“Bravely spoken, old Mont Blanc,” returned the other; “but chafe thyself not, lest it cause thee less precisely to discharge thy functions, according to thy own most choice phrase. A way! I will in mere kindness, assist thy steps, which are somewhat slower than thy tongue.”
And he pushed the old man along, who had nigh suffered consequent prostration, whilst the expression of his wrath was drowned in the jeers and laughter of those near him.
Chiverton and his bride, accompanied by Sir Gamelyn and the physician, had meanwhile sought the apartment allotted to the old Knight and his daughter. Vancouver exerted himself to dispel the apparent sadness that clouded the pair. In some degree he succeeded, for Chiverton rendered aware that the abstract and silent demeanour which he had hitherto involuntarily displayed, might excite a degree of surprise, the dispelling of which would be a difficult task, laboured to resume his customary presence of mind. Besides, the eyes of the physician were upon him, and he was unwilling to seem incapable of that self-command, which gave Scymel so great a real, though not avowed ascendancy over Chiverton. And as the temperament of woman assimilates to that of the objects of her affections, the real gaiety of her father, and its imitation by Chiverton, had the desired effect upon Isabel.
The conversation which was carried on, had not long continued ere a thundering noise from below gave note of preparation of dinner; an annunciation that was speedily confirmed by the appearance of Master Misseltoe himself, who, arrayed in a new suit of office, by which acquisition his natural importance seemed doubled, came to conduct the Knight and his companions to the dining hall.
As they descended the great stairs, everything announced a season of extraordinary festivity. The dark wainscotting was hung with flowers, that sported among the fantastic carvings. Loud sounds of revelry burst from the court-yard, and an occasional window gave to view the boisterous sports in which antiquity delighted, and with which the industrious research of modem times has made us familiar. Groups of wild figures, arrayed in all the extravagance of misrule, danced, sang, and shouted to music of more energy than taste. On the river might be seen the exercise of the water quintain, an amusement highly popular among a warlike and chivalrous people, and the object of which was to put to the test the dexterity of successive champions, who standing erect in a boat impelled forward with great speed by the rowers, aimed against a shield elevated from the water, a blow, which unless the striker succeeded in breaking his lance, infallibly dismounted and consigned him to a sound ducking. Many were the games, and great the prevailing jollity, whilst open tables, and broached barrels of humming ale, held out an invitation too kindly to be disregarded.
On entering the dining hall, they found the gallants of the place assembled, and waiting the arrival of the master and the mistress of the feast. The steward having marshalled the Knight to the head of the ample board, stationed on either side the lady and her father. As for the rest there was no disputes of precedence, for all knew their seats, and assumed them, without resorting to the determination of Master Misseltoe.
The appearance of the room was splendid and imposing. Its style of finishing was highly ornamental, and additional decorations had been hung on the walls. The streaming locks of the mermaids, that looked from the deep cornice, were wreathed with unwonted garlands. Side tables were laden with plate, whose ponderous magnificence seemed to threaten to break down their support. At one of these tables, near their mistress, sat Isabel’s two attendants, and at another were stationed two old men, whose harps denoted them members of a profession once highly esteemed, but which, even at the time of our history, was fading into neglect. A number of domestics in gay apparel, and wearing the badge of the family, passed to and fro under the direction of Master Misseltoe, whose satisfaction seemed complete at having an opportunity of exerting his authority on an occasion of more than ordinary importance.
A table extending nearly the whole length of the spacious apartment, groaned under the weight of the viands it supported. These were of a substantial nature, foreign to modem times. Many dishes, too, unknown to the culinary professors of the nineteenth century, conveyed anticipatory delight to the gourmands of Chiverton Hall. Massive sirloins, like islands amid the oceans, supplied by the streams that flowed from them; the haunch bursting with the swell of its overflowing juices, were conspicuous among a crowd of minor flesh, fish and fowl. The stately peacock, once accounted a dainty, the turkey and the white plump chicken, the delicate representatives of the poultry yard, were accompanied by the heron and the quail.
