"One foot in the stirrup, one hand in the rein,And the noose be my portion, or freedom I'll gain!Oh! give me a seat in my saddle once more,And these bloodhounds shall find that the chase is not o'er!"Thus muttered Dick Turpin, who found, while he slept,That the Philistines old on his slumbers had crept;Had entrapped him as puss on her form you'd ensnare,And that gone were his snappers—and gone was his mare.Hilloah!How Dick had been captured is readily told,The pursuit had been hot, though the night had been cold,So at daybreak, exhausted, he sought brief reposeMid the thick of a corn-field, away from his foes.But in vain was his caution—in vain did his steed,Ever watchful and wakeful in moments of need,With lip and with hoof on her master's cheek press—He slept on, nor heeded the warning of Bess.Hilloah!"Zounds! gem'men!" cried Turpin, "you've found me at fault,And the highflying highwayman's come to a halt;You have turned up a trump—for I weigh well my weight,—And theforty is yours, though the halter'smyfate.Well, come on't what will, you shall own when all's past,That Dick Turpin, the Dauntless, was game to the last.But, before we go further, I'll hold you a bet,That one foot in my stirrup you won't let me set.Hilloah!"A hundred to one is the oddsIwill stand,A hundred to one is the oddsyoucommand;Here's a handful of goldfinches ready to fly!May I venture a foot in my stirrup to try?"As he carelessly spoke, Dick directed a glanceAt his courser, and motioned her slyly askance:—You might tell by the singular toss of her head,And the prick of her ears, that his meaning she read.Hilloah!With derision at first was Dick's wager received,And his error at starting as yet unretrieved;But when from his pocket the shiners he drew,And offered to "make up the hundred to two,"There were havers in plenty, and each whispered each,The same thing, though varied in figure of speech,"Let the fool act his folly—the stirrup of Bess!He has put his footin italready, we guess!"Hilloah!Bess was brought to her master—Dick steadfastly gazedAt the eye of his mare, then his foot quick upraised;His toe touched the stirrup, his hand grasped the rein—He was safe on the back of his courser again!As the clarion, fray-sounding and shrill, was the neighOf Black Bess, as she answered his cry "Hark-away!""Beset me, ye bloodhounds! in rear and in van;My foot's in the stirrup and catch me who can!"Hilloah!There was riding and gibing mid rabble and rout,And the old woods re-echoed the Philistines' shout!There was hurling and whirling o'er brake and o'er brier,But the course of Dick Turpin was swift as Heaven's fire.Whipping, spurring, and straining would nothing avail,Dick laughed at their curses, and scoffed at their wail;"My foot's in the stirrup!"—thus rang his last cry;"Bess has answered my call; now her mettle we'll try!"Hilloah!
"One foot in the stirrup, one hand in the rein,And the noose be my portion, or freedom I'll gain!Oh! give me a seat in my saddle once more,And these bloodhounds shall find that the chase is not o'er!"Thus muttered Dick Turpin, who found, while he slept,That the Philistines old on his slumbers had crept;Had entrapped him as puss on her form you'd ensnare,And that gone were his snappers—and gone was his mare.Hilloah!How Dick had been captured is readily told,The pursuit had been hot, though the night had been cold,So at daybreak, exhausted, he sought brief reposeMid the thick of a corn-field, away from his foes.But in vain was his caution—in vain did his steed,Ever watchful and wakeful in moments of need,With lip and with hoof on her master's cheek press—He slept on, nor heeded the warning of Bess.Hilloah!"Zounds! gem'men!" cried Turpin, "you've found me at fault,And the highflying highwayman's come to a halt;You have turned up a trump—for I weigh well my weight,—And theforty is yours, though the halter'smyfate.Well, come on't what will, you shall own when all's past,That Dick Turpin, the Dauntless, was game to the last.But, before we go further, I'll hold you a bet,That one foot in my stirrup you won't let me set.Hilloah!"A hundred to one is the oddsIwill stand,A hundred to one is the oddsyoucommand;Here's a handful of goldfinches ready to fly!May I venture a foot in my stirrup to try?"As he carelessly spoke, Dick directed a glanceAt his courser, and motioned her slyly askance:—You might tell by the singular toss of her head,And the prick of her ears, that his meaning she read.Hilloah!With derision at first was Dick's wager received,And his error at starting as yet unretrieved;But when from his pocket the shiners he drew,And offered to "make up the hundred to two,"There were havers in plenty, and each whispered each,The same thing, though varied in figure of speech,"Let the fool act his folly—the stirrup of Bess!He has put his footin italready, we guess!"Hilloah!Bess was brought to her master—Dick steadfastly gazedAt the eye of his mare, then his foot quick upraised;His toe touched the stirrup, his hand grasped the rein—He was safe on the back of his courser again!As the clarion, fray-sounding and shrill, was the neighOf Black Bess, as she answered his cry "Hark-away!""Beset me, ye bloodhounds! in rear and in van;My foot's in the stirrup and catch me who can!"Hilloah!There was riding and gibing mid rabble and rout,And the old woods re-echoed the Philistines' shout!There was hurling and whirling o'er brake and o'er brier,But the course of Dick Turpin was swift as Heaven's fire.Whipping, spurring, and straining would nothing avail,Dick laughed at their curses, and scoffed at their wail;"My foot's in the stirrup!"—thus rang his last cry;"Bess has answered my call; now her mettle we'll try!"Hilloah!
