Fer.
Yes, Francisco,
He hath left his curse upon me.
Fran.
How?
Fer.
His curse I dost comprehend what that word carries?
Shot from a father's angry breath? Unless
I tear poor Felisarda from my heart,
He hath pronounced me heir to all his curses.
---SHIRLEY: The Brothers.
There is nothing, I trust, my dear young friend, and quondam pupil, said Dr. Small, as the door was closed, "that weighs upon your mind, beyond the sorrow naturally incident to an affliction, severe as the present. Forgive my apprehensions if I am wrong. You know the affectionate interest I have ever felt for you--an interest which, I assure you, is nowise diminished, and which will excuse my urging you to unburden your mind to me; assuring yourself, that whatever may be your disclosure, you will have my sincere sympathy and commiseration. I may be better able to advise with you, should counsel be necessary, than others, from my knowledge of your character and temperament. I would not anticipate evil, and am, perhaps, unnecessarily apprehensive. But I own, I am startled at the incoherence of your expressions, coupled with your sudden and almost mysterious appearance at this distressing conjuncture. Answer me: has your return been the result of mere accident? is it to be considered one of those singular circumstances which almost look like fate, and baffle our comprehension? or were you nearer home than we expected, and received the news of your father's demise through some channel unknown to us? Satisfy my curiosity, I beg of you, upon this point."
Your curiosity, my dear sir, replied Ranulph, gravely and sadly, "will not be decreased, when I tell you, that my return has neither been the work of chance,--for I came, fully anticipating the dread event, which I find realized,--nor has it been occasioned by any intelligence derived from yourself, or others. It was only, indeed, upon my arrival here that I received full confirmation of my apprehensions. I had another, a more terrible summons to return."
What summons? you perplex me! exclaimed Small, gazing with some misgiving into the face of his young friend.
I am myself perplexed--sorely perplexed, returned Ranulph. "I have much to relate; but I pray you bear with me to the end. I have that on my mind which, like guilt, must be revealed."
Speak, then, fearlessly to me, said Small, affectionately pressing Ranulph's hand, "and assure yourself, beforehand, of my sympathy."
It will be necessary, said Ranulph, "to preface my narrative by some slight allusion to certain painful events--and yet I know not why I should call them painful, excepting in their consequences--which influenced my conduct in my final interview between my father and myself--an interview which occasioned my departure for the Continent--and which was of a character so dreadful, that I would not even revert to it, were it not a necessary preliminary to the circumstance I am about to detail.
When I left Oxford, I passed a few weeks alone, in London. A college friend, whom I accidentally met, introduced me, during a promenade in St. James's Park, to some acquaintances of his own, who were taking an airing in the Mall at the same time--a family whose name was Mowbray, consisting of a widow lady, her son, and daughter. This introduction was made in compliance with my own request. I had been struck by the singular beauty of the younger lady, whose countenance had a peculiar and inexpressible charm to me, from its marked resemblance to the portrait of the Lady Eleanor Rookwood, whose charms and unhappy fate I have so often dwelt upon and deplored. The picture is there, continued Ranulph, pointing to it: "look at it, and you have the fair creature I speak of before you; the color of the hair--the tenderness of the eyes. No--the expression is not so sad, except when----but no matter! I recognized her features at once.
"
It struck me, that upon the mention of my name, the party betrayed some surprise, especially the elder lady. For my own part, I was so attracted by the beauty of the daughter, the effect of which upon me seemed rather the fulfilment of a predestined event, originating in the strange fascination which the family portrait had wrought in my heart, than the operation of what is called 'love at first sight,' that I was insensible to the agitation of the mother. In vain I endeavored to rally myself; my efforts at conversation were fruitless; I could not talk--all I could do was silently to yield to the soft witchery of those tender eyes; my admiration increasing each instant that I gazed upon them. I accompanied them home. Attracted as by some irresistible spell, I could not tear myself away; so that, although I fancied I could perceive symptoms of displeasure in the looks of both the mother and the son, yet, regardless of consequences, I ventured, uninvited, to enter the house. In order to shake off the restraint which I felt my society imposed, I found it absolutely necessary to divest myself of bashfulness, and to exert such conversational powers as I possessed. I succeeded so well that the discourse soon became lively and animated; and what chiefly delighted me was, that she, for whose sake I had committed my present rudeness, became radiant with smiles. I had been all eagerness to seek for some explanation of the resemblance to which I have just alluded, and the fitting moment had, I conceived, arrived. I called attention to a peculiar expression in the features of Miss Mowbray, and then instanced the likeness that subsisted between her and my ancestress. 'It is the more singular,' I said, turning to her mother, 'because there could have been no affinity, that I am aware of, between them, and yet the likeness is really surprising.'--'It is not so singular as you imagine,' answered Mrs. Mowbray; 'there is a close affinity. That Lady Rookwood was my mother. Eleanor Mowbray does resemble her ill-fated ancestress.'
""
Words cannot paint my astonishment. I gazed at Mrs. Mowbray, considering whether I had not misconstrued her speech--whether I had not so shaped the sounds as to suit my own quick and passionate conceptions. But no! I read in her calm, collected countenance--in the downcast glance, and sudden sadness of Eleanor, as well as in the changed and haughty demeanor of the brother, that I had heard her rightly. Eleanor Mowbray was my cousin--the descendant of that hapless creature whose image I had almost worshipped. Recovering from my surprise, I addressed Mrs. Mowbray, endeavoring to excuse my ignorance of our relationship, on the plea that I had not been given to understand that such had been the name of the gentleman she had espoused. 'Nor was it,' answered she, 'the name he bore at Rookwood; circumstances forbade it then. From the hour I quitted that house until this moment, excepting one interview with my--with Sir Reginald Rookwood--I have seen none of my family--have held no communication with them. My brothers have been strangers to me; the very name of Rookwood has been unheard, unknown; nor would you have been admitted here, had not accident occasioned it.' I ventured now to interrupt her, and to express a hope that she would suffer an acquaintance to be kept up, which had so fortunately commenced, and which might most probably bring about an entire reconciliation between the families. I was so earnest in my expostulations, my whole soul being in them, that she inclined a more friendly ear to me. Eleanor, too, smiled encouragement. Love lent me eloquence; and at length, as a token of my success, and her own relenting, Mrs. Mowbray held forth her hand: I clasped it eagerly. It was the happiest moment of my life.
""
I will not trouble you with any lengthened description of Eleanor Mowbray. I hope, at some period or other, you may still be enabled to see her, and judge for yourself; for though adverse circumstances have hitherto conspired to separate us, the time for a renewal of our acquaintance is approaching, I trust, for I am not yet altogether without hope. But this much I may be allowed to say, that her rare endowments of person were only equalled by the graces of her mind. Educated abroad, she had all the vivacity of our livelier neighbors, combined with every solid qualification which we claim as more essentially our own. Her light and frolic manner was French, certainly; but her gentle, sincere heart was as surely English. The foreign accent that dwelt upon her tongue communicated an inexpressible charm, even to the language which she spoke.
""
I will not dwell too long upon this theme. I feel ashamed of my own prolixity. And yet I am sure you will pardon it. Ah, those bright brief days! too quickly were they fled! I could expatiate upon each minute--recall each word--revive each look. It may not be. I must hasten on. Darker themes await me. My love made rapid progress--I became each hour more enamored of my new-found cousin. My whole time was passed near her; indeed, I could scarcely exist in absence from her side. Short, however, was destined to be my indulgence in this blissful state. One happy week was its extent. I received a peremptory summons from my father to return home.
""
Immediately upon commencing this acquaintance, I had written to my father, explaining every particular attending it. This I should have done of my own free will, but I was urged to it by Mrs. Mowbray. Unaccustomed to disguise, I had expatiated upon the beauty of Eleanor, and in such terms, I fear, that I excited some uneasiness in his breast. His letter was laconic. He made no allusion to the subject upon which I had expatiated when writing to him. He commanded me to return. The bitter hour was at hand. I could not hesitate to comply. Without my father's sanction, I was assured Mrs. Mowbray would not permit any continuance of my acquaintance. Of Eleanor's inclinations I fancied I had some assurance; but without her mother's consent, to whose will she was devoted, I felt, had I even been inclined to urge it, that my suit was hopeless. The letter which I had received from my father made me more than doubt whether I should not find him utterly adverse to my wishes. Agonized, therefore, with a thousand apprehensions, I presented myself on the morning of my departure. It was then I made the declaration of my passion to Eleanor; it was then that every hope was confirmed, every apprehension realized. I received from her lips a confirmation of my fondest wishes; yet were those hopes blighted in the bud, when I heard, at the same time, that their consummation was dependent on the will of two others, whose assenting voices, she feared, could never be obtained. From Mrs. Mowbray I received a more decided reply. All her haughtiness was aroused. Her farewell words assured me, that it was indifferent to her whether we met again as relatives or as strangers. Then was it that the native tenderness of Eleanor displayed itself, in an outbreak of feeling peculiar to a heart keenly sympathetic as hers. She saw my suffering--the reserve natural to her sex gave way--she flung herself into my arms--and so we parted.
""
With a heavy foreboding I returned to Rookwood, and, oppressed with the gloomiest anticipations, endeavored to prepare myself for the worst. I arrived. My reception was such as I had calculated upon; and, to increase my distress, my parents had been at variance. I will not pain you and myself with any recital of their disagreement. My mother had espoused my cause, chiefly, I fear, with the view of thwarting my poor father's inclinations. He was in a terrible mood, exasperated by the fiery stimulants he had swallowed, which had not indeed, drowned his reason, but roused and inflamed every dormant emotion to violence. He was as one insane. It was evening when I arrived. I would willingly have postponed the interview till the morrow. It could not be. He insisted upon seeing me. My mother was present. You know the restraint she usually had over my father, and how she maintained it. On this occasion she had none. He questioned me as to every particular; probed my secret soul; dragged forth every latent feeling, and then thundered out his own determination that Eleanor never should be bride of mine; nor would he receive, under his roof, her mother, the discountenanced daughter of his father. I endeavored to remonstrate with him. He was deaf to my entreaties. My mother added sharp and stinging words to my expostulations. 'I had her consent,' she said; 'what more was needed? The lands were entailed. I should at no distant period be their master, and might then please myself.' This I mention in order to give you my father's strange answer.
""
'Have a care, madam,' replied he, 'and bridle your tongue; they are entailed, 'tis true, but I need not ask his consent to cut off that entail. Let him dare to disobey me in this particular, and I will so divert the channel of my wealth, that no drop shall reach him. I will--but why threaten?--let him do it, and approve the consequences.' On the morrow I renewed my importunities, with no better success. We were alone.
""
'Ranulph,' said he, 'you waste time in seeking to change my resolution. It is unalterable. I have many motives which influence me; they are inexplicable, but imperative. Eleanor Mowbray never can be yours. Forget her as speedily as may be, and I pledge myself, upon whomsoever else your choice may fix, I will offer no obstacle.' 'But why,' exclaimed I, with vehemence, 'do you object to one whom you have never beheld? At least, consent to see her.'
"
'Never!' he replied, 'The tie is sundered, and cannot be reunited; my father bound me by an oath never to meet in friendship with my sister; I will not break my vow, I will not violate its conditions, even in the second degree. We never can meet again. An idle prophecy which I have heard has said that when a Rookwood shall marry a Rookwood the end of the house draweth nigh." That I regard not. It may have no meaning, or it may have much. To me it imports nothing further, than that, if you wed Eleanor, every acre I possess shall depart from you. And assure yourself this is no idle threat. I can, and will do it. My curse shall be your sole inheritance.'
"
I could not avoid making some reply, representing to him how unjustifiable such a procedure was to me, in a case where the happiness of my life was at stake; and how inconsistent it was with the charitable precepts of our faith, to allow feelings of resentment to influence his conduct. My remonstrances, as in the preceding meeting, were ineffectual. The more I spoke, the more intemperate he grew. I therefore desisted, but not before he had ordered me to quit the house. I did not leave the neighborhood, but saw him again on the same evening. Our last interview took place in the garden. I then told him that I had determined to go abroad for two years, at the expiration of which period I proposed returning to England; trusting that his resolution might then be changed, and that he would listen to my request, for the fulfilment of which I could never cease to hope. Time, I hoped, might befriend me. He approved of my plan of travelling, requesting me not to see Eleanor before I set out; adding, in a melancholy tone--'We may never meet again, Ranulph, in this life; in that case, farewell forever. Indulge no vain hopes. Eleanor never can be yours, but upon one condition, and to that you would never consent!'--'Propose it!' I cried; 'there is no condition I could not accede to.'--'Rash boy!' he replied, 'you know not what you say; that pledge you would never fulfil, were I to propose it to you; but no--should I survive till you return, you shall learn it then--and now, farewell.'--'Speak now, I beseech you!' I exclaimed; 'anything, everything--what you will!'--'Say no more,' replied he, walking towards the house; 'when you return we will renew this subject; farewell--perhaps forever!' His words were prophetic--that parting was forever. I remained in the garden till nightfall. I saw my mother, but he came not again. I quitted England without beholding Eleanor.""
"
Did you not acquaint her by letter with what had occurred, and your consequent intentions? asked Small.
I did, replied Ranulph; "but I received no reply. My earliest inquiries will be directed to ascertain whether the family are still in London. It will be a question for our consideration, whether I am not justified in departing from my father's expressed wishes, or whether I should violate his commands in so doing."
We will discuss that point hereafter, replied Small; adding, as he noticed the growing paleness of his companion, "you are too much exhausted to proceed--you had better defer the remainder of your story to a future period."
No, replied Ranulph, swallowing a glass of water; "I am exhausted, yet I cannot rest--my blood is in a fever, which nothing will allay. I shall feel more easy when I have made the present communication. I am approaching the sequel of my narrative. You are now in possession of the story of my love--of the motive of my departure. You shall learn what was the occasion of my return.
I had wandered from city to city during my term of exile--consumed by hopeless passion--with little that could amuse me, though surrounded by a thousand objects of interest to others, and only rendering life endurable by severest study or most active exertion. My steps conducted me to Bordeaux;--there I made a long halt, enchanted by the beauty of the neighboring scenery. My fancy was smitten by the situation of a villa on the banks of the Garonne, within a few leagues of the city. It was an old chateau, with fine gardens bordering the blue waters of the river, and commanding a multitude of enchanting prospects. The house, which had in part gone to decay, was inhabited by an aged couple, who had formerly been servants to an English family, the members of which had thus provided for them on their return to their own country. I inquired the name. Conceive my astonishment to find that this chateau had been the residence of the Mowbrays. This intelligence decided me at once--I took up my abode in the house; and a new and unexpected source of solace and delight was opened to me, I traced the paths she had traced; occupied the room she had occupied; tended the flowers she had tended; and, on the golden summer evenings, would watch the rapid waters, tinged with all the glorious hues of sunset, sweeping past my feet, and think how she had watched them. Her presence seemed to pervade the place. I was now comparatively happy, and, anxious to remain unmolested, wrote home that I was leaving Bordeaux for the Pyrenees, on my way to Spain.
That account arrived, observed Small.
One night, continued Ranulph--"'tis now the sixth since the occurrence I am about to relate--I was seated in a bower that overlooked the river. It had been a lovely evening--so lovely, that I lingered there, wrapped in the heavenly contemplation of its beauties. I watched each rosy tint reflected upon the surface of the rapid stream--now fading into yellow--now shining silvery white. I noticed the mystic mingling of twilight with darkness--of night with day, till the bright current on a sudden became a black mass of waters. I could scarcely discern a leaf--all was darkness--when lo! another change! The moon was up--a flood of light deluged all around--the stream was dancing again in reflected radiance, and I still lingering at its brink.
I had been musing for some moments, with my head resting upon my hand, when, happening to raise my eyes, I beheld a figure immediately before me. I was astonished at the sight, for I had perceived no one approach--had heard no footstep advance towards me, and was satisfied that no one besides myself could be in the garden. The presence of the figure inspired me with an undefinable awe! and, I can scarce tell why, but a thrilling presentiment convinced me that it was a supernatural visitant. Without motion--without life--without substance, it seemed; yet still the outward character of life was there. I started to my feet. God! what did I behold? The face was turned to me--my father's face! And what an aspect, what a look! Time can never efface that terrible expression; it is graven upon my memory--I cannot describe it. It was not anger--it was not pain: it was as if an eternity of woe were stamped upon its features. It was too dreadful to behold, I would fain have averted my gaze--my eyes were fascinated--fixed--I could not withdraw them from the ghastly countenance. I shrank from it, yet stirred not--I could not move a limb. Noiselessly gliding towards me, the apparition approached. I could not retreat. It stood obstinately beside me. I became as one half-dead. The phantom shook its head with the deepest despair; and as the word 'Return!' sounded hollowly in my ears, it gradually melted from my view. I cannot tell how I recovered from the swoon into which I fell, but daybreak saw me on my way to England. I am here. On that night--at that same hour, my father died.
It was, after all, then, a supernatural summons that you received? said Small.
