Chapter CXXXIX…

Chapter CXXXIX

MRS. MEREDITH HAS A CONVERSATION WITH MR. TWISSEL.—THE ANNOUNCEMENT, AND THE INVITATION.

When the servant answered the knock, Mr. Twissel learned, to his severe disappointment, that Mrs. Meredith was from home; and he was about to turn from the door, after leaving his name, when the girl said that her mistress had left a message, the purport of which was, that if he, Mr. Twissel, was to call, she would feel obliged by his awaiting her return, as her absence would be but short, and the subject upon which she wished to see him was one of particular importance.

Mr. Twissel was shown into the parlour much about the same as usual; but he himself was somewhat of a different state. He himself was considerably disgusted with his share of the business; but, as we have before stated, he was resolved never to give in; no, he was resolved to carry it on to the end.

“It must come to a wind-up somehow or other, and at some time or other; but, at the same time, as I have taken so much interest in that I am resolved to see it out, I won’t lose all I have lost for nothing; it shall be with me a neck or nothing affair; and, however aggravating it may be, you will have a greater chance in the long run of coming off victorious.”

Several minutes passed away, and still Mrs. Meredith came not. At length the attorney began to grow somewhat impatient, and he looked around the apartment, as if to find some object to pass away the time until her arrival. On a table in the centre of the room lay several books, and he opened one or two of them for the purpose of ascertaining the nature of the contents. The title of one of them attracted his attention; it consisted of a collection of tales of the supernatural, and he opened it upon a legend called “The Dead Not Dead.” It possessed considerable interest, and Twissel was soon lost in its details. It ran as follows:—

The moon, with her train of glittering satellites following with silent grandeur in her wake, is sailing, in lustrous glory, through the heavens, and shedding such a flood of light over the face of nature, that the mountains and trees look as if some mighty hand had tinted them with silver.

Our scene is a rocky pass amidst the stupendous Apennines—one of the wildest, and yet most beautiful of that romantic region.

At the foot of a tree, and on a spot on which the rays of the moon fall with all their power, sits a young man, who is evidently watching over what appears to be a dead body that lies prostrate at his feet. His head is resting on his hand, and he is regarding the form before him with mingled fear and determination.

Hark! he speaks! What are his words?

“For full an hour have the rays of yonder luminary poured their radiance upon the ghastly features of my dead master, and yet there is no effect visible. Surely he must have been labouring under some fearful delusion of mind, and the dreadful compact of which he has spoken had existence but in his imagination. I certainly had some little faith in the existence of those scourges to mankind—vampyres, but now, I am inclined to think, my faith will be terribly shaken. In God’s name, I hope it may.”

The moon rose higher and higher, until, as she reached her zenith, everything was so bathed in her gentle light, that scarcely a shadow was thrown around, save by the tall pines that were scattered here and there upon the face of the rocks.

Suddenly there was a movement in the form of the dead man—a spasmodic jerk of the whole muscles of the frame, as if a galvanic battery had been applied to it; and then the eyes slowly opened, though at first there was but little or no expression in them.

The young man started to his feet with an exclamation of horror, and stood glaring upon the form with fixed and protruding eyes, his limbs trembling, and every feature distorted with mental agony.

“Holy mother of God!” he murmured, in a low tone, “he moves! he moves! The terrible compact is too true.”

At this moment, though there was not the slightest appearance of a cloud in the whole heavens, mutterings of thunder were heard, and the lightning was seen playing around the tree-tops with a pale and sickly glare. The young man, so intensely was his attention fixed upon the corpse at the foot of the tree, did not notice this phenomena; and he was at length horrified at beholding a ball of blue fire dart from the air, and glide into the ground immediately at the head of him whom he had named as his master. Then there was a loud explosion, and a glare of light so broad and strong that the watcher of the dead was obliged to veil his eyes with his hands, and he could scarcely tell for some moments whether he were deprived of his sight or not.

When he opened his eyes again, it was with a start of surprise, for, before him, with his arms folded on his breast, and regarding him with a calm and untroubled countenance, stood his master; while the moonlight streamed out upon the landscape, and as great a silence as when he lay in death upon the ground reigned around.

“Oh, signor,” he at length stammered, in broken tones—“my vigil has been one of the most terrible——”

“Silence, Spalatro,” said the resuscitated one, in a deep and hollow voice—“silence. Not a word, now or henceforth, must pass your lips respecting what you have seen to night. Breathe but a syllable of what I am to a human being, and naught on earth shall hide you from my vengeance.”

Spalatro bowed before his master in obedience, while his frame gave a shudder of horror, as he regarded the deathly appearance that still lingered in the signor’s features.

“Spalatro,” resumed the signor, after a slight pause, “you have rendered me great and faithful service, and your reward has been proportionate; but there is yet another service which I would seek at your hands. The Lady Oriana, for the possession of whom the Signor Fracati and I have fought, and for whose sake I received the wound which deprived me for a time of life, is at Florence, and at present ignorant of the mishap that befell me. The Signor Fracati and yourself are the only persons who are aware of it. He will carry to Florence the news of my death; and, on my re-appearance before the Lady Oriana, what tale can I invent to satisfy her? No, no—he must not reach Florence—he must never look upon the Lady Oriana again. You, Spalatro, wear a poniard, you have a powerful hand—and you know well where to strike. Rid me of this hated rival, and wealth shall be yours.”

Spalatro stood rooted to the spot while the signor spoke, and an expression of mingled horror and disgust crossed his countenance as the latter proceeded. When the signor had concluded, he stepped a pace or two back, and in a tone full of indignation, said,—

“Signor Waldeberg, I am no assassin; my poniard is yet guiltless of shedding human blood. I saw you receive what was thought to be a mortal wound in honourable combat with the Signor Fracati, and in these arms I beheld you sink in death. You had extorted from me a promise that after a certain lapse of time I would convey your body to this vast solitude, and lay it where the moonbeams should fall upon it; for that then life should once more revisit you. All this I have done, and faithfully; I feared to fail in my promise, for I knew the penalty you would pay if you failed to fulfil the conditions of your compact. But, signor, I am now no longer bound to you; you have commenced a fresh existence, which you would baptise with blood; you have passed the portals of death, and I will no longer serve you. I will seek another service and another master, who will require less at my hands, though his pay may be lighter. Farewell, signor, and better thoughts to you.

Spalatro turned upon his heel as he spoke, and with a hasty wave of his hand was leaving the spot, when the signor drew a pistol from a belt that was fastened round his waist, and, exclaiming, “He knows too much respecting me to be suffered to live,” fired it full at the head of the young man. The latter uttered a yell of agony which echoed loudly amid the awful silence, and fell lifeless on the earth. When the smoke from the pistol had cleared away, that lonely spot was deserted save by the body of Spalatro, whose blood, streaming upon the ground, reflected the moonbeams with a dull red glare.

• • • • •

When the morning sun broke over the mountain tops, its rays fell upon the form of the still insensible Spalatro. It was but seldom that any footsteps, save those of the wolf or the goat, left their impress on those rocks, and it was almost a miracle that the body of the unfortunate man was not left a prey to the former.

About an hour after daybreak, the bells of a string of mules were heard in the distance, accompanied by the cheerful song of the muleteer. A short time sufficed to bring the cavalcade to the spot, where lay the body of Spalatro, and the muleteer, with a cry of alarm, brought his train to a stop. Finding that life still remained, the humane mountaineer raised him from the ground, placed him across one of the mules, and then hastened forward to the next inn, which, however, was at some miles distance.

On arriving there, he found that the only apartment was occupied by a signor and his daughter, who, however, when the condition of the wounded man was made known to them, instantly relinquished it to him, and, after seeing his wounds looked to, ascertained that no mortal result was to be feared, and giving orders that he should want for no attention that money could procure, they pursued their journey.

It was many weeks before Spalatro recovered, and when he did regain his strength, he learned, with a feeling of deep gratitude, that the lady who had been so instrumental in his recovery was no other than the Signora Oriana. In an instant a vow was upon his lips that he would save her from the power of the fearful monster, whose only mission now on earth, seemed but to destroy the most beautiful of nature’s creation. With this purpose fixed in his mind, he one morning bid adieu to the residents of the little inn, and set off on his self-imposed errand.

• • • • •

Some days after the scene we have described as occurring on that lonely mountain pass, a report reached Florence, where the Signora Oriana was then staying with her father, that the Signor Fracati had met his death at the hands of a bravo, and that his body had been discovered stabbed in innumerable places. The grief of Oriana was intense, for she held the signor in great estimation, and she would have had but little hesitation in bestowing upon him her hand, if her father’s consent could but have been gained to the union. Signor Vivaldi, however, had been captivated by the great wealth, personal appearance, and captivating manners of the Signor Waldeberg, and he had fixed his mind upon him becoming the husband of his daughter.

Weeks passed away, and the memory of the murdered Fracati was gradually fading from the mind of Oriana. The respectful yet warm attentions of Waldeberg won upon a young and innocent heart that had always felt a slight esteem for him, and as she knew that her father’s happiness in a great measure depended upon her consent to the union, it was at length given with a freedom that brought joy to the old man’s heart.

It was arranged that the ceremony should take place at a chateau belonging to Waldeberg, in the neighbourhood of Lucca, whither it was resolved at once to proceed; and for this purpose Signor Vivaldi and his daughter, accompanied by Waldeberg, left Florence for that city.

As they were passing through the gates, a monk, with his cowl drawing carefully over his face, stepped hastily up to the carriage window, and, thrusting a letter into the hands of Oriana, as hastily disappeared.

With some surprise, she opened it and read it, and then a paleness overspread her countenance, and she sank back in her seat almost insensible. Her father snatched the paper from her trembling hand, and hastily glancing over its contents, with a look of anger, handed it to the Signor Waldeberg.

“See, signor, what some meddling fool, envious of your happiness, has done to alarm my daughter’s fears. Does he deem us so grossly superstitious as to believe in such children’s tales?”

The signor took the paper, which he found to run thus:—

“+Signora+,—A grateful heart warns you. Wed not the murderer of Fracati—wed not him who, once returned from death to life, seeks but your hand to provide a victim for the purpose of prolonging a hateful existence. If you despise this warning, at any rate, postpone the ceremony but for seven days from hence, and then his power of injuring you will have departed from him.”

“Do you know the writer, signor?” asked Vivaldi.

“It is evidently the handwriting of a servant of mine, whom I dismissed for insolence some few weeks since,” returned Waldeberg, a shade of vexation evidently passing across his brow; “and he now takes this means of endeavouring to obtain his revenge. But I will take means of having him punished.”

They now endeavoured to soothe the agitation of Oriana, but the incident seemed to have taken a firm hold upon her imagination, and, in spite of all their efforts, she found it impossible to shake off the effect it had upon her.

The chateau, the place of their destination, was at length reached; preparations were instantly commenced for the celebration of the marriage, which was to take place, by the Signor Waldeberg’s express desire, on the sixth day from that on which they had left Florence. As the day drew near, the spirits of Oriana grew gradually depressed, and a slight feeling of dread seemed to steal over her, whenever she found herself in the presence of her lover. Her father questioned her as to its cause, and then she confessed that the mysterious warning she had received preyed deeply on her mind. It might be a superstitious weakness, but she could not repress it; and she requested her father, however reluctant he might be, to consent to put it off for at least another day.

The entreaties of his daughter, though he laughed at her fears, prevailed upon the old man, and he gave his consent to her request; but when he mentioned the alteration in the time to Waldeberg, the countenance of the latter underwent a complete change to the hue of death. No prayer, however, could prevail upon the old man to recall his consent to his daughter’s wish, and the signor departed evidently in a state of the greatest despair.

That night the Signora Oriana was missing from her chamber, and though the strictest search was made for her, not the least trace of her presence could be found. The grief of the father and the lover knew no bounds, and there seemed to be no hope of consolation for them.

• • • • •

It is the night of the sixth day—that day against which Oriana had been so mysteriously warned. In a large vault, far beneath the chateau, and lighted by innumerable torches, that threw a red and smoky glare around, stood the beautiful Oriana and the Signor Waldeberg. The former was pale as marble, and an expression of the most intense despair was upon her countenance.

The signor, resolved that she should become his wife before the expiration of the six days, had torn her from her chamber, and immured her in that fearful place, with the hope of forcing her to become his bride; but Oriana revolted at such usage, and feeling more convinced than ever that the warning she had received had its foundation in truth, had resisted alike his persuasions and his threats.

The hour of midnight was fast approaching, and before an altar that stood at one end of the vault, was an old and venerable priest, with an open book in his hand. Waldeberg drew Oriana towards him, and forced her to kneel at the foot of the altar. She entreated—she supplicated—she appealed to the priest; his only answer was a solemn shake of the head, and then he proceeded to read the marriage ceremony. Waldeberg took her hand—but she suddenly flung it from her, and uttered the most piercing screams that echoed fearfully amidst those cavernous places. Still the priest read on, and despite her emotion and her agony of terror, Waldeberg regarded her with a cold and determined gaze.

“Faster! faster!” he muttered to the priest, “or all will be lost!” and he glanced anxiously around the vault.

At the moment, striking fearfully on the silence, came the sound of the turret clock telling the hour of midnight. On the first stroke, the most fearful sounds the human ear ever listened to filled the place—strange indefinite shadows flitted around, filling the air with a rushing sound, as if of mighty wings—the altar changed to a heap of human bones—the priest to a ghastly skeleton. Then came darkness, terrible and distinct; and Oriana swooned upon the damp floor.

When she recovered, she found the day had broken, and the sunlight was streaming upon her face; while her father and the young man whom she had seen wounded at the inn on the mountains were stooping over her in alarm.

The inhabitants of the chateau had been alarmed in the dead of the night by a terrific storm, which had thrown into ruins a part of the castle, and a vast chasm had been made in the foundations, disclosing the vaults, the existence of which had been until then unknown.

Beneath the rich vestments of Waldeberg, and lying in a heap on the ground, were the remains of a human skeleton—all that was now left of the guilty being who had thus paid the penalty for failing in complying with the conditions of the fearful compact into which he had entered with the unholy powers of darkness.

It was many months before the mind of Oriana recovered its strength, and when it did, she entered a convent of Ursuline nuns, and endeavoured to forget, in the consolations of religion, the fearful trial she had undergone.

• • • • •

Twissel laid down the book which he had been reading, and fell into a strange kind of musing, in which the vampyre, Waldeberg, and the East India colonel were strangely mixed up together. From this reverie he was awakened by a rap at the street-door, and then, in a few minutes afterwards, Mrs. Meredith entered the room, exclaiming,—

“Well, Mr. Twissel, you always come in luck’s way.”

“Indeed!” said Mr. Twissel, involuntarily thinking of what he had that morning undergone, as well as what he went through a day or two before; and, for the life of him, he saw not what might be called luck, unless it was that species known as ill-luck.

“Yes, Mr. Twissel, you are; you’ve just come in time to hear the news.”

“What news, ma’am—what news? If you’ll be pleased to enlighten me upon that subject, I shall be better able to understand what you allude to.”

“Why, you see, the colonel has been so pressing, that my daughter has been induced to name the day. Yes, Mr. Twissel, she has named the day—not a distant day either. He begged and entreated you don’t know how hard, which, at least, shows how much he meant it.”

“Well, truly, it is news, Mrs. Meredith,” said the attorney; “but, at the same time, it is what I expected, though not just at this juncture. The fact is, there is but little can be said against Colonel Deverill; but, at the same time, there will be but little said for him. I am by no means sure that there will be any property found. If he were a man of money, he would not hesitate to lay his circumstances open.”

“He is too proud a man for that.”

“Well, it may be all very well to attribute it to that cause. However that may be, there can be no doubt you have a right to do as you please, and I bow to your decision; but, still, I do so, having expressed my opinion to the contrary, being very suspicious of him. But, as I said before, you are entitled to do what you please in the affair; I have no right to do more.”

“My daughter and I have been considering the matter over and over again, and we have come to the conclusion that it should take place, and she has consented that it should take place in about ten days’ time, when we shall expect to have your company, Mr. Twissel.”

“I am obliged to you, and assure you my opinions upon this matter are not at all personal. I will meet the colonel, and I will be present with you all on that happy occasion with much pleasure; and I hope it will be a fortunate and happy marriage.”

“I hope so, too,” said Mrs. Meredith; “and I have every reason to believe so.”

“That is good,” said the attorney.

“And now, Mr. Twissel,” said Mrs. Meredith, “what did you do this morning at the South Sea House? I could not send to you so early as I could have wished, as I did not know he was going till the coach was ordered, and he went away almost immediately. I then sent Mary to you; I don’t know at what time she came to you, but at all events she was not back here until late.”

“She must have got to my place in good time, if she only started after the colonel had left this house,” said the attorney.

“I am very glad of that, at all events; but what success did you have?”

“Success, indeed,” said Mr. Twissel, with a shrug of mortification. “I have only succeeded in getting myself into a very serious difficulty, and the colonel has eluded me again. I can’t understand it all. I don’t know what to think; but I am sure of this, that I have been in a series of disasters ever since I undertook to follow him about, and I have discovered nothing concerning him.”

“What has happened to you to-day, then?” inquired Mrs. Meredith.

“Oh! as for that, what seems to be but natural in itself; and, therefore, it may be said not to be connected with him; indeed, though that were really the case, yet there is so much concurrent action, I cannot divest myself of the idea that it is a fatal affair, as far as regards looking after him.”

“Then don’t do so any more, Mr. Twissel.”

“I’ll never give in,” said Twissel.

“Well, but what need you trouble yourself more about the affair? I assure you we’re all well satisfied that Colonel Deverill is Colonel Deverill, and that he has property; that being the case, I am sure you have nothing to trouble yourself about, or to blame yourself for.”

“I am conscious of that,” said the attorney, rubbing his knee. “I have done all I can; and I have given my advice—I hope I have done my part.”

“Yes, you have,” said Mrs. Meredith. “I am quite satisfied; but what has happened to you?”

“I will tell you, my dear madam—I will tell you. I have been assaulted, knocked about, robbed, and my faculties all confused, and no use to me. I have lost my handkerchief, watch, and purse; and I have had my trowsers ripped open; and I can’t tell what besides. I am safe, however.”

“Well, that is right, at all events; but it is most annoying to me that you should be subject to those terrible accidents. I can’t understand the meaning of it.”

“I can’t,” said the attorney.

“But why should you, more than any one else, be subject to these misfortunes? I can’t understand it at all, Mr. Twissel. Perhaps you do something or other unusual on such occasions, which had been the cause of such terrible trouble.”

“Not that I am aware of,” said Twissel; “but the fact is, I don’t know of anything peculiar in my appearance or behaviour, that should cause this disaster. But I am sure of this, that there is nothing more singular about me, than what there usually is; and why it should only attract notice on these occasions and no other, I cannot tell.”

“Nor I. Well, I suppose it must have been there was some other circumstance, independent alike of him and you, that has caused this disagreeable affair.”

“Perhaps there might be.”

“Well, now, Mr. Twissel, there’s another affair I wish to speak to you about; or, rather, it’s a thing my daughter Margaret should speak to your daughter Elizabeth and Miss Martha about. You see, as they are not very often together, I thought it right to speak to you first.”

“Yes, ma’am—go on, pray.”

“Well, my Margaret is to be married in a few days, Now, we don’t want relatives at all; and I was advising her to beg your permission to have the two young ladies whom I have named, as bridesmaids, and who will be of essential service to my daughter.”

“I have no doubt but they will feel very much gratified with the proposal; and one could not have been better devised than this one to please them.”

“Then, will you invite them to come here, and spend the evening with Margaret and yourself, Mr. Twissel, the first evening you find leisure and inclination?”

“Well, I have destroyed to-day, so far as a business day, by drinking brandy-and-water early, and I may as well finish it in an agreeable manner.”

“That is very good; we shall expect you to tea this evening.”

“You may,” said Mr. Twissel; “if you are not otherwise engaged. I may as well do all that is necessary, so as to have as little to do, by-and-bye, as possible. Has the colonel come home?”

“No, not yet; I did not expect him to come home so soon as this, but he will be back in a very short time, now, I dare say.”

“Then I will bid you good bye, for it will be unnecessary to meet him in this plight; indeed, he might think I paid him no respect to do so; and besides it will be better, altogether, that he should not see me so soon, lest he should have caught sight of me in the city; which, indeed, I think wholly impossible, for I only had a distant glimpse of him.”

