I. The Hut on Thorne Waste
II. Major Mowbray
III. Handassah
IV. The Dower of Sybil
V. The Sarcophagus
L'ENVOY
NOTES
_MEMOIR_
William Harrison Ainsworth was born in King Street, Manchester, February
4, 1805, in a house that has long since been demolished. His father was
a solicitor in good practice, and the son had all the advantages that
educational facilities could afford. He was sent to the Manchester
grammar-school, and in one of his early novels has left an interesting
and accurate picture of its then condition, which may be contrasted with
that of an earlier period left by the "English opium-eater." At sixteen,
a brilliant, handsome youth, with more taste for romance and the drama
than for the dry details of the law, he was articled to a leading
solicitor of Manchester. The closest friend of his youth was a Mr. James
Crossley, who was some years older, but shared his intellectual taste
and literary enthusiasm. A drama written for private theatricals, in his
father's house was printed in _Arliss's Magazine_, and he also
contributed to the _Manchester Iris_, the _Edinburgh Magazine_, and the
_London Magazine_. He even started a periodical, which received the name
of _The B[oe]otian_, and died at the sixth number. Many of the fugitive
pieces of these early days were collected in volumes now exceedingly
rare: "December Tales" (London, 1823), which is not wholly from his pen;
the "Works of Cheviot Tichburn" (London, 1822; Manchester, 1825),
dedicated to Charles Lamb; and "A Summer Evening Tale" (London, 1825).
"Sir John Chiverton" appeared in 1826, and for forty years was regarded
as one of his early works; but Mr. John Partington Aston has also
claimed to be its author. In all probability, both of these young men
joined in the production of the novel which attracted the attention of
Sir Walter Scott. On the death of his father, in 1824, Ainsworth went to
London to finish his legal education, but whatever intentions he may
have formed of humdrum study and determined attention to the details of
a profession in which he had no interest, were dissipated by contact
with the literary world of the metropolis. He made the acquaintance of
Mr. John Ebers, who at that time combined the duties of manager of the
Opera House with the business of a publisher. He it was who issued "Sir
John Chiverton," and the verses forming its dedication are understood to
have been addressed to Anne Frances ("Fanny") Ebers, whom Ainsworth
married October 11, 1826. Ainsworth had then to decide upon a career,
and, acting upon the suggestion of Ebers, his father-in-law, he began
business as a publisher; but after an experience of about eighteen
months he abandoned it. In this brief interval he introduced the Hon.
Mrs. Norton, and Ude, the cook, to the discerning though unequal
admiration of the British public. He was introduced to Sir Walter Scott,
who wrote the "Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee" for an annual issued by him.
Ainsworth gave him twenty guineas for it, which Sir Walter accepted, but
laughingly handed over to the little daughter of Lockhart, in whose
London house they had met. Ainsworth's literary aspirations still burned
with undiminished ardor, and several plans were formed only to be
abandoned, and when, in the summer of 1830, he visited Switzerland and
Italy, he was as far as ever from the fulfilment of his desires. In 1831
he visited Chesterfield and began the novel of "Rookwood," in which he
successfully applied the method of Mrs. Radcliffe to English scenes and
characters. The finest passage is that relating Turpin's ride to York,
which is a marvel of descriptive writing. It was written, apparently in
a glow of inspiration, in less than a day and a half. "The feat," he
says, "for feat it was, being the composition of a hundred novel pages
in less than twenty-four hours, was achieved at 'The Elms,' a house I
then occupied at Kilburn." The success of "Rookwood" was marked and
immediate. Ainsworth at a bound reached popularity. This was in 1834,
and in 1837 he published "Crichton," which is a fine piece of historical
romance. The critics who had objected to the romantic glamor cast over
the career of Dick Turpin were still further horrified at the manner in
which that vulgar rascal, Jack Sheppard, was elevated into a hero of
romance. The outcry was not entirely without justification, nor was it
without effect on the novelist, who thenceforward avoided this perilous
ground. "Jack Sheppard" appeared in _Bentley's Miscellany_, of which
Ainsworth became editor in March, 1840, at a monthly salary of £51. The
story is powerfully written. In 1841 he received £1000 from the _Sunday
Times_ for "Old St. Paul's," and he, in 1848, had from the same source
another £1000 for the "Lancashire Witches." In 1841 he began the
publication of _Ainsworth's Magazine_, which came to an end in 1853,
when he acquired the _New Monthly Magazine_, which he edited for many
years. This was the heyday of Ainsworth's reputation alike in
literature and in society. His home at Kensal Manor House became famous
for its hospitality, and Dickens, Thackeray, Landseer, Clarkson
Stanfield, Talfourd, Jerrold, and Cruikshank were among his guests. The
list of his principal historical novels, with their dates of issue, may
now be given: "Rookwood," 1834; "Crichton," 1837; "Jack Sheppard," 1839;
"Tower of London," 1840; "Guy Fawkes," 1841; "Old St. Paul's, a Tale of
the Plague and the Fire of London," 1841; "Windsor Castle," 1843; "St.
James, or the Court of Queene Anne," 1844; "Star Chamber," 1854;
"Constable of the Tower," 1861; "The Lord Mayor of London," 1862;
"Cardinal Pole," 1863; "John Law, the Projector," 1864; "The Constable
de Bourbon," 1866; "Talbot Harland," 1870; "Boscobel," 1872; "The
Manchester Rebels, or the Fatal '45," 1873; and "The Goldsmith's Wife,"
1874. These novels all met with a certain amount of success, but those
of later years did not attain the striking popularity of his earlier
efforts. Many have been translated into various modern languages, and
the editions of his various works are so numerous that some twenty-three
pages of the British Museum catalogue are devoted to his works. The
scenery and history of his native country had a perennial interest for
him, and a certain group of his novels--that is, the "Lancashire
Witches," "Guy Fawkes," "The Manchester Rebels," etc.--may almost be
said to form a novelist's history of Lancashire from the pilgrimage of
grace until the early part of the present century.
Probably no more vivid account has been written of the great fire and
plague of London than that given in "Old St. Paul's." The charm of
Ainsworth's novels is not at all dependent upon the analysis of motives
or subtle description of character. Of this he has little or nothing,
but he realizes vividly a scene or an incident, and conveys the
impression with great force and directness to the reader's mind.
Ainsworth came upon the reading world at a happy moment. People were
weary of the inanities of the fashionable novel, and were ready to
listen to one who had a power of vivacious narrative. In 1881, when he
was in his seventy-seventh year, a pleasant tribute of respect and
admiration was paid to him in his native town. The Mayor of Manchester
entertained him at a banquet in the town hall September 15, 1881, "as an
expression of the high esteem in which he is held by his fellow-townsmen
and of his services to literature." In proposing Mr. Ainsworth's health,
the mayor gave a curious instance of the popularity of his writings. "In
our Manchester public free libraries there are two hundred and fifty
volumes of Mr. Ainsworth's different works. During the last twelve
months these volumes have been read seven thousand six hundred and sixty
times, mostly by the artisan class of readers. And this means that
twenty volumes of his works are being perused in Manchester by readers
of the free libraries every day all the year through." It was well that
this pleasant recognition was not longer delayed. The contrast was
pathetically great between the tall, handsome, dandified figure
presented in the portraits of him by Pickersgill and Maclise, and the
bent and feeble old man who stood by and acknowledged the plaudits of
those who had assembled to honor him. His last published work was
"Stanley Brereton," which he dedicated to his hospitable entertainer.
He died at Reigate January 3, 1882, leaving a widow and also three
daughters by his first marriage. He was buried at Kensal Green Cemetery.
With the exception of George Gleig, he was the last survivor of the
brilliant group who wrote for the early numbers of _Fraser's Magazine_,
and, though he died in harness, had outlived nearly all the associates
of the days when he first achieved fame.
_TO MY MOTHER_
When I inscribed this Romance to you, my dear Mother, on its first
appearance, I was satisfied that, whatever reception it might meet with
elsewhere, at your hands it would be sure of indulgence. Since then, the
approbation your partiality would scarcely have withheld has been
liberally accorded by the public; and I have the satisfaction of
reflecting, that in following the dictates of affection, which prompted
me to select the dearest friend I had in the world as the subject of a
dedication, I have not overstepped the limits of prudence; nor, in
connecting your honored name with this trifling production, involved you
in a failure which, had it occurred, would have given you infinitely
more concern than myself. After a lapse of three years, during which my
little bark, fanned by pleasant and prosperous breezes, has sailed, more
than once, securely into port, I again commit it to the waters, with
more confidence than heretofore, and with a firmer reliance that, if it
should be found "after many days," it may prove a slight memorial of the
warmest filial regard.
Exposed to trials of no ordinary difficulty, and visited by domestic
affliction of no common severity, you, my dear Mother, have borne up
against the ills of life with a fortitude and resignation which those
who know you best can best appreciate, but which none can so well
understand, or so thoroughly appreciate, as myself. Suffering is the lot
of all. Submission under the dispensation is permitted to few. And it is
my fervent hope that my own children may emulate your virtues, if they
are happily spared your sorrows.
_PREFACE_
During a visit to Chesterfield, in the autumn of the year 1831, I first
conceived the notion of writing this story. Wishing to describe,
somewhat minutely, the trim gardens, the picturesque domains, the
rook-haunted groves, the gloomy chambers, and gloomier galleries, of an
ancient Hall with which I was acquainted, I resolved to attempt a story
in the bygone style of Mrs. Radcliffe,--which had always inexpressible
charms for me,--substituting an old English squire, an old English
manorial residence, and an old English highwayman, for the Italian
marchese, the castle, and the brigand of the great mistress of Romance.
While revolving this subject, I happened, one evening, to enter the
spacious cemetery attached to the church with the queer, twisted
steeple, which, like the uplifted tail of the renowned Dragon of
Wantley, to whom "houses and churches were as capons and turkeys," seems
to menace the good town of Chesterfield with destruction. Here an
incident occurred, on the opening of a vault, which it is needless to
relate, but which supplied me with a hint for the commencement of my
romance, as well as for the ballad entitled "The Coffin." Upon this hint
I immediately acted; and the earlier chapters of the book, together with
the description of the ancestral mansion of the Rookwoods, were
completed before I quitted Chesterfield.
Another and much larger portion of the work was written during a
residence at Rottingdean, in Sussex, in the latter part of 1833, and
owes its inspiration to many delightful walks over the South Downs.
Romance-writing was pleasant occupation then.
The Ride to York was completed in one day and one night. This feat--for
a feat it was, being the composition of a hundred ordinary novel pages
in less than twenty-four hours--was achieved at "The Elms," a house I
then occupied at Kilburn. Well do I remember the fever into which I was
thrown during the time of composition. My pen literally scoured over the
pages. So thoroughly did I identify myself with the flying highwayman,
that, once started, I found it impossible to halt. Animated by kindred
enthusiasm, I cleared every obstacle in my path with as much facility as
Turpin disposed of the impediments that beset his flight. In his
company, I mounted the hill-side, dashed through the bustling village,
swept over the desolate heath, threaded the silent street, plunged into
the eddying stream, and kept an onward course, without pause, without
hindrance, without fatigue. With him I shouted, sang, laughed, exulted,
wept. Nor did I retire to rest till, in imagination, I heard the bell of
York Minster toll forth the knell of poor Black Bess.
The supernatural occurrence, forming the groundwork of one of the
ballads which I have made the harbinger of doom to the house of
Rookwood, is ascribed, by popular superstition, to a family resident in
Sussex; upon whose estate the fatal tree--a gigantic lime, with mighty
arms and huge girth of trunk, as described in the song--is still
carefully preserved. Cuckfield Place, to which this singular piece of
timber is attached, is, I may state, for the benefit of the curious, the
real Rookwood Hall; for I have not drawn upon imagination, but upon
memory, in describing the seat and domains of that fated family. The
general features of the venerable structure, several of its chambers,
the old garden, and, in particular, the noble park, with its spreading
prospects, its picturesque views of the Hall, "like bits of Mrs.
Radcliffe,"--as the poet Shelley once observed of the same scene,--its
deep glades, through which the deer come lightly tripping down, its
uplands, slopes, brooks, brakes, coverts, and groves, are carefully
delineated.
The superstition of a fallen branch affording a presage of approaching
death is not peculiar to the family I have mentioned. Many other old
houses have been equally favored: in fact, there is scarcely an ancient
family in the kingdom without a boding sign. For instance, the Breretons
of Brereton, in Cheshire, were warned by the appearance of stocks of
trees floating, like the swollen bodies of long-drowned men, upon the
surface of a sombre lake--called Blackmere, from the inky color of its
waters--adjoining their residence; and numerous other examples might be
given. The death-presage of the Breretons is alluded to by Drayton in
the "_Polyolbion_."
It has been well observed by Barry Cornwall, "that the songs which occur
in dramas are more natural than those which proceed from the author in
person." With equal force does the reasoning apply to the romance, which
may be termed the drama of the closet. It would seem strange, on a first
view, that an author should be more at home in an assumed character than
his own. But experience shows the position to be correct. Conscious he
is no longer individually associated with his work, the writer proceeds
with all the freedom of irresponsibility. His idiosyncrasy is merged in
that of the personages he represents. He thinks with their thoughts,
sees with their eyes, speaks with their tongues. His strains are such as
he himself--_per se_--would not, perhaps could not, have originated. In
this light he may be said to bring to his subject not one mind, but
several; he becomes not one poet, but many; for each actor in his drama
has a share, and an important share, in the lyrical _estro_ to which he
gives birth. This it is which has imparted any verve, variety, or
dramatic character they possess, to the ballads contained in this
production. Turpin I look upon as the real songster of "Black Bess;" to
Jerry Juniper I am unquestionably indebted for a flash melody which,
without his hint, would never have been written, while to the sexton I
owe the solitary gleam of light I have been enabled to throw upon the
horrors and mystery of the churchyard.
