THE VISIT TO THE VAULT OF THE BANNERWORTHS, AND ITS UNPLEASANT
RESULT.—THE MYSTERY.
Henry and his brother roused Flora, and after agreeing together that it
would be highly imprudent to say anything to her of the proceedings of
the night, they commenced a conversation with her in encouraging and
kindly accents.
“Well, Flora,” said Henry, “you see you have been quite undisturbed
to-night.”
“I have slept long, dear Henry.”
“You have, and pleasantly too, I hope.”
“I have not had any dreams, and I feel much refreshed, now, and quite
well again.”
“Thank Heaven!” said George.
“If you will tell dear mother that I am awake, I will get up with her
assistance.”
The brothers left the room, and they spoke to each other of it as a
favourable sign, that Flora did not object to being left alone now, as
she had done on the preceding morning.
“She is fast recovering, now, George,” said Henry. “If we could now but
persuade ourselves that all this alarm would pass away, and that we
should hear no more of it, we might return to our old and comparatively
happy condition.”
“Let us believe, Henry, that we shall.”
“And yet, George, I shall not be satisfied in my mind, until I have
paid a visit.”
“A visit? Where?”
“To the family vault.”
“Indeed, Henry! I thought you had abandoned that idea.”
“I had. I have several times abandoned it; but it comes across my mind
again and again.”
“I much regret it.”
“Look you, George; as yet, everything that has happened has tended to
confirm a belief in this most horrible of all superstitions concerning
vampyres.”
“It has.”
“Now, my great object, George, is to endeavour to disturb such a state
of things, by getting something, however slight, or of a negative
character, for the mind to rest upon on the other side of the question.”
“I comprehend you, Henry.”
“You know that at present we are not only led to believe, almost
irresistibly, that we have been visited here by a vampyre, but that
that vampyre is our ancestor, whose portrait is on the panel of the
wall of the chamber into which he contrived to make his way.”
“True, most true.”
“Then let us, by an examination of the family vault, George, put an
end to one of the evidences. If we find, as most surely we shall, the
coffin of the ancestor of ours, who seems, in dress and appearance, so
horribly mixed up in this affair, we shall be at rest on that head.”
“But consider how many years have elapsed.”
“Yes, a great number.”
“What then, do you suppose, could remain of any corpse placed in a
vault so long ago?”
“Decomposition must of course have done its work, but still there must
be a something to show that a corpse has so undergone the process
common to all nature. Double the lapse of time surely could not
obliterate all traces of that which had been.”
“There is reason in that, Henry.”
“Besides, the coffins are all of lead, and some of stone, so that they
cannot have all gone.”
“True, most true.”
“If in the one which, from the inscription and the date, we discover to
be that of our ancestor whom we seek, we find the evident remains of a
corpse, we shall be satisfied that he has rested in his tomb in peace.”
“Brother, you seem bent on this adventure,” said George; “if you go, I
will accompany you.”
“I will not engage rashly in it, George. Before I finally decide, I
will again consult with Mr. Marchdale. His opinion will weigh much with
me.”
“And in good time, here he comes across the garden,” said George, as he
looked from the window of the room in which they sat.
It was Mr. Marchdale, and the brothers warmly welcomed him as he
entered the apartment.
“You have been early afoot,” said Henry.
“I have,” he said. “The fact is, that although at your solicitation
I went to bed, I could not sleep, and I went out once more to search
about the spot where we had seen the—the I don’t know what to call it,
for I have a great dislike to naming it a vampyre.”
“There is not much in a name,” said George.
“In this instance there is,” said Marchdale. “It is a name suggestive
of horror.”
“Made you any discovery?” said Henry.
“None whatever.”
“You saw no trace of any one?”
“Not the least.”
“Well, Mr. Marchdale, George and I were talking over this projected
visit to the family vault.”
“Yes.”
“And we agreed to suspend our judgments until we saw you, and learned
your opinion.”
“Which I will tell you frankly,” said Mr. Marchdale, “because I know
you desire it freely.”
“Do so.”
“It is, that you make the visit.”
“Indeed.”
“Yes, and for this reason. You have now, as you cannot help having, a
disagreeable feeling, that you may find that one coffin is untenanted.
Now, if you do find it so, you scarcely make matters worse, by
an additional confirmation of what already amounts to a strong
supposition, and one which is likely to grow stronger by time.”
“True, most true.”
“On the contrary, if you find indubitable proofs that your ancestor has
slept soundly in the tomb, and gone the way of all flesh, you will find
yourselves much calmer, and that an attack is made upon the train of
events which at present all run one way.”
