have been spared to them and to all dear to them? And what misery could have been spared to the wretched Barney himself? It is true that he had given expression to sentiments and declared intentions which would go far to prove that he had forever given up and got rid of all human feelings and influences. But has he really so got rid of such feelings? It is a question which time alone can answer. We shall soon see in his now very short career whether he is most to suffer or to inflict suffering and what will be the result of his new principles of action. Those principles which he had in the despair and the agony of his heart painted to himself as the main springs of a combined existence, he had with such pain and such fruitless perseverance strove to rid himself of. It was sad, very sad indeed, that such a being could not die when he chose the poor privilege of all. Varni the Vampire, Volume 3, by Thomas Prescott Priest, Chapter 210 The strange visitor to the old church at night. The request of Will Stevens to be allowed to put some sawdust in the vault of the Croftons was one of those regular things that he always propounded to any one who had a vault open beneath the old church, and he generally made a very good thing of it. People were always too much taken up with thinking of the loss of the relation who had just been placed in that dismal respiratory. To think much of a guinea to Will for a shillings worth of sawdust, and if they did ever intimate that they thought it rather too much, he always had his answer ready at the tip of his tongue. How should you like, sir or madam, as the case may be, to go into a vault among the dead to lay the sawdust for him? That argument was generally conclusive, and Will would get his guinea. With Sir George Crofton, he was quite sure and safe, so he had no scruples upon the subject, and the little bit of sawdust he meant to carry in, when he had time, was more for the say of the thing than for any utility. It was at all likely to be of, but then as he said, Where's the odds the dead urns can't see it, and living urns won't go to see it? So it does very well, and I pocket my guinea, which does better still, for after all the Sexton's ain't the most agreeable life in the world, and he ought to be paid well, not that I care much about it, being used to it, but there was a time when I had my qualms, and I have had good over them, the best way I could, somehow, if I am now all right. These were Will's arguments and reflections to himself before night, when he meant to go and place the little bag of sawdust in the Crofton's family vault. But before we follow Will Stevens on this sawdust expedition, as we intend to do, we wish first to draw the intention of the reader to another circumstance, the relation of which this Will Stevens proceedings will very shortly appear indeed. As the night came on, there was some appearance of stormy weather, the wind blew in a strange gusty and uncertain manner, shifting about from point to point of the compass in an odd way. As though it had not made up its mind from whence to blow, the most weather-wise personage of the neighborhood were puzzled. For just as they prognosticated one species of weather from the particular direction, whence the wind came, it shifted and came from some other quarter, very nearly directly opposite. This was extremely provoking, but at all events it was generally agreed that the moon would not on that night shed its soft light upon the earth. How far they were mistaken in the service we shall presently see. Will Stevens had an opinion from certain Ed monetary symptoms arriving from his corns, that it would rain, so he delayed going to the church until he should see what sort of weather it was going to be, inwardly deciding that it would be a capital excuse not to go at all that night if the rain should come down pretty sharply. This period of indecision he passed at a public house, known as the Blue Lion, the charms of the excellent ale of that establishment, materially assisting him in coming to the conclusion that if it should rain ever so little it would be better to put off his job until the morning. Now it was not Will was afraid that he hesitated, he was too used to death to feel now any terrors of fear, it was nothing but the ale why then was the hurry, simply that the flat stone which was over the vault of the Croftons was left unfastened until the aforesaid sawdust was placed within the receptacle of the dead and the next day was Sunday so that the job must be finished before the service could commence. At night, therefore, or very early in the following morning, Will must seem to earn his guinea by going to the vault. He did not like to venture, saying he had been, and yet neglect going, for he knew there were too many gossips about the village to make that safe. While he is, however, regaling himself at the ale house, another person totally to all appearance, heedless of wind and threatening rain, is abroad in the neighborhood