Undoubtedly, replied Ranulph.
Humph!--the coincidence, I own, is sufficiently curious, returned Small, musingly; "but it would not be difficult, I think, to discover a satisfactory explanation of the delusion."
There was no delusion, replied Ranulph, coldly; "the figure was as palpable as your own. Can I doubt, when I behold this result? Could any deceit have been practised upon me, at that distance?--the precise time, moreover, agreeing. Did not the phantom bid me return?--I have returned--he is dead. I have gazed upon a being of another world. To doubt were impious, after that look."
Whatever my opinions may be, my dear young friend, returned Small, gravely, "I will suspend them for the present. You are still greatly excited. Let me advise you to seek some repose."
I am easier, replied Ranulph; "but you are right, I will endeavor to snatch a little rest. Something within tells me all is not yet accomplished. What remains?--I shudder to think of it. I will rejoin you at midnight. I shall myself attend the solemnity. Adieu!"
Ranulph quitted the room. Small sighingly shook his head, and having lighted his pipe, was presently buried in a profundity of smoke and metaphysical speculation.
Fran. de Med.
Your unhappy husband
Is dead.
Vit. Cor.
Oh, he's a happy husband!
Now he owes nature nothing.
Mon.
And look upon this creature as his wife.
She comes not like a widow--she comes armed
With scorn and impudence. Is this a mourning habit?
The White Devil.
The progress of our narrative demands our presence in another apartment of the hall--a large, lonesome chamber, situate in the eastern wing of the house, already described as the most ancient part of the building--the sombre appearance of which was greatly increased by the dingy, discolored tapestry that clothed its walls; the record of the patience and industry of a certain Dame Dorothy Rookwood, who flourished some centuries ago, and whose skilful needle had illustrated the slaughter of the Innocents, with a severity of gusto, and sanguinary minuteness of detail, truly surprising in a lady so amiable as she was represented to have been. Grim-visaged Herod glared from the ghostly woof, with his shadowy legions, executing their murderous purposes, grouped like a troop of Sabbath-dancing witches around him. Mysterious twilight, admitted through the deep, dark, mullioned windows, revealed the antique furniture of the room, which still boasted a sort of mildewed splendor, more imposing, perhaps, than its original gaudy magnificence; and showed the lofty hangings, and tall, hearse-like canopy of a bedstead, once a couch of state, but now destined for the repose of Lady Rookwood. The stiff crimson hangings were embroidered in gold, with the arms and cipher of Elizabeth, from whom the apartment, having once been occupied by that sovereign, obtained the name of the "Queen's Room."
The sole tenant of this chamber was a female, in whose countenance, if time and strong emotion had written strange defeatures, they had not obliterated its striking beauty and classical grandeur of expression. It was a face majestical and severe. Pride was stamped in all its lines; and though each passion was, by turns, developed, it was evident that all were subordinate to the sin by which the angels fell. The contour of her face was formed in the purest Grecian mould, and might have been a model for Medea; so well did the gloomy grandeur of the brow, the severe chiselling of the lip, the rounded beauty of the throat, and the faultless symmetry of her full form, accord with the beau ideal of antique perfection. Shaded by smooth folds of raven hair, which still maintained its jetty dye, her lofty forehead would have been displayed to the greatest advantage, had it not been at this moment knit and deformed by excess of passion, if that passion can be said to deform which only calls forth strong and vehement expression. Her figure, which wanted only height to give it dignity, was arrayed in the garb of widowhood; and if she exhibited none of the desolation of heart which such a bereavement might have been expected to awaken, she was evidently a prey to feelings scarcely less harrowing. At the particular time of which we speak, Lady Rookwood, for she it was, was occupied in the investigation of the contents of an escritoire. Examining the papers which it contained with great deliberation, she threw each aside, as soon as she had satisfied herself of its purport, until she arrived at a little package, carefully tied up with black ribbon, and sealed. This, Lady Rookwood hastily broke open, and drew forth a small miniature. It was that of a female, young and beautiful, rudely, yet faithfully, executed--faithfully, we say, for there was an air of sweetness and simplicity--and, in short, a look of reality and nature about the picture (it is seldom, indeed, that we mistake a likeness, even if we are unacquainted with the original) that attested the artist's fidelity. The face was as radiant with smiles as a bright day with sunbeams. The portrait was set in gold, and behind it was looped a lock of the darkest and finest hair. Underneath the miniature was written, in Sir Piers's hand, the words "Lady Rookwood." A slip of folded paper was also attached to it.
Lady Rookwood scornfully scrutinized the features for a few moments, and then unfolded the paper, at the sight of which she started, and turned pale. "Thank God!" she cried, "this is in my possession--while I hold this, we are safe. Were it not better to destroy this evidence at once? No, no, not now--it shall not part from me. I will abide Ranulph's return. This document will give me a power over him such as I could never otherwise obtain." Placing the marriage certificate, for such it was, within her breast, and laying the miniature upon the table, she next proceeded, deliberately, to arrange the disordered contents of the box.
All outward traces of emotion had, ere this, become so subdued in Lady Rookwood, that although she had, only a few moments previously, exhibited the extremity of passionate indignation, she now, apparently without effort, resumed entire composure, and might have been supposed to be engaged in a matter of little interest to herself. It was a dread calm, which they who knew her would have trembled to behold. "From these letters I gather," exclaimed she, "that their wretched offspring knows not of his fortune. So far, well. There is no channel whence he can derive information, and my first care shall be to prevent his obtaining any clue to the secret of his birth. I am directed to provide for him--ha! ha! I will provide--a grave! There will I bury him and his secret. My son's security and my own wrong demand it. I must choose surer hands--the work must not be half-done, as heretofore. And now, I bethink me, he is in the neighborhood, connected with a gang of poachers--'tis as I could wish it."
At this moment a knock at the chamber-door broke upon her meditations. "Agnes, is it you?" demanded Lady Rookwood.
Thus summoned, the old attendant entered the room.
Why are my orders disobeyed? asked the lady, in a severe tone of voice. "Did I not say, when you delivered me this package from Mr. Coates, which he himself wished to present, that I would not be disturbed?"
You did, my lady, but----
Speak out, said Lady Rookwood, somewhat more mildly, perceiving, from Agnes's manner, that she had something of importance to communicate. "What is it brings you hither?"
I am sorry, returned Agnes, "to disturb your ladyship, but--but----"
But what? interrupted Lady Rookwood, impatiently.
I could not help it, my lady--he would have me come; he said he was resolved to see your ladyship, whether you would or not.
Would see me, ha! is it so? I guess his errand, and its object--he has some suspicion. No, that cannot be; he would not dare to tamper with these seals. Agnes, I will not see him.
But he swears, my lady, that he will not leave the house without seeing you--he would have forced his way into your presence, if I had not consented to announce him.
Insolent! exclaimed Lady Rookwood, with a glance of indignation; "force his way! I promise you he shall not display an equal anxiety to repeat the visit. Tell Mr. Coates I will see him."
Mr. Coates! Mercy on us, my lady, it's not he. He'd never have intruded upon you unasked. No such thing. He knows his place too well. No, no; it's not Mr. Coates----
If not he, who is it?
Luke Bradley; your ladyship knows whom I mean.
He here--now?----
Yes, my lady; and looking so fierce and strange, I was quite frightened to see him. He looked so like his--his----
His father, you would say. Speak out.
No, my lady, his grandfather--old Sir Reginald. He's the very image of him. But had not your ladyship better ring the alarm-bell? and when he comes in, I'll run and fetch the servants--he's dangerous, I'm sure.
I have no fears of him. He will see me, you say----
Ay, will! exclaimed Luke, as he threw open the door, and shut it forcibly after him, striding towards Lady Rookwood, "nor abide longer delay."
It was an instant or two ere Lady Rookwood, thus taken by surprise, could command speech. She fixed her eyes with a look of keen and angry inquiry upon the bold intruder, who, nothing daunted, confronted her glances with a gaze as stern and steadfast as her own.
Who are you, and what seek you? exclaimed Lady Rookwood, after a brief pause, and, in spite of herself, her voice sounded tremulously. "What would you have, that you venture to appear before me at this season and in this fashion?"
I might have chosen a fitter opportunity, returned Luke, "were it needed. My business will not brook delay--you must be pleased to overlook this intrusion on your privacy, at a season of sorrow like the present. As to the fashion of my visit, you must be content to excuse it. I cannot help myself. I may amend hereafter. Who I am, you are able, I doubt not, to divine. What I seek, you shall hear, when this old woman has left the room, unless you would have a witness to a declaration that concerns you as nearly as myself."
An indefinite feeling of apprehension had, from the first instant of Luke's entrance crossed Lady Rookwood's mind. She, however, answered, with some calmness:
What you can have to say is of small moment to me--nor does it signify who may hear it. It shall not, however, be said that Lady Rookwood feared to be alone, even though she endangered her life.
I am no assassin, replied Luke, "nor have sought the destruction of my deadliest foe--though 'twere but retributive justice to have done so."
Lady Rookwood started.
Nay, you need not fear me, replied Luke; "my revenge will be otherwise accomplished."
Go, said Lady Rookwood to Agnes; "yet--stay without, in the antechamber."
My lady, said Agnes, scarcely able to articulate, "shall I----"
Hear me, Lady Rookwood, interrupted Luke. "I repeat, I intend you no injury. My object here is solely to obtain a private conference. You can have no reason for denying me this request. I will not abuse your patience. Mine is no idle mission. Say you refuse me, and I will at once depart. I will find other means of communicating with you--less direct, and therefore less desirable. Make your election. But we must be alone--undisturbed. Summon your household--let them lay hands upon me, and I will proclaim aloud what you would gladly hide, even from yourself."
Leave us, Agnes, said Lady Rookwood. "I have no fear of this man. I can deal with him myself, should I see occasion."
Agnes, said Luke, in a stern, deep whisper, arresting the ancient handmaiden as she passed him, "stir not from the door till I come forth. Have you forgotten your former mistress!--my mother? Have you forgotten Barbara Lovel, and that night?"
In Heaven's name, hush! replied Agnes, with a shudder.
Let that be fresh in your memory. Move not a footstep, whatever you may hear, added he, in the same tone as before.
I will not--I will not. And Agnes departed.
Luke felt some wavering in his resolution when he found himself alone with the lady, whose calm, collected, yet haughty demeanor, as she resumed her seat, prepared for his communication, could not fail to inspire him with a certain degree of awe. Not unconscious of her advantage, nor slow to profit by it, Lady Rookwood remained perfectly silent, with her eyes steadily fixed upon his face, while his embarrassment momentarily increased. Summoning, at length, courage sufficient to address her, and ashamed of his want of nerve, he thus broke forth:
When I entered this room, you asked my name and object. As to the first, I answer to the same designation as your ladyship. I have long borne my mother's name. I now claim my father's. My object is, the restitution of my rights.
Soh!--it is as I suspected, thought Lady Rookwood, involuntarily casting her large eyes down. "Do I hear you rightly?" exclaimed she, aloud; "your name is----"
Sir Luke Rookwood. As my father's elder born; by right of his right to that title.
If a glance could have slain him, Luke had fallen lifeless at the lady's feet. With a smile of ineffable disdain, she replied, "I know not why I hesitate to resent this indignity, even for an instant. But I would see how far your audacity will carry you. The name you bear is Bradley?"
In ignorance I have done so, replied Luke. "I am the son of her whose maiden name was Bradley. She was----"
'Tis false--I will not hear it--she was not, cried Lady Rookwood, her vehemence getting the master of her prudence.
Your ladyship anticipates my meaning, returned Luke. "Susan Bradley was the first wife of Sir Piers Rookwood."
His minion--his mistress if you will; nought else. Is it new to you, that a village wench, who lends herself to shame, should be beguiled by such shallow pretences? That she was so duped, I doubt not. But it is too late now to complain, and I would counsel you not to repeat your idle boast. It will serve no other purpose, trust me, than to blazon forth your own--your mother's dishonor.
Lady Rookwood, sternly answered Luke, "my mother's fame is as free from dishonor as your own. I repeat, she was the first wife of Sir Piers; and that I, her child, am first in the inheritance; nay, sole heir to the estates and title of Rookwood, to the exclusion of your son. Ponder upon that intelligence. Men say they fear you, as a thing of ill. I fear you not. There have been days when the Rookwoods held their dames in subjection. Discern you nought of that in me?"
Once or twice during this speech Lady Rookwood's glances had wandered towards the bell-cord, as if about to summon aid; but the intention was abandoned almost as soon as formed, probably from apprehension of the consequences of any such attempt. She was not without alarm as to the result of the interview, and was considering how she could bring it to a termination without endangering herself, and, if possible, secure the person of Luke, when the latter, turning sharply round upon her, and drawing a pistol, exclaimed,--
Follow me!
Whither? asked she, in alarm.
To the chamber of death!
Why there? what would you do? Villain! I will not trust my life with you. I will not follow you.
Hesitate not, as you value your life. Do aught to alarm the house, and I fire. Your safety depends upon yourself. I would see my father's body ere it be laid in the grave. I will not leave you here.
Go, said Lady Rookwood; "if that be all, I pledge myself you shall not be interrupted."
I will not take your pledge; your presence shall be my surety. By my mother's unavenged memory, if you play me false, though all your satellites stand around you, you die upon the spot! Obey me, and you are safe. Our way leads to the room by the private staircase--we shall pass unobserved--you see I know the road. The room, by your own command, is vacant--save of the dead. We shall, therefore, be alone. This done, I depart. You will then be free to act. Disobey me, and your blood be upon your own head.
Lead on! said Lady Rookwood, pressing towards the antechamber.
The door I mean is there, pointing to another part of the room--"that panel,--"
Ha! how know you that?
No matter; follow.
Luke touched a spring, and the panel flying open, disclosed a dim recess, into which he entered; and, seizing Lady Rookwood's hand, dragged her after him.
It is the body--I have orders given
That here it should be laid.
De Montfort.
The recess upon which the panel opened had been a small oratory, and, though entirely disused, still retained its cushions and its crucifix. There were two other entrances to this place of prayer, the one communicating with a further bedchamber, the other leading to the gallery. Through the latter, after closing the aperture, without relinquishing his grasp, Luke passed.
It was growing rapidly dark, and at the brightest seasons this gloomy corridor was but imperfectly lighted from narrow, painted, and wire-protected windows that looked into the old quadrangular courtyard below; and as they issued from the oratory a dazzling flash of lightning--a storm having suddenly arisen--momentarily illumined the whole length of the passage, disclosing the retreating figure of a man, wrapped in a large sable cloak, at the other extremity of the gallery. Lady Rookwood uttered an outcry for assistance; but the man, whoever he might be, disappeared in the instantaneously succeeding gloom, leaving her in doubt whether or not her situation had been perceived. Luke had seen this dark figure at the same instant; and, not without apprehensions lest his plans should be defeated, he griped Lady Rookwood's arm still more strictly, and placing the muzzle of the pistol to her breast, hurried her rapidly forwards.
All was now in total obscurity; the countenance of neither could be perceived as they trod the dark passage; but Luke's unrelaxed grasp indicated no change in his purposes, nor did the slow, dignified march of the lady betray any apprehension on her part. Descending a spiral staircase, which led from the gallery to a lower story, their way now lay beneath the entrance-hall, a means of communication little used. Their tread sounded hollowly on the flagged floor; no other sound was heard. Mounting a staircase, similar to the one they had just descended, they arrived at another passage. A few paces brought them to the door. Luke turned the handle, and they stood within the chamber of the dead.
The room which contained the remains of poor Sir Piers was arrayed in all that mockery of state which, vainly attempting to deride death, is itself a bitter derision of the living. It was the one devoted to the principal meals of the day; a strange choice, but convenience had dictated its adoption by those with whom this part of the ceremonial had originated, and long custom had rendered its usage, for this purpose, almost prescriptive. This room, which was of some size, had originally formed part of the great hall, from which it was divided by a thick screen of black, lustrously varnished oak, enriched with fanciful figures carved in bold relief. The walls were panelled with the same embrowned material, and sustained sundry portraits of the members of the family, in every possible costume, from the steely gear of Sir Ranulph, down to the flowing attire of Sir Reginald. Most of the race were ranged around the room; and, seen in the yellow light shed upon their features by the flambeaux, they looked like an array of stern and silent witnesses, gazing upon their departed descendant. The sides of the chamber were hung with black cloth, and upon a bier in the middle of the room rested the body. Broad escutcheons, decked out in glowing colors pompously set forth the heraldic honors of the departed. Tall lights burned at the head and feet, and fragrant perfumes diffused their odors from silver censers.
The entrance of Luke and his unwilling companion had been abrupt. The transition from darkness to the glare of light was almost blinding, and they had advanced far into the room ere Lady Rookwood perceived a man, whom she took to be one of the mutes, leaning over the bier. The coffin-lid was entirely removed, and the person, whose back was towards them appeared to be wrapped in mournful contemplation of the sad spectacle before him. Suddenly bursting from Luke's hold, Lady Rookwood rushed forward with a scream, and touched the man's shoulder. He started at the summons, and disclosed the features of her son!
