Rookwood

BOOK 1

THE WEDDING RING

Table of Contents

It has been observed, and I am apt to believe it is an observation which will generally be found true, that before a terrible truth comes to light, there are certain murmuring whispers fly before it, and prepare the minds of men for the reception of the truth itself.

Gallick Reports: Case of the Count Saint Geran.

CHAPTER 1

THE VAULT

Table of Contents

Let me know, therefore, fully the intent

Of this thy dismal preparation —

This talk fit for a charnel.

Webster.

Within a sepulchral vault, and at midnight, two persons were seated. The chamber was of singular construction and considerable extent. The roof was of solid stone masonry, and rose in a wide semicircular arch to the height of about seventeen feet, measured from the centre of the ceiling to the ground floor, while the sides were divided by slight partition-walls into ranges of low, narrow catacombs. The entrance to each cavity was surrounded by an obtusely-pointed arch, resting upon slender granite pillars; and the intervening space was filled up with a variety of tablets, escutcheons, shields, and inscriptions, recording the titles and heraldic honors of the departed. There were no doors to the niches; and within might be seen piles of coffins, packed one upon another, till the floor groaned with the weight of lead. Against one of the pillars, upon a hook, hung a rack of tattered, time-out-of-mind hatchments; and in the centre of the tomb might be seen the effigies of Sir Ranulph de Rokewode, the builder of the mausoleum, and the founder of the race who slept within its walls. This statue, wrought in black marble, differed from most monumental carved-work, in that its posture was erect and lifelike. Sir Ranulph was represented as sheathed in a complete suit of mail, decorated with his emblazoned and gilded surcoat, his arm leaning upon the pommel of a weighty curtal-axe. The attitude was that of stern repose. A conically-formed helmet rested upon the brow; the beaver was raised, and revealed harsh but commanding features. The golden spur of knighthood was fixed upon the heel; and, at the feet, enshrined in a costly sarcophagus of marble, dug from the same quarry as the statue, rested the mortal remains of one of the sternest knights to his mortal foe that ever put speare in the rest.

Streaming in a wavering line upon the roof, the sickly flame of a candle partially fell upon the human figures before alluded to, throwing them into darkest relief, and casting their opaque and fantastical shadows along the ground. An old coffin upon a bier, we have said, served the mysterious twain for a seat. Between them stood a bottle and a glass, evidences that whatever might be the ulterior object of their stealthy communion, the immediate comfort of the creature had not been altogether overlooked. At the feet of one of the personages were laid a mattock, a horn lantern — from which the candle had been removed — a crowbar, and a bunch of keys. Near to these implements of a vocation which the reader will readily surmise, rested a strange superannuated terrier with a wiry back and frosted muzzle; a head minus an ear, and a leg wanting a paw. His master, for such we shall suppose him, was an old man with a lofty forehead, covered with a singularly shaped nightcap, and clothed, as to his lower limbs, with tight, ribbed, gray worsted hose, ascending externally, after a bygone fashion, considerably above the knee. The old man’s elbow rested upon the handle of his spade, his wrist supported his chin, and his gray glassy eyes, glimmering like marsh-meteors in the candle-light, were fixed upon his companion with a glance of searching scrutiny.

The object of his investigation, a much more youthful and interesting person, seemed lost in reverie, and alike insensible to time, place, and the object of the meeting. With both hands grasped round the barrel of a fowling-piece, and his face leaning upon the same support, the features were entirely concealed from view; the light, too, being at the back, and shedding its rays over, rather than upon his person, aided his disguise. Yet, even thus imperfectly defined, the outline of the head, and the proportions of the figure, were eminently striking and symmetrical. Attired in a rough forester’s costume, of the mode of 1737, and of the roughest texture and rudest make, his wild garb would have determined his rank as sufficiently humble in the scale of society, had not a certain loftiness of manner, and bold, though reckless deportment, argued pretensions on the part of the wearer to a more elevated station in life, and contradicted, in a great measure, the impression produced by the homely appearance of his habiliments. A cap of shaggy brown fur, fancifully, but not ungracefully fashioned, covered his head, from beneath which, dropping, in natural clusters over his neck and shoulders, a cloud of raven hair escaped. Subsequently, when his face was more fully revealed, it proved to be that of a young man, of dark aspect, and grave, melancholy expression of countenance, approaching even to the stern, when at rest; though sufficiently animated and earnest when engaged in conversation, or otherwise excited. His features were regular, delicately formed, and might be characterized as singularly handsome, were it not for a want of roundness in the contour of the face which gave the lineaments a thin, worn look, totally distinct, however, from haggardness or emaciation. The nose was delicate and fine; the nostril especially so; the upper lip was short, curling, graceful, and haughtily expressive. As to complexion, his skin had a truly Spanish warmth and intensity of coloring. His figure, when raised, was tall and masculine, and though slight, exhibited great personal vigor.

