"Yes, Sir Ranulph, let me venture to advise you, as a friend, not to thwart her ladyship," whispered the attorney; "indeed, she is in the right." But seeing his advice unheeded, Coates withdrew to a little distance.
"I will not see injustice done to my father's son," replied Ranulph, in a low tone. "Why would you detain him?"
"Why?" returned she, "our safety demands it—our honor."
"Our honor demands his instant liberation; each moment he remains in those bonds sullies its purity. I will free him myself from his fetters."
"And brave my curse, foolish boy? You incurred your miserable father's anathema for a lighter cause than this. Our honor cries aloud for his destruction. Have I not been injured in the nicest point a woman can be injured? Shall I lend my name to mockery and scorn, by base acknowledgment of such deceit, or will you? Where would be my honor, then, stripped of my fair estates—my son—myself—beggars—dependent on the bounty of an upstart? Does honor ask you to bear this? It is a phantom sense of honor, unsubstantial as your father's shade, of which you just now spoke, that would prompt you to do otherwise."
"Do not evoke his awful spirit, mother," cried Ranulph, with a shudder; "do not arouse his wrath."
"Do not arouse my wrath," returned Lady Rookwood. "I am the more to be feared. Think of Eleanor Mowbray; the bar between your nuptials is removed. Would you raise up a greater impediment?"
"Enough, mother; more than enough. You have decided, though not convinced me. Detain him within the house, if you will, until the morrow; in the meantime, I will consider over my line of conduct."
"Is this, then, your resolve?"
"It is. Mr. Coates," said Ranulph, calling the attorney, who had been an inquisitive spectator, though, luckily, not an auditor of this interview, "unbind the prisoner, and bring him hither."
"Is it your ladyship's pleasure?" asked Mr. Coates, who regretted exceedingly that he could not please both parties.
Lady Rookwood signified her assent by a slight gesture in the affirmative.
"Your bidding shall be done, Sir Ranulph," said Coates, bowing and departing.
"Sir Ranulph!" echoed Lady Rookwood, with strong emphasis; "marked you that?"
"Body o' me," muttered the attorney, "this is the most extraordinary family, to be sure. Make way, gentlemen, if you please," added he, pushing through the crowd, towards the prisoner.
Having described what took place between Lady Rookwood and her son in one part of the room, we must now briefly narrate some incidental occurrences in the other. The alarm of a robber having been taken spread with great celerity through the house, and almost all its inmates rushed into the room, including Dr. Small, Titus Tyrconnel, and Jack Palmer.
"Odsbodikins! are you there, honey?" said Titus, who discovered his ally; "the bird's caught, you see."
"Caught be d—d," replied Jack, bluffly; "so I see; all his own fault; infernal folly to come here, at such a time as this. However, it can't be helped now; he must make the best of it. And as to that sneaking, gimlet-eyed, parchment-skinned quill-driver, if I don't serve him out for his officiousness one of these days, my name's not Jack Palmer."
"Och! cushlamacree! did I ever? why, what's the boy to you, Jack? Fair play's a jewel, and surely Mr. Coates only did his duty. I'm sorry he's captured, for his relationship to Sir Piers, and because I think he'll be tucked up for his pains; and, moreover, I could forgive the poaching; but as to the breaking into a house on such an occasion as this, och! It's a plaguy bad look. I'm afraid he's worse than I thought him."
A group of the tenantry, many of whom were in a state of intoxication, had, in the meantime, formed themselves round the prisoner. Whatever might be the nature of his thoughts, no apprehension was visible in Luke's countenance. He stood erect amidst the assemblage, his tall form towering above them all, and his eyes fixed upon the movements of Lady Rookwood and her son. He had perceived the anguish of the latter, and the vehemence of the former, attributing both to their real causes. The taunts and jeers, threats and insolent inquiries, of the hinds who thronged around him, passed unheeded; yet one voice in his ear, sharp as the sting of a serpent, made him start. It was that of the sexton.
"You have done well," said Peter, "have you not? Your fetters are, I hope, to your liking. Well! a wilful man must have his own way, and perhaps the next time you will be content to follow my advice. You must now free yourself, the best way you can, from these Moabites, and I promise you it will be no easy matter. Ha, ha!"
