The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  At this moment a loud clamor was heard in the gallery. In the next, the door was assailed by violent strokes, evidently proceeding from some weighty instrument, impelled by the united strength of several assailants.

  The voice of Turpin rose above the deafening din. “A bullet for the first who enters,” shouted he. “Quick, Sir Luke, and the prize is safe — away, and — —”

  But as he seconded his exhortation with a glance at Luke, he broke off the half-uttered sentence, and started with horror and amazement. Ere the cause of his alarm could be expressed, the door was burst open, and a crowd of domestics, headed by Major Mowbray and Titus Tyrconnel, rushed into the room.

  “Nay, then, the game’s up!” exclaimed Dick; “I have done with Rookwood.” And, springing through the panel, he was seen no more.

  When the newcomers first looked round, they could perceive only two figures besides themselves — those of the two lovers — Eleanor having sunk pale, exhausted, and almost senseless, into the arms of Ranulph. Presently, however, a ghastly object attracted their attention. All rushed towards it — all recoiled, as soon as they discovered that it was the lifeless body of Luke Rookwood. His limbs were stiff, like those of a corpse which has for hours been such; his eyes protruded from their sockets; his face was livid and blotched. All bespoke, with terrible certainty, the efficacy of the poison, and the full accomplishment of Barbara’s revenge.

  Handassah was gone. Probably she had escaped ere Turpin fled. At all events, she was heard of no more at Rookwood.

  It required little to recall the senses of Eleanor. Shortly she revived, and as she gazed around, and became conscious of her escape, she uttered exclamations of thanksgiving, and sank into the embraces of her brother.

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Mowbray and Dr. Small had joined the assemblage.

  The worthy doctor had been full of alarm; but his meditated condolences were now changed to congratulations, as he heard the particulars of the terrible scene that had occurred, and of Eleanor’s singular and almost providential deliverance.

  “After what has befallen, madam,” said the doctor to Mrs. Mowbray, slightly coughing, “you can no longer raise any objection to a certain union, eh?”

  “I will answer for my mother in that particular,” said Major Mowbray, stepping forward.

  “She will answer for herself, my son,” said Mrs. Mowbray. “The match has her full and entire consent. But to what am I to attribute the unexpected happiness of your return?”

  “To a chain of singular circumstances,” replied the Major, “which I will hereafter detail to you. Suffice it to say, that but for this gentleman’s fortunate arrival,” added he, looking at Titus Tyrconnel, “at the hut on Thorne Waste, I might have been detained a prisoner, without parole, and, what is worse, without provision perhaps for days; and to add to my distress, fully acquainted with the meditated abduction of my sister. It was excessively lucky for me, Mr. Tyrconnel, that you happened to pass that way, and for poor Paterson likewise.”

  “Arrah, by my sowl, major, and you may say that with safety; and it was particularly fortunate that we stumbled upon the tits in the cellar, or we’d never have been here just in the nick of it. I begin to think we’ve lost all chance of taking Dick Turpin this time. He’s got clean away.”

  “I am not sorry for his escape,” said the major. “He’s a brave fellow; and I respect courage wherever I find it, even in a highwayman. I should be sorry to appear as a witness against him; and I trust it will never be my fate to do so.”

  We shall not pause to describe the affectionate meeting which now ensued between the brother and sister — the congratulations upon Eleanor’s escape from peril, intermingled with the tenderest embraces, and the warmest thanks offered to Ranulph for his gallant service. “She is yours, my dear boy,” said the major; “and though you are a Rookwood, and she bears the ill-fated name of Eleanor, I predict that, contrary to the usual custom of our families in such cases, all your misfortunes will have occurred before marriage.”

  “There is only one thing,” said Small, with a very peculiar expression, which might almost be construed into serio-comic, could we suspect the benevolent doctor of any such waggery, “that can possibly throw a shade over our present felicity. Lady Rookwood is not to be found.”

  “My poor mother,” said Ranulph, starting.

  “Make yourself easy,” said the doctor; “I doubt not we shall hear of her to-morrow. My only apprehension,” added he, half aside, “is, that she may be heard of before.”