We will now turn to his companion, the old man with the great gray glittering eyes.

Peter Bradley, of Rookwood — comitatû Ebor — where he had exercised the vocation of sexton for the best part of a life already drawn out to the full span ordinarily allotted to mortality, was an odd caricature of humanity. His figure was lean, and almost as lank as a skeleton. His bald head reminded one of a bleached skull, allowing for the overhanging and hoary brows. Deep-seated, and sunken within their sockets, his gray orbs gleamed with intolerable lustre. Few could endure his gaze; and, aware of his power, Peter seldom failed to exercise it. He had likewise another habit, which, as it savored of insanity, made him an object of commiseration with some, while it rendered him yet more obnoxious to others. The habit we allude to, was the indulgence of wild screaming laughter at times when all merriment should be checked; and when the exhibition of levity must proceed from utter disregard of human grief and suffering, or from mental alienation.

The Vault

Wearied with the prolonged silence, Peter at length condescended to speak. His voice was harsh and grating as a rusty hinge.

Another glass? said he, pouring out a modicum of the pale fluid.

His companion shook his head.

It will keep out the cold, continued the sexton, pressing the liquid upon him: and you, who are not so much accustomed as I am to the damps of a vault, may suffer from them. Besides, added he, sneeringly, it will give you courage.

His companion answered not. But the flash of his eye resented the implied reproach.

Nay, never stare at me so hard, Luke, continued the sexton; I doubt neither your courage nor your firmness. But if you won’t drink, I will. Here’s to the rest eternal of Sir Piers Rookwood! You’ll say amen to that pledge, or you are neither grandson of mine, nor offspring of his loins.

Why should I reverence his memory, answered Luke, bitterly, refusing the proffered potion, "who showed no fatherly love for me? He disowned me in life: in death I disown him. Sir Piers Rookwood was no father of mine."

He was as certainly your father, as Susan Bradley, your mother, was my daughter, rejoined the sexton.

And, surely, cried Luke, impetuously, "you need not boast of the connection! ’Tis not for you, old man, to couple their names together — to exult in your daughter’s disgrace and your own dishonor. Shame! shame! Speak not of them in the same breath, if you would not have me invoke curses on the dead! I have no reverence — whatever you may have — for the seducer — for the murderer of my mother."

You have choice store of epithets, in sooth, good grandson, rejoined Peter, with a chuckling laugh. Sir Piers a murderer!

Tush! exclaimed Luke, indignantly, affect not ignorance. You have better knowledge than I have of the truth or falsehood of the dark tale that has gone abroad respecting my mother’s fate; and unless report has belied you foully, had substantial reasons for keeping sealed lips on the occasion. But to change this painful subject, added he, with a sudden alteration of manner, at what hour did Sir Piers Rookwood die?

On Thursday last, in the night-time. The exact hour I know not, replied the sexton.

Of what ailment?

Neither do I know that. His end was sudden, yet not without a warning sign.

What warning? inquired Luke.

"Neither more nor less than the death-omen of the house. You look astonished. Is it possible you have never heard of the ominous Lime-Tree, and the Fatal Bough? Why, ’tis a common tale hereabouts, and has been for centuries. Any old crone would tell it you. Peradventure, you have seen the old avenue of lime-trees leading to the hall, nearly a quarter of a mile in length, and as noble a row of timber as any in the West Riding of Yorkshire. Well, there is one tree — the last on the left hand before you come to the clock-house — larger than all the rest — a huge piece of timber, with broad spreading branches, and of I know not what girth in the trunk. That tree is, in some mysterious manner, connected with the family of Rookwood, and immediately previous to the death of one of that line, a branch is sure to be shed from the parent stem, prognosticating his doom. But you shall hear the legend." And in a strange sepulchral tone, not inappropriate, however, to his subject, Peter chanted the following ballad:

THE LEGEND OF THE LIME-TREE

Amid the grove o’er-arched above with lime-trees old and tall

— The avenue that leads unto the Rookwood’s ancient hall —

High o’er the rest its towering crest one tree rears to the sky,

And wide out-flings, like mighty wings, its arms umbrageously.

Seven yards its base would scarce embrace — a goodly tree I ween,

With silver bark, and foliage dark, of melancholy green;

And mid its boughs two ravens house, and build from year to year,

Their black brood hatch — their black brood watch — then screaming disappear.