Rapidly as her own act, Luke followed. He levelled a pistol at her head, but his hand dropped to his side as he encountered the glance of Ranulph. All three seemed paralyzed by surprise. Ranulph, in astonishment, extended his arm to his mother, who, placing one arm over his shoulder, pointed with the other to Luke; the latter stared sternly and inquiringly at both--yet none spoke.
We're sorry
His violent act has e'en drawn blood of honor,
And stained our honors;
Thrown ink upon the forehead of our fame,
Which envious spirits will dip their pens into
After our death, and blot us in our tombs;
For that which would seem treason in our lives,
Is laughter when we're dead. Who dares now whisper,
That dares not then speak out; and even proclaim,
With loud words, and broad pens, our closest shame?
---The Revenger's Tragedy.
With that quickness of perception which at once supplies information on such an emergency, Luke instantly conjectured who was before him. Startled as he was, he yet retained his composure, abiding the result with his arms folded upon his breast.
Seize him! cried Lady Rookwood, as soon as she could command her speech.
He rushes on his death if he stirs, exclaimed Luke, pointing his pistol.
Bethink you where you are, villain! cried Ranulph; "you are entrapped in your own toils. Submit yourself to our mercy--resistance is vain, and will not secure your safety, while it will aggravate your offence. Surrender yourself----"
Never! answered Luke. "Know you whom you ask to yield?"
How should I? answered Ranulph.
By that instinct which tells me who you are. Ask Lady Rookwood--she can inform you, if she will.
Parley not with him--seize him! cried Lady Rookwood. "He is a robber, a murderer, who has assailed my life."
Beware! said Luke to Ranulph, who was preparing to obey his mother's commands; "I am no robber--no murderer. Do not you make me a fratricide."
Fratricide! echoed Ranulph.
Heed him not, ejaculated Lady Rookwood. "It is false--he dares not harm thee, for his soul. I will call assistance."
Hold, mother! exclaimed Ranulph, detaining Lady Rookwood; "this man may be what he represents himself. Before we proceed to extremities, I would question him. I would not have mentioned it in your hearing could it have been avoided, but my father had another son."
Lady Rookwood frowned. She would have checked him, but Luke rejoined--
You have spoken the truth; he had a son--I am he. I----
Be silent, I command you! said Lady Rookwood.
Death! cried Luke, in a loud voice. "Why should I be silent at your bidding--at yours--who regard no laws, human or divine; who pursue your own fell purposes, without fear of God or man? Waste not your frowns on me--I heed them not. Do you think I am like a tame hound, to be cowed to silence? I will speak. Ranulph Rookwood, the name you bear is mine, and by a right as good as is your own. From his loins, who lies a corpse before us, I sprang. No brand of shame is on my birth. I am your father's son--his first-born--your elder brother. Hear me!" cried he, rushing to the bier. "By this body, I swear that I have avouched the truth--and though to me the dead Sir Piers Rookwood hath never been what a father should be to a son--though I have never known his smile, felt his caresses, or received his blessing, yet now be all forgiven, all forgotten." And he cast himself with frantic violence upon the coffin.
It is difficult to describe the feelings with which Ranulph heard Luke's avowal. Amazement and dread predominated. Unable to stir, he stood gazing on in silence. Not so Lady Rookwood. The moment for action was arrived. Addressing her son in a low tone, she said, "Your prey is within your power. Secure him."
Wherefore? rejoined Ranulph; "if he be my brother, shall I raise my hand against him?"
Wherefore not? returned Lady Rookwood.
'Twere an accursed deed, replied Ranulph. "The mystery is resolved. 'Twas for this that I was summoned home."
Ha! what say you? summoned! by whom?
My father!
Your father? echoed Lady Rookwood, in great surprise.
Ay, my dead father! He has appeared to me since his decease.
Ranulph, you rave--you are distracted with grief--with astonishment.
No, mother; but I will not struggle against my destiny.
Pshaw! your destiny is Rookwood, its manors, its lands, its rent-roll, and its title; nor shall you yield it to a base-born churl like this. Let him prove his rights. Let the law adjudge them to him, and we will yield--but not till then. I tell thee he has not the right, nor can he maintain it. He is a deluded dreamer, who, having heard some idle tale of his birth, believes it, because it chimes with his wishes. I treated him with the scorn he deserved. I would have driven him from my presence, but he was armed, as you see, and forced me hither, perhaps to murder me; a deed he might have accomplished had it not been for your intervention. His life is already forfeit, for an attempt of the same sort last night. Why else came he hither? for what else did he drag me to this spot? Let him answer that!
I will answer it, replied Luke, raising himself from the bier.
His face was ghastly as the corpse over which he leaned. "I had a deed to do, which I wished you to witness. It was a wild conception. But the means by which I have acquired the information of my rights were wild. Ranulph, we are both the slaves of fate. You have received your summons hither--I have had mine. Your father's ghost called you; my mother's spectral hand beckoned me. Both are arrived. One thing more remains, and my mission is completed." Saying which, he drew forth the skeleton hand; and having first taken the wedding-ring from the finger, he placed the withered limb upon the left breast of his father's body. "Rest there," he cried, "for ever."
Will you suffer that? said Lady Rookwood, tauntingly, to her son.
No, replied Ranulph; "such profanation of the dead shall not be endured, were he ten times my brother. Stand aside," added he, advancing towards the bier, and motioning Luke away. "Withdraw your hand from my father's body, and remove what you have placed upon it."
I will neither remove it nor suffer it to be removed, returned Luke. "'Twas for that purpose I came hither. 'Twas to that hand he was united in life, in death he shall not be divided from it."
Such irreverence shall not be! exclaimed Ranulph, seizing Luke with one hand, and snatching at the cereclothes with the other. "Remove it, or by Heaven----"
Leave go your hold, said Luke, in a voice of thunder; "you strive in vain."
Ranulph ineffectually attempted to push him backwards; and, shaking away the grasp that was fixed upon his collar, seized his brother's wrist, so as to prevent the accomplishment of his purpose. In this unnatural and indecorous strife the corpse of their father was reft of its covering and the hand discovered lying upon the pallid breast.
And as if the wanton impiety of their conduct called forth an immediate rebuke, even from the dead, a frown seemed to pass over Sir Piers's features, as their angry glances fell in that direction. This startling effect was occasioned by the approach of Lady Rookwood, whose shadow, falling over the brow and visage of the deceased, produced the appearance we have described. Simultaneously quitting each other, with a deep sense of shame, mingled with remorse, both remained, their eyes fixed upon the dead, whose repose they had violated.
Folding the graveclothes decently over the body, Luke prepared to depart.
Hold! cried Lady Rookwood; "you go not hence."
My brother Ranulph will not oppose my departure, returned Luke; "who else shall prevent it?"
That will I! cried a sharp voice behind him; and, ere he could turn to ascertain from whom the exclamation proceeded, Luke felt himself grappled by two nervous assailants, who, snatching the pistol from his hold, fast pinioned his arms.
This was scarcely the work of a moment, and he was a prisoner before he could offer any resistance. A strong smile of exultation evinced Lady Rookwood's satisfaction.
Bravo, my lads, bravo! cried Coates, stepping forward, for he it was under whose skilful superintendence the seizure had been effected: "famously managed; my father the thief-taker's runners couldn't have done it better--hand me that pistol--loaded, I see--slugs, no doubt--oh, he's a precious rascal--search him--turn his pockets inside out, while I speak to her ladyship." Saying which, the brisk attorney, enchanted with the feat he had performed, approached Lady Rookwood with a profound bow, and an amazing smirk of self-satisfaction. "Just in time to prevent mischief," said he; "hope your ladyship does not suffer any inconvenience from the alarm--beg pardon, annoyance I meant to say--which this horrible outrage must have occasioned; excessively disagreeable this sort of thing to a lady at any time, but at a period like this more than usually provoking. However, we have the villain safe enough. Very lucky I happened to be in the way. Perhaps your ladyship would like to know how I discovered----"
Not now, replied Lady Rookwood, checking the volubility of the man of law. "I thank you, Mr. Coates, for the service you have rendered me; you will now add materially to the obligation by removing the prisoner with all convenient despatch."
Certainly, if your ladyship wishes it. Shall I detain him a close prisoner in the hall for the night, or remove him at once to the lock-up house in the village?
Where you please, so you do it quickly, replied Lady Rookwood, noticing, with great uneasiness, the agitated manner of her son, and apprehensive lest, in the presence of so many witnesses, he might say or do something prejudicial to their interests. Nor were her fears groundless. As Coates was about to return to the prisoner, he was arrested by the voice of Ranulph, commanding him to stay.
Mr. Coates, said he, "however appearances may be against this man, he is no robber--you must, therefore, release him."
Eh day, what's that? release him, Sir Ranulph?
Yes, sir; I tell you he came here neither with the intent to rob nor to offer violence.
That is false, Ranulph, replied Lady Rookwood. "I was dragged hither by him at the peril of my life. He is Mr. Coates's prisoner on another charge."
Unquestionably, your ladyship is perfectly right; I have a warrant against him for assaulting Hugh Badger, the keeper, and for other misdemeanors.
I will myself be responsible for his appearance to that charge, replied Ranulph. "Now, sir, at once release him."
At your peril! exclaimed Lady Rookwood.
Well, really, muttered the astonished attorney, "this is the most perplexing proceeding I ever witnessed."
Ranulph, said Lady Rookwood, sternly, to her son, "beware how you thwart me!"
Yes, Sir Ranulph, let me venture to advise you, as a friend, not to thwart her ladyship, whispered the attorney; "indeed, she is in the right." But seeing his advice unheeded, Coates withdrew to a little distance.
I will not see injustice done to my father's son, replied Ranulph, in a low tone. "Why would you detain him?"
Why? returned she, "our safety demands it--our honor."
Our honor demands his instant liberation; each moment he remains in those bonds sullies its purity. I will free him myself from his fetters.
And brave my curse, foolish boy? You incurred your miserable father's anathema for a lighter cause than this. Our honor cries aloud for his destruction. Have I not been injured in the nicest point a woman can be injured? Shall I lend my name to mockery and scorn, by base acknowledgment of such deceit, or will you? Where would be my honor, then, stripped of my fair estates--my son--myself--beggars--dependent on the bounty of an upstart? Does honor ask you to bear this? It is a phantom sense of honor, unsubstantial as your father's shade, of which you just now spoke, that would prompt you to do otherwise.
Do not evoke his awful spirit, mother, cried Ranulph, with a shudder; "do not arouse his wrath."
Do not arouse my wrath, returned Lady Rookwood. "I am the more to be feared. Think of Eleanor Mowbray; the bar between your nuptials is removed. Would you raise up a greater impediment?"
Enough, mother; more than enough. You have decided, though not convinced me. Detain him within the house, if you will, until the morrow; in the meantime, I will consider over my line of conduct.
Is this, then, your resolve?
It is. Mr. Coates, said Ranulph, calling the attorney, who had been an inquisitive spectator, though, luckily, not an auditor of this interview, "unbind the prisoner, and bring him hither."
Is it your ladyship's pleasure? asked Mr. Coates, who regretted exceedingly that he could not please both parties.
Lady Rookwood signified her assent by a slight gesture in the affirmative.
Your bidding shall be done, Sir Ranulph, said Coates, bowing and departing.
Sir Ranulph! echoed Lady Rookwood, with strong emphasis; "marked you that?"
Body o' me, muttered the attorney, "this is the most extraordinary family, to be sure. Make way, gentlemen, if you please," added he, pushing through the crowd, towards the prisoner.
Having described what took place between Lady Rookwood and her son in one part of the room, we must now briefly narrate some incidental occurrences in the other. The alarm of a robber having been taken spread with great celerity through the house, and almost all its inmates rushed into the room, including Dr. Small, Titus Tyrconnel, and Jack Palmer.
Odsbodikins! are you there, honey? said Titus, who discovered his ally; "the bird's caught, you see."
Caught be d--d, replied Jack, bluffly; "so I see; all his own fault; infernal folly to come here, at such a time as this. However, it can't be helped now; he must make the best of it. And as to that sneaking, gimlet-eyed, parchment-skinned quill-driver, if I don't serve him out for his officiousness one of these days, my name's not Jack Palmer."
Och! cushlamacree! did I ever? why, what's the boy to you, Jack? Fair play's a jewel, and surely Mr. Coates only did his duty. I'm sorry he's captured, for his relationship to Sir Piers, and because I think he'll be tucked up for his pains; and, moreover, I could forgive the poaching; but as to the breaking into a house on such an occasion as this, och! It's a plaguy bad look. I'm afraid he's worse than I thought him.
A group of the tenantry, many of whom were in a state of intoxication, had, in the meantime, formed themselves round the prisoner. Whatever might be the nature of his thoughts, no apprehension was visible in Luke's countenance. He stood erect amidst the assemblage, his tall form towering above them all, and his eyes fixed upon the movements of Lady Rookwood and her son. He had perceived the anguish of the latter, and the vehemence of the former, attributing both to their real causes. The taunts and jeers, threats and insolent inquiries, of the hinds who thronged around him, passed unheeded; yet one voice in his ear, sharp as the sting of a serpent, made him start. It was that of the sexton.
You have done well, said Peter, "have you not? Your fetters are, I hope, to your liking. Well! a wilful man must have his own way, and perhaps the next time you will be content to follow my advice. You must now free yourself, the best way you can, from these Moabites, and I promise you it will be no easy matter. Ha, ha!"
Peter withdrew into the crowd; and Luke, vainly endeavoring to discover his retreating figure, caught the eye of Jack Palmer fixed upon himself, with a peculiar and very significant expression.
At this moment Mr. Coates made his appearance.
Bring forward the prisoner, said the man of law to his two assistants; and Luke was accordingly hurried along, Mr. Coates using his best efforts to keep back the crowd. It was during the pressure that Luke heard a voice whisper in his ear, "Never fear; all's right!" and turning his head, he became aware of the propinquity of Jack Palmer. The latter elevated his eyebrows with a gesture of silence, and Luke passed on as if nothing had occurred. He was presently confronted with Lady Rookwood and her son; and, notwithstanding the efforts of Mr. Coates, seconded by some few others, the crowd grew dense around them.
Remove his fetters, said Ranulph. And his manacles were removed.
You will consent to remain here a prisoner till to-morrow?
I consent to nothing, replied Luke; "I am in your hands."
He does not deserve your clemency, Sir Ranulph, interposed Coates.
Let him take his own course, said Lady Rookwood; "he will reap the benefit of it anon."
Will you pledge yourself not to depart? asked Ranulph.
Of course, cried the attorney; "to be sure he will. Ha, ha!"
No, returned Luke, haughtily, "I will not--and you will detain me at your proper peril."
Better and better, exclaimed the attorney. "This is the highest joke I ever heard."
I shall detain, you, then, in custody, until proper inquiries can be made, said Ranulph. "To your care, Mr. Coates, and to that of Mr. Tyrconnel, whom I must request to lend you his assistance, I commit the charge; and I must further request, that you will show him every attention which his situation will permit. Remove him. We have a sacred duty to the dead to fulfil, to which even justice to the living must give way. Disperse this crowd, and let instant preparations be made for the completion of the ceremonial. You understand me, sir."
Ranulph Rookwood, said Luke, sternly, as he departed, "you have another--a more sacred office to perform. Fulfil your duty to your father's son."
Away with him! cried Lady Rookwood. "I am out of all patience with this trilling. Follow me to my chamber," added she to her son, passing towards the door. The concourse of spectators, who had listened to this extraordinary scene in astonishment, made way for her instantly, and she left the room, accompanied by Ranulph. The prisoner was led out by the other door.
Botheration! cried Titus to Mr. Coates, as they followed in the wake, "why did he choose out me? I'll lose the funeral entirely by his arrangement."
That you will, replied Palmer. "Shall I be your deputy?"
No, no, returned Coates. "I will have no other than Mr. Tyrconnel. It was Sir Ranulph's express wish."
That's the devil of it, returned Titus; "and I, who was to have been chief mourner, and have made all the preparations, am to be omitted. I wish Sir Ranulph had stayed till to-morrow--what could bring him here, to spoil all?--it's cursedly provoking!"
Cursed provoking! echoed Jack.
But then there's no help, so I must make the best of it, returned the good-humored Irishman.
Body o' me, said Coates, "there's something in all this that I can't fathom. As to keeping the prisoner here, that's all moonshine. But I suppose we shall know the whole drift of it to-morrow."
Ay, replied Jack, with a meaning smile, "to-morrow!"
Duchess.
Thou art very plain.
Bosola.
My trade is to flatter the dead--not the living--I am a tomb-maker.
---WEBSTER.
CHAPTER I. THE STORM
Come, list, and hark! the bell doth towle,
For some but now departing sowle;
And was not that some ominous fowle?
The bat, the night-crow, or screech-owle?