of the church. A tall figure enveloped in a large musky-loken cloak is moving slowly past a few cottages in the immediate vicinage of the church, and so noiselessly that it looks like a spirit of the dead rather than a living person. It was unseen by anyone, for it was a time of the night, half past eleven, now at which few persons in that little quiet place were abroad. And as we have said, Will Stevens, perhaps the only inhabitant who had any real business to be abroad at such an hour, was still solacing himself at the blue lion with the ale that seemed to get better every glass he took. The figure moved on at a slow and steady pace among the old tombstones that lay so thick, around in the circuit of this churchyard, until it reached the church himself. And then it walked slowly around the sacred edifice, looking with a curious eye at the windows that presented themselves to observation and apparently scanning the height from the ground. Finally he paused at a rugged looking part of the wall, and commenced with great muscular power and most wonderful agility, climbing up to one of the windows. To look at that wall, it would have seemed that nothing human could possibly have succeeded in ascending it, and yet the stranger catching at asperities, which scarcely seemed to be such, did with a wonderful power and strength, dragged himself up until he grasped an iron bar close to the window immediately above him, and then he had a firm hold. After this, his progress was easy, assuming that his object was merely to get up to the window of the old church, for he stood upon the narrow ledge without in a few moments. There was a slight noise, it was of the breaking of a pane of glass, and then the stranger introduced his hand into the church, and succeeded in removing a rude primitive looking fastening which held the window in its place. In another moment, he disappeared from external observation within the sacred building. What could he want there at such an hour, and who is he? Did he contemplate disturbing the repose of the dead with some unhollowed purpose? Was robbery his aim? Let us be patient, and probably we shall soon enough perceive that some affairs are in progress that require the closest attention, and which in the vaults are calculated to fill the reflecting mind with the most painful images, and awake sensations of horror at the idea that such things can really be and are permitted tactfully by heaven to take place on the beautiful earth destined for the dwelling place of man. End of chapter 210 Chapter 211 of Varney, The Vampire Volume 3. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org recording by Chris Koran. Varney, The Vampire Volume 3 by Thomas Prescott Priest Chapter 211 Will Stevens visit to the family vault with the sawdust and what he saw there? Will Stevens waited at the ale house much longer than he attended to be sure the rain cleared off, but what of that? It was not a circumstance that made the ale anything worse, and so he waited to drink it with a gusto that improved each glass amazingly, and then some of those who were present, jolly toppers like himself began to laugh and to say, Ah, Will, you may as well poke that bag of sawdust into some corner. You won't do anything with it tonight, old fellow, we know. Now, some people get mood-tempered and complying when they have had the drop too much, and others, again, get particularly obstinate and contradictory. Will of the two certainly had more pretensions to belong to the latter class than the former, so when he heard such a prophecy concerning his movements and knew it was all an assumption based upon the ale he had drank, he felt indignant. Now, go, he cried. Not go. You may fancy if you please that I will not go, but you will find yourself mistaken. I will go. What so late? What's the odds to me? Any of you now would be frightened out of your lives to set foot in the old church at such a time as this. I know, but I'm none of the timid sort. I'm afraid of nobody living, and it ain't likely that I am now going to be afraid of anybody dead. Then you really will go. The only reply that made to this was to finish off the glass of ale that was before him, shouldering the bag of sawdust, and sally out into the open air. Will Stevens felt highly indignant and touchy about his honor, and as he had said, he would go, and then somebody chose to imply a doubt still he was grievously offended. When he got out, he found that the night was anything but the inviting one. He was still sober enough to see that, and to feel that although the heavy rain had ceased, there were a little disagreeable missus sort of vapor in the air. He staggered at the first turning he came to, for rather an uncomfortable gust of wind blew in his face. Carrying along with him such a shower of small cold rain that he was, or fancied himself to be, wet through in a moment. Pleasant this, thought Will, but I won't go back to be laughed at. As for the sawdust he was carrying, its weight was