It was an instant or two ere Lady Rookwood, thus taken by surprise, could command speech. She fixed her eyes with a look of keen and angry inquiry upon the bold intruder, who, nothing daunted, confronted her glances with a gaze as stern and steadfast as her own.
“Who are you, and what seek you?” exclaimed Lady Rookwood, after a brief pause, and, in spite of herself, her voice sounded tremulously. “What would you have, that you venture to appear before me at this season and in this fashion?”
“I might have chosen a fitter opportunity,” returned Luke, “were it needed. My business will not brook delay — you must be pleased to overlook this intrusion on your privacy, at a season of sorrow like the present. As to the fashion of my visit, you must be content to excuse it. I cannot help myself. I may amend hereafter. Who I am, you are able, I doubt not, to divine. What I seek, you shall hear, when this old woman has left the room, unless you would have a witness to a declaration that concerns you as nearly as myself.”
An indefinite feeling of apprehension had, from the first instant of Luke’s entrance crossed Lady Rookwood’s mind. She, however, answered, with some calmness:
“What you can have to say is of small moment to me — nor does it signify who may hear it. It shall not, however, be said that Lady Rookwood feared to be alone, even though she endangered her life.”
“I am no assassin,” replied Luke, “nor have sought the destruction of my deadliest foe — though ‘twere but retributive justice to have done so.”
Lady Rookwood started.
“Nay, you need not fear me,” replied Luke; “my revenge will be otherwise accomplished.”
“Go,” said Lady Rookwood to Agnes; “yet — stay without, in the antechamber.”
“My lady,” said Agnes, scarcely able to articulate, “shall I — —”
“Hear me, Lady Rookwood,” interrupted Luke. “I repeat, I intend you no injury. My object here is solely to obtain a private conference. You can have no reason for denying me this request. I will not abuse your patience. Mine is no idle mission. Say you refuse me, and I will at once depart. I will find other means of communicating with you — less direct, and therefore less desirable. Make your election. But we must be alone — undisturbed. Summon your household — let them lay hands upon me, and I will proclaim aloud what you would gladly hide, even from yourself.”
“Leave us, Agnes,” said Lady Rookwood. “I have no fear of this man. I can deal with him myself, should I see occasion.”
“Agnes,” said Luke, in a stern, deep whisper, arresting the ancient handmaiden as she passed him, “stir not from the door till I come forth. Have you forgotten your former mistress! — my mother? Have you forgotten Barbara Lovel, and that night?”
“In Heaven’s name, hush!” replied Agnes, with a shudder.
“Let that be fresh in your memory. Move not a footstep, whatever you may hear,” added he, in the same tone as before.
“I will not — I will not.” And Agnes departed.
Luke felt some wavering in his resolution when he found himself alone with the lady, whose calm, collected, yet haughty demeanor, as she resumed her seat, prepared for his communication, could not fail to inspire him with a certain degree of awe. Not unconscious of her advantage, nor slow to profit by it, Lady Rookwood remained perfectly silent, with her eyes steadily fixed upon his face, while his embarrassment momentarily increased. Summoning, at length, courage sufficient to address her, and ashamed of his want of nerve, he thus broke forth:
“When I entered this room, you asked my name and object. As to the first, I answer to the same designation as your ladyship. I have long borne my mother’s name. I now claim my father’s. My object is, the restitution of my rights.”
“Soh! — it is as I suspected,” thought Lady Rookwood, involuntarily casting her large eyes down. “Do I hear you rightly?” exclaimed she, aloud; “your name is — —”
“Sir Luke Rookwood. As my father’s elder born; by right of hisright to that title.”
If a glance could have slain him, Luke had fallen lifeless at the lady’s feet. With a smile of ineffable disdain, she replied, “I know not why I hesitate to resent this indignity, even for an instant. But I would see how far your audacity will carry you. The name you bear is Bradley?”
“In ignorance I have done so,” replied Luke. “I am the son of her whose maiden name was Bradley. She was — —”
“’Tis false — I will not hear it — she was not,” cried Lady Rookwood, her vehemence getting the master of her prudence.