To these I hear the wild wolf howle,
In this dark night that seems to scowle;--
All these my blacke-booke shall enrowle,
For hark! still hark! the bell doth towle
For some but new-departed sowle!
HAYWOOD: Rape of Lucrece.
The night was wild and stormy. The day had been sultry, with a lurid, metallic-looking sky, hanging like a vast galvanic plate over the face of nature. As evening drew on, everything betokened the coming tempest. Unerring indications of its approach were noted by the weatherwise at the hall. The swallow was seen to skim the surface of the pool so closely that he ruffled its placid mirror as he passed; and then, sharply darting round and round, with twittering scream, he winged his rapid flight to his clay-built home, beneath the barn eaves. The kine that had herded to the margin of the water, and sought, by splashing, to relieve themselves from the keen persecution of their myriad insect tormentors, wended stallwards, undriven, and deeply lowing. The deer, that at twilight had trooped thither also for refreshment, suddenly, "with expanded nostrils, snuffed the air," and bounded off to their coverts, amidst the sheltering fernbrake. The rooks "obstreperous of wing, in crowds combined," cawed in a way that, as plainly as words could have done, bespoke their apprehension; and were seen, some hovering and beating the air with flapping pinion, others shooting upwards in mid space, as if to reconnoitre the weather; while others, again, were croaking to their mates, in loud discordant tone, from the highest branches of the lime-trees; all, seemingly, as anxious and as busy as mariners before a gale of wind. At sunset, the hazy vapors, which had obscured the horizon throughout the day, rose up in spiral volumes, like smoke from a burning forest, and, becoming gradually condensed, assumed the form of huge, billowy masses, which, reflecting the sun's light, changed, as the sinking orb declined, from purple to flame-color, and thence to ashy, angry gray. Night rushed onwards, like a sable steed. There was a dead calm. The stillness was undisturbed, save by an intermittent, sighing wind, which, hollow as a murmur from the grave, died as it rose. At once the gray clouds turned to an inky blackness. A single, sharp, intensely vivid flash, shot from the bosom of the rack, sheer downwards, and struck the earth with a report like that of a piece of ordnance. In ten minutes it was dunnest night, and a rattling thunder-storm.
The progress of the storm was watched with infinite apprehension by the crowd of tenantry assembled in the great hall; and loud and frequent were the ejaculations uttered, as each succeeding peal burst over their heads. There was, however, one amongst the assemblage who seemed to enjoy the uproar. A kindred excitement appeared to blaze in his glances, as he looked upon the storm without. This was Peter Bradley. He stood close by the window, and shaded not his eyes, even before the fiercest flashes. A grin of unnatural exhilaration played upon his features, and he seemed to exult in, and to court, the tempestuous horrors, which affected the most hardy amongst his companions with consternation, and made all shrink, trembling, into the recesses of the room. Peter's conduct was not unobserved, nor his reputation for unholy dealing forgotten. To some he was almost as much an object of dread as the storm itself.
Didst ever see the like o' that? said Farmer Burtenshaw--one of the guests, whose round, honest face good wine had recently empurpled, but fear had now mottled white,--addressing a neighbor. "Didst ever hear of any man that were a Christian laughing in the very face o' a thunder-storm, with the lightnin' fit to put out his eyes, and the rattle above ready to break the drums o' his ears? I always thought Peter Bradley was not exactly what he ought to be, and now I am sure on it."
For my part, I think, Neighbor Burtenshaw, returned the other, "that this great burst of weather's all of his raising, for in all my born days I never see'd such a hurly-burly, and hope never to see the like of it again. I've heard my grandfather tell of folk as could command wind and rain; and, mayhap, Peter may have the power--we all know he can do more nor any other man."
We know, at all events, replied Burtenshaw, "that he lives like no other man; that he spends night after night by himself in that dreary churchyard; that he keeps no living thing, except an old terrier dog, in his crazy cottage; and that he never asks a body into his house from one year's end to another. I've never crossed his threshold these twenty years. But," continued he mysteriously, "I happened to pass the house one dark, dismal night, and there what dost think I see'd through the window?"
What--what didst see?
Peter Bradley sitting with a great book open on his knees; it were a Bible, I think, and he crying like a child.
Art sure o' that?
The tears were falling fast upon the leaves, returned Burtenshaw; "but when I knocked at the door, he hastily shut up the book, and ordered me to be gone, in a surly tone, as if he were ashamed of being caught in the fact."
I thought no tear had ever dropped from his eye, said the other. "Why, he laughed when his daughter Susan went off at the hall; and, when she died, folks said he received hush-money to say nought about it. That were a bad business, anyhow; and now that his grandson Luke be taken in the fact of housebreaking, he minds it no more, not he, than if nothing had happened."
Don't be too sure of that, replied Burtenshaw; "he may be scheming summat all this time. Well, I've known Peter Bradley now these two-and-fifty years, and, excepting that one night, I never saw any good about him, and never heard of nobody who could tell who he be, or where he do come from."
One thing's certain, at least, replied the other farmer--"he were never born at Rookwood. How he came here the devil only knows. Save us! what a crash!--this storm be all of his raising, I tell 'ee."
He be--what he certainly will be, interposed another speaker, in a louder tone, and with less of apprehension in his manner than his comrade, probably from his nerves being better fortified with strong liquor. "Dost thou think, Samuel Plant, as how Providence would entrust the like o' him with the command of the elements? No--no, it's rank blasphemy to suppose such a thing, and I've too much of the true Catholic and apostate church about me, to stand by and hear that said."
Maybe, then, he gets his power from the Prince of Darkness, replied Plant; "no man else could go on as he does--only look at him. He seems to be watching for the thunderbowt."
I wish he may catch it, then, returned the other.
That's an evil wish, Simon Toft, and thou mayst repent it.
Not I, replied Toft; "it would be a good clearance to the neighborhood to get rid o' th' old croaking curmudgeon."
Whether or not Peter overheard the conversation, we pretend not to say, but at that moment a blaze of lightning showed him staring fiercely at the group.
As I live, he's overheard you, Simon, exclaimed Plant. "I wouldn't be in your skin for a trifle."
Nor I, added Burtenshaw.
Let him overhear me, answered Toft; "who cares? he shall hear summat worth listening to. I'm not afraid o' him or his arts, were they as black as Beelzebuth's own; and to show you I'm not, I'll go and have a crack with him on the spot."
Thou'rt a fool for thy pains, if thou dost, Friend Toft, returned Plant, "that's all I can say."
Be advised by me, and stay here, seconded Burtenshaw, endeavoring to hold him back.
But Toft would not be advised--
Kings may be blest, but he was glorious,
O'er all the ills of life victorious.
Staggering up to Peter, he laid a hard grasp upon his shoulder, and, thus forcibly soliciting his attention, burst into a loud horse-laugh.
But Peter was, or affected to be, too much occupied to look at him.
What dost see, man, that thou starest so?
It comes, it comes--the rain--the rain--a torrent--a deluge--ha, ha! Blessed is the corpse the rain rains on. Sir Piers may be drenched through his leaden covering by such a downfall as that--splash, splash--fire and water and thunder, all together--is not that fine?--ha, ha! The heavens will weep for him, though friends shed not a tear. When did a great man's heir feel sympathy for his sire's decease? When did his widow mourn? When doth any man regret his fellow? Never! He rejoiceth--he maketh glad in his inmost heart--he cannot help it--it is nature. We all pray for--we all delight in each other's destruction. We were created to do so; or why else should we act thus? I never wept for any man's death, but I have often laughed. Natural sympathy!--out on the phrase! The distant heavens--the senseless trees--the impenetrable stones--shall regret you more than man shall bewail your death with more sincerity. Ay, 'tis well--rain on--splash, splash: it will cool the hell-fever. Down, down--buckets and pails, ha, ha!
There was a pause, during which the sexton, almost exhausted by the frenzy in which he had suffered himself to be involved, seemed insensible to all around him.
I tell you what, said Burtenshaw to Plant, "I have always thought there was more in Peter Bradley nor appears on the outside. He is not what he seems to be, take my word on it. Lord love you! do you think a man such as he pretends to be could talk in that sort of way--about nat'ral simpering?--no such thing."
When Peter recovered, his insane merriment broke out afresh, having only acquired fury by the pause.
Look out, look out! cried he; "hark to the thunder--list to the rain! Marked ye that flash--marked ye the clock-house--and the bird upon the roof? 'tis the rook--the great bird of the house, that hath borne away the soul of the departed. There, there--can you not see it? it sits and croaks through storm and rain, and never heeds at all--and wherefore should it heed? See, it flaps its broad black wings--it croaks--ha, ha! It comes--it comes."
And driven, it might be by the terror of the storm, from more secure quarters, a bird, at this instant, was dashed against the window, and fell to the ground.
That's a call, continued Peter; "it will be over soon, and we must set out. The dead will not need to tarry. Look at that trail of fire along the avenue; dost see yon line of sparkles, like a rocket's tail? That's the path the corpse will take. St. Hermes's flickering fire, Robin Goodfellow's dancing light, or the blue flame of the corpse-candle, which I saw flitting to the churchyard last week, was not so pretty a sight--ha, ha! You asked me for a song a moment ago--you shall have one now without asking."
And without waiting to consult the inclinations of his comrades, Peter broke into the following wild strain with all the fervor of a half-crazed improvisatore:
THE CORPSE-CANDLE
Lambere flamma {taphos} et circum funera pasci.
Through the midnight gloom did a pale blue light
To the churchyard mirk wing its lonesome flight:--
Thrice it floated those old walls round--
Thrice it paused--till the grave it found.
Over the grass-green sod it glanced,
Over the fresh-turned earth it danced,
Like a torch in the night-breeze quivering--
Never was seen so gay a thing!
Never was seen so blithe a sight
As the midnight dance of that blue light!
Now what of that pale blue flame dost know?
Canst tell where it comes from, or where it will go?
Is it the soul, released from clay,
Over the earth that takes its way,
And tarries a moment in mirth and glee
Where the corse it hath quitted interred shall be?
Or is it the trick of some fanciful sprite,
That taketh in mortal mischance delight,
And marketh the road the coffin shall go,
And the spot where the dead shall be soon laid low?
Ask him who can answer these questions aright;
I know not the cause of that pale blue light!
I can't say I like thy song, Master Peter, said Toft, as the sexton finished his stave, "but if thou didst see a corpse-candle, as thou call'st thy pale blue flame, whose death doth it betoken?--eh!"
Thine own, returned Peter, sharply.
Mine! thou lying old cheat--dost dare to say that to my face? Why, I'm as hale and hearty as ever a man in the house. Dost think there's no life and vigor in this arm, thou drivelling old dotard?
Upon which, Toft seized Peter by the throat with an energy that, but for the timely intervention of the company, who rushed to his assistance, the prophet might himself have anticipated the doom he prognosticated.
Released from the grasp of Toft, who was held back by the bystanders, Peter again broke forth into his eldritch laugh; and staring right into the face of his adversary, with eyes glistening, and hands uplifted, as if in the act of calling down an imprecation on his head, he screamed, in a shrill and discordant voice, "Soh! you will not take my warning? you revile me--you flout me! 'Tis well! your fate shall prove a warning to all unbelievers--they shall remember this night, though you will not. Fool! fool!--your doom has long been sealed! I saw your wraith choose out its last lodgment on Halloween; I know the spot. Your grave is dug already--ha, ha!" And, with renewed laughter, Peter rushed out of the room.
Did I not caution thee not to provoke him, friend Toft? said Plant; "it's ill playing with edge-tools; but don't let him fly off in that tantrum--one of ye go after him."
That will I, replied Burtenshaw; and he departed in search of the sexton.
I'd advise thee to make it up with Peter so soon as thou canst, neighbor, continued Plant; "he's a bad friend, but a worse enemy."
Why, what harm can he do me? returned Toft, who, however, was not without some misgivings. "If I must die, I can't help it--I shall go none the sooner for him, even if he speak the truth, which I don't think he do; and if I must, I sha'n't go unprepared--only I think as how, if it pleased Providence, I could have wished to keep my old missus company some few years longer, and see those bits of lasses of mine grow up into women, and respectably provided for. But His will be done. I sha'n't leave 'em quite penniless, and there's one eye at least, I'm sure, won't be dry at my departure." Here the stout heart of Toft gave way, and he shed some few "natural tears," which, however, he speedily brushed away. "I'll tell you what, neighbors," continued he, "I think we may all as well be thinking of going to our own homes, for, to my mind, we shall never reach the churchyard to-night."
That you never will, exclaimed a voice behind him; and Toft, turning round, again met the glance of Peter.
Come, come, Master Peter, cried the good-natured farmer, "this be ugly jesting--ax pardon for my share of it--sorry for what I did--so give us thy hand, man, and think no more about it."
Peter extended his claw, and the parties were, apparently, once more upon terms of friendship.
In northern customs duty was exprest
To friends departed by their funeral feast;
Though I've consulted Hollingshed and Stow,
I find it very difficult to know,
Who, to refresh the attendants to the grave,
Burnt claret first, or Naples' biscuit gave.
---KING: Art of Cookery.
Ceterum priusquam corpus humo injecta contegatur,
defunctus oratione funebri laudabatur.
--DURAND.
A supply of spirits was here introduced; lights were brought at the same time, and placed upon a long oak table. The party gathering round it, ill-humor was speedily dissipated, and even the storm disregarded, in the copious libations that ensued. At this juncture, a loiterer appeared in the hall. His movements were unnoticed by all excepting the sexton, who watched his proceedings with some curiosity. The person walked to the window, appearing, so far as could be discovered, to eye the storm with great impatience. He then paced the hall rapidly backwards and forwards, and Peter fancied he could detect sounds of disappointment in his muttered exclamations. Again he returned to the window, as if to ascertain the probable duration of the shower. It was a hopeless endeavor; all was pitch-dark without; the lightning was now only seen at long intervals, but the rain still audibly descended in torrents. Apparently seeing the impossibility of controlling the elements, the person approached the table.
What think you of the night, Mr. Palmer? asked the sexton of Jack, for he was the anxious investigator of the weather.
Don't know--can't say--set in, I think--cursed unlucky--for the funeral, I mean--we shall be drowned if we go.
And drunk if we stay, rejoined Peter. "But never fear, it will hold up, depend upon it, long before we can start. Where have they put the prisoner?" asked he, with a sudden change of manner.
I know the room, but can't describe it; it's two or three doors down the lower corridor of the eastern gallery.
Good. Who are on guard?
Titus Tyrconnel and that swivel-eyed quill-driver, Coates.
Enough.
Come, come, Master Peter, roared Toft, "let's have another stave. Give us one of your odd snatches. No more corpse-candles, or that sort of thing. Something lively--something jolly--ha, ha!"
A good move, shouted Jack. "A lively song from you--lillibullero from a death's-head--ha, ha!"
My songs are all of a sort, returned Peter; "I am seldom asked to sing a second time. However, you are welcome to the merriest I have." And preparing himself, like certain other accomplished vocalists, with a few preliminary hems and haws, he struck forth the following doleful ditty:
THE OLD OAK COFFIN
Sic ego componi versus in ossa velim.--TIBULLUS.
In a churchyard, upon the sward, a coffin there was laid,
And leaning stood, beside the wood, a sexton on his spade.
A coffin old and black it was, and fashioned curiously,
With quaint device of carved oak, in hideous fantasie.
For here was wrought the sculptured thought of a tormented face,
With serpents lithe that round it writhe, in folded strict embrace.
Grim visages of grinning fiends were at each corner set,
And emblematic scrolls, mort-heads, and bones together met.
Ah, welladay! that sexton gray unto himself did cry,
"Beneath that lid much lieth hid--much awful mysterie. It is an ancient coffin from the abbey that stood here; Perchance it holds an abbot's bones, perchance those of a frere. In digging deep, where monks do sleep, beneath yon cloister shrined,
"That coffin old, within the mould, it was my chance to find;
The costly carvings of the lid I scraped full carefully,
In hope to get at name or date, yet nothing could I see.
"
With pick and spade I've plied my trade for sixty years and more, Yet never found, beneath the ground, shell strange as that before; Full many coffins have I seen--have seen them deep or flat, Fantastical in fashion--none fantastical as that.
"
And saying so, with heavy blow, the lid he shattered wide,
And, pale with fright, a ghastly sight that sexton gray espied;
A miserable sight it was, that loathsome corpse to see,
The last, last, dreary, darksome stage of fall'n humanity.
Though all was gone, save reeky bone, a green and grisly heap,
With scarce a trace of fleshly face, strange posture did it keep.
The hands were clenched, the teeth were wrenched, as if the wretch had risen,
E'en after death had ta'en his breath, to strive and burst his prison.
The neck was bent, the nails were rent, no limb or joint was straight;
Together glued, with blood imbued, black and coagulate.
And, as the sexton stooped him down to lift the coffin plank,
His fingers were defiled all o'er with slimy substance dank.