Peter withdrew into the crowd; and Luke, vainly endeavoring to discover his retreating figure, caught the eye of Jack Palmer fixed upon himself, with a peculiar and very significant expression.
At this moment Mr. Coates made his appearance.
"Bring forward the prisoner," said the man of law to his two assistants; and Luke was accordingly hurried along, Mr. Coates using his best efforts to keep back the crowd. It was during the pressure that Luke heard a voice whisper in his ear, "Never fear; all's right!" and turning his head, he became aware of the propinquity of Jack Palmer. The latter elevated his eyebrows with a gesture of silence, and Luke passed on as if nothing had occurred. He was presently confronted with Lady Rookwood and her son; and, notwithstanding the efforts of Mr. Coates, seconded by some few others, the crowd grew dense around them.
"Remove his fetters," said Ranulph. And his manacles were removed.
"You will consent to remain here a prisoner till to-morrow?"
"I consent to nothing," replied Luke; "I am in your hands."
"He does not deserve your clemency, Sir Ranulph," interposed Coates.
"Let him take his own course," said Lady Rookwood; "he will reap the benefit of it anon."
"Will you pledge yourself not to depart?" asked Ranulph.
"Of course," cried the attorney; "to be sure he will. Ha, ha!"
"No," returned Luke, haughtily, "I will not—and you will detain me at your proper peril."
"Better and better," exclaimed the attorney. "This is the highest joke I ever heard."
"I shall detain, you, then, in custody, until proper inquiries can be made," said Ranulph. "To your care, Mr. Coates, and to that of Mr. Tyrconnel, whom I must request to lend you his assistance, I commit the charge; and I must further request, that you will show him every attention which his situation will permit. Remove him. We have a sacred duty to the dead to fulfil, to which even justice to the living must give way. Disperse this crowd, and let instant preparations be made for the completion of the ceremonial. You understand me, sir."
"Ranulph Rookwood," said Luke, sternly, as he departed, "you have another—a more sacred office to perform. Fulfil your duty to your father's son."
"Away with him!" cried Lady Rookwood. "I am out of all patience with this trilling. Follow me to my chamber," added she to her son, passing towards the door. The concourse of spectators, who had listened to this extraordinary scene in astonishment, made way for her instantly, and she left the room, accompanied by Ranulph. The prisoner was led out by the other door.
"Botheration!" cried Titus to Mr. Coates, as they followed in the wake, "why did he choose out me? I'll lose the funeral entirely by his arrangement."
"That you will," replied Palmer. "Shall I be your deputy?"
"No, no," returned Coates. "I will have no other than Mr. Tyrconnel. It was Sir Ranulph's express wish."
"That's the devil of it," returned Titus; "and I, who was to have been chief mourner, and have made all the preparations, am to be omitted. I wish Sir Ranulph had stayed till to-morrow—what could bring him here, to spoil all?—it's cursedly provoking!"
"Cursed provoking!" echoed Jack.
"But then there's no help, so I must make the best of it," returned the good-humored Irishman.
"Body o' me," said Coates, "there's something in all this that I can't fathom. As to keeping the prisoner here, that's all moonshine. But I suppose we shall know the whole drift of it to-morrow."
"Ay," replied Jack, with a meaning smile, "to-morrow!"
BOOK II
THE SEXTON
Duchess. Thou art very plain.
Bosola. My trade is to flatter the dead—not the living—I am a tomb-maker.
Webster.
CHAPTER I
THE STORM
Come, list, and hark! the bell doth towle,
For some but now departing sowle;
And was not that some ominous fowle?
The bat, the night-crow, or screech-owle?
To these I hear the wild wolf howle,
In this dark night that seems to scowle;—
All these my blacke-booke shall enrowle,
For hark! still hark! the bell doth towle
For some but new-departed sowle!
Haywood: Rape of Lucrece.