by no means any great consideration for it was just as light as it could be. No, I won't go back, back indeed, not I. They would make me stand a pot of ale too certainly if I were to go back. And besides, it would be all over the parish tomorrow that Will Stevens, after he got halfway to the church, was afraid to go any further. Confound the small rain, it pricks like pins and needles. Nothing is more sobering than rain, and as he, Will, gradually got saturated with the small, aqueous particles, the effect of the strong ale as gradually wore off. Until by the time the dim, dusky outline of the church rose before him, he was almost as sober as need be. Ah, he said, here I am at last at any rate. I do not hate this sort of rain. You can hardly make up your mind that it is raining at all. And yet somehow you get soaked before you know where you are. It's just like going through a damn cloud, that it is. And yet somehow or another, I don't much mind it. I am earning a guinea, easy enough, haha. This was by no means an unpleasant reflection. Yes, he added, I am earning a guinea easily enough, that's quite clear, but it's not everybody who would for a guinea go into anybody's family volat such a time. By the by, I wonder now what the time is exactly. Scarcely had Will spoke in those words when the old church clock struck twelve. It was a very serious deliberate sort of clock that, and it took a long time to strike twelve, and Will listened to the greatest attention with the hope of persuading himself that it was only eleven. But there could be no mistake, twelve it was. Really, he said, is it so late? Well, I didn't think. Will stood within the porch of the church door, and he gave sort of a shiver, and then, with a bag of sawdust in his hand, he stopped to listen attentively, for he thought he heard a slight sound. What was that, eh? What? I, though, nay, I am sure I heard something. It's very odd, very odd indeed. As if then to afford Will an excuse for resolving the sound is something else. The wind at this moment came in such a golden gale around the ancient edifice that quite congratulated himself. He was within the porch and protected from its fury, and besides it to his mind was a surfacing explanation of the noise he had heard. Some of the old doors he muttered rattled by the wind, that's all. Now I suppose we shall have a clear night after all the rain. Such a gale will soon blow off the damp clouds. Will was right, the gale, for a gale it was, blew from the north, and away went the rain clouds as if a certain had been drawn aside by some invisible hand. After some rummaging, Will found in his pocket the key of the church. It was not the key of the principal door, but of a smaller side entrance, at which the officials who required at all times free ingress and egress made application. The little arch door creaked upon his hinges, and then Will stood in a sort of vestibule for another door that was never fast had to be opened before he could be verily said to be within the church. This second door was covered with green bays, and could be opened and shut very noislessly, indeed. Will Stephen stood in the vestibule until he had got a small lantern out of one pocket, and some matches from another. Then in a few moments he had a light, and once again shouldering the bag of sawdust, he pushed open the inner door and stood in the church. It might have been fancy, nay, he felt certain it could be nothing else, but he thought as he opened the door that a faint sort of sigh came upon his ears. Vancy or not, though, it was an uncomfortable thing at such an hour, and in such a place too, and he had never before heard anything of the sort upon his visits to the church, and he had visited it at all hours, many and many a time. It's odd, he said. It's uncommonly odd, I never felt so uncomfortable in the church before, I never used to mind coming to it in the middle of the night. But now I, eh, what was that? Again an odd sort of noise came upon his ears, and he dropped the bag of sawdust. All was still again, save the regular roar of wind as it swept around the sacred building. And although Will Stephen stood for nearly ten minutes in an attitude of listening, he heard nothing to augment his terrors, but let an impulse once be given to fear. And it will go on accumulating material from every trivial circumstance. The courage of the sexton was broken down, and there was no knowing now what tricks his awakened imagination might play him. He began to wish he had not come and from that wish to think that he might as well go back, only shame forbade him, for it will easily be known on the moral. That he had not placed the sawdust in the vault, and lastly he began to think that someone might be playing him a trick. This last supposition probably had more effect in raising his courage than in any proceeding one. Indignation took possession of him, and he no longer thought of retreating. He went forward at once and fell over the bag of sawdust. Murder! shouted