“That is precisely the argument I was using to George,” said Henry, “a
few moments since.”
“Then let us go,” said George, “by all means.”
“It is so decided then,” said Henry.
“Let it be done with caution,” replied Mr. Marchdale.
“If any one can manage it, of course we can.”
“Why should it not be done secretly and at night? Of course we lose
nothing by making a night visit to a vault into which daylight, I
presume, cannot penetrate.”
“Certainly not.”
“Then let it be at night.”
“But we shall surely require the concurrence of some of the church
authorities.”
“Nay, I do not see that,” interposed Mr. Marchdale. “It is the vault
actually vested in and belonging to yourself you wish to visit, and,
therefore, you have right to visit it in any manner or at any time that
may be most suitable to yourself.”
“But detection in a clandestine visit might produce unpleasant
consequences.”
“The church is old,” said George, “and we could easily find means of
getting into it. There is only one objection that I see, just now, and
that is, that we leave Flora unprotected.”
“We do, indeed,” said Henry. “I did not think of that.”
“It must be put to herself, as a matter for her own consideration,”
said Mr. Marchdale, “if she will consider herself sufficiently safe
with the company and protection of your mother only.”
“It would be a pity were we not all three present at the examination of
the coffin,” remarked Henry.
“It would, indeed. There is ample evidence,” said Mr. Marchdale, “but
we must not give Flora a night of sleeplessness and uneasiness on that
account, and the more particularly as we cannot well explain to her
where we are going, or upon what errand.”
“Certainly not.”
“Let us talk to her, then, about it,” said Henry. “I confess I am much
bent upon the plan, and fain would not forego it; neither should I like
other than that we three should go together.”
“If you determine, then, upon it,” said Marchdale, “we will go
to-night; and, from your acquaintance with the place, doubtless you
will be able to decide what tools are necessary.”
“There is a trap-door at the bottom of the pew,” said Henry; “it is not
only secured down, but it is locked likewise, and I have the key in my
possession.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes; immediately beneath is a short flight of stone steps, which
conduct at once into the vault.”
“Is it large?”
“No; about the size of a moderate chamber, and with no intricacies
about it.”
“There can be no difficulties, then.”
“None whatever, unless we meet with actual personal interruption, which
I am inclined to think is very far from likely. All we shall require
will be a screwdriver, with which to remove the screws, and then
something with which to wrench open the coffin.”
“Those we can easily provide, along with lights,” remarked Mr.
Marchdale. “I hope to Heaven that this visit to the tomb will have the
effect of easing your minds, and enabling you to make a successful
stand against the streaming torrent of evidence that has poured in upon
us regarding this most fearful of apparitions.”
“I do, indeed, hope so,” added Henry; “and now I will go at once to
Flora, and endeavour to convince her she is safe without us to-night.”
“By-the-bye, I think,” said Marchdale, “that if we can induce Mr.
Chillingworth to come with us, it will be a great point gained in the
investigation.”
“He would,” said Henry, “be able to come to an accurate decision with
respect to the remains—if any—in the coffin, which we could not.”
“Then have him, by all means,” said George. “He did not seem averse
last night to go on such an adventure.”
“I will ask him when he makes his visit this morning upon Flora; and
should he not feel disposed to join us, I am quite sure he will keep
the secret of our visit.”
All this being arranged, Henry proceeded to Flora, and told her that he
and George, and Mr. Marchdale wished to go out for about a couple of
hours in the evening after dark, if she felt sufficiently well to feel
a sense of security without them.
Flora changed colour, and slightly trembled, and then, as if ashamed of
her fears, she said,—
“Go, go; I will not detain you. Surely no harm can come to me in
presence of my mother.”
“We shall not be gone longer than the time I mention to you,” said
Henry.
“Oh, I shall be quite content. Besides, am I to be kept thus in fear
all my life? Surely, surely not. I ought, too, to learn to defend
myself.”
Henry caught at the idea, as he said,—
“If fire-arms were left you, do you think you would have courage to use
them?”
“I do, Henry.”
“Then you shall have them; and let me beg of you to shoot any one
without the least hesitation who shall come into your chamber.”
“I will, Henry. If ever human being was justified in the use of deadly
weapons, I am now. Heaven protect me from a repetition of the visit to
which I have now been once subjected. Rather, oh, much rather would I
die a hundred deaths than suffer what I have suffered.”
