“My mother was present. You know the restraint she usually had over my father, and how she maintained it. On this occasion she had none. He questioned me as to every particular; probed my secret soul; dragged forth every latent feeling, and then thundered out his own determination that Eleanor never should be bride of mine; nor would he receive, under his roof, her mother, the discountenanced daughter of his father. I endeavored to remonstrate with him. He was deaf to my entreaties. My mother added sharp and stinging words to my expostulations. ‘I had her consent,’ she said; ‘what more was needed? The lands were entailed. I should at no distant period be their master, and might then please myself.’ This I mention in order to give you my father’s strange answer.
“‘Have a care, madam,’ replied he, ‘and bridle your tongue; they are entailed, ’tis true, but I need not ask his consent to cut off that entail. Let him dare to disobey me in this particular, and I will so divert the channel of my wealth, that no drop shall reach him. I will — but why threaten? — let him do it, and approve the consequences.’
“On the morrow I renewed my importunities, with no better success. We were alone.
“‘Ranulph,’ said he, ‘you waste time in seeking to change my resolution. It is unalterable. I have many motives which influence me; they are inexplicable, but imperative. Eleanor Mowbray never can be yours. Forget her as speedily as may be, and I pledge myself, upon whomsoever else your choice may fix, I will offer no obstacle.’
“‘But why,’ exclaimed I, with vehemence, ‘do you object to one whom you have never beheld? At least, consent to see her.’
“‘Never!’ he replied, ‘The tie is sundered, and cannot be reunited; my father bound me by an oath never to meet in friendship with my sister; I will not break my vow, I will not violate its conditions, even in the second degree. We never can meet again. An idle prophecy which I have heard has said “that when a Rookwood shall marry a Rookwood the end of the house draweth nigh.” That I regard not. It may have no meaning, or it may have much. To me it imports nothing further, than that, if you wed Eleanor, every acre I possess shall depart from you. And assure yourself this is no idle threat. I can, and will do it. My curse shall be your sole inheritance.’
“I could not avoid making some reply, representing to him how unjustifiable such a procedure was to me, in a case where the happiness of my life was at stake; and how inconsistent it was with the charitable precepts of our faith, to allow feelings of resentment to influence his conduct. My remonstrances, as in the preceding meeting, were ineffectual. The more I spoke, the more intemperate he grew. I therefore desisted, but not before he had ordered me to quit the house. I did not leave the neighborhood, but saw him again on the same evening.
“Our last interview took place in the garden. I then told him that I had determined to go abroad for two years, at the expiration of which period I proposed returning to England; trusting that his resolution might then be changed, and that he would listen to my request, for the fulfilment of which I could never cease to hope. Time, I hoped, might befriend me. He approved of my plan of travelling, requesting me not to see Eleanor before I set out; adding, in a melancholy tone— ‘We may never meet again, Ranulph, in this life; in that case, farewell forever. Indulge no vain hopes. Eleanor never can be yours, but upon one condition, and to that you would never consent!’— ‘Propose it!’ I cried; ‘there is no condition I could not accede to.’— ‘Rash boy!’ he replied, ‘you know not what you say; that pledge you would never fulfil, were I to propose it to you; but no — should I survive till you return, you shall learn it then — and now, farewell.’— ‘Speak now, I beseech you!’ I exclaimed; ‘anything, everything — what you will!’— ‘Say no more,’ replied he, walking towards the house; ‘when you return we will renew this subject; farewell — perhaps forever!’ His words were prophetic — that parting was forever. I remained in the garden till nightfall. I saw my mother, but he came not again. I quitted England without beholding Eleanor.”
“Did you not acquaint her by letter with what had occurred, and your consequent intentions?” asked Small.
“I did,” replied Ranulph; “but I received no reply. My earliest inquiries will be directed to ascertain whether the family are still in London. It will be a question for our consideration, whether I am not justified in departing from my father’s expressed wishes, or whether I should violate his commands in so doing.”