"One foot in the stirrup, one hand in the rein,And the noose be my portion, or freedom I'll gain!Oh! give me a seat in my saddle once more,And these bloodhounds shall find that the chase is not o'er!"Thus muttered Dick Turpin, who found, while he slept,That the Philistines old on his slumbers had crept;Had entrapped him as puss on her form you'd ensnare,And that gone were his snappers—and gone was his mare.Hilloah!
How Dick had been captured is readily told,The pursuit had been hot, though the night had been cold,So at daybreak, exhausted, he sought brief reposeMid the thick of a corn-field, away from his foes.But in vain was his caution—in vain did his steed,Ever watchful and wakeful in moments of need,With lip and with hoof on her master's cheek press—He slept on, nor heeded the warning of Bess.Hilloah!
"Zounds! gem'men!" cried Turpin, "you've found me at fault,And the highflying highwayman's come to a halt;You have turned up a trump—for I weigh well my weight,—And theforty is yours, though the halter'smyfate.Well, come on't what will, you shall own when all's past,That Dick Turpin, the Dauntless, was game to the last.But, before we go further, I'll hold you a bet,That one foot in my stirrup you won't let me set.Hilloah!
"A hundred to one is the oddsIwill stand,A hundred to one is the oddsyoucommand;Here's a handful of goldfinches ready to fly!May I venture a foot in my stirrup to try?"As he carelessly spoke, Dick directed a glanceAt his courser, and motioned her slyly askance:—You might tell by the singular toss of her head,And the prick of her ears, that his meaning she read.Hilloah!
With derision at first was Dick's wager received,And his error at starting as yet unretrieved;But when from his pocket the shiners he drew,And offered to "make up the hundred to two,"There were havers in plenty, and each whispered each,The same thing, though varied in figure of speech,"Let the fool act his folly—the stirrup of Bess!He has put his footin italready, we guess!"Hilloah!
Bess was brought to her master—Dick steadfastly gazedAt the eye of his mare, then his foot quick upraised;His toe touched the stirrup, his hand grasped the rein—He was safe on the back of his courser again!As the clarion, fray-sounding and shrill, was the neighOf Black Bess, as she answered his cry "Hark-away!""Beset me, ye bloodhounds! in rear and in van;My foot's in the stirrup and catch me who can!"Hilloah!
There was riding and gibing mid rabble and rout,And the old woods re-echoed the Philistines' shout!There was hurling and whirling o'er brake and o'er brier,But the course of Dick Turpin was swift as Heaven's fire.Whipping, spurring, and straining would nothing avail,Dick laughed at their curses, and scoffed at their wail;"My foot's in the stirrup!"—thus rang his last cry;"Bess has answered my call; now her mettle we'll try!"Hilloah!
Uproarious applause followed Jack's song, when the joviality of the mourners was interrupted by a summons to attend in the state-room. Silence was at once completely restored; and, in the best order they could assume, they followed their leader,Peter Bradley. Jack Palmer was amongst the last to enter, and remained a not incurious spectator of a by no means common scene.
Preparations had been made to give due solemnity to the ceremonial. The leaden coffin was fastened down, and enclosed in an outer case of oak, upon the lid of which stood a richly-chased massive silver flagon, filled with burnt claret, called the grace-cup. All the lights were removed, save two lofty wax flambeaux, which were placed to the back, and threw a lurid glare upon the group immediately about the body, consisting of Ranulph Rookwood and some other friends of the deceased. Dr. Small stood in front of the bier; and, under the directions of Peter Bradley, the tenantry and household were formed into a wide half-moon across the chamber. There was a hush of expectation, as Dr. Small looked gravely round; and even Jack Palmer, who was as little likely as any man to yield to an impression of the kind, felt himself moved by the scene.
The very orthodox Small, as is well known to our readers, held everything savoring of the superstitions of the Scarlet Woman in supreme abomination; and, entertaining such opinions, it can scarcely be supposed that a funeral oration would find much favor in his eyes, accompanied, as it was, with the accessories of censer, candle, and cup; all evidently derived from that period when, under the three-crowned pontiff's sway, the shaven priest pronounced his benediction o'er the dead, and released the penitent's soul from purgatorial flames, while he heavily mulcted the price of his redemption from the possessions of his successor. Small resented the idea of treading in such steps, as an insult to himself and his cloth. Was he, the intolerant of Papistry, to tolerate this? Was he, who could not endure the odor of Catholicism, to have his nostrils thus polluted—his garments thus defiled by actual contact with it? It was not to be thought of: and he had formally signified his declination to Mr. Coates, when a little conversation with thatgentleman, and certain weighty considerations therein held forth—the advowson of the church of Rookwood residing with the family—and represented by him, as well as the placing in juxtaposition of penalties to be incurred by refusal, that the scruples of Small gave way; and, with the best grace he could muster, very reluctantly promised compliance.