“Do not allow it, dear Flora, to press too heavily upon your mind
in dwelling upon it in conversation. I still entertain a sanguine
expectation that something may arise to afford a far less dreadful
explanation of what has occurred than what you have put upon it. Be
of good cheer, Flora, we shall go one hour after sunset, and return
in about two hours from the time at which we leave here, you may be
assured.”
Notwithstanding this ready and courageous acquiescence of Flora in the
arrangement, Henry was not without his apprehension that when the night
should come again, her fears would return with it; but he spoke to Mr.
Chillingworth upon the subject, and got that gentleman’s ready consent
to accompany them.
He promised to meet them at the church porch exactly at nine o’clock,
and matters were all arranged, and Henry waited with much eagerness and
anxiety now for the coming night, which he hoped would dissipate one
of the fearful deductions which his imagination had drawn from recent
circumstances.
He gave to Flora a pair of pistols of his own, upon which he knew he
could depend, and he took good care to load them well, so that there
could be no likelihood whatever of their missing fire at a critical
moment.
“Now, Flora,” he said, “I have seen you use fire-arms when you were
much younger than you are now, and therefore I need give you no
instructions. If any intruder does come, and you do fire, be sure you
take a good aim, and shoot low.”
“I will, Henry, I will; and you will be back in two hours?”
“Most assuredly I will.”
The day wore on, evening came, and then deepened into night. It turned
out to be a cloudy night, and therefore the moon’s brilliance was
nothing near equal to what it had been on the preceding night Still,
however, it had sufficient power over the vapours that frequently
covered it for many minutes together, to produce a considerable light
effect upon the face of nature, and the night was consequently very
far, indeed, from what might be called a dark one.
George, Henry, and Marchdale, met in one of the lower rooms of the
house, previous to starting upon their expedition; and after satisfying
themselves that they had with them all the tools that were necessary,
inclusive of the same small, but well-tempered iron crow-bar with which
Marchdale had, on the night of the visit of the vampyre, forced open
the door of Flora’s chamber, they left the hall, and proceeded at a
rapid pace towards the church.
“And Flora does not seem much alarmed,” said Marchdale, “at being left
alone?”
“No,” replied Henry, “she has made up her mind with a strong natural
courage which I knew was in her disposition to resist as much as
possible the depressing effects of the awful visitation she has
endured.”
“It would have driven some really mad.”
“It would, indeed; and her own reason tottered on its throne, but,
thank Heaven, she has recovered.”
“And I fervently hope that, through her life,” added Marchdale, “she
may never have such another trial.”
“We will not for a moment believe that such a thing can occur twice.”
“She is one among a thousand. Most young girls would never at all have
recovered the fearful shock to the nerves.”
“Not only has she recovered,” said Henry, “but a spirit, which I am
rejoiced to see, because it is one which will uphold her, of resistance
now possesses her.”
“Yes, she actually—I forgot to tell you before—but she actually asked
me for arms to resist any second visitation.”
“You much surprise me.”
“Yes, I was surprised, as well as pleased, myself.”
“I would have left her one of my pistols had I been aware of her having
made such a request. Do you know if she can use fire-arms?”
“Oh, yes; well.”
“What a pity. I have them both with me.”
“Oh, she is provided.”
“Provided?”
“Yes; I found some pistols which I used to take with me on the
continent, and she has them both well loaded, so that if the vampyre
makes his appearance, he is likely to meet with rather a warm
reception.”
“Good God! was it not dangerous?”
“Not at all, I think.”
“Well, you know best, certainly, of course. I hope the vampyre may
come, and that we may have the pleasure, when we return, of finding him
dead. By-the-bye, I—I—. Bless me, I have forgot to get the materials
for lights, which I pledged myself to do.”
“How unfortunate.”
“Walk on slowly, while I run back and get them.”
“Oh, we are too far——”
“Hilloa!” cried a man at this moment, some distance in front of them.
“It is Mr. Chillingworth,” said Henry.
“Hilloa,” cried the worthy doctor again. “Is that you, my friend, Henry
Bannerworth?”
“It is,” cried Henry.
Mr. Chillingworth now came up to them and said,—
“I was before my time, so rather than wait at the church porch, which
would have exposed me to observation perhaps, I thought it better to
walk on, and chance meeting with you.”
“You guessed we should come this way?”
“Yes, and so it turns out, really. It is unquestionably your most
direct route to the church.”
“I think I will go back,” said Mr. Marchdale.
“Back!” exclaimed the doctor; “what for?”
“I forgot the means of getting lights. We have candles, but no means of
lighting them.”