The river, too, had contributed its share to the feast. The kingly salmon, the generous trout, and the gentle carp, had severally undergone the operations which are the guests delight, but the fret, fume, and choler of the cook. The melancholy pike, and his physician the tench, had met with the same fate, and quitted then weedy habitations for the savoury herbs among which they now reposed. Nor had the poisonous qualities attributed to the eel and his cousin the lamprey, guarded the one from roasting, or the other from stewing. There, too, the mimic architecture of pastry-work triumphed, and the imitative arts gave birth to numberless beasts, birds, trees, rocks, and men, compounded of perishable but palatable materials. These various condiments were presented in successive courses, and ponderous flagons, redolent of Canary and Rhenish, gave zest to the morsels.
The feast had commenced, when Chiverton, with a sudden exclamation of angry surprise, called to Misseltoe —
“What means that hatchment?” he exclaimed, pointing to a large one suspended at one end of the room, and on which were impaled the arms of Chiverton and Vancouver. The outer part of the hatchment adjoining the dexter partition of the shield, which supported the arms of Chiverton, was coloured of a sable hue, while the residue was left white, denoting, according to heraldic interpretation, that the husband no longer lived. The shield too was a lozenge as borne by a widow.
With a voice faltering with consternation at the ominous sight, the old man professed his entire ignorance of the cause or author of the appearance.
“Remove it then,” said Chiverton, “and mind thee, Misseltoe — find out the slave that has done this — he shall rue it while he lives.”
The first part of the injunction was obeyed, the remainder was not equally in the steward’s power. On interrogation every one disclaimed knowledge of the deed. Superstitious fears arose, from which no one save the physician remained wholly free. He, though ignorant as the rest of the origin of the object of dismay, was too little credulous to ascribe to supernatural agency, a circumstance which a very slight human exertion might effect. He saw nothing extraordinary in the painting of a board, and was not without a conjecture as to the artist.
The rage of Chiverton, on the report of the steward’s ill success in his inquisition, was at first violent, but by degrees subsided into a troubled and agitated abstraction. He ate little, and mingled not in the conversation. His eyebrows occasionally contracted in sudden and convulsive fits, and his glance raised from time to time to the spot whence the hatchment had been removed, indicated the subject that still possessed his thoughts.
Meanwhile the feast proceeded. The instruments of the musicians breathed out by turns the notes of gaiety and joy, or the loftier harpings of warlike and chivalrous deeds. The ready jest, the quip, the retort, circulated with the wine cup, and the celerity with which the solid food became invisible, declared the prowess of the company. The dimness of evening stole upon them, and the wax lights of the huge chandeliers were lit.
When the dishes were removed, Isabel arose to depart with her attendants. Chiverton, warned by a glance from the physician, accompanied her to the door of the apartment. As they parted she gazed anxiously at him — she knew not why, but a nervous apprehension oppressed her. He was confused, broke hastily from her, and returned to his seat. He made a temporary effort to recall his attention and self-command.
“Some wine here, ho and he quaffed long and deeply the blushing tide. “And which of you now, gentlemen,
can tell of the progress of the gallant Vivian and his rustic flame?”
“Ruined and undone, Sir John,” answered Faynton: “he shortened his ruff in obedience to the proclamation just made, and the damsel who likes not the fashion has discarded him therefore.”
“In truth,” said Chiverton, “that were too rough. To discard a courtly servant for such a trifle is indeed too much tyranny.”
“Heed it not, heed it not, Master Vivian,” exclaimed Vancouver, “an she get a new lover, get thou a new love. There is no scarcity that I wit of.”
“There is Wilton shall give thee a song, man, to charm away melancholy,” said a youth who sat between Faynton and Vivian.
“A song, a song — a Wilton, a Wilton,” shouted half-a-dozen voices at once, in boisterous approbation of the suggestion.
