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) (73 page)

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 older to erect flimsy, Italianised structures in
their stead, yet sufficient of them remain dotted over England to interest the
traveller. At Walesden 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.

"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."