With these feelings, it will be readily conceived that the doctor was not in the best possible frame of mind for the delivery of his exhortation. His spirit had been ruffled by a variety of petty annoyances, amongst the greatest of which was the condition to which the good cheer had reduced his clerk, Zachariah Trundletext, whose reeling eye, pendulous position, and open mouth proclaimed him absolutely incapable of office. Zachariah was, in consequence, dismissed, and Small commenced his discourse unsupported. But as our recording it would not probably conduce to the amusement of our readers, whatever it might to their edification, we shall pass it over with very brief mention. Suffice it to say, that the oration was so thickly interstrewn with lengthy quotations from the fathers,—Chrysostomus, Hieronymus, Ambrosius, Basilius, Bernardus, and the rest, with whose recondite Latinity, notwithstanding the clashing of their opinions with his own, the doctor was intimately acquainted, and which he moreover delighted to quote,—that his auditors were absolutely mystified and perplexed, and probably not without design. Countenances of such amazement were turned towards him, that Small, who had a keen sense of the ludicrous, could scarcely forbear smiling as he proceeded; and if we could suspect so grave a personage of waggery, we should almost think that, by way of retaliation, he had palmed some abstruse, monkish epicedium upon his astounded auditors.
The oration concluded, biscuits and confectionery were, according to old observance, handed to such of the tenantry as chose to partake of them. The serving of the grace-cup, which ought to have formed part of the duties of Zachariah,had he been capable of office, fell to the share of the sexton. The bowl was kissed, first by Ranulph, with lips that trembled with emotion, and afterward by his surrounding friends; but no drop was tasted—a circumstance which did not escape Peter's observation. Proceeding to the tenantry, the first in order happened to be Farmer Toft. Peter presented the cup, and as Toft was about to drain a deep draught of the wine, Peter whispered in his ear, "Take my advice for once, Friend Toft, and don't let a bubble of the liquid pass your lips. For every drop of the wine you drain, Sir Piers will have one sin the less, and you a load the heavier on your conscience. Didst never hear of sin-swallowing? For what else was this custom adopted? Seest thou not the cup's brim hath not yet been moistened? Well, as you will—ha, ha!" And the sexton passed onwards.
His work being nearly completed, he looked around for Jack Palmer, whom he had remarked during the oration, but could nowhere discover him. Peter was about to place the flagon, now almost drained of its contents, upon its former resting-place, when Small took it from his hands.
"In poculi fundo residuum non relinque, admonisheth Pythagoras," said he, returning the empty cup to the sexton.
"My task here is ended," muttered Peter, "but not elsewhere. Foul weather or fine, thunder or rain, I must to the church."
Bequeathing his final instructions to certain of the household who were to form part of the procession, in case it set out, he opened the hall door, and, the pelting shower dashing heavily in his face, took his way up the avenue, screaming, as he strode along, the following congenial rhymes:
EPHIALTES
I ride alone—I ride by nightThrough the moonless air on a courser white!Over the dreaming earth I fly,Here and there—at my fantasy!My frame is withered, my visage old,My locks are frore, and my bones ice cold.The wolf will howl as I pass his lair,The ban-dog moan, and the screech-owl stare.For breath, at my coming, the sleeper strains,And the freezing current forsakes his veins!Vainly for pity the wretch may sue—Merciless Mara no prayers subdue!To his couch I flit—On his breast I sit!Astride! astride! astride!And one charm alone—A hollow stone!—[23]Can scare me from his side!A thousand antic shapes I take;The stoutest heart at my touch will quake.The miser dreams of a bag of gold,Or a ponderous chest on his bosom rolled.The drunkard groans 'neath a cask of wine;The reveller swelts 'neath a weighty chine.The recreant turns, by his foes assailed,To flee!—but his feet to the ground are nailed.The goatherd dreams of his mountain-tops,And, dizzily reeling, downward drops.The murderer feels at his throat a knife,And gasps, as his victim gasped, for life!The thief recoils from the scorching brand;The mariner drowns in sight of land!Thus sinful man have I power to fray,Torture, and rack, but not to slay!But ever the couch of purity,With shuddering glance, I hurry by.Then mount! away!To horse! I say,To horse! astride! astride!The fire-drake shoots—The screech-owl hoots—As through the air I glide!
I ride alone—I ride by nightThrough the moonless air on a courser white!Over the dreaming earth I fly,Here and there—at my fantasy!My frame is withered, my visage old,My locks are frore, and my bones ice cold.The wolf will howl as I pass his lair,The ban-dog moan, and the screech-owl stare.For breath, at my coming, the sleeper strains,And the freezing current forsakes his veins!Vainly for pity the wretch may sue—Merciless Mara no prayers subdue!To his couch I flit—On his breast I sit!Astride! astride! astride!And one charm alone—A hollow stone!—[23]Can scare me from his side!A thousand antic shapes I take;The stoutest heart at my touch will quake.The miser dreams of a bag of gold,Or a ponderous chest on his bosom rolled.The drunkard groans 'neath a cask of wine;The reveller swelts 'neath a weighty chine.The recreant turns, by his foes assailed,To flee!—but his feet to the ground are nailed.The goatherd dreams of his mountain-tops,And, dizzily reeling, downward drops.The murderer feels at his throat a knife,And gasps, as his victim gasped, for life!The thief recoils from the scorching brand;The mariner drowns in sight of land!Thus sinful man have I power to fray,Torture, and rack, but not to slay!But ever the couch of purity,With shuddering glance, I hurry by.Then mount! away!To horse! I say,To horse! astride! astride!The fire-drake shoots—The screech-owl hoots—As through the air I glide!
