"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." 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.