“Then, good bye, sir; I shall see you and the young ladies.”

“Both—my daughter, and her young friend, Martha.”

Mr. Twissel arose, and left the house to return to his own house, and get his daughter prepared for the visit, and her friend also, while Mrs. Meredith and her daughter, Margaret, consulted together, as to what would be the best method of doing honour to the occasion of the forthcoming marriage.

“You see, my dear,” said Mrs. Meredith, “we cannot very well invite our own friends, because they are such a greedy, rapacious set; they would sooner spoil a good chance for us than let us have it unmolested; they are by far too greedy—no, no, they must not come—they will think themselves injured if they cannot share the harvest.”

“And all will be lost.”

“To be sure; and, moreover, we could not shake them off when we wanted, and which we must do very soon, for the colonel will never abide them.”

“No, ma’ I think not, indeed—they are decidedly low people, who are genteel only of a Sunday; it will never do to have such people about us.”

“Oh, dear, no.”

“Here is the colonel come back; see if that girl has got the water hot, he will like his tea early; I am quite sure she hasn’t got it ready—what a provoking girl that is, to be sure. She does nothing all day; I must get rid of her.”

“Yes; but she is very ugly.”

“That is one great recommendation in her favour,” said Mrs. Meredith; “one very great recommendation; it ensures domestic peace, to say the least of it, and there’s not so many followers usually. Now, however, we must do the best until we have more; but here he is.”

At that moment the colonel entered the house, and proceeded at once to the drawing-room, having first divested himself of his hat and cloak in the passage. Up stairs was a good fire and an easy chair, with ottomans for his feet, and a comfortable well furnished apartment it was.

Mrs. Meredith followed him up and entered the room after him, to inquire what he would like done next; and with her assistance, he took his boots off and put on a pair of splendid slippers, and reposed with a groan of satisfaction on the chair.

“I think, Mrs. Meredith,” he said, “that the best thing I can have will be some tea. Where is Margaret? when she is at liberty, I wish to see and speak to her.”

“She will be here in a few moments, colonel,” said Mrs. Meredith; “I will send her to you.”

“No hurry for a few moments,” said the colonel.

“Something about the jewels, I’ll be sworn,” said Mrs. Meredith, to herself; “I wonder what he has in that parcel; a present, I dare say.”

Mrs. Meredith sought Margaret, and related what the colonel said, with his desire to see her, and that young lady at once proceeded to the drawing-room.

“Oh, my dear Margaret,” said Colonel Deverill, “I see you are pleased to see I have returned; your very eyes tell me so. Come here to me, dearest.”

“Ah, my looks, I am afraid, say too much.”

“Not at all—not at all,” said the colonel; “I love to see them, especially when I know they are sincere, when they come from the heart, you know; I love to see innocent and heartfelt satisfaction beaming from such a face as yours.”

“Oh, colonel, you are really too complimentary; not that I think you don’t mean what you say, but your partiality is too great to allow you to judge as a stranger would.”

“I do not desire to judge as a stranger would; it does not give me any satisfaction. To look upon you with the eyes of a lover, is a privilege I most desire, and very soon with those of a husband; then my happiness will be complete. How I long for the days and the hours to fly by—they cannot go too fast now; by and bye they may pass as slowly as you please—that done, then I am quite content, because I shall pass them happily, rapturously.”

“Ah, you are so kind-hearted, so good, that I can never repay you.”

“Do not seek to do so, you will only make me the heavier in debt; but come, there is a small parcel, with a few trinkets I have purchased; the jewels I spoke of are in hand, and they will be ready in time for our marriage.”

“Nay, do not think about them—not to disturb yourself, colonel; I am quite content if I am dressed as befits the occasion; but I am really obliged to you for your present, whatever it may be; and I may as well tell you I have thought—indeed, I have said as much—I should like to have a couple of female friends to visit me on that occasion.”

“Yes, my dear, you may depend upon it. I shall be the more happy when I know you are so too; but no matter, ask whom you please; as far as I am able, I will make them welcome and happy. I suppose, however, you are alluding to your bridesmaids.”

“I am,” said Margaret.

“I shall be most happy to see them, or any friend you may desire,” added the colonel.

“And will you have no one on the occasion?” inquired Margaret; “won’t you have somebody to keep you in countenance upon the occasion?”

“No,” said the colonel, “I shall not; I have no friends with whom I am intimate enough, that I know of, at this present moment; there may be people in London, with whom I have been, in India, intimate with, but I do not know for certain; but time and accident will turn up old friends, and I have not the desire to seek for them; but if we must have some one, I do not know whether Mr. Twissel would not do quite as well, if he would come, and your mother had no objection.”

“I am sure she would not. Mr. Twissel was an old friend of my father’s, and, consequently, he would be no stranger at all to the family; besides, it is his daughter, and her friend, Martha, that I have invited upon this occasion; have I done wrong?”

“Not at all, it could not have happened better; I am sure they must be very worthy people, and any one whom you please, or they know, that you feel disposed to invite, do so, with the confidence that whatever pleases you on the occasion, will please me.”

At that moment there was an alarming rapping at the door, which caused them to pause a few moments; then they continued their conversation until the servant announced to Miss Meredith, that Miss Twissel, her papa, and her friend, Martha, were come.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXL. A PLEASANT EVENING.—THE BRIDESMAIDS

“I know how that is,” said Margaret, before she left the drawing-room; “that was through my ma’. I dare say she has invited them to take tea with her to-night. I should not at all wonder about that. I have not seen them for some time. They keep a great deal at home, and visit but little. They are playful, homely girls, but good-hearted, and that is why I prefer them to more fashionable friends, whose goodness of heart I cannot rely upon. They are insincere.”

“You are very right; but you will, I hope, let me see your friends, and unless you have family matters to speak of, perhaps you will take tea up here with me. I shall be all alone if you do not; so, you see, I am speaking from selfish motives; but do not think I shall be at all hurt if you do not see fit to accept the invitation for them.”

“I will accept it for them cheerfully, and shall be much surprised if they do not do so too,” said Margaret, as she walked towards the door, and then left the apartment, to proceed first to her own room, and there to examine her present, before she sought the visitors to give them their invitation.

The parcel contained some handsome laces and other matters, beautiful and expensive, such things as she could wear, and excite the envy of others; which was, of all things, and usually is of women in general, the most enchanting thing in all the world, and gives intense gratification.

After admiring for a moment or two the beauties of the laces, she could not help involuntarily exclaiming,—

“This will be beautiful, so very becoming, and so much above anything else that can be brought by my bridesmaids. I shall be a queen amongst them; indeed, they will but set me off to the utmost advantage. I shall be the glory of the occasion.”

Having secured her new acquisition from inquisitive eyes, by locking it up in her drawers, she returned down stairs, and then entered the parlour, where, truly enough, as she had imagined, there was Mr. Twissel, Miss Twissel, and Miss Martha, all of whom were dressed out for the occasion.

There was some truth in what Margaret had said to her mother, that the two intended bridesmaids were not likely to induce any one to fall in love with them. They were oddities of the first water. Miss Twissel had light brown hair, bushy eyebrows, a straight masculine nose, a mouth that turned up on one side, and one of her eyes had a gentle inclination to gaze at her nose, while her complexion was increased by a vast quantity of sun freckles.

Then, as for Miss Martha, she was another beauty of a similar class; hooked nose, with one eye paying undue attention to the auricular organ, while the other was somewhat injured by a blank appearance; her hair was red, and she was pitted by the small-pox to a fearful extent.

Such were the two friends whom Miss Meredith had chosen for bridesmaids, with the laudable view of putting no temptation in the way of the colonel, which Mrs. Meredith, her mother, most strenuously advised, as she had experience of the men.

“My dear Miss Twissel, and you, Martha!”

“Ah! Margaret, God bless me, who could have imagined, above all things, what I have come about. What can you be thinking and doing? here you’ve no friends to help you. I see you have done it all yourself. What can you think of people? you have no mercy.”

“Aye,” said Martha, “there’s no doing anything while you are about. No one else has a chance, but you must tell us all about it.”

“Yes, yes, I will tell you all about it; and more than that, you shall see the colonel if you please.”

“That is what we should like, above all things.”

“Oh! it is a colonel, then—a rich Indian colonel. Upon my word, you will have to be presented at court next.”

“He! he! you are joking me now. Well, never mind, I shall joke you some of these days. You may depend upon that; my turn will come next, and then I won’t forget you. But seriously, there are more unlikely things may come to pass than that.”

“Well, now; I dare say. Who would have thought of that, now? But then you are so lucky, you see; only think what might have been the case if the colonel had been a young man! why he might become as great a man as the Marquis of Granby. Why, you’d have been a marchioness then. Well, bless my heart, how things do come about!”

“Well, you had better come up to the drawing-room,” said Margaret, “and see the colonel, who is waiting tea for us all. Come, ma’.”

“Yes, my dear, I am ready. Mr. Twissel, will you come?”

“If you please,” said Mr. Twissel, “if you please. We shall now soon have the pleasure of seeing an end to this affair; for, as it is to come off, why, when it is over, it will be all the better. Expectation is always a time of uncertainty and anxiety—at least, to most people.”

“So it is, Mr. Twissel, so it is; and I am not without my share of it; for, in the first place, human life is short, and circumstances may alter cases; so I am anxious to see it over, and offer no impediment in the way of the completion of the marriage.”

“Certainly, you are quite right; having made up your mind to permit the marriage to take place, why, the sooner the better.”

They were all now introduced to the colonel, who was very polite and courtly, which in some degree embarrassed the young ladies, who were compelled to put on, as they expressed it, their best behaviour, and so did not become quite so familiar. However, that did not spoil the harmony of the meeting, for the young ladies considered there was more respect paid to them, and the less they were able to appreciate the politeness with which they were treated, the more they believed themselves honoured.

They were well enough pleased, and the conversation turned upon various matters, while Mr. Twissel was uncommonly attentive to the colonel; indeed, he watched him most narrowly, every turn and every expression, as if he were resolved to ascertain, by constant surveillance, whether there was any foundation for his half-inspired doubts respecting him; and also as to whether it were possible that he could have had any hand in the disasters which he had on two several occasions suffered.

But yet he could see nothing—nothing at all that gave him the slightest pretext for persisting in his suspicion. He appeared the same easy, careless individual, who would not trouble himself to consider whether he was watched or not, or whether his actions were the subject of other people’s thoughts, or whether they were unnoticed, it mattered nothing to him.

“It is singular,” he muttered to himself, “very singular, how it could all happen by accident, and only at moments when I was watching him. I can’t tell; and yet the occurrences were of that character, to another they would seem wholly unconnected, and I am unable to connect them, save by fancy; but he looks not a very old man, but rather like one who has the full use of his faculties. He is singularly pale, to be sure, and yet, at times, he does not appear so old, nor does his arm and leg seem quite so bad at others; perhaps it varies, according to circumstance, weather, the moon, or unforeseen changes.”

He remained cogitating very quietly by himself; he was thoughtful, and could by no means divest himself of the idea that there was something more than common about the colonel.

“He don’t seem so blind with that eye as he might be,” he muttered; “but there is no use calculating about an Indian; they have got such luxurious habits and fancies, that if he fancies one of his eyes is in any degree weak, he will wear a shade for its preservation. Well, he is entitled to do so, but he ain’t so old as they imagine. And that will be no detriment to him or to them; so much the better, unless they reckon upon the colonel’s death, which would hardly be an object to them, seeing that it could bring them no more; indeed, it would diminish their income. But he is a tall man now, and, if he did not stoop so much, would yet be a fine man.”

These thoughts passed through his mind, time after time, during the whole evening; while the colonel himself was at times conversing in the most refined and courtly language, and doing much towards amusing them with anecdotes of the places he had seen, and the battles he had fought.

“You would be surprised,” he said, “to hear that, in India, there are places so cold that they more resemble the Polar regions than central Asia, of which we only used to think of as being one of the hottest regions in the world, filled with wild animals and numerous serpents.”

“Certainly, we hear more of that than anything else—the yellow fever, the cholera, and all these kinds of things, caused by exposure to the heat.”

“So they are; but it is only in the plains, and not on the high table lands and mountains, where you gradually meet with more temperate climates, many of which equal northern Europe for salubrity; and, further up, you come to frozen regions.”

“Indeed! that is a phenomenon.”

“Oh, dear, no; the altitude of the plain, and the exposure, make the sole difference. I remember once, I was sent with some other regiments to chastise some of the hill tribes.”

“Under whom was that?” inquired the attorney.

“General Walker,” returned the colonel; “he was a very able general, and we performed some extraordinary marches under him, as well as some service.”

“Oh, indeed!” said the attorney; “what might have taken place?”

“I will tell you an incident that did take place; and not relate more scenes of carnage that we passed through in the execution of our duty than shall be actually necessary. We had, on one occasion, to storm a city; on another, a fortified town; it was strong, and well protected by nature and art.

Well, we arrived there, and the gates were closed against us; guns were brought to bear, and men appeared on the walls. We expected, of course, a sharp time of it, and being only the advance guard, we halted for the main body to come up with us; and, after having summoned the garrison to surrender, we put posts and watchers for the night, not expecting to do anything upon that occasion; nor did we expect the main body up with us till the middle of the next day, they having sent word on to me that they would not be up in consequence of some accident to some part of the train, which would have to be repaired; but a portion of the troops would advance a stage nearer to me, in case of an accident, upon which I could retire for support, or send to them to come up as the exigencies of the moment should most require; but they did not anticipate any movement at all. Nor did we; the fact was, we had made a forced march of it; and had got over more ground than we had expected, and our main body did not think we should have been so near the scene of action as we were.

However, a counsel of war was held amongst the officers; and it was resolved that we should attempt nothing without the assistance of our comrades, as the place was very strong, as I have before told you.

Well, sir, half the night was over, and we lay fast asleep, having had a hard—very hard day’s work of it,—so hard that we could sleep sound on the bare earth; we were all suddenly awakened by a loud explosion, which shook the very earth under us; and, upon starting up, and rushing out of our tents, we saw the earth and air illumined by the explosion of, as we afterwards learned, and guessed at the moment, one of the enemy’s powder magazines.

In another minute we found there were plenty of falling missiles, with the debris of the magazine, and the mangled corpses of the men who were near it.

There was an instant order to muster the men; everybody knew what was meant. They were all ready in a few moments—indeed, we slept by our arms—fully accoutred, so it did not take long to be ready for action.

We were ordered to form in divisions and bodies, and as there was ample breach made by the explosion there, I was ordered to mount the breach, and enter the town for the purpose of assault.

We did this. We marched down upon the breach after some difficulties, and were fairly in it; but had our commanding officer known any of the difficulties; he would not have incurred the responsibility of ordering us to advance, for the ruins we had to scramble over were dreadful, and, had there been light, we could every one have been picked off by the enemy.

Darkness was our friend, and we got into the town with a comparatively trifling loss, and when our men got together they began to tell a tale, for their volleys were well directed upon the enemy, who were drawn up in masses, and whose fire directed ours. We were not completely exposed to their fire, for the same objects that exposed our men, as they were surmounted before reaching the enemy, protected them from immense volleys of musketry.

However, we carried the point, and at that moment another explosion took place in some other part of the town, which illumined all around for a moment or two, and then came masses of bricks, and stones, and timber, killing friend and foe. For a while we were staggered; we did not know what to think of this affair. We knew not whether we had an enemy to fight, or even where he was. We were completely at a standstill.

But this did not last long. The defenders fled, and left us masters of the field. We remained under arms all that night, till daylight.

“Glad were we, indeed, when daylight came; we were fatigued, so much so that our men could scarcely stand in the ranks. Then parties were sent out to look after the wounded, who had been left in all imaginable situations. It was at such a moment that I was discovered; my leg was shattered by a musket bullet.”

“And you lay bleeding all night?”

“Yes. Not exactly bleeding, for I had sense left me to bind a ligature over the wound to stop the effusion of blood, which would have killed me in a very short time. However, there was no necessity to lose my leg, but it has made me permanently lame.”

“I see you are so, sir,” said Twissel; “but do you never feel it worse at some times than at others?”

“Yes, I do. There are times when I do not know that I have received a hurt at all; but sometimes I suffer a little, and am a little more lame in consequence.”

“It was fortunate,” said Twissel, “it was your leg, for it might have been your head, you know, and that would have been a death-blow to your fortune.”

“Yes,” said the colonel, mildly; “I might have been killed, as you observe; but at the same time I should have done my duty, which in these cases is all we looked to. I might have saved a better man, who had a wife and family—I had none.”

Conversation now ran on the forthcoming event, and Mr. Twissel was invited by the colonel, and the whole party were well satisfied with each other, and parted very good friends, with the promise of meeting again before the propitious morning which was to unite the fates of Margaret Meredith and Colonel Deverill.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

CXLI. A NEW CHARACTER.—MISS TWISSEL’S VISITOR.—THE INVITATIONS

Nothing could exceed the smoothness and easiness of the course of things in the wooing of Margaret Meredith; all things appeared so well ordered. People were all of one mind; and it is needless to say that the young lady was elated. She was elated, and we might not be out of the way in saying she was elated overmuch, and knew not how to keep the exhibition of her joy within proper bounds; she could not help showing she was to be the lady of a colonel.

Mrs. Meredith, too, was well pleased. What could she do but feel proud at the change that was about to take place? She would go to watering places in the summer, and remain in town during the winter; they would lead a very fashionable life—they would be of the elite, and all their acquaintances they would be compelled to cut, or, at the most, only speak to them when they were unseen by any others.

It is astonishing how a change of circumstances produces a change in our habits and feelings; how it happens that those who were considered respectable acquaintances suddenly become the objects of our aversion, and we begin to devise all sorts of methods for evading recognition, or of speaking to them when we can avoid it.

This arises merely from the change in one’s circumstances, which causes us to look for something much beyond what we have been used to; but, unfortunately, it brings ingratitude often in the train of its consequences.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Meredith to her daughter Margaret, “we really cannot know the people at the corner house over the way, who invited us to their parties.”

“Oh, dear, no, we cannot think of it; but we must get rid of them the best way we can. You see they will not be quite the thing for us when we come to have our change of circumstances, you may depend upon it; it will become necessary to weed one’s acquaintance.”

“Yes, that must be done.” said Mrs. Meredith.

“And the sooner we set about it the better; for the more intimate we continue now, the more trouble will there be of getting rid of them afterwards.”

“Certainly; we need not accept of their invitation for to-night.”

“Oh, dear, no; I have dismissed the whole affair from my mind, and there is no need even of thinking of it any more. I shall not even think of sending them an answer; the consequence will be, they will be angry, and expect we shall go and apologise, and when they find we don’t, but that we try to get rid of them, they will be baffled, and the whole affair is settled.”

“That is a very good plan, my dear. Then, you know, there are the Morgans; we must positively get rid of them. It will never do to have those young men hanging about; the colonel would do something dreadful, to say the least of it. Why, he would shoot them, and perhaps have a separation, who knows?”

“But then I should be entitled to a maintenance.”

“You would, my dear; but unfortunately you well know you have no property, an that, added to an early separation, would put it in his power to offer you and compel your acceptance of a very small sum, which he may pay as he pleases—weekly, monthly, or quarterly.”

“I see, ma; but we will run no risk of that kind of thing. Moreover, there would be those girls, they would be a nuisance hanging about the colonel.”

“No doubt, and the cause of unhappiness in the extreme. Better to leave all such people; you are a great deal better without them. Why, I tell you what, you will be at no loss of company or acquaintances, you will find they will be sure to spring up; property is sure to enable you to choose those whom you will have, and whom you will not—the reason is obvious enough. Moreover, like loves like, you know, and people with means soon find out people who have none.”

“Yes, ma, and those who have plenty; besides, a colonel, and a man of rank and standing—and everybody knows that a colonel in the India service is a rich man—and that would bring us all into the best of society. Only think of my going to Bath, Bristol, and Brighton, in their seasons. Of course we couldn’t keep company with people who can’t afford to go to some fashionable place at least once in a year.”

“Oh, dear, no; certainly not, my dear; but there is no need of our troubling ourselves about that matter; we shall only go when the colonel goes, and we shan’t be seen without him, and he’ll be a constraint upon them; and, therefore, where they find themselves uncomfortable, they will not come again.”

“That will be a very good plan, for it will appear as their own faults; but, at the same time, I do not trust to that upon all occasions; it might fail, and then we should have to take some unpleasant steps to get rid of them, which is certainly easily done, but unpleasant.”