As I have casually alluded to the flash song of Jerry Juniper, I may,
perhaps, be allowed to make a few observations upon this branch of
versification. It is somewhat curious, with a dialect so racy,
idiomatic, and plastic as our own cant, that its metrical capabilities
should have been so little essayed. The French have numerous _chansons
d'argot_, ranging from the time of Charles Bourdigné and Villon down to
that of Vidocq and Victor Hugo, the last of whom has enlivened the
horrors of his "_Dernier Jour d'un Condamné_" by a festive song of this
class. The Spaniards possess a large collection of _Romances de
Germania_, by various authors, amongst whom Quevedo holds a
distinguished place. We, on the contrary, have scarcely any slang songs
of merit. With a race of depredators so melodious and convivial as our
highwaymen, this is the more to be wondered at. Had they no bards
amongst their bands? Was there no minstrel at hand to record their
exploits? I can only call to mind one robber who was a poet,--Delany,
and _he_ was an Irishman. This barrenness, I have shown, is not
attributable to the poverty of the soil, but to the want of due
cultivation. Materials are at hand in abundance, but there have been few
operators. Dekker, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Ben Jonson have all dealt
largely in this jargon, but not lyrically; and one of the earliest and
best specimens of a canting-song occurs in Brome's "_Jovial Crew_;" and
in the "_Adventures of Bamfylde Moore Carew_" there is a solitary ode,
addressed by the mendicant fraternity to their newly-elected monarch;
but it has little humor, and can scarcely be called a genuine
canting-song. This ode brings us down to our own time; to the effusions
of the illustrious Pierce Egan; to Tom Moore's Flights of "_Fancy_;" to
John Jackson's famous chant, "_On the High Toby Spice Flash the
Muzzle_," cited by Lord Byron in a note to "_Don Juan_;" and to the
glorious Irish ballad, worth them all put together, entitled "_The Night
Before Larry Was Stretched_." This facetious performance is attributed
to the late Dean Burrowes, of Cork. It is worthy of note that almost all
modern aspirants to the graces of the _Musa Pedestris_ are Irishmen. Of
all rhymesters of the "_Road_," however, Dean Burrowes is, as yet, most
fully entitled to the laurel. Larry is quite "the potato!"
And here, as the candidates are so few, and their pretensions so humble,
I can't help putting in my claim for praise.
I venture to affirm that I have done something more than has been
accomplished by my predecessors, or contemporaries, with the significant
language under consideration. I have written a purely flash song, of
which the great and peculiar merit consists in its being utterly
incomprehensible to the uninformed understanding, while its meaning must
be perfectly clear and perspicuous to the practised _patterer_ of
_Romany_, or _Pedlar's French_. I have, moreover, been the first to
introduce and naturalize amongst us a measure which, though common
enough in the Argotic minstrelsy of France, has been hitherto utterly
unknown to our _pedestrian_ poetry. Some years afterwards, the song
alluded to, better known under the title of "_Nix My Dolly, Pals,--Fake
Away!_" sprang into extraordinary popularity, being set to music by
Rodwell, and chanted by glorious Paul Bedford and clever little Mrs.
Keeley.
Before quitting the subject of these songs, I may mention that they
probably would not have been written at all if one of the earliest of
them--a chance experiment--had not excited the warm approbation of my
friend, Charles Ollier, author of the striking romance of "Ferrers."
This induced me to prosecute the vein accidentally opened.
Turpin was the hero of my boyhood. I had always a strange passion for
highwaymen, and have listened by the hour to their exploits, as narrated
by my father, and especially to those of "Dauntless Dick," that "chief
minion of the moon." One of Turpin's adventures in particular, the ride
to Hough Green, which took deep hold of my fancy, I have recorded in
song. When a boy, I have often lingered by the side of the deep old road
where this robbery was committed, to cast wistful glances into its
mysterious windings; and when night deepened the shadows of the trees,
have urged my horse on his journey, from a vague apprehension of a visit
from the ghostly highwayman. And then there was the Bollin, with its
shelvy banks, which Turpin cleared at a bound; the broad meadows over
which he winged his flight; the pleasant bowling-green of the pleasant
old inn at Hough, where he produced his watch to the Cheshire squires,
with whom he was upon terms of intimacy; all brought something of the
gallant robber to mind. No wonder, in after-years, in selecting a
highwayman for a character in a tale, I should choose my old favorite,
Dick Turpin.
In reference to two of the characters here introduced, and drawn from
personages living at the time the tale was written, it may be mentioned
that poor Jerry Juniper met his death from an accident at Chichester,
while he was proceeding to Goodwood races; and that the knight of
Malta,--Mr. Tom, a brewer of Truro, the self-styled Sir William
Courtenay, who played the strange tricks at Canterbury chronicled in a
song given in these pages,--after his release from Banning Heath Asylum,
was shot through the head while leading on a mob of riotous Kentish
yeomen, whom he had persuaded that he was the Messiah!
If the design of Romance be, what it has been held, the exposition of a
useful truth by means of an interesting story, I fear I have but
imperfectly fulfilled the office imposed upon me; having, as I will
freely confess, had, throughout, an eye rather to the reader's
amusement than his edification. One wholesome moral, however, may, I
trust, be gathered from the perusal of this Tale; namely, that, without
due governance of the passions, high aspirations and generous emotions
will little avail their possessor. The impersonations of the Tempter,
the Tempted, and the Better Influence may be respectively discovered, by
those who care to cull the honey from the flower, in the Sexton, in
Luke, and in Sybil.
The chief object I had in view in making the present essay was to see
how far the infusion of a warmer and more genial current into the veins
of old Romance would succeed in reviving her fluttering and feeble
pulses. The attempt has succeeded beyond my most sanguine expectation.
Romance, if I am not mistaken, is destined shortly to undergo an
important change. Modified by the German and French writers--by Hoffman,
Tieck, Hugo, Dumas, Balzac, and Paul Lecroix (_le Bibliophile
Jacob_)--the structure commenced in our own land by Horace Walpole, Monk
Lewis, Mrs. Radcliffe, and Maturin, but left imperfect and inharmonious,
requires, now that the rubbish which choked up its approach is removed,
only the hand of the skilful architect to its entire renovation and
perfection.
And now, having said my say, I must bid you, worthy reader, farewell.
Beseeching you, in the words of old Rabelais, "to interpret all my
sayings and doings in the perfectest sense. Reverence the cheese-like
brain that feeds you with all these jolly maggots; and do what lies in
you to keep me always merry. Be frolic now, my lads! Cheer up your
hearts, and joyfully read the rest, with all ease of your body, and
comfort of your reins."
KENSAL MANOR-HOUSE,
_December 15, 1849_.
ROOKWOOD
_BOOK I_
_THE WEDDING RING_
It has been observed, and I am apt to believe it is an observation
which will generally be found true, that before a terrible truth
comes to light, there are certain murmuring whispers fly before it,
and prepare the minds of men for the reception of the truth itself.
_Gallick Reports:
Case of the Count Saint Geran._
_CHAPTER I_
_THE VAULT_
Let me know, therefore, fully the intent
Of this thy dismal preparation--
This talk fit for a charnel.
WEBSTER.
Within a sepulchral vault, and at midnight, two persons were seated. The
chamber was of singular construction and considerable extent. The roof
was of solid stone masonry, and rose in a wide semicircular arch to the
height of about seventeen feet, measured from the centre of the ceiling
to the ground floor, while the sides were divided by slight
partition-walls into ranges of low, narrow catacombs. The entrance to
each cavity was surrounded by an obtusely-pointed arch, resting upon
slender granite pillars; and the intervening space was filled up with a
variety of tablets, escutcheons, shields, and inscriptions, recording
the titles and heraldic honors of the departed. There were no doors to
the niches; and within might be seen piles of coffins, packed one upon
another, till the floor groaned with the weight of lead. Against one of
the pillars, upon a hook, hung a rack of tattered, time-out-of-mind
hatchments; and in the centre of the tomb might be seen the effigies of
Sir Ranulph de Rokewode, the builder of the mausoleum, and the founder
of the race who slept within its walls. This statue, wrought in black
marble, differed from most monumental carved-work, in that its posture
was erect and lifelike. Sir Ranulph was represented as sheathed in a
complete suit of mail, decorated with his emblazoned and gilded surcoat,
his arm leaning upon the pommel of a weighty curtal-axe. The attitude
was that of stern repose. A conically-formed helmet rested upon the
brow; the beaver was raised, and revealed harsh but commanding features.
The golden spur of knighthood was fixed upon the heel; and, at the feet,
enshrined in a costly sarcophagus of marble, dug from the same quarry as
the statue, rested the mortal remains of one of "the sternest knights to
his mortal foe that ever put speare in the rest."
Streaming in a wavering line upon the roof, the sickly flame of a candle
partially fell upon the human figures before alluded to, throwing them
into darkest relief, and casting their opaque and fantastical shadows
along the ground. An old coffin upon a bier, we have said, served the
mysterious twain for a seat. Between them stood a bottle and a glass,
evidences that whatever might be the ulterior object of their stealthy
communion, the immediate comfort of the creature had not been altogether
overlooked. At the feet of one of the personages were laid a mattock, a
horn lantern--from which the candle had been removed--, a crowbar, and a
bunch of keys. Near to these implements of a vocation which the reader
will readily surmise, rested a strange superannuated terrier with a wiry
back and frosted muzzle; a head minus an ear, and a leg wanting a paw.
His master, for such we shall suppose him, was an old man with a lofty
forehead, covered with a singularly shaped nightcap, and clothed, as to
his lower limbs, with tight, ribbed, gray worsted hose, ascending
externally, after a bygone fashion, considerably above the knee. The old
man's elbow rested upon the handle of his spade, his wrist supported his
chin, and his gray glassy eyes, glimmering like marsh-meteors in the
candle-light, were fixed upon his companion with a glance of searching
scrutiny.
The object of his investigation, a much more youthful and interesting
person, seemed lost in reverie, and alike insensible to time, place, and
the object of the meeting. With both hands grasped round the barrel of a
fowling-piece, and his face leaning upon the same support, the features
were entirely concealed from view; the light, too, being at the back,
and shedding its rays over, rather than upon his person, aided his
disguise. Yet, even thus imperfectly defined, the outline of the head,
and the proportions of the figure, were eminently striking and
symmetrical. Attired in a rough forester's costume, of the mode of 1737,
and of the roughest texture and rudest make, his wild garb would have
determined his rank as sufficiently humble in the scale of society, had
not a certain loftiness of manner, and bold, though reckless deportment,
argued pretensions on the part of the wearer to a more elevated station
in life, and contradicted, in a great measure, the impression produced
by the homely appearance of his habiliments. A cap of shaggy brown fur,
fancifully, but not ungracefully fashioned, covered his head, from
beneath which, dropping, in natural clusters over his neck and
shoulders, a cloud of raven hair escaped. Subsequently, when his face
was more fully revealed, it proved to be that of a young man, of dark
aspect, and grave, melancholy expression of countenance, approaching
even to the stern, when at rest; though sufficiently animated and
earnest when engaged in conversation, or otherwise excited. His features
were regular, delicately formed, and might be characterized as
singularly handsome, were it not for a want of roundness in the contour
of the face which gave the lineaments a thin, worn look, totally
distinct, however, from haggardness or emaciation. The nose was delicate
and fine; the nostril especially so; the upper lip was short, curling,
graceful, and haughtily expressive. As to complexion, his skin had a
truly Spanish warmth and intensity of coloring. His figure, when raised,
was tall and masculine, and though slight, exhibited great personal
vigor.
We will now turn to his companion, the old man with the great gray
glittering eyes. Peter Bradley, of Rookwood--comitatû Ebor--, where he
had exercised the vocation of sexton for the best part of a life already
drawn out to the full span ordinarily allotted to mortality, was an odd
caricature of humanity. His figure was lean, and almost as lank as a
skeleton. His bald head reminded one of a bleached skull, allowing for
the overhanging and hoary brows. Deep-seated, and sunken within their
sockets, his gray orbs gleamed with intolerable lustre. Few could endure
his gaze; and, aware of his power, Peter seldom failed to exercise it.
He had likewise another habit, which, as it savored of insanity, made
him an object of commiseration with some, while it rendered him yet more
obnoxious to others. The habit we allude to, was the indulgence of wild
screaming laughter at times when all merriment should be checked; and
when the exhibition of levity must proceed from utter disregard of human
grief and suffering, or from mental alienation.
Wearied with the prolonged silence, Peter at length condescended to
speak. His voice was harsh and grating as a rusty hinge.
"Another glass?" said he, pouring out a modicum of the pale fluid.
His companion shook his head.
"It will keep out the cold," continued the sexton, pressing the liquid
upon him: "and you, who are not so much accustomed as I am to the damps
of a vault, may suffer from them. Besides," added he, sneeringly, "it
will give you courage."
His companion answered not. But the flash of his eye resented the
implied reproach.