“Your ladyship anticipates my meaning,” returned Luke. “Susan Bradley was the first wife of Sir Piers Rookwood.”
“His minion — his mistress if you will; nought else. Is it new to you, that a village wench, who lends herself to shame, should be beguiled by such shallow pretences? That she was so duped, I doubt not. But it is too late now to complain, and I would counsel you not to repeat your idle boast. It will serve no other purpose, trust me, than to blazon forth your own — your mother’s dishonor.”
“Lady Rookwood,” sternly answered Luke, “my mother’s fame is as free from dishonor as your own. I repeat, she was the first wife of Sir Piers; and that I, her child, am first in the inheritance; nay, sole heir to the estates and title of Rookwood, to the exclusion of your son. Ponder upon that intelligence. Men say they fear you, as a thing of ill. I fear you not. There have been days when the Rookwoods held their dames in subjection. Discern you nought of that in me?”
Once or twice during this speech Lady Rookwood’s glances had wandered towards the bell-cord, as if about to summon aid; but the intention was abandoned almost as soon as formed, probably from apprehension of the consequences of any such attempt. She was not without alarm as to the result of the interview, and was considering how she could bring it to a termination without endangering herself, and, if possible, secure the person of Luke, when the latter, turning sharply round upon her, and drawing a pistol, exclaimed, —
“Follow me!”
“Whither?” asked she, in alarm.
“To the chamber of death!”
“Why there? what would you do? Villain! I will not trust my life with you. I will not follow you.”
“Hesitate not, as you value your life. Do aught to alarm the house, and I fire. Your safety depends upon yourself. I would see my father’s body ere it be laid in the grave. I will not leave you here.”
“Go,” said Lady Rookwood; “if that be all, I pledge myself you shall not be interrupted.”
“I will not take your pledge; your presence shall be my surety. By my mother’s unavenged memory, if you play me false, though all your satellites stand around you, you die upon the spot! Obey me, and you are safe. Our way leads to the room by the private staircase — we shall pass unobserved — you see I know the road. The room, by your own command, is vacant — save of the dead. We shall, therefore, be alone. This done, I depart. You will then be free to act. Disobey me, and your blood be upon your own head.”
“Lead on!” said Lady Rookwood, pressing towards the antechamber.
“The door I mean is there,” pointing to another part of the room— “that panel,—”
“Ha! how know you that?”
“No matter; follow.”
Luke touched a spring, and the panel flying open, disclosed a dim recess, into which he entered; and, seizing Lady Rookwood’s hand, dragged her after him.
* * *
CHAPTER XII. — THE CHAMBER OF DEATH
It is the body — I have orders given
That here it should be laid.
— De Montfort.
THE recess upon which the panel opened had been a small oratory, and, though entirely disused, still retained its cushions and its crucifix. There were two other entrances to this place of prayer, the one communicating with a further bedchamber, the other leading to the gallery. Through the latter, after closing the aperture, without relinquishing his grasp, Luke passed.
It was growing rapidly dark, and
at the brightest seasons this gloomy corridor was but imperfectly lighted from narrow, painted, and wire-protected windows that looked into the old quadrangular courtyard below; and as they issued from the oratory a dazzling flash of lightning — a storm having suddenly arisen — momentarily illumined the whole length of the passage, disclosing the retreating figure of a man, wrapped in a large sable cloak, at the other extremity of the gallery. Lady Rookwood uttered an outcry for assistance; but the man, whoever he might be, disappeared in the instantaneously succeeding gloom, leaving her in doubt whether or not her situation had been perceived. Luke had seen this dark figure at the same instant; and, not without apprehensions lest his plans should be defeated, he griped Lady Rookwood’s arm still more strictly, and placing the muzzle of the pistol to her breast, hurried her rapidly forwards.