Will. The moment he did so, he recollected what it was that has occasioned his fall, and being ashamed of himself, he called out impulsively as if somebody was there to hear him. No, no, it's the only sawdust, no, no! He rose to his feet again, heartily ashamed of his own fears. Luckily his lantern had not been broken or extinguished at his fall. And now, without another word, he prepared himself to execute the work he came to do, and leave the church to its repose as quickly as possible. At one end of the church, the southern end, there was a large window, which might be said to light the whole of the interior, for the little windows at the sides were more ornamental and youthful. Being nothing but lattices and across this window was drawn a heavy cloth curtain, so that when the sun shone too brightly upon the congregation on a summer's day, it could be wholly or partially excluded upon a sign from the clergymen. The curtain was drawn close on the window now, at night, and Will just glanced up to it, as he walked on towards the aisle where the opening to the family vault of the craften was situated. All right, he said, what a fool I've been to be sure. Upon my word, I have saved frightening myself all night, and some people would too. But that's not my way of doing business. So here we are, all right. The door on one side, so that I have just room enough to go down into the vault. Oh, and one comes to think of it. It was rather a melancholy thing, the death of such a young girl as she was, going to be married too. Well, that's the way of the world goes. The stone steps leading down to the vault were rather steep, and Will threw down the bag of sawdust first. In preference to carrying it, and then with his lantern in his hand, he commenced his own descent. That'll do, said Will, when he felt his feet upon the soft old sawdust that was on the floor of the vault. That'll do, now for it. I shall soon have this job settled. And then I'll get home no faster than I can. Some who, or another, he felt very much inclined to talk. The sound of his own voice, conversing, as he might be said to be with himself, gave him a sort of courage, and made the place not appear to be altogether so desperately lonely as it really was. That no doubt was the feeling that brought forth so many indifferent remarks from Will Stevens. He held up his light to look around him, and turned gradually upon his heels as he did so. The light shook in his hand, the hair almost stood on end of his head. His teeth chattered, and he tried to speak in vain, as he saw lying at his feet, a coffin lid. It was new. The nails that held the blue cloth upon it were bright and fast, the plate shone like silver. Yes, it was the lid of the cotton of Miss Clara Crofton. But how it came off, unsecured and lying upon the floor of the vault, while the coffin was in its proper Nietzsche. Gracious goodness gassed Will at length. What does this mean? The question was easy to ask, but most difficult to answer, and he stood trembling and turning over. In his mind, all the most frightful explanations of what he saw that could never occur to anyone. Has she been buried alive? Have the body snatchers been after her? How is it? What has happened? Then it occurred to Will that it would be just as well to look into the coffin, and see if it was tentedless or not. If it were, as thought, he should know what to think. Or if the dead body was there, he could only conclude that she had been buried alive, and had just strength enough to force open the coffin, and cast the lid of it on the floor of the vault, and then to die in that horrible place. It required almost more courage than Will could muster, to go and look into the coffin for now that his usual indifference was completely broken down. He was as timid as any stranger to graves and vaults would have been, but curiosity is, after all, a most exciting passion, and that lent him power. Yes, he said, I will look into the coffin, I shall have, but a poor tale to tell to Sir George Crofton, if I do not look into the coffin, I have nothing to be afraid of. He advanced with trembling steps, the light shaking in his hands as he did so. He reached the coffin, and with eyes unusually wide he looked in. It was empty. End of Chapter 211 Chapter 212 of Varney the Vampire Volume 3 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Varney the Vampire Volume 3 by Thomas Prescott Priest Chapter 212 The Apparition in the Church Will Stevens Swoon The Morning For some minutes Will Stevens continued to gaze in the empty coffin, as if there was something peculiarly fascinating in it, and most attractive, and yet nothing was in it. No vestige, even of the vestments of the dead. If Clara Crofton had herself risen, and left the vault, it was quite clear she had taken with her a peril of the grave. Will had thought that if he found the coffin empty, all his fears would vanish, and that he should be able to come at once to the conclusion that she had become