The night was wild and stormy. The day had been sultry, with a lurid, metallic-looking sky, hanging like a vast galvanic plate over the face of nature. As evening drew on, everything betokened the coming tempest. Unerring indications of its approach were noted by the weatherwise at the hall. The swallow was seen to skim the surface of the pool so closely that he ruffled its placid mirror as he passed; and then, sharply darting round and round, with twittering scream, he winged his rapid flight to his clay-built home, beneath the barn eaves. The kine that had herded to the margin of the water, and sought, by splashing, to relieve themselves from the keen persecution of their myriad insect tormentors, wended stallwards, undriven, and deeply lowing. The deer, that at twilight had trooped thither also for refreshment, suddenly, "with expanded nostrils, snuffed the air," and bounded off to their coverts, amidst the sheltering fernbrake. The rooks "obstreperous of wing, in crowds combined," cawed in a way that, as plainly as words could have done, bespoke their apprehension; and were seen, some hovering and beating the air with flapping pinion, others shooting upwards in mid space, as if to reconnoitre the weather; while others, again, were croaking to their mates, in loud discordant tone, from the highest branches of the lime-trees; all, seemingly, as anxious and as busy as mariners before a gale of wind. At sunset, the hazy vapors, which had obscured the horizon throughout the day, rose up in spiral volumes, like smoke from a burning forest, and, becoming gradually condensed, assumed the form of huge, billowy masses, which, reflecting the sun's light, changed, as the sinking orb declined, from purple to flame-color, and thence to ashy, angry gray. Night rushed onwards, like a sable steed. There was a dead calm. The stillness was undisturbed, save by an intermittent, sighing wind, which, hollow as a murmur from the grave, died as it rose. At once the gray clouds turned to an inky blackness. A single, sharp, intensely vivid flash, shot from the bosom of the rack, sheer downwards, and struck the earth with a report like that of a piece of ordnance. In ten minutes it was dunnest night, and a rattling thunder-storm.
The progress of the storm was watched with infinite apprehension by the crowd of tenantry assembled in the great hall; and loud and frequent were the ejaculations uttered, as each succeeding peal burst over their heads. There was, however, one amongst the assemblage who seemed to enjoy the uproar. A kindred excitement appeared to blaze in his glances, as he looked upon the storm without. This was Peter Bradley. He stood close by the window, and shaded not his eyes, even before the fiercest flashes. A grin of unnatural exhilaration played upon his features, and he seemed to exult in, and to court, the tempestuous horrors, which affected the most hardy amongst his companions with consternation, and made all shrink, trembling, into the recesses of the room. Peter's conduct was not unobserved, nor his reputation for unholy dealing forgotten. To some he was almost as much an object of dread as the storm itself.
"Didst ever see the like o' that?" said Farmer Burtenshaw—one of the guests, whose round, honest face good wine had recently empurpled, but fear had now mottled white,—addressing a neighbor. "Didst ever hear of any man that were a Christian laughing in the very face o' a thunder-storm, with the lightnin' fit to put out his eyes, and the rattle above ready to break the drums o' his ears? I always thought Peter Bradley was not exactly what he ought to be, and now I am sure on it."
"For my part, I think, Neighbor Burtenshaw," returned the other, "that this great burst of weather's all of his raising, for in all my born days I never see'd such a hurly-burly, and hope never to see the like of it again. I've heard my grandfather tell of folk as could command wind and rain; and, mayhap, Peter may have the power—we all know he can do more nor any other man."
"We know, at all events," replied Burtenshaw, "that he lives like no other man; that he spends night after night by himself in that dreary churchyard; that he keeps no living thing, except an old terrier dog, in his crazy cottage; and that he never asks a body into his house from one year's end to another. I've never crossed his threshold these twenty years. But," continued he mysteriously, "I happened to pass the house one dark, dismal night, and there what dost think I see'd through the window?"
"What—what didst see?"
"Peter Bradley sitting with a great book open on his knees; it were a Bible, I think, and he crying like a child."
"Art sure o' that?"
"The tears were falling fast upon the leaves," returned Burtenshaw; "but when I knocked at the door, he hastily shut up the book, and ordered me to be gone, in a surly tone, as if he were ashamed of being caught in the fact."
"I thought no tear had ever dropped from his eye," said the other. "Why, he laughed when his daughter Susan went off at the hall; and, when she died, folks said he received hush-money to say nought about it. That were a bad business, anyhow; and now that his grandson Luke be taken in the fact of housebreaking, he minds it no more, not he, than if nothing had happened."