“Yes, yes, certainly,” replied the mother; and then suddenly, as a knock and ring came upon the door, Margaret said, “Dear me, who is that?—I hope none of these people whom I have been speaking about—it will be a dreadful nuisance to all; especially when I am to be married in three days more.”

“You needn’t be seen, Margaret; I’ll see them.”

“Do, ma; and I’ll go up stairs. But let’s hear who it is first, who comes to-day.”

At that moment she heard the door open, and her own name pronounced, and at once knew the speaker, and she said to her mother,—

“Oh, ma, ’tis Miss Twissel, my bridesmaid; what an infliction! but, then, I must see her. She has come, I suppose, to consult me about some new gown, or the way in which she and her friend will have their hair done up on the occasion—nothing more important, I dare say.”

“Very well, my dear; they had better come in—send them in pray,” she added to the servant. “Oh, Miss Twissel, how glad we are to see you.”

“Now, really,” said Miss Twissel; “how kind you are, for I am sure you speak the truth. Oh, Margaret, don’t you feel all of a flutter?”

“I don’t, indeed; I am very comfortable. I hope you are all quite well—don’t put yourself out of the way on this occasion; you need not, I assure you.”

“Oh, I have got my pa to give us new gowns, and some lace; but I did not mean to tell you that—I and Martha had agreed that that should be a secret between us; that we should not say anything about it to any one; but surprise you on your wedding morning.”

“Ah, you have been at a great deal of trouble and expense about this affair, I am sure. You really must not think I wish you to do all this; I really don’t know how to scold you enough, for I shall be dressed very plainly indeed.”

“Oh, but then you are the bride—we ain’t, you know, and that makes the difference; besides which, we have a visitor come up to London to see us.”

“Indeed! some young gentleman, I suppose, whose heart you want to run away with, and so have another wedding, and upon your own account this time; and, perhaps, you are helping Miss Martha to a husband. What is he—a physician or a divine?”

“Neither—but, I will tell you, he is only an old man.”

“An old man! What a sweetheart you have chosen, to be sure! but, I dare say you have your reason as well as other people. But have you known him long?”

“No, we haven’t done so; but, the fact is, pa’ and he have had some business together, and they are very much in each others company. He’s a man, however, of great rank, though a very odd man to talk to, I assure you, but a man of rank and property.”

“Indeed! Oh, tell me what he is—a lord?”

“Well, he is not much short of it; and he is higher than a great many lords, I assure you. Why, he’s no less than an admiral—only, I wasn’t to say anything about it.”

“Oh, will he be with you when my marriage takes place?”

“Yes, he will; and I wanted to know, as he will be much with my father, and as a visitor, shall we be intruding to bring him here to grace your wedding?”

“Oh, yes; by all means,” said Margaret, who thought the presence of an old man could in no way interfere with any of her schemes; besides, a man of rank, such as an admiral, would greatly increase the noise of her marriage. Indeed, here was probably a new acquaintance with whom she could be intimate; besides, it was some one of consequence on her side that the great man was to come, and would, she thought, add some lustre to herself.

“Well, then, I would not ask him until I had seen you, because it might turn out you would be displeased; and, as I have not done so, I cannot tell you whether he will come or not. He’s a strange man, and I won’t ask him until the night before.”

“Very well; we shall be quite happy to see him. I dare say he’ll come, if you tell him who’s going to be married. Indeed, if he’s likely to come, I’ll invite a few friends to meet him; but I won’t say anything to anybody about it.”

“No; let it be a surprise to them all; and let nobody know whom they are going to meet.”

“That will be delightful, certainly—very delightful. What a surprise it will be to them to be introduced to colonel this and admiral that. I declare I long for the day on account of the confusion that some persons will be in.”

“I must now bid you good bye; for I’ve got to call upon my dressmaker, to give her some orders.”

“You will stop and take tea with us? Surely you won’t run away.”

“Oh, but I must,” said Miss Twissel, and so said Miss Martha, and after much pressing and refusing, they parted, and left Margaret filled by other thoughts than those she had so recently held.

“Ma’,” said she, after a long pause, “do you know what I have been thinking of?”

“No, my dear, I do not.”

“Well, then, it is this, that after all, we may as well make a bit of a figure for the last time. That we will have some friends who will figure upon that occasion and no other.”

“What makes you think so, my dear Margaret?”

“Why, you see, ma’, we are likely to have a distinguished visitor, and we may as well have as many as we can; their number and dresses will look well, and as we shall leave town immediately, I don’t see that we shall be at any future time annoyed by their visits. Indeed, it will be retiring from their society after giving them a feast.”

“Well, to be sure, I never thought of that,” said her mother—“I never thought of it. What shall we do now—how can we provide for so many?”

“Send an order to a pastry cook to provide breakfast for so many, whether they come or not, and then we need trouble ourselves very little about giving them time. If we tell them about the day before, they will have all in readiness for us.”

“Well, well—and as for the expense, it will be of no consequence.”

“None,” said Margaret. “I shall be able to pay that and others, if we owe any. But now comes the job of inviting visitors, and we must only invite those who will make up a show, dress well, and pass off on the occasion for fashionable people.”

“Oh, as for that, there are many people who never had a penny in their lives to call their own, may be very fashionable-looking people, and pass for men of a thousand a year, to say nothing of a lord looking like a workman, and the like, which is common enough.”

“Then we’ll settle it at that point, ma’, and you had better superintend the invitations and the other affair—the breakfast, I mean.”

“Very well, my dear; you know that I have no objection. I have seen such occasions before, and I well know what they ought to be; therefore you may safely rely upon my judgment in such an affair as that at least.”

“And about the selection of friends—visitors, I mean.”

“That you may also leave to me,” said Mrs. Meredith; “and, depend upon it, I will not invite one party whom we shall have cause to say we are sorry they came; though, you know, every allowance would be made for them by the colonel or admiral, if he come. By the way, I would not tell the colonel a word about it, for sometimes the land service hates the sea service, and the latter often laugh at the former; so it will be safest to say nothing.”

“No, ma, I won’t—I didn’t intend to do so.”

Thus both mother and daughter had suddenly changed their views of what was to take place on the day of the intended marriage. They were now resolved they would have as many of their old friends as they could get together upon the occasion, to cause the affair to go off with all the eclat that it was possible; it would be the last ball of the season—that is, it would be the last she ever intended to give them, and that would be the last occasion upon which they would meet.

Her respect for Miss Twissel was augmented by the knowledge that she had an admiral for a friend or a visitor, it didn’t matter which. Who could tell what might happen? Mightn’t Miss Twissel marry an admiral, as ugly as she was, as well as she should a colonel? but there were many reasons why she should. She, too, might have had some means of entangling his heart; perhaps, after all, she only came there with him for the purpose of showing him off.

“At all events,” said Margaret, to herself; “at all events, he is one that we can keep on terms with; and it will look well to be acquainted with some person of rank. I am, at all events, well pleased it has happened as it has.”

Mrs. Meredith, on the other hand, appeared to think her daughter’s marriage with a colonel, ought to be celebrated by no common rejoicings; that, indeed, the marriage ought to go off with as much disturbance to the whole neighbourhood, as it was possible to make.

This could not be better effected than in the manner we have referred to; namely, inviting a number of persons to come and be present at the ceremony, and to take a late breakfast, and to wish the bride joy, to see her depart, and then to lose sight of her, as she hoped, for ever.

This purpose Mrs. Meredith ably carried out, and she succeeded in inviting about two or three-and-twenty persons together; and any person who had a carriage and would come in it, was sure of an invitation—that was a passport to the marriage feast.

“Well,” she muttered to herself, as she reckoned up the number of persons whom she expected to be present upon the occasion—“well, I don’t think I have omitted any one who ought to be present, nor have I invited any one who ought not to be here. I shall have a busy day of it—very busy day; but the result is everything; so long as the marriage takes place, and we are really married to an East Indian colonel, why we shall do, there can be no doubt of it.”

This was a consolatory reflection. There was but little else, indeed, that could be done—little, indeed. The cook had the orders for the entertainment the next day; they had but little to do in the household with that; indeed, they had extra hands, lest there should be any need of them, as she would not have anything go wrong upon such an occasion, for worlds.

But there was one thing that gave her some satisfaction, and that was, Mr. Twissel had not been to them lately to give any doubtful counsels; ever since she had announced her intention of permitting the marriage to take place, he had not been to express any doubts about the matter; but had been a mere spectator, doing all that was necessary. He had forgotten all objection, and never made one. He was perfectly quiescent; but would now and then look very hard at the colonel, but that was all; he never discovered anything, and all was smooth and pleasant.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter CXLII

THE WEDDING MORNING.—DISRUPTION OF HARMONY, AND THE NEW ACQUAINTANCE.—THE CONCLUSION.

Accident, strange to say, had taken our old acquaintance, Admiral Bell, to the house of a lawyer, there to transact some business, as well as to lodge at his house. The fact was, the old admiral hearing that a brother officer was in trouble—one who had shared with him the dangers of the sea and the fight—he came to town to see, himself, what could be done; and finding the affair beyond his comprehension, or, at least beyond his power of personal interference; that, in fact, it required the aid of a third party, and that third person must, of necessity, be a lawyer, he determined to employ the man who happened to be conversant with the circumstances of the case, and this was no other than Mrs. Meredith’s friend, Twissel.

However, the admiral’s good will towards the race who follow the law, not being so great as his philanthropy, he determined to watch every stage of the proceedings, and to permit nothing to be done without his knowledge, and to see that nothing was neglected.

Hearing from Mr. Twissel the affair that was to take place, a sudden crotchet entered his head, that he should like to be present at the ceremony, and he broached it to Mr. Twissel, who turned to his daughter to ascertain if it were at all possible.

That young lady was desirous of shining among her acquaintances, as one who could introduce an admiral, and who did not like the idea of Margaret Meredith being so fine a lady as she now attempted to make herself appear; indeed, she would have been willing to have assisted in raising her some species of mortification; she felt more than true pleasure in the disaster that would be the cause of such feelings. There was a very general dislike to Miss Margaret Meredith, and the truth was, she was much more than usually arrogant and proud, and took all imaginable methods of vexing and mortifying those around her.

But there is little to be said about that; the consent was brought back to the attorney, who felt somewhat elated at it, and communicated it to the admiral, with some remarks upon the kindness and condescension of the persons who had done him so much honour.

This, however, only had the effect of drawing from the admiral, the word, swab, and then he became silent and did not appear to be at all taken aback by the knowledge that an East India colonel was the bridegroom on the occasion, and one of very large property and singular behaviour.

The evening before the marriage was a busy one. The young ladies had to arrange and to re-arrange all their finery; and the bride herself had the task of seeing how she became her bridal dress, to do an infinity of other little matters, and to contemplate the change that was about to take place in so short a period. A few hours more, and she would become a wife.

The colonel, himself, did not in the least fall off in his ardour; he was particularly anxious it should, on no account, be delayed after the day fixed. A later day he appeared to have the utmost objection to; indeed, he declared he would do anything if it came but a day or two earlier.

However, this was considered impossible, and the young lady was permitted to have her way, though it was expressly stipulated that it should not be an hour after the appointed time, for he declared himself dying with impatience to call her his own.

“Now, ma,” said Margaret, as she sat talking to her mother the night before; “now, ma, I hope you will not give any of these people countenance when I am gone, and throw off their acquaintance; you will be firm on this point for my sake.”

“I will, my dear,” said Mrs. Meredith, “I will.”

“Then, when I come back, I shall know more of the colonel’s mind about where we shall live, and how we shall live. He must let me have something handsome; I have no doubt but what he will; he does not appear to be a close-handed man, quite the reverse; and, all things considered, we shall be able to make a very agreeable living out of it.”

“Why, yes, my dear, I cannot doubt it; he is, no doubt, a man of property and can well afford us enough, and some sum as pin-money; indeed, he is too liberal now to be otherwise by and bye; perhaps he will keep on this house, and pay for proper domestics, and keep a carriage. What a change it will be for us all, and how the neighbourhood will stare!”

“Yes, ma, they will; but suppose we were to reside out of town, we should have our carriage driving into town, as a matter of course, and now and then sleep in town when we made up a party, or went to the theatre.”

“Yes, my dear. What time shall you see the colonel in the morning?”

“Not before I am ready to go.”

“To church? Well, but you will have some breakfast with him?”

“No, he will be in his own room, I dare say, till late; he will scarce present himself before the time has come to start; you know his habits, he does not get up very early, and I do not expect to see much alteration. At eleven o’clock we are to be at church. We breakfast at nine, you know, so we shall have time.”

“Oh, he is sure to be down to breakfast, there can be no doubt about that; indeed, he must be called for the purpose; of course, there must be some deviation from a regular rule upon extraordinary occasions like the present.”

“Well, well, there may be; but have you given all the invitations you intended to give?—and have you got any answers to them so as to ensure their attendance?”

“Oh, yes, that is all safe and fixed; we shall have a good many here by half-past eight in the morning, at the latest; but you must contrive to let me have money very soon, or to send me some up, as I am getting very short, for I have laid out a great deal of money lately, and much more than I could, under other circumstances, spare or afford.”

“Of course, ma, you will not lose anything by this; I shall take care of you; not a penny that you have laid out but what shall be repaid, and with a handsome return; but do not think about this, it grows late and I must to sleep.”

“Do, my dear, and I’ll wake you in time in the morning.”

• • • • •

The morning came, and some of them were about early. Mrs. Meredith was up, and so was Margaret. She could not lie so late as usual. She had done much, and yet she had so much to do still. It was really astonishing to see what there was to do—no one would have believed it, and even Margaret became surprised.

The morning was now fairly come; the servants were about in the house, and the neighbours were up and about; she could hear her mother chiding and scolding; she could hear the sound of her voice, and she began to believe there was now no time to lose.

The hour of nine was now gone. The knocker and the guests had been heard for the last half hour at the door, and she could hear the voices of the guests below, some of whom spoke audibly enough; then they soon after descended to the breakfast-room, which, by the way, was the drawing-room, as there was not enough room below.

The colonel, at the same moment, entered the room, and a vast number of congratulations were given and received, from side to side, with the utmost urbanity and good will. The colonel, for the first time, had thrown on one side the green shade which he usually wore, but he looked remarkably pale, though he had still the looks of a hearty and healthy man.

The paleness, which seemed to be constitutional, was very extraordinary; but that was explained by the colonel saying, that he had been so ever since he had the yellow fever, which had had that effect upon his complexion.

There was much rejoicing at the occurrences that were now in progress; everybody praised the viands; everything was of the best and first-rate quality, and there were many attendants, which made it so much the better and the more comfortable, as everybody had an abundance of everything.

Mrs. Meredith now shone in the greatest triumph; there was none so great and grand. She patronized everybody, and appeared remarkably condescending, considering she was the mother of a daughter who was about to marry a retired East India service colonel. There were few who did not understand fully the nature of the condescension of the lady herself; besides, she was the presiding goddess of the feast.

Among those who had been invited was the Miss Smith and Mr. Smith. This was the young lady who had been so terrified at the attack that had been made upon her the first night that Colonel Deverill lodged there, and on that night he was so terribly vexed and disturbed.

Mrs. Meredith had invited them, because they were people of means, and Miss Smith could not now do any mischief, because the colonel was pledged to Margaret too far to retract; and as there were several young females, why, the more the better, because it would divert his attention.

Miss Smith, however, came out of curiosity, and because it was a wedding party, which is the delight and admiration of all young females, and Miss Smith was no exception. Mr. Smith was civil and polite, and hid his internal dislike to the colonel, which he felt and could not account for it; neither did his daughter—she had a great aversion to him, but at the same time suppressed it.

The colonel was courtly and complimentary, and made civil speeches to such as spoke to him; indeed, he never for a moment lost his self-possession; he stood in a less stooping posture than usual, and he was considered a tall, handsome man—a fine man.

“Mr. Twissel,” said the colonel, “I am happy to see you—especially gratified to see you—you will be witness of my happiness to-day—you will mark my progress in this affair, and learn what lesson it may teach. That is the way we should pass through life, Mr. Twissel, is it not? Gain knowledge by experience, and become, in old age, a wise man.”

“Why, yes; oh, yes,” said Twissel, who felt there was something in the remark that touched him to the quick, and he winced under the smart; but he thought it might have been accidentally given, and the colonel was quite ignorant of his disasters; and yet it was a very home thrust, without any previous introduction to it, that made it all the more uncomfortable, and he merely replied,—

“I am happy to see you, Colonel Deverill, and to see you so happy, and the young lady, who, I am sure, deserves to be happy; in fact, I think you both deserve happiness; I am sure, I wish you every imaginable joy, and it gives me great pleasure in seeing it.”

“I am sure you do, sir; but you do not seem to eat and enjoy yourself.”

“I am so occupied in witnessing the felicity of others, that I had forgotten it; moreover, I expect a friend to be present who happens to be late; he is quite a stranger to all present, and therefore I wished to countenance him as much as I could on that account.”

“Then I will not press you now; perhaps you’ll do me the favour of introducing your friend to me when he comes, yourself, and I shall be most happy to receive him.”

“Thank you, colonel, you do me much honour; I will accept of your great kindness, and do myself the pleasure of presenting him to you, and to Miss Meredith, whom I hope to see soon changed in name.”

“I hope the time will now be very short. What hour is it?”

“Half-past nine,” said the attorney, consulting his watch.

“At eleven we must be at the church. Well, if we leave at half-past ten, then we shall be there in ample time; I would it were over and that we were on our journey.”

“Ah! you are impatient, colonel,” said Margaret, as she came up to him.

“My dear angel!” replied Deverill, bowing, “how could I be otherwise when you are the object of my affections? It is not impatience to leave this good company—quite the reverse. But it is because the change of scene, travelling, and change of air will do you much good, and is, I can see, quite necessary for you.”

“I think it will do me no harm,” said Margaret; “but here comes ma, who really looks tired.”

“Well, my dear, I am a little fatigued, but you know I shall have ample time to recover myself. I shall have nothing to disturb my repose.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Meredith!” said the colonel; “I am sure we must alter that; we must find some other kind of employment for you, and not suffer you to remain hidden at home. You have catered so well for us this morning, that I am sure you are a most valuable acquisition to a household; with such a superintendence as yours, we should have everything in the utmost plenty, and at the proper moment.”

“Ah, colonel! you are flattering—you are.”

“We shall soon show that we are not flattering, I hope,” said the colonel. “My dear madam, you are the life and soul of the whole company. What should we have done without you? I hope all our friends here are happy and comfortable. I do not know them well enough to pay them all that attention and respect they deserve.”

“Exactly, colonel; they all know that well enough, and are fully alive to the honour you do them in being present in the midst of them.”

“Who is that young lady who was looking here just now?” inquired the colonel.

“Who? the young lady with the elderly gentleman by her side?”

“Yes; I should like to be introduced to her,” said the colonel.

“Oh! certainly,” said Mrs. Meredith, vexed in her own heart that she had invited her and her father, now, for she had no wish that any one present should be future acquaintances; but there was no help for it; she must introduce them, and accordingly she went up, with the best grace she could put on, to them both, to request they would be introduced to the colonel, who desired the honour of their acquaintance.

There was no hesitation, of course, and they at once advanced to meet him, and were introduced to the colonel as Miss and Mr. Smith.

“I am most happy to see you, sir,” said the colonel; “and the young lady here is your daughter, I can see, by the family likeness she bears to you.”

Miss Smith, however, could not repress a convulsive shudder as she looked upon the colonel. It might have been his complexion, or it might have been that his features brought some terrible recollections to her mind; but she could not, for a moment or so, speak.

“The young lady is ill!” said the colonel, who noticed the emotion.

“What is the matter, Clara, my dear?” said Mr. Smith; “what’s the matter—you are ill?”

“No, no,” said Miss Smith; “it was a—a—sudden—sudden dizziness that came across me. I dare say I shall be better by and bye. I am sorry it should have come upon me now.”

“Ah! my dear young lady,” said Colonel Deverill, drawing himself up to his full height, and looking gravely, but speaking with the utmost courtesy, “you have nothing to regret respecting the occasion; the illness itself is a matter of regret to us all, I am sure; however, let us hope it will be but temporary, and that you will be able to wish me joy, and my beautiful bride.”

“You see, Colonel Deverill, ever since the night she was disturbed by the strange attack of what she believes to have been a vampyre, or something that had the form of a man, and a taste for blood, she has been affected thus.”