“We will discuss that point hereafter,” replied Small; adding, as he noticed the growing paleness of his companion, “you are too much exhausted to proceed — you had better defer the remainder of your story to a future period.”
“No,” replied Ranulph, swallowing a glass of water; “I am exhausted, yet I cannot rest — my blood is in a fever, which nothing will allay. I shall feel more easy when I have made the present communication. I am approaching the sequel of my narrative. You are now in possession of the story of my love — of the motive of my departure. You shall learn what was the occasion of my return.
“I had wandered from city to city during my term of exile — consumed by hopeless passion — with little that could amuse me, though surrounded by a thousand objects of interest to others, and only rendering life endurable by severest study or most active exertion. My steps conducted me to Bordeaux; — there I made a long halt, enchanted by the beauty of the neighboring scenery. My fancy was smitten by the situation of a villa on the banks of the Garonne, within a few leagues of the city. It was an old château, with fine gardens bordering the blue waters of the river, and commanding a multitude of enchanting prospects. The house, which had in part gone to decay, was inhabited by an aged couple, who had formerly been servants to an English family, the members of which had thus provided for them on their return to their own country. I inquired the name. Conceive my astonishment to find that this château had been the residence of the Mowbrays. This intelligence decided me at once — I took up my abode in the house; and a new and unexpected source of solace and delight was opened to me, I traced the paths she had traced; occupied the room she had occupied; tended the flowers she had tended; and, on the golden summer evenings, would watch the rapid waters, tinged with all the glorious hues of sunset, sweeping past my feet, and think how she had watched them. Her presence seemed to pervade the place. I was now comparatively happy, and, anxious to remain unmolested, wrote home that I was leaving Bordeaux for the Pyrenees, on my way to Spain.”
“That account arrived,” observed Small.
“One night,” continued Ranulph—”’tis now the sixth since the occurrence I am about to relate — I was seated in a bower that overlooked the river. It had been a lovely evening — so lovely, that I lingered there, wrapped in the heavenly contemplation of its beauties. I watched each rosy tint reflected upon the surface of the rapid stream — now fading into yellow — now shining silvery white. I noticed the mystic mingling of twilight with darkness — of night with day, till the bright current on a sudden became a black mass of waters. I could scarcely discern a leaf — all was darkness — when lo! another change! The moon was up — a flood of light deluged all around — the stream was dancing again in reflected radiance, and I still lingering at its brink.
“I had been musing for some moments, with my head resting upon my hand, when, happening to raise my eyes, I beheld a figure immediately before me. I was astonished at the sight, for I had perceived no one approach — had heard no footstep advance towards me, and was satisfied that no one besides myself could be in the garden. The presence of the figure inspired me with an undefinable awe! and, I can scarce tell why, but a thrilling presentiment convinced me that it was a supernatural visitant. Without motion — without life — without substance, it seemed; yet still the outward character of life was there. I started to my feet. God! what did I behold? The face was turned to me — my father’s face! And what an aspect, what a look! Time can never efface that terrible expression; it is graven upon my memory — I cannot describe it. It was not anger — it was not pain: it
was as if an eternity of woe were stamped upon its features. It was too dreadful to behold, I would fain have averted my gaze — my eyes were fascinated — fixed — I could not withdraw them from the ghastly countenance. I shrank from it, yet stirred not — I could not move a limb. Noiselessly gliding towards me, the apparition approached. I could not retreat. It stood obstinately beside me. I became as one half-dead. The phantom shook its head with the deepest despair; and as the word ‘Return!’ sounded hollowly in my ears, it gradually melted from my view. I cannot tell how I recovered from the swoon into which I fell, but daybreak saw me on my way to England. I am here. On that night — at that same hour, my father died.”
“It was, after all, then, a supernatural summons that you received?” said Small.
“Undoubtedly,” replied Ranulph.
“Humph! — the coincidence, I own, is sufficiently curious,” returned Small, musingly; “but it would not be difficult, I think, to discover a satisfactory explanation of the delusion.”