the prey of resurrectionists. But new ideas, as he gazed, at that abandoned receptacle of the dead, began to creep across him. I don't know, he muttered, but she may in a ghost-like kind of way be going about. I don't know whether ghosts is corpse or not. I wish I was out of this. The idea of spreading the sawdust in the vault now completely left him. All he thought of was to get away, and the dread that Clara Crofton was perhaps hiding somewhere and might come suddenly out upon him with a yell, got so firm a hold of him that several times he thought he should faint with excess of terror. That would be too horrible, he said. I am sure I should go mad, mad, mad. He retreated backward to the stairs, for the coffin empty though it was, held his gaze with a strange kind of fascinating power. He thought that if he turned round something would be sure to lay hold of him. It was a most horrifying and distressing idea that, and yet he could not conquer it. Of course he must turn round. It would be an awkward thing to attempt descending the staircase short as it was, backward so he felt the necessity of turning his back upon the vault. I will do so, he thought, and then make such a rush up the steps, that I shall be in the church in a moment. I can surely do that, and after all, it's nothing really to be afraid of. It's only a matter of imagination after all. Oh yes, that's all. I will do that. He put his notable scheme into execution by turning suddenly round and making a dash at the stairs. But as people generally do things badly, when they do them in a hurry, he stumbled when about halfway and felt himself at the mercury of the whole of the supernatural world. Have mercy on me, cried. I'm going. Have mercy on me. He had struck the lantern so hard against the stone stairs that he had broken it into fragments, and now all was intense darkness around him. He gave himself up for lost. He lay, expecting each moment to feel some dead bony fingers clutching him, and he only grown, thinking that surely now his last hour was come, and it is a wonder that his fancy, excited as it was, did not conjure up to him the very effect he dreaded, but it did not do so strange to say, and he lay for full five minutes without anything occurring to add to his terrors. Then he began gradually to recover. If, if, he guessed, I could not reach the church, I, I think I should be safe. Yes, I should surely be safe in the body of the church. Have mercy on me, good ghosts. I never harmed any of you. I, I respect you very much indeed I do. Let me go, and I'll never say a light word of any of you again. No, never if I were to live for a thousand years. As he uttered these words, he crawled up the remaining stairs, and to his great satisfaction made his way fairly to the church. But then a new surprise, if it was not exactly new fright, perhaps it was something of both awaited him. The curtain that had been, as he had observed when he was walking down the aisle, closely drawn across the large south window, was now drawn on one side, so that a large portion of that window was exposed, and the north wind having chased away by the time entirely the damp clouds. The moon was sailing in a cloudless sky and sending into the old church a glorious flood of light. What a change, said Will Stevens. It was indeed a change the church was a light as day. Save in some places where shadows fell, and they, in contrast to the silvery lightness of the moon beams, were of a jetty blackness. But still let the moon shine ever so brightly, there is not that distinctness and freshness of outline produced, as in the direct daylight a strange kind of hazy vapor seems to float between the eye and all objects, an indistinctness and mysteriousness of aspect, which belongs not to the sun's unreflected rays. Thus it was that although the church was illuminated by the moon, it had a singular aspect, and would scarcely have been recognized by anyone who had only seen it by the mild searching light of day. But of course Will Stevens, the sextant knew it well, and as he wiped the perspiration from his face, he said, what a relief to get out of that vault, and to find now that the night has turned out so fair and beautiful, I began to think I have frightened myself more than I need have done. But it was that coffin lid that did the business, I wasn't my own man after that. But now that I have got out of the vault, I feel quite different, oh quite another thing. Suddenly then it occurred to him that the current had been close on the window. When he came into the church and following upon that thought came another, namely that it could not very well remove himself before the casement, and that consequently some hands mortal or ghostly must have done that part of the business. Here there was ample food again for all his fears, and Will Stevens almost on the instant relapsed into his former trembling and nervous state. What shall I do, he said, it ain't all over yet. What will become of me? There's something