  “One other circumstance afflicts me,” said Ranulph. “Poor Mr. Coates!”

  “What’s that you say of Mr. Coates, Sir Ranulph?” exclaimed Titus.

  “I fear he was killed in the recent affray,” said Ranulph. “Let some one search for the body.”

  “Kilt!” echoed Titus. “Is it kilt that Mr. Coates is? Ah! ullagone, and is it over with him entirely? Is he gone to rejoin his father, the thief-taker? Bring me to his remains.”

  “He will bring them to you himself,” said the attorney, stepping forward. “Luckily, Sir Ranulph,” said the incurable punster, “it was merely the outer coats that your sword passed through; the inner remains uninjured, so that you did not act as my conveyancer to eternity. Body o’ me! I’ve as many lives as a cat — ha, ha!”

  Ranulph welcomed the facetious man of law with no little satisfaction.

  We think it unnecessary to enter into further detail. Another chamber was prepared for Eleanor’s reception, to which she was almost immediately transported. The remains of the once fierce and haughty Luke, now stiff and stark, but still wearing, even in death, their proud character, were placed upon the self-same bier, and covered with the self-same pall which, but a week ago, had furnished forth his father’s funeral. And as the domestics crowded round the corpse, there was not one of them but commented upon his startling resemblance to his grandsire, Sir Reginald; nor, amongst the superstitious, was the falling of the fatal bough forgotten.

  Tranquillity was at length restored at the hall. Throughout the night and during the next day, Ranulph made every search for his mother, but no tidings could be learned of her. Seriously alarmed, he then caused more strict and general inquiry to be instituted, but with like unsuccessful effect. It was not, indeed, till some years afterwards that her fate was ascertained.

  * * *

  CHAPTER V. — THE SARCOPHAGUS

  So now ’tis ended, like an old wife’s story. — Webster.

  NOTWITHSTANDING the obscurity which hung over the fate of Lady Rookwood, the celebration of the nuptials of Sir Ranulph and Eleanor was not long delayed; the ceremony took place at the parish church, and the worthy vicar officiated upon the occasion. It was a joyous sight to all who witnessed it, and not few were they who did so, for the whole neighborhood was bidden to the festival. The old avenue was thronged with bright and beaming faces, rustic maidens decked out in ribbons of many-colored splendor, and stout youths in their best holiday trim; nor was the lusty yeoman and his buxom spouse — nor yet the patriarch of the village, nor prattling child, wanting. Even the ancestral rooks seemed to participate in the universal merriment, and returned, from their eyries, a hoarse greeting, like a lusty chorus of laughter, to the frolic train. The churchyard path was strewn with flowers — the church itself a complete garland. Never was there seen a blither wedding: the sun smiled upon the bride — accounted a fortunate omen, as dark lowering skies and stormy weather had, within the memory of the oldest of the tenantry, inauspiciously ushered in all former espousals. The bride had recovered her bloom and beauty, while the melancholy which had seemingly settled for ever upon the open brow of the bridegroom, had now given place to a pensive shade that only added interest to his expressive features; and, as in simple state, after the completion of the sacred rites, the youthful pair walked, arm in arm, amongst their thronging and admiring tenants towards the Hall, many a fervent prayer was breathed that the curse of the house of Rookwood might be averted from their heads; and, not to leave a
doubt upon the subject, we can add that these aspirations were not in vain, but that the day, which dawned so brightly, was one of serene and unclouded happiness to its close.

  After the ceremonial, the day was devoted to festivity. Crowded with company, from the ample hall to the kitchen ingle, the old mansion could scarce contain its numerous guests, while the walls resounded with hearty peals of laughter, to which they had been long unaccustomed. The tables groaned beneath the lordly baron of beef, the weighty chine, the castled pasty flanked on the one hand with neat’s tongue, and on the other defended by a mountainous ham, an excellent pièce de résistance, and every other substantial appliance of ancient hospitality. Barrels of mighty ale were broached, and their nut-brown contents widely distributed, and the health of the bride and bridegroom was enthusiastically drunk in a brimming wassail cup of spicy wine with floating toast. Titus Tyrconnel acted as master of the ceremonies, and was, Mr. Coates declared, “quite in his element.” So much was he elated, that he ventured to cut some of his old jokes upon the vicar, and, strange to say, without incurring the resentment of Small.