In that old tree when playfully the summer breezes sigh,

Its leaves are stirred, and there is heard a low and plaintive cry;

And when in shrieks the storm blast speaks its reverend boughs among,

Sad wailing moans, like human groans, the concert harsh prolong.

But whether gale or calm prevail, or threatening cloud hath fled,

By hand of Fate, predestinate, a limb that tree will shed;

A verdant bough — untouched, I trow, by axe or tempest’s breath —

To Rookwood’s head an omen dread of fast-approaching death.

Some think that tree instinct must be with preternatural power.

Like ‘larum bell Death’s note to knell at Fate’s appointed hour;

While some avow that on its bough are fearful traces seen,

Red as the stains from human veins, commingling with the green.

Others, again, there are maintain that on the shattered bark

A print is made, where fiends have laid their scathing talons dark;

That, ere it falls, the raven calls thrice from that wizard bough;

And that each cry doth signify what space the Fates allow.

In olden days, the legend says, as grim Sir Ranulph view’d

A wretched hag her footsteps drag beneath his lordly wood.

His bloodhounds twain he called amain, and straightway gave her chase;

Was never seen in forest green, so fierce, so fleet a race!

With eyes of flame to Ranulph came each red and ruthless hound,

While mangled, torn — a sight forlorn! — the hag lay on the ground;

E’en where she lay was turned the clay, and limb and reeking bone

Within the earth, with ribald mirth, by Ranulph grim were thrown.

And while as yet the soil was wet with that poor witch’s gore,

A lime-tree stake did Ranulph take, and pierced her bosom’s core;

And, strange to tell, what next befell! — that branch at once took root,

And richly fed, within its bed, strong suckers forth did shoot.

From year to year fresh boughs appear — it waxes huge in size;

And, with wild glee, this prodigy Sir Ranulph grim espies.

One day, when he, beneath that tree, reclined in joy and pride,

A branch was found upon the ground — the next, Sir Ranulph died!

And from that hour a fatal power has ruled that Wizard Tree,

To Ranulph’s line a warning sign of doom and destiny:

For when a bough is found, I trow, beneath its shade to lie,

Ere suns shall rise thrice in the skies a Rookwood sure shall die!

And such an omen preceded Sir Piers’s demise? said Luke, who had listened with some attention to his grandsire’s song.

Unquestionably, replied the sexton. "Not longer ago than Tuesday morning, I happened to be sauntering down the avenue I have just described. I know not what took me thither at that early hour, but I wandered leisurely on till I came nigh the Wizard Lime-Tree. Great Heaven! what a surprise awaited me! a huge branch lay right across the path. It had evidently just fallen, for the leaves were green and unwithered; the sap still oozed from the splintered wood; and there was neither trace of knife nor hatchet on the bark. I looked up among the boughs to mark the spot from whence it had been torn by the hand of Fate — for no human hand had done it — and saw the pair of ancestral ravens perched amid the foliage, and croaking as those carrion fowl are wont to do when they scent a carcass afar off. Just then a livelier sound saluted my ears. The cheering cry of a pack of hounds resounded from the courts, and the great gates being thrown open, out issued Sir Piers, attended by a troop of his roystering companions, all on horseback, and all making the welkin ring with their vociferations. Sir Piers laughed as loudly as the rest, but his mirth was speedily checked. No sooner had his horse — old Rook, his favorite steed, who never swerved at stake or pale before — set eyes upon the accursed branch, than he started as if the fiend stood before him, and, rearing backwards, flung his rider from the saddle. At this moment, with loud screams, the wizard ravens took flight. Sir Piers was somewhat hurt by the fall, but he was more frightened than hurt; and though he tried to put a bold face on the matter, it was plain that his efforts to recover himself were fruitless. Dr. Titus Tyrconnel and that wild fellow Jack Palmer — who has lately come to the hall, and of whom you know something — tried to rally him. But it would not do. He broke up the day’s sport, and returned dejectedly to the hall. Before departing, however, he addressed a word to me in private, respecting you; and pointed, with a melancholy shake of the head, to the fatal branch. ’It is my death-warrant,’ said he, gloomily. And so it proved; two days afterwards his doom was accomplished."

And do you place faith in this idle legend? asked Luke, with affected indifference, although it was evident, from his manner, that he himself was not so entirely free from a superstitious feeling of credulity as he would have it appear.

Certes, replied the sexton. I were more difficult to be convinced than the unbelieving disciple else. Thrice hath it occurred to my own knowledge, and ever with the same result: first, with Sir Reginald; secondly, with thy own mother; and lastly, as I have just told thee, with Sir Piers.