horrid going to happen, I feel certain, and that curtain has only been drawn aside to let the moonlight come in for me to see it. With the painful expectation of his eyes being blasted by some horrible sight he glared round him, but he saw nothing, although the dense little mass of pews before him might have hidden many a horror. His next movement was to turn his eyes to the gallery, and all around it he carried them until he came to the window again, but he saw nothing. Who knows, he muttered, who knows after all, but that the wind in some odd sort of way may have blown the curtain on one side. I wish I had the courage to go up to the gallery and see, but I don't think I should like to do that. He hesitated. He knew that it would sound well on the moral for him. To be able to say that he went up and yet it was rather a fearful thing. Ahem, he said at length, is anyone here? As he made his inquiry, he took care to keep himself ready to make a dart out at the door into the churchyard, but as there was no response to it, he was a little encouraged. The gallery staircase was close to where he stood, and after the not unnatural hesitation of a few moments more, he approached him and began slowly to ascend. Nothing interrupted him, all was profoundly still, and at length he did reach the south window, and he found that the curtain was most deliberately drawn on one side, and that the window was fast, so that no vagary of the wind could have accomplished the purpose. Now I'll go. I'll go at once, he said. I can't stand this any longer. I'll go and alarm the village all. I'll make a disturbance of some sort. Awake! said a deep hollow voice. Wheels sunk upon his knees with a groan, and mechanically his eyes wandered to the direction from whence the sound came, and he saw an apieu just beneath him, and on which the moonlight now fell brightly a human form. It was lying in a strange, huddled up position in the pew, and a glance showed the experienced eyes of the section that it was a raid in the vestments of the dead. He tried to speak, he tried to scream, he tried to pray, but all was in vain. Intense terror froze up every faculty of his body, and he could only kneel there with his face, resting upon the front of the gallery, and glare with aching eyes that would not close for a moment upon the scene below. Awake! said a deep strange voice again. Awake! It was quite clear that the voice did not come from the figure in the pew, but from someone close at hand, the sexton soon saw another form, in the adjoining pew, standing upright as a statue, with one hand pointing upwards to the window. Where came in the moonlight was a tall figure, enveloped in a cloak. It was from the lips of that figure that the sound came so deeply and so solemnly. Sister, it said, Be one of us. Let the cold chase moonbeams. Endow thee with your new and strange and horrible existence. Be one of us. Be one of us. Ours must yet elapse. Air the faint flash of mourning will kill the moonbeams. There is time, sister. Awake! Be one of us. There was a passing cloud that swept for an instant over the face of the moon, obscuring its radiance, and the figure let its arm fall to its side. But when the silvery beam streamed into the church, it again pointed to the window. Tis done, she moves, he said. I fulfilled my mission. Ha ha ha! The laugh was so terrific and unmerthful that it froze the very blood in the veins of will, and he thought he was surely at the moment going mad. But still, he did not close his eyes. Still, he moved not from the position which he had first assumed when the horrible noise met his ears. Tis done, said the figure, and the arm that had been outstretched was let fall to his side. Will Stevens looked in the pew where he had seen what appeared to be a corpse. It had altered its position. He saw it move and wave its arms about strangely in deep size came from its lips. It was a dreadful sight to see, but at length it rose up in the grave close and moved to the door of the pew. The figure in the adjoining pew opened the door and stood on one side, and the revivified corpse passed out. Slowly and solemnly it passed down the aisle. It reached the door at which Will Stevens had entered, and then it passed away from his sight. The tall figure hollowed closely, and Will Stevens was alone in the church. What could he do? How could he give such a sufficient alarm? Would the two horrible personage return or not? Alas, poor Will Stevens never was an unhappy mortal sextant in such a frightful tribulation before. He knelt and shook like an aspen. At length, a lucky thought entered his head. The bell, the bell he cried, all at once finding his voice. To the bell, he sprung to his feet, for what he was now about to do did not involve the necessity of going down again into the body of the church. There was a narrow staircase at the corner of the gallery, leading to the bell fry. It was up that staircase that Will now struggled and tore. End of chapter two hundred twelve