"Nay, never stare at me so hard, Luke," continued the sexton; "I doubt
neither your courage nor your firmness. But if you won't drink, I will.
Here's to the rest eternal of Sir Piers Rookwood! You'll say amen to
that pledge, or you are neither grandson of mine, nor offspring of his
loins."
"Why should I reverence his memory," answered Luke, bitterly, refusing
the proffered potion, "who showed no fatherly love for me? He disowned
_me_ in life: in death I disown _him_. Sir Piers Rookwood was no father
of mine."
"He was as certainly your father, as Susan Bradley, your mother, was my
daughter," rejoined the sexton.
"And, surely," cried Luke, impetuously, "_you_ need not boast of the
connection! 'Tis not for you, old man, to couple their names
together--to exult in your daughter's disgrace and your own dishonor.
Shame! shame! Speak not of them in the same breath, if you would not
have me invoke curses on the dead! _I_ have no reverence--whatever _you_
may have--for the seducer--for the murderer of my mother."
"You have choice store of epithets, in sooth, good grandson," rejoined
Peter, with a chuckling laugh. "Sir Piers a murderer!"
"Tush!" exclaimed Luke, indignantly, "affect not ignorance. You have
better knowledge than I have of the truth or falsehood of the dark tale
that has gone abroad respecting my mother's fate; and unless report has
belied you foully, had substantial reasons for keeping sealed lips on
the occasion. But to change this painful subject," added he, with a
sudden alteration of manner, "at what hour did Sir Piers Rookwood die?"
"On Thursday last, in the night-time. The exact hour I know not,"
replied the sexton.
"Of what ailment?"
"Neither do I know that. His end was sudden, yet not without a warning
sign."
"What warning?" inquired Luke.
"Neither more nor less than the death-omen of the house. You look
astonished. Is it possible you have never heard of the ominous
Lime-Tree, and the Fatal Bough? Why, 'tis a common tale hereabouts, and
has been for centuries. Any old crone would tell it you. Peradventure,
you _have_ seen the old avenue of lime-trees leading to the hall, nearly
a quarter of a mile in length, and as noble a row of timber as any in
the West Riding of Yorkshire. Well, there is one tree--the last on the
left hand before you come to the clock-house--larger than all the
rest--a huge piece of timber, with broad spreading branches, and of I
know not what girth in the trunk. That tree is, in some mysterious
manner, connected with the family of Rookwood, and immediately previous
to the death of one of that line, a branch is sure to be shed from the
parent stem, prognosticating his doom. But you shall hear the legend."
And in a strange sepulchral tone, not inappropriate, however, to his
subject, Peter chanted the following ballad:
THE LEGEND OF THE LIME-TREE
Amid the grove o'er-arched above with lime-trees old and tall
--The avenue that leads unto the Rookwood's ancient hall--,
High o'er the rest its towering crest one tree rears to the sky,
And wide out-flings, like mighty wings, its arms umbrageously.
Seven yards its base would scarce embrace--a goodly tree I ween,
With silver bark, and foliage dark, of melancholy green;
And mid its boughs two ravens house, and build from year to year,
Their black brood hatch--their black brood watch--then screaming
disappear.
In that old tree when playfully the summer breezes sigh,
Its leaves are stirred, and there is heard a low and plaintive cry;
And when in shrieks the storm blast speaks its reverend boughs among,
Sad wailing moans, like human groans, the concert harsh prolong.
But whether gale or calm prevail, or threatening cloud hath fled,
By hand of Fate, predestinate, a limb that tree will shed;
A verdant bough--untouched, I trow, by axe or tempest's breath--
To Rookwood's head an omen dread of fast-approaching death.
Some think that tree instinct must be with preternatural power.
Like 'larum bell Death's note to knell at Fate's appointed hour;
While some avow that on its bough are fearful traces seen,
Red as the stains from human veins, commingling with the green.
Others, again, there are maintain that on the shattered bark
A print is made, where fiends have laid their scathing talons dark;
That, ere it falls, the raven calls thrice from that wizard bough;
And that each cry doth signify what space the Fates allow.
In olden days, the legend says, as grim Sir Ranulph view'd
A wretched hag her footsteps drag beneath his lordly wood.
His bloodhounds twain he called amain, and straightway gave her chase;
Was never seen in forest green, so fierce, so fleet a race!
With eyes of flame to Ranulph came each red and ruthless hound,
While mangled, torn--a sight forlorn!--the hag lay on the ground;
E'en where she lay was turned the clay, and limb and reeking bone
Within the earth, with ribald mirth, by Ranulph grim were thrown.
And while as yet the soil was wet with that poor witch's gore,
A lime-tree stake did Ranulph take, and pierced her bosom's core;
And, strange to tell, what next befell!--that branch at once took root,
And richly fed, within its bed, strong suckers forth did shoot.
From year to year fresh boughs appear--it waxes huge in size;
And, with wild glee, this prodigy Sir Ranulph grim espies.
One day, when he, beneath that tree, reclined in joy and pride,
A branch was found upon the ground--the next, Sir Ranulph died!
And from that hour a fatal power has ruled that Wizard Tree,
To Ranulph's line a warning sign of doom and destiny:
For when a bough is found, I trow, beneath its shade to lie,
Ere suns shall rise thrice in the skies a Rookwood sure shall die!
"And such an omen preceded Sir Piers's demise?" said Luke, who had
listened with some attention to his grandsire's song.
"Unquestionably," replied the sexton. "Not longer ago than Tuesday
morning, I happened to be sauntering down the avenue I have just
described. I know not what took me thither at that early hour, but I
wandered leisurely on till I came nigh the Wizard Lime-Tree. Great
Heaven! what a surprise awaited me! a huge branch lay right across the
path. It had evidently just fallen, for the leaves were green and
unwithered; the sap still oozed from the splintered wood; and there was
neither trace of knife nor hatchet on the bark. I looked up among the
boughs to mark the spot from whence it had been torn by the hand of
Fate--for no human hand had done it--and saw the pair of ancestral
ravens perched amid the foliage, and croaking as those carrion fowl are
wont to do when they scent a carcass afar off. Just then a livelier
sound saluted my ears. The cheering cry of a pack of hounds resounded
from the courts, and the great gates being thrown open, out issued Sir
Piers, attended by a troop of his roystering companions, all on
horseback, and all making the welkin ring with their vociferations. Sir
Piers laughed as loudly as the rest, but his mirth was speedily checked.
No sooner had his horse--old Rook, his favorite steed, who never swerved
at stake or pale before--set eyes upon the accursed branch, than he
started as if the fiend stood before him, and, rearing backwards, flung
his rider from the saddle. At this moment, with loud screams, the wizard
ravens took flight. Sir Piers was somewhat hurt by the fall, but he was
more frightened than hurt; and though he tried to put a bold face on the
matter, it was plain that his efforts to recover himself were fruitless.
Dr. Titus Tyrconnel and that wild fellow Jack Palmer--who has lately
come to the hall, and of whom you know something--tried to rally him.
But it would not do. He broke up the day's sport, and returned
dejectedly to the hall. Before departing, however, he addressed a word
to me in private, respecting you; and pointed, with a melancholy shake
of the head, to the fatal branch. '_It is my death-warrant_,' said he,
gloomily. And so it proved; two days afterwards his doom was
accomplished."
"And do you place faith in this idle legend?" asked Luke, with affected
indifference, although it was evident, from his manner, that he himself
was not so entirely free from a superstitious feeling of credulity as he
would have it appear.
"Certes," replied the sexton. "I were more difficult to be convinced
than the unbelieving disciple else. Thrice hath it occurred to my own
knowledge, and ever with the same result: first, with Sir Reginald;
secondly, with thy own mother; and lastly, as I have just told thee,
with Sir Piers."
"I thought you said, even now, that this death omen, if such it be, was
always confined to the immediate family of Rookwood, and not to mere
inmates of the mansion."
"To the heads only of that house, be they male or female."
"Then how could it apply to my mother? Was _she_ of that house? Was
_she_ a wife?"
"Who shall say she was _not_?" rejoined the sexton.
"Who shall say she _was_ so?" cried Luke, repeating the words with
indignant emphasis--"who will avouch _that_?"
A smile, cold as a wintry sunbeam, played upon the sexton's rigid lips.
"I will bear this no longer," cried Luke; "anger me not, or look to
yourself. In a word, have you anything to tell me respecting her? if
not, let me begone."
"I have. But I will not be hurried by a boy like you," replied Peter,
doggedly. "Go, if you will, and take the consequences. My lips are
sealed forever, and I have much to say--much that it behoves you to
know."
"Be brief, then. When you sought me out this morning, in my retreat with
the gipsy gang at Davenham Wood, you bade me meet you in the porch of
Rookwood Church at midnight. I was true to my appointment."
"And I will keep my promise," replied the sexton. "Draw closer, that I
may whisper in thine ear. Of every Rookwood who lies around us--and all
that ever bore the name, except Sir Piers himself--who lies in state at
the hall--, are here--not one--mark what I say--not one male branch of
the house but has been suspected----"
"Of what?"
"Of murder!" returned the sexton, in a hissing whisper.
"Murder!" echoed Luke, recoiling.
"There is one dark stain--one foul blot on all. Blood--blood hath been
spilt."
"By all?"
"Ay, and _such_ blood! theirs was no common crime. Even murder hath its
degrees. Theirs was of the first class."
"Their wives!--you cannot mean that?"
"Ay, their wives!--I do. You have heard it, then? Ha! ha! 'tis a trick
they had. Did you ever hear the old saying?
_No mate ever brook would
A Rook of the Rookwood!_
A merry saying it is, and true. No woman ever stood in a Rookwood's way
but she was speedily removed--that's certain. They had all, save poor
Sir Piers, the knack of stopping a troublesome woman's tongue, and
practised it to perfection. A rare art, eh?"
"What have the misdeeds of his ancestry to do with Sir Piers," muttered
Luke, "much less with my mother?"
"Everything. If he could not rid himself of his wife--and she is a match
for the devil himself--, the _mistress_ might be more readily set
aside."
"Have you absolute knowledge of aught?" asked Luke, his voice tremulous
with emotion.
"Nay, I but hinted."
"Such hints are worse than open speech. Let me know the worst. Did he
kill her?" And Luke glared at the sexton as if he would have penetrated
his secret soul.
But Peter was not easily fathomed. His cold, bright eye returned Luke's
gaze steadfastly, as he answered, composedly:
"I have said all I know."
"But not all you _think_."
"Thoughts should not always find utterance, else we might often endanger
our own safety, and that of others."
"An idle subterfuge--and, from you, worse than idle. I will have an
answer, yea or nay. Was it poison--was it steel?"
"Enough--she died."
"No, it is not enough. When? Where?"
"In her sleep--in her bed."
"Why, that was natural."
A wrinkling smile crossed the sexton's brow.
"What means that horrible gleam of laughter?" exclaimed Luke, grasping
the shoulder of the man of graves with such force as nearly to
annihilate him. "Speak, or I will strangle you. She died, you say, in
her sleep?"
"She did so," replied the sexton, shaking off Luke's hold.
"And was it to tell me that I had a mother's murder to avenge, that you
brought me to the tomb of her destroyer--when he is beyond the reach of
my vengeance?"
Luke exhibited so much frantic violence of manner and gesture, that the
sexton entertained some little apprehension that his intellects were
unsettled by the shock of the intelligence. It was, therefore, in what
he intended for a soothing tone that he attempted to solicit his
grandson's attention.
"I will hear nothing more," interrupted Luke, and the vaulted chamber
rang with his passionate lamentations. "Am I the sport of this mocking
fiend?" cried he, "to whom my agony is derision--my despair a source of
enjoyment--beneath whose withering glance my spirit shrinks--who, with
half-expressed insinuations, tortures my soul, awakening fancies that
goad me on to dark and desperate deeds? Dead mother! upon thee I call.
If in thy grave thou canst hear the cry of thy most wretched son,
yearning to avenge thee--answer me, if thou hast the power. Let me have
some token of the truth or falsity of these wild suppositions, that I
may wrestle against this demon. But no," added he, in accents of
despair, "no ear listens to me, save his to whom my wretchedness is food
for mockery."
"Could the dead hear thee, thy mother might do so," returned the sexton.
"She lies within this space."
Luke staggered back, as if struck by a sudden shot. He spoke not, but
fell with a violent shock against a pile of coffins, at which he caught
for support.
"What have I done?" he exclaimed, recoiling.
A thundering crash resounded through the vault. One of the coffins,
dislodged from its position by his fall, tumbled to the ground, and,
alighting upon its side, split asunder.
"Great Heavens! what is this?" cried Luke, as a dead body, clothed in
all the hideous apparel of the tomb, rolled forth to his feet.
"It is your mother's corpse," answered the sexton, coldly; "I brought
you hither to behold it. But you have anticipated my intentions."
"_This_ my mother?" shrieked Luke, dropping upon his knees by the body,
and seizing one of its chilly hands, as it lay upon the floor, with the
face upwards.
The sexton took the candle from the sconce.
"Can this be death?" shouted Luke. "Impossible! Oh, God! she stirs--she
moves. The light!--quick. I see her stir! This is dreadful!"
"Do not deceive yourself," said the sexton, in a tone which betrayed
more emotion than was his wont. "'Tis the bewilderment of fancy. She
will never stir again."
