Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
They
ascended the gloomy staircase of the vault. The countenances of both George and
Henry were very much saddened, and it was quite evident that their thoughts
were by far too busy to enable them to enter into any conversation. They did
not, and particularly George, seem to hear all that was said to them. Their
intellects seemed almost stunned by the unexpected circumstance of the
disappearance of the body of their ancestor.
All
along they had, although almost unknown to themselves, felt a sort of
conviction that they must find some remains of Marmaduke Bannerworth, which
would render the supposition, even in the most superstitious minds, that he was
the vampyre, a thing totally and physically impossible.
But
now the whole question assumed a far more bewildering shape. The body was not
in its coffin—it had not there quietly slept the long sleep of death common to
humanity. Where was it then? What had become of it? Where, how, and under what
circumstances had it been removed? Had it itself burst the bands that held it,
and hideously stalked forth into the world again to make one of its seeming
inhabitants, and kept up for a hundred years a dreadful existence by such
adventures as it had consummated at the hall, where, in the course of ordinary
human life, it had once lived?
All
these were questions which irresistibly pressed themselves upon the
consideration of Henry and his brother. They were awful questions.
And
yet, take any sober, sane, thinking, educated man, and show him all that they
had seen, subject him to all to which they had been subjected, and say if human
reason, and all the arguments that the subtlest brain could back it with, would
be able to hold out against such a vast accumulation of horrible evidences, and
say—"I don't believe it."
Mr.
Chillingworth's was the only plan. He would not argue the question. He said at
once,—
"I
will not believe this thing—upon this point I will yield to no evidence
whatever."
That
was the only way of disposing of such a question; but there are not many who
could so dispose of it, and not one so much interested in it as were the
brothers Bannerworth, who could at all hope to get into such a state of mind.
The
boards were laid carefully down again, and the screws replaced. Henry found
himself unequal to the task, so it was done by Marchdale, who took pains to
replace everything in the same state in which they had found it, even to the
laying even the matting at the bottom of the pew.
Then
they extinguished the light, and, with heavy hearts, they all walked towards
the window, to leave the sacred edifice by the same means they had entered it.
"Shall
we replace the pane of glass?" said Marchdale.
"Oh,
it matters not—it matters not," said Henry, listlessly; "nothing
matters now. I care not what becomes of me—I am getting weary of a life which
now must be one of misery and dread."
"You
must not allow yourself to fall into such a state of mind as this," said
the doctor, "or you will become a patient of mine very quickly."
"I
cannot help it."
"Well,
but be a man. If there are serious evils affecting you, fight out against them
the best way you can."
"I
cannot."
"Come,
now, listen to me. We need not, I think, trouble ourselves about the pane of
glass, so come along."
He
took the arm of Henry and walked on with him a little in advance of the others.
"Henry,"
he said, "the best way, you may depend, of meeting evils, be they great or
small, is to get up an obstinate feeling of defiance against them. Now, when
anything occurs which is uncomfortable to me, I endeavour to convince myself,
and I have no great difficulty in doing so, that I am a decidedly injured
man."
"Indeed!"
"Yes;
I get very angry, and that gets up a kind of obstinacy, which makes me not feel
half so much mental misery as would be my portion, if I were to succumb to the
evil, and commence whining over it, as many people do, under the pretence of
being resigned."
"But
this family affliction of mine transcends anything that anybody else ever
endured."
"I
don't know that; but it is a view of the subject which, if I were you, would
only make me more obstinate."
"What
can I do?"
"In
the first place, I would say to myself, 'There may or there may not be
supernatural beings, who, from some physical derangement of the ordinary nature
of things, make themselves obnoxious to living people; if there are, d—n them!
There may be vampyres; and if there are, I defy them.' Let the imagination
paint its very worst terrors; let fear do what it will and what it can in
peopling the mind with horrors. Shrink from nothing, and even then I would defy
them all."
"Is
not that like defying Heaven?"
"Most
certainly not; for in all we say and in all we do we act from the impulses of
that mind which is given to us by Heaven itself. If Heaven creates an intellect
and a mind of a certain order, Heaven will not quarrel that it does the work
which it was adapted to do."
"I
know these are your opinions. I have heard you mention them before."
"They
are the opinions of every rational person. Henry Bannerworth, because they will
stand the test of reason; and what I urge upon you is, not to allow yourself to
be mentally prostrated, even if a vampyre has paid a visit to your house. Defy
him, say I—fight him. Self-preservation is a great law of nature, implanted in
all our hearts; do you summon it to your aid."
"I
will endeavour to think as you would have me. I thought more than once of
summoning religion to my aid."
"Well,
that is religion."
"Indeed!"
"I
consider so, and the most rational religion of all. All that we read about
religion that does not seem expressly to agree with it, you may consider as an
allegory."