“I need no song for melancholy,” said Vivian, “seeing that I am not, have not been, and never will be melancholy for a woman. For I hold that a woman that likes me not, is not worthy of melancholy, and she who does, gives no occasion. Nevertheless, I would gladly hear the song.”
The song was on the point of commencing, when Chiverton, with the sudden eagerness of one who for the first time takes notice of a circumstance of painful import, inquired, casting at the same time a hurried glance around him—” Where is Mahmood Bali?”
No one had seen the Moor since the commencement of the feast.
“Let him be sought for instantly,’’ said Chiverton.
The domestics obeyed, but were unsuccessful as in their former research. The cloud again spread itself over Chiverton’s brow, with deeper gloom than before.
“Come, come, Wilton, thy song,” exclaimed some one-
“Aye, aye,” said Chiverton, “the song by all means — sing for her — sing for her — let’s be merry — ha ha — ha!”
The laugh, and the look by which it was accompanied were strangely wild. The physician, who sat near his patron, anxious to recall his disturbed attention, asked, “For whom must he sing? the Lady Isabel has left us.”
By a momentary look and gesture, Chiverton directed the attention of the querist to the other end of the room, “For her — for her,” said he in a subdued tone.
The physician looked accordingly, but saw nothing to which to apply the words of the Knight. He spoke not, but looked at Sir Gamelyn, fearful lest he should have taken alarm at the troubled demeanour of Chiverton. Fortunately the wine had taken a favourable effect on Vancouver, who in a state between sleeping and waking, seemed as if his powers of observation were wholly dormant. The song was again called for, and a light complexioned young man, with a preposterous doublet and a ruff, which unlike the courtly Vivian’s, had evidently not allowed the authority of the pro clamation, cleared his tones for the ensuing ditty.
SONG.
I.
The rose that spreads its summer bloom,
Is false, and fades at winter’s gloom;
The April beam, the flowers of May,
Are false, for soon they fleet away; —
But ladies, can you say me nay,
Women are more false than they.
II.
Yet trust the rose while summer smiles,
While yet its scent the sense beguiles;
Trust April’s sun, nor fear its showers;
In Autumn look for May’s white flowers; —
Do this — but seek not e’er to spy,
The glance of truth in woman’s eye.
“Good — good — good,” shouted Chiverton as the singer concluded, “very good, ha — ha — ha,” and he laughed fearfully, “sing again for her — her — her!”
The eyes’ of all the company, which had been turned towards the singer, were suddenly directed to Chiverton, and as suddenly averted from the appalling appearance that presented itself. The guests sprung to their feet, and gazed at each other without speaking. All was terror and confusion. Even the physician for a moment shuddered at the object before him: no one ventured to break the silence that prevailed; a silence interrupted only by the exuberant gaiety of the revellers without, that jarred harshly on the-ears of the astonished and confounded assembly.
It seemed that fear, or surprise, or both, had taken from every individual all self-recollection. None stirred — none spoke; all stood rooted to the ground, as under the influence of some potent and compelling spell.
A minute or two had elapsed, when the physician distinguished among the discordant noises without, the distant beat of horses’ hoofs. These seemed to near rapidly. Scymel slipped un noticed from the apartment.
“’Tis over,” said he inwardly as he sought his own study, “and I have failed in my experiment; the weakness of human nature has frustrated my intents. Had he but possessed more firmness it had been otherwise. But I suspect foul play here. Yon tramp comes nearer and nearer; ’tis Prestwyche and his band, his machinery of the Star-chamber. Let them search.”
He opened the door of a small room appropriated to himself, in which the collection of drugs and chemical agents, and the philosophical apparatus he was wont to occupy himself with, had procured among the more ignorant inhabitants of the hall, the reputation for Scymel of being a wizard, or little better. The first object that presented itself to him, as he entered, was the form of the Moor enveloped in a riding cloak.
“Ha, my sable raven! my infidel carrion crow, dost thou fly from the prey when the work is done? Thou hast done quietly and surely; but what makest thou here? to bid me a kindly farewell ere thy departure? Hast thou aught to communicate?”