And he shaded the candle with his hand, so as to throw the light full
upon the face of the corpse. It was motionless, as that of an image
carved in stone. No trace of corruption was visible upon the rigid, yet
exquisite tracery of its features. A profuse cloud of raven hair,
escaped from its swathements in the fall, hung like a dark veil over the
bosom and person of the dead, and presented a startling contrast to the
waxlike hue of the skin and the pallid cereclothes. Flesh still adhered
to the hand, though it mouldered into dust within the gripe of Luke, as
he pressed the fingers to his lips. The shroud was disposed like
night-gear about her person, and from without its folds a few withered
flowers had fallen. A strong aromatic odor, of a pungent nature, was
diffused around; giving evidence that the art by which the ancient
Egyptians endeavored to rescue their kindred from decomposition had been
resorted to, to preserve the fleeting charms of the unfortunate Susan
Bradley.
A pause of awful silence succeeded, broken only by the convulsive
respiration of Luke. The sexton stood by, apparently an indifferent
spectator of the scene of horror. His eye wandered from the dead to the
living, and gleamed with a peculiar and indefinable expression, half
apathy, half abstraction. For one single instant, as he scrutinized the
features of his daughter, his brow, contracted by anger, immediately
afterwards was elevated in scorn. But otherwise you would have sought in
vain to read the purport of that cold, insensible glance, which dwelt
for a brief space on the face of the mother, and settled eventually upon
her son. At length the withered flowers attracted his attention. He
stooped to pick up one of them.
"Faded as the hand that gathered ye--as the bosom on which ye were
strewn!" he murmured. "No sweet smell left--but--faugh!" Holding the dry
leaves to the flame of the candle, they were instantly ignited, and the
momentary brilliance played like a smile upon the features of the dead.
Peter observed the effect. "Such was thy life," he exclaimed; "a brief,
bright sparkle, followed by dark, utter extinction!"
Saying which, he flung the expiring ashes of the floweret from his hand.
_CHAPTER II_
_THE SKELETON HAND_
_Duch._ You are very cold.
I fear you are not well after your travel.
Ha! lights.----Oh horrible!
_Fer._ Let her have lights enough.
_Duch._ What witchcraft doth he practise, that he hath left
A dead hand here?
_Duchess of Malfy._
The sexton's waning candle now warned him of the progress of time, and
having completed his arrangements, he addressed himself to Luke,
intimating his intention of departing. But receiving no answer, and
remarking no signs of life about his grandson, he began to be
apprehensive that he had fallen into a swoon. Drawing near to Luke, he
took him gently by the arm. Thus disturbed, Luke groaned aloud.
"I am glad to find you can breathe, if it be only after that melancholy
fashion," said the sexton; "but come, I have wasted time enough already.
You must indulge your grief elsewhere."
"Leave me," sighed Luke.
"What, here? It were as much as my office is worth. You can return some
other night. But go you must, now--at least, if you take on thus. I
never calculated upon a scene like this, or it had been long ere I
brought you hither. So come away; yet, stay;--but first lend me a hand
to replace the body in the coffin."
"Touch it not," exclaimed Luke; "she shall not rest another hour within
these accursed walls. I will bear her hence myself." And, sobbing
hysterically, he relapsed into his former insensibility.
"Poh! this is worse than midsummer madness," said Peter; "the lad is
crazed with grief, and all about a mother who has been four-and-twenty
years in her grave. I will e'en put her out of the way myself."
Saying which, he proceeded, as noiselessly as possible, to raise the
corpse in his arms, and deposited it softly within its former tenement.
Carefully as he executed his task, he could not accomplish it without
occasioning a slight accident to the fragile frame. Insensible as he
was, Luke had not relinquished the hold he maintained of his mother's
hand. And when Peter lifted the body, the ligaments connecting the hand
with the arm were suddenly snapped asunder. It would appear afterwards,
that this joint had been tampered with, and partially dislocated.
Without, however, entering into further particulars in this place, it
may be sufficient to observe that the hand, detached from the socket at
the wrist, remained within the gripe of Luke; while, ignorant of the
mischief he had occasioned, the sexton continued his labors
unconsciously, until the noise which he of necessity made in stamping
with his heel upon the plank, recalled his grandson to sensibility. The
first thing that the latter perceived, upon collecting his faculties,
were the skeleton fingers twined within his own.
"What have you done with the body? Why have you left this with me?"
demanded he.
"It was not my intention to have done so," answered the sexton,
suspending his occupation. "I have just made fast the lid, but it is
easily undone. You had better restore it."
"Never," returned Luke, staring at the bony fragment.
"Pshaw! of what advantage is a dead hand? 'Tis an unlucky keepsake, and
will lead to mischief. The only use I ever heard of such a thing being
turned to, was in the case of Bow-legged Ben, who was hanged in irons
for murder, on Hardchase Heath, on the York Road, and whose hand was cut
off at the wrist the first night to make a Hand of Glory, or Dead Man's
Candle. Hast never heard what the old song says?" And without awaiting
his grandson's response, Peter broke into the following wild strain:
THE HAND OF GLORY[1]
From the corse that hangs on the roadside tree
--A murderer's corse it needs must be--,
Sever the right hand carefully:--
Sever the hand that the deed hath done,
Ere the flesh that clings to the bones be gone;
In its dry veins must blood be none.
Those ghastly fingers white and cold,
Within a winding-sheet enfold;
Count the mystic count of seven:
Name the Governors of Heaven.[2]
Then in earthen vessel place them,
And with dragon-wort encase them,
Bleach them in the noonday sun,
Till the marrow melt and run,
Till the flesh is pale and wan,
As a moon-ensilvered cloud,
As an unpolluted shroud.
Next within their chill embrace
The dead man's Awful Candle place;
Of murderer's fat must that candle be
--You may scoop it beneath the roadside tree--,
Of wax, and of Lapland sisame.
Its wick must be twisted of hair of the dead,
By the crow and her brood on the wild waste shed.
Wherever that terrible light shall burn
Vainly the sleeper may toss and turn;
His leaden lids shall he ne'er unclose
So long as that magical taper glows.
Life and treasures shall he command
Who knoweth the charm of the Glorious Hand!
But of black cat's gall let him aye have care,
And of screech-owl's venomous blood beware!
"Peace!" thundered Luke, extending his mother's hand towards the sexton.
"What seest thou?"
"I see something shine. Hold it nigher the light. Ha! that is strange,
truly. How came that ring there?"
"Ask of Sir Piers! ask of her _husband_!" shouted Luke, with a wild
burst of exulting laughter. "Ha! ha! ha! 'tis a wedding-ring! And look!
the finger is bent. It must have been placed upon it in her lifetime.
There is no deception in this--no trickery--ha!"
"It would seem not; the sinew must have been contracted in life. The
tendons are pulled down so tightly, that the ring could not be withdrawn
without breaking the finger."
"You are sure that coffin contains her body?"
"As sure as I am that this carcass is my own."
"The hand--'tis hers. Can any doubt exist?"
"Wherefore should it? It was broken from the arm by accident within this
moment. I noticed not the occurrence, but it must have been so."
"Then it follows that she was wedded, and I am not----"
"Illegitimate. For your own sake I am glad of it."
"My heart will burst. Oh! could I but establish the fact of this
marriage, her wrongs would be indeed avenged."
"Listen to me, Luke," said the sexton, solemnly. "I told you, when I
appointed this midnight interview, I had a secret to communicate. That
secret is now revealed--that secret was your mother's marriage."
"And it was known to you during her lifetime?"
"It was. But I was sworn to secrecy."
"You have proofs then?"
"I have nothing beyond Sir Piers's word--and he is silent now."
"By whom was the ceremony performed?"
"By a Romish priest--a Jesuit--one Father Checkley, at that time an
inmate of the hall; for Sir Piers, though he afterwards abjured it, at
that time professed the Catholic faith, and this Checkley officiated as
his confessor and counsellor; as the partner of his pleasures, and the
prompter of his iniquities. He was your father's evil genius."
"Is he still alive?"
"I know not. After your mother's death he left the hall. I have said he
was a Jesuit, and I may add, that he was mixed up in dark political
intrigues, in which your father was too feeble a character to take much
share. But though too weak to guide, he was a pliant instrument, and
this Checkley knew. He moulded him according to his wishes. I cannot
tell you what was the nature of their plots. Suffice it, they were such
as, if discovered, would have involved your father in ruin. He was
saved, however, by his wife."
"And her reward----" groaned Luke.
"Was death," replied Peter, coldly. "What Jesuit ever forgave a
wrong--real or imaginary? Your mother, I ought to have said, was a
Protestant. Hence there was a difference of religious opinion--the worst
of differences that can exist between husband and wife--. Checkley vowed
her destruction, and he kept his vow. He was enamored of her beauty.
But while he burnt with adulterous desire, he was consumed by fiercest
hate--contending, and yet strangely-reconcilable passions--as you may
have reason, hereafter, to discover."
"Go on," said Luke, grinding his teeth.
"I have done," returned Peter. "From that hour your father's love for
his supposed mistress, and unacknowledged wife, declined; and with his
waning love declined her health. I will not waste words in describing
the catastrophe that awaited her union. It will be enough to say, she
was found one morning a corpse within her bed. Whatever suspicions were
attached to Sir Piers were quieted by Checkley, who distributed gold,
largely and discreetly. The body was embalmed by Barbara Lovel, the
Gipsy Queen."
"My foster-mother!" exclaimed Luke, in a tone of extreme astonishment.
"Ah," replied Peter, "from her you may learn all particulars. You have
now seen what remains of your mother. You are in possession of the
secret of your birth. The path is before you, and if you would arrive at
honor you must pursue it steadily, turning neither to the right nor to
the left. Opposition you will meet at each step. But fresh lights may be
thrown upon this difficult case. It is in vain to hope for Checkley's
evidence, even should the caitiff priest be living. He is himself too
deeply implicated--ha!"
Peter stopped, for at this moment the flame of the candle suddenly
expired, and the speakers were left in total darkness. Something like a
groan followed the conclusion of the sexton's discourse. It was evident
that it proceeded not from his grandson, as an exclamation burst from
him at the same instant. Luke stretched out his arm. A cold hand seemed
to press against his own, communicating a chill like death to his frame.
"Who is between us?" he ejaculated.
"The devil!" cried the sexton, leaping from the coffin-lid with an
agility that did him honor. "Is aught between us?"
"I will discharge my gun. Its flash will light us."
"Do so," hastily rejoined Peter. "But not in this direction."
"Get behind me," cried Luke. And he pulled the trigger.
A blaze of vivid light illumined the darkness. Still nothing was
visible, save the warrior figure, which was seen for a moment, and then
vanished like a ghost. The buck-shot rattled against the further end of
the vault.
"Let us go hence," ejaculated the sexton, who had rushed to the door,
and thrown it wide open. "Mole! Mole!" cried he, and the dog sprang
after him.
"I could have sworn I felt something," said Luke; "whence issued that
groan?"
"Ask not whence," replied Peter. "Reach me my mattock, and spade, and
the lantern; they are behind you. And stay, it were better to bring away
the bottle."
"Take them, and leave me here."
"Alone in the vault?--no, no, Luke, I have not told you half I know
concerning that mystic statue. It is said to move--to walk--to raise its
axe--be warned, I pray."
"Leave me, or abide, if you will, my coming, in the church. If there is
aught that may be revealed to my ear alone, I will not shrink from it,
though the dead themselves should arise to proclaim the mystery. It may
be--but--go--there are your tools." And he shut the door, with a jar
that shook the sexton's frame.
Peter, after some muttered murmurings at the hardihood and madness, as
he termed it, of his grandson, disposed his lanky limbs to repose upon a
cushioned bench without the communion railing. As the pale moonlight
fell upon his gaunt and cadaverous visage, he looked like some unholy
thing suddenly annihilated by the presiding influence of that sacred
spot. Mole crouched himself in a ring at his master's feet. Peter had
not dozed many minutes, when he was aroused by Luke's return. The latter
was very pale, and the damp stood in big drops upon his brow.
"Have you made fast the door?" inquired the sexton.
"Here is the key."
"What have you seen?" he next demanded.
Luke made no answer. At that moment, the church clock struck two,
breaking the stillness with an iron clang. Luke raised his eyes. A ray
of moonlight, streaming obliquely through the painted window, fell upon
the gilt lettering of a black mural entablature. The lower part of the
inscription was in the shade, but the emblazonment, and the words--
Orate pro anima Reginaldi Rookwood equitis aurati,
were clear and distinct. Luke trembled, he knew not why, as the sexton
pointed to it.
"You have heard of the handwriting upon the wall," said Peter. "Look
there!--'His kingdom hath been taken from him.' Ha, ha! Listen to me. Of
all thy monster race--of all the race of Rookwood I should say--no demon
ever stalked the earth more terrible than him whose tablet you now
behold. By him a brother was betrayed; by him a brother's wife was
dishonored. Love, honor, friendship, were with him as words. He regarded
no ties; he defied and set at naught all human laws and obligations--and
yet he was religious, or esteemed so--received the _viaticum_, and died
full of years and honors, hugging salvation to his sinful heart. And
after death he has yon lying epitaph to record his virtues. _His_
virtues! ha, ha! Ask him who preaches to the kneeling throng gathering
within this holy place what shall be the murderer's portion--and he will
answer--_Death!_ And yet Sir Reginald was long-lived. The awful
question, 'Cain, where is thy brother?' broke not his tranquil slumbers.