All was now in total obscurity; the countenance of neither could be perceived as they trod the dark passage; but Luke’s unrelaxed grasp indicated no change in his purposes, nor did the slow, dignified march of the lady betray any apprehension on her part. Descending a spiral staircase, which led from the gallery to a lower story, their way now lay beneath the entrance-hall, a means of communication little used. Their tread sounded hollowly on the flagged floor; no other sound was heard. Mounting a staircase, similar to the one they had just descended, they arrived at another passage. A few paces brought them to the door. Luke turned the handle, and they stood within the chamber of the dead.
The room which contained the remains of poor Sir Piers was arrayed in all that mockery of state which, vainly attempting to deride death, is itself a bitter derision of the living. It was the one devoted to the principal meals of the day; a strange choice, but convenience had dictated its adoption by those with whom this part of the ceremonial had originated, and long custom had rendered its usage, for this purpose, almost prescriptive. This room, which was of some size, had originally formed part of the great hall, from which it was divided by a thick screen of black, lustrously varnished oak, enriched with fanciful figures carved in bold relief. The walls were panelled with the same embrowned material, and sustained sundry portraits of the members of the family, in every possible costume, from the steely gear of Sir Ranulph, down to the flowing attire of Sir Reginald. Most of the race were ranged around the room; and, seen in the yellow light shed upon their features by the flambeaux, they looked like an array of stern and silent witnesses, gazing upon their departed descendant. The sides of the chamber were hung with black cloth, and upon a bier in the middle of the room rested the body. Broad escutcheons, decked out in glowing colors pompously set forth the heraldic honors of the departed. Tall lights burned at the head and feet, and fragrant perfumes diffused their odors from silver censers.
The entrance of Luke and his unwilling companion had been abrupt. The transition from darkness to the glare of light was almost blinding, and they had advanced far into the room ere Lady Rookwood perceived a man, whom she took to be one of the mutes, leaning over the bier. The coffin-lid was entirely removed, and the person, whose back was towards them appeared to be wrapped in mournful contemplation of the sad spectacle before him. Suddenly bursting from Luke’s hold, Lady Rookwood rushed forward with a scream, and touched the man’s shoulder. He started at the summons, and disclosed the features of her son!
Rapidly as her own act, Luke followed. He levelled a pistol at her head, but his hand dropped to his side as he encountered the glance of Ranulph. All three seemed paralyzed by surprise. Ranulph, in astonishment, extended his arm to his mother, who, placing one arm over his shoulder, pointed with the other to Luke; the latter stared sternly and inquiringly at both — yet none spoke.
* * *
CHAPTER XIII. — THE BROTHERS
... We’re sorry
His violent act has e’en drawn blood of honor,
And stained our honors;
Thrown ink upon the forehead of our fame,
Which envious spirits will dip their pens into
After our death, and blot us in our tombs;
For that which would seem treason in our lives,
Is laughter when we’re dead. Who dares now whisper,
That dares not then speak out; and even proclaim,
With loud words, and broad pens, our closest shame?
The Revenger’s Tragedy.
WITH that quickness of perception which at once supplies information on such an emergency, Luke instantly conjectured who was before him. Startled as he was, he yet retained his composure, abiding the result with his arms folded upon his breast.
“Seize him!” cried Lady Rookwood, as soon as she could command her speech.
“He rushes on his death if he stirs,” exclaimed Luke, pointing his pistol.
“Bethink you where you are, villain!” cried Ranulph; “you are entrapped in your own toils. Submit yourself to our mercy — resistance is vain, and will not secure your safety, while it will aggravate your offence. Surrender yourself — —”
“Never!” answered Luke. “Know you whom you ask to yield?”
“How should I?” answered Ranulph.
“By that instinct which tells me who you are. Ask Lady Rookwood — she can inform you, if she will.”
“Parley not with him — seize him!” cried Lady Rookwood. “He is a robber, a murderer, who has assailed my life.”
“Beware!” said Luke to Ranulph, who was preparing to obey his mother’s commands; “I am no robber — no murderer. Do not you make me a fratricide.”
“Fratricide!” echoed Ranulph.