“There was no delusion,” replied Ranulph, coldly; “the figure was as palpable as your own. Can I doubt, when I behold this result? Could any deceit have been practised upon me, at that distance? — the precise time, moreover, agreeing. Did not the phantom bid me return? — I have returned — he is dead. I have gazed upon a being of another world. To doubt were impious, after that look.”
“Whatever my opinions may be, my dear young friend,” returned Small, gravely, “I will suspend them for the present. You are still greatly excited. Let me advise you to seek some repose.”
“I am easier,” replied Ranulph; “but you are right, I will endeavor to snatch a little rest. Something within tells me all is not yet accomplished. What remains? — I shudder to think of it. I will rejoin you at midnight. I shall myself attend the solemnity. Adieu!”
Ranulph quitted the room. Small sighingly shook his head, and having lighted his pipe, was presently buried in a profundity of smoke and metaphysical speculation.
* * *
CHAPTER XI. — LADY ROOKWOOD
Fran. de Med. Your unhappy husband
Is dead.
Vit. Cor. Oh, he’s a happy husband!
Now he owes nature nothing.
Mon. And look upon this creature as his wife.
She comes not like a widow — she comes armed
With scorn and impudence. Is this a mourning habit?
— The White Devil.
THE progress of our narrative demands our presence in another apartment of the hall — a large, lonesome chamber, situate in the eastern wing of the house, already described as the most ancient part of the building — the sombre appearance of which was greatly increased by the dingy, discolored tapestry that clothed its walls; the record of the patience and industry of a certain Dame Dorothy Rookwood, who flourished some centuries ago, and whose skilful needle had illustrated the slaughter of the Innocents, with a severity of gusto, and sanguinary minuteness of detail, truly surprising in a lady so amiable as she was represented to have been. Grim-visaged Herod glared from the ghostly woof, with his shadowy legions, executing their murderous purposes, grouped like a troop of Sabbath-dancing witches around him. Mysterious twilight, admitted through the deep, dark, mullioned windows, revealed the antique furniture of the room, which still boasted a sort of mildewed splendor, more imposing, perhaps, than its original gaudy magnificence; and showed the lofty hangings, and tall, hearse-like canopy of a bedstead, once a couch of state, but now destined for the repose of Lady Rookwood. The stiff crimson hangings were embroidered in gold, with the arms and cipher of Elizabeth, from whom the apartment, having once been occupied by that sovereign, obtained the name of the “Queen’s Room.”
The sole tenant of this chamber was a female, in whose countenance, if time and strong emotion had written strange defeatures, they had not obliterated its striking beauty and classical grandeur of expression. It was a face majestical and severe. Pride was stamped in all its lines; and though each passion was, by turns, developed, it was evident that all were subordinate to the sin by which the angels fell. The contour of her face was formed in the purest Grecian mould, and might have been a model for Medea; so well did the gloomy grandeur of the brow, the severe chiselling of the lip, the rounded beauty of the throat, and the faultless symmetry of her full form, accord with the beau ideal of antique perfection. Shaded by smooth folds of raven hair, which still maintained its jetty dye, her lofty forehead would have been displayed to the greatest advantage, had it not been at this moment knit and deformed by excess of passion, if that passion can be said to deform which only calls forth strong and vehement expression. Her figure, which wanted only height to give it dignity, was arrayed in the garb of widowhood; and if she exhibited none of the desolation of heart which such a bereavement might have been expected to awaken, she was evidently a prey to feelings scarcely less harrowing. At the particular time of which we speak, Lady Rookwood, for she it was, was occupied in the investigation of the contents of an escritoire. Examining the papers which it contained with great deliberation, she threw each aside, as soon as she had satisfied herself of its purport, until she arrived at a little package, carefully tied up with black ribbon, and sealed. This, Lady Rookwood hastily broke open, and drew forth a small miniature. It was that of a female, young and beautiful, rudely, yet faithfully, executed — faithfully, we say, for there was an air of sweetness and simplicity — and, in short, a look of reality and nature about the picture (it is seldom, indeed, that we mistake a likeness, even if we are unacquainted with the original) that attested the artist’s fidelity. The face was as radiant with smiles as a bright day with sunbeams. The portrait was set in gold, and behind it was looped a lock of the darkest and finest hair. Underneath the miniature was written, in Sir Piers’s hand, the words “Lady Rookwood.” A slip of folded paper was also attached to it.