Luke, I have told you much--but not all. You know not, as yet--nor shall
you know your destiny; but you shall be the avenger of infamy and
blood. I have a sacred charge committed to my keeping, which, hereafter,
I may delegate to you. You _shall_ be Sir Luke Rookwood, but the
conditions must be mine to propose."
"No more," said Luke; "my brain reels. I am faint. Let us quit this
place, and get into the fresh air." And striding past his grandsire he
traversed the aisles with hasty steps. Peter was not slow to follow. The
key was applied, and they emerged into the churchyard. The grassy mounds
were bathed in the moonbeams, and the two yew-trees, throwing their
black jagged shadows over the grave hills, looked like evil spirits
brooding over the repose of the righteous.
The sexton noticed the deathly paleness of Luke's countenance, but he
fancied it might proceed from the tinge of the sallow moonlight.
"I will be with you at your cottage ere daybreak," said Luke. And
turning an angle of the church, he disappeared from view.
"So," exclaimed Peter, gazing after him, "the train is laid; the spark
has been applied; the explosion will soon follow. The hour is fast
approaching when I shall behold this accursed house shaken to dust, and
when my long-delayed vengeance will be gratified. In that hope I am
content to drag on the brief remnant of my days. Meanwhile, I must not
omit the stimulant. In a short time I may not require it." Draining the
bottle to the last drop, he flung it from him, and commenced chanting,
in a high key and cracked voice, a wild ditty, the words of which ran as
follow:
THE CARRION CROW
The Carrion Crow is a sexton bold.
He raketh the dead from out the mould;
He delveth the ground like a miser old,
Stealthily hiding his store of gold.
_Caw! Caw!_
The Carrion Crow hath a coat of black,
Silky and sleek like a priest's to his back;
Like a lawyer he grubbeth--no matter what way--
The fouler the offal, the richer his prey.
_Caw! Caw! the Carrion Crow!_
_Dig! Dig! in the ground below!_
The Carrion Crow hath a dainty maw,
With savory pickings he crammeth his craw;
Kept meat from the gibbet it pleaseth his whim,
It can never _hang_ too long for him!
_Caw! Caw!_
The Carrion Crow smelleth powder, 'tis said,
Like a soldier escheweth the taste of cold lead;
No jester, or mime, hath more marvellous wit,
For, wherever he lighteth, he maketh a hit!
_Caw! Caw! the Carrion Crow!_
_Dig! Dig! in the ground below!_
Shouldering his spade, and whistling to his dog, the sexton quitted the
churchyard.
Peter had not been gone many seconds, when a dark figure, muffled in a
wide black mantle, emerged from among the tombs surrounding the church;
gazed after him for a few seconds, and then, with a menacing gesture,
retreated behind the ivied buttresses of the gray old pile.
_CHAPTER III_
_THE PARK_
_Brian._ Ralph! hearest thou any stirring?
_Ralph._ I heard one speak here, hard by, in the hollow. Peace!
master, speak low. Nouns! if I do not hear a bow go off, and the
buck bray, I never heard deer in my life.
_Bri._ Stand, or I'll shoot.
_Sir Arthur._ Who's there?
_Bri._ I am the keeper, and do charge you stand.
You have stolen my deer.
_Merry Devil of Edmonton._
Luke's first impulse had been to free himself from the restraint imposed
by his grandsire's society. He longed to commune with himself. Leaping
the small boundary-wall, which defended the churchyard from a deep green
lane, he hurried along in a direction contrary to that taken by the
sexton, making the best of his way until he arrived at a gap in the
high-banked hazel hedge which overhung the road. Heedless of the
impediments thrown in his way by the undergrowth of a rough ring fence,
he struck through the opening that presented itself, and, climbing over
the moss-grown paling, trod presently upon the elastic sward of Rookwood
Park.
A few minutes' rapid walking brought him to the summit of a rising
ground crowned with aged oaks and, as he passed beneath their broad
shadows, his troubled spirit, soothed by the quietude of the scene, in
part resumed its serenity.
Luke yielded to the gentle influence of the time and hour. The stillness
of the spot allayed the irritation of his frame, and the dewy chillness
cooled the fever of his brow. Leaning for support against the gnarled
trunk of one of the trees, he gave himself up to contemplation. The
events of the last hour--of his whole existence--passed in rapid review
before him. The thought of the wayward, vagabond life he had led; of the
wild adventures of his youth; of all he had been; of all he had _done_,
of all he had endured--crowded his mind; and then, like the passing of a
cloud flitting across the autumnal moon, and occasionally obscuring the
smiling landscape before him, his soul was shadowed by the remembrance
of the awful revelations of the last hour, and the fearful knowledge he
had acquired of his mother's fate--of his father's guilt.
The eminence on which he stood was one of the highest points of the
park, and commanded a view of the hall, which might be a quarter of a
mile distant, discernible through a broken vista of trees, its whitened
walls glimmering in the moonlight, and its tall chimney spiring far from
out the round masses of wood in which it lay embosomed. The ground
gradually sloped in that direction, occasionally rising into swells,
studded with magnificent timber--dipping into smooth dells, or
stretching out into level glades, until it suddenly sank into a deep
declivity, that formed an effectual division, without the intervention
of a haw-haw, or other barrier, between the chase and the home-park. A
slender stream strayed through this ravine, having found its way thither
from a small reservoir, hidden in the higher plantations to the left;
and further on, in the open ground, and in a line with the hall, though,
of course, much below the level of the building, assisted by many local
springs, and restrained by a variety of natural and artificial
embankments, this brook spread out into an expansive sheet of water.
Crossed by a rustic bridge, the only communication between the parks,
the pool found its outlet into the meads below; and even at that
distance, and in that still hour, you might almost catch the sound of
the brawling waters, as they dashed down the weir in a foaming cascade;
while, far away, in the spreading valley, the serpentine meanderings of
the slender current might be traced, glittering like silvery threads in
the moonshine. The mild beams of the queen of night, then in her
meridian, trembled upon the topmost branches of the tall timber,
quivering like diamond spray upon the outer foliage; and, penetrating
through the interstices of the trees, fell upon the light wreaths of
vapor then beginning to arise from the surface of the pool, steeping
them in misty splendor, and lending to this part of the picture a
character of dreamy and unearthly beauty.
All else was in unison. No sound interrupted the silence of Luke's
solitude, except the hooting of a large gray owl, that, scared at his
approach, or in search of prey, winged its spectral flight in continuous
and mazy circles round his head, uttering at each wheel its startling
whoop; or a deep, distant bay, that ever and anon boomed upon the ear,
proceeding from a pack of hounds kennelled in a shed adjoining the pool
before mentioned, but which was shrouded from view by the rising mist.
No living objects presented themselves, save a herd of deer, crouched in
a covert of brown fern beneath the shadow of a few stunted trees,
immediately below the point of land on which Luke stood; and although
their branching antlers could scarcely be detected from the
ramifications of the wood itself, they escaped not his practised ken.
"How often," murmured Luke, "in years gone by, have I traversed these
moonlit glades, and wandered amidst these woodlands, on nights heavenly
as this--ay, and to some purpose, as yon thinned herd might testify!
Every dingle, every dell, every rising brow, every bosky vale and
shelving covert, have been as familiar to my track as to that of the
fleetest and freest of their number: scarce a tree amidst the thickest
of yon outstretching forest with which I cannot claim acquaintance; 'tis
long since I have seen them. By Heavens! 'tis beautiful! and it is all
my own! Can I forget that it was here I first emancipated myself from
thraldom? Can I forget the boundless feeling of delight that danced
within my veins when I first threw off the yoke of servitude, and roved
unshackled, unrestrained, amidst these woods? The wild intoxicating
bliss still tingles to my heart. And they are all my own--my own!
Softly, what have we there?"
Luke's attention was arrested by an object which could not fail to
interest him, sportsman as he was. A snorting bray was heard, and a
lordly stag stalked slowly and majestically from out the copse. Luke
watched the actions of the noble animal with great interest, drawing
back into the shade. A hundred yards, or thereabouts, might be between
him and the buck. It was within range of ball. Luke mechanically grasped
his gun; yet his hand had scarcely raised the piece half way to his
shoulder, when he dropped it again to its rest.
"What am I about to do?" he mentally ejaculated. "Why, for mere pastime,
should I take away yon noble creature's life, when his carcass would be
utterly useless to me? Yet such is the force of habit, that I can scarce
resist the impulse that tempted me to fire; and I have known the time,
and that not long since, when I should have shown no such self-control."
Unconscious of the danger it had escaped, the animal moved forward with
the same stately step. Suddenly it stopped, with ears pricked, as if
some sound had smote them. At that instant the click of a gun-lock was
heard, at a little distance to the right. The piece had missed fire. An
instantaneous report from another gun succeeded; and, with a bound high
in air, the buck fell upon his back, struggling in the agonies of death.
Luke had at once divined the cause; he was aware that poachers were at
hand. He fancied that he knew the parties; nor was he deceived in his
conjecture. Two figures issued instantly from a covert on the right, and
making to the spot, the first who reached it put an end to the animal's
struggles by plunging a knife into its throat. The affrighted herd took
to their heels, and were seen darting swiftly down the chase.
One of the twain, meantime, was occupied in feeling for the deer's fat,
when he was approached by the other, who pointed in the direction of the
house. The former raised himself from his kneeling posture, and both
appeared to listen attentively. Luke fancied he heard a slight sound in
the distance; whatever the noise proceeded from, it was evident the
deer-stealers were alarmed. They laid hold of the buck, and, dragging it
along, concealed the carcass among the tall fern; they then retreated,
halting for an instant to deliberate, within a few yards of Luke, who
was concealed from their view by the trunk of the tree, behind which he
had ensconced his person. They were so near, that he lost not a word of
their muttered conference.
"The game's spoiled this time, Rob Rust, any how," growled one, in an
angry tone; "the hawks are upon us, and we must leave this brave buck to
take care of himself. Curse him!--who'd 'a' thought of Hugh Badger's
quitting his bed to-night? Respect for his late master might have kept
him quiet the night before the funeral. But look out, lad. Dost see
'em?"
"Ay, thanks to old Oliver--yonder they are," returned the other.
"One--two--three--and a muzzled bouser to boot. There's Hugh at the head
on 'em. Shall we stand and show fight? I have half a mind for it."
"No, no," replied the first speaker; "that will never do, Rob--no
fighting. Why run the risk of being grabb'd for a haunch of venison? Had
Luke Bradley or Jack Palmer been with us, it might have been another
affair. As it is, it won't pay. Besides, we've that to do at the hall
to-morrow night that may make men of us for the rest of our nat'ral
lives. We've pledged ourselves to Jack Palmer, and we can't be off in
honor. It won't do to be snabbled in the nick of it. So let's make for
the prad in the lane. Keep in the shade as much as you can. Come along,
my hearty." And away the two worthies scampered down the hill-side.
"Shall I follow," thought Luke, "and run the risk of falling into the
keeper's hand, just at this crisis, too? No, but if I am found here, I
shall be taken for one of the gang. Something must be done--ha!--devil
take them, here they are already."
Further time was not allowed him for reflection. A hoarse baying was
heard, followed by a loud cry from the keepers. The dog had scented out
the game; and, as secrecy was no longer necessary, his muzzle had been
removed. To rush forth now were certain betrayal; to remain was almost
equally assured detection; and, doubting whether he should obtain
credence if he delivered himself over in that garb and armed, Luke at
once rejected the idea. Just then it flashed across his recollection
that his gun had remained unloaded, and he applied himself eagerly to
repair this negligence, when he heard the dog in full cry, making
swiftly in his direction. He threw himself upon the ground, where the
fern was thickest; but this seemed insufficient to baffle the sagacity
of the hound--the animal had got his scent, and was baying close at
hand. The keepers were drawing nigh. Luke gave himself up for lost. The
dog, however, stopped where the two poachers had halted, and was there
completely at fault: snuffing the ground, he bayed, wheeled round, and
then set off with renewed barking upon their track. Hugh Badger and his
comrades loitered an instant at the same place, looked warily round, and
then, as Luke conjectured, followed the course taken by the hound.
Swift as thought, Luke arose, and keeping as much as possible under
cover of the trees, started in a cross line for the lane. Rapid as was
his flight, it was not without a witness: one of the keeper's
assistants, who had lagged behind, gave the view-halloo in a loud voice.
Luke pressed forward with redoubled energy, endeavoring to gain the
shelter of the plantation, and this he could readily have accomplished,
had no impediment been in his way. But his rage and vexation were
boundless, when he heard the keeper's cry echoed by shouts immediately
below him, and the tongue of the hound resounding in the hollow. He
turned sharply round, steering a middle course, and still aiming at the
fence. It was evident, from the cheers of his pursuers, that he was in
full view, and he heard them encouraging and directing the dog.
Luke had gained the park palings, along which he rushed, in the vain
quest of some practicable point of egress, for the fence was higher in
this part of the park than elsewhere, owing to the inequality of the
ground. He had cast away his gun as useless. But even without that
incumbrance, he dared not hazard the delay of climbing the palings. At
this juncture a deep breathing was heard close behind him. He threw a
glance over his shoulder. Within a few yards was a ferocious bloodhound,
with whose savage nature Luke was well acquainted; the breed, some of
which he had already seen, having been maintained at the hall ever since
the days of grim old Sir Ranulph. The eyes of the hound were glaring,
blood-red; his tongue was hanging out, and a row of keen white fangs was
displayed, like the teeth of a shark. There was a growl--a leap--and the
dog was close upon him.