I ride alone—I ride by nightThrough the moonless air on a courser white!Over the dreaming earth I fly,Here and there—at my fantasy!My frame is withered, my visage old,My locks are frore, and my bones ice cold.The wolf will howl as I pass his lair,The ban-dog moan, and the screech-owl stare.For breath, at my coming, the sleeper strains,And the freezing current forsakes his veins!Vainly for pity the wretch may sue—Merciless Mara no prayers subdue!To his couch I flit—On his breast I sit!Astride! astride! astride!And one charm alone—A hollow stone!—[23]Can scare me from his side!
A thousand antic shapes I take;The stoutest heart at my touch will quake.The miser dreams of a bag of gold,Or a ponderous chest on his bosom rolled.The drunkard groans 'neath a cask of wine;The reveller swelts 'neath a weighty chine.The recreant turns, by his foes assailed,To flee!—but his feet to the ground are nailed.The goatherd dreams of his mountain-tops,And, dizzily reeling, downward drops.
The murderer feels at his throat a knife,And gasps, as his victim gasped, for life!The thief recoils from the scorching brand;The mariner drowns in sight of land!Thus sinful man have I power to fray,Torture, and rack, but not to slay!But ever the couch of purity,With shuddering glance, I hurry by.Then mount! away!To horse! I say,To horse! astride! astride!The fire-drake shoots—The screech-owl hoots—As through the air I glide!
Methought I walked, about the mid of night,Into a churchyard.Webster:The White Devil.
Methought I walked, about the mid of night,Into a churchyard.
Methought I walked, about the mid of night,Into a churchyard.
Webster:The White Devil.
Lights streamed through the chancel window as the sexton entered the churchyard, darkly defining all the ramified tracery of the noble Gothic arch, and illumining the gorgeous dyes of its richly-stained glass, profusely decorated with the armorial bearings of the founder of the fane, and the many alliances of his descendants. The sheen of their blazonry gleamed bright in the darkness, as if to herald to his last home another of the line whose achievements it displayed. Glowing colorings, checkered like rainbow tints, were shed upon the broken leaves of the adjoining yew-trees, and upon the rounded grassy tombs.
Opening the gate, as he looked in that direction, Peter became aware of a dark figure, enveloped in a large black cloak, and covered with a slouched hat, standing at some distance, between the window and the tree, and so intervening as to receive the full influence of the stream of radiance which served to dilate its almost superhuman stature. The sexton stopped. The figure remained stationary. There was something singular both in the costume and situation of the person. Peter's curiosity was speedily aroused, and, familiar with every inch of the churchyard, he determined to take the nearest cut, and to ascertain to whom the mysterious cloak and hat belonged. Making his way over the undulating graves, and instinctively rounding the headstones that intercepted his path, he quickly drew near the object of his inquiry. From themoveless posture it maintained, the figure appeared to be unconscious of Peter's approach. To his eyes it seemed to expand as he advanced. He was now almost close upon it, when his progress was arrested by a violent grasp laid on his shoulder. He started, and uttered an exclamation of alarm. At this moment a vivid flash of lightning illumined the whole churchyard, and Peter then thought he beheld, at some distance from him, two other figures, bearing upon their shoulders a huge chest, or, it might be, a coffin. The garb of these figures, so far as it could be discerned through the drenching rain, was fantastical in the extreme. The foremost seemed to have a long white beard descending to his girdle. Little leisure, however, was allowed Peter for observation. The vision no sooner met his glance than it disappeared, and nothing was seen but the glimmering tombstones—nothing heard but the whistling wind and the heavily-descending shower. He rubbed his eyes. The muffled figure had vanished, and not a trace could be discovered of the mysterious coffin-bearers, if such they were.
"What have I seen?" mentally ejaculated Peter: "is this sorcery or treachery, or both? No body-snatchers would visit this place on a night like this, when the whole neighborhood is aroused. Can it be a vision I have seen? Pshaw! shall I juggle myself as I deceive these hinds? It was no bearded demon that I beheld, but the gipsy patrico, Balthazar. I knew him at once. But what meant that muffled figure; and whose arm could it have been that griped my shoulder? Ha! what if Lady Rookwood should have given orders for the removal of Susan's body? No, no; that cannot be. Besides, I have the keys of the vault; and there are hundreds now in the church who would permit no such desecration. I am perplexed to think what it can mean. But I will to the vault." Saying which, he hastened to the church porch, and after wringing the wet from his clothes, as a water-dog might shake the moisture from his curly hide, and doffing his broad felt hat, heentered the holy edifice. The interior seemed one blaze of light to the sexton, in his sudden transition from outer darkness. Some few persons were assembled, probably such as were engaged in the preparations; but there was one group which immediately caught his attention.
Near the communion-table stood three persons, habited in deep mourning, apparently occupied in examining the various monumental carvings that enriched the walls. Peter's office led him to that part of the church. About to descend into the vaults, to make the last preparations for the reception of the dead, with lantern in hand, keys, and a crowbar, he approached the party. Little attention was paid to the sexton's proceedings, till the harsh grating of the lock attracted their notice.
Peter started as he beheld the face of one of the three, and relaxing his hold upon the key, the strong bolt shot back in the lock. There was a whisper amongst the party. A light step was heard advancing towards him; and ere the sexton could sufficiently recover his surprise, or force open the door, a female figure stood by his side.