“Dear me!” said the colonel; “what a shocking thing—a very shocking affair! I think perhaps, the young lady is subject to illness,” and he touched his forehead, as much as to intimate an insinuation that the young lady might be somewhat affected in her intellects.

“No, sir; quite the reverse,” said her father. “I myself saw a tall, gaunt figure gliding away, which felled me in an instant, and I lay half a minute stunned.”

“God bless me!” said the colonel; “this affair is quite romantic! If a German writer had such material by him, what would he not make of it?”

There had been a loud knocking at the door, and some one announced; but nobody took any notice of it. Colonel Deverill did not hear it, but stood talking to Mr. Smith; while Admiral Bell was introduced by Mr. Twissel, who led him towards the group, explaining what had happened.

“By G—d!” said the admiral; “d’ye see how they are crowding about the poor girl? Why, they’d extinguish a fire—if there was one! Why don’t you give the young woman air? If you don’t stand on one side, I’ll put a whole broadside into you, as I would into a Frenchman!”

This singular address produced an immediate sensation, and many moved away.

“Colonel Deverill,” said Mr. Twissel, “allow me to introduce my friend Admiral Bell to you. Admiral Bell, this is Colonel Deverill.—Eh?—oh!—eh?”

These latter exclamations were uttered in consequence of the extreme surprise depicted on the countenances of both parties. Admiral Bell’s surprise was nothing out of the way; but that of Colonel Deverill was a matter of consternation to many of them. He stepped back a pace or two, and then his lips parted, as though he would speak, but he could not; he panted—his eye glared, and his nostrils dilated.

“Shatter my mainmast—upset the cabouse—turn my state-cabin into a cockpit, and the quarter-deck to a gambling-booth to the whole ship’s company!”

“What’s all this about?” exclaimed Mrs. Meredith.

“Oh, that odious man!—who is he?—what is——”

“Why, ma’am, I’m old Admiral Bell; very well known for having beaten the French, and the terror of all vampyres. Why, look at the swab—but you ain’t going to get off this time!”

“What is the matter, dear colonel?” said Margaret. “You are ill—speak—what is the matter?”

“Ah!” said the admiral; “let him speak, and he’ll tell you he’s no colonel, and his name ain’t Deverill, or, if it be, it ain’t his only name; he is Varney the vampyre!”

“A vampyre!” said Miss Smith, starting up with a shriek; “a vampyre! Good heavens! I was not mistaken, then; that must be the man!” and she sank back in her father’s arms.

“What! has he been at any of his tricks again!” exclaimed the admiral, and he made a stride towards, him; but Varney—for it was he—avoided him by stepping aside, and placing some other person between himself and the admiral, and then he said,—

“What this madman will say you will not listen to—you——.”

“Madman! well, I’m hanged; call me mad!” said the admiral. “I wish I had my sword by my side, and I would teach you how a madman can fight; but you are not going; I have something to say to you first. If he’s going to marry that young lady, all I can say is, she will be food for him—she’ll never live till to-morrow; her blood will make his pale face ruddy!”

Varney stood no longer; but seeing many around him who appeared to have an inclination to stop his passage, he suddenly made to the door, which he secured for a moment on the outside, and then in another he was clear of the house.

This was no sooner done, than all present, who were staring at each other in mute amazement, and unable to account for what had happened, looked at the new comer, the admiral, who immediately began to relate enough of Varney that made it apparent to all present that he was not what he represented himself to be.

• • • • •

Amid the commiserations of their friends, and their jeers, Mrs. Meredith sold all her furniture, and, with her daughter, retired to some little place, where they opened a small shop, to eke out a living by such means. They were unable even to pay many debts they had contracted on account of this marriage, and they were, moreover, ashamed to be seen by their former acquaintance.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter CXLIII

A SCENE IN WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL.—THE CATHEDRAL ROBBERS.—A STORM.—THE VAULTS BENEATH THE AISLE.—THE FLIGHT OF THE ROBBERS, AND THE RESUSCITATED CORPSE.

The sun had long deserted the horizon, and the good city of Winchester had been buried in darkness many hours; while the moon, though high in her course, was obscured by the hazy clouds that drifted from the south-west. The gusty winds whistled round the walls of the cathedral church, producing an unpleasant sensation, with a foreboding of a coming storm.

The inhabitants of the quiet, orderly town, were steeped in repose, and a stranger who might by chance have wandered at such an untoward hour abroad, would not have found one single ray from any window; save, perhaps, at one or two hotels, which merely keep open till the London mail passed through, lest any passengers should make their stay at Winchester.

Save at these places, all were reposing peaceably in their beds; and the tower of the cathedral frowned majestically upon the tombstones below, and upon the surrounding buildings, which appeared to peep upon the limits of the grave-yard; while the fir trees that were yet standing bent beneath the blast, as it swept across the low walls, by which the cathedral on one side is bounded.

But the solitary churchyard was not without its occupants, living or dead; for its sanctity is invaded by the presence of three men, who emerge from the narrow streets and courts situated between it and the cross, and then crossing beneath the shade of some object, they stood beneath the low wall which surrounded the churchyard.

They paused for several moments, and gazed around them in every direction, and up at the houses that were nearest to them; but there was no sign of light or anything stirring in any of the houses adjacent.

“I think all is right to-night,” said one of the men to his companions.

“Ay, right enough; there will be nobody near us to-night.”

“No,” replied a third; “and if the signs of the weather are good for anything, why, we shall have a rough night; and though that is unpleasant, yet it makes interruptions less likely, and success more certain.”

“You are right, Josh; we shall have a good job this time.”

“There, then, that will do until we are safe; it’s no use talking here; if the old watchman comes round, we may have to book it, and then we may not have a chance.”

“Ha, ha, ha! as for the old watchman, he is not the fool you take him to be, if you imagine him at all likely to disturb himself on such a night as this; he’ll sleep in his box till he wakes and finds it is fine.”

“Well, be that as it may,” said the other, impatiently, “it is all right now.”

“Yes, all right.”

“Then just help me over, and I’ll get down on the other side, while one of you can get up on the wall and hand the tools down to me.”

“Can’t you throw them over?”

“I could, but it is not worth while to make any noise, even though we felt sure that it will not be heard. There have been most strange things done in our time, you know, and there is no telling what may happen.”

“Ah, the dead may come to life, Josh.”

“So they might; and a pig might fly, but, as they say, it is a very unlikely bird.”

“Well, then, up with you.”

As he spoke, one of the men gave one of his companions a lift up, and with this aid he got on the wall, and then quietly slipping down into the burial-ground, he awaited his companions, one of whom immediately mounted the wall in the same manner, and who received a bag, which he handed down to his comrade, who was in the graveyard belonging to the cathedral.

“Well, is all right?” he said.

“Yes, all right; don’t stay up there like a cat on a wall; come down, or you may by chance be seen.”

The other two men immediately came over the wall, and they all three collected round a monument that stood up, and here a short consultation took place.

“Now, how shall we proceed?”

“We must get into the vaults somehow or other, if we dig our way in, which I think is much the most easily done.”

“What! undermine the building?”

“Scarcely so much as that.”

“Well, but we can get into the body of the cathedral, and then into the vaults that way. There is a door.”

“Yes, there is a door, but it is so close to the verger’s door, that you are sure to awake him.”

“I have opened more than one door in my time, and yet I never awoke anybody in doing so; he must sleep wonderfully light.”

“Ay, so he may; but in this case the door is so strong that there is no chance of breaking it open, without great inconvenience and noise; there is no room to work in, and, moreover, the verger keeps a little cur always sleeping on the mat close to his door, so that no one can approach without his giving alarm.”

“What a brute!”

“Yes; but there is a means of entering besides that.”

“Where—and how?”

“In the back of the cathedral there is a large marble slab, on which is carved some letters, that I never could make out; but I’m told it says that somebody lies buried underneath that stone, but I know immediately below are the vaults.”

“Well, but the marble you speak of would weigh fourteen or fifteen hundred weight, which would be no joke.”

“No, by Jove,” said his companion; “we had better by far dig our way in, since we shall have so much difficulty in getting in; we can soon dig out soil enough to let us get down into the vaults.”

“Well, we had better set to work at once, lest we lose all chance. If we have a long job, we had better set to work early, as well as stop here, for if we are surprised we shall have to run.”

“And the yard will be watched ever afterwards, as sure as we shall have a storm presently.”

“So we shall. Work away, Josh; where are the tools?”

“Here they are,” said the man, throwing the bag down and opening it; and then he pulled out some tools, consisting of pickaxe and shovels, and a crowbar or two, and several other little materials, which were useful upon such occasions.

“Well, now, where shall we commence?”

“Just at the side here; we are safe to get in somewhere where the wall is weakest, for I believe the vaults are all walled in.”

“They must be, to have a secure foundation for such a weight as there must be about it; and, to my mind, we have got a decent job. It’s very much like a fortress, and if it was easy to get in this way, we should hear of such things being done much oftener than they are, that is my opinion.”

“And a very good opinion it is, too, until another is heard; but it is no use being faint-hearted; the harder the job, the harder we ought to set at it, that’s all; but there are some few things not thought of by others, you know, and it is sometimes the hardest thing in the world to think of the most simple.”

“There’s some truth in that.”

The men having found the spot they most desired, they set about digging and picking it up in good earnest; but it was difficult work, and the soil about the cathedral was very hard, owing to the quantity of rubbish that had been driven or trodden into the earth for centuries, either through accident or design, to harden and secure the permanency of the work around. There were many heavy and large stones, as well as small broken stones; also, flint in no small quantity, that every now and then resisted the blows of the pick.

“Well, I’m thinking we have all three worked half an hour, and have not got a foot deep yet.”

“We have not got much deeper, certainly.”

“Do you think we shall get in to-night?”

“To-night or never,” said the third man.

“You are right, comrade; shoulder your picks and then we shall see what way we can make in another half hour. Who can tell? we may come to a softer soil below; this is only the filling up.”

The men again set to work heartily, but they seemed to have no success—they could not make anything of it; it appeared to resist all their efforts; and the sparks often flew from the blows they made with their tools.

The perspiration ran down their faces, and as they paused to wipe their foreheads, they gazed upwards at the clouds. It was heavy, and the wind was blowing fresh, and now and then a heavy spot of rain.

“By St. Peter,” said one of them, “I expect we shall have a storm presently. I already feel the heavy drops that fall occasionally; and if one may judge by them of what we may expect, we shall have it heavily.”

“So much the better; we shall have less interruption.”

“Well, I don’t know what you call interruption, but this is a complete stopper; I can’t make any impression with the pick, it is as hard as rock; and then comes some of those old walls that are rather harder than granite—you may as well pick at a cart-load of pig iron.”

As this was said, the clouds suddenly appeared to open, and such a deluge of rain descended, that the earth seemed to smoke. The drops appeared to be continuous small spouts of water—a shower is too mild a word—it was a deluging, as if some waterspout had burst.

The men stood a moment or two, but it was useless to work; they could not do it, and they rushed to a part of the wall which sheltered them from the fury of the storm that was raging.

“Well, I never saw anything like this before.”

“Nor I. Hark at the thunder! There’s a flash! Who would have expected that at this season of the year?”

“Not I.”

“Nor any one else; but it seems to me as if we were to be defeated to-night. I am sorry we made the attempt, since we are sure to find the yard watched after this, for they will see what we have been up to.”

“Yes, it is vexing, but we cannot help this; it is quite impossible to do anything in such weather as this. I do not care about a wet jacket, but I cannot see, and hardly breathe, with so much falling water about me.”

“Nor I; but yet I am loth to give it up; consider the jewellery and money he had about him—it will pay us handsomely.”

“Well, it was a strange start of him, at all events. I wonder how he came to be buried in such a manner—how was it?”

“I don’t know. All I know is, that the thing was kept secret because it was considered that it would be a temptation to disturb any grave when it was known that he was buried in his clothes and jewellery, and that his money was buried also with him. It was certainly a temptation I could not resist.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes; I will tell you, another time, how I came to know all about it; indeed, I saw him screwed down, and the consequence is, I know that he has the money and valuables about him.”

“Then I am sure we had better get into the church itself; we can do more with your slab of marble than on the outside of the wall. And besides that, I do not think that this rain will give over; the hole we have already made is fast filling up with water, and we shall find it impossible to work.”

“So we shall. What do you say to getting inside the cathedral?”

“Agreed, my lads; as quickly as you like; for, if we stay here much longer, we shall certainly be drowned. I’m wet through as it is.”

“So am I; but never mind, my boys, bright gold and jewels will warm your hearts, and that will keep your outsides dry, or at least you will not feel it. I am sure that I should not if I can but get it.”

“Ay, that is all I care about; but, if you get foiled, you may depend upon it you don’t feel any the better—you are rather worse, and feel everything more; but what do you say to yon window?”

“That will do if we can reach it; that is my only difficulty.”

“That is one that is easily overcome,” said his companion, “for I know where the ladder is, and that is just over our heads; all you have to do is to put the point of the crow-bar under the staple to which the chain is fastened that secures it, and then you have the means at once of entering.”

“But if we get in and are detected, how shall we get out again?”

“Are we not three to one? If the old verger should come, I think we could make a dead body of him in a very short while; and I cannot tell where you will be if you can’t get the better of the old man.”

“Well, say no more about it; up with the ladder, and we will get in and chance it. Such a night as this, it would be strange, indeed, if anybody heard us; but, as there is much to be got, why, we can’t grumble at the risk.”

The three men set to work about wrenching the staple out to which was attached a chain which secured the ladder. That was soon effected, and the ladder placed against one of the lowermost windows, and then one of the men went up, and forcing the window open said, after he had looked in,—

“All right—come up. We have got to a right place.”

They all three came up one after another, when the first up crept in at the open aperture, and by means of ornamental work, and a monument that there projected from the wall in a manner that enabled them to descend with ease, and in a few moments more the whole three stood in the old cathedral of Winchester.

At that moment the bell tolled heavily the hour of twelve. The sound was solemn, and it made a deep impression upon the robbers.

“What a dismal, hollow sound that has, to be sure,” said one.

“Yea; it sounded like tolling.”

“Pshaw!” said one of them; “’tis no matter—if it be tolling, it is not for us, nor for the man we come to visit, so no more old women’s fears; if you don’t like stopping in this place, you had better set to work and be quick, when we shall have no further need of staying. Of what use is it for you to stare and gape about with white faces, and swelled eyeballs, like so many cats; be men—be active, and use your arms.”

“Well, where are we to use them? What are we to do? You brought us here, and yet you do not tell us what we are to do. You know all about this matter, and you cannot, or do not point out where we are to commence.”

“Here, then; on the very stone you are standing; set to work to raise this, and then we shall soon find our way into the vaults below, and we shall then satisfy ourselves for our trouble, and be well paid too, I hope.”

“I hope so, too, Josh; for, to tell you the truth, I don’t ever recollect so uncomfortable a job as that which I am in to-night.”

“Well, you ain’t got paid all, I’ll warrant.”

“I haven’t got paid at all, yet; but we waste time; lend me a pick. I don’t see how I am to get a tool in here. The chinks are all so small, that you can hardly put in the blade of a penknife.”

“There is a hole somewhere near the head. There is a small piece of black marble.”

“Yes; here it is.”

“Well, chip that out, and then you may insert a crow-bar, or pick, beneath the stone, when you will find that it will lift up, and then, by main strength, lift it back, and we may go down.”

These instructions were followed out. The black marble was discovered, and then knocked out, when a large crevice was discovered, into which a powerful crow-bar was immediately thrust; and then, by one united effort, they contrived to lift the marble slab up out of its place, though not above a foot, which required a great effort, when it is considered that it was imbedded in cement.

“Well, we shall be able to get it up now, I think.”

“Don’t be too sure, for we have not got it far—it is enormously heavy, and the lever has done all as yet.”

“Well, then, are you all ready? A long pull, you know, comrades, and a strong pull, does the business. Now, then, altogether.”

“Heave, ho!” whispered another, and they all three made a prodigious effort. It was not only a strong pull, but a very long pull, for the stone was so heavy, it came slowly and unwillingly upwards, and it was nearly three minutes before the enormous mass stood upright in the aisle.

“Well, I didn’t think it would have been done. That’s the hardest job that ever I had a hand in, and don’t desire to have such another, but yet, hard as it is, it is easier than what we had to do outside.”

“Yes, much, and you will soon find it is so. Lend a hand to clear away the rubbish that lies here; there’s a trap-door underneath that leads into the vaults; it belonged to the monks of old, of whom it is said it served either for the same purpose of burial, or for a cellar for wine.”

“Well, well, there are some things better than wine, I trow, in the cellar, now, if we can find the coffin; there has been no other burial in the vaults since he was buried, so we shall not have much trouble.”

“But what are we to do with the stone? If we let it down again, we shall do some mischief.”

“We must turn it corner by corner until we get it against the pillars, and there leave it; for if we let it down, it will go down like the report of a gun, and smash all that comes in the way.”

This was agreed to, and it was not long before they propped the heavy mass of stone against one of the pillars, and then returned to the place whence it had been raised, and began to clear away the rubbish, when a trap-door was plainly observable; and after much labour and force, they contrived to open the door, when there appeared a dark aperture, into which they could not look without some misgivings, for nothing could be seen.

“Well, who’s to go down?”

This was a question that no one liked to answer. And certainly no one would volunteer to go below. It was too dark to be inviting, and the men looked at one another as well as they could, for it was total darkness, or nearly so, in the aisle; and below, it was so utterly dark, that it was impossible to make out anything.

“What is to be done now? Have you got the lantern?”

“I have, and matches, but did not think we ought to use them before, lest we attract attention; however, we will have a light now, and should anybody look down, they will think there is a general meeting among the dead.”

So saying, he lit the lantern, which threw a light into the vault, and rendered visible a flight of steps that ran up to the opening, but which were invisible in the darkness that had reigned in the place.

“Now, then, jump down, and see where the last coffin is placed; it is easily known from all the others, for I don’t think there has been a burial here for many months—the old cathedral is not often disturbed for the reception of the dead, and only when some rich man dies and fancies he may lie more comfortable here.”

“Ay, rich men can afford to be buried in a good suit of clothes, and money in their pocket, to bribe St. Peter to open the gate.”

“Ha! ha! ha! well said; Peter has the keys.”

“Yes, and here we have the coffin.”

“Have we? Is this it?”

“Yes; don’t you see that it has all the signs of newness about it? There is hardly any dust collected upon it; here we shall find our treasure; the coffin is a strong one, and will, I think, take some trouble to break open.”

“Indeed! We shall be choked with the horrible stench which we have below. I can’t stand it another minute—I shall be sick.”

“Ay, and I too.”

“Here, then, I have the lantern. Lay hold of the coffin and bring it up stairs; we can carry it amongst us.”

“Ay, anything but remain here—that I cannot do.”

“Be quick, for confound me, but such a mass of putrid flesh as there must be here, is horribly sickly. I would sooner be hanged than pass an hour here.”

“I’m not so afraid of death as all that. I could manage to live through a night.”

“You might, but you would soon find out the ill effects, and die of some fever or other; and that is what we shall have, if we remain here much longer.”

The three men then shifted the coffin from its place, and then on to their shoulders, one at either end, and one under the centre.

The coffin was heavy—very heavy, and the men were tottering under their burden. They were strong men, but hardly equal to the task of carrying so dead a weight; but yet they never shrank from it, but, with slow and unsteady steps, they gradually neared the stairs that led upwards. They paused. If it was a task before, it was worse now. What more exertion could they make?

“Do you think the steps will hold us?” said one.

“I’m sure I cannot say; and perhaps not.”

“I think they are rotten, or partially so; what do you say? How shall we get the body up?”

“There is a rope, is there not?”

“Yes.”

“That will do then. I will get that; by its means we may hoist the coffin up to the stone pavement above. I’m almost sick.”

“And I too. This place is enough to breed a pestilence in a town.”

The smell in the vaults was certainly very strong and very pernicious. The fœtid odour that rose from the vaults was especially disagreeable; the smell that comes from the accumulated and putrefying remains of human bodies, is of all odours the most noisome, and, to our tastes, the worst.

Right glad were the men, who had propped the coffin up against the ladder, to get up into the aisle above, to breathe a less impure atmosphere. They gasped again; and one of them climbed up the monument, to get to the open window, at which they had entered, to inhale some of the pure moistened air; and then, after a few inspirations, he returned, at the call of his comrades to aid them.