Luke's courage was undoubted. But his heart failed him as he heard the
roar of the remorseless brute, and felt that he could not avoid an
encounter with the animal. His resolution was instantly taken: he
stopped short with such suddenness, that the dog, when in the act of
springing, flew past him with great violence, and the time, momentary as
it was, occupied by the animal in recovering himself, enabled Luke to
drop on his knee, and to place one arm, like a buckler, before his face,
while he held the other in readiness to grapple his adversary. Uttering
a fierce yell, the hound returned to the charge, darting at Luke, who
received the assault without flinching; and in spite of a severe
laceration of the arm, he seized his foe by the throat, and hurling him
upon the ground, jumped with all his force upon his belly. There was a
yell of agony--the contest was ended, and Luke was at liberty to pursue
his flight unmolested.
Brief as had been the interval required for this combat, it had been
sufficient to bring the pursuers within sight of the fugitive. Hugh
Badger, who from the acclivity had witnessed the fate of his favorite,
with a loud oath discharged the contents of his gun at the head of its
destroyer. It was fortunate for Luke that at this instant he stumbled
over the root of a tree--the shot rattled in the leaves as he fell, and
the keeper, concluding that he had at least winged his bird, descended
more leisurely towards him. As he lay upon the ground, Luke felt that he
was wounded; whether by the teeth of the dog, from a stray shot, or from
bruises inflicted by the fall, he could not determine. But, smarting
with pain, he resolved to wreak his vengeance upon the first person who
approached him. He vowed not to be taken with life--to strangle any who
should lay hands upon him. At that moment he felt a pressure at his
breast. It was the dead hand of his mother!
Luke shuddered. The fire of revenge was quenched. He mentally cancelled
his rash oath; yet he could not bring himself to surrender at
discretion, and without further effort. The keeper and his assistants
were approaching the spot where he lay, and searching for his body. Hugh
Badger was foremost, and within a yard of him.
"Confound the rascal!" cried Hugh, "he's not half killed; he seems to
breathe."
The words were scarcely out of his mouth ere the speaker was dashed
backwards, and lay sprawling upon the sod. Suddenly and unexpectedly, as
an Indian chief might rush upon his foes, Luke arose, dashing himself
with great violence against Hugh, who happened to stand in his way, and
before the startled assistants, who were either too much taken by
surprise, or unwilling to draw a trigger, could in any way lay hands
upon him, exerting all the remarkable activity which he possessed, he
caught hold of a projecting branch of a tree, and swung himself, at a
single bound, fairly over the paling.
Hugh Badger was shortly on his legs, swearing lustily at his defeat.
Directing his men to skirt alongside the fence, and make for a
particular part of the plantation which he named, and snatching a loaded
fowling-piece from one of them, he clambered over the pales, and guided
by the crashing branches and other sounds conveyed to his quick ear, he
was speedily upon Luke's track.
The plantation through which the chase now took place was not, as might
be supposed, a continuation of the ring fence which Luke had originally
crossed on his entrance into the park, though girded by the same line of
paling, but, in reality, a close pheasant preserve, occupying the banks
of a ravine, which, after a deep and tortuous course, terminated in the
declivity heretofore described as forming the park boundary. Luke
plunged into the heart of this defile, fighting his way downwards, in
the direction of the brook. His progress was impeded by a thick
undergrowth of brier, and other matted vegetation, as well as by the
entanglements thrown in his way by the taller bushes of thorn and hazel,
the entwined and elastic branches of which, in their recoil, galled and
fretted him, by inflicting smart blows on his face and hands. This was a
hardship he usually little regarded. But, upon the present occasion, it
had the effect, by irritating his temper, of increasing the thirst of
vengeance raging in his bosom.
Through the depths of the ravine welled the shallow stream before
alluded to, and Hugh Badger had no sooner reached its sedgy margin than
he lost all trace of the fugitive. He looked cautiously round, listened
intently, and inclined his ear to catch the faintest echo. All was
still: not a branch shook, not a leaf rustled. Hugh looked aghast. He
had made sure of getting a glimpse, and, perhaps, a stray shot at the
"poaching rascal," as he termed him, "in the open space, which he was
sure the fellow was aiming to reach; and now, all at once, he had
disappeared, like a will-o'-the-wisp or a boggart of the clough."
However, he could not be far off, and Hugh endeavored to obtain some
clue to guide him in his quest. He was not long in detecting recent
marks deeply indented in the mud on the opposite bank. Hugh leaped
thither at once. Further on, some rushes were trodden down, and there
were other indications of the course the fugitive had taken.
"Hark forward!" shouted Hugh, in the joy of his heart at this discovery;
and, like a well-trained dog, he followed up with alacrity the scent he
had opened. The brook presented still fewer impediments to expedition
than the thick copse, and the keeper pursued the wanderings of the petty
current, occasionally splashing into the stream. Here and there, the
print of a foot on the soil satisfied him he was in the right path. At
length he became aware, from the crumbling soil, that the object of his
pursuit had scaled the bank, and he forthwith moderated his pace.
Halting, he perceived what he took to be a face peeping at him from
behind a knot of alders that overhung the steep and shelving bank
immediately above him. His gun was instantly at his shoulder.
"Come down, you infernal deer-stealing scoundrel," cried Hugh, "or I'll
blow you to shivers."
No answer was returned: expostulation was vain; and, fearful of placing
himself at a disadvantage if he attempted to scale the bank, Hugh fired
without further parley. The sharp discharge rolled in echoes down the
ravine, and a pheasant, scared by the sound, answered the challenge from
a neighboring tree. Hugh was an unerring marksman, and on this occasion
his aim had been steadily taken. The result was not precisely such as he
had anticipated. A fur cap, shaken by the shot from the bough on which
it hung, came rolling down the bank, proclaiming the _ruse_ that had
been practised upon the keeper. Little time was allowed him for
reflection. Before he could reload, he felt himself collared by the iron
arm of Luke.
Hugh Badger was a man of great personal strength--square-set,
bandy-legged, with a prodigious width of chest, and a frame like a
Hercules, and, energetic as was Luke's assault, he maintained his ground
without flinching. The struggle was desperate. Luke was of slighter
proportion, though exceeding the keeper in stature by the head and
shoulders. This superiority availed him little. It was rather a
disadvantage in the conflict that ensued. The gripe fastened upon
Hugh's throat was like that of a clenched vice. But Luke might as well
have grappled the neck of a bull, as that of the stalwart keeper.
Defending himself with his hobnail boots, with which he inflicted
several severe blows upon Luke's shins, and struggling vehemently, Hugh
succeeded in extricating himself from his throttling grasp; he then
closed with his foe, and they were locked together, like a couple of
bears at play. Straining, tugging, and practising every sleight and
stratagem coming within the scope of feet, knees, and thighs--now
tripping, now jerking, now advancing, now retreating, they continued the
strife, but all with doubtful result. Victory, at length, seemed to
declare itself in favor of the sturdy keeper. Aware of his opponent's
strength, it was Luke's chief endeavor to keep his lower limbs
disengaged, and to trust more to skill than force for ultimate success.
To prevent this was Hugh's grand object. Guarding himself against every
feint, he ultimately succeeded in firmly grappling his agile assailant.
Luke's spine was almost broken by the shock, when he suddenly gave way;
and, without losing his balance, drew his adversary forward, kicking his
right leg from under him. With a crash like that of an uprooted oak,
Hugh fell, with his foe upon him, into the bed of the rivulet.
Not a word had been spoken during the conflict. A convulsive groan burst
from Hugh's hardy breast. His hand sought his girdle, but in vain; his
knife was gone. Gazing upwards, his dancing vision encountered the
glimmer of the blade. The weapon had dropped from its case in the fall.
Luke brandished it before his eyes.
"Villain!" gasped Hugh, ineffectually struggling to free himself, "you
will not murder me?" And his efforts to release himself became
desperate.
"No," answered Luke, flinging the uplifted knife into the brook. "I will
not do _that_, though thou hast twice aimed at my life to-night. But I
will silence thee, at all events." Saying which, he dealt the keeper a
blow on the head that terminated all further resistance on his part.
Leaving the inert mass to choke up the current, with whose waters the
blood, oozing from the wound, began to commingle, Luke prepared to
depart. His perils were not yet past. Guided by the firing, the report
of which alarmed them, the keeper's assistants hastened in the direction
of the sound, presenting themselves directly in the path Luke was about
to take. He had either to retrace his steps, or face a double enemy. His
election was made at once. He turned and fled.
For an instant the men tarried with their bleeding companion. They then
dragged him from the brook, and with loud oaths followed in pursuit.
Threading, for a second time, the bosky labyrinth, Luke sought the
source of the stream. This was precisely the course his enemies would
have desired him to pursue; and when they beheld him take it, they felt
confident of his capture.
The sides of the hollow became more and more abrupt as they advanced,
though they were less covered with brushwood. The fugitive made no
attempt to climb the bank, but still pressed forward. The road was
tortuous, and wound round a jutting point of rock. Now he was a fair
mark--no, he had swept swiftly by, and was out of sight before a gun
could be raised. They reached the same point. He was still before them,
but his race was nearly run. Steep, slippery rocks, shelving down to the
edges of a small, deep pool of water, the source of the stream, formed
an apparently insurmountable barrier in that direction. Rooted--Heaven
knows how!--in some reft or fissure of the rock, grew a wild ash,
throwing out a few boughs over the solitary pool; this was all the
support Luke could hope for, should he attempt to scale the rock. The
rock was sheer--the pool deep--yet still he hurried on. He reached the
muddy embankment; mounted its sides; and seemed to hesitate. The keepers
were now within a hundred yards of him. Both guns were discharged. And,
sudden as the reports, with a dead, splashless plunge, like a diving
otter, the fugitive dropped into the water.
The pursuers were at the brink. They gazed at the pool. A few bubbles
floated upon its surface, and burst. The water was slightly discolored
with sand. No ruddier stain crimsoned the tide; no figure rested on the
naked rock; no hand clung to the motionless tree.
"Devil take the rascal!" growled one; "I hope he harn't escaped us,
arter all."
"Noa, noa, he be fast enough, never fear," rejoined the other; "sticking
like a snig at the bottom o' the pond; and, dang him! he deserves it,
for he's slipped out of our fingers like a snig often enough to-night.
But come, let's be stumping, and give poor Hugh Badger a helping hand."
Whereupon they returned to the assistance of the wounded and discomfited
keeper.
_CHAPTER IV_
_THE HALL_
I am right against my house--seat of my ancestors.
_Yorkshire Tragedy._
Rookwood Place was a fine, old, irregular pile, of considerable size,
presenting a rich, picturesque outline, with its innumerable gable-ends,
its fantastical coigns, and tall crest of twisted chimneys. There was no
uniformity of style about the building, yet the general effect was
pleasing and beautiful. Its very irregularity constituted a charm.
Nothing except convenience had been consulted in its construction:
additions had from time to time been made to it, but everything dropped
into its proper place, and, without apparent effort or design, grew into
an ornament, and heightened the beauty of the whole. It was, in short,
one of those glorious manorial houses that sometimes unexpectedly greet
us in our wanderings, and gladden us like the discovery of a hidden
treasure. Some such ancestral hall we have occasionally encountered, in
unlooked-for quarters, in our native county of Lancaster, or in its
smiling sister shire; and never without feelings of intense delight,
rejoicing to behold the freshness of its antiquity, and the greenness of
its old age. For, be it observed in passing, a Cheshire or Lancashire
hall, time-honored though it be, with its often renovated black and
white squares, fancifully filled up with trefoils and quatrefoils,
rosettes, and other figures, seems to bear its years so lightly, that
its age, so far from detracting from its beauty, only lends it a grace;
and the same mansion, to all outward appearance, fresh and perfect as it
existed in the days of good Queen Bess, may be seen in admirable
preservation in the days of the youthful Victoria. Such is Bramall--such
Moreton, and many another we might instance; the former of these houses
may, perhaps, be instanced as the best specimen of its class,--and its
class in our opinion, _is_ the best--to be met with in Cheshire,
considered with reference either to the finished decoration of its
exterior, rich in the chequered coloring we have alluded to, preserved
with a care and neatness almost Dutch, or to the consistent taste
exhibited by its possessor to the restoration and maintenance of all its
original and truly national beauty within doors. As an illustration of
old English hospitality--that real, hearty hospitality for which the
squirearchy of this country was once so famous--Ah! why have they
bartered it for other customs less substantially _English_?--it may be
mentioned, that a road conducted the passenger directly through the
great hall of this house, literally "of entertainment," where, if he
listed, strong ale, and other refreshments, awaited his acceptance and
courted his stay. Well might old King, the Cheshire historian, in the
pride of his honest heart, exclaim, "_I know divers men, who are but
farmers, that in their housekeeping may compare with a lord or baron,
in some countries beyond the seas;--yea, although I named a higher
degree, I were able to justify it._" We have no such "golden farmers" in
these degenerate days!