Ah, welladay! that sexton gray unto himself did cry,
"Full well I see how Fate's decree foredoomed this wretch to die; A living man, a breathing man, within the coffin thrust, Alack! alack! the agony ere he returned to dust!
"
A vision drear did then appear unto that sexton's eyes;
Like that poor wight before him straight he in a coffin lies.
He lieth in a trance within that coffin close and fast;
Yet though he sleepeth now, he feels he shall awake at last.
The coffin, then, by reverend men, is borne with footsteps slow,
Where tapers shine before the shrine, where breathes the requiem low;
And for the dead the prayer is said, for the soul that is not flown--
Then all is drowned in hollow sound, the earth is o'er him thrown!
He draweth breath--he wakes from death to life more horrible;
To agony! such agony! no living tongue may tell.
Die! die he must, that wretched one! he struggles--strives in vain;
No more Heaven's light, nor sunshine bright, shall he behold again.
Gramercy, Lord! the sexton roared, awakening suddenly,
"If this be dream, yet doth it seem most dreadful so to die. Oh, cast my body in the sea! or hurl it on the shore! But nail me not in coffin fast--no grave will I dig more.
"
It was not difficult to discover the effect produced by this song, in the lengthened faces of the greater part of the audience. Jack Palmer, however, laughed loud and long.
Bravo, bravo! cried he; "that suits my humor exactly. I can't abide the thoughts of a coffin. No deal box for me."
A gibbet might, perhaps, serve your turn as well, muttered the sexton; adding aloud, "I am now entitled to call upon you;--a song!--a song!"
Ay, a song, Mr. Palmer, a song! reiterated the hinds. "Yours will be the right kind of thing."
Say no more, replied Jack. "I'll give you a chant composed upon Dick Turpin, the highwayman. It's no great shakes, to be sure, but it's the best I have." And, with a knowing wink at the sexton, he commenced, in the true nasal whine, the following strain:
ONE FOOT IN THE STIRRUP
OR TURPIN'S FIRST FLING
Cum esset proposita fuga Turpi(n)s.--CICERO.
"
One foot in the stirrup, one hand in the rein, And the noose be my portion, or freedom I'll gain! Oh! give me a seat in my saddle once more, And these bloodhounds shall find that the chase is not o'er!
"Thus muttered Dick Turpin, who found, while he slept,
That the Philistines old on his slumbers had crept;
Had entrapped him as puss on her form you'd ensnare,
And that gone were his snappers--and gone was his mare.
Hilloah!
How Dick had been captured is readily told,
The pursuit had been hot, though the night had been cold,
So at daybreak, exhausted, he sought brief repose
Mid the thick of a corn-field, away from his foes.
But in vain was his caution--in vain did his steed,
Ever watchful and wakeful in moments of need,
With lip and with hoof on her master's cheek press--
He slept on, nor heeded the warning of Bess.
Hilloah!
Zounds! gem'men! cried Turpin, "you've found me at fault,
And the highflying highwayman's come to a halt;
You have turned up a trump--for I weigh well my weight,--
And the forty is yours, though the halter's my fate.
Well, come on't what will, you shall own when all's past,
That Dick Turpin, the Dauntless, was game to the last.
But, before we go further, I'll hold you a bet,
That one foot in my stirrup you won't let me set.
Hilloah!
"
A hundred to one is the odds I will stand, A hundred to one is the odds you command; Here's a handful of goldfinches ready to fly! May I venture a foot in my stirrup to try?
"As he carelessly spoke, Dick directed a glance
At his courser, and motioned her slyly askance:--
You might tell by the singular toss of her head,
And the prick of her ears, that his meaning she read.
Hilloah!
With derision at first was Dick's wager received,
And his error at starting as yet unretrieved;
But when from his pocket the shiners he drew,
And offered to "make up the hundred to two,"
There were havers in plenty, and each whispered each,
The same thing, though varied in figure of speech,
"Let the fool act his folly--the stirrup of Bess! He has put his foot in it already, we guess!
"Hilloah!
Bess was brought to her master--Dick steadfastly gazed
At the eye of his mare, then his foot quick upraised;
His toe touched the stirrup, his hand grasped the rein--
He was safe on the back of his courser again!
As the clarion, fray-sounding and shrill, was the neigh
Of Black Bess, as she answered his cry "Hark-away!"
"Beset me, ye bloodhounds! in rear and in van; My foot's in the stirrup and catch me who can!
"Hilloah!
There was riding and gibing mid rabble and rout,
And the old woods re-echoed the Philistines' shout!
There was hurling and whirling o'er brake and o'er brier,
But the course of Dick Turpin was swift as Heaven's fire.
Whipping, spurring, and straining would nothing avail,
Dick laughed at their curses, and scoffed at their wail;
My foot's in the stirrup!--thus rang his last cry;
Bess has answered my call; now her mettle we'll try!
Hilloah!
Uproarious applause followed Jack's song, when the joviality of the mourners was interrupted by a summons to attend in the state-room. Silence was at once completely restored; and, in the best order they could assume, they followed their leader, Peter Bradley. Jack Palmer was amongst the last to enter, and remained a not incurious spectator of a by no means common scene.
Preparations had been made to give due solemnity to the ceremonial. The leaden coffin was fastened down, and enclosed in an outer case of oak, upon the lid of which stood a richly-chased massive silver flagon, filled with burnt claret, called the grace-cup. All the lights were removed, save two lofty wax flambeaux, which were placed to the back, and threw a lurid glare upon the group immediately about the body, consisting of Ranulph Rookwood and some other friends of the deceased. Dr. Small stood in front of the bier; and, under the directions of Peter Bradley, the tenantry and household were formed into a wide half-moon across the chamber. There was a hush of expectation, as Dr. Small looked gravely round; and even Jack Palmer, who was as little likely as any man to yield to an impression of the kind, felt himself moved by the scene.
The very orthodox Small, as is well known to our readers, held everything savoring of the superstitions of the Scarlet Woman in supreme abomination; and, entertaining such opinions, it can scarcely be supposed that a funeral oration would find much favor in his eyes, accompanied, as it was, with the accessories of censer, candle, and cup; all evidently derived from that period when, under the three-crowned pontiff's sway, the shaven priest pronounced his benediction o'er the dead, and released the penitent's soul from purgatorial flames, while he heavily mulcted the price of his redemption from the possessions of his successor. Small resented the idea of treading in such steps, as an insult to himself and his cloth. Was he, the intolerant of Papistry, to tolerate this? Was he, who could not endure the odor of Catholicism, to have his nostrils thus polluted--his garments thus defiled by actual contact with it? It was not to be thought of: and he had formally signified his declination to Mr. Coates, when a little conversation with that gentleman, and certain weighty considerations therein held forth--the advowson of the church of Rookwood residing with the family--and represented by him, as well as the placing in juxtaposition of penalties to be incurred by refusal, that the scruples of Small gave way; and, with the best grace he could muster, very reluctantly promised compliance.
With these feelings, it will be readily conceived that the doctor was not in the best possible frame of mind for the delivery of his exhortation. His spirit had been ruffled by a variety of petty annoyances, amongst the greatest of which was the condition to which the good cheer had reduced his clerk, Zachariah Trundletext, whose reeling eye, pendulous position, and open mouth proclaimed him absolutely incapable of office. Zachariah was, in consequence, dismissed, and Small commenced his discourse unsupported. But as our recording it would not probably conduce to the amusement of our readers, whatever it might to their edification, we shall pass it over with very brief mention. Suffice it to say, that the oration was so thickly interstrewn with lengthy quotations from the fathers,--Chrysostomus, Hieronymus, Ambrosius, Basilius, Bernardus, and the rest, with whose recondite Latinity, notwithstanding the clashing of their opinions with his own, the doctor was intimately acquainted, and which he moreover delighted to quote,--that his auditors were absolutely mystified and perplexed, and probably not without design. Countenances of such amazement were turned towards him, that Small, who had a keen sense of the ludicrous, could scarcely forbear smiling as he proceeded; and if we could suspect so grave a personage of waggery, we should almost think that, by way of retaliation, he had palmed some abstruse, monkish epicedium upon his astounded auditors.
The oration concluded, biscuits and confectionery were, according to old observance, handed to such of the tenantry as chose to partake of them. The serving of the grace-cup, which ought to have formed part of the duties of Zachariah, had he been capable of office, fell to the share of the sexton. The bowl was kissed, first by Ranulph, with lips that trembled with emotion, and afterward by his surrounding friends; but no drop was tasted--a circumstance which did not escape Peter's observation. Proceeding to the tenantry, the first in order happened to be Farmer Toft. Peter presented the cup, and as Toft was about to drain a deep draught of the wine, Peter whispered in his ear, "Take my advice for once, Friend Toft, and don't let a bubble of the liquid pass your lips. For every drop of the wine you drain, Sir Piers will have one sin the less, and you a load the heavier on your conscience. Didst never hear of sin-swallowing? For what else was this custom adopted? Seest thou not the cup's brim hath not yet been moistened? Well, as you will--ha, ha!" And the sexton passed onwards.
His work being nearly completed, he looked around for Jack Palmer, whom he had remarked during the oration, but could nowhere discover him. Peter was about to place the flagon, now almost drained of its contents, upon its former resting-place, when Small took it from his hands.
In poculi fundo residuum non relinque, admonisheth Pythagoras, said he, returning the empty cup to the sexton.
My task here is ended, muttered Peter, "but not elsewhere. Foul weather or fine, thunder or rain, I must to the church."
Bequeathing his final instructions to certain of the household who were to form part of the procession, in case it set out, he opened the hall door, and, the pelting shower dashing heavily in his face, took his way up the avenue, screaming, as he strode along, the following congenial rhymes:
EPHIALTES
I ride alone--I ride by night
Through the moonless air on a courser white!
Over the dreaming earth I fly,
Here and there--at my fantasy!
My frame is withered, my visage old,
My locks are frore, and my bones ice cold.
The wolf will howl as I pass his lair,
The ban-dog moan, and the screech-owl stare.
For breath, at my coming, the sleeper strains,
And the freezing current forsakes his veins!
Vainly for pity the wretch may sue--
Merciless Mara no prayers subdue!
To his couch I flit--
On his breast I sit!
Astride! astride! astride!
And one charm alone
--A hollow stone!--
Can scare me from his side!
A thousand antic shapes I take;
The stoutest heart at my touch will quake.
The miser dreams of a bag of gold,
Or a ponderous chest on his bosom rolled.
The drunkard groans 'neath a cask of wine;
The reveller swelts 'neath a weighty chine.
The recreant turns, by his foes assailed,
To flee!--but his feet to the ground are nailed.
The goatherd dreams of his mountain-tops,
And, dizzily reeling, downward drops.
The murderer feels at his throat a knife,
And gasps, as his victim gasped, for life!
The thief recoils from the scorching brand;
The mariner drowns in sight of land!
Thus sinful man have I power to fray,
Torture, and rack, but not to slay!
But ever the couch of purity,
With shuddering glance, I hurry by.
Then mount! away!
To horse! I say,
To horse! astride! astride!
The fire-drake shoots--
The screech-owl hoots--
As through the air I glide!
[Footnote 23: In reference to this imaginary charm, Sir Thomas Browne observes, in his "Vulgar Errors." "What natural effects can reasonably be expected, when, to prevent the Ephialtes, or Nightmare, we hang a hollow stone in our stables?" Grose also states, "that a stone with a hole in it, hung at the bed's head, will prevent the nightmare, and is therefore called a hag-stone." The belief in this charm still lingers in some districts, and maintains, like the horse-shoe affixed to the barn-door, a feeble stand against the superstition-destroying "march of intellect."
Methought I walked, about the mid of night,
Into a churchyard.
WEBSTER: the White Devil.
Lights streamed through the chancel window as the sexton entered the churchyard, darkly defining all the ramified tracery of the noble Gothic arch, and illumining the gorgeous dyes of its richly-stained glass, profusely decorated with the armorial bearings of the founder of the fane, and the many alliances of his descendants. The sheen of their blazonry gleamed bright in the darkness, as if to herald to his last home another of the line whose achievements it displayed. Glowing colorings, checkered like rainbow tints, were shed upon the broken leaves of the adjoining yew-trees, and upon the rounded grassy tombs.
Opening the gate, as he looked in that direction, Peter became aware of a dark figure, enveloped in a large black cloak, and covered with a slouched hat, standing at some distance, between the window and the tree, and so intervening as to receive the full influence of the stream of radiance which served to dilate its almost superhuman stature. The sexton stopped. The figure remained stationary. There was something singular both in the costume and situation of the person. Peter's curiosity was speedily aroused, and, familiar with every inch of the churchyard, he determined to take the nearest cut, and to ascertain to whom the mysterious cloak and hat belonged. Making his way over the undulating graves, and instinctively rounding the headstones that intercepted his path, he quickly drew near the object of his inquiry. From the moveless posture it maintained, the figure appeared to be unconscious of Peter's approach. To his eyes it seemed to expand as he advanced. He was now almost close upon it, when his progress was arrested by a violent grasp laid on his shoulder. He started, and uttered an exclamation of alarm. At this moment a vivid flash of lightning illumined the whole churchyard, and Peter then thought he beheld, at some distance from him, two other figures, bearing upon their shoulders a huge chest, or, it might be, a coffin. The garb of these figures, so far as it could be discerned through the drenching rain, was fantastical in the extreme. The foremost seemed to have a long white beard descending to his girdle. Little leisure, however, was allowed Peter for observation. The vision no sooner met his glance than it disappeared, and nothing was seen but the glimmering tombstones--nothing heard but the whistling wind and the heavily-descending shower. He rubbed his eyes. The muffled figure had vanished, and not a trace could be discovered of the mysterious coffin-bearers, if such they were.
What have I seen? mentally ejaculated Peter: "is this sorcery or treachery, or both? No body-snatchers would visit this place on a night like this, when the whole neighborhood is aroused. Can it be a vision I have seen? Pshaw! shall I juggle myself as I deceive these hinds? It was no bearded demon that I beheld, but the gipsy patrico, Balthazar. I knew him at once. But what meant that muffled figure; and whose arm could it have been that griped my shoulder? Ha! what if Lady Rookwood should have given orders for the removal of Susan's body? No, no; that cannot be. Besides, I have the keys of the vault; and there are hundreds now in the church who would permit no such desecration. I am perplexed to think what it can mean. But I will to the vault." Saying which, he hastened to the church porch, and after wringing the wet from his clothes, as a water-dog might shake the moisture from his curly hide, and doffing his broad felt hat, he entered the holy edifice. The interior seemed one blaze of light to the sexton, in his sudden transition from outer darkness. Some few persons were assembled, probably such as were engaged in the preparations; but there was one group which immediately caught his attention.
Near the communion-table stood three persons, habited in deep mourning, apparently occupied in examining the various monumental carvings that enriched the walls. Peter's office led him to that part of the church. About to descend into the vaults, to make the last preparations for the reception of the dead, with lantern in hand, keys, and a crowbar, he approached the party. Little attention was paid to the sexton's proceedings, till the harsh grating of the lock attracted their notice.
Peter started as he beheld the face of one of the three, and relaxing his hold upon the key, the strong bolt shot back in the lock. There was a whisper amongst the party. A light step was heard advancing towards him; and ere the sexton could sufficiently recover his surprise, or force open the door, a female figure stood by his side.
The keen, inquiring stare which Peter bestowed upon the countenance of the young lady so much abashed her, that she hesitated in her purpose of addressing him, and hastily retired.
She here! muttered Peter; "nay, then, I must no longer withhold the dreaded secret from Luke, or Ranulph may, indeed, wrest his possessions from him."
Reinforced by her companions, an elderly lady and a tall, handsome man, whose bearing and deportment bespoke him to be a soldier, the fair stranger again ventured towards Peter.
You are the sexton, said she, addressing him in a voice sweet and musical.
I am, returned Peter. It was harmony succeeded by dissonance.
You, perhaps, can tell us, then, said the elderly lady, "whether the funeral is likely to take place to-night? We thought it possible that the storm might altogether prevent it."
The storm is over, as nearly as maybe, replied Peter. "The body will soon be on its way. I am but now arrived from the hall."
Indeed! exclaimed the lady. "None of the family will be present, I suppose. Who is the chief mourner?"
Young Sir Ranulph, answered the sexton. "There will be more of the family than were expected."
Is Sir Ranulph returned? asked the young lady, with great agitation of manner. "I thought he was abroad--that he was not expected. Are you sure you are rightly informed?"
I parted with him at the hall not ten minutes since, replied Peter. "He returned from France to-night most unexpectedly."
Oh, mother! exclaimed the younger lady, "that this should be--that I should meet him here. Why did we come?--let us depart."
Impossible! replied her mother; "the storm forbids it. This man's information is so strange, I scarce can credit it. Are you sure you have asserted the truth?" said she, addressing Peter.
I am not accustomed to be doubted, answered he. "Other things as strange have happened at the hall."
What mean you? asked the gentleman, noticing this last remark.
