Chapter V--The Crypt

by Bram Stoker

　　It was some weeks before Stephen got the chance she wanted. She knewit would be difficult to evade Harold's observation, for the bigboy's acuteness as to facts had impressed itself on her. It wasstrange that out of her very trust in Harold came a form of distrustin others. In the little matter of evading him she inclined to anyone in whom there was his opposite, in whose reliability sheinstinctively mistrusted. 'There is nothing bad or good but thinkingmakes it so!' To enter that crypt, which had seemed so small amatter at first, had now in process of thinking and wishing andscheming become a thing to be much desired. Harold saw, or ratherfelt, that something was in the girl's mind, and took for grantedthat it had something to do with the crypt. But he thought it betternot to say anything lest he should keep awake a desire which he hopedwould die naturally.One day it was arranged that Harold should go over to Carstone to seethe solicitor who had wound up his father's business. He was to staythe night and ride back next day. Stephen, on hearing of thearrangement, so contrived matters that Master Everard, the son of abanker who had recently purchased an estate in the neighbourhood, wasasked to come to play with her on the day when Harold left. It washoliday time at Eton, and he was at home. Stephen did not mention toHarold the fact of his coming; it was only from a chance allusion ofMrs. Jarrold before he went that he inferred it. He did not thinkthe matter of sufficient importance to wonder why Stephen, whogenerally told him everything, had not mentioned this.During their play, Stephen, after pledging him to secrecy, toldLeonard of her intention of visiting the crypt, and asked him to helpher in it. This was an adventure, and as such commended itself tothe schoolboy heart. He entered at once into the scheme con amore;and the two discussed ways and means. Leonard's only regret was thathe was associated with a little girl in such a project. It wassomething of a blow to his personal vanity, which was a large item inhis moral equipment, that such a project should have been initiatedby the girl and not by himself. He was to get possession of the keyand in the forenoon of the next day he was to be waiting in thechurchyard, when Stephen would join him as soon as she could evadeher nurse. She was now more than eleven, and had less need of beingwatched than in her earlier years. It was possible, with strategy,to get away undiscovered for an hour.At Carstone Harold got though what he had to do that same afternoonand arranged to start early in the morning for Normanstand. After anearly breakfast he set out on his thirty-mile journey at eighto'clock. Littlejohn, his horse, was in excellent form,notwithstanding his long journey of the day before, and with his nosepointed for home, put his best foot foremost. Harold felt in greatspirits. The long ride the day before had braced him physically,though there were on his journey times of great sadness when thethought of his father came back to him and the sense of loss wasrenewed with each thought of his old home. But youth is naturallybuoyant. His visit to the church, the first thing on his arrival atCarstone, and his kneeling before the stone made sacred to hisfather's memory, though it entailed a silent gush of tears, did himgood, and even seemed to place his sorrow farther away. When he cameagain in the morning before leaving Carstone there were no tears.There was only a holy memory which seemed to sanctify loss; and hisfather seemed nearer to him than ever.As he drew near Normanstand he looked forward eagerly to seeingStephen, and the sight of the old church lying far below him as hecame down the steep road over Alt Hill, which was the short-cut fromNorcester, set his mind working. His visit to the tomb of his ownfather made him think of the day when he kept Stephen from enteringthe crypt.The keenest thought is not always conscious. It was without definiteintention that when he came to the bridle-path Harold turned hishorse's head and rode down to the churchyard. As he pushed open thedoor of the church he half expected to see Stephen; and there was avague possibility that Leonard Everard might be with her.The church was cool and dim. Coming from the hot glare the Augustsunshine it seemed, at the first glance, dark. He looked around, anda sense of relief came over him. The place was empty.But even as he stood, there came a sound which made his heart growcold. A cry, muffled, far away and full of anguish; a sobbing cry,which suddenly ceased.It was the voice of Stephen. He instinctively knew where it camefrom; the crypt. Only for the experience he had had of her desire toenter the place, he would never have suspected that it was so closeto him. He ran towards the corner where commenced the steps leadingdownward. As he reached the spot a figure came rushing up the steps.A boy in Eton jacket and wide collar, careless, pale, and agitated.It was Leonard Everard. Harold seized him as he came.'Where is Stephen?' he cried in a quick, low voice.'In the vault below there. She dropped her light and then took mine,and she dropped it too. Let me go! Let me go!' He struggled to getaway; but Harold held him tight.'Where are the matches?''In my pocket. Let me go! Let me go!''Give me them--this instant!' He was examining the frightened boy'swaistcoat pockets as he spoke. When he had got the matches he letthe boy go, and ran down the steps and