The mansion, was originally built by Sir Ranulph de Rookwood--or, as it
was then written, Rokewode--the first of the name, a stout Yorkist, who
flourished in the reign of Edward IV., and received the fair domain and
broad lands upon which the edifice was raised, from his sovereign, in
reward for good service; retiring thither in the decline of life, at the
close of the Wars of the Roses, to sequestrate himself from scenes of
strife, and to consult his spiritual weal in the erection and endowment
of the neighboring church. It was of mixed architecture, and combined
the peculiarities of each successive era. Retaining some of the sterner
features of earlier days, the period ere yet the embattled manor-house
peculiar to the reigns of the later Henrys had been merged into the
graceful and peaceable hall, the residence of the Rookwoods had early
anticipated the gentler characteristics of a later day, though it could
boast little of that exuberance of external ornament, luxuriance of
design, and prodigality of beauty, which, under the sway of the Virgin
Queen, distinguished the residence of the wealthier English landowner;
and rendered the hall of Elizabeth, properly so called, the pride and
boast of our domestic architecture.
The site selected by Sir Ranulph for his habitation had been already
occupied by a vast fabric of oak, which he in part removed, though some
vestiges might still be traced of that ancient pile. A massive edifice
succeeded, with gate and tower, court and moat complete; substantial
enough, one would have thought, to have endured for centuries. But even
this ponderous structure grew into disuse, and Sir Ranulph's successors,
remodelling, repairing, almost rebuilding the whole mansion, in the end
so metamorphosed its aspect, that at last little of its original and
distinctive character remained. Still, as we said before, it was a fine
old house, though some changes had taken place for the worse, which
could not be readily pardoned by the eye of taste: as, for instance,
the deep embayed windows had dwindled into modernized casements, of
lighter construction; the wide porch, with its flight of steps leading
to the great hall of entrance, had yielded to a narrow door; and the
broad quadrangular court was succeeded by a gravel drive. Yet, despite
all these changes, the house of the Rookwoods, for an old house--and,
after all, what is like an old house?--was no undesirable or uncongenial
abode for any worshipful country gentleman "who had a great estate."
The hall was situated near the base of a gently declining hill,
terminating a noble avenue of limes, and partially embosomed in an
immemorial wood of the same timber, which had given its name to the
family that dwelt amongst its rook-haunted shades. Descending the
avenue, at the point of access afforded by a road that wound down the
hill-side, towards a village distant about half a mile, as you advanced,
the eye was first arrested by a singular octagonal turret of brick, of
more recent construction than the house; and in all probability
occupying the place where the gateway stood of yore. This tower rose to
a height corresponding with the roof of the mansion; and was embellished
on the side facing the house with a flamingly gilt dial, peering, like
an impudent observer, at all that passed within doors. Two apartments,
which it contained, were appropriated to the house-porter. Despoiled of
its martial honors, the gateway still displayed the achievements of the
family--the rook and the fatal branch--carved in granite, which had
resisted the storms of two centuries, though stained green with moss,
and mapped over with lichens. To the left, overgrown with ivy, and
peeping from out a tuft of trees, appeared the hoary summit of a
dovecot, indicating the near neighborhood of an ancient barn,
contemporary with the earliest dwelling-house, and of a little world of
offices and outbuildings buried in the thickness of the foliage. To the
right was the garden--the pleasaunce of the place--formal, precise,
old-fashioned, artificial, yet exquisite!--for commend us to the
bygone, beautiful English garden--_really a garden_--not that mixture of
park, meadow, and wilderness[3], brought up to one's very
windows--which, since the days of the innovators, Kent, and his "bold
associates," Capability Brown and Co., has obtained so largely--this
_was_ a garden! There might be seen the stately terraces, such as
Watteau, and our own Wilson, in his earlier works, painted--the trim
alleys exhibiting all the triumphs of topiarian art--
_The sidelong walls
Of shaven yew; the holly's prickly arms,
Trimm'd into high arcades; the tonsile box,
Wove in mosaic mode of many a curl,
Around the figured carpet of the lawn;_[4]
the gayest of parterres and greenest of lawns, with its admonitory
sun-dial, its marble basin in the centre, its fountain, and conched
water-god; the quaint summer-house, surmounted with its gilt vane; the
statue, glimmering from out its covert of leaves; the cool cascade, the
urns, the bowers, and a hundred luxuries besides, suggested and
contrived by Art to render Nature most enjoyable, and to enhance the
recreative delights of home-out-of-doors--for such a garden should be--,
with least sacrifice of indoor comfort and convenience.
_When Epicurus to the world had taught,
That pleasure was the chiefest good;
--And was perhaps i' th' right, if rightly understood,
His life he to his doctrine brought--
And in his garden's shade that sovereign pleasure sought._[5]
All these delights might once have been enjoyed. But at the time of
which we write, this fair garden was for the most part a waste.
Ill-kept, and unregarded, the gay parterres were disfigured with weeds;
grass grew on the gravel walk; several of the urns were overthrown; the
hour upon the dial was untold; the fountain was choked up, and the
smooth-shaven lawn only rescued, it would seem, from the general fate,
that it might answer the purpose of a bowling-green, as the implements
of that game, scattered about, plainly testified.
Diverging from the garden to the house, we have before remarked that the
more ancient and characteristic features of the place had been, for the
most part, destroyed; less by the hand of time than to suit the tastes
of different proprietors. This, however, was not so observable in the
eastern wing, which overlooked the garden. Here might be discerned many
indications of its antiquity. The strength and solidity of the walls,
which had not been, as elsewhere, masked with brickwork; the low, Tudor
arches; the mullioned bars of the windows--all attested its age. This
wing was occupied by an upper and lower gallery, communicating with
suites of chambers, for the most part deserted, excepting one or two,
which were used as dormitories; and another little room on the
ground-floor, with an oriel window opening upon the lawn, and commanding
the prospect beyond--a favorite resort of the late Sir Piers. The
interior was curious for his honeycomb ceiling, deeply moulded in
plaster, with the arms and alliances of the Rookwoods. In the centre was
the royal blazon of Elizabeth, who had once honored the hall with a
visit during a progress, and whose cipher E. R. was also displayed upon
the immense plate of iron which formed the fire-grate.
To return, for a moment, to the garden, which we linger about as a bee
around a flower. Below the lawn there was another terrace, edged by a
low balustrade of stone, commanding a lovely view of park, water, and
woodland. High hanging-woods waved in the foreground, and an extensive
sweep of flat champaign country stretched out to meet a line of blue,
hazy hills bounding the distant horizon.
_CHAPTER V_
_SIR REGINALD ROOKWOOD_
A king who changed his wives as easily as a woman changes her dress.
He threw aside the first, cut off the second's head, the third he
disemboweled: as for the fourth, he pardoned her, and simply turned
her out of doors, but to make matters even, cut off the head of
number five.--VICTOR HUGO: _Marie Tudor_.
From the house to its inhabitants the transition is natural. Besides the
connexion between them, there were many points of resemblance; many
family features in common; there was the same melancholy grandeur, the
same character of romance, the same fantastical display. Nor were the
secret passages, peculiar to the one, wanting to the history of the
other. Both had their mysteries. One blot there was in the otherwise
proud escutcheon of the Rookwoods, that dimmed its splendor, and made
pale its pretensions: their sun was eclipsed in blood from its rising to
its meridian; and so it seemed would be its setting. This foul reproach
attached to all the race; none escaped it. Traditional rumors were
handed down from father to son, throughout the county, and, like all
other rumors, had taken to themselves wings, and flown abroad; their
crimes became a by-word. How was it they escaped punishment? How came
they to evade the hand of justice? Proof was ever wanting; justice was
ever baffled. They were a stern and stiff-necked people, of indomitable
pride and resolution, with, for the most part, force of character
sufficient to enable them to breast difficulties and dangers that would
have overwhelmed ordinary individuals. No quality is so advantageous to
its possessor as firmness; and the determined energy of the Rookwoods
bore them harmless through a sea of trouble. Besides, they were
wealthy; lavish even to profusion; and gold will do much, if skilfully
administered. Yet, despite all this, a dark, ominous cloud settled over
their house, and men wondered when the vengeance of Heaven, so long
delayed, would fall and consume it.
Possessed of considerable landed property, once extending over nearly
half the West Riding of Yorkshire, the family increased in power and
importance for an uninterrupted series of years, until the outbreak of
that intestine discord which ended in the civil wars, when the espousal
of the royalist party, with sword and substance, by Sir Ralph Rookwood,
the then lord of the mansion--a dissolute, depraved personage, who,
however, had been made a Knight of the Bath at the coronation of Charles
I.--, ended in his own destruction at Naseby, and the wreck of much of
his property; a loss which the gratitude of Charles II., on his
restoration, did not fail to make good to Sir Ralph's youthful heir,
Reginald.
Sir Ralph Rookwood left two sons, Reginald and Alan. The fate of the
latter was buried in obscurity. It was even a mystery to his family. He
was, it was said, a youth of much promise, and of gentle manners; who,
having made an imprudent match, from jealousy, or some other motive,
deserted his wife, and fled his country. Various reasons were assigned
for his conduct. Amongst others, it was stated that the object of Alan's
jealous suspicions was his elder brother, Reginald; and that it was the
discovery of his wife's infidelity in this quarter which occasioned his
sudden disappearance with his infant daughter. Some said he died abroad.
Others, that he had appeared again for a brief space at the hall. But
all now concurred in a belief of his decease. Of his child nothing was
known. His inconstant wife, after enduring for some years the agonies of
remorse, abandoned by Sir Reginald, and neglected by her own relatives,
put an end to her existence by poison. This is all that could be
gathered of the story, or the misfortunes of Alan Rookwood.
The young Sir Reginald had attended Charles, in the character of page,
during his exile; and if he could not requite the devotion of the son,
by absolutely reinstating the fallen fortunes of the father, the monarch
could at least accord him the fostering influence of his favor and
countenance; and bestow upon him certain lucrative situations in his
household, as an earnest of his good-will. And thus much he did.
Remarkable for his personal attractions in youth, it is not to be
wondered at that we should find the name of Reginald Rookwood recorded
in the scandalous chronicles of the day, as belonging to a cavalier of
infinite address and discretion, matchless wit, and marvellous
pleasantry; and eminent beyond his peers for his successes with some of
the most distinguished beauties who ornamented that brilliant and
voluptuous court.
A career of elegant dissipation ended in matrimony. His first match was
unpropitious. Foiled in his attempts upon the chastity of a lady of
great beauty and high honor, he was rash enough to marry her; rash, we
say, for from that fatal hour all became as darkness; the curtain fell
upon the comedy of his life, to rise to tragic horrors. When, passion
subsided, repentance awoke, and he became anxious for deliverance from
the fetters he had so heedlessly imposed on himself, and on his
unfortunate dame.
The hapless lady of Sir Reginald was a fair and fragile creature,
floating on the eddying current of existence, and hurried in destruction
as the summer gossamer is swept away by the rude breeze, and lost
forever. So beautiful, so gentle was she, that if,
Sorrow had not made
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self,
it would have been difficult to say whether the charm of softness and
sweetness was more to be admired than her faultless personal
attractions. But when a tinge of melancholy came, saddening and shading
the once smooth and smiling brow; when tears dimmed the blue beauty of
those deep and tender eyes; when hot, hectic flushes supplied the place
of healthful bloom, and despair took possession of her heart, then was
it seen _what_ was the charm of Lady Rookwood, if charm that could be
called which was a saddening sight to see, and melted the beholder's
soul within him. All acknowledged, that exquisite as she had been
before, the sad, sweet lady was now more exquisite still.
Seven moons had waned and flown--seven bitter, tearful moons--and each
day Lady Rookwood's situation claimed more soothing attention at the
hand of her lord. About this time his wife's brother, whom he hated,
returned from the Dutch wars. Struck with his sister's altered
appearance, he readily divined the cause; indeed, all tongues were eager
to proclaim it to him. Passionately attached to her, Lionel Vavasour
implored an explanation of the cause of his sister's griefs. The
bewildered lady answered evasively, attributing her woe-begone looks to
any other cause than her husband's cruelty; and pressing her brother, as
he valued her peace, her affection, never to allude to the subject
again. The fiery youth departed. He next sought out his brother-in-law,
and taxed him sharply with his inhumanity, adding threats to his
upbraidings. Sir Reginald listened silently and calmly. When the other
had finished, with a sarcastic obeisance, he replied: "Sir, I am much
beholden for the trouble you have taken in your sister's behalf. But
when she entrusted herself to my keeping, she relinquished, I conceive,
all claim on _your_ guardianship: however, I thank you for the trouble
you have taken; but, for your own sake, I would venture to caution you
against a repetition of interference like the present."
"And I, sir, caution _you_. See that you give heed to my words, or, by
the heaven above us! I will enforce attention to them."
"You will find me, sir, as prompt at all times to defend my conduct, as
I am unalterable in my purposes. Your sister is my wife. What more would
you have? Were she a harlot, you should have her back and welcome. The
tool is virtuous. Devise some scheme, and take her with you hence--so
you rid _me_ of her I am content."
"Rookwood, you are a villain." And Vavasour spat upon his brother's
cheek.
Sir Reginald's eyes blazed. His sword started from its scabbard. "Defend
yourself!" he exclaimed, furiously attacking Vavasour. Pass after pass
was exchanged. Fierce thrusts were made and parried. Feint and appeal,
the most desperate and dexterous, were resorted to. Their swords glanced
like lightning flashes. In the struggle, the blades became entangled.
There was a moment's cessation. Each glanced at the other with deadly,
inextinguishable hate. Both were admirable masters of the art of
defence. Both were so brimful of wrath as to be regardless of
consequences. They tore back their weapons. Vavasour's blade shivered.
He was at the mercy of his adversary--an adversary who knew no mercy.
