THE VAULT UNDER THE COMMUNION
There are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing, but
which are too entirely horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction.
These the mere romancist must eschew, if he do not wish to offend or
disgust. They are with propriety handled only when the severity and
majesty of truth sanctify and maintain them. We thrill, for example,
with the most intense of "pleasurable pain" over the accounts of the
Passage of the Beresina, of the Earthquake at Lisbon, of the Plague of
London, of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, or of the 123 prisoners in
the Black Hole at Calcutta. But in these accounts it is the fact--it
is the reality--it is the history which excites. As inventions we
should regard them with simple abhorrence.--EDGAR A. POE'S _Tales of
Mystery and Imagination_.
I stood alone in the old church. How silent everything was! The great
grey granite pillars, surmounted by circling arches, appeared in
ghostly array before me; the high-backed pews seemed to be peopled by
dim, shadowy figures, who had come back to watch me as I looked on the
face of my loved. Everyone of the tablets on the wall was to me a face
of warning. My footfall echoed and re-echoed, until I fancied the
silent church peopled by innumerable visitants from the spirit land.
A dim light which caused weird shadows to fall across the old building,
came in through the small windows, while the light of my lantern made
other shadows more dark, more forbidding.
I wended my way towards the Communion, for even there Bill Tregargus's
words came back to me. "She was buried in the vault under the
Communion," and there I should see all that remained of the only woman
I had ever loved. I passed by the reading desk, then came to the
pulpit, but I did not pause either to examine the curious carvings on
its front or the ancient worm-eaten wood of which it was made.
At length I stood by the Communion, and a great fear laid hold of me.
Tremblingly I looked around the church. All was silent save the night
winds as they moaned in the tower at the western end. Then an owl
hooted dismally, and soon after I heard three distinct raps at a
window, as though a large bird had tried to break the glass and thus
enter the church.
What did it mean? Deborah Teague had spoken of three raps as a sign of
death. To whom could it apply? To me? I was not anxious to live, and
yet I shuddered.
"Perhaps I shall die," I thought, "and see my darling again; but how
can I meet her? Have I not a murderer's hand and a murderer's heart?"
I turned the light of my lantern upon the altar table, and on it I saw
a cloth, on which was embroidered a cross, the symbol of the Saviour's
death, and this made me remember how He had spoken to a dying thief.
For a moment the thought gave me comfort, but in the next I recollected
that the thief was penitent, and that I had no proof he was, as I was,
a murderer. And I was not penitent; I still hated Wilfred. He had
robbed me of earthly happiness here and Heaven hereafter. I hated him;
and I was a murderer. After that the cross brought me no comfort.
Before going to the sexton's I had provided myself with a short pointed
piece of iron. It was the only instrument I could procure with which
to open the vault without attracting suspicion.
I quickly found the burial place of the Mortons. A tablet was on the
wall, on which were written these words:--
"Under this stone, and waiting for a joyful
resurrection, lie buried all the mortal
remains of
JOHN MORTON,
OF MORTON HALL,
Who lived and died in the fear of the Lord.
He was hated by none, and beloved by all."
Then followed a eulogy of his life and works, his gifts to the church,
his kindness to the poor, together with many other things.
I looked beneath the tablet on the floor of the Communion, and saw that
a large slab had been lately moved. No doubt, then, that Ruth had been
buried in the family vault.
With trembling hands I placed my piece of iron beneath the joints of
the floor, and with but little difficulty lifted it up; then I slipped
my hands beneath the stone and lifted it still higher.
Air, stifling, unwholesome, came from underneath, and again I felt like
leaving my purpose unfulfilled; but a stronger impulse urged me to
proceed, and I moved the stone still farther. A minute later I had
turned it back, and Ruth's grave was opened.
For a minute my heart ceased to beat; then it seemed as though my bosom
were not large enough to contain it. Not that I feared the dead, at
any rate not Ruth. Had I not been guilty of that awful deed the night
before I do not think I should have been so moved; but with murder on
my heart, to look on the face of my beloved was terrible. And yet I
felt I could never rest until I had seen her.
I stared into the vault.
At one end were steps by which I could descend. At the other was a
dark object.
My blood seemed to freeze in my veins, yet I went down the steps,
slowly and steadily, until I stood in the abode of the dead.
Never shall I forget how I felt. Never while consciousness remains
will the awful sensations that possessed me be altogether taken away.