The keen, inquiring stare which Peter bestowed upon the countenance of the young lady so much abashed her, that she hesitated in her purpose of addressing him, and hastily retired.
"She here!" muttered Peter; "nay, then, I must no longer withhold the dreaded secret from Luke, or Ranulph may, indeed, wrest his possessions from him."
Reinforced by her companions, an elderly lady and a tall, handsome man, whose bearing and deportment bespoke him to be a soldier, the fair stranger again ventured towards Peter.
"You are the sexton," said she, addressing him in a voice sweet and musical.
"I am," returned Peter. It was harmony succeeded by dissonance.
"You, perhaps, can tell us, then," said the elderly lady, "whether the funeral is likely to take place to-night? We thought it possible that the storm might altogether prevent it."
"The storm is over, as nearly as maybe," replied Peter. "The body will soon be on its way. I am but now arrived from the hall."
"Indeed!" exclaimed the lady. "None of the family will be present, I suppose. Who is the chief mourner?"
"Young Sir Ranulph," answered the sexton. "There will be more of the family than were expected."
"Is Sir Ranulph returned?" asked the young lady, with great agitation of manner. "I thought he was abroad—that he was not expected. Are you sure you are rightly informed?"
"I parted with him at the hall not ten minutes since," replied Peter. "He returned from France to-night most unexpectedly."
"Oh, mother!" exclaimed the younger lady, "that this should be—that I should meet him here. Why did we come?—let us depart."
"Impossible!" replied her mother; "the storm forbids it. This man's information is so strange, I scarce can credit it. Are you sure you have asserted the truth?" said she, addressing Peter.
"I am not accustomed to be doubted," answered he. "Other things as strange have happened at the hall."
"What mean you?" asked the gentleman, noticing this last remark.
"You would not need to ask the question of me, had you been there, amongst the other guests," retorted Peter. "Odd things, I tell you, have been done there this night, and stranger things may occur before the morning."
"You are insolent, sirrah! I comprehend you not."
"Enough! I can comprehendyou," replied Peter, significantly; "I know the count of the mourners invited to this ceremonial, and I am aware that there are three too many."
"Know you this saucy knave, mother?"
"I cannot call him to mind, though I fancy I have seen him before."
"My recollection serves me better, lady," interposed Peter. "I remember one who was once the proud heiress of Rookwood—ay, proud and beautiful. Then the house was filled with her gallant suitors. Swords were crossed for her. Hearts bled for her. Yet she favored none, until one hapless hour. Sir Reginald Rookwoodhada daughter; Sir Reginaldlosta daughter. Ha!—I see I am right. Well, he is dead and buried; and Reginald, his son, is dead likewise; and Piers is on his road hither; and you are the last, as in the course of nature you might have been the first. And, now that they are all gone, you do rightly to bury your grievances with them."
"Silence, sirrah!" exclaimed the gentleman, "or I will beat your brains out with your own spade."
"No; let him speak, Vavasour," said the lady, with an expression of anguish—"he has awakened thoughts of other days."
"I have done," said Peter, "and must to work. Will you descend with me, madam, into the sepulchre of your ancestry? All your family lie within—ay, and the Lady Eleanor, your mother, amongst the number."
Mrs. Mowbray signified her assent, and the party prepared to follow him.
The sexton held the lantern so as to throw its light upon the steps as they entered the gloomy receptacle of the departed. Eleanor half repented having ventured within its dreary limits, so much did the appearance of the yawning catacombs, surcharged with mortality, and, above all, the ghostly figure of the grim knight, affect her with dread, as she looked wistfully around. She required all the support her brother's arm could afford her; nor was Mrs. Mowbray altogether unmoved.
"And all the family are here interred, you say?" inquired the latter.
"All," replied the sexton.
"Where, then, lies Sir Reginald's younger brother?"
"Who?" exclaimed Peter, starting.
"Alan Rookwood."
"What of him?"
"Nothing of moment. But I thought you could, perhaps, inform me. He died young."
"He did," replied Peter, in an altered tone—"very young; but not before he had lived to an old age of wretchedness. Do you know his story, madam?"
"I have heard it."
"From your father's lips?"
"From Sir Reginald Rookwood's—never. Call him not my father, sirrah; evenhereI will not have him named so to me."
"Your pardon, madam," returned the sexton. "Great cruelty was shown to the Lady Eleanor, and may well call forth implacable resentment in her child; yet methinks the wrong he did his brother Alan was the foulest stain with which Sir Reginald's black soul was dyed."
"With what particular wrong dost thou charge Sir Reginald?" demanded Major Mowbray. "What injury did he inflict upon his brother Alan?"
"He wronged his brother's honor," replied the sexton; "he robbed him of his wife, poisoned his existence, and hurried him to an untimely grave."
Eleanor shudderingly held back during this horrible narration, the hearing of which she would willingly have shunned, had it been possible.
"Can this be true?" asked the major.
"Too true, my son," replied Mrs. Mowbray, sorrowfully.
"And where lies the unfortunate Alan?" asked Major Mowbray.
"'Twixt two cross roads. Where else should the suicide lie?"