Sir Reginald passed his rapier through his brother's body. The hilt
struck against his ribs.
Sir Reginald's ire was kindled, not extinguished, by the deed he had
done. Like the tiger, he had tasted blood--like the tiger, he thirsted
for more. He sought his home. He was greeted by his wife. Terrified by
his looks, she yet summoned courage sufficient to approach him. She
embraced his arm--she clasped his hand. Sir Reginald smiled. His smile
was cutting as his dagger's edge.
"What ails you, sweetheart?" said he.
"I know not; your smile frightens me."
"My smile frightens you--fool! be thankful that I frown not."
"Oh! do not frown. Be gentle, my Reginald, as you were when first I knew
you. Smile not so coldly, but as you did then, that I may, for one
instant, dream you love me."
"Silly wench! There--I _do_ smile."
"That smile freezes me. Oh, Reginald, could you but know what I have
endured this morning, on your account. My brother Lionel has been here."
"Indeed!"
"Nay, look not so. He insisted on knowing the reason of my altered
appearance."
"And no doubt you made him acquainted with the cause. You told him
_your_ version of the story."
"Not a word, as I hope to live."
"A lie!"
"By my truth, no."
"A lie, I say. He avouched it to me himself."
"Impossible! He could not--would not disobey me."
Sir Reginald laughed bitterly.
"He would not, I am sure, give utterance to any scandal," continued Lady
Rookwood. "You say this but to try me, do you not?--ha! what is this?
Your hand is bloody. You have not harmed him? Whose blood is this?"
"Your brother spat upon my check. I have washed out the stain," replied
Sir Reginald, coldly.
"Then it _is_ his blood!" shrieked Lady Rookwood, pressing her hand
shuddering before her eyes. "Is he dead?"
Sir Reginald turned away.
"Stay," she cried, exerting her feeble strength to retain him, and
becoming white as ashes, "abide and hear me. You have killed me, I feel,
by your cruelty. I am sinking fast--dying. I, who loved you, only you;
yes, one besides--my brother, and you have slain _him_. Your hands are
dripping in his blood, and I have kissed them--have clasped them! And
now," continued she, with an energy that shook Sir Reginald, "I hate
you--I renounce you--forever! May my dying words ring in your ears on
your death-bed, for that hour _will_ come. You cannot shun _that_. Then
think of _him_! think of _me_!"
"Away!" interrupted Sir Reginald, endeavoring to shake her off.
"I will _not_ away! I will cling to you--will curse you. My unborn child
shall live to curse you--to requite you--to visit my wrongs on you and
yours. Weak as I am, you shall not cast me off. You shall learn to fear
even _me_."
"I fear nothing living, much less a frantic woman."
"Fear the _dead_, then."
There was a struggle--a blow--and the wretched lady sank, shrieking,
upon the floor. Convulsions seized her. A mother's pains succeeded
fierce and fast. She spoke no more, but died within the hour, giving
birth to a female child.
Eleanor Rookwood became her father's idol--her father's bane. All the
love he had to bestow was centred in her. She returned it not. She fled
from his caresses. With all her mother's beauty, she had all her
father's pride. Sir Reginald's every thought was for his daughter--for
her aggrandizement. In vain. She seemed only to endure him, and while
his affection waxed stronger, and entwined itself round her alone, she
withered beneath his embraces as the shrub withers in the clasping folds
of the parasite plant.
She grew towards womanhood. Suitors thronged around her--gentle and
noble ones. Sir Reginald watched them with a jealous eye. He was
wealthy, powerful, high in royal favor; and could make his own election.
He did so. For the first time, Eleanor promised obedience to his wishes.
They accorded with her own humor. The day was appointed. It came. But
with it came not the bride. She had fled, with the humblest and the
meanest of the pretenders to her hand--with one upon whom Sir Reginald
supposed she had not deigned to cast her eyes. He endeavored to forget
her, and, to all outward seeming, was successful in the effort. But he
felt that the curse was upon him; the undying flame scorched his heart.
Once, and once only, they met again, in France, whither she had
wandered. It was a dread encounter--terrible to both; but most so to
Sir Reginald. He spoke not of her afterwards.
Shortly after the death of his first wife, Sir Reginald had made
proposals to a dowager of distinction, with a handsome jointure, one of
his early attachments, and was, without scruple, accepted. The power of
the family might then be said to be at its zenith; and but for certain
untoward circumstances, and the growing influence of his enemies, Sir
Reginald would have been elevated to the peerage. Like most reformed
spend-thrifts, he had become proportionately avaricious, and his mind
seemed engrossed in accumulating wealth. In the meantime, his second
wife followed her predecessor, dying, it was said, of vexation and
disappointment.
The propensity to matrimony, always a distinguishing characteristic of
the Rookwoods, largely displayed itself in Sir Reginald. Another dame
followed--equally rich, younger, and far more beautiful than her
immediate predecessor. She was a prodigious flirt, and soon set her
husband at defiance. Sir Reginald did not condescend to expostulate. It
was not his way. He effectually prevented any recurrence of her
indiscretions. She was removed, and with her expired Sir Reginald's
waning popularity. So strong was the expression of odium against him,
that he thought it prudent to retire to his mansion, in the country, and
there altogether seclude himself. One anomaly in Sir Reginald's
otherwise utterly selfish character was uncompromising devotion to the
house of Stuart; and shortly after the abdication of James II., he
followed that monarch to Saint Germain, having previously mixed largely
in secret political intrigues; and only returned from the French court
to lay his bones with those of his ancestry, in the family vault at
Rookwood.
_CHAPTER VI_
_SIR PIERS ROOKWOOD_
My old master kept a good house, and twenty or thirty tall
sword-and-buckler men about him; and in faith his son differs not
much; he will have metal too; though he has no store of cutler's
blades, he will have plenty of vintners' pots. His father kept a
good house for honest men, his tenants that brought him in part; and
his son keeps a bad house with knaves that help to consume all: 'tis
but the change of time: why should any man repine at it? Crickets,
good, loving, and lucky worms, were wont to feed, sing, and rejoice
in the father's chimney; and now carrion crows build in the son's
kitchen.
WILKINS: _Miseries of Enforced Marriage_.
Sir Reginald died, leaving issue three children: a daughter, the
before-mentioned Eleanor--who, entirely discountenanced by the family,
had been seemingly forgotten by all but her father--, and two sons by
his third wife. Reginald, the eldest, whose military taste had early
procured him the command of a company of horse, and whose politics did
not coalesce with those of his sire, fell, during his father's lifetime,
at Killiecrankie, under the banners of William. Piers, therefore, the
second son, succeeded to the title.
A very different character, in many respects, from his father and
brother, holding in supreme dislike courts and courtiers, party warfare,
political intrigue, and all the subtleties of Jesuitical diplomacy,
neither having any inordinate relish for camps or campaigns, Sir Piers
Rookwood yet displayed in early life one family propensity, viz.,
unremitting devotion to the sex. Among his other mistresses was the
unfortunate Susan Bradley, in whom by some he was supposed to have been
clandestinely united. In early youth, as has been stated, Sir Piers
professed the faith of Rome, but shortly after the death of his
beautiful mistress--or wife, as it might be--, having quarreled with his
father's confessor, Checkley, he publicly abjured his heresies. Sir
Piers subsequently allied himself to Maud, only daughter of Sir Thomas
D'Aubeny, the last of a line as proud and intolerant as his own. The
tables were then turned. Lady Rookwood usurped sovereign sway over her
lord and Sir Piers, a cipher in his own house, scarce master of himself,
much less of his dame, endured an existence so miserable, that he was
often heard to regret, in his cups, that he had not inherited, with the
estate of his forefathers, the family secret of shaking off the
matrimonial yoke, when found to press too hardly.
At the onset, Sir Piers struggled hard to burst his bondage. But in
vain--he was fast fettered; and only bruised himself, like the caged
lark, against the bars of his prison-house. Abandoning all further
effort at emancipation, he gave himself up to the usual resource of a
weak mind, debauchery; and drank so deeply to drown his cares, that, in
the end, his hale constitution yielded to his excesses. It was even
said, that remorse at his abandonment of the faith of his fathers had
some share in his misery; and that his old spiritual, and if report
spoke truly, sinful adviser, Father Checkley, had visited him secretly
at the hall. Sir Piers was observed to shudder whenever the priest's
name was mentioned.
Sir Piers Rookwood was a good-humored man in the main, had little of the
old family leaven about him, and was esteemed by his associates. Of
late, however, his temper became soured, and his friends deserted him;
for, between his domestic annoyances, remorseful feelings, and the
inroads already made upon his constitution by constant inebriety, he
grew so desperate and insane in his revels, and committed such fearful
extravagances, that even his boon companions shrank from his orgies.
Fearful were the scenes between him and Lady Rookwood upon these
occasions--appalling to the witnesses, dreadful to themselves. And it
was, perhaps, their frequent recurrence, that, more than anything else,
banished all decent society from the hall.
At the time of Sir Piers's decease, which brings us down to the date of
our story, his son and successor, Ranulph, was absent on his travels.
Shortly after the completion of his academical education, he had
departed to make the tour of the Continent, and had been absent rather
better than a year. He had quitted his father in displeasure, and was
destined never again to see his face while living. The last intelligence
received of young Rookwood was from Bordeaux, whence it was thought he
had departed for the Pyrenees. A special messenger had been despatched
in search of him, with tidings of the melancholy event. But, as it was
deemed improbable by Lady Rookwood that her son could return within any
reasonable space, she gave directions for the accomplishment of the
funeral rites of her husband on the sixth night after his decease--it
being the custom of the Rookwoods ever to inter their dead at
midnight,--intrusting their solemnization entirely to the care of one of
Sir Piers's hangers-on--Dr. Titus Tyrconnel,--for which she was greatly
scandalized in the neighborhood.
Ranulph Rookwood was a youth of goodly promise. The stock from which he
sprang would on neither side warrant such conclusion. But it sometimes
happens that from the darkest elements are compounded the brightest and
subtlest substances; and so it occurred in this instance. Fair, frank,
and free--generous, open, unsuspicious--he seemed the very opposite of
all his race--their antagonizing principle. Capriciously indulgent, his
father had allowed him ample means, neither curbing nor restraining his
expenditure; acceding at one moment to every inclination, and the next
irresolutely opposing it. It was impossible, therefore, for him, in such
a state of things, to act decidedly, without incurring his father's
displeasure; and the only measure he resolved upon, which was to absent
himself for a time, was conjectured to have brought about the result he
had endeavored to avoid. Other reasons, however, there were, which
secretly influenced him, which it will be our business in due time to
detail.
_CHAPTER VII_
_THE RETURN_
_Flam._ How croaks the raven?
Is our good Duchess dead?
_Lod._ Dead.
WEBSTER.
The time of the sad ceremonial drew nigh. The hurrying of the domestics
to and fro; the multifarious arrangements for the night; the
distribution of the melancholy trappings, and the discussion of the
"funeral-baked meats," furnished abundant occupation within doors.
Without, there was a constant stream of the tenantry, thronging down the
avenue, mixed with an occasional horseman, once or twice intercepted by
a large lumbering carriage, bringing friends of the deceased, some
really anxious to pay the last tribute of regard, but the majority
attracted by the anticipated spectacle of a funeral by torchlight. There
were others, indeed, to whom it was not matter of choice; who were
compelled, by a vassal tenure of their lands, held of the house of
Rookwood, to lend a shoulder to the coffin, and a hand to the torch, on
the burial of its lord. Of these there was a plentiful muster collected
in the hall; they were to be marshalled by Peter Bradley, who was deemed
to be well skilled in the proceedings, having been present at two
solemnities of the kind. That mysterious personage, however, had not
made his appearance--to the great dismay of the assemblage. Scouts were
sent in search of him, but they returned with the intelligence that the
door of his habitation was fastened, and its inmate apparently absent.
No other tidings of the truant sexton could be obtained.
It was a sultry August evening. No breeze was stirring in the garden; no
cool dews refreshed the parched and heated earth; yet from the
languishing flowers rich sweets exhaled. The plash of a fountain fell
pleasantly upon the ear, conveying in its sound a sense of freshness to
the fervid air; while deep and drowsy murmurs hummed heavily beneath the
trees, making the twilight slumberously musical. The westering sun,
which filled the atmosphere with flame throughout the day, was now
wildly setting; and, as he sank behind the hall, its varied and
picturesque tracery became each instant more darkly and distinctly
defined against the crimson sky.
At this juncture a little gate, communicating with the chase, was thrown
open, and a young man entered the garden, passing through the shrubbery,
and hurrying rapidly forward till he arrived at a vista opening upon the
house. The spot at which the stranger halted was marked by a little
basin, scantily supplied with water, streaming from a lion's kingly
jaws. His dress was travel-soiled, and dusty; and his whole appearance
betokened great exhaustion from heat and fatigue. Seating himself upon
an adjoining bench, he threw off his riding-cap, and unclasped his
collar, displaying a finely-turned head and neck; and a countenance
which, besides its beauty, had that rare nobility of feature which
seldom falls to the lot of the aristocrat, but is never seen in one of
an inferior order. A restless disquietude of manner showed that he was
suffering from over-excitement of mind, as well as from bodily exertion.
His look was wild and hurried; his black ringlets were dashed heedlessly
over a pallid, lofty brow, upon which care was prematurely written;
while his large melancholy eyes were bent, with a look almost of agony,
upon the house before him.