"Don't be too sure of that," replied Burtenshaw; "he may be scheming summat all this time. Well, I've known Peter Bradley now these two-and-fifty years, and, excepting that one night, I never saw any good about him, and never heard of nobody who could tell who he be, or where he do come from."
"One thing's certain, at least," replied the other farmer—"he were never born at Rookwood. How he came here the devil only knows. Save us! what a crash!—this storm be all of his raising, I tell 'ee."
"He be—what he certainly will be," interposed another speaker, in a louder tone, and with less of apprehension in his manner than his comrade, probably from his nerves being better fortified with strong liquor. "Dost thou think, Samuel Plant, as how Providence would entrust the like o' him with the command of the elements? No—no, it's rank blasphemy to suppose such a thing, and I've too much of the true Catholic and apostate church about me, to stand by and hear that said."
"Maybe, then, he gets his power from the Prince of Darkness," replied Plant; "no man else could go on as he does—only look at him. He seems to be watching for the thunderbowt."
"I wish he may catch it, then," returned the other.
"That's an evil wish, Simon Toft, and thou mayst repent it."
"Not I," replied Toft; "it would be a good clearance to the neighborhood to get rid o' th' old croaking curmudgeon."
Whether or not Peter overheard the conversation, we pretend not to say, but at that moment a blaze of lightning showed him staring fiercely at the group.
"As I live, he's overheard you, Simon," exclaimed Plant. "I wouldn't be in your skin for a trifle."
"Nor I," added Burtenshaw.
"Let him overhear me," answered Toft; "who cares? he shall hear summat worth listening to. I'm not afraid o' him or his arts, were they as black as Beelzebuth's own; and to show you I'm not, I'll go and have a crack with him on the spot."
"Thou'rt a fool for thy pains, if thou dost, Friend Toft," returned Plant, "that's all I can say."
"Be advised by me, and stay here," seconded Burtenshaw, endeavoring to hold him back.
But Toft would not be advised—
Kings may be blest, but he was glorious,
O'er all the ills of life victorious.
Staggering up to Peter, he laid a hard grasp upon his shoulder, and, thus forcibly soliciting his attention, burst into a loud horse-laugh.
But Peter was, or affected to be, too much occupied to look at him.
"What dost see, man, that thou starest so?"
"It comes, it comes—the rain—the rain—a torrent—a deluge—ha, ha! Blessed is the corpse the rain rains on. Sir Piers may be drenched through his leaden covering by such a downfall as that—splash, splash—fire and water and thunder, all together—is not that fine?—ha, ha! The heavens will weep for him, though friends shed not a tear. When did a great man's heir feel sympathy for his sire's decease? When did his widow mourn? When doth any man regret his fellow? Never! He rejoiceth—he maketh glad in his inmost heart—he cannot help it—it is nature. We all pray for—we all delight in each other's destruction. We were created to do so; or why else should we act thus? I never wept for any man's death, but I have often laughed. Natural sympathy!—out on the phrase! The distant heavens—the senseless trees—the impenetrable stones—shall regret you more than man shall bewail your death with more sincerity. Ay, 'tis well—rain on—splash, splash: it will cool the hell-fever. Down, down—buckets and pails, ha, ha!"
There was a pause, during which the sexton, almost exhausted by the frenzy in which he had suffered himself to be involved, seemed insensible to all around him.
"I tell you what," said Burtenshaw to Plant, "I have always thought there was more in Peter Bradley nor appears on the outside. He is not what he seems to be, take my word on it. Lord love you! do you think a man such as he pretends to be could talk in that sort of way—about nat'ral simpering?—no such thing."
When Peter recovered, his insane merriment broke out afresh, having only acquired fury by the pause.
"Look out, look out!" cried he; "hark to the thunder—list to the rain! Marked ye that flash—marked ye the clock-house—and the bird upon the roof? 'tis the rook—the great bird of the house, that hath borne away the soul of the departed. There, there—can you not see it? it sits and croaks through storm and rain, and never heeds at all—and wherefore should it heed? See, it flaps its broad black wings—it croaks—ha, ha! It comes—it comes."
And driven, it might be by the terror of the storm, from more secure quarters, a bird, at this instant, was dashed against the window, and fell to the ground.