Evading any further question, Peter hastily traversed thevault, elevating the light so as to reveal the contents of each cell. One circumstance filled him with surprise and dismay—he could nowhere perceive the coffin of his daughter. In vain he peered into every catacomb—they were apparently undisturbed; and, with much internal marvelling and misgiving, Peter gave up the search. "That vision is now explained," muttered he; "the body is removed, but by whom? Death! can I doubt? It must be Lady Rookwood—who else can have any interest in its removal. She has acted boldly. But she shall yet have reason to repent her temerity." As he continued his search, his companions silently followed. Suddenly he stopped, and, signifying that all was finished, they not unwillingly quitted this abode of horror, leaving him behind them.
"It is a dreadful place," whispered Eleanor to her mother; "nor would I have visited it, had I conceived anything of its horrors. And that strange man! who or what is he?"
"Ay, who is he?" repeated Major Mowbray.
"I recollect him now," replied Mrs. Mowbray; "he is one who has ever been connected with the family. He had a daughter, whose beauty was her ruin: it is a sad tale; I cannot tell it now: you have heard enough of misery and guilt: but that may account for his bitterness of speech. He was a dependent upon my poor brother."
"Poor man!" replied Eleanor; "if he has been unfortunate, I pity him. I am sorry we have been into that dreadful place. I am very faint: and I tremble more than ever at the thought of meeting Ranulph Rookwood again. I can scarcely support myself—I am sure I shall not venture to look upon him."
"Had I dreamed of the likelihood of his attending the ceremony, rest assured, dear Eleanor, we should not have been here: but I was informed there was no possibility of his return. Compose yourself, my child. It will be a trying time to both of us; but it is now inevitable."
At this moment the bell began to toll. "The processionhas started," said Peter, as he passed the Mowbrays. "That bell announces the setting out."
"See yonder persons hurrying to the door," exclaimed Eleanor, with eagerness, and trembling violently. "They are coming. Oh! I shall never be able to go through with it, dear mother."
Peter hastened to the church door, where he stationed himself, in company with a host of others, equally curious. Flickering lights in the distance, shining like stars through the trees, showed them that the procession was collecting in front of the hall. The rain had now entirely ceased; the thunder muttered from afar, and the lightning seemed only to lick the moisture from the trees. The bell continued to toll, and its loud booming awoke the drowsy echoes of the valley. On the sudden, a solitary, startling concussion of thunder was heard; and presently a man rushed down from the belfry, with the tidings that he had seen a ball of fire fall from a cloud right over the hall. Every ear was on the alert for the next sound; none was heard. It was the crisis of the storm. Still the funeral procession advanced not. The strong sheen of the torchlight was still visible from the bottom of the avenue, now disappearing, now brightly glimmering, as if the bearers were hurrying to and fro amongst the trees. It was evident that much confusion prevailed, and that some misadventure had occurred. Each man muttered to his neighbor, and few were there who had not in a measure surmised the cause of the delay. At this juncture, a person without his hat, breathless with haste and almost palsied with fright, rushed through the midst of them and, stumbling over the threshold, fell headlong into the church.
"What's the matter, Master Plant? What has happened? Tell us! Tell us!" exclaimed several voices simultaneously.
"Lord have mercy upon us!" cried Plant, gasping for utterance, and not attempting to raise himself. "It's horrible! dreadful! oh!—oh!"
"What has happened?" inquired Peter, approaching the fallen man.
"And dostthouneed to ask, Peter Bradley? thou, who foretold it all? but I will not say what I think, though my tongue itches to tell thee the truth. Be satisfied, thy wizard's lore has served thee right—he is dead."
"Who? Ranulph Rookwood? Has anything befallen him, or the prisoner, Luke Bradley?" asked the sexton, with eagerness.
A scream here burst forth from one who was standing behind the group; and, in spite of the efforts of her mother to withhold her, Eleanor Mowbray rushed forward.
"Has aught happened to Sir Ranulph?" asked she.
"Noa—noa—not to Sir Ranulph—he be with the body."
"Heaven be thanked for that!" exclaimed Eleanor. And then, as if ashamed of her own vehemence, and, it might seem, apparent indifference to another's fate, she inquired who was hurt.
"It be poor neighbor Toft, that be killed by a thunderbolt, ma'am," replied Plant.
Exclamations of horror burst from all around.
No one was more surprised at this intelligence than the sexton. Like many other seers, he had not, in all probability, calculated upon the fulfilment of his predictions, and he now stared aghast at the extent of his own foreknowledge.
"I tell 'ee what, Master Peter," said Plant, shaking his bullet-head, "it be well for thee thou didn't live in my grandfather's time, or thou'dst ha' been ducked in a blanket; or may be burnt at the stake, like Ridley and Latimer, as we read on—but however that may be, ye shall hear how poor Toft's death came to pass, and nobody can tell 'ee better nor I, seeing I were near to him, poor fellow, at the time. Well, we thought as how the storm were all over—and had all got into order of march, and were just beginning to step up the avenue, the coffin-bearers pushing lustily along, and the torches shininggrandly, when poor Simon Toft, who could never travel well in liquor in his life, reeled to one side, and staggering against the first huge lime-tree, sat himself down beneath it—thou knowest the tree I mean."
"The tree of fate," returned Peter. "I ought, methinks, to know it."