  To retrace the darker course of our narrative, we must state that some weeks before this happy event the remains of the unfortunate Sir Luke Rookwood had been gathered to those of his fathers. The document that attested his legitimacy being found upon his person, the claims denied to him in life were conceded in death; and he was interred, with all the pomp and peculiar solemnity proper to one of the house, within the tomb of his ancestry.

  It was then that a discovery was made respecting Alan Rookwood, in order to explain which we must again revert to the night of the meditated enlèvement of Eleanor.

  After quitting his grandson in the avenue, Alan shaped his course among the fields in the direction to the church. He sought his own humble, but now deserted dwelling. The door had been forced; some of its meagre furniture was removed; and the dog, his sole companion, had fled. “Poor Mole!” said he, “thou hast found, I trust, a better master.” And having possessed himself of what he came in search — namely, a bunch of keys and his lantern, deposited in an out-of-the-way cupboard, that had escaped notice, he quickly departed.

  He was once more within the churchyard; once more upon that awful stage whereon he had chosen to enact, for a long season, his late fantastical character; and he gazed upon the church tower, glistening in the moonshine, the green and undulating hillocks, the “chequered cross-sticks,” the clustered headstones, and the black and portentous yew-trees, as upon “old familiar faces.” He mused, for a few moments, upon the scene, apparently with deep interest. He then walked beneath the shadows of one of the yews, chanting an odd stanza or so of one of his wild staves, wrapped the while, it would seem, in affectionate contemplation of the subject-matter of his song:

  THE CHURCHYARD YEW

  —— Metuendaque succo

  Taxus. — Statius.

  A noxious tree is the churchyard yew,

  As if from the dead its sap it drew;

  Dark are its branches, and dismal to see,

  Like plumes at Death’s latest solemnity.

  Spectral and jagged, and black as the wings

  Which some spirit of ill o’er a sepulchre flings:

  Oh! a terrible tree is the churchyard yew;

  Like it is nothing so grimly to view.

  Yet this baleful tree hath a core so sound,

  Can nought so tough in the grove be found;

  From it were fashioned brave English bows,

  The boast of our isle, and the dread of its foes.

  For our sturdy sires cut their stoutest staves

  From the branch that hung o’er their fathers’ graves;

  And though it be dreary and dismal to view,

  Staunch at the heart is the churchyard yew.

  His ditty concluded, Alan entered the churchyard, taking care to leave the door slightly ajar, in order to facilitate his grandson’s entrance. For an instant he lingered in the chancel. The yellow moonlight fell upon the monuments of his race; and, directed by the instinct of hate, Alan’s eye rested upon the gilded entablature of his perfidious brother, Reginald, and, muttering curses, “not loud but deep,” he passed on. Having lighted his lantern in no tranquil mood, he descended into the vault, observing a similar caution with respect to the portal of the cemetery, which he left partially unclosed, with the key in the lock. Here he resolved to abide Luke’s coming. The reader knows what probability there was of his expectations being realized.

  For a while he paced the tomb, wrapped in gloomy meditation, and pondering, it might be, upon the result of Luke’s expedition, and the fulfilment of his own dark schemes, scowling from time to time beneath his bent eyebrows, counting the grim array of coffins, and noticing, with something like satisfaction, that the shell which contained the remains of his daughter had been restored to its former position. He then bethought him of Father Checkley’s midnight intrusion upon his conference with Luke, and their apprehension of a supernatural visitation, and his curiosity was stimulated to ascertain by what means the priest had gained admission to the spot unperceived and unheard. He resolved to sound the floor, and see whether any secret entrance existed; and hollowly and dully did the hard flagging return the stroke of his heel as he pursued his scrutiny. At length the metallic ringing of an iron plate, immediately behind the marble effigy of Sir Ranulph, resolved the point. There it was that the priest had found access to the vault; but Alan’s disappointment was excessive, when he discovered that the plate was fastened on the underside, and all communication thence with the churchyard, or to wherever else it might conduct him, cut off: but the present was not the season for further investigation, and tolerably pleased with the discovery he had already made, he returned to his silent march round the sepulchre.