"That's a call," continued Peter; "it will be over soon, and we must set out. The dead will not need to tarry. Look at that trail of fire along the avenue; dost see yon line of sparkles, like a rocket's tail? That's the path the corpse will take. St. Hermes's flickering fire, Robin Goodfellow's dancing light, or the blue flame of the corpse-candle, which I saw flitting to the churchyard last week, was not so pretty a sight—ha, ha! You asked me for a song a moment ago—you shall have one now without asking."
And without waiting to consult the inclinations of his comrades, Peter broke into the following wild strain with all the fervor of a half-crazed improvisatore:
THE CORPSE-CANDLE
Lambere flamma ταφος et circum funera pasci.
Through the midnight gloom did a pale blue light
To the churchyard mirk wing its lonesome flight:—
Thrice it floated those old walls round—
Thrice it paused—till the grave it found.
Over the grass-green sod it glanced,
Over the fresh-turned earth it danced,
Like a torch in the night-breeze quivering—
Never was seen so gay a thing!
Never was seen so blithe a sight
As the midnight dance of that blue light!
Now what of that pale blue flame dost know?
Canst tell where it comes from, or where it will go?
Is it the soul, released from clay,
Over the earth that takes its way,
And tarries a moment in mirth and glee
Where the corse it hath quitted interred shall be?
Or is it the trick of some fanciful sprite,
That taketh in mortal mischance delight,
And marketh the road the coffin shall go,
And the spot where the dead shall be soon laid low?
Ask him who can answer these questions aright;
I know not the cause of that pale blue light!
"I can't say I like thy song, Master Peter," said Toft, as the sexton finished his stave, "but if thou didst see a corpse-candle, as thou call'st thy pale blue flame, whose death doth it betoken?—eh!"
"Thine own," returned Peter, sharply.
"Mine! thou lying old cheat—dost dare to say that to my face? Why, I'm as hale and hearty as ever a man in the house. Dost think there's no life and vigor in this arm, thou drivelling old dotard?"
Upon which, Toft seized Peter by the throat with an energy that, but for the timely intervention of the company, who rushed to his assistance, the prophet might himself have anticipated the doom he prognosticated.
Released from the grasp of Toft, who was held back by the bystanders, Peter again broke forth into his eldritch laugh; and staring right into the face of his adversary, with eyes glistening, and hands uplifted, as if in the act of calling down an imprecation on his head, he screamed, in a shrill and discordant voice, "Soh! you will not take my warning? you revile me—you flout me! 'Tis well! your fate shall prove a warning to all unbelievers—they shall remember this night, though you will not. Fool! fool!—your doom has long been sealed! I saw your wraith choose out its last lodgment on Halloween; I know the spot. Your grave is dug already—ha, ha!" And, with renewed laughter, Peter rushed out of the room.
"Did I not caution thee not to provoke him, friend Toft?" said Plant; "it's ill playing with edge-tools; but don't let him fly off in that tantrum—one of ye go after him."
"That will I," replied Burtenshaw; and he departed in search of the sexton.
"I'd advise thee to make it up with Peter so soon as thou canst, neighbor," continued Plant; "he's a bad friend, but a worse enemy."
"Why, what harm can he do me?" returned Toft, who, however, was not without some misgivings. "If I must die, I can't help it—I shall go none the sooner for him, even if he speak the truth, which I don't think he do; and if I must, I sha'n't go unprepared—only I think as how, if it pleased Providence, I could have wished to keep my old missus company some few years longer, and see those bits of lasses of mine grow up into women, and respectably provided for. But His will be done. I sha'n't leave 'em quite penniless, and there's one eye at least, I'm sure, won't be dry at my departure." Here the stout heart of Toft gave way, and he shed some few "natural tears," which, however, he speedily brushed away. "I'll tell you what, neighbors," continued he, "I think we may all as well be thinking of going to our own homes, for, to my mind, we shall never reach the churchyard to-night."
"That you never will," exclaimed a voice behind him; and Toft, turning round, again met the glance of Peter.
"Come, come, Master Peter," cried the good-natured farmer, "this be ugly jesting—ax pardon for my share of it—sorry for what I did—so give us thy hand, man, and think no more about it."
Peter extended his claw, and the parties were, apparently, once more upon terms of friendship.