Around me was the dust of departed generations of the Morton family,
while close to me was the face of one whom ten years before I had seen
a bright and beautiful maiden. Ruth, whom I had ever loved, and who
had died of love for me, was there!
Vague thoughts of how she would look floated in my brain, and in my
delirium I fancied that her spirit had come back to watch me as I took
one last look at her dead face.
The coffin was placed in a recess in the tomb. I knew it was hers, for
it was new, and had been only lately placed there.
I thought I had heard a sound above. I listened for a second, but
could hear nothing save the wild beatings of my almost breaking heart.
Then I placed my hand on the coffin.
It was fastened with what looked like golden clasps, large and strong,
which pressed closely on the grey oak of which the coffin was made.
Mechanically I moved the clasps, and then lifted my lantern nearer.
Again I listened, but all was silent. If the spirits of the dead were
there they made no sound.
I lifted the coffin lid.
For a second I held it in my hand, then I turned it back.
Even then I could not bear to look in and see my darling's dead face,
and stood trying to gather together sufficient courage.
I let the light fall upon the head of the coffin and looked.
Yes, it was Ruth, little altered from when I had seen her last, except
that she looked thin and pale, oh! so pale.
She was not like anyone dead; in spite of her stony stillness, there
was the shadow of colour upon her thin cheeks.
I looked at her like one entranced, then glanced fearfully around the
vault, which was only faintly lit by the flickering candle burning in
my lantern.
A longing came over me to get away, but I felt I dare not, I must
remain longer with Ruth. I felt that she was glad I was there, and
would not have me leave her so soon.
Yet she lay like a beautiful piece of marble. Her hands were folded on
her breast, and she looked peaceful, so peaceful.
How I loved her, and how I longed for one word, one movement whereby I
could know she loved me!
I do not know how long I stayed there. I lost all thought of time as I
stood gazing at the face of my darling. Everything like fear passed,
for in spirit I was with her.
I kissed her cold lips, as if to bid her good-bye, then seeing the
candle in my lantern had burnt low, I began to think in a dazed kind of
way that I must go. But it was so hard, so terrible! If I could only
have some memento to take, something I might aways keep until I, too,
should be laid under the cold sod!
What was that?
Flashing from her finger that lay on her heart I saw a ring. Dare I
take it?
At first I shuddered at the thought. Robbing the dead seemed
sacrilege, yet it did not seem like robbery. And was I not sure that
she would wish me to take it? It might comfort me during the little
time I had to live, for I could carry it everywhere with me.
I took her hand in mine.
Slowly I began to remove the ornament. It was a thick gold circle, and
three large diamonds had been inlaid and flashed brightly.
It was rather hard to pass over the joint, but I was determined to
possess it. Then I stopped as if stunned, and trembled like an aspen
leaf.
I felt the hand move!
Yet I did not drop it. I could not, it seemed welded to mine.
Was it the judgment of God for seeking to rob the dead? I looked at
her face, as if expecting a curse, and my heart seemed to come into my
mouth.
Her eyelids began to quiver, her mouth to twitch,[*] and her whole body
to give signs of life.
To say that I was awed would be but to hint at my feelings. At first I
thought it was her ghost rising to denounce me, but soon I saw it was
physical life, and then I thought God was working a miracle.
Almost unconsciously I went on rubbing her hands, while evidence of
returning life became plainer and plainer.
Then I trembled lest the shock of seeing me there in that silent vault
should kill her, or do her serious injury, and yet I longed to hear her
speak, I longed for expressions of her love.
Still more plainly did life appear, until I saw her open her eyes.
They were dull and had a blank expression, but by and by they became
brighter. She looked around the vault as if in wonder, then her eyes
rested on the lantern, and again she turned them towards me. For a
minute she gazed, then with a cry she sat upright.
* Although the reader may regard the foregoing as wild and impossible,
I can vouch for the truth of a story identical in many points with that
told by Roger Trewinion. The wife of a nobleman of the West of
England, whose name is well-known in Cornwall, was supposed to be dead,
and was buried in the family vault situated in the old parish church.
A valuable ring which was on her finger when she died was allowed to
remain, and it was known by the servants and villagers that this
ornament was in the tomb with her. The sexton determined to get it,
and accordingly at midnight made his way to the church. In seeking to
remove the ring he caused the latent life to assert itself, and seeing
the lady move he ran out of the church, leaving the lantern behind him.
She became conscious, took the sexton's lantern, and found her way back
to the hall. She lived long enough to become the mother of a son, who
afterwards became the heir of his father's estates.--_Note by the_
EDITOR.