With the diabolical smile that occasionally visited the features of the Moor, he pointed first to a half empty vial that stood by, and then to the physician.
“Then I, too, have drank,” exclaimed Scymel; “devil — thou shalt feel — but” — he endeavoured to reach a small bottle from a shelf; the Moor sprung forward and dashed the antidote from his grasp.
“Thou at least shalt share my fate,” vociferated the physician, as he snatched up a short weapon resembling a stiletto that lay near, and aimed it at the Moor. They closed: the struggle for a moment was desperate: the Moor was too strong, and hurling his adversary to the ground, placed his foot firmly on the physician’s breast, then folding his arms awaited with a deliberate gaze the death agonies of Scymel.
Even here the determination of the physician failed him not. Knowing with whom he had to do, he spoke not, but returned with a steady gaze of scorn and defiance, the malignant and triumphing looks of his enemy, who chuckled his horrible laugh over the prostrate foe.
At length the poison began to work, and the devilish glee of Mahmood waxed greater and greater, as he feasted his eyes on the racking convulsions of his victim. They were too violent to endure long, yet the physician still lived, when the sound came of hasty footsteps approaching, and the loud and vengeful voice of Prestwyche was heard, directing and encouraging the search.
“There — there,” faintly exclaimed Scymel, as the last breath trembled on his lips, “thou wilt not yet escape — the hangman’s rope.”
He spake no more, for the Moor believing it now time to depart, took his dagger from his girdle and with one blow concluded the scene. This done, he extinguished the lamp that lighted the chamber, and standing erect before the door awaited the result.
The door was burst open. The Moor bounded forth — struck to the ground two men who endeavoured to stay him, and encountering Prestwyche, discharged a pistol at his head. The hall missed him, but blinded with the flash he was unable on the instant to act. Mahmood sprung by, overturned all that opposed him, and cleared the building. His deadly laugh was heard as he passed the threshold, and presently after the rapid tramp of a horse was heard, becoming gradually more dim and distant. Pursuit was vain, and none was attempted.
The issue of the search, is, perhaps, needless to dwell upon. Wayword and Beatrice were liberated from their confinement, but of the principal and unfortunate object of their search, no traces were discoverable. Faint rumours indeed ther
e were of the shriek which had been heard the previous night, and these were the next day confirmed by the discovery, on the bank of the river, of a band, which had belonged to Ellice. The stream was searched but ineffectually, and no more could be done. The bodies of Chiverton and the physician were, after due inquiry, committed to the family vault. The inhabitants of the hall dispersed. The hall itself passed into distant hands; the new proprietor did not choose to change his own residence; and the strange rumours that speedily flew about, prevented any one from becoming its tenant. During the civil wars, it was alternately occupied as a desirable station by the Roundheads, and the Cavaliers, and it is reported that a gay dissolute young fellow of the latter party, who took up his temporary lodgings in the Maiden’s chamber, received such a revelation there, that he hastened in his new found pious zeal to join the republicans under Fairfax; a slight impediment to the execution of which design occurred, in his head being cloven by the sword of one of the royal troopers. This is the last tradition of note connected with the Hall.
Since the period of our history, it has gradually fallen to decay, and is now reduced to a nest of hovels; its glories gone, though a gleam — a recollection of its pristine beauties still remains. But the hand of the spoiler it is feared approaches, and the present owner, a dealer in calves’ heads, is said to meditate the razing of the edifice, and building in lieu what he terms “two christian-like houses of good stock brick.”
THE END
ROOKWOOD
First published in 1834, this historical and gothic romance concerns a dispute over the legitimate claim for the inheritance of Rookwood Place and the Rookwood family name. Ainsworth began to develop the idea of writing a novel in 1829. In a letter to James Crossley during that May, Ainsworth inquired about information concerning Gypsies and eulogies. By 1830, he began to work for Fraser’s Magazine and was with the magazine when he started writing Rookwood in 1831. A preface to the 1849 edition of the novel discusses the origins and development of the novel: “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.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 16