"But,
Mr. Chillingworth, I cannot and will not renounce the sublime truths of
Scripture. They may be incomprehensible; they may be inconsistent; and some of
them may look ridiculous; but still they are sacred and sublime, and I will not
renounce them although my reason may not accord with them, because they are the
laws of Heaven."
No
wonder this powerful argument silenced Mr. Chillingworth, who was one of those
characters in society who hold most dreadful opinions, and who would destroy
religious beliefs, and all the different sects in the world, if they could, and
endeavour to introduce instead some horrible system of human reason and
profound philosophy.
But
how soon the religious man silences his opponent; and let it not be supposed
that, because his opponent says no more upon the subject, he does so because he
is disgusted with the stupidity of the other; no, it is because he is
completely beaten, and has nothing more to say.
The
distance now between the church and the hall was nearly traversed, and Mr.
Chillingworth, who was a very good man, notwithstanding his disbelief in
certain things of course paved the way for him to hell, took a kind leave of
Mr. Marchdale and the brothers, promising to call on the following morning and
see Flora.
Henry
and George then, in earnest conversation with Marchdale, proceeded homewards.
It was evident that the scene in the vault had made a deep and saddening
impression upon them, and one which was not likely easily to be eradicated.
THE OCCURRENCES OF THE NIGHT AT THE HALL.—THE SECOND
APPEARANCE OF THE VAMPYRE, AND THE PISTOL-SHOT.
Despite
the full and free consent which Flora had given to her brothers to entrust her
solely to the care of her mother and her own courage at the hall, she felt
greater fear creep over her after they were gone than she chose to acknowledge.
A
sort of presentiment appeared to come over her that some evil was about to
occur, and more than once she caught herself almost in the act of saying,—
"I
wish they had not gone."
Mrs.
Bannerworth, too, could not be supposed to be entirely destitute of
uncomfortable feelings, when she came to consider how poor a guard she was over
her beautiful child, and how much terror might even deprive of the little power
she had, should the dreadful visitor again make his appearance.
"But
it is but for two hours," thought Flora, "and two hours will soon
pass away."
There
was, too, another feeling which gave her some degree of confidence, although it
arose from a bad source, inasmuch as it was one which showed powerfully how
much her mind was dwelling on the particulars of the horrible belief in the
class of supernatural beings, one of whom she believed had visited her.
That
consideration was this. The two hours of absence from the hall of its male
inhabitants, would be from nine o'clock until eleven, and those were not the
two hours during which she felt that she would be most timid on account of the
vampyre.
"It
was after midnight before," she thought, "when it came, and perhaps
it may not be able to come earlier. It may not have the power, until that time,
to make its hideous visits, and, therefore, I will believe myself safe."
She
had made up her mind not to go to bed until the return of her brothers, and she
and her mother sat in a small room that was used as a breakfast-room, and which
had a latticed window that opened on to the lawn.
This
window had in the inside strong oaken shutters, which had been fastened as
securely as their construction would admit of some time before the departure of
the brothers and Mr. Marchdale on that melancholy expedition, the object of
which, if it had been known to her, would have added so much to the terrors of
poor Flora.
It
was not even guessed at, however remotely, so that she had not the additional
affliction of thinking, that while she was sitting there, a prey to all sorts
of imaginative terrors, they were perhaps gathering fresh evidence, as, indeed,
they were, of the dreadful reality of the appearance which, but for the
collateral circumstances attendant upon its coming and its going, she would
fain have persuaded herself was but the vision of a dream.
It
was before nine that the brothers started, but in her own mind Flora gave them
to eleven, and when she heard ten o'clock sound from a clock which stood in the
hall, she felt pleased to think that in another hour they would surely be at
home.
"My
dear," said her mother, "you look more like yourself, now."
"Do,
I, mother?"
"Yes,
you are well again."
"Ah,
if I could forget—"
"Time,
my dear Flora, will enable you to do so, and all the fear of what made you so
unwell will pass away. You will soon forget it all."
"I
will hope to do so."
"Be
assured that, some day or another, something will occur, as Henry says, to
explain all that has happened, in some way consistent with reason and the
ordinary nature of things, my dear Flora."
"Oh,
I will cling to such a belief; I will get Henry, upon whose judgment I know I
can rely, to tell me so, and each time that I hear such words from his lips, I
will contrive to dismiss some portion of the terror which now, I cannot but
confess, clings to my heart."
Flora
laid her hand upon her mother's arm, and in a low, anxious tone of voice,
said,—"Listen, mother."
Mrs.
Bannerworth turned pale, as she said,—"Listen to what, dear?"
"Within
these last ten minutes," said Flora, "I have thought three or four
times that I heard a slight noise without. Nay, mother, do not tremble—it may
be only fancy."
Flora
herself trembled, and was of a death-like paleness; once or twice she passed
her hand across her brow, and altogether she presented a picture of much mental
suffering.
They
now conversed in anxious whispers, and almost all they said consisted in
anxious wishes for the return of the brothers and Mr. Marchdale.