You would not need to ask the question of me, had you been there, amongst the other guests, retorted Peter. "Odd things, I tell you, have been done there this night, and stranger things may occur before the morning."
You are insolent, sirrah! I comprehend you not.
Enough! I can comprehend you, replied Peter, significantly; "I know the count of the mourners invited to this ceremonial, and I am aware that there are three too many."
Know you this saucy knave, mother?
I cannot call him to mind, though I fancy I have seen him before.
My recollection serves me better, lady, interposed Peter. "I remember one who was once the proud heiress of Rookwood--ay, proud and beautiful. Then the house was filled with her gallant suitors. Swords were crossed for her. Hearts bled for her. Yet she favored none, until one hapless hour. Sir Reginald Rookwood had a daughter; Sir Reginald lost a daughter. Ha!--I see I am right. Well, he is dead and buried; and Reginald, his son, is dead likewise; and Piers is on his road hither; and you are the last, as in the course of nature you might have been the first. And, now that they are all gone, you do rightly to bury your grievances with them."
Silence, sirrah! exclaimed the gentleman, "or I will beat your brains out with your own spade."
No; let him speak, Vavasour, said the lady, with an expression of anguish--"he has awakened thoughts of other days."
I have done, said Peter, "and must to work. Will you descend with me, madam, into the sepulchre of your ancestry? All your family lie within--ay, and the Lady Eleanor, your mother, amongst the number."
Mrs. Mowbray signified her assent, and the party prepared to follow him.
The sexton held the lantern so as to throw its light upon the steps as they entered the gloomy receptacle of the departed. Eleanor half repented having ventured within its dreary limits, so much did the appearance of the yawning catacombs, surcharged with mortality, and, above all, the ghostly figure of the grim knight, affect her with dread, as she looked wistfully around. She required all the support her brother's arm could afford her; nor was Mrs. Mowbray altogether unmoved.
And all the family are here interred, you say? inquired the latter.
All, replied the sexton.
Where, then, lies Sir Reginald's younger brother?
Who? exclaimed Peter, starting.
Alan Rookwood.
What of him?
Nothing of moment. But I thought you could, perhaps, inform me. He died young.
He did, replied Peter, in an altered tone--"very young; but not before he had lived to an old age of wretchedness. Do you know his story, madam?"
I have heard it.
From your father's lips?
From Sir Reginald Rookwood's--never. Call him not my father, sirrah; even here I will not have him named so to me.
Your pardon, madam, returned the sexton. "Great cruelty was shown to the Lady Eleanor, and may well call forth implacable resentment in her child; yet methinks the wrong he did his brother Alan was the foulest stain with which Sir Reginald's black soul was dyed."
With what particular wrong dost thou charge Sir Reginald? demanded Major Mowbray. "What injury did he inflict upon his brother Alan?"
He wronged his brother's honor, replied the sexton; "he robbed him of his wife, poisoned his existence, and hurried him to an untimely grave."
Eleanor shudderingly held back during this horrible narration, the hearing of which she would willingly have shunned, had it been possible.
Can this be true? asked the major.
Too true, my son, replied Mrs. Mowbray, sorrowfully.
And where lies the unfortunate Alan? asked Major Mowbray.
'Twixt two cross roads. Where else should the suicide lie?
Evading any further question, Peter hastily traversed the vault, elevating the light so as to reveal the contents of each cell. One circumstance filled him with surprise and dismay--he could nowhere perceive the coffin of his daughter. In vain he peered into every catacomb--they were apparently undisturbed; and, with much internal marvelling and misgiving, Peter gave up the search. "That vision is now explained," muttered he; "the body is removed, but by whom? Death! can I doubt? It must be Lady Rookwood--who else can have any interest in its removal. She has acted boldly. But she shall yet have reason to repent her temerity." As he continued his search, his companions silently followed. Suddenly he stopped, and, signifying that all was finished, they not unwillingly quitted this abode of horror, leaving him behind them.
It is a dreadful place, whispered Eleanor to her mother; "nor would I have visited it, had I conceived anything of its horrors. And that strange man! who or what is he?"
Ay, who is he? repeated Major Mowbray.
I recollect him now, replied Mrs. Mowbray; "he is one who has ever been connected with the family. He had a daughter, whose beauty was her ruin: it is a sad tale; I cannot tell it now: you have heard enough of misery and guilt: but that may account for his bitterness of speech. He was a dependent upon my poor brother."
Poor man! replied Eleanor; "if he has been unfortunate, I pity him. I am sorry we have been into that dreadful place. I am very faint: and I tremble more than ever at the thought of meeting Ranulph Rookwood again. I can scarcely support myself--I am sure I shall not venture to look upon him."
Had I dreamed of the likelihood of his attending the ceremony, rest assured, dear Eleanor, we should not have been here: but I was informed there was no possibility of his return. Compose yourself, my child. It will be a trying time to both of us; but it is now inevitable.
At this moment the bell began to toll. "The procession has started," said Peter, as he passed the Mowbrays. "That bell announces the setting out."
See yonder persons hurrying to the door, exclaimed Eleanor, with eagerness, and trembling violently. "They are coming. Oh! I shall never be able to go through with it, dear mother."
Peter hastened to the church door, where he stationed himself, in company with a host of others, equally curious. Flickering lights in the distance, shining like stars through the trees, showed them that the procession was collecting in front of the hall. The rain had now entirely ceased; the thunder muttered from afar, and the lightning seemed only to lick the moisture from the trees. The bell continued to toll, and its loud booming awoke the drowsy echoes of the valley. On the sudden, a solitary, startling concussion of thunder was heard; and presently a man rushed down from the belfry, with the tidings that he had seen a ball of fire fall from a cloud right over the hall. Every ear was on the alert for the next sound; none was heard. It was the crisis of the storm. Still the funeral procession advanced not. The strong sheen of the torchlight was still visible from the bottom of the avenue, now disappearing, now brightly glimmering, as if the bearers were hurrying to and fro amongst the trees. It was evident that much confusion prevailed, and that some misadventure had occurred. Each man muttered to his neighbor, and few were there who had not in a measure surmised the cause of the delay. At this juncture, a person without his hat, breathless with haste and almost palsied with fright, rushed through the midst of them and, stumbling over the threshold, fell headlong into the church.
What's the matter, Master Plant? What has happened? Tell us! Tell us! exclaimed several voices simultaneously.
Lord have mercy upon us! cried Plant, gasping for utterance, and not attempting to raise himself. "It's horrible! dreadful! oh!--oh!"
What has happened? inquired Peter, approaching the fallen man.
And dost thou need to ask, Peter Bradley? thou, who foretold it all? but I will not say what I think, though my tongue itches to tell thee the truth. Be satisfied, thy wizard's lore has served thee right--he is dead.
Who? Ranulph Rookwood? Has anything befallen him, or the prisoner, Luke Bradley? asked the sexton, with eagerness.
A scream here burst forth from one who was standing behind the group; and, in spite of the efforts of her mother to withhold her, Eleanor Mowbray rushed forward.
Has aught happened to Sir Ranulph? asked she.
Noa--noa--not to Sir Ranulph--he be with the body.
Heaven be thanked for that! exclaimed Eleanor. And then, as if ashamed of her own vehemence, and, it might seem, apparent indifference to another's fate, she inquired who was hurt.
It be poor neighbor Toft, that be killed by a thunderbolt, ma'am, replied Plant.
Exclamations of horror burst from all around.
No one was more surprised at this intelligence than the sexton. Like many other seers, he had not, in all probability, calculated upon the fulfilment of his predictions, and he now stared aghast at the extent of his own foreknowledge.
I tell 'ee what, Master Peter, said Plant, shaking his bullet-head, "it be well for thee thou didn't live in my grandfather's time, or thou'dst ha' been ducked in a blanket; or may be burnt at the stake, like Ridley and Latimer, as we read on--but however that may be, ye shall hear how poor Toft's death came to pass, and nobody can tell 'ee better nor I, seeing I were near to him, poor fellow, at the time. Well, we thought as how the storm were all over--and had all got into order of march, and were just beginning to step up the avenue, the coffin-bearers pushing lustily along, and the torches shining grandly, when poor Simon Toft, who could never travel well in liquor in his life, reeled to one side, and staggering against the first huge lime-tree, sat himself down beneath it--thou knowest the tree I mean."
The tree of fate, returned Peter. "I ought, methinks, to know it."
Well, I were just stepping aside to pick him up, when all at once there comes such a crack of thunder, and, whizzing through the trees, flashed a great globe of red fire, so bright and dazzlin', it nearly blinded me; and when I opened my eyes, winkin' and waterin', I see'd that which blinded me more even than the flash--that which had just afore been poor Simon, but which was now a mass o' black smouldering ashes, clean consumed and destroyed--his clothes rent to a thousand tatters--the earth and stones tossed up, and scattered all about, and a great splinter of the tree lying beside him.
Heaven's will be done! said the sexton; "this is an awful judgment."
And Sathan cast down; for this is a spice o' his handiwork, muttered Plant; adding, as he slunk away, "If ever Peter Bradley do come to the blanket, dang me if I don't lend a helpin' hand."
How like a silent stream, shaded by night,
And gliding softly with our windy sighs,
Moves the whole frame of this solemnity!
Tears, sighs, and blacks, filling the simile!
Whilst I, the only murmur in this grove
Of death, thus hollowly break forth.
the Fatal Dowry.
Word being given that the funeral train was fast approaching, the church door was thrown open, and the assemblage divided in two lines, to allow it admission.
Meanwhile, a striking change had taken place, even in this brief period, in the appearance of the night. The sky, heretofore curtained with darkness, was now illumined by a serene, soft moon, which, floating in a watery halo, tinged with silvery radiance the edges of a few ghostly clouds that hurried along the deep and starlit skies. The suddenness of the change could not fail to excite surprise and admiration, mingled with regret that the procession had not been delayed until the present time.
Slowly and mournfully the train was seen to approach the churchyard, winding, two by two, with melancholy step, around the corner of the road. First came Dr. Small; then the mutes, with their sable panoply; next, the torch-bearers; next, those who sustained the coffin, bending beneath their ponderous burden, followed by Sir Ranulph and a long line of attendants, all plainly to be distinguished by the flashing torchlight. There was a slight halt at the gate, and the coffin changed supporters.
Ill luck betide them! ejaculated Peter; "could they find no other place except that to halt at? Must Sir Piers be gatekeeper till next Yule! No," added he, seeing what followed; "it will be poor Toft, after all."
Following close upon the coffin came a rude shell, containing, as Peter rightly conjectured, the miserable remains of Simon Toft, who had met his fate in the manner described by Plant. The bolt of death glanced from the tree which it first struck, and reduced the unfortunate farmer to a heap of dust. Universal consternation prevailed, and doubts were entertained as to what course should be pursued. It was judged best by Dr. Small to remove the remains at once to the charnel-house. Thus "unanointed, unaneled, with all his imperfections on his head," was poor Simon Toft, in one brief second, in the twinkling of an eye, plunged from the height of festivity to the darkness of the grave, and so horribly disfigured, that scarce a vestige of humanity was discernible in the mutilated mass that remained of him. Truly may we be said to walk in blindness, and amidst deep pitfalls.
The churchyard was thronged by the mournful train. The long array of dusky figures--the waving torchlight gleaming ruddily in the white moonshine--now glistening upon the sombre habiliments of the bearers, and on their shrouded load, now reflected upon the jagged branches of the yew-trees, or falling upon the ivied buttresses of the ancient church, constituted no unimpressive picture. Over all, like a lamp hung in the still sky, shone the moon, shedding a soothing, spiritual lustre over the scene.
The organ broke into a solemn strain as the coffin was borne along the mid-aisle--the mourners following, with reverent step, and slow. It was deposited near the mouth of the vault, the whole assemblage circling around it. Dr. Small proceeded with the performance of that magnificent service appointed for the burial of the dead, in a tone as remarkable for its sadness as for its force and fervor. There was a tear in every eye--a cloud on every brow.
Brightly illumined as was the whole building, there were still some recesses which, owing to the intervention of heavy pillars, were thrown into shade; and in one of these, supported by her mother and brother, stood Eleanor, a weeping witness of the scene. She beheld the coffin silently borne along; she saw one dark figure slowly following; she knew those pale features--oh, how pale they were! A year had wrought a fearful alteration; she could scarce credit what she beheld. He must, indeed, have suffered--deeply suffered; and her heart told her that his sorrows had been for her.
Many a wistful look, besides, was directed to the principal figure in this ceremonial, Ranulph Rookwood. He was a prey to unutterable anguish of soul; his heart bled inwardly for the father he had lost. Mechanically following the body down the aisle, he had taken his station near it, gazing with confused vision upon the bystanders; had listened, with a sad composure, to the expressive delivery of Small, until he read--"For man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain; he heapeth up riches, and cannot tell who shall gather them."
Verily! exclaimed a deep voice; and Ranulph, looking round, met the eyes of Peter Bradley fixed full upon him. But it was evidently not the sexton who had spoken.
Small continued the service. He arrived at this verse: "Thou hast set our misdeeds before thee; and our secret sins in the light of thy countenance."
Even so! exclaimed the voice; and as Ranulph raised his eyes in the direction of the sound, he thought he saw a dark figure, muffled in a cloak, disappear behind one of the pillars. He bestowed, however, at the moment, little thought upon this incident. His heart melted within him; and leaning his face upon his hand, he wept aloud.
Command yourself, I entreat of you, my dear Sir Ranulph, said Dr. Small, as soon as the service was finished, "and suffer this melancholy ceremonial to be completed." Saying which, he gently withdrew Ranulph from his support, and the coffin was lowered into the vault.
Ranulph remained for some time in the extremity of sorrow. When he in part recovered, the crowd had dispersed, and few persons were remaining within the church; yet near him stood three apparent loiterers. They advanced towards him. An exclamation of surprise and joy burst from his lips.
Eleanor!
Ranulph!
Is it possible? Do I indeed behold you, Eleanor?
No other word was spoken. They rushed into each other's arms. Oh! sad--sad is the lover's parting--no pang so keen; but if life hath a zest more exquisite than others--if felicity hath one drop more racy than the rest in her honeyed cup, it is the happiness enjoyed in such a union as the present. To say that he was as one raised from the depths of misery by some angel comforter, were a feeble comparison of the transport of Ranulph. To paint the thrilling delight of Eleanor--the trembling tenderness--the fond abandonment which vanquished all her maiden scruples, would be impossible. Reluctantly yielding--fearing, yet complying, her lips were sealed in one long, loving kiss, the sanctifying pledge of their tried affection.
Eleanor, dear Eleanor, exclaimed Ranulph, "though I hold you within my arms--though each nerve within my frame assures me of your presence--though I look into those eyes, which seem fraught with greater endearment than ever I have known them wear--though I see and feel and know all this, so sudden, so unlooked for is the happiness, that I could almost doubt its reality. Say to what blessed circumstance I am indebted for this unlooked-for happiness."
We are staying not far hence, with friends, dear Ranulph; and my mother, hearing of Sir Piers Rookwood's death, and wishing to bury all animosity with him, resolved to be present at the sad ceremony. We were told you could not be here.
And would my presence have prevented your attendance, Eleanor?
Not that, dear Ranulph; but----
But what?
At this moment the advance of Mrs. Mowbray offered an interruption to their further discourse.
My son and I appear to be secondary in your regards, Sir Ranulph, said she, gravely.
Sir Ranulph! mentally echoed the young man. "What will she think when she knows that that title is not mine? I dread to tell her." He then added aloud, with a melancholy smile, "I crave your pardon, madam; the delight of a meeting so unexpected with your daughter must plead my apology."
None is wanting, Sir Ranulph, said Major Mowbray. "I who have known what separation from my sister is, can readily excuse your feelings. But you look ill."
I have, indeed, experienced much mental anxiety, said Ranulph, looking at Eleanor; "it is now past, and I would fain hope that a brighter day is dawning." His heart answered, 'twas but a hope.
You were unlooked for here to-night, Sir Ranulph, said Mrs. Mowbray; "by us, at least: we were told you were abroad."
You were rightly informed, madam, replied Ranulph. "I only arrived this evening from Bordeaux."
I am glad you are returned. We are at present on a visit with your neighbors, the Davenhams, at Braybrook, and trust we shall see you there.
I will ride over to-morrow, replied Ranulph; "there is much on which I would consult you all. I would have ventured to request the favor of your company at Rookwood, had the occasion been other than the present."
And I would willingly have accepted your invitation, returned Mrs. Mowbray; "I should like to see the old house once more. During your father's lifetime I could not approach it. You are lord of broad lands, Sir Ranulph--a goodly inheritance."
Madam!
And a proud title, which you will grace well, I doubt not. The first, the noblest of our house, was he from whom you derive your name. You are the third Sir Ranulph; the first founded the house of Rookwood; the next advanced it; 'tis for you to raise its glory to its height.
Alas! madam, I have no such thought.
Wherefore not? you are young, wealthy, powerful. With such domains as those of Rookwood--with such a title as its lord can claim, naught should be too high for your aspirations.