  At length a sound, like the sudden shutting of the church door, broke upon the profound stillness of the holy edifice. In the hush that succeeded, a footstep was distinctly heard threading the aisle.

  “He comes — he comes!” exclaimed Alan, joyfully; adding, an instant after, in an altered voice, “but he comes alone.”

  The footstep drew near to the mouth of the vault — it was upon the stairs. Alan stepped forward to greet, as he supposed, his grandson, but started back in astonishment and dismay as he encountered in his stead Lady Rookwood. Alan retreated, while the lady advanced, swinging the iron door after her, which closed with a tremendous clang. Approaching the statue of the first Sir Ranulph, she paused, and Alan then remarked the singular and terrible expression of her eyes, which appeared to be fixed upon the statue, or upon some invisible object near it. There was something in her whole attitude and manner calculated to impress the deepest terror on the beholder. And Alan gazed upon her with an awe which momently increased. Lady Rookwood’s bearing was as proud and erect as we have formerly described it to have been — her brow was haughtily bent — her chiselled lip as disdainfully curled; but the staring, changeless eye, and the deep-heaved sob which occasionally escaped her, betrayed how much she was under the influence of mortal terror. Alan watched her in amazement. He knew not how the scene was likely to terminate, nor what could have induced her to visit this ghostly spot at such an hour, and alone; but he resolved to abide the issue in silence — profound as her own. After a time, however, his impatience got the better of his fears and scruples, and he spoke.

  “What doth Lady Rookwood in the abode of the dead?” asked he, at length.

  She started at the sound of his voice, but still kept her eye fixed upon the vacancy.

  “Hast thou not beckoned me hither, and am I not come?” returned she, in a hollow tone. “And now thou asketh wherefore I am here — I am here because, as in thy life I feared thee not, neither in death do I fear thee. I am here because — —”

  “What seest thou?” interrupted Peter, with ill-suppressed terror.

  “What see I — ha — ha!” shouted Lady Rookwood, amidst discordant laughter; “that which might appal a heart less stout than mine
— a figure anguish-writhen, with veins that glow as with a subtle and consuming flame. A substance yet a shadow, in thy living likeness. Ha — frown if thou wilt; I can return thy glances.”

  “Where dost thou see this vision?” demanded Alan.

  “Where!” echoed Lady Rookwood, becoming for the first time sensible of the presence of a stranger. “Ha — who are you that question me? — what are you? — speak!”

  “No matter who or what I am,” returned Alan, “I ask you what you behold.”

  “Can you see nothing?”

  “Nothing,” replied Alan.

  “You knew Sir Piers Rookwood?”

  “Is it he?” asked Alan, drawing near her.

  “It is,” replied Lady Rookwood; “I have followed him hither, and I will follow him whithersoever he leads me, were it to — —”

  “What doth he now?” asked Alan; “do you see him still?”

  “The figure points to that sarcophagus,” returned Lady Rookwood— “can you raise up the lid?”

  “No,” replied Alan; “my strength will not avail to lift it.”

  “Yet let the trial be made,” said Lady Rookwood; “the figure points there still — my own arm shall aid you.”

  Alan watched her in dumb wonder. She advanced towards the marble monument, and beckoned him to follow. He reluctantly complied. Without any expectation of being able to move the ponderous lid of the sarcophagus, at Lady Rookwood’s renewed request he applied himself to the task. What was his surprise, when, beneath their united efforts, he found the ponderous slab slowly revolve upon its vast hinges, and, with little further difficulty, it was completely elevated; though it still required the exertion of all Alan’s strength to prop it open, and prevent its falling back.