The rope was procured and secured round the coffin, and one man remained below to guide it, while the two others remained above to haul up the rope, which would bring the body, coffin and all, to the top.

“Well, Josh, how goes the storm?”

“It is blowing over, I think; it does not rain, and it is breaking. I shouldn’t wonder if we don’t have moonlight after all, and, if we should, we shall have a trouble to get away unperceived.”

“You forget what hour it is.”

“Hark! there are the chimes.”

The four quarters now chimed from the great clock, and sounded solemnly and mournfully in the dead of the night. The iron tongue struck one, and the last sounds of the clock died away before any of the men moved or spoke.

“Well, we have been here an hour, and nearly two hours since our first commencement. It’s nearly time, I’m thinking.”

“Yes; haul tight at the rope—push up at the bottom there. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” said the man below.

“Heave ho!” called out the leader of the gang, in a low voice.

The two men at the top hauled at the rope, while he below pushed the coffin up with all his strength, and after a time they succeeded in causing it to rise about a foot, or something less, at each haul, and as it got higher, the man below could the better apply his strength to it, and at length it came up to the top.

Here, however, they experienced another difficulty. It was hard to pull up so high as to enable them to throw its weight on the pavement, and the rope was almost useless as a means of pulling it up higher, and the only one who had it in his power effectually to apply his strength, was the man below. However, after a while, to their great relief, the coffin lay fairly upon the stone pavement.

“A good job done!”

“So say I, Josh; and such another would completely finish me for the night. I might lie down and defy the world.”

“How about the coffin—there is no time to rest. I have a small flask of rum in my pocket, which we will discuss as soon as we have broken open the coffin, which I expect is the last hard job we shall have.”

“And a hard job it would have been, had I not come provided with a screwdriver—one that is used by undertakers in such work.”

“Set to work—good luck to you. I am quite dry, and quite tired too, and the sooner this is over the better. There, the screws come out easily enough, though they are long and hold firm.”

“Yes, they go deep; but they have a wide worm, that carries them down or brings them up so quickly.”

In a few minutes more the whole of the screws were drawn, and the lid of the coffin was thrown on one side, and the corpse was at once discovered to them. It lay calm and quiet; but yet it was terrible to look at. The living man had been tall—remarkably tall, as well as remarkable-looking.

He was dressed as if for walking. It was strange, the corpse was apparelled as if were in life; and this, perhaps, caused the extreme paleness—even extreme for a corpse—to be so apparent that they spoke not, but gazed in silence upon it, until at length one of them said,—

“Put out the light. We have the moon’s rays—at least there is enough to enable us to see what we want, and the light is dangerous.”

The light was put out, and the subdued light of the moon rendered all apparent enough to the robbers.

The storm had lulled and altogether ceased, while they had been busy in the vaults and getting up the body, and now it was a perfect calm. The moon, though obscured at the moment, promised to shed her rays upon the earth; and as it was at the full, and the clouds clearing off, the probability was that the town would become as light as day.

“There he is,” said one of the men.

“Yes; and about as ugly a chap as ever I saw.”

“He is no beauty; but he’s been a fine man.”

“If you mean tall, I dare say you are right; but he’s not fine as I take it. He’s not quite full enough about the chest and shoulders.”

“He’s got some fine rings, and a gold watch and chain. Well, there is a good ten or fifteen pounds each, and if his pockets are well lined, why, he will afford us a tolerable good booty.”

“Yes; we must not complain. Shall we replace all?”

“It is not possible to do so, either in time to enable us to escape, or to do it so as to escape detection. Besides, there would be no use in it. See how bright the moon is getting. We shall have as much to do as we shall get through to escape being seen. I am sure we shall run a great risk.”

“I think so too.”

“Well, then, commence proceedings. Ha!”

The moonbeams had fallen upon the corpse just as he was speaking, and he thought he observed a motion in the body.

“What is the matter, Josh?”

“Didn’t you think he moved.”

“Ha! ha! ha! dead! ha! ha! ha! dead moved—buried moved—ha! ha! ha! Eh? why—oh—it’s all fancy; you’ll see me believe it, presently. I do declare—well, a man dead and buried—I suppose a week.”

“No.”

“I think so——”

“Well, it does not matter much how long he has been buried; but he can’t move unless you move him. D——n!”

As he spoke he started to his feet, and his hair began to straighten, and his limbs quiver, and yet he appeared to think he might be mistaken; for he endeavoured to speak to his companions; pointing to the corpse, he contrived to say,

“I—’l—’l take the j—j—jewels; he—he—he moves.”

“Eh? Well, I told you I thought so, but you said no, and only laughed at me for doing so; but stand on one side, and let the moonlight come upon him, we can tell better then if he really does move; though, notwithstanding all I saw, I am inclined to believe it is quite an impossibility; but the more light we have the better we shall be able to tell how the mistake arose.”

“I thought I saw his eyes move.”

As he spoke he moved on the side, as he had been standing between the corpse and the moon’s rays, and for the most part intercepted them; but the moment that he did move away, and the rays came full upon the corpse, a shivering motion appeared to pervade it, to the intense horror of the robbers, who could not believe what they saw, but believed they were yet mistaken, though they were too much terrified to speak or even move. They stood gazing upon the body with bursting eyes and gaping mouth, as if they had suddenly become spell-bound by the wand of some magician.

Presently the corpse opened his eyes and glared full at them. Oh, such glistening, lead-like orbs, that froze the very current of their blood; they knew not what to think, but when the body turned on one side, towards the moon’s rays, all doubt vanished and the spell was broken.

“The devil, by —!” exclaimed Josh.

Not another word was uttered by either of the other two; but they sprang like emancipated madmen up the slippery sides of the monument, and out at the windows, as easily as a fly can run up a wall. It did not occupy more than a few seconds to enable them to clear the place. Half a minute had not elapsed before they stood shivering by the beautiful old cross, at Winchester.

• • • • •

The corpse in the cathedral, which mysteriously became animated when exposed to the moonlight, turned towards the moon’s rays and gazed upon the flying and terrified robbers, who had just exhumed him.

No word passed his lips, and he looked around him for some time in silence, upon the scene before him.

The moon came in at the tall windows of the cathedral, throwing long streams of silvery light upon the stone flooring, and upon some of the monuments that were erected by the pillars, or columns that rise to the roof.

All was silent, all was still—no movement was discernible, save in the form that now sat up, and leaned on his elbow in his coffin; and he but turned his head slowly from side to side, as though he were meditating upon the lovely and solemn beauty of the place.

At length he arose, but he appeared to move with extreme difficulty, and once or twice he placed his hand in the region of the heart, as if he felt something there that pained him, and tottered about; but seemed to recover himself a little after a time, and muttered to himself, in low but distinct tones,—

“I must have been another victim; I am weak, the vital action is languid, and my veins are empty; I must satisfy the instinct of my nature, and another victim must restore me to life and the world for a season.”

He looked up towards the window, gave one look around him and on the coffin, while a shudder passed though him; and then, gazing on himself and feeling for his valuables, he slowly clambered up the monument, and carefully got through the window, and thence into the open air, and he finally disappeared from Winchester churchyard.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter CXLIV

THE STAR HOTEL, AND THE STRANGER’S ARRIVAL.—A REMARKABLE COUNTENANCE.—THE ILLNESS AND DEATH OF THE STRANGER.—A STRANGE REQUEST COMPLIED WITH.

Some days previous to the scene related in the previous chapter, the London coach drove up opposite to the Star Hotel, and, as usual, out came a couple of waiters to see what there was from the metropolis, in the shape of a passenger, who might become an inmate of the hotel, and a customer, of course.

“Now, then, Billy,” said the guard, a stout, good-humoured fellow, to a very stiff and punctilious waiter, dressed in black, with a white neckerchief.

“My good friend, my name is William, if you must be familiar, though I am sure I don’t number you among my acquaintances.”

“Very good, Billy. I declare you are one of the politest waiters that is to be found between Portsmouth and London; ay, and more than that, you are the politest. Didn’t you say you were edicated among a lot of gals—young ladies, I mean?”

“I never held any discourse, relative to my early days, with you, my friend; I am not, just this moment, aware of it.”

“Ah! I see you are too polite to pass an east wind without taking your hat off to it; how do they when they have none?”

“Have you anybody for us?” said William, mildly.

“Yes, my pink, I have.”

“Who is he, and where is he? I must not waste my master’s time; it is an impropriety I am especially anxious to avoid.”

“You needn’t be in a hurry, nevertheless, especially as I see he is fumbling about for small change; but what will you say if I introduce a customer to you, a good six foot high, and perhaps a little to spare; and the colour of a well scraped horse-radish? Eh? what do you say to that, my primrose?”

William did not know what to say, but, after a moment’s hesitation, he said,

“We don’t charge our customers by the room they take, or by their personal appearance. A gentleman is a gentleman, Mr. Guard, all the same, whether he have a red face or a white one.”

“Well, that’s good, Billy; but the chief thing is, after all, of what colour is his money, and how he parts with it; eh?”

The guard winked and William’s impassive features were lit up with a spark of intelligence and vivacity, which, however, was only transient, and he relapsed into his old state of extreme and unimpeachable gentility.

“Hold your tongue, Billy; here he comes.”

At that moment the gentleman pulled down the window, and said to the guard,

“Open the door, if you please; I shall get out here.”

“Yes, sir,” said the guard, who immediately obeyed the injunction; and a tall, but awfully pale individual descended the steps, wrapped up in a huge cloak, so that but little of his person was seen, or features either; what little there was visible was not prepossessing by any means by the colour.

“This is the Star?” said the stranger, inquiringly.

“Yes,” said the guard.

“I’ll stop here. Are you the waiter?” said he, addressing William.

“I am, sir,” said William. “Will you walk this way, sir?”

“Yes; show me into a private apartment—let me have a good fire, for I am exceedingly cold.”

William immediately took him into a room where there was a fire, saying,—

“If you please to remain here, sir, we will make you a fire and warm the room; and, as you are cold, perhaps you will prefer this to going into a room without a fire there already lighted for your reception.”

“Certainly, I much prefer it.”

“Would you like to take any refreshment, sir?” inquired William.

“Not now,” replied the stranger, in mild accents.

William left the room, muttering to himself,—

“Well, he deserves to be a prince; he is as mild and gentlemanly as a prince. I vow I never heard any one speak in such a tone, and with so much amiable condescension. What a pity he is so white—at least, that he is so, I only infer from the nose, and part of the forehead and cheeks around the eyes—these being the only parts that I have noticed; he is, indeed, not much unlike, in colour, to the guard’s vulgar simile—a well scraped horse-radish. I never saw white so opaque and dead before.”

While those thoughts passed through the mind of William, he saw that the apartment was placed in readiness for the stranger’s reception, and placed himself in communication with the proprietor, and obtained his orders; he then returned to the stranger, and conducted him to his proper apartment, and then awaited his commands.

The stranger gave him some orders, which were at once executed, and then he said,—

“I shall sleep here, of course.”

“Yes, sir,” said William.

“I am very particular about my beds—I must have my bed well and thoroughly aired.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said William; “we always——”

“Never mind, never mind all that,” said the stranger, blandly. “Never mind all that; I know what you would say. All your beds are always aired. Well, be it so—I have no desire to dispute it—but I once slept in a damp bed—I fell ill, and have never entirely recovered from it.”

“Oh, that makes him look so horrible pale,” thought William.

“So you perceive, my friend, that I have cause to be particular, and, therefore, you will excuse me when I inquire minutely into the character of the beds.”

“Oh, certainly, sir—certainly, sir.”

“Then you will see that my bed is aired, will you not?”

“Yes, sir, I will take care that it is especially aired; and, if you approve of my doing so, sir, I will have a fire lit in your bed-room.”

“If you please. If you will do all this, you will greatly oblige me. Are there any females in the family?”

“Yes, sir; the servants,” said William, fearing some impropriety was meant.

“Oh, the servants; and no others?”

“None,” said William, quite suddenly.

“Oh, yes, that is right—none but the servants. Then my requests will not put you to any serious inconvenience?”

“Not in the least, sir,” said William, pleased to find that the females had only been inquired about for fear of annoying them.

The stranger sat up in his room, and appeared to be very ill, and ate and drank but little, though he ordered whatever was requisite for a liberal individual; and, though taken away untouched, yet it was clearly understood he would have to pay for it.

The bed was used and approved of, and the tall remarkable looking stranger expressed himself satisfied to the proprietor of the hotel, who came to inquire if he should desire anything more or different from what was already done.

This was at once answered in the negative, and the proprietor retreated by no means prepossessed in the stranger’s personal appearance, which was remarkable to a degree—that was noticed by every one in the hotel.

“Winchester is an old town—a city—sir,” said the proprietor, by way of entering into a conversation with his guest.

“Yes, very old,” said his guest.

“And the cathedral, sir, has been built in part ever since the Saxon times, and then increased by the Normans.”

“Ay, it is very beautiful; one could wish to lie there, it is so calm and beautiful,” said the stranger, with a shudder, which he endeavoured to suppress; and then he added, “The grave-yard is quiet and retired.”

“Yes, sir. You have been in Winchester before?”

“I have,” replied the stranger.

Finding any further attempt at conversation likely to appear intrusive, the landlord quitted the apartment with a bow, which was condescendingly returned by the guest, who folded his hands one over the other, and turned towards the fire, upon which he gazed thoughtfully for some time in silence.

The strange and ghastly-looking countenance of the stranger had created quite a sensation among the individuals at the hotel, all of them declaring they never heard of, or saw anything equal to it in all their lives. But what was it? How did it happen so? They had seen dead men, but they had never seen any so ghastly and so fearfully pale.

“He doesn’t seem long for this world,” said one of them.

“If you had said he didn’t belong to this world,” said another, “I should almost have been inclined to believe you.”

“He does look like a corpse,” added an old woman.

“Yes, and what a tooth he has projecting out in front. Upon my word I never saw his like.”

“And I,” said another, “never beheld such eyes. Why, he is scarcely human. Such eyes as those I scarcely wish to look at again.”

“He always appears to me to be in some dreadful agony,” said the cook; “he really looks as if he had a perpetual pain in his stomach, and had eaten something that had disagreed with him.”

There was some truth in this last assertion, for the stranger always did appear as if suffering from some internal pain—mental or physical, or both—and it was soon seen that he was rapidly losing strength, and could scarcely walk abroad.

The cause of all this none could tell; possibly, it was only a sudden illness, or perhaps it was a long affliction, to which he was used to, and hence the terrible expression upon his countenance, which appeared as if it had never been otherwise, so deep and so settled was the expression of pain.

• • • • •

The stranger appeared anxious to get out, but was unable to do so; he could just walk across the room several times in the day, but was unable to get down stairs; and whenever he attempted to do so, he sunk down, his limbs losing the power of sustaining his weight.

“I can go no further,” he muttered to himself, and he endeavoured to walk down stairs; “I am lost.”

As he spoke, a truly horrible expression came across his countenance, that made William, who came to his aid, step back terrified.

“You—you are ill, sir,” he said, in somewhat uncertain accents.

“I am ill,” he replied, “very ill.”

“Will you allow me to help you up, sir, to your room?”

“If you please,” said the stranger, who was endeavouring to rise by the aid of the banisters; and by these, and with William’s assistance, he got up; and then, with some difficulty, he reached up stairs—his own bed-room.

“I will send master immediately, sir.”

“You need not be in any hurry,” said the stranger. “I do not desire his presence.”

However, William left the stranger to seek his master; and when he found him, he said,—

“Oh, sir, the strange-looking gentleman in No. 5, is very ill.”

“Is he, William? What is the matter with him?”

“I am sure I don’t know, sir; he sank down on the stairs just now, and could only get up to his room again by my help.”

“Something serious I think, then. I thought he appeared ill when first I saw him, from the expression of his countenance.”

“Yes, sir; ’tis very strange.”

“Very,” said the landlord, thoughtfully. “I’ll go and see him; but, in the mean time, you had better send for Doctor Linton, who knows me, and will come at once.”

“Yes, sir,” said William.

The landlord immediately sought the stranger’s apartment, which he entered without any ceremony, and advanced to the bed in which the stranger lay; and, upon his first glance at the occupant, the landlord stepped back in affright, so truly terrible did the countenance of the stranger appear.

“Ah,” said the stranger, as he turned his glassy eyes upon him.

“I—I—I have come to see you,” stammered the landlord. “I have come to see you; my servant informed me you were ill, sir.”

“I am very ill.”

“I feared so, and I have sent for Doctor Linton, who will be here immediately.”

“It is of no consequence; I believe, I am too far gone to recover.” Another horrible spasm passed across his countenance.

“What does your illness arise from?”

“Decay of the system. I want renovating,” said the stranger.

The landlord paused; he didn’t understand this at all, for the stranger did not bear the appearance of decay about him. He was tall, and seemingly of the middle age, he thought, and nothing about him to savour of decay, save, indeed, the terrible and remarkable paleness which his flesh appeared to bear; and his system generally, in other respects, bore nothing of the appearance of general decay.

“Shall I send for any one, sir? Have you any friends I could write to for you?”

“None, sir, thank you,” replied the stranger, who, however, bated nothing of his politeness, even in his present position.

“Have you any desire to see any one in particular?”

“No one, I thank you.”

At that moment Doctor Linton was announced, and the proprietor having introduced him, left the apartment, leaving the doctor and his patient together; the former at once perceived, and wondered at his extraordinary paleness. After a few preliminary questions, he appeared quite puzzled, and said to him,—

“May I inquire what is the cause of this extraordinary complexion?”

“Certainly,” said the stranger; “it was caused by damp beds.”

“Damp beds,” muttered the doctor, amazed, and hardly comprehending what was said, or the nature of the reply; he was at a loss, but did not say so, what was the connexion between cause and effect.

“Yes, damp beds,” said the stranger.

“Have you ever suffered in this way before?” inquired the surgeon.

“Yes, more than once.”

“And you have recovered?” said the doctor, abstractedly.

“I am here,” said the stranger, mildly.

“Truly, you are,” said the surgeon. “I had almost forgotten that, your case is so singular. Your pulse is very low and irregular.”

“It is,” coolly replied the stranger; but immediately a kind of spasm shot across him, as he had before exhibited to the landlord.

“Do you feel much pain?—does that often happen?”

“No, only occasionally. I don’t think you are at all likely to benefit me, sir,” said the stranger, with much courtesy in his manner. “I do not mean any disrespect to you; but my complaint is a fatal one in our family.”

“Are you all afflicted in this manner?”

“Yes, all before me died,” replied the stranger; “and when it does come on, we have no means of avoiding the end that approaches; there is no medical aid that can be rendered, ever did us any good.”

“You are quite an exception to nature, sir,” said the medical man, “quite an exception. Your case cannot be beyond the assistance of medicine—if not to cure, to ameliorate—though its nature may not be ascertained; but if we could do so, we could tell you what we might be able to do.”

“That has been attempted before,” said the stranger, mildly; “and hence it is I am loth to give you needless trouble.”

“Well, I will call upon you, and see you again; but you ought to take some medicine. I am persuaded that it is some great and extraordinary derangement of the system—a complete sinking of the whole system.”

“Most undoubtedly it is a sinking in the whole system—a sinking which has never yet been stopped by human aid. But you can pursue what course you may deem proper.”

“Will you take medicines if I send any?”

“Yes,” replied the patient; “I will take them when you choose to send them.”

“I will endeavour to send you something that shall infuse something like vitality into the system, that will indeed help you to rally.”

“That will, indeed, be doing something more than was ever yet done by any one who attended any individual of our family. I feel I am very weak, and am sinking fast, and do not expect that I shall again have the honour of seeing you.”

As he again spoke, the same spasm seized upon him; his frame was convulsed for more than an minute, and his pallid features appeared to give forth expressions which it was impossible to describe.

The doctor paused, and gazed with something like fear and awe upon him. He had never before seen such a case so destitute of facts, nor yet such a man; it was quite beyond his experience; there was nothing like it in all his previous experience; there was no apparent cause for all that he saw. It might be some severe chronic disorder which did not manifest itself outwardly. If this were the case, it was most extraordinary.

But more extraordinary than all was, apart from the medical question, the strange and terrible appearance of the stranger; his paleness—the terrible expression of his features—the strange, and even revolting cast of his eyes, that completely baffled all his attempts to understand them, or to remember anything he had ever heard of, or seen.