“Heed him not,” ejaculated Lady Rookwood. “It is false — he dares not harm thee, for his soul. I will call assistance.”
“Hold, mother!” exclaimed Ranulph, detaining Lady Rookwood; “this man may be what he represents himself. Before we proceed to extremities, I would question him. I would not have mentioned it in your hearing could it have been avoided, but my father had another son.”
Lady Rookwood frowned. She would have checked him, but Luke rejoined —
“You have spoken the truth; he had a son — I am he. I — —”
“Be silent, I command you!” said Lady Rookwood.
“Death!” cried Luke, in a loud voice. “Why should I be silent at your bidding — at yours — who regard no laws, human or divine; who pursue your own fell purposes, without fear of God or man? Waste not your frowns on me — I heed them not. Do you think I am like a tame hound, to be cowed to silence? I will speak. Ranulph Rookwood, the name you bear is mine, and by a right as good as is your own. From his loins, who lies a corpse before us, I sprang. No brand of shame is on my birth. I am your father’s son — his first-born — your elder brother. Hear me!” cried he, rushing to the bier. “By this body, I swear that I have avouched the truth — and though to me the dead Sir Piers Rookwood hath never been what a father should be to a son — though I have never known his smile, felt his caresses, or received his blessing, yet now be all forgiven, all forgotten.” And he cast himself with frantic violence upon the coffin.
It is difficult to describe the feelings with which Ranulph heard Luke’s avowal. Amazement and dread predominated. Unable to stir, he stood gazing on in silence. Not so Lady Rookwood. The moment for action was arrived. Addressing her son in a low tone, she said, “Your prey is within your power. Secure him.”
“Wherefore?” rejoined Ranulph; “if he be my brother, shall I raise my hand against him?”
“Wherefore not?” returned Lady Rookwood.
“‘Twere an accursed deed,” replied Ranulph. “The mystery is resolved. ’Twas for this that I was summoned home.”
“Ha! what say you? summoned! by whom?”
“My father!”
“Your father?” echoed Lady Rookwood, in great surprise.
“Ay, my dead father! He has appeared to me since his decease.”
“Ranulph, you rave — you are distracted with grief — with astonishment.”
“No, mother; but I will not struggle against my destiny.”
&nb
sp; “Pshaw! your destiny is Rookwood, its manors, its lands, its rent-roll, and its title; nor shall you yield it to a base-born churl like this. Let him prove his rights. Let the law adjudge them to him, and we will yield — but not till then. I tell thee he has not the right, nor can he maintain it. He is a deluded dreamer, who, having heard some idle tale of his birth, believes it, because it chimes with his wishes. I treated him with the scorn he deserved. I would have driven him from my presence, but he was armed, as you see, and forced me hither, perhaps to murder me; a deed he might have accomplished had it not been for your intervention. His life is already forfeit, for an attempt of the same sort last night. Why else came he hither? for what else did he drag me to this spot? Let him answer that!”
“I will answer it,” replied Luke, raising himself from the bier.
His face was ghastly as the corpse over which he leaned. “I had a deed to do, which I wished you to witness. It was a wild conception. But the means by which I have acquired the information of my rights were wild. Ranulph, we are both the slaves of fate. You have received your summons hither — I have had mine. Your father’s ghost called you; my mother’s spectral hand beckoned me. Both are arrived. One thing more remains, and my mission is completed.” Saying which, he drew forth the skeleton hand; and having first taken the wedding-ring from the finger, he placed the withered limb upon the left breast of his father’s body. “Rest there,” he cried, “for ever.”
“Will you suffer that?” said Lady Rookwood, tauntingly, to her son.
“No,” replied Ranulph; “such profanation of the dead shall not be endured, were he ten times my brother. Stand aside,” added he, advancing towards the bier, and motioning Luke away. “Withdraw your hand from my father’s body, and remove what you have placed upon it.”
“I will neither remove it nor suffer it to be removed,” returned Luke. “’Twas for that purpose I came hither. ’Twas to that hand he was united in life, in death he shall not be divided from it.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 29
