Penny Dreadful Multipack Vol. 1 (Illustrated. Annotated. 'Wagner The Wehr-Wolf,' 'Varney The Vampire,' 'The Mysteries of London Vol. 1' + Bonus Features) (Penny Dreadful Multipacks) (74 page)

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 dump 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.

THE COFFIN.—THE ABSENCE OF THE DEAD.—THE MYSTERIOUS
CIRCUMSTANCE, AND THE CONSTERNATION OF GEORGE.

They
were all silent for a few moments as they looked around them with natural
feelings of curiosity. Two of that party had of course never been in that vault
at all, and the brothers, although they had descended into it upon the
occasion, nearly a year before, of their father being placed in it, still
looked upon it with almost as curious eyes as they who now had their first
sight of it.

If a
man be at all of a thoughtful or imaginative cast of mind, some curious
sensations are sure to come over him, upon standing in such a place, where he
knows around him lie, in the calmness of death, those in whose veins have
flowed kindred blood to him—who bore the same name, and who preceded him in the
brief drama of his existence, influencing his destiny and his position in life
probably largely by their actions compounded of their virtues and their vices.

Henry
Bannerworth and his brother George were just the kind of persons to feel
strongly such sensations. Both were reflective, imaginative, educated young
men, and, as the light from the wax candle flashed upon their faces, it was
evident how deeply they felt the situation in which they were placed.

Mr.
Chillingworth and Marchdale were silent. They both knew what was passing in the
minds of the brothers, and they had too much delicacy to interrupt a train of
thought which, although from having no affinity with the dead who lay around,
they could not share in, yet they respected. Henry at length, with a sudden
start, seemed to recover himself from his reverie.

"This
is a time for action, George," he said, "and not for romantic
thought. Let us proceed."

"Yes,
yes," said George, and he advanced a step towards the centre of the vault.

"Can
you find out among all these coffins, for there seem to be nearly twenty,"
said Mr. Chillingworth, "which is the one we seek?"

"I
think we may," replied Henry. "Some of the earlier coffins of our
race, I know, were made of marble, and others of metal, both of which
materials, I expect, would withstand the encroaches of time for a hundred
years, at least."

"Let
us examine," said George.

There
were shelves or niches built into the walls all round, on which the coffins
were placed, so that there could not be much difficulty in a minute examination
of them all, the one after the other.

When,
however, they came to look, they found that "decay's offensive
fingers" had been more busy than they could have imagined, and that
whatever they touched of the earlier coffins crumbled into dust before their
very fingers.

In
some cases the inscriptions were quite illegible, and, in others, the plates
that had borne them had fallen on to the floor of the vault, so that it was
impossible to say to which coffin they belonged.

Of
course, the more recent and fresh-looking coffins they did not examine, because
they could not have anything to do with the object of that melancholy visit.

"We
shall arrive at no conclusion," said George. "All seems to have
rotted away among those coffins where we might expect to find the one belonging
to Marmaduke Bannerworth, our ancestor."

"Here
is a coffin plate," said Marchdale, taking one from the floor.

He
handed it to Mr. Chillingworth, who, upon an inspection of it, close to the
light, exclaimed,—

"It
must have belonged to the coffin you seek."

"What
says it?"

"Ye
mortale remains of Marmaduke Bannerworth, Yeoman. God reste his soule. A.D.
1540."

"It
is the plate belonging to his coffin," said Henry, "and now our
search is fruitless."

"It
is so, indeed," exclaimed George, "for how can we tell to which of
the coffins that have lost the plates this one really belongs?"

"I
should not be so hopeless," said Marchdale. "I have, from time to
time, in the pursuit of antiquarian lore, which I was once fond of, entered
many vaults, and I have always observed that an inner coffin of metal was sound
and good, while the outer one of wood had rotted away, and yielded at once to
the touch of the first hand that was laid upon it."

"But,
admitting that to be the case," said Henry, "how does that assist us
in the identification of a coffin?"

"I
have always, in my experience, found the name and rank of the deceased engraved
upon the lid of the inner coffin, as well as being set forth in a much more
perishable manner on the plate which was secured to the outer one."

"He
is right," said Mr. Chillingworth. "I wonder we never thought of
that. If your ancestor was buried in a leaden coffin, there will be no
difficulty in finding which it is."

Henry
seized the light, and proceeding to one of the coffins, which seemed to be a
mass of decay, he pulled away some of the rotted wood work, and then suddenly
exclaimed,—

"You
are quite right. Here is a firm strong leaden coffin within, which, although
quite black, does not otherwise appear to have suffered."

"What
is the inscription on that?" said George.

With
difficulty the name on the lid was deciphered, but it was found not to be the
coffin of him whom they sought.

"We
can make short work of this," said Marchdale, "by only examining
those leaden coffins which have lost the plates from off their outer cases.
There do not appear to be many in such a state."

He
then, with another light, which he lighted from the one that Henry now carried,
commenced actively assisting in the search, which was carried on silently for
more than ten minutes.

Suddenly
Mr. Marchdale cried, in a tone of excitement,—

"I
have found it. It is here."

They
all immediately surrounded the spot where he was, and then he pointed to the
lid of a coffin, which he had been rubbing with his handkerchief, in order to
make the inscription more legible, and said,—

"See.
It is here."

By
the combined light of the candles they saw the words,—

"Marmaduke
Bannerworth, Yeoman, 1640."

"Yes,
there can be no mistake here," said Henry. "This is the coffin, and
it shall be opened."