The stranger languidly turned in his bed, and then closed his eyes, leaving his medical attendant to his reflections.

“Well,” muttered Doctor Linton, as he looked at his incomprehensible patient. “I never met with so fearful a human puzzle before. I never saw such an expression of countenance in all my life; nor did ever I meet with such a case. Had he been one of the fabled monsters of old, the creation of the German mind, he could not have been more unlike a human being, to wear a human form.”

As he spoke, he quitted the room, and made his way to the proprietor of the hotel, who was as anxiously waiting to see him, as he was to meet him.

“Well, doctor, what do you think of the patient?”

“Why, I don’t know what to think. I never saw such a man before in all my life—I cannot make him out.”

“Nor I. I can’t understand what he means or what he is.”

“Nor anybody else. But he is quite a gentleman; and yet there is something very frightful to be seen in him. I don’t know why it is, I don’t care about going oftener to him than I am obliged.”

“I don’t doubt it. There was something in the feel of his hand more like a corpse than anything I ever felt before.”

“Indeed—it is a queer affair.”

“Do you know him?”

“No, I do not,” replied the proprietor. “He has not been here more than two days; and when he entered he had that deadly paleness which he has now.”

“Did he indeed. It is, I dare say, natural to him, though it must create an unpleasant sensation, go where he would.”

“He must feel it to be so, no doubt; but, at the same time, he could not avoid it. Have you come to any conclusion respecting his complaint?”

“I have not indeed; I will send him some medicine; though, to tell you the truth, I can hardly tell what is the matter with him. His disorder seems to consist of a rapid sinking of the whole system, accompanied by a few minor symptoms, and a spasm, which must be very painful; for it produces an extraordinary effect upon his visage, and his eyes glisten like a piece of tin.”

“That’s it, doctor. Do you know, I have been thinking for something to which I could liken those eyes to, but could not do it. When do you see him again?”

“To-morrow, some time; in the mean time I must bid you good day, for my presence is wanted in the Dundrum family.”

“Oh, have you any of them for a patient?”

“Yes, two. Good day—good day.”

“Good day, doctor,” said the proprietor of the hotel, as he bowed the doctor out, and then, returning to his own apartment, he wondered, in his own mind, at all that had been said by that learned individual, when William entered his room with a hastiness of manner quite unusual to him.

“What is the matter, William?”

“Oh, sir—I beg your pardon—but the strange gentleman——”

“Eh!—Well!—What?”

“Why, he’s dying, and wants to see you, sir.”

“To see me, William—and dying!”

“Yes, sir—it’s very sudden—but good Lord, how dreadful he looks. He clasped his hands and shook—it made the bed shake and the windows rattle, just as if an earthquake were taking place.”

“Goodness me!” muttered the proprietor, who immediately quitted the apartment, and followed William to that of the stranger, who lay in the same attitude as that described by William; but he was evidently endeavouring to repress all nervous emotion, and by the time he was spoken to, he succeeded in this endeavour completely, and lay apparently calm and collected for the landlord’s appearance.

“I believe you sent for me,” said that worthy, in a subdued tone.

“Yes; I wish to speak a word to you before I die.”

“Die!” said the landlord, with a start. “No, no, you cannot mean that—you will get better—you are deceived.”

“No, no; do not endeavour to persuade me from believing what I know is the truth. I shall die, and that, too, before many hours.”

“If the case is so urgent, let me send to Mr. Linton; he cannot have gone far, and he will return.”

“Nay, do not do that; his aid is utterly useless—utterly.”

“He is a clever man; but still, if your own feelings tell you that you can’t live, allow me to send for a clergyman.”

“My friend,” said the stranger, “I have settled all that in my own mind. My affairs are all made up, my account is cast, and I shall learn the balance where I am going to. I wish, while I have breath, to beg a favour of you.”

“Anything on earth that I can do, I will,” said the landlord.

“Nay, I do not desire—all—that—I—I only want you to—to—to—promise me you’ll—attend to my funeral.”

“All shall be done as you desire.”

“My breath—I feel it going. I have money enough about me; you will find in my pocket-book and purse, a certain sum.”

“Yes, sir—yes.”

“And with that you will have the goodness to liquidate my debt to yourself, my funeral expenses, and place the residue of that sum about my person.”

“When you are dead!” exclaimed the landlord.

“Yes; will you promise me—will you swear to see it done?”

“Yes, I will—I do swear.”

“See you keep the oath; my breath is going fast—my strength is leaving me—and—and——”

“I will do all.” said the landlord again. “Will you have any friend attend your funeral obsequies? It’s melancholy, but I am obliged to speak of it to you, because I cannot otherwise know your wishes.”

“Do not mind that,” said the stranger, turning towards the landlord; “but when I am dead, dress me in my clothes, just as if I were about to walk; let me have all my property and my money—such of it as remains after paying all charges—the remainder cause to be placed about my person—in fact, all that belongs to me; and place—me—and place me—me—me——”

“Where—where would you be buried?” said the landlord.

“Place me,” gasped the dying man; “place me in the—the——”

A gurgling noise, succeeded by a sharp rattle in the throat, was all the sound that escaped him, while his glazed eyes were fixed, with a truly horrifying expression, upon the features of the landlord, whose presence of mind appeared to forsake him, and he exclaimed, falling on his knees in affright,—

“Lord, have mercy upon us, what a dreadful affair!”

“Horrible, sir,” said William.

“Oh! are you here, William?” inquired the landlord.

“Yes, sir,” replied that individual.

“Oh, I’m glad of that; did you see him die?”

“I did, sir. How dreadful!”

“Very; but I am glad you were here, because he has made some singular requests about burying him, and in a certain manner, with all his clothes on and his jewels and money about him. Now I should be considered foolish if I did anything of the kind; but I have promised, and as he has no friends, I will do what I have promised.”

“It is very good of you, sir; though I think he has been very silly in making such a request; yet you cannot be so considered for performing the wish of a dying man; it is the duty of any one so promising to perform it.”

“Quite right, William, quite right; but did you understand what he meant by his last words? I mean, where he wished to be buried.”

“I don’t know positively, sir, but I think he meant the cathedral—I thought so, at least. I am not sure he said so, but I believe he meant to do so.”

“Well, I think so myself; and in the cathedral he shall be buried; but it is a terrible-looking corpse. I’m sure I could not sleep in the same room with him. Poor fellow! What he’ll come to at last there is no telling.”

“Yes, sir; he does look dreadful.”

“You needn’t tell anybody we have a dead customer in the hotel, William.”

“No, sir.”

“Because people might be curious, and wish to see him, and if they were to do so, I am sure they would leave the house.”

“So they would, sir. He’s a dreadful-looking corpse. I never heard of such a one. What can be the cause of it?—and to be buried in his clothes, too!”

“Ay, and his money and his jewels; that is very strange!”

“Very strange, sir, indeed; and the fewer persons who know of it the better, else the body will not lie very long in its grave. There will be those who would not mind turning resurrection-men for the value of what he had about him.”

“So there would be, William; and now I think of it, the authorities of the cathedral shall know nothing about it; for who can tell what fancy they may take concerning it being an unchristian burial?”

“And yet, sir, he paid all his debts like a Christian.”

“Yes; and left a remembrance for the waiter.”

“There could not be a more Christian act than that, for who could be more Christian-like than to remember the waiter?” and William at once admitted the truth of the assertion, and they both left the room, and instructions were given to William to obtain the proper aid respecting the funeral, and an order was given to the undertaker to come and measure the corpse for its last garment.

All these things were duly attended to, and kept secret, so that a very few persons were aware of the fact that so strange an occurrence had taken place in the good city of Winchester, much less were they acquainted with the precise locality of the very house in which the occurrence took place.

When the morning arrived on which the funeral was to take place, some persons were surprised to behold a couple of mutes standing side by side at the door of the Star hotel, and there had been no previous signs of mourning.

The hearse and one mourning coach, however, was all that attended, into which one solitary mourner entered. There were several others made up for the occasion, to give the cavalcade an uniform appearance.

The body was carried down by eight men. It was very heavy, and the men bent beneath the load they bore, and when it was placed in the hearse, the one mourner got in, and they proceeded towards the cathedral, which was quite close at hand.

A few—very few minutes served to bring them to the goal, and before the entrance of the cathedral they stopped, and out came the undertakers, who contrived, with much exertion, to carry the body into the church; and then, after some preliminary ceremonies, it was conducted into the vaults, where it was deposited, and the burial service was said over it most duly and solemnly, and then left, it was presumed, safe and secure, to abide its final doom at the day of judgment.

But many thoughts prove but the shadow of our wishes, and this seemed but as a mocking shadow; as our readers are aware by this time of what actually took place in the dead of the night.

“In what name was the deceased registered—the burial, I mean?” inquired the clergyman, whose memory, like some of his other faculties, was obscured by age.

“His name was Francis Varney,” replied the chief-mourner, who was no other than the proprietor of the Star hotel.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter CXLV

A RURAL SCENE BY MOONLIGHT.—THE STORM.—AN ACCIDENT ON THE ROAD.—A NEW AND STRANGE ACQUAINTANCE ACQUIRED.—A DISAPPOINTMENT.

It was one of those pleasant, moonlight evenings that are frequently felt, as well as seen, towards the end of August, that a party of individuals sat in a travelling-carriage, and were proceeding at an easy pace on one of the cross-roads that run from Winchester to Bath, and also from Southampton, the Isle of Wight, between Salisbury—more properly speaking—and Bath.

The evening was lovely; the day had been sultry, and the sun had not been gone down so long but that the heat of his rays yet remained. Indeed, though the moon gave light, yet the radiated heat from the earth, first received from the sun, was so great, that the light evening breeze barely tempered the air.

The party thus proceeding had been spending a few weeks in rambling about Southampton, Portsmouth, and Salisbury, and were now wending their way to the city of Bath. They consisted of but four individuals,—Captain Fraser, his wife, her sister, and younger brother. The latter did not count more than twelve years, while the sister, Miss Stevens, was just seventeen years of age.

Captain Fraser had scarce been married six months, and was upon one of the early matrimonial jaunts which often take place in the earlier part of the married life, when all is sunshine, and the matrimonial barometer might always have the index nailed to “set fair” at such periods.

The lady’s sister and brother were residing with her; for their parents were dead, and hence they, the captain and his lady, were their natural protectors.

They were riding in an open carriage, the head parted, and thrown back; and even in this manner they felt the evening air was scarcely, though riding, cool.

“I don’t think,” said Mrs. Fraser to her husband, “that ever I beheld so beautiful a scene. The time—the warmth of the air—the occasional delicious feel of the light evening breeze—the serene light of the moon; altogether, I never felt so comfortable, or, I may add, so happy as I do at this moment.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” said the captain; “it gives me an additional pleasure to find I can please you.”

“Now, Fraser, that is too bad of you.”

“What is too bad, my dear?” said the captain, inquiringly.

“Why, to say you are glad you can please. That is as bad as to say that it is a very difficult matter; and you know I am very easily pleased, especially when you make the attempt,” said Mrs. Fraser.

“Well, we will not quarrel about that, my dear. But I must say, with you, this hour, time, and place are all one could desire, and such as we seldom meet; the scene across the country is truly beautiful!”

“Yes,” said Miss Stevens; “it is beautiful, as far as we can see.”

“What river is that yonder?” inquired the brother.

“That is the Willey; the same that we saw at Salisbury,” said Captain Fraser.

“Indeed! I thought that came from another direction more northerly.”

“That was another arm of the same river, and joined this about there, and all the low grounds on this side of yon hills are called the Valley of the Willey; and a beautiful little vale it is, too, fruitful and picturesque.”

“How beautiful the moonbeams glisten on yonder water!”

“They do; but not so strongly as they did.”

“No. What is the reason of that? The air appears to darken. I have noticed it for some minutes past. Why is that?”

“I suppose it is caused by the evaporation from the grounds and heavy dews, to compensate for the want of rain that usually takes place at this time of the year.”

“Then we shall be obliged to shut up the carriage, for the dew is more likely to cause cold than anything else.”

“It is so; but we are upon comparatively high ground here; and, moreover, they will not reach us yet; but, here are shawls; you can wrap up if you feel chilly, or you can put on your veils.”

“It is yet so warm,” said Miss Stevens, “that I should be reluctant to put on any more clothing yet-awhile.”

“Do as you please, but do not take cold,” said Captain Fraser. “How indistinct the scene becomes around; the river, which we just now saw so plain, is quite obscured, and you can scarcely tell where it is, save here and there, where the doddered willows appear, and which mark out the course of the stream.”

“It is so,” said the youth. “I can just see the green tops of the trees appear above the thick mist that rises from the river below.”

“Exactly; that is the fact.”

“And see how it spreads itself over the cornfields and meadows.”

“Was that not a flash of light?” said Mrs. Fraser, suddenly.

“Light! I saw no light,” said the captain.

“Nor I,” said the youth; “did you, sister?”

“No, I did not do so; but it is very sultry, and therefore it is very likely just at this time of the year. How much farther have we to travel before we stop for the night?”

“I suppose seven or eight miles, not more.”

“There, that was no mistake, however,” said Mrs. Fraser, as a flash of light shot across the heavens, and left not a trace behind it.

“No, there was no mistake about it; nor did I think so before,” said Captain Fraser, “only I have not noticed it; but it is harmless—it is what is called summer lightning, and has none of the ordinary results of lightning.”

“It will possibly make the air cool,” suggested Mrs. Fraser, “and, in that case, we shall have a more agreeable temperature; to tell the truth, the extreme warmth and dryness of the air gives a strange uneasiness to the body.”

“Another flash—ah, that’s a change in its character.”

“Yes; that is the blue-forked lightning, and I am much mistaken if we do not have a sudden change—hark!”

At that moment, a sullen and deep rumbling was heard in the heavens, followed by another flash, and then such a peal of thunder that boomed and rattled through the air in a manner that startled the dull echoes of the night, and made the welkin resound with the fearful sounds that filled the heavens.

“We shall have a fall of rain in another moment,” said Captain Fraser; “push on, drive on, and let us get out of this as soon as we can.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said the driver, and crack went his whip—the horses increased their speed, and they rattled on at a good pace.

“Had we better not stop and have the hood closed?”

“No,” said the captain; “I can manage that very well, with the assistance of your brother, and we shall not lose time.”

Captain Fraser, and the young gentleman alluded to, brought the coach-top up and secured it, just as a heavy shower descended in such torrents that they could scarcely hear themselves speak, so heavily did it rattle upon the leathern covering of the vehicle, and they sat for some time in silence.

Soon, however, the thunder and lightning filled the air with sounds and flashes in a manner that began to create a feeling of alarm in the minds of the ladies, and some uneasiness in the mind of the captain; not upon their account only, but because the cattle might take flight under the circumstances, especially as they were fresh, and had now scarcely run three or four miles; for their stage was a long one before they reached their destination, which was now about two days’ easy journeys.

The thunder and lightning appeared to become more and more terrible; the storm, indeed, appeared to increase rather than diminish in intensity; the very centre of the storm appeared to be fast approaching, and making the spot upon which they stood the pivot on which it turned; its fury increased, and with it the horses were each moment becoming more and more unmanageable. Though in some measure aware of the fact, Captain Fraser kept his place, fearful lest he should alarm his wife, and at the same time distract the coachman.

Suddenly there was a bright and vivid flash of light, such as they had not seen before, but which illumined the whole place around them, and made everything as visible as if placed in the strongest light imaginable, followed by such a crashing peal of thunder that the living earth appeared to rock again.

It wanted but this to make the horses perfectly ungovernable, and they dashed away at a furious speed along the road.

“Good heavens! the horses have taken fright,” said Mrs. Fraser, as she became aware of the speed they were going at.

“They have merely taken fright, my dear,” said the captain, unwilling to increase their alarm by informing them of his own; “he will keep them in the middle of the road, and we shall be at our journey’s end the sooner, and the more so the better.”

They were upon the point of being satisfied, when the jolts of the carriage, added to its eccentric course from one side of the road to the other, attracted so much of their attention that Miss Stevens said,—

“See, captain, how the carriage sways from side to side; we shall all be over in another minute or two—we shall all be killed!”

“There goes the thunder again, worse than your kettle drums,” said young Stevens, who appeared to think it rather a joke; “the lightning flashes, too, as if we had got into an electrical machine.”

“Do not talk in that way, Charles, for goodness sake,” exclaimed his younger sister. “We shall all be killed presently.”

“I hope not,” said Captain Fraser, “though I admit it looks serious; but all you can do, and the best under all the circumstances, is to remain calm and quiet, and see what happens.”

“See what happens! Dear me, captain, what do you think we are all made of that we should sit calm,” said Miss Stevens, “and see what will happen, when there may be broken limbs, at the least, if not death?”

“It is the best advice I can give you.”

“Had we better not get out—I don’t mind trying?”

“Aye, if you wish to run imminent risk of instant and violent death, you will make the attempt; if you remain in here shut up, you have every probability that, if we do have an upset, which is not yet certain, we may all escape with but a little fright, or at most a few bruises.”

“Yes, sister; you had better wait for the worst, if the worst must happen, rather than rush into it.”

This was sensible advice, and the whole party fell into a deep silence, which was unbroken save by the sounds of wheels, the rattling of the carriage, the rain, and the roar of thunder, enough to employ their minds, and at the same time to keep them in momentary dread of the fearful catastrophe.

Suddenly there was a crash and dreadful jolt; they knew not what had happened, except they felt that the vehicle was turned over.

In a moment more the door was opened, and a stranger lent assistance in getting out the unfortunate travellers.

“Do not be alarmed, ladies,” said a strange, but courteous voice. “No further mischief can happen now, beyond inconvenience.”

As the stranger spoke, he lifted the two ladies out of the carriage, and placed them in a sheltered position by the body.

“Are you hurt?” inquired the stranger, as he assisted Captain Fraser and young Stevens out of the fallen carriage.

“No, sir, I am not; I thank you for your timely aid. Where are the ladies?”

“There they are; I hope, uninjured.”

Captain Fraser immediately ran up to them, and, seeing them in safety, said,—

“I am glad to see you are safe. I was stunned at first by a blow on the side of my head.”

“Yes, we are safe; but we have to thank this gentleman that we have been so speedily and so easily extricated from our unpleasant prison.”

“I am much indebted, sir, for your aid to the ladies. May I trespass upon your kindness to lend me a little further assistance?”

“I shall be happy to assist you under these unpleasant circumstances; but, allow me to suggest as the first thing, that the cushions be placed under the hedge for the use of the ladies, and what cloaks or coats you have should be thrown over them.”

“Right, sir; I thank you.”

“If you are deficient in them, my cloak is at their service, though I am afraid that it is almost saturated.”

“I have enough here,” said Captain Fraser, as he pulled out several articles of that nature; and then he, with the assistance of the stranger, placed them so that Mrs. Fraser and sister were almost, if not entirely, sheltered from the storm.

“Now,” said the stranger, “the first thing that can be done will be to right the carriage, and place it in a position where it will receive no further damage.”

“But the driver and horses,” said Captain Fraser, “I must look after them. Had we better not look after them? He may be dying.”

“By no means,” said the stranger; “he will do very well; if we place the carriage upright, we shall be able to replace the ladies.”

“We can,” said the captain, who appeared to be divided between the duties of humanity and the tender anxiety he felt for his wife.

“Exactly,” said the stranger; “and permit me to suggest that he has either gone on beyond our aid, or does not require it.”

“It is possible.”

“And very probable,” said the stranger; “but if you prefer it, and think the ladies will not suffer, we can walk on ahead till we come up with them, if they stop before the end of the stage.”

“No, no, sir; you are quite right; I will get the carriage up if you can so far assist me; we shall then place the ladies in comparative safety.”

“We shall so.”

They immediately walked round the carriage, and examined its position, as well as they were able, when, to the captain’s great relief, he found that it was still on its wheels, though the body was thrown over on its side.

“How can it have happened?” inquired the captain.

“I cannot well see,” replied the stranger; “but you will perceive something must have caught the off-side wheel, and turned the whole of the fore carriage that way, which has left this corner of the body without support; added to which, the speed or momentum it must have acquired in its course, has thrown it over.”

“Precisely. I see now how it is; but if we get the body up, it will fall again over on this side, since it has no support.”

“Oh, yes, it will remain up, since it has lost all force, all moving power; unless, indeed, any of the straps are broken. We can try.”