“Make yourselves easy on that score,” said Mr. Chillingworth. “I am
never without some chemical matches of my own manufacture, so that as
you have the candles, that can be no bar to our going on a once.”
“That is fortunate,” said Henry.
“Very,” added Marchdale; “for it seems a mile’s hard walking for me, or
at least half a mile from the hall. Let us now push on.”
They did push on, all four walking at a brisk pace. The church,
although it belonged to the village, was not in it. On the contrary,
it was situated at the end of a long lane, which was a mile nearly
from the village, in the direction of the hall; therefore, in going to
it from the hall, that amount of distance was saved, although it was
always called and considered the village church.
It stood alone, with the exception of a glebe house and two cottages,
that were occupied by persons who held situations about the sacred
edifice, and who were supposed, being on the spot, to keep watch and
ward over it.
It was an ancient building of the early English style of architecture,
or rather Norman, with one of those antique, square, short towers,
built of flint stones firmly embedded in cement, which, from time, had
acquired almost the consistency of stone itself. There were numerous
arched windows, partaking something of the more florid gothic style,
although scarcely ornamental enough to be called such. The edifice
stood in the centre of a grave-yard, which extended over a space of
about half an acre, and altogether it was one of the prettiest and most
rural old churches within many miles of the spot.
Many a lover of the antique and of the picturesque, for it was both,
went out of his way while travelling in the neighbourhood to look at
it, and it had an extensive and well-deserved reputation as a fine
specimen of its class and style of building.
In Kent, to the present day, are some fine specimens of the old
Roman style of church, building; and, although they are as rapidly
pulled down as the abuse of modern architects, and the cupidity of
speculators, and the vanity of clergymen can possibly encourage,
in order to erect flimsy, Italianised structures in their stead,
yet sufficient of them remain dotted over England to interest the
traveller. At Willesden there is a church of this description, which
will well repay a visit. This, then, was the kind of building into
which it was the intention of our four friends to penetrate, not on
an unholy, or an unjustifiable errand, but on one which, proceeding
from good and proper motives, it was highly desirable to conduct in as
secret a manner as possible.
The moon was more densely covered by clouds than it had yet been that
evening, when they reached the little wicket-gate which led into the
churchyard, through which was a regularly used thoroughfare.
“We have a favourable night,” remarked Henry, “for we are not so likely
to be disturbed.”
“And now, the question is, how are we to get in?” said Mr.
Chillingworth, as he paused, and glanced up at the ancient building.
“The doors,” said George, “would effectually resist us.”
“How can it be done, then?”
“The only way I can think of,” said Henry, “is to get out one of the
small, diamond-shaped panes of glass from one of the low windows, and
then we can one of us put in our hands, and undo the fastening, which
is very simple, when the window opens like a door, and it is but a step
into the church.”
“A good way,” said Marchdale. “We will lose no time.”
They walked round the church till they came to a very low window
indeed, near to an angle of the wall, where a huge abutment struck far
out into the burial-ground.
“Will you do it, Henry?” said George.
“Yes. I have often noticed the fastenings. Just give me a slight hoist
up, and all will be right.”
George did so, and Henry with his knife easily bent back some of the
leadwork which held in one of the panes of glass, and then got it out
whole. He handed it down to George, saying,—
“Take this, George. We can easily replace it when we leave, so that
there can be no signs left of any one having been here at all.”
George took the piece of thick, dim-coloured glass, and in another
moment Henry had succeeded in opening the window, and the mode of
ingress to the old church was fair and easy before them all, had there
been ever so many.
“I wonder,” said Marchdale, “that a place so inefficiently protected
has never been robbed.”
“No wonder at all,” remarked Mr. Chillingworth. “There is nothing to
take that I am aware of that would repay anybody the trouble of taking.”
“Indeed!”
“Not an article. The pulpit, to be sure, is covered with faded velvet;
but beyond that, and an old box, in which I believe nothing is left but
some books, I think there is no temptation.”
“And that, Heaven knows, is little enough, then.”
“Come on,” said Henry. “Be careful; there is nothing beneath the
window, and the depth is about two feet.”
Thus guided, they all got fairly into the sacred edifice, and then
Henry closed the window, and fastened it on the inside, as he said,—
“We have nothing to do now but to set to work opening a way into the
vault, and I trust that Heaven will pardon me for thus desecrating the
tomb of my ancestors, from a consideration of the object I have in view
by so doing.”
“It does seem wrong thus to tamper with the secrets of the tomb,”
remarked Mr. Marchdale.