"Well, I were just stepping aside to pick him up, when all at once there comes such a crack of thunder, and, whizzing through the trees, flashed a great globe of red fire, so bright and dazzlin', it nearly blinded me; and when I opened my eyes, winkin' and waterin', I see'd that which blinded me more even than the flash—that which had just afore been poor Simon, but which was now a mass o' black smouldering ashes, clean consumed and destroyed—his clothes rent to a thousand tatters—the earth and stones tossed up, and scattered all about, and a great splinter of the tree lying beside him."
"Heaven's will be done!" said the sexton; "this is an awful judgment."
"And Sathan cast down; for this is a spice o' his handiwork," muttered Plant; adding, as he slunk away, "If ever Peter Bradley do come to the blanket, dang me if I don't lend a helpin' hand."
How like a silent stream, shaded by night,And gliding softly with our windy sighs,Moves the whole frame of this solemnity!Tears, sighs, and blacks, filling the simile!Whilst I, the only murmur in this groveOf death, thus hollowly break forth.The Fatal Dowry.
How like a silent stream, shaded by night,And gliding softly with our windy sighs,Moves the whole frame of this solemnity!Tears, sighs, and blacks, filling the simile!Whilst I, the only murmur in this groveOf death, thus hollowly break forth.
How like a silent stream, shaded by night,And gliding softly with our windy sighs,Moves the whole frame of this solemnity!Tears, sighs, and blacks, filling the simile!Whilst I, the only murmur in this groveOf death, thus hollowly break forth.
The Fatal Dowry.
Word being given that the funeral train was fast approaching, the church door was thrown open, and the assemblage divided in two lines, to allow it admission.
Meanwhile, a striking change had taken place, even in this brief period, in the appearance of the night. The sky, heretofore curtained with darkness, was now illumined by a serene, soft moon, which, floating in a watery halo, tinged with silvery radiance the edges of a few ghostly clouds that hurried along the deep and starlit skies. The suddenness of the change could not fail to excite surprise and admiration, mingled with regret that the procession had not been delayed until the present time.
Slowly and mournfully the train was seen to approach the churchyard, winding, two by two, with melancholy step, around the corner of the road. First came Dr. Small; then the mutes, with their sable panoply; next, the torch-bearers; next, those who sustained the coffin, bending beneath their ponderous burden, followed by Sir Ranulph and a long line of attendants, all plainly to be distinguished by the flashing torchlight. There was a slight halt at the gate, and the coffin changed supporters.
"Ill luck betide them!" ejaculated Peter; "could they findno other place except that to halt at? Must Sir Piers be gatekeeper till next Yule! No," added he, seeing what followed; "it will be poor Toft, after all."
Following close upon the coffin came a rude shell, containing, as Peter rightly conjectured, the miserable remains of Simon Toft, who had met his fate in the manner described by Plant. The bolt of death glanced from the tree which it first struck, and reduced the unfortunate farmer to a heap of dust. Universal consternation prevailed, and doubts were entertained as to what course should be pursued. It was judged best by Dr. Small to remove the remains at once to the charnel-house. Thus "unanointed, unaneled, with all his imperfections on his head," was poor Simon Toft, in one brief second, in the twinkling of an eye, plunged from the height of festivity to the darkness of the grave, and so horribly disfigured, that scarce a vestige of humanity was discernible in the mutilated mass that remained of him. Truly may we be said to walk in blindness, and amidst deep pitfalls.
The churchyard was thronged by the mournful train. The long array of dusky figures—the waving torchlight gleaming ruddily in the white moonshine—now glistening upon the sombre habiliments of the bearers, and on their shrouded load, now reflected upon the jagged branches of the yew-trees, or falling upon the ivied buttresses of the ancient church, constituted no unimpressive picture. Over all, like a lamp hung in the still sky, shone the moon, shedding a soothing, spiritual lustre over the scene.
The organ broke into a solemn strain as the coffin was borne along the mid-aisle—the mourners following, with reverent step, and slow. It was deposited near the mouth of the vault, the whole assemblage circling around it. Dr. Small proceeded with the performance of that magnificent service appointed for the burial of the dead, in a tone as remarkable for its sadness as for its force and fervor. There was a tear in every eye—a cloud on every brow.
Brightly illumined as was the whole building, there were still some recesses which, owing to the intervention of heavy pillars, were thrown into shade; and in one of these, supported by her mother and brother, stood Eleanor, a weeping witness of the scene. She beheld the coffin silently borne along; she saw one dark figure slowly following; she knew those pale features—oh, how pale they were! A year had wrought a fearful alteration; she could scarce credit what she beheld. He must, indeed, have suffered—deeply suffered; and her heart told her that his sorrows had been for her.
Many a wistful look, besides, was directed to the principal figure in this ceremonial, Ranulph Rookwood. He was a prey to unutterable anguish of soul; his heart bled inwardly for the father he had lost. Mechanically following the body down the aisle, he had taken his station near it, gazing with confused vision upon the bystanders; had listened, with a sad composure, to the expressive delivery of Small, until he read—"For man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain; he heapeth up riches, and cannot tell who shall gather them."
"Verily!" exclaimed a deep voice; and Ranulph, looking round, met the eyes of Peter Bradley fixed full upon him. But it was evidently not the sexton who had spoken.
Small continued the service. He arrived at this verse: "Thou hast set our misdeeds before thee; and our secret sins in the light of thy countenance."