Lady Rookwood scornfully scrutinized the features for a few moments, and then unfolded the paper, at the sight of which she started, and turned pale. “Thank God!” she cried, “this is in my possession — while I hold this, we are safe. Were it not better to destroy this evidence at once? No, no, not now — it shall not part from me. I will abide Ranulph’s return. This document will give me a power over him such as I could never otherwise obtain.” Placing the marriage certificate, for such it was, within her breast, and laying the miniature upon the table, she next proceeded, deliberately, to arrange the disordered contents of the box.
All outward traces of emotion had, ere this, become so subdued in Lady Rookwood, that although she had, only a few moments previously, exhibited the extremity of passionate indignation, she now, apparently without effort, resumed entire composure, and might have been supposed to be engaged in a matter of little interest to herself. It was a dread calm, which they who knew her would have trembled to behold. “From these letters I gather,” exclaimed she, “that their wretched offspring knows not of his fortune. So far, well. There is no channel whence he can derive information, and my first care shall be to prevent his obtaining any clue to the secret of his birth. I am directed to provide for him — ha! ha! I will provide — a grave! There will I bury him and his secret. My son’s security and my own wrong demand it. I must choose surer hands — the work must not be half-done, as heretofore. And now, I bethink me, he is in the neighborhood, connected with a gang of poachers— ’tis as I could wish it.”
At this moment a knock at the chamber-door broke upon her meditations. “Agnes, is it you?” demanded Lady Rookwood.
Thus summoned, the old attendant entered the room.
“Why are my orders disobeyed?” asked the lady, in a severe tone of voice. “Did I not say, when you delivered me this package from Mr. Coates, which he himself wished to present, that I would not be disturbed?”
“You did, my lady, but — —”
“Speak out,” said Lady Rookwood, somewhat more mildly, perceiving, from Agnes’s manner, that she had something of importance to communicate. “What is it brings you hither
?”
“I am sorry,” returned Agnes, “to disturb your ladyship, but — but — —”
“But what?” interrupted Lady Rookwood, impatiently.
“I could not help it, my lady — he would have me come; he said he was resolved to see your ladyship, whether you would or not.”
“Would see me, ha! is it so? I guess his errand, and its object — he has some suspicion. No, that cannot be; he would not dare to tamper with these seals. Agnes, I will not see him.”
“But he swears, my lady, that he will not leave the house without seeing you — he would have forced his way into your presence, if I had not consented to announce him.”
“Insolent!” exclaimed Lady Rookwood, with a glance of indignation; “force his way! I promise you he shall not display an equal anxiety to repeat the visit. Tell Mr. Coates I will see him.”
“Mr. Coates! Mercy on us, my lady, it’s not he. He’d never have intruded upon you unasked. No such thing. He knows his place too well. No, no; it’s not Mr. Coates — —”
“If not he, who is it?”
“Luke Bradley; your ladyship knows whom I mean.”
“He here — now? — —”
“Yes, my lady; and looking so fierce and strange, I was quite frightened to see him. He looked so like his — his — —”
“His father, you would say. Speak out.”
“No, my lady, his grandfather — old Sir Reginald. He’s the very image of him. But had not your ladyship better ring the alarm-bell? and when he comes in, I’ll run and fetch the servants — he’s dangerous, I’m sure.”
“I have no fears of him. He will see me, you say — —”
“Ay, will!” exclaimed Luke, as he threw open the door, and shut it forcibly after him, striding towards Lady Rookwood, “nor abide longer delay.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 28