“Here, Charles,” said Captain Fraser, “we shall want your aid.”

“Oh,” said the stranger, “the slightest assistance is valuable; it is the last strain or effort that may complete the removal. Now, if we can lift it up from this side, we shall soon right it, and then the fore carriage can be forced round, and the ladies replaced, until we can better dispose of them.”

The stranger placed his shoulder to the carriage, as well as the captain and his brother-in-law, young Stevens, and thus aided, he soon lifted it up into its old position, and there it remained very quietly.

“Now we had better pull the wheels round.”

This was done, and the carriage assumed its former state.

“Well, how could they have got away?” inquired Captain Fraser, examining the axles and the bars; “all appears right.”

“They have broken the splinter-bar, and here are the remains of the traces. The splinter-bar, I find, has only lost its hooks, so it will do again. Come, sir, you have less damage to regret than I at first thought it possible you could have escaped with; I am truly glad it is so.”

“Thank you, sir; your kindness and assistance has been truly great and efficient; but I have yet to find the poor fellow who drove us.”

“We will seek after him; or, I had better ride on to the next town or house where I can obtain assistance, while you will be better able to protect the ladies by remaining with them, and my horse will carry me quickly enough.”

“Oh! you are mounted.”

“I am; but the ladies wait.”

Thus admonished, the captain turned to the ladies, and, with the stranger’s assistance, he conducted them back to the carriage, where they were replaced, without any material damage or misfortune of any kind, save what might arise from fright.

“Some one is coming this way,” said the stranger. “If I mistake not, they are your runaways, by the sounds.”

They listened, and distinctly heard the sounds of horses’ feet coming along, with the jingling of harness, that made it pretty certain that what the stranger said was correct, and that it was most probable that this was indeed the man who drove them coming back with the same cattle, or some fresh.

A few moments more decided the speculation, and the man himself rode up, and looked at the carriage, saying,—

“Well, I thought it was upset.”

“So it was, but we have righted it now. Has no accident happened to you? But these are the same horses!”

“Yes, sir. When they got loose, or broke away, they went as if they were shot out of a gun, and away they went for some miles, until I contrived to stop them, which was a hard job; however, I thought then, as there was nothing the matter with them or with me, I had better return and see what was become of you, sir, and the ladies.”

“Quite right. Do you think they will go quietly in the harness again?”

“Oh, yes—oh, yes, sir.”

“Then we will harness them, and go on to the end of the next stage, when we can see exactly what mischief, if any, has been done.”

This was immediately put in practice, and they were soon harnessed, the broken straps and traces being mended in the best way time and circumstances admitted, but effectually enough for the present purpose.

“Now, sir,” said Captain Fraser, “do you continue this road, or the one we have come? I suppose we must have overtaken you, as you were coming this way.”

“No; I was a traveller going in the same direction. I saw your speed from a distance, and, believing your horses to have taken fright, I rode on, and, being well mounted, I overtook you just as the accident happened.”

“Then we may have the pleasure of your company on the road for some distance to come, I hope, sir?”

“As far as the next place to stop at, at all events; for I do not desire to travel further than I can avoid to-night.”

“Then I shall be able to thank you more at leisure, and at a better opportunity than at present,” said the captain.

“Do not name it; I am too happy to have had it in my power to render you any assistance. Shall I ride on and secure you proper accommodation when you do arrive there?”

“You kindness is very great,” said the captain again. “I am much beholden to you; but if we can get as far as we hoped to do, we shall not require it; there will be sufficient for travellers under the ordinary course of events. We shall do very well; and if we should not be able to get so far, we must make ourselves content with whatever chance accommodation we get on the road.”

“Then we will journey for that distance in company,” said the stranger, as he mounted his horse, which had stood quietly by while the tall stranger rendered the timely assistance he had to them.

They proceeded along now at a cautious pace. The weather had abated, and the rain was now less severe; the thunder only heard in the distance; while the lightning could only be seen in occasional flashes in the distance, in a direction away from them. The clouds began to lighten, and then the diffused light of the moon came and shed a gentle light upon the scene, though it was very scarce, and of comparative little use save it enabled them to see their way all the better.

The roads were good, and they travelled onwards with some increase of speed; and finding none of their amended horse-tackle had given way, they still kept journeying onwards at the same pace.

Time brought them to their destination, and when they arrived at the inn at which they were to stop for the night, they found it had not made much more than an hour or an hour and a half’s difference.

When they were fairly housed, the stranger took an apartment to himself. It was while he sat before the fire that Captain Fraser entered his room.

“I must apologise for my intrusion,” began the captain.

“Do not say a word on that head, sir,” said the stranger; “it is no intrusion—you are welcome. Be seated, if you please; I am alone, and perfectly at leisure.”

“I have come to thank you for the service you have done us, and to beg that you will sup with us, and permit the ladies to have an opportunity of thanking their preserver in person. You will oblige us all by accepting the invitation.”

“I am much obliged for your courteous offer,” said the stranger, who was a tall, dignified man. “I will come after supper, if you please, and shall feel it a great honour, I assure you; but I am so truly sensible that my efforts were more owing to accident than to anything else, that I do not wish to hear anything more of it.”

“You must not be so self-denying, sir. We do not wish to put any more merit on your act than we think it deserves; but that much you must accept, if you will permit me to use such a word. Shall we have the pleasure of your company?”

“After supper.”

“I will not press you against your feelings; but you will come in after supper, sir? I hope I may have the pleasure of drinking a bottle of wine with you. Will you come?”

“I will, sir, and thank you for the honour.”

“May I have the pleasure of being able to introduce you to the ladies by name?” said the captain, with a little hesitation.

“Certainly—certainly. I beg your pardon. I am somewhat forgetful; I forgot I had not passed through an introduction,” said the stranger. “Permit me to give you my card.”

As he spoke, he handed Captain Fraser a beautifully-embossed card, upon which was printed, in Italian characters,—“Sir Francis Varney.”

Captain Fraser took the card and read the name, and then, passing a compliment, he said, that since he could not have his company to supper, then he should expect him when he felt at leisure and disposed to do so.

• • • • •

“My dear,” said Captain Fraser to his wife, when he returned to his apartment, “our new friend will not come to supper but will take a glass of wine with me afterwards.”

“I am sorry he will not come; though, under other circumstances, I should have been glad of it; but I am sorry on this occasion.”

“And why would you have been glad?”

“Because, after the flurry and upset we had, I am hardly fit to see any one, much less a stranger; but he so kindly and promptly rescued us from our danger, that I cannot feel reluctance at any time.”

“Yes,” said her sister; “and I must say I never heard a voice that sounded so really like a gentleman’s—indeed, I could fancy that any one could positively assert that he was a gentleman, only from hearing him speak, without seeing him at all; but, be that as it may, I felt convinced he was such.”

“He is very courteous, I must say,” said Mrs. Fraser.

“And who do you think he is?”

“I have no means of forming any judgment.”

“Well, then, he is Sir Francis Varney.”

“Sir Francis Varney! Well, I do not know the name; I never heard the name before that time; but I think there was some one of that name in the time of Queen Elizabeth—an attendant on the Earl of Leicester.”

“Are you not joking?”

“Indeed I am not; I have read so.”

“And you think this gentleman may be a descendant of his?”

“There is no impossibility nor improbability about it, that I see,” said Mrs. Fraser; “but I am the more obliged to him for his timely assistance. I am sure it was fortunate that he was so close at hand.”

“Yes, it was very fortunate. Mary, my dear, we shall be introduced to a baronet. It is quite a prophecy of yours in saying he was a gentleman when you only heard him speak. By the way, Fraser, what sort of a man is he?”

“Very singular indeed.”

“Singular! Ay—he is very tall.”

“Yes, he is tall; but very pale; more remarkable and dignified than handsome; extremely courteous and polite.”

“What age is he?”

“Well, I cannot tell; perhaps forty, perhaps not so old by ten years; it is quite impossible to say.”

“Dear me, how strange! I think I could guess anybody’s age better than that.”

“You shall have an opportunity of doing so, then, in an hour or so, when he will come; and I think I may venture upon saying you will be pleased with his dignified politeness, and say he is much superior to most men.”

• • • • •

The supper ended, and the wine was produced, and Captain Fraser, his lady, and two young relatives, were seated round a good fire—for the storm had chilled the air; besides, the damp they had stood in rendered such a precaution necessary and pleasant, notwithstanding the day had been sultry; but the change in the temperature was sudden and great—awaiting, with something like impatience, the stranger’s arrival.

“He does not appear to come,” said Charles Stevens.

“He is not here, certainly; but he will come, no doubt, the moment he is quite sure that we had done our supper, and he had finished his own; perhaps he takes longer than we.”

“Perhaps so; but I am strongly tempted to go to him again.”

“It might be construed into undue urgency, or something of the sort,” said Mrs. Fraser; “and yet he might be waiting for something of the sort.”

“So he might,” said the captain. “At all events, I will go and see; if he were inclined to do so under other circumstances, he would not take offence under the present.”

“Perhaps not.”

At that moment the door was opened, and the waiter presented a note.

“A note for me?” said Captain Fraser.

“Yes, sir.”

“Who can it be from?”

“From the gentleman up stairs, sir, who came with you an hour back.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Captain Fraser.

“He was taken ill, and obliged to go to bed, sir.”

Captain Fraser immediately tore open the note, and read as follows:—

+Sir+,—I deeply regret I cannot keep my promise to take a glass of wine with you, and have the honour of being introduced to the ladies. Favour me so far as to make my excuses to them. It is a great pleasure lost to me on the occasion; permit me to say deferred, rather than lost; and if I might venture to make an appointment, under the circumstances, I can only say that, if convenient, I should be happy to breakfast with you, and then have the honour and happiness I have now the misfortune to lose.

Sudden and severe indisposition alone have caused me to retire before I had the honour of seeing you, and expressing my inability to attend you.—Yours, obliged,

“+Francis Varney+.”

There was a blank upon the countenances of all present. Evidently a deep disappointment was felt by all; but the captain was especially surprised, and, turning to the waiter, he said,—

“Did you see this gentleman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was he unwell?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I mean, was he, or is he, dangerously ill?”

“He was very ill, sir; but I don’t know that he is dangerously ill. He suffered much pain, and he was obliged to have aid to go up stairs.”

“Did he say what it was that ailed him?” pursued Captain Fraser.

“Not that I heard; though some said he had got the cramp and cold by being too long in the wet.”

“Perhaps so—very likely—very likely—that will do. Let me know how he is the first thing in the morning; do you hear?”

“Yes, sir, I will take care.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Fraser, when they were alone, “I did not expect such a disappointment this evening. However, he makes up for it by appointing the breakfast hour for our meeting; it is the more agreeable, as we shall have had a good night’s repose, and shall be the better able to appear to advantage.”

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter CXLVI

THE ALARM AT THE INN.—BED-CHAMBER TERRORS.—A NIGHT SCENE.—A MORNING SUCCEEDING TO A NIGHT OF ADVENTURE.

The inmates of the inn are all fast bound in sleep. The senses of all seem steeped in deep forgetfulness; even the hour of dreams was passed. The storm, which had raged so violently in the early part of the evening, and which had appeared to have gone and a calm succeeded, had returned, and the fury of the blast was only equalled by the deluging rain and the fearful rumbling of the thunder.

But calmly slept the beautiful and innocent Mary Stevens. She was young, and her mind bore no weight of care; when she slept no dreams disturbed her rest, but a calm, death-like sleep sat upon her soul, and steeped it in forgetfulness.

The storm raged around, but she heard it not; she was unconscious of it. Perhaps the disturbance and fatigues of the previous day caused a greater degree of depth to her insensibility, and rendered her mind less liable to slight interruptions. But she slept soundly, and even did not hear the intruder who walked across the floor of her bedroom, and stood gazing on her fair arms as she lay sleeping.

The intruder was a tall man, enveloped in some strange mantle, all white. He stooped over her, as if he listened to the beating of her heart, while his strangely bright eyes, which shone fearfully, appeared to express a horrible kind of joy, too terrible for human nature to contemplate.

He stooped—he placed his hand upon her heart, and felt its pulsations, and a terrible and ghastly smile passed over his features, while a movement of the lips and mouth generally, appeared as if anticipatory of a coming meal.

Then he took the white arm in his hands, and cast a longing look at the features of the maiden, who appeared disturbed by the rude action, and moved in her sleep, and was suddenly aroused from her slumber by a severe pang in her arm, as though some creature had plunged its fangs into her flesh.

She started up, and found herself flung upon the bed with gigantic strength. She screamed, and uttered scream upon scream.

The old inn was filled with sounds of terror and pain. There was a loud knocking heard at the door. Then, indeed, the assailant left his prey to provide for his own safety; but it was almost too late, for the door was burst open violently, as he made for another means of exit, which was the means by which he had entered the apartment; but he was prevented, and, as the first person entered the apartment, he threw him down by placing something in his way. The light was thrown against some furniture, which immediately rose up into a flame.

“Help! help! Fire! fire!”

These were fearful sounds, such as had never before been heard in that place, and the inmates, woke up by the screams from deep slumber, were startled and terrified at these sounds, and springing at once from their beds, echoed the sounds as they run wildly about from place to place.

“Where is the fire? What’s the matter?”

“Fire in the young lady’s room.”

All eyes were directed to that quarter, and in another instant there were several persons rushing to the room, the glare of the fire in which at once attracted their observation, and they rushed to the rescue; among the foremost of whom was Sir Francis Varney, whose bedchamber was not far distant from Mary Steven’s. He rushed to the bed, and wrapping the bed-clothes round her, he carried her out of the room and the scene of danger, and, as he came out of the room, he inquired,—

“Where is Captain Fraser?”

“Here—here I am, Sir Francis,” said the captain, coming hastily forward.

“Then, Captain, Fraser, I resign my charge up to you—you are her proper protector; but I must apologise for my hasty intrusion into her apartment.”

“Do not think of speaking in that manner, Sir Francis; we are already indebted to you for our lives, and now we are again your debtor. Your ready aid has twice saved the young lady.”

Captain Fraser took Miss Stevens from Sir Francis, and then carried her, as she was quite insensible, to his own room to his wife, her sister, where she was laid upon the bed, and found to be quite insensible.

There was much confusion in the inn—people were running about from place to place, and tumbling over each other in the confusion of thought; and the moments were precious, for many were running about, yet none did effective service, though all were willing enough to do all that could be done by them under the circumstances.

“You had better get some water,” said Varney, “as quickly as you can. It is useless to run about and stare at each other. Get all the buckets you can. Be quick about it. There may yet be time enough to save the inn, and keep the fire to the room where it is; but that time will soon be at an end.”

Instantly two or three of the men ran down and got a plentiful supply of water, and then, under the direction of Sir Francis Varney, the fire was very soon got under, and the flames were extinguished.

Then came an inquiry how the fire had first appeared.

“Do you know how it happened?” inquired Sir Francis Varney, of the innkeeper, who stood quite mute with astonishment at the scene before him.

“Know, sir!” said the innkeeper. “I don’t know anything. I don’t know myself. I don’t even know where I am, or what’s the matter.”

“Then I beg to tell you, sir,” said Varney, with much suavity of manner, “then I beg to tell you, sir, that there has been a fire in your inn—a young lady frightened out of her senses, and I know not the cause.”

“No more don’t I,” said the landlord, with a short grunt, indicative of wonderment and alarm. “I wish I did. I wonder who set the place a-fire; that’s what I wants to know, and why he did it.”

“The motive was not a bad one, I believe.”

“Not a bad motive, that which causes one man to set fire to and destroy another man’s property!”

“Not when it is not only not done with any evil intention, but it was not even done wilfully,” said Sir Francis.

“Perhaps you saw it done,” said the landlord, with another grunt.

“I did,” replied Varney; “hearing the disturbance, I hastily threw on some of my clothes, and ran out of my apartment to ascertain what was the matter, and found several others had got here before me, and had burst open the door. The first who entered, had a light in his hand, and fell with it, setting the place on fire, which burned furiously for a minute or more, the hangings being dry and old. I took the young lady out, else I am sure she must have perished.”

“Well, I saw you come out with her in your arms, like a salamander; but what I most want to know is, what was it that disturbed my customer? That is of the greatest consequence to me.”

“You are perfectly right, my friend,” said Sir Francis, with much composure, “to make that inquiry, that being the origin of all that subsequently took place. You are a man of discernment, and must see that the young lady herself can alone give us any account of that.”

“True, sir; but I am much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken, not only for the young lady’s sake, but for the property you have prevented being destroyed. You have, no doubt, saved the inn, and all it contains.”

“That is enough, sir,” said Varney, waving his hand, “you have said enough. I am glad I have rendered you a service, and that it has been effectual.”

“It has been just the thing,” said the landlord.

“Then take my advice. See the place is secure, and send all persons to bed, save, perhaps, a single individual, who might be set to watch the room which has been on fire, and which may have some slumbering spark in it, though I think not; but the quieter the place is, the sooner the young lady’s alarm will be over, and then all will be well.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said the landlord, “it will be better to do so; but here is the only gentleman who can tell us how the young lady is.”

Sir Francis Varney turned round, and beheld Captain Fraser coming towards them with a very grave aspect.

“Captain Fraser,” said Sir Francis, “perhaps you can tell us what we are so very anxious to learn, and what we have been inquiring about.”

“What may that be, Sir Francis?”

“We have been trying to learn what it is that caused the young lady to scream out in such a fearful manner. We have settled the cause of the fire—that has been manifest enough to us all.”

“Indeed! I am not acquainted with it.”

“It arose from the first person who entered her apartment after the door was burst open, falling over something, and setting fire to the curtains, which blazed up in an instant, and set the whole room on fire.”

“Indeed!” said Captain Fraser, almost incredulously.

“Yes, I saw that myself,” said Varney, “and I stepped over him as he lay on the ground, and therefore know it; but how is the young lady? Has she recovered from the extreme fright into which she has been thrown?”

“It is a much more serious affair than I had any notion of, Sir Francis.”

“I am concerned to hear you say so.”

“Shall I send for the doctor?” inquired the landlord.

“Do—that is what I came to ask you to do; she has recovered once, and has fainted again. I know not what to think. She has a singular wound in her arm. I can’t understand that, at all events.”

“I did not see it when I took hold of her; though, to be sure, what I did, was done in smoke and flame, and I could not be supposed to scrutinize very closely, had I been so inclined; but what kind of wound is it?”

“I can hardly describe it to you, save it is a bite; and there are teeth-marks plain enough to be seen; though we have no means of telling what kind of creature it was that inflicted the wounds.”

“Indeed! I am concerned, for the effect upon the imagination will be very bad; but did she not see, or fancy she saw the object that injured her?”

“It was dark, and the storm raged without; moreover, she was held down by a powerful grasp; and when she attempted to rise, she was flung down, and she could feel the blunted teeth enter her flesh, and the creature appeared to suck her blood.”

“Dear me,” said Sir Francis, “what a very strange affair! It is fortunate I was obliged to retire early, and I slept the lighter, and was therefore easily aroused from my sleep; but I am proverbially a light sleeper.”

“Are you, sir? But what has caused the wound in her arm I cannot tell; it is quite a mystery. She has got a fancy into her mind that it was a human being; but that could not have been the fact.”

“I should imagine not,” said Sir Francis.

“And then, I know of no animal who could commit such an act; a cat or a dog could not have done it, though a dog might have made the teeth-marks; but a dog would hardly have attempted to suck blood.”

“They will do it,” said Sir Francis, “that I know to be a fact; and I believe it to be one that is generally admitted by all persons, especially that breed of animals mostly kept, and which have something of the bull-dog in them.”

“It may be so; but how could she be held down by one of them? She could not be struck down when she attempted to rise.”

“It is not for me to combat the young lady’s opinions; but, remember, my dear sir, how terrified, not to say how horrified, she must have been at such an unusual, and, I may add, unheard-of an attack; if you consider such things, and the improbability—not to say what appears to me, the impossibility—you will see plenty of room for mistakes to arise, and give her notions a wrong turn.”

“That is very true.”

“And besides, I would, if I were convinced of the contrary, endeavour to persuade her of her mistake, unless you can discover the perpetrator of the outrage, when justice demands that such a savage should be severely punished.”

“By G—d! Sir Francis,” said the captain, “if I could see him, I would shoot the scoundrel! But, then, I am getting angry without a cause; it may not be what she thinks, and then, you know, all one’s anger goes for nothing.”