"Even so!" exclaimed the voice; and as Ranulph raised his eyes in the direction of the sound, he thought he saw a dark figure, muffled in a cloak, disappear behind one of the pillars. He bestowed, however, at the moment, little thought upon this incident. His heart melted within him; and leaning his face upon his hand, he wept aloud.
"Command yourself, I entreat of you, my dear Sir Ranulph," said Dr. Small, as soon as the service was finished, "and suffer this melancholy ceremonial to be completed."Saying which, he gently withdrew Ranulph from his support, and the coffin was lowered into the vault.
Ranulph remained for some time in the extremity of sorrow. When he in part recovered, the crowd had dispersed, and few persons were remaining within the church; yet near him stood three apparent loiterers. They advanced towards him. An exclamation of surprise and joy burst from his lips.
"Eleanor!"
"Ranulph!"
"Is it possible? Do I indeed behold you, Eleanor?"
No other word was spoken. They rushed into each other's arms. Oh! sad—sad is the lover's parting—no pang so keen; but if life hath a zest more exquisite than others—if felicity hath one drop more racy than the rest in her honeyed cup, it is the happiness enjoyed in such a union as the present. To say that he was as one raised from the depths of misery by some angel comforter, were a feeble comparison of the transport of Ranulph. To paint the thrilling delight of Eleanor—the trembling tenderness—the fond abandonment which vanquished all her maiden scruples, would be impossible. Reluctantly yielding—fearing, yet complying, her lips were sealed in one long, loving kiss, the sanctifying pledge of their tried affection.
"Eleanor, dear Eleanor," exclaimed Ranulph, "though I hold you within my arms—though each nerve within my frame assures me of your presence—though I look into those eyes, which seem fraught with greater endearment than ever I have known them wear—though I see and feel and know all this, so sudden, so unlooked for is the happiness, that I could almost doubt its reality. Say to what blessed circumstance I am indebted for this unlooked-for happiness."
"We are staying not far hence, with friends, dear Ranulph; and my mother, hearing of Sir Piers Rookwood's death, and wishing to bury all animosity with him, resolved to be present at the sad ceremony. We were told you could not be here."
"And would my presence have prevented your attendance, Eleanor?"
"Not that, dear Ranulph; but——"
"But what?"
At this moment the advance of Mrs. Mowbray offered an interruption to their further discourse.
"My son and I appear to be secondary in your regards, Sir Ranulph," said she, gravely.
"SirRanulph!" mentally echoed the young man. "What willshethink when she knows that that title is not mine? I dread to tell her." He then added aloud, with a melancholy smile, "I crave your pardon, madam; the delight of a meeting so unexpected with your daughter must plead my apology."
"None is wanting, Sir Ranulph," said Major Mowbray. "I who have known what separation from my sister is, can readily excuse your feelings. But you look ill."
"I have, indeed, experienced much mental anxiety," said Ranulph, looking at Eleanor; "it is now past, and I would fain hope that a brighter day is dawning." His heart answered, 'twas but a hope.
"You were unlooked for here to-night, Sir Ranulph," said Mrs. Mowbray; "by us, at least: we were told you were abroad."
"You were rightly informed, madam," replied Ranulph. "I only arrived this evening from Bordeaux."
"I am glad you are returned. We are at present on a visit with your neighbors, the Davenhams, at Braybrook, and trust we shall see you there."
"I will ride over to-morrow," replied Ranulph; "there is much on which I would consult you all. I would have ventured to request the favor of your company at Rookwood, had the occasion been other than the present."
"And I would willingly have accepted your invitation," returned Mrs. Mowbray; "I should like to see the old house once more. During your father's lifetime I could not approachit. You are lord of broad lands, Sir Ranulph—a goodly inheritance."
"Madam!"
"And a proud title, which you will grace well, I doubt not. The first, the noblest of our house, was he from whom you derive your name. You are the third Sir Ranulph; the first founded the house of Rookwood; the next advanced it; 'tis for you to raise its glory to its height."
"Alas! madam, I have no such thought."
"Wherefore not? you are young, wealthy, powerful. With such domains as those of Rookwood—with such a title as its lord can claim, naught should be too high for your aspirations."
"I aspire to nothing, madam, but your daughter's hand; and even that I will not venture to solicit until you are acquainted with——" And he hesitated.
"With what?" asked Mrs. Mowbray, in surprise.
"A singular, and to me most perplexing event has occurred to-night," replied Ranulph, "which may materially affect my future fortunes."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray. "Does it relate to your mother?"
"Excuse my answering the question now, madam," replied Ranulph; "you shall know all to-morrow."
"Ay, to-morrow, dear Ranulph," said Eleanor; "and whatever that morrow may bring forth, it will bring happiness to me, if you are bearer of the tidings."
"I shall expect your coming with impatience," said Mrs. Mowbray.
"And I," added Major Mowbray, who had listened thus far in silence, "would offer you my services in any way you think they would be useful. Command me as you think fitting."
"I thank you heartily," returned Ranulph. "To-morrow you shall learn all. Meanwhile, it shall be my business to investigate the truth or falsehood of the statement I have heard, ere I report it to you. Till then, farewell."
As they issued from the church it was gray dawn. Mrs. Mowbray's carriage stood at the door. The party entered it; and accompanied by Dr. Small, whom he found within in the vestry, Ranulph walked towards the hall, where a fresh surprise awaited him.