"I
have the iron crowbar here," said Marchdale. "It is an old friend of
mine, and I am accustomed to the use of it. Shall I open the coffin?"

"Do
so—do so," said Henry.

They
stood around in silence, while Mr. Marchdale, with much care, proceeded to open
the coffin, which seemed of great thickness, and was of solid lead.

It
was probably the partial rotting of the metal, in consequence of the damps of
that place, that made it easier to open the coffin than it otherwise would have
been, but certain it was that the top came away remarkably easily. Indeed, so
easily did it come off, that another supposition might have been hazarded,
namely, that it had never at all been effectually fastened.

The
few moments that elapsed were ones of very great suspense to every one there
present; and it would, indeed, be quite sure to assert, that all the world was
for the time forgotten in the absorbing interest which appertained to the
affair which was in progress.

The
candles were now both held by Mr. Chillingworth, and they were so held as to
cast a full and clear light upon the coffin. Now the lid slid off, and Henry
eagerly gazed into the interior.

There
lay something certainly there, and an audible "Thank God!" escaped
his lips.

"The
body is there!" exclaimed George.

"All
right," said Marchdale, "here it is. There is something, and what
else can it be?"

"Hold
the lights," said Mr. Chillingworth; "hold the lights, some of you;
let us be quite certain."

George
took the lights, and Mr. Chillingworth, without any hesitation, dipped his
hands at once into the coffin, and took up some fragments of rags which were
there. They were so rotten, that they fell to pieces in his grasp, like so many
pieces of tinder.

There
was a death-like pause for some few moments, and then Mr. Chillingworth said,
in a low voice,—

"There
is not the least vestige of a dead body here."

Henry
gave a deep groan, as he said,—

"Mr.
Chillingworth, can you take upon yourself to say that no corpse has undergone
the process of decomposition in this coffin?"

"To
answer your question exactly, as probably in your hurry you have worded
it," said Mr. Chillingworth, "I cannot take upon myself to say any
such thing; but this I can say, namely, that in this coffin there are no animal
remains, and that it is quite impossible that any corpse enclosed here could,
in any lapse of time, have so utterly and entirely disappeared."

"I
am answered," said Henry.

"Good
God!" exclaimed George, "and has this but added another damning
proof, to those we have already on our minds, of one of the must dreadful
superstitions that ever the mind of man conceived?"

"It
would seem so," said Marchdale, sadly.

"Oh,
that I were dead! This is terrible. God of heaven, why are these things? Oh, if
I were but dead, and so spared the torture of supposing such things
possible."

"Think
again, Mr. Chillingworth; I pray you think again," cried Marchdale.

"If
I were to think for the remainder of my existence," he replied, "I
could come to no other conclusion. It is not a matter of opinion; it is a
matter of fact."

"You
are positive, then," said Henry, "that the dead body of Marmaduke
Bannerworth is not rested here?"

"I
am positive. Look for yourselves. The lead is but slightly discoloured; it
looks tolerably clean and fresh; there is not a vestige of putrefaction—no
bones, no dust even."

They
did all look for themselves, and the most casual glance was sufficient to
satisfy the most sceptical.

"All
is over," said Henry; "let us now leave this place; and all I can now
ask of you, my friends, is to lock this dreadful secret deep in your own
hearts."

"It
shall never pass my lips," said Marchdale.

"Nor
mine, you may depend," said the doctor. "I was much in hopes that
this night's work would have had the effect of dissipating, instead of adding
to, the gloomy fancies that now possess you."

"Good
heavens!" cried George, "can you call them fancies, Mr.
Chillingworth?"

"I
do, indeed."

"Have
you yet a doubt?"

"My
young friend, I told you from the first, that I would not believe in your
vampyre; and I tell you now, that if one was to come and lay hold of me by the
throat, as long as I could at all gasp for breath I would tell him he was a
d——d impostor."

"This
is carrying incredulity to the verge of obstinacy."

"Far
beyond it, if you please."

"You
will not be convinced?" said Marchdale.

"I
most decidedly, on this point, will not."

"Then
you are one who would doubt a miracle, if you saw it with your own eyes."

"I
would, because I do not believe in miracles. I should endeavour to find some
rational and some scientific means of accounting for the phenomenon, and that's
the very reason why we have no miracles now-a-days, between you and I, and no
prophets and saints, and all that sort of thing."

"I
would rather avoid such observations in such a place as this," said
Marchdale.

"Nay,
do not be the moral coward," cried Mr. Chillingworth, "to make your
opinions, or the expression of them, dependent upon any certain locality."

"I
know not what to think," said Henry; "I am bewildered quite. Let us
now come away."

Mr.
Marchdale replaced the lid of the coffin, and then the little party moved
towards the staircase. Henry turned before he ascended, and glanced back into
the vault.

"Oh,"
he said, "if I could but think there had been some mistake, some error of
judgment, on which the mind could rest for hope."

"I
deeply regret," said Marchdale, "that I so strenuously advised this
expedition. I did hope that from it would have resulted much good."

"And
you had every reason so to hope," said Chillingworth. "I advised it
likewise, and I tell you that its result perfectly astonishes me, although I
will not allow myself to embrace at once all the conclusions to which it would
seem to lead me."

"I
am satisfied," said Henry; "I know you both advised me for the best.
The curse of Heaven seems now to have fallen upon me and my house."

"Oh,
nonsense!" said Chillingworth. "What for?"

"Alas!
I know not."

"Then
you may depend that Heaven would never act so oddly. In the first place, Heaven
don't curse anybody; and, in the second, it is too just to inflict pain where
pain is not amply deserved."