“So it does; but, in the meantime, great care and attention is requisite to regain her confidence and serenity of mind.”

“Oh, a day or two will make a great difference in these matters, when we come to change the scene.”

“Are you travelling far, Captain Fraser?”

“As far as Bath,” said the captain.

At this moment the landlord returned, saying to Captain Fraser,—

“I have sent to Mr. Carter, who will be here, no doubt; he is close at hand, and will come in a moment. He’s a very clever gentleman, is Mr. Carter. I saw him perform four operations on coach accidents.”

“Operations on coach accidents!” said Sir Francis Varney; “a curious matter, that. How did they succeed upon such materials?”

“Oh, they were two broken arms, and three broken legs.”

“Indeed! Did they all recover?”

“No; only one got over it.”

“Upon my word, a promising member of the faculty to entrust so tender a charge to, under such delicate circumstances. But, landlord, have you any bad characters about your house, or in the neighbourhood?”

“I can’t say anything about the neighbourhood, though I believe it is as quiet and orderly as can be, or usually is. I never hear anything against it, and know nothing against it; and as for them in the house, I can answer they would not hurt a fly, unless provoked to do so; but what I mean is, they are all honest and tried servants.”

“Well, that is saying a good deal,” said Captain Fraser; “but, have you any dogs about the house—I mean, any large dogs?”

“Ah! dogs! Yes, I have several dogs, and good dogs they are, too.”

“Could any of them get into the rooms—the sleeping-rooms? I mean, could any of them get into the room that has taken fire?”

“No, unless the door was opened,” said the landlord. “They are not allowed to run about loose here, lest any one should get up in the night and be mistaken for intruders; for my dogs, gentlemen, would take any one they saw moving about outside of a night; but, otherwise, they are quiet, well-conducted dogs.”

“Well, you mean to say they could not have got into Miss Stevens’s room.”

“I do; I am sure of it. They could not, because there were none of them about the house when we went to bed—when the house was shut up at night. However, here is the doctor.”

The medical man now arrived, and was forthwith introduced to Captain Fraser, who conducted him to the apartment in which Mrs. Fraser and Miss Stevens were awaiting the coming of the doctor. Captain Fraser, after having introduced him to the invalid, returned to the landlord and Sir Francis.

“Well, I cannot make it out at all,” said Sir Francis. “There must be some mystery in it, I am persuaded; and if that could only be discovered, the matter would lose half its terrors to the mind of the young lady.”

“No doubt it would do so,” said the captain. “The fire and her wound together, have made a deep impression upon her.”

“The wound!” said the landlord. “Is the young lady hurt, then?”

“Hurt, indeed! she is seriously hurt. She has received a severe wound in the arm, by some one, or some dog having seized and bitten her seriously.”

“God bless me!” said the landlord; “I never heard of such a thing. Somebody began to eat her, I suppose. Upon my word, it would almost make one believe we are in the Cannibal Islands, to say the least of it.”

“Here is the surgeon,” said Sir Francis, who noticed that gentleman’s approach.

“Well, sir,” said Captain Fraser, “how is your patient?”

“I fear she is much terrified; and if she were to remain here long, I should hardly like to answer for her health. She has received a very severe shock.”

“Her wound—what think you of that, sir?”

“I really can’t say anything about it, save that it is a bite; but how inflicted I cannot say. It is very mysterious, indeed; very strange! But, what I look upon as most important in the affair, is the impression it has produced upon her mind; that, you see, may last her all her life, and produce very unfortunate consequences. I do not know that it will be so, but I state what there is a possibility of—or, I may, more correctly speaking, add,—of what there is a great probability.”

“I regret to hear you say so,” said Sir Francis Varney. “Do you really imagine the young lady has been bitten by any animal?”

“Yes, I do; there are evidences enough to prove that. There is the wound in her arm, and the marks of the teeth quite plain; and she suffers from the anguish of it much; but I shall be better able to say more about it early in the morning, when I call again to see her.”

“She will be able to travel, I hope?”

“Oh, yes, she will be able to do that; indeed, I would recommend she should try to do so, as the best means of throwing off all the unpleasant feelings and thoughts upon the occasion.”

“Will you call early to-morrow?”

“I will,” said the doctor; and then he bade them good evening, and left.

“Well,” said the landlord, “I’m amazed at what the doctor says about the young lady. I’m sorry it should have happened in my house; but I hope something will turn up to make it turn out different.”

“That I’m afraid is not possible, seeing you have a clear demonstration of what it is now; the mischief has been done.”

“I am the more sorry,” said the landlord, “that it is likely to prey upon the young lady’s feelings, which are to be considered in the case.”

“Certainly, certainly; there is where the mischief is likely to spring from.”

“However, it is of no use to stand here all night—it is cold. I must get an hour or two’s sleep before I get to business in the morning.”

“I think so too,” said Captain Fraser; “well, I will bid you good night, Sir Francis, and shall expect you in the morning to breakfast.”

“With pleasure,” replied Varney; and they all parted, each going to his own dormitory, to sleep or to think over the events of the night, as best they might.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter CXLVII

The next morning came, and with it came also the usual bustle of a country inn, when strangers are stopping there, especially carriage strangers; as well as the usual coach stoppages, when they change horses, which they did more than once that morning. It was at a later hour than usual when the party breakfasted, and it was somewhat late when Sir Francis Varney entered the room.

“Good morning,” said Sir Francis, with great suavity of manner, and in a most courtly tone; “I trust I see you somewhat recovered from the fright you were put to last night.”

“Oh, Sir Francis,” said Mrs. Fraser; “it was a dreadful fright, indeed; but we have so much to thank you for. To you we owe much, and my sister owes to you a double obligation—you have rescued her twice.”

“I am happy to think I have been a fortunate instrument in serving you. I trust Miss Stevens is better than she was.”

“I think she is better, Sir Francis; but she desires to remain in her apartment until we are ready to start. Though I thought it somewhat unreasonable, because, if she is to travel, she had better have come out.”

“But her rest was disturbed by the accident, and it might have been early before she slept; and an hour’s rest and repose might do much towards recovering her,” said Sir Francis; “her own feelings are a good guide under those circumstances.”

“I think so, too,” said Captain Fraser.

“I,” said young Stevens, “was awoke by a desperate riot caused by people running about; I did not hear anything of the scream.”

“I was awoke by it,” said Captain Fraser. “How did you hear of it—how were you awoke?”

“By a loud scream,” said Sir Francis; “I was asleep, and when it awoke me, I knew not what it was. I remained for a moment or two in doubt as to whether I had not dreamt, but a repetition assured me that I was not dreaming—and knowing from the sound it was a female’s voice, I jumped up, and dressed myself as well as I could; but, before I could do that, I heard people running about, and when I got into the gallery, I heard the door burst in.”

“Did any one come out?”

“I cannot say—I saw no one; but the man who first entered the apartment fell down, from some cause or other, and set the bed-curtains on fire—accidentally, of course, but it was the same in effect.”

“Did you see any one in the room, Sir Francis?”

“No one at all; I did not even know who slept there; but seeing the form of a human being lying there, and wrapping the bed-clothes, or rather seizing her and the bed-clothes, by grasping with both arms, I carried her out. I used but little ceremony, and the urgency of the case must be my excuse.”

“And it is, Sir Francis, though I know not in what way we can manifest our feelings of gratitude to you.”

“You may, madam, by saying no more about it; but I shall be delighted to think you have such a good opinion of my services; and the knowledge that they have been useful, that is a gratification to me.”

“And one you are well entitled to, Sir Francis,” said Captain Fraser.

“How far are you travelling?” inquired Mrs. Fraser.

“As far as Bath, madam, for the benefit of my health.”

“We are going to Bath, Sir Francis, as well. I am sure it will be a great pleasure to Captain Fraser, to find that we are to have such a travelling companion—that is, if you can accommodate yourself to travelling in a carriage.”

“I can travel as you please. I am mounted, and am used to such travelling, for months at a time.”

“Do you travel much at a time, Sir Francis?”

“Yes, I have been a great traveller, for years; not so much as regards distance as to the constancy of my perambulations; for I continue for months together out, riding from one town to another.”

“Without an attendant?”

“Always; I never carry a servant about with me; it cannot be done with comfort by any one. You have always proper attendance if you stop at a respectable inn, or hotel; or, if not, if the road you have to travel be a cross route, you cannot expect any additional comfort from a servant, but you are troubled at his not being comfortably lodged; at least, I am, for I have tried it.”

“I dare say there is much wisdom in that. I know from experience that a single traveller, who has leisure, and is willing, may enjoy himself better than he could if he were attended by his servant. You are somewhat restrained in your motions, and cannot do as you would please under all circumstances.”

“I am fully persuaded of that, from experience; but I shall travel on horseback till I get to Bath, and then I hardly know whether I shall remain at an hotel, or take lodgings for the season—or what.”

“What we intend is, to take lodgings,” said Captain Fraser, “for a time—as long as we feel inclined—and then to enjoy ourselves.”

“Quite right,” said Sir Francis; “quite right. I am glad to hear you say so, and I hope it may be of advantage to Miss Stevens.”

“I hope so too. Shall we have the advantage of your company en route?”

“I shall have great pleasure in having your company so far. It will give me great gratification, indeed; I shall be most happy to bear your company as far as the city of Bath, and shall consider myself the gainer by your society.”

“No, we shall be the only party that will benefit by it; but we shall feel greatly your kindness, and I, for one, anticipate much pleasure on the road from your society, and also when we arrive in Bath.”

“I feel such will be the case.”

At this moment Mr. Carter was announced also. In a few moments more this individual was introduced to them; he was a plain gentlemanly man, who really was a clever man, notwithstanding the fearful account of his prowess and skill which the landlord had descanted on the previous night.

“Well, Mr. Carter,” said Captain Fraser, “how do you find my sister—do you think she is any better than she was?”

“I think she is calmer, and much of the first violence of terror is gone; but I cannot say any more—she is still much disturbed.”

“Do you think there is anything dangerous in her state?”

“No, sir, I do not; though I cannot hide from you the possibility that there is of her being permanently affected by it—I mean mentally; it may take a deep hold of her, and there will be no getting her free from it, save by judicious treatment.”

“You do not consider much, then, of her wound?”

“The arm? Oh, yes; that looks very angry, and has been a very severe bite, and has caused her arm to swell; though I have no doubt about its getting well, still it will be very painful for some days; and, had it been a little more severe, it is possible that some of the tendons might have been injured, or an artery wounded.”

“Upon my word,” said Sir Francis Varney, “this had very nigh turned out a very bad and serious affair, if not a dangerous one.”

“Of that there can be no doubt,” said the doctor.

“Well, but, after all, what was it that has caused all this disturbance? What was it, a man or brute?”

“Decidedly the latter,” said Sir Francis Varney, “decidedly the latter, be the form of the creature what it may.”

“Indeed, you are right, Sir Francis,” said Mrs. Fraser; “but she insists it was a human being who made this abominable attack upon her—why or wherefore, no one knows; but she insists it was a man.”

“What do you say, doctor?”

“I only know, sir, what the young lady says.”

“Do you think it probable?”

“I cannot say I do. I think it most unlikely; though, to be sure, there is nothing in it that is impossible. Had any one felt maliciously towards the young lady, they might have perpetrated the crime; but, in the absence of all malice, I cannot think so bad of human nature as to believe it.”

“You discredit it, then?” said Sir Francis Varney.

“I do,” said the doctor, “with all due respect to the young lady; but the probability of mistake is so great, and when you consider the terror so natural to the occasion, her powers of observation were limited and liable to error, that I cannot myself believe otherwise than there is a great mistake.”

“And what do you consider of the wounds? I mean, do you think it possible they were inflicted by human teeth? Are they of that shape and character that could be inflicted by human teeth?”

“Yes, decidedly; that is, so far as I am able to judge, while the wound is swelled and angry, I should consider them just such as might be inflicted by the teeth of a man or woman.”

“That corroborates the young lady’s own belief.”

“It does, so far,” said Mr. Carter.

“Then comes the question of how could it have been done, and by whom?”

“These seem to be questions which cannot be answered. I asked the landlord all that could tend to elicit that information, but with no success; he knew nothing that could throw any light upon the subject.”

“Perhaps he knew nothing,” suggested Mrs. Fraser.

“Most probably he did not,” was the reply. “I know the landlord to be a respectable, though somewhat eccentric man; and I think him quite incapable of being a party to such an outrage upon any person, much less upon a lady who was stopping at his house.”

“Well, however true that may be, yet it is undeniable that this outrage has been committed, though by whom we cannot say, for we do not even suspect anybody. I can’t understand it at all.”

“Nor I; but, as you observed, sir, the outrage has been committed, and here, too; but, unfortunately, no one is suspected, and justice cannot be done, which, in such a case, ought to be fully and clearly made out, for there can be no palliation.”

“None at all.”

“I wish,” said Captain Fraser, “I had been first in the room.”

“Why, sir,” inquired Sir Francis Varney, “do you wish that?”

“Because you see, sir, I should have felt that inward satisfaction arising from the fact, that I fancy I might have ascertained whether any one was, or had been, in the room.”

“The young lady said there was,” said Sir Francis.

“Yes—yes; but then you saw the door opened, and saw no one come out.”

“I did not, though, after I had Miss Stevens in my arms, I came away, and then it was possible any one might have got out, though there were others who would have seen them; but still, in the bustle and confusion of the moment, there might have been somebody.”

“Yes, there is that possibility,” said Captain Fraser; “and I don’t see why I should trouble myself about this affair—I mean, by wishing myself there; but I should have done nothing but carry out the body—that would have been my first act.”

“No doubt,” said Sir Francis; “and what made such an act the more necessary is, the fact that she was in instant danger of death from burning, or suffocation.”

“True—true; who would have coolly gazed around him, when there, on the bed, lay the unfortunate victim of God knows what.”

“Well, sir, I must bid you good day. I have some patients to visit.”

“Not before we square accounts, which is easily done. Let me know how we may stand, sir, and I will pay you at once.”

This little affair was soon settled; and the doctor was about to depart, when he said, before he left the room,—

“I have given the young lady directions what to do relative to her arm. She must not use it much; but any medical man who may chance to see it, will be able to prescribe for it; though what I have given I deem almost enough to effect her complete restoration, as far as regards the arm. The shock, the mind and nervous system have sustained, will only be eradicated by time and change.”

“Thank you for your advice; that shall be attended to.”

The doctor now quitted the hotel; and the landlord entered the apartment with a very serious aspect; and, after making his bow, proceeded to say,—

“I am very sorry, sir, for the occurrence of last night—very sorry, indeed. Indeed, sir, I cannot make it out at all. I have inquired all over the house, and nobody at all knows anything about it, nor can’t think how it could be. A good many of them won’t believe it at all, though I told them there could be no doubt of it, for the young lady was burnt, and the bed set on fire.”

“You may be sure of that, landlord; the young lady has been bitten on the arm most severely.”

“And, as for the fire,” said Sir Francis, “I saw how that occurred.”

“So you said, sir,” replied the landlord; “if that fellow as fell down had stood up, why, it wouldn’t have set the curtains a fire.”

“No, that is true.”

“Well, then, he would have been able to have seen what was the matter, instead of his filling the room full of smoke and fire as he did; he hadn’t no excuse to tumble down—nobody knocked him down.”

“But didn’t he hurt himself very badly?”

“Oh, only about two or three square inches, or perhaps a patch as big as your hand, off his chin—that’s nothing to such as he.”

“Very good. But have you examined the place, to see if anybody could have got in and concealed himself? Was there any possibility of a man’s getting into your house, and secreting himself in any part of the bed-room, which would thus afford him an opportunity of doing what has been done?”

“Why, sir, I don’t think it likely; and yet these people are so cunning, that you could not, by any possibility, guard against them in any way, especially in an inn. But there is no house free from intrusion of that character; but in this instance they could have had no notion the young lady was to sleep there.”

“That is very true,” said Captain Fraser, “and tends to show she was not singled out for outrage; but what seems very singular, is, that any one should secret themselves, and that with a view to commit such an outrage.”

“That is very true,” said the landlord; “but people do very strange things sometimes, and I think the object of any one hiding himself in the house in such a manner as this rascal must have done, was robbery.”

“But he met with no resistance, and there could have been no excuse for so cowardly an assault as this complained of.”

“There is much truth in that, and yet we don’t know what human nature is capable of,” said the landlord. “I have known a few things in my time; but the man, or whatever he might be, might have been tempted to make the assault complained of.”

“What? Then, landlord, you imagine that a thief who had got into the house, would make an attempt to eat a young lady?”

“Why, as to eating her, sir,” said the landlord, scratching his head, “I cannot say that he would. I don’t know what his intentions might be, nor do I profess to understand it at all. I can’t, however, see what can be the motive, save malice and spite; they mightn’t care whom they injured, so long as somebody was hurt.”

“They must have been very bad.”

“Yes, sir; and I wish I had seen them; if I had, I would no more mind chopping them in two than I would cleave a marrow-bone. I truly hope, sir, you won’t consider that, however unfortunate the circumstances are, that I am blameable in this affair. I took all the usual precautions in this affair—that is, my house was secured as usual, and the place watched during the day; for we are particular in that respect, knowing that we are very liable to be robbed.”

“Exactly,” said Captain Fraser; “and though I much regret the occurrence, yet, I tell you, I do not see anything in which I say you are to blame. It is simply a great misfortune, and there ends the matter.”

“Thank you. I regret it as much, I am sure, as anybody, because I am very likely to be injured by it.”

“You are not to blame. Allow my carriage to be at the door in half an hour, as we shall leave almost immediately.”

“And my horse, too, landlord, as I bear this gentleman company.”

The landlord departed, and went towards the stables, and gave the necessary orders; while the guests remained conversing on the extraordinary occurrence that had taken place, and much pleased with the courtesy of their new friend.

Many were the speculations that were indulged in respecting the attack upon Miss Stevens; many of them wild, but all wide of the mark, fortunately, for her frame of mind; and then, before they had at all come to any conclusion, or any satisfactory probability, the carriage was announced.

“Well, Sir Francis, I presume you will ride with us?”

“Yes, on horseback.”

“I understand so; we shall be much indebted to you for your goodness; but here is Miss Stevens.”

At that moment the young lady entered the room, ready attired for travelling, but looking very pale and timid. Sir Francis advanced, and, taking her hand, said,—

“May I have the pleasure of hearing you say the occurrence of last night has done you only a temporary mischief?”

“I hope not,” said Miss Stevens; “but, to you, Sir Francis, I owe everything. I am grateful to you for your ready and effectual aid under such trying circumstances. I am sure I never can repay you for your goodness.”

“Nay, the task is easier than you imagine,” said Sir Francis; “to know that I have saved you, and to see it has been effectual, is repayment enough. I am sure we never feel so much satisfaction and pleasure as when we find our endeavours, however important or unimportant they are, have proved effectual—that we have done what we desired to do—that is ample reward.”

“You are so good, Sir Francis.”

“We will say nothing about that. None are so perfect but we may see room for amendment; but we will have a truce, I hope, upon this subject, and now converse upon the pleasures of our journey.”

“They, I hope, will be very many,” said Mrs. Fraser.

“I have every expectation of it myself,” said Sir Francis; “the day appears fine, and the sun is high. The storm of last evening has cleared the air of much of its heat; it is cool and pleasant. The country will look refreshed, the fields will be quite gay and pleasant, and the face of nature renewed.”

“Well, I am certain it will be a pleasant journey under such a change, for I must say it was very sultry yesterday.”

“It was,” said Captain Fraser; “the appearance of the earth alone will tell that. But are you all ready?”

“Yes, all,” replied Mrs. Fraser.

“Now, my dear Charles, what are you about?”

“I’m looking for my gloves,” said the youth; “but I can’t find them.”

“Never mind them; we shall be off without you.”

“I’ll come before you have all got into the carriage, so don’t wait.”

“Permit me, Miss Stevens,” said Sir Francis, as he offered his arm, “to have the pleasure of seeing you safe into the carriage.”

The young lady accepted of the proffered arm of Sir Francis, though not without something like reluctance, though, why, she could not tell; but yet she did not like to appear to hesitate, and forced herself to do what common courtesy, if not gratitude, demanded she should do. She took his arm, and the whole party were shortly seated in the carriage, and with Sir Francis Varney mounted beside them, they all quitted the inn, where they had experienced such strange vicissitudes of fortune during one night, that it would never be erased from their memories.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us