I aspire to nothing, madam, but your daughter's hand; and even that I will not venture to solicit until you are acquainted with---- And he hesitated.
With what? asked Mrs. Mowbray, in surprise.
A singular, and to me most perplexing event has occurred to-night, replied Ranulph, "which may materially affect my future fortunes."
Indeed! exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray. "Does it relate to your mother?"
Excuse my answering the question now, madam, replied Ranulph; "you shall know all to-morrow."
Ay, to-morrow, dear Ranulph, said Eleanor; "and whatever that morrow may bring forth, it will bring happiness to me, if you are bearer of the tidings."
I shall expect your coming with impatience, said Mrs. Mowbray.
And I, added Major Mowbray, who had listened thus far in silence, "would offer you my services in any way you think they would be useful. Command me as you think fitting."
I thank you heartily, returned Ranulph. "To-morrow you shall learn all. Meanwhile, it shall be my business to investigate the truth or falsehood of the statement I have heard, ere I report it to you. Till then, farewell."
As they issued from the church it was gray dawn. Mrs. Mowbray's carriage stood at the door. The party entered it; and accompanied by Dr. Small, whom he found within in the vestry, Ranulph walked towards the hall, where a fresh surprise awaited him.
Black Will.
Which is the place where we're to be concealed?
Green.
This inner room.
Black Will.
'Tis well. The word is, "Now I take you."
---Arden of Feversham.
Guarded by the two young farmers who had displayed so much address in seizing him, Luke, meanwhile, had been conveyed in safety to the small chamber in the eastern wing, destined by Mr. Coates to be his place of confinement for the night. The room, or rather closet, opening from another room, was extremely well adapted for the purpose, having no perceptible outlet; being defended, on either side, by thick partition walls of the hardest oak, and at the extremity by the solid masonry of the mansion. It was, in fact, a remnant of the building anterior to the first Sir Ranulph's day; and the narrow limits of Luke's cell had been erected long before the date of his earliest progenitor. Having seen their prisoner safely bestowed, the room was carefully examined, every board sounded, every crevice and corner peered into by the curious eye of the little lawyer; and nothing being found insecure, the light was removed, the door locked, the rustic constables dismissed, and a brace of pistols having been loaded and laid on the table, Mr. Coates pronounced himself thoroughly satisfied and quite comfortable.
Comfortable! Titus heaved a sigh as he echoed the word. He felt anything but comfortable. His heart was with the body all the while. He thought of the splendor of the funeral, the torches, the illumined church, his own dignified march down the aisle, and the effect he expected to produce amongst the bewildered rustics. He thought of all these things, and cursed Luke by all the saints in the calendar. The sight of the musty old apartment, hung round with faded arras, which, as he said, "smelt of nothing but rats and ghosts, and suchlike varmint," did not serve to inspirit him; and the proper equilibrium of his temper was not completely restored until the appearance of the butler, with all the requisites for the manufacture of punch, afforded him some prospective solace.
And what are they about now, Tim? asked Titus.
All as jolly as can be, answered the domestic; "Dr. Small is just about to pronounce the funeral 'ration."
Devil take it, ejaculated Titus, "there's another miss! Couldn't I just slip out, and hear that?"
On no account, said Coates. "Consider, Sir Ranulph is there."
Well, well, rejoined Titus, heaving a deep sigh, and squeezing a lemon; "are you sure this is biling water, Tim? You know, I'm mighty particular."
Perfectly aware of it, sir.
Ah, Tim, do you recollect the way I used to brew for poor Sir Piers, with a bunch of red currants at the bottom of the glass? And then to think that, after all, I should be left out of his funeral--it's the height of barbarity. Tim, this rum of yours is poor stuff--there's no punch worth the trouble of drinking, except whisky-punch. A glass of right potheen, straw-color, peat-flavor, ten degrees over proof, would be the only thing to drown my cares. Any such thing in the cellar? There used to be an odd bottle or so, Tim--in the left bin, near the door.
I've a notion there be, returned Timothy. "I'll try the bin your honor mentions, and if I can lay hands upon a bottle you shall have it, you may depend."
The butler departed, and Titus, emulating Mr. Coates, who had already enveloped himself, like Juno at the approach of Ixion, in a cloud, proceeded to light his pipe.
Luke, meanwhile, had been left alone, without light. He had much to meditate upon, and with naught to check the current of his thoughts, he pensively revolved his present situation and future prospects. The future was gloomy enough--the present fraught with danger. And now that the fever of excitement was passed, he severely reproached himself for his precipitancy.
His mind, by degrees, assumed a more tranquil state; and, exhausted with his great previous fatigue, he threw himself upon the floor of his prison-house, and addressed himself to slumber. The noise he made induced Coates to enter the room, which he did with a pistol in each hand, followed by Titus with a pipe and candle; but finding all safe the sentinels retired.
One may see, with half an eye, that you're not used to a feather-bed, my friend, said Titus, as the door was locked. "By the powers, he's a tall chap, anyhow--why his feet almost touch the door. I should say that room was a matter of six feet long, Mr. Coates."
Exactly six feet, sir.
Well, that's a good guess. Hang that ugly rascal, Tim; he's never brought the whisky. But I'll be even with him to-morrow. Couldn't you just see to the prisoner for ten minutes, Mr. Coates?
Not ten seconds. I shall report you, if you stir from your post.
Here the door was opened, and Tim entered with the whisky.
Arrah! by my soul, Tim, and here you are at last--uncork it, man, and give us a thimbleful--blob! there goes the stopper--here's a glass--smacking his lips--"whist, Tim, another drop--stuff like this will never hurt a body. Mr. Coates, try it--no--I thought you'd be a man of more taste."
I must limit you to a certain quantity, replied Coates, "or you will not be fit to keep guard--another glass must be the extent of your allowance."
Another glass! and do you think I'll submit to any such iniquitous proposition?
Beg pardon, gentlemen, said Tim, "but her ladyship desires me to tell you both, that she trusts you will keep the strictest watch upon the prisoner. I have the same message also from Sir Ranulph."
Do you hear that? said Coates.
And what are they all about now, Tim? groaned Titus.
Just starting, sir, returned Tim; "and, indeed, I must not lose my time gossiping here, for I be wanted below. You must be pleased to take care of yourselves, gentlemen, for an hour or so, for there will be only a few women-kind left in the house. The storm's just over, and the men are all lighting their torches. Oh, it's a grand sight!" And off set Tim.
Bad luck to myself, anyhow, ejaculated Titus; "this is more than I can bear--I've had enough of this watch and ward business--if the prisoner stirs, shoot him, if you think proper--I'll be back in an hour."
I tell you what, Mr. Tyrconnel, said Coates, coolly taking up the pistol from the table, "I'm a man of few words, but those few are, I hope, to the purpose, and I'd have you to know if you stir from that chair, or attempt to leave the room, damme but I'll send a brace of bullets after you. I'm serious, I assure you." And he cocked the pistol.
By way of reply to this menace, Titus deliberately filled a stiff glass of whisky-and-water.
That's your last glass, said the inexorable Coates.
To return once more to Luke. He slept uneasily for some short space, and was awakened by a sound which reached his dreaming ears and connected itself with the visions that slumber was weaving around him. It was some moments before he could distinctly remember where he was. He would not venture to sleep again, though he felt overwhelmed by drowsiness--there was a fixed pain at his heart, as if circulation were suspended. Changing his posture, he raised himself upon one arm; he then became aware of a scratching noise, somewhat similar to the sound he had heard in his dream, and perceived a light gleaming through a crevice in the oaken partition. His attention was immediately arrested, and placing his eye close to the chink, he distinctly saw a dark lantern burning, and by its light a man filing some implement of housebreaking. The light fell before the hard features of the man, with whose countenance Luke was familiar; and although only one person came within the scope of his view, Luke could make out, from a muttered conversation that was carried on, that he had a companion. The parties were near to him, and though speaking in a low tone, Luke's quick ear caught the following:
What keeps Jack Palmer, I wonder? said he of the file. "We're all ready for the fakement--pops primed--and I tell you what, Rob Rust, I've made my clasp-knife as sharp as a razor, and damme, if Lady Rookwood offers any resistance, I'll spoil her talking in future, I promise you."
Suppressed laughter from Rust followed this speech. That laugh made Luke's blood run cold within his veins.
Harkee, Dick Wilder, you're a reg'lar out-and-outer, and stops at nothing, and curse me if I'd think any more of it than yourself. But Jack's as squeamish of bloodshed as young Miss that cries at her cut finger. It's the safer plan. Say what you will, nothing but that will stop a woman's tongue.
I shall make short work with her ladyship to-night, anyhow. Hist! here Jack comes.
A footstep crossed in the room, and, presently afterwards, exclamations of surprise and smothered laughter were heard from the parties.
Bravo, Jack! famous! that disguise would deceive the devil himself.
And now, my lads, said the newcomer, "is all right?"
Right and tight.
Nothing forgotten?
Nothing.
Then off with your stamps, and on with your list slippers; not a word. Follow me, and, for your lives, don't move a step but as I direct you. The word must be, 'Sir Piers Rookwood calls.' We'll overhaul the swag here. This crack may make us all for life; and if you'll follow my directions implicitly, we'll do the trick in style. This slum must be our rendezvous when all's over; for hark ye, my lads, I'll not budge an inch till Luke Bradley be set free. He's an old friend, and I always stick by old friends. I'd do the same for one of you if you were in the same scrape, so, damn you, no flinching; besides, I owe that spider-shanked, snivelling split-cause Coates, who stands sentry, a grudge, and I'll pay him off, as Paul did the Ephesians. You may crop his ears, or slit his tongue as you would a magpie's, or any other chattering varmint; make him sign his own testament, or treat him with a touch of your Habeas Corpus Act, if you think proper, or give him a taste of blue plumb. One thing only I stipulate, that you don't hurt that fat, mutton-headed Broganeer, whatever he may say or do; he's a devilish good fellow. And now to business.
Saying which, they noiselessly departed. But carefully as the door was closed, Luke's ear could detect the sound. His blood boiled with indignation; and he experienced what all must have felt who have been similarly situated, with the will, but not the power, to assist another--a sensation almost approaching to torture. At this moment a distant scream burst upon his ears--another--he hesitated no longer. With all his force he thundered at the door.
What do you want, rascal? cried Coates, from without.
There are robbers in the house.
Thank you for the information. There is one I know of already.
Fool, they are in Lady Rookwood's room. Run to her assistance.
A likely story, and leave you here.
Do you hear that scream?
Eh, what--what's that? I do hear something. Here Luke dashed with all his force against the door. It yielded to the blow, and he stood before the astonished attorney.
Advance a footstep, villain, exclaimed Coates, presenting both his pistols, "and I lodge a brace of balls in your head."
Listen to me, said Luke; "the robbers are in Lady Rookwood's chamber--they will plunder the place of everything--perhaps murder her. Fly to her assistance, I will accompany you--assist you--it is your only chance."
My only chance--your only chance. Do you take me for a greenhorn? This is a poor subterfuge; could you not have vamped up something better? Get back to your own room, or I shall make no more of shooting you than I would of snuffing that candle.
Be advised, sir, continued Luke. "There are three of them--give me a pistol, and fear nothing."
Give you a pistol! Ha, ha!--to be its mark myself. You are an amusing rascal, I will say.
Sir, I tell you not a moment is to be lost. Is life nothing? Lady Rookwood may be murdered.
I tell you, once for all, it won't do. Go back to your room, or take the consequences.
By the powers! but it shall do, anyhow, exclaimed Titus, flinging himself upon the attorney, and holding both his arms; "you've bullied me long enough. I'm sure the lad's in the right."
Luke snatched the pistols from the hands of Coates.
Very well, Mr. Tyrconnel; very well, sir, cried the attorney, boiling with wrath, and spluttering out his words. "Extremely well, sir. You are not perhaps aware, sir, what you have done; but you will repent this, sir--repent, I say--repent was my word, Mr. Tyrconnel."
Poh!--poh! replied Titus. "I shall never repent a good-natured action."
Follow me, cried Luke; "settle your disputes hereafter. Quick, or we shall be too late."
Coates bustled after him, and Titus, putting the neck of the forbidden whisky bottle to his lips, and gulping down a hasty mouthful, snatched up a rusty poker, and followed the party with more alacrity than might have been expected from so portly a personage.
Gibbet.
Well, gentlemen, 'tis a fine night for our enterprise.
Hounslow.
Dark as hell.
Bagshot.
And blows like the devil.
Boniface.
You'll have no creature to deal with but the ladies.
Gibbet.
And I can assure you, friend, there's a great deal of address, and good manners, in robbing a lady. I am the most of a gentleman, that way, that ever travelled the road.
--Beaux Stratagem.
Accompanied by her son, Lady Rookwood, on quitting the chamber of the dead, returned to her own room. She then renewed all her arguments; had recourse to passionate supplications--to violent threats, but without effect. Ranulph maintained profound silence. Passion, as it ever doth, defeated its own ends; and Lady Rookwood, seeing the ill effect her anger would probably produce, gradually softened the asperity of her manner, and suffered him to depart.
Left to herself, and to the communings of her own troubled spirit, her fortitude, in a measure, forsook her, under the pressure of the difficulties by which she was environed. There was no plan she could devise--no scheme adopt, unattended with peril. She must act alone--with promptitude and secrecy. To win her son over was her chief desire, and that, at all hazards, she was resolved to do. But how? She knew of only one point on which he was vulnerable--his love for Eleanor Mowbray. By raising doubts in his mind, and placing fresh difficulties in his path, she might compel him to acquiesce in her machinations, as a necessary means of accomplishing his own object. This she hoped to effect. Still there was a depth of resolution in the placid stream of Ranulph's character which she had often noticed with apprehension. Aware of his firmness, she dreaded lest his sense of justice should be stronger than his passion.
As she wove these webs of darkness, fear, hitherto unknown, took possession of her soul. She listened to the howling of the wind--to the vibration of the rafters--to the thunder's roar, and to the hissing rain--till she, who never trembled at the thought of danger, became filled with vague uneasiness. Lights were ordered; and when her old attendant returned. Lady Rookwood fixed a look so wistful upon her, that Agnes ventured to address her.
Bless you, my lady, said the ancient handmaiden, trembling, "you look very pale, and no wonder. I feel sick at heart, too. Oh! I shall be glad when they return from the church, and happier still when the morning dawns. I can't sleep a wink--can't close my eyes, but I think of him."
Of him?
Of Sir Piers, my lady; for though he's dead, I don't think he's gone.
How?
Why, my lady, the corruptible part of him's gone, sure enough. But the incorruptible, as Dr. Small calls it--the sperrit, my lady. It might be my fancy, your ladyship; but as I'm standing here, when I went back into the room just now for the lights, as I hope to live, I thought I saw Sir Piers in the room.
You are crazed, Agnes.
No, my lady, I'm not crazed; it was mere fancy, no doubt. Oh, it's a blessed thing to live with an easy conscience--a thrice blessed thing to die with an easy one, and that's what I never shall, I'm afeard. Poor Sir Piers! I'd mumble a prayer for him, if I durst.
Leave me, said Lady Rookwood, impatiently.
And Agnes quitted the room.
What if the dead can return? thought Lady Rookwood. "All men doubt it, yet all men believe it. I would not believe it, were there not a creeping horror that overmasters me, when I think of the state beyond the grave--that intermediate state, for such it must be, when the body lieth mouldering in the ground, and the soul survives, to wander, unconfined, until the hour of doom. And doth the soul survive when disenthralled? Is it dependent on the body? Does it perish with the body? These are doubts I cannot resolve. But if I deemed there was no future state, this hand should at once liberate me from my own weaknesses--my fears--my life. There is but one path to acquire that knowledge, which, once taken, can never be retraced. I am content to live--while living, to be feared--it may be, hated; when dead, to be contemned--yet still remembered. Ha! what sound was that? A stifled scream! Agnes!--without there! She is full of fears. I am not free from them myself, but I will shake them off. This will divert their channel," continued she, drawing from her bosom the marriage certificate. "This will arouse the torpid current of my blood--'Piers Rookwood to Susan Bradley.' And by whom was it solemnized? The name is Checkley--Richard Checkley. Ha! I bethink me--a Papist priest--a recusant--who was for some time an inmate of the hall. I have heard of this man--he was afterwards imprisoned, but escaped--he is either dead or in a foreign land. No witnesses--'tis well! Methinks Sir Piers Rookwood did well to preserve this. It shall light his funeral pyre. Would he could now behold me, as I consume it!"
She held the paper in the direction of the candle; but, ere it could touch the flame, it dropped from her hand. As if her horrible wish had been granted, before her stood the figure of her husband! Lady Rookwood started not. No sign of trepidation or alarm, save the sudden stiffening of her form, was betrayed. Her bosom ceased to palpitate--her respiration stopped--her eyes were fixed upon the apparition.