through the open door into thecrypt, calling out as he came:'Stephen! Stephen dear, where are you? It is I--Harold!' There wasno response; his heart seemed to grow cold and his knees to weaken.The match spluttered and flashed, and in the momentary glare he sawacross the vault, which was not a large place, a white mass on theground. He had to go carefully, lest the match should be blown outby the wind of his passage; but on coming close he saw that it wasStephen lying senseless in front of a great coffin which rested on abuilt-out pile of masonry. Then the match went out. In the flare ofthe next one he lit he saw a piece of candle lying on top of thecoffin. He seized and lit it. He was able to think coolly despitehis agitation, and knew that light was the first necessity. Thebruised wick was slow to catch; he had to light another match, hislast one, before it flamed. The couple of seconds that the lightwent down till the grease melted and the flame leaped again seemed ofconsiderable length. When the lit candle was placed steadily on topof the coffin, and a light, dim, though strong enough to see with,spread around, he stooped and lifted Stephen in his arms. She wasquite senseless, and so limp that a great fear came upon him that shemight be dead. He did not waste time, but carried her across thevault where the door to the church steps stood out sharp against thedarkness, and bore her up into the church. Holding her in one arm,with the other hand he dragged some long cushions from one of thepews and spread them on the floor; on these he laid her. His heartwas smitten with love and pity as he looked. She was so helpless; sopitifully helpless! Her arms and legs were doubled up as thoughbroken, disjointed; the white frock was smeared with patches of thickdust. Instinctively he stooped and pulled the frock down andstraightened out the arms and feet. He knelt beside her, and felt ifher heart was still beating, a great fear over him, a sickapprehension. A gush of thankful prayer came from his heart. ThankGod! she was alive; he could feel her heart beat, though faintlyunderneath his hand. He started to his feet and ran towards thedoor, seizing his hat, which lay on a seat. He wanted it to bringback some water. As he passed out of the door he saw Leonard alittle distance off, but took no notice of him. He ran to thestream, filled his hat with water, and brought it back. When he cameinto the church he saw Stephen, already partially restored, sittingup on the cushions with Leonard supporting her.He was rejoiced; but somehow disappointed. He would rather Leonardhad not been there. He remembered--he could not forget--the whiteface of the boy who fled out of the crypt leaving Stephen in a faintwithin, and who had lingered outside the church door whilst he ranfor water. Harold came forward quickly and raised Stephen, intendingto bring her into the fresh air. He had a shrewd idea that the sightof the sky and God's greenery would be the best medicine for herafter her fright. He lifted her in his strong arms as he used to dowhen she was a very little child and had got tired in their walkstogether; and carried her to the door. She lent herselfunconsciously to the movement, holding fast with her arm round hisneck as she used to do. In her clinging was the expression of hertrust in him. The little sigh with which she laid her head on hisshoulder was the tribute to his masculine power, and her belief init. Every instant her senses were coming back to her more and more.The veil of oblivion was passing from her half-closed eyes, as thetide of full remembrance swept in upon her. Her inner nature wasexpressed in the sequence of her emotions. Her first feeling was oneof her own fault. The sight of Harold and his proximity recalled toher vividly how he had refused to go into the crypt, and how she hadintentionally deceived him, negatively, as to her intention of doingthat of which he disapproved. Her second feeling was one of justice;and was perhaps partially evoked by the sight of Leonard, whofollowed close as Harold brought her to the door. She did not wishto speak of herself or Harold before him; but she did not hesitate tospeak of him to Harold:'You must not blame Leonard. It was all my fault. I made him come!'Her generosity appealed to Harold. He was angry with the boy forbeing there at all; but more for his desertion of the girl in hertrouble.'I'm not blaming him for being with you!' he said simply. Leonardspoke at once. He had been waiting to defend himself, for that waswhat first concerned that young gentleman; next to his pleasure, hissafety most appealed to him.'I went to get help. You had let the candle drop; and how could Isee in the dark? You would insist on looking at the plate on thecoffin!'A low moan broke from Stephen, a long, low, trembling moan which wentto Harold's heart. Her head drooped over again on his shoulder; andshe clung close to him as the memory of her shock came back to her.Harold spoke to Leonard over his shoulder in a low, fierce whisper,which Stephen did not seem to hear:'There! that will do. Go away! You have done enough already. Go!Go!' he added more sternly, as the boy seemed disposed to argue.Leonard ran a few steps, then walked to the lich-gate, where hewaited.Stephen clung close to Harold in a state of agitation which wasalmost hysterical. She buried her face in his shoulder, sobbingbrokenly:'Oh, Harold! It was too awful. I never thought, never for a moment,that my poor dear mother was buried