“The secrets of a fiddlestick!” said the doctor. “What secrets has the
tomb, I wonder?”
“Well, but, my dear sir——”
“Nay, my dear sir, it is high time that death, which is, then, the
inevitable fate of us all, should be regarded with more philosophic
eyes than it is. There are no secrets in the tomb but such as may well
be endeavoured to be kept secret.”
“What do you mean?”
“There is one which very probably we shall find unpleasantly revealed.”
“Which is that?”
“The not over pleasant odour of decomposed animal remains—beyond that I
know of nothing of a secret nature that the tomb can show us.”
“Ah, your profession hardens you to such matters.”
“And a very good thing that it does, or else, if all men were to look
upon a dead body as something almost too dreadful to look upon, and by
far too horrible to touch, surgery would lose its value, and crime, in
many instances of the most obnoxious character, would go unpunished.”
“If we have a light here,” said Henry, “we shall run the greatest
chance in the world of being seen, for the church has many windows.”
“Do not have one, then, by any means,” said Mr. Chillingworth. “A match
held low down in the pew may enable us to open the vault.”
“That will be the only plan.”
Henry led them to the pew which belonged to his family, and in the
floor of which was the trap door.
“When was it last opened?” inquired Marchdale.
“When my father died,” said Henry; “some ten months ago now, I should
think.”
“The screws, then, have had ample time to fix themselves with fresh
rust.”
“Here is one of my chemical matches,” said Mr. Chillingworth, as he
suddenly irradiated the pew with a clear and beautiful flame, that
lasted about a minute.
The heads of the screws were easily discernible, and the short time
that the light lasted had enabled Henry to turn the key he had brought
with him in the lock.
“I think that without a light now,” he said, “I can turn the screws
well.”
“Can you?”
“Yes; there are but four.”
“Try it, then.”
Henry did so, and from the screws having very large heads, and being
made purposely, for the convenience of removal when required, with deep
indentations to receive the screw-driver, he found no difficulty in
feeling for the proper places, and extracting the screws without any
more light than was afforded to him from the general whitish aspect of
the heavens.
“Now, Mr. Chillingworth,” he said, “another of your matches, if you
please. I have all the screws so loose that I can pick them up with my
fingers.”
“Here,” said the doctor.
In another moment the pew was as light as day, and Henry succeeded in
taking out the few screws, which he placed in his pocket for their
greater security, since, of course, the intention was to replace
everything exactly as it was found, in order that not the least surmise
should arise in the mind of any person that the vault had been opened,
and visited for any purpose whatever, secretly or otherwise.
[Illustration: The men open the trap door, lighted by a match.]
“Let us descend,” said Henry. “There is no further obstacle, my
friends. Let us descend.”
“If any one,” remarked George, in a whisper, as they slowly descended
the stairs which conducted into the vault—“if any one had told me that
I should be descending into a vault for the purpose of ascertaining if
a dead body, which had been nearly a century there, was removed or not,
and had become a vampyre, I should have denounced the idea as one of
the most absurd that ever entered the brain of a human being.”
“We are the very slaves of circumstances,” said Marchdale, “and we
never know what we may do, or what we may not. What appears to us so
improbable as to border even upon the impossible at one time, is at
another the only course of action which appears feasibly open to us to
attempt to pursue.”
They had now reached the vault, the floor of which was composed of flat
red tiles, laid in tolerable order the one beside the other. As Henry
had stated, the vault was by no means of large extent. Indeed, several
of the apartments for the living, at the hall, were much larger than
was that one destined for the dead.
The atmosphere was damp and noisome, but not by any means so bad as
might have been expected, considering the number of months which had
elapsed since last the vault was opened to receive one of its ghastly
and still visitants.
“Now for one of your lights. Mr. Chillingworth. You say you have the
candles, I think, Marchdale, although you forgot the matches.”
“I have. They are here.”
Marchdale took from his pocket a parcel which contained several wax
candles, and when it was opened, a smaller packet fell to the ground.
“Why, these are instantaneous matches,” said Mr. Chillingworth, as he
lifted the small packet up.
“They are; and what a fruitless journey I should have had back to the
hall,” said Mr. Marchdale, “if you had not been so well provided as you
are with the means of getting a light. These matches, which I thought
I had not with me, have been, in the hurry of departure, enclosed, you
see, with the candles. Truly, I should have hunted for them at home in
vain.”
Mr. Chillingworth lit the wax candle which was now handed to him by
Marchdale, and in another moment the vault from one end of it to the
other was quite clearly discernible.