The figure appeared to regard her sternly. It was at some little distance, within the shade cast by the lofty bedstead. Still she could distinctly discern it. There was no ocular deception; it was attired in the costume Sir Piers was wont to wear--a hunting dress. All that her son had told her rushed to her recollection. The phantom advanced. Its countenance was pale, and wore a gloomy frown.
What would you destroy? demanded the apparition, in a hollow tone.
The evidence of----
What?
Your marriage.
With yourself, accursed woman?
With Susan Bradley.
What's that I hear? shouted the figure, in an altered tone. "Married to her! then Luke is legitimate, and heir to this estate!" Whereupon the apparition rushed to the table, and laid a very substantial grasp upon the document. "A marriage certificate!" ejaculated the spectre; "here's a piece of luck! It ain't often in our lottery life we draw a prize like this. One way or the other, it must turn up a few cool thousands."
Restore that paper, villain, exclaimed Lady Rookwood, recovering all the audacity natural to her character the instant she discovered the earthly nature of the intruder--"restore it, or, by Heaven, you shall rue your temerity."
Softly, softly, replied the pseudo-phantom, with one hand pushing back the lady, while the other conveyed the precious document to the custody of his nether man--"softly," said he, giving the buckskin pocket a slap--"two words to that, my lady. I know its value as well as yourself, and must make my market. The highest offer has me, your ladyship; he's but a poor auctioneer that knocks down his ware when only one bidder is present. Luke Bradley, or, as I find he now is, Sir Luke Rookwood, may come down more handsomely."
Who are you, ruffian, and to what end is this masquerade assumed? If for the purpose of terrifying me into compliance with the schemes of that madman, Luke Bradley, whom I presume to be your confederate, your labor is misspent--your stolen disguise has no more weight with me than his forged claims.
Forged claims! Egad, he must be a clever hand to have forged that certificate. Your ladyship, however, is in error. Sir Luke Rookwood is no associate of mine; I am his late father's friend. But I have no time to bandy talk. What money have you in the house? Be alive.
You are a robber, then?
Not I. I'm a tax-gatherer--a collector of Rich-Rates--ha, ha! What plate have you got? Nay, don't be alarmed--take it quietly--these things can't be helped--better make up your mind to do it without more ado--much the best plan--no screaming, it may injure your lungs, and can alarm nobody. Your maids have done as much before--it's beneath your dignity to make so much noise. So, you will not heed me? As you will. Saying which, he deliberately cut the bell-cord, and drew out a brace of pistols at the same time.
Agnes! shrieked Lady Rookwood, now seriously alarmed.
I must caution your ladyship to be silent, said the robber, who, as our readers will no doubt have already conjectured, was no other than the redoubted Jack Palmer. "Agnes is already disposed of," said he, cocking a pistol. "However like your deceased 'lord and master' I may appear, you will find you have got a very different spirit from that of Sir Piers to deal with. I am naturally the politest man breathing--have been accounted the best-bred man on the road by every lady whom I have had the honor of addressing; and I should be sorry to sully my well-earned reputation by anything like rudeness. I must use a little force, of the gentlest kind. Perhaps you will permit me to hand you to a chair. Bless me! what a wrist your ladyship has got. Excuse me if I hurt you, but you are so devilish strong. What ho! 'Sir Piers Rookwood calls--'"
Ready, cried a voice.
That's the word, rejoined another; "ready;" and immediately two men, their features entirely hidden by a shroud of black crape, accoutred in rough attire, and each armed with pistols, rushed into the room.
Lend a hand, said Jack.
Even in this perilous extremity Lady Rookwood's courage did not desert her. Anticipating their purpose, ere her assailants could reach her she extricated herself from Palmer's grasp, and rushed upon the foremost so unexpectedly, that, before the man could seize her, she snatched a pistol from his hand, and presented it at the group with an aspect like that of a tigress at bay--her eye wandering from one to the other, as if selecting a mark.
There was a pause of a few seconds, in which the men glanced at the lady, and then at their leader. Jack looked blank.
Hem! said he, coolly; "this is something new--disarmed--defied by a petticoat. Hark ye, Rob Rust, the disgrace rests with you. Clear your character, by securing her at once. What! afraid of a woman?"
A woman! repeated Rust, in a surly tone; "devilish like a woman, indeed. Few men could do what she has done. Give the word, and I fire. As to seizing her, that's more than I'll engage to do."
You are a coward, cried Jack. "I will steer clear of blood--if I can help it. Come, madam, surrender, like the more sensible part of your sex, at discretion. You will find resistance of no avail." And he stepped boldly towards her.
Lady Rookwood pulled the trigger. The pistol flashed in the pan. She flung away the useless weapon without a word.
Ha, ha! said Jack, as he leisurely stooped to pick up the pistol, and approached her ladyship; "the bullet is not yet cast that is to be my billet. Here," said he, dealing Rust a heavy thump upon the shoulder with the butt-end of the piece, "take back your snapper, and look you prick the touchhole, or your barking-iron will never bite for you. And now, madam, I must take the liberty of again handing you to a seat. Dick Wilder, the cord--quick. It distresses me to proceed to such lengths with your ladyship--but safe bind, safe find, as Mr. Coates would say."
You will not bind me, ruffian.
Your ladyship is very much mistaken--I have no alternative--your ladyship's wrist is far too dexterous to be at liberty. I must furthermore request of your ladyship to be less vociferous--you interrupt business, which should be transacted with silence and deliberation.
Lady Rookwood's rage and vexation at this indignity were beyond all bounds. Resistance, however, was useless, and she submitted in silence. The cord was passed tightly round her arms, when it flashed upon her recollection for the first time that Coates and Tyrconnel, who were in charge of her captive in the lower corridor, might be summoned to her assistance. This idea no sooner crossed her mind than she uttered a loud and prolonged scream.
'Sdeath! cried Jack; "civility is wasted here. Give me the gag, Rob."
Better slit her squeaking-pipe at once, replied Rust, drawing his clasped knife; "she'll thwart everything."
The gag, I say, not that.
I can't find the gag, exclaimed Wilder, savagely. "Leave Rob Rust to manage her--he'll silence her, I warrant you, while you and I rummage the room."
Ay, leave her to me, said the other miscreant. "Go about your business, and take no heed. Her hands are fast--she can't scratch. I'll do it with a single gash--send her to join her lord, whom she loved so well, before he's under ground. They'll have something to see when they come home from the master's funeral--their mistress cut and dry for another. Ho, ho!"
Mercy, mercy! shrieked Lady Rookwood.
Ay, ay, I'll be merciful, said Rust, brandishing his knife before her eyes. "I'll not be long about it. Leave her to me--I'll give her a taste of Sir Sydney."
No, no, Rust; no bloodshed, said Jack, authoritatively; "I'll find some other way to gag the jade."
At this moment a noise of rapid footsteps was heard within the passage.
Assistance comes, screamed Lady Rookwood. "Help! help!"
To the door! cried Jack. The words were scarcely out of his mouth before Luke dashed into the room, followed by Coates and Tyrconnel.
Palmer and his companions levelled their pistols at the intruders, and the latter would have fired, but Jack's keen eye having discerned Luke amongst the foremost, checked further hostilities for the present. Lady Rookwood, meanwhile, finding herself free from restraint, rushed towards her deliverers, and crouched beneath Luke's protecting arms, which were extended, pistol in hand, over her head. Behind them stood Titus Tyrconnel, flourishing the poker, and Mr. Coates, who, upon the sight of so much warlike preparation, began somewhat to repent having rushed so precipitately into the lion's den.
Luke Bradley! exclaimed Palmer, stepping forward.
Luke Bradley! echoed Lady Rookwood, recoiling and staring into his face.
Fear nothing, madam, cried Luke. "I am here to assist you--I will defend you with my life."
You defend me! exclaimed Lady Rookwood, doubtfully.
Even I, cried Luke, "strange as it may sound."
Holy powers protect me! ejaculated Titus. "As I live, it is Sir Piers himself."
Sir Piers! echoed Coates, catching the infection of terror, as he perceived Palmer more distinctly. "What! is the dead come to life again? A ghost, a ghost!"
By my soul, cried Titus, "it's the first ghost I ever heard of that committed a burglary in its own house, and on the night of the body's burial, too. But who the devil are these? maybe they're ghosts likewise."
They are, said Palmer, in a hollow tone, mimicking the voice of Sir Piers, "attendant spirits. We are come for this woman; her time is out; so no more palavering, Titus. Lend a hand to take her to the churchyard, and be hanged to you."
Upon my conscience, Mr. Coates, cried Titus, "it's either the devil, or Sir Piers. We'll be only in the way here. He's only just settling his old scores with his lady. I thought it would come to this long ago. We'd best beat a retreat."
Jack took advantage of the momentary confusion created by this incidental alarm at his disguise to direct Rust towards the door by which the new comers had entered; and, this being accomplished, he burst into a loud laugh.
What! not know me? cried he--"not know your old friend with a new face, Luke? Nor you, Titus? Nor you, who can see through a millstone, lawyer Coates, don't you recognize----"
Jack Palmer, as I'm a sinner! cried Titus. "Why, this beats Banaghan. Arrah! Jack, honey, what does this mean? Is it yourself I see in such company? You're not robbing in earnest?"
Indeed but I am, friend Titus, exclaimed Jack; "and it is my own self you see. I just took the liberty of borrowing Sir Piers's old hunting-coat from the justice-room. You said my toggery wouldn't do for the funeral. I'm no other than plain Jack Palmer, after all."
With half a dozen aliases at your back, I dare say, cried Coates. "I suspected you all along. All your praise of highwaymen was not lost upon me. No, no; I can see into a millstone, be it ever so thick."
Well, replied Jack, "I'm sorry to see you here, friend Titus. Keep quiet, and you shall come to no harm. As to you, Luke Bradley, you have anticipated my intention by half an hour; I meant to set you free. For you, Mr. Coates, you may commit all future care of your affairs to your executors, administrators, and assigns. You will have no further need to trouble yourself with worldly concerns," added he, levelling a pistol at the attorney, who, however, shielded himself, in an agony of apprehension, behind Luke's person. "Stand aside, Luke."
I stir not, replied Luke. "I thank you for your good intention, and will not injure you--that is, if you do not force me to do so. I am here to defend her ladyship."
What's that you say? returned Jack, in surprise--"defend her ladyship?"
With my life, replied Luke. "Let me counsel you to depart."
Are you mad? Defend her--Lady Rookwood--your enemy--who would hang you? Tut, tut! Stand aside, I say, Luke Bradley, or look to yourself.
You had better consider well ere you proceed, said Luke. "You know me of old. I have taken odds as great, and not come off the vanquished."
The odds are even, cried Titus, "if Mr. Coates will but show fight. I'll stand by you to the last, my dear boy. You're the right son of your father, though on the wrong side. Och! Jack Palmer, my jewel, no wonder you resemble Dick Turpin."
You hear this? cried Luke.
Hot-headed fool! muttered Jack.
Why don't you shoot him on the spot? said Wilder.
And mar my own chance, thought Jack. "No, that will never do; his life is not to be thrown away. Be quiet," said he, in a whisper to Wilder; "I've another card to play, which shall serve us better than all the plunder here. No harm must come to that youngster; his life is worth thousands to us." Then, turning to Luke, he continued, "I'm loth to hurt you; yet what can I do? You must have the worst of it if we come to a pitched battle. I therefore advise you, as a friend, to draw off your forces. We are three to three, it is true; but two of your party are unarmed."
Unarmed! interrupted Titus. "Devil burn me! this iron shillelah shall convince you to the contrary, Jack, or any of your friends."
Make ready then, my lads, cried Palmer.
Stop a minute, exclaimed Coates. "This gets serious; it will end in homicide--in murder. We shall all have our throats cut to a certainty; and though these rascals will as certainly be hanged for it, that will be poor satisfaction to the sufferers. Had we not better refer the matter to arbitration?"
I'm for fighting it out, said Titus, whisking the poker round his head like a flail in action. "My blood's up. Come on, Jack Palmer, I'm for you."
I should vote for retreating, chattered the attorney, "if that cursed fellow had not placed a ne exeat at the door."
Give the word, captain, cried Rust, impatiently.
Ay, ay, echoed Wilder.
A skilful general always parleys, said Jack. "A word in your ear, Luke, ere that be done which cannot be undone."
You mean me no treachery? returned Luke.
Jack made no answer, but uncocking his pistols, deposited them within his pockets.
Shoot him as he advances, whispered Coates; "he is in your power now."
Scoundrel! replied Luke, "do you think me as base as yourself?"
Hush, hush! for God's sake don't expose me, said Coates.
Lady Rookwood had apparently listened to this singular conference with sullen composure, though in reality she was racked with anxiety as to its results; and, now apprehending that Palmer was about to make an immediate disclosure to Luke, she accosted him as he passed her.
Unbind me! cried she, "and what you wish shall be yours--money--jewels----"
Ha! may I depend?
I pledge my word.
Palmer untied the cord, and Lady Rookwood, approaching a table whereon stood the escritoire, touched a spring, and a secret drawer flew open.
You do this of your own free will? asked Luke. "Speak, if it be otherwise."
I do, returned the lady, hastily.
Palmer's eyes glistened at the treasures exposed to his view.
They are jewels of countless price. Take them, and rid me, she added in a whisper, "of him."
Luke Bradley?
Ay.
Give them to me.
They are yours freely on those terms.
You hear that, Luke, cried he, aloud; "you hear it, Titus; this is no robbery. Mr. Coates--'Know all men by these presents'--I call you to witness, Lady Rookwood gives me these pretty things."
I do, returned she; adding, in a whisper, "on the terms which I proposed."
Must it be done at once?
Without an instant's delay.
Before your own eyes?
I fear not to look on. Each moment is precious. He is off his guard now. You do it, you know, in self-defence.
And you?
For the same cause.
Yet he came here to aid you?
What of that?
He would have risked his life for yours?
I cannot pay back the obligation. He must die!
The document?
Will be useless then.
Will not that suffice; why aim at life?
You trifle with me. You fear to do it.
Fear!
About it, then; you shall have more gold.
I will about it, cried Jack, throwing the casket to Wilder, and seizing Lady Rookwood's hands. "I am no Italian bravo, madam--no assassin--no remorseless cut-throat. What are you--devil or woman--who ask me to do this? Luke Bradley, I say."
Would you betray me? cried Lady Rookwood.
You have betrayed yourself, madam. Nay, nay, Luke, hands off. See, Lady Rookwood, how you would treat a friend. This strange fellow would blow out my brains for laying a finger upon your ladyship.
I will suffer no injury to be done to her, said Luke; "release her."
Your ladyship hears him, said Jack. "And you, Luke, shall learn the value set upon your generosity. You will not have her injured. This instant she has proposed, nay, paid for your assassination."
How? exclaimed Luke, recoiling.
A lie, as black as hell, cried Lady Rookwood.
A truth, as clear as heaven, retained Jack. "I will speedily convince you of the fact." Then, turning to Lady Rookwood, he whispered, "Shall I give him the marriage document?"
Beware! said Lady Rookwood.
Do I avouch the truth, then?
She was silent.
I am answered, said Luke.
Then leave her to her fate, cried Jack.
No, replied Luke; "she is still a woman, and I will not abandon her to ruffianly violence. Set her free."
You are a fool, said Jack.
Hurrah, hurrah! vociferated Coates, who had rushed to the window. "Rescue, rescue! they are returning from the church; I see the torchlight in the avenue; we are saved!"
Hell and the devil! cried Jack; "not an instant is to be lost. Alive, lads; bring off all the plunder you can; be handy!"
Lady Rookwood, I bid you farewell, said Luke, in a tone in which scorn and sorrow were blended. "We shall meet again."
We have not parted yet, returned she; "will you let this man pass? A thousand pounds for his life."
Upon the nail? asked Rust.
By the living God, if any of you attempt to touch him, I will blow his brains out upon the spot, be he friend or foe, cried Jack. "Luke Bradley, we shall meet again. You shall hear from me."
Lady Rookwood, said Luke, as he departed, "I shall not forget this night."
Is all ready? asked Palmer of his comrades.
All.
Then budge.
Stay! cried Lady Rookwood, in a whisper to him. "What will purchase that document?"
Hem!
A thousand pounds?
Double it.
It shall be doubled.
I will turn it over.
Resolve me now.
You shall hear from me.
In what manner?
I will find speedy means.
Your name is Palmer?
Palmer is the name he goes by, your ladyship, replied Coates, "but it is the fashion with these rascals to have an alias."
Ha! ha! said Jack, thrusting the ramrod into his pistol-barrel, "are you there, Mr. Coates? Pay your wager, sir."
What wager?
The hundred we bet that you would take me if ever you had the chance.
Take you!--it was Dick Turpin I betted to take.
I am DICK TURPIN--that's my alias! replied Jack.
Dick Turpin! then I'll have a snap at you at all hazards, cried Coates, springing suddenly towards him.
And I at you, said Turpin, discharging his pistol right in the face of the rash attorney; "there's a quittance in full."