in the crypt. And when I went tolook at the name on the coffin that was nearest to where I was, Iknocked away the dust, and then I saw her name: "Margaret Norman,aetat 22." I couldn't bear it. She was only a girl herself, onlyjust twice my age--lying there in that terrible dark place with allthe thick dust and the spiders' webs. Oh, Harold, Harold! How shallI ever bear to think of her lying there, and that I shall never seeher dear face? Never! Never!'He tried to soothe her by patting and holding her hands. For a goodwhile the resolution of the girl faltered, and she was but as alittle child. Then her habitual strength of mind asserted itself.She did not ask Harold how she came to be out in the church insteadof in the crypt when she recovered her senses. She seemed to take itfor granted that Leonard had carried her out; and when she said howbrave it had been of him, Harold, with his customary generosity,allowed her to preserve the belief. When they had made their way tothe gate Leonard came up to them; but before he could speak Stephenhad begun to thank him. He allowed her to do so, though the sight ofHarold's mouth set in scorn, and his commanding eyes firmly fixed onhim, made him grow hot and cold alternately. He withdrew withoutspeaking; and took his way home with a heart full of bitterness andrevengeful feelings.In the park Stephen tried to dust herself, and then Harold tried toassist her. But her white dress was incurably soiled, the fine dustof the vault seemed to have got ingrained in the muslin. When shegot to the house she stole upstairs, so that no one might notice hertill she had made herself tidy.The next day but one she took Harold for a walk in the afternoon.When they were quite alone and out of earshot she said:'I have been thinking all night about poor mother. Of course I knowshe cannot be moved from the crypt. She must remain there. Butthere needn't be all that dust. I want you to come there with mesome time soon. I fear I am afraid to go alone. I want to bringsome flowers and to tidy up the place. Won't you come with me thistime? I know now, Harold, why you didn't let me go in before. Butnow it is different. This is not curiosity. It is Duty and Love.Won't you come with me, Harold?'Harold leaped from the edge of the ha-ha where he had been sittingand held up his hand. She took it and leaped down lightly besidehim.'Come,' he said, 'let us go there now!' She took his arm when theygot on the path again, and clinging to him in her pretty girlish waythey went together to the piece of garden which she called her own;there they picked a great bunch of beautiful white flowers. Thenthey walked to the old church. The door was open and they passed in.Harold took from his pocket a tiny key. This surprised her, andheightened the agitation which she naturally suffered from revisitingthe place. She said nothing whilst he opened the door to the crypt.Within, on a bracket, stood some candles in glass shades and boxes ofmatches. Harold lit three candles, and leaving one of them on theshelf, and placing his cap beside it, took the other two in hishands. Stephen, holding her flowers tightly to her breast with herright hand, took Harold's arm with the left, and with beating heartentered the crypt.For several minutes Harold kept her engaged, telling her about thecrypt in his father's church, and how he went down at his last visitto see the coffin of his dear father, and how he knelt before it.Stephen was much moved, and held tight to his arm, her heart beating.But in the time she was getting accustomed to the place. Her eyes,useless at first on coming out of the bright sunlight, and not ableto distinguish anything, began to take in the shape of the place andto see the rows of great coffins that stood out along the far wall.She also saw with surprise that the newest coffin, on which forseveral reasons her eyes rested, was no longer dusty but wasscrupulously clean. Following with her eyes as well as she could seeinto the further corners she saw that there the same reform had beeneffected. Even the walls and ceiling had been swept of the hangingcobwebs, and the floor was clean with the cleanliness of ablution.Still holding Harold's arm, she moved over towards her mother'scoffin and knelt before it. Harold knelt with her; for a littlewhile she remained still and silent, praying inwardly. Then sherose, and taking her great bunch of flowers placed them lovingly onthe lid of the coffin above where she thought her mother's heartwould be. Then she turned to Harold, her eyes flowing and her cheekswet with tears, and laid her head against his breast. Her arms couldnot go round his neck till he had bent his head, for with his greatheight he simply towered above her. Presently she was quiet; theparoxysm of her grief had passed. She took Harold's hand in bothhers, and together they went to the door. With his disengaged hand,for he would not have disturbed the other for worlds, Harold put outthe lights and locked the door behind them.In the church she held him away from her, and looked him fairly inthe face. She said slowly:'Harold, was it you who had the crypt cleaned?' He answered in a lowvoice:'I knew you would want to go again!'She took the great hand which she held between hers, and before heknew what she was doing and could prevent her, raised it to her lipsand kissed it, saying lovingly:'Oh, Harold! No brother in all the wide world could be kinder. And--and--' this with a sob, 'we both thank you; mother and I!'