"You
will be happier and more assured, my dear, with some company," said Mrs.
Bannerworth. "Shall I ring for the servants, and let them remain in the
room with us, until they who are our best safeguards next to Heaven
return?"
"Hush—hush—hush,
mother!"
"What
do you hear?"
"I
thought—I heard a faint sound."
"I
heard nothing, dear."
"Listen
again, mother. Surely I could not be deceived so often. I have now, at least,
six times heard a sound as if some one was outside by the windows."
"No,
no, my darling, do not think; your imagination is active and in a state of
excitement."
"It
is, and yet—"
"Believe
me, it deceives you."
"I
hope to Heaven it does!"
There
was a pause of some minutes' duration, and then Mrs. Bannerworth again urged
slightly the calling of some of the servants, for she thought that their
presence might have the effect of giving a different direction to her child's
thoughts; but Flora saw her place her hand upon the bell, and she said,—
"No,
mother, no—not yet, not yet. Perhaps I am deceived."
Mrs.
Bannerworth upon this sat down, but no sooner had she done so than she heartily
regretted she had not rung the bell, for, before, another word could be spoken,
there came too perceptibly upon their ears for there to be any mistake at all
about it, a strange scratching noise upon the window outside.
A
faint cry came from Flora's lips, as she exclaimed, in a voice of great agony,—
"Oh,
God!—oh, God! It has come again!"
Mrs.
Bannerworth became faint, and unable to move or speak at all; she could only
sit like one paralysed, and unable to do more than listen to and see what was
going on.
The
scratching noise continued for a few seconds, and then altogether ceased.
Perhaps, under ordinary circumstances, such a sound outside the window would
have scarcely afforded food for comment at all, or, if it had, it would have
been attributed to some natural effect, or to the exertions of some bird or
animal to obtain admittance to the house.
But
there had occurred now enough in that family to make any little sound of
wonderful importance, and these things which before would have passed
completely unheeded, at all events without creating much alarm, were now
invested with a fearful interest.
When
the scratching noise ceased, Flora spoke in a low, anxious whisper, as she
said,—
"Mother,
you heard it then?"
Mrs.
Bannerworth tried to speak, but she could not; and then suddenly, with a loud
clash, the bar, which on the inside appeared to fasten the shutters strongly,
fell as if by some invisible agency, and the shutters now, but for the
intervention of the window, could be easily pushed open from without.
Mrs.
Bannerworth covered her face with her hands, and, after rocking to and fro for
a moment, she fell off her chair, having fainted with the excess of terror that
came over her.
For
about the space of time in which a fast speaker could count twelve, Flora
thought her reason was leaving her, but it did not. She found herself
recovering; and there she sat, with her eyes fixed upon the window, looking
more like some exquisitely-chiselled statue of despair than a being of flesh
and blood, expecting each moment to have its eyes blasted by some horrible
appearance, such as might be supposed to drive her to madness.
And
now again came the strange knocking or scratching against the glass of the
window.
This
continued for some minutes, during which it appeared likewise to Flora that
some confusion was going on at another part of the house, for she fancied she
heard voices and the banging of doors.
It
seemed to her as if she must have sat looking at the shutters of that window a
long time before she saw them shake, and then one wide hinged portion of them
slowly opened.
Once
again horror appeared to be on the point of producing madness in her brain, and
then, as before, a feeling of calmness rapidly ensued.
She
was able to see plainly that something was by the window, but what it was she
could not plainly discern, in consequence of the lights she had in the room. A
few moments, however, sufficed to settle that mystery, for the window was
opened and a figure stood before her.
One
glance, one terrified glance, in which her whole soul was concentrated,
sufficed to shew her who and what the figure was. There was the tall, gaunt
form—there was the faded ancient apparel—the lustrous metallic-looking eyes—its
half-opened month, exhibiting the tusk-like teeth! It was—yes, it was—
the
vampyre!
It
stood for a moment gazing at her, and then in the hideous way it had attempted
before to speak, it apparently endeavoured to utter some words which it could
not make articulate to human ears. The pistols lay before Flora. Mechanically
she raised one, and pointed it at the figure. It advanced a step, and then she
pulled the trigger.
A
stunning report followed. There was a loud cry of pain, and the vampyre fled.
The smoke and the confusion that was incidental to the spot prevented her from
seeing if the figure walked or ran away. She thought she heard a crashing sound
among the plants outside the window, as if it had fallen, but she did not feel
quite sure.
It
was no effort of any reflection, but a purely mechanical movement, that made
her raise the other pistol, and discharge that likewise in the direction the
vampyre had taken. Then casting the weapon away, she rose, and made a frantic
rush from the room. She opened the door, and was dashing out, when she found
herself caught in the circling arms of some one who either had been there
waiting, or who had just at that moment got there.
The
thought that it was the vampyre, who by some mysterious means, had got there,
and was about to make her his prey, now overcame her completely, and she sunk
into a state of utter insensibility on the moment.