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 •"VU, 
 
ROOKWOOD 
 
 A ROMANCE. 
 
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 T^ >r D IV 
 
ROOKWOOD 
 
 A ROMANCE. 
 
 I see how Ruin, with a palsied hand, 
 Begins to shake our ancient house to dust. 
 
 Yorkshire Tragedy. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET 
 
 (successor to henry colburn.) 
 
 1834. 
 
LONDON : 
 PRINTED BY T. BRETTELL, RUPERT STREET, HAYMARKET. 
 

 ^^3 
 
 i' 
 
 
 ^' 
 
 TO HTS MOTHER 
 
 THESE VOLUMES 
 
 ARE DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR 
 
 WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF 
 
 LOVE AND VENERATION. 
 
 ^ 
 
 4 
 
ROOKWOOD, 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 Clge SMelilitng l^ing. 
 
 It has been observed, and I am apt to believe that it is an 
 
 observation that 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 St. Gerav. 
 
BOOK THE FIRST 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I saw great Satan like a sexton stand 
 With his intolerable spade in hand. 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
 Within the deep recesses of a vault, the last 
 abiding place of an ancient family — many gene- 
 rations of whose long line were there congre- 
 gated — and at midnighfs dreariest hour, two 
 figures might be discovered, sitting, wrapt in 
 silence as proTound as that of the multitudinous 
 dead around them. Beings of this nether world 
 they seemed, yet so moveless was the attitude of 
 each, so breathless the repose maintained, and so 
 
 t 
 
KOOKWOOD. 
 
 shadowy and fantastical the appearance of the 
 figures themselves, as imperfectly revealed in the 
 clair-obscur, occasioned by the light of a single 
 candle struggling with the gloom, that had any 
 human eye gazed upon them, the impression 
 produced upon the spectator's mind would 
 doubtless have been (if, perchance, with less 
 of superstition, he had not put a construction 
 equally horrible upon the meeting), that the 
 objects he beheld were embodied spirits of the 
 departed, tenanting the spot, which had burst 
 the leaden bondage of the tomb, and were 
 still hovering nigh the place of their impri- 
 sonment. 
 
 So far as it could be discerned, the cemetery was 
 of antique construction, and of no inconsiderable 
 extent ; its walls and roof were of solid stone 
 masonry, the latter rising in a wide semicircular 
 arch ; to it might be the height of some seventeen 
 feet, measured from the centre of the ceiling to 
 the ground floor. The sides of the sepulchre 
 
ROOKWOOD. S 
 
 were subdivided, by thin walls of stone, into 
 ranges of low, narrow, but deep compartments, 
 adapted to the reception of the dead. The en* 
 trance to each recess consisted of a door-way, 
 surmounted by small, obtusely-pointed arches, 
 resting upon slender pillars, also of stone; the 
 spandrils between each being filled up with 
 a variety of escutcheons, shields, and other 
 trophies and inscriptions, relating to the occu- 
 pants of each particular cell. There were no 
 doors to these recesses; and within might be 
 traced huge heaps of coffins, reared pile upon 
 pile, the accumulation of ages, packed with a 
 prodigality worthy of a miser's stores, one upon 
 another, till the floor groaned with the weight of 
 lead; and in some instances the lower layers 
 had been crushed and flattened Ijy tlie super- 
 incumbent mass. Numerous, however, as were 
 these receptacles, the proportion of bodies ex- 
 ceeded their capabilities; and in the further 
 extremity there was an additional range of 
 coffins, which could not be included in the cells, 
 
4 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 encroaching upon the limits of the vault, and 
 attesting, by their increase, the dread ravages of 
 the Destroyer. 
 
 Depending from a hook, fixed in one of the 
 stone pillars previously described, hung a rack 
 of old time-out-of-mind hatchments, seemingly 
 placed there in solemn mockery of the sunken 
 greatness, the fall whereof they so eloquently 
 bespoke. Stained and tarnished was their once 
 flaunting emblazonry — tattered and threadbare 
 their once spotless quarterings — even their tri- 
 umphant " Resurgam'^ was obliterated and 
 effaced, as if Hope itself had been annihilated. 
 
 Another remarkable feature of this phantasma- 
 gorical picture should be noticed. In the centre 
 of the chamber loomed the ghostly outline of 
 tlie erect effigies of an armed warrior. Sir 
 llanulph Ilookwood, the builder of the mauso- 
 leum, and the founder of the family that slept 
 the sleep of death within its walls. Wrought in 
 black marble, of the size of life, this stern, and 
 sable statue, of rare workmanship, and great 
 
ROOKWOOD. 5 
 
 antiquity, differed from most monumental sculp- 
 ture, in that the posture chosen for the warlike 
 figure was erect and life-like, not recumbent and 
 supine. The warrior was represented as sheathed 
 in a complete suit of plate armour, decorated with 
 the armorial surcoat, and grasping the pummel 
 of a weighty curtal axe, his usual weapon of 
 defence ; a conically-formed helmet rested upon 
 his gloomy brow, revealing his harsh but com- 
 manding features ; the golden spur of knighthood 
 was on his heel, and beneath, enshrined in a costly 
 marble sarcophagus, rested the mortal remains of 
 what had once been one of the " sternest knights 
 to his mortal foe that ever put speare in the rest."" 
 The effect of the light, or liglit and shade, 
 within the vault, must not pass unobserved. 
 
 Darkness with liglit so daringly doth tight, 
 
 That each, confounding other, both appear 
 As darkness light, and light but darkness were*. 
 
 Stuck in a rusty sconce against one of the 
 columns overhead, the flickering candle in- 
 
 • Drayton. 
 
6 EOOKWOOI>. 
 
 effectually contending with the dank, heavy 
 atmosphere that pervaded this house of death, 
 not only lent additional duskiness to the depths 
 its rays were unable to penetrate, but increased 
 the apparent size of the tomb, producing the 
 strangest combinations, and multiplying the 
 images of horror a hundred fold, by giving 
 ample range and scope for the most hideous 
 speculations. 
 
 Streaming in a wavering, transverse line upon 
 the ribbed roof, the yellow flare partially fell 
 upon the human figures, before alluded to, throw- 
 ing them into bold, black relief, and casting 
 their opaque,^ fantastical shadows along the 
 slabbed floor. Dilated, in the darkling twilight, 
 to gigantic proportions, the marble form of 
 the Knight received a gleam of the same 
 lustre, which, striking more particularly upon 
 the grim features, communicated to the rigid 
 aspect a wild and terrible expression. Coupled 
 with the other group, and in connection 
 with the awful scene, the figure might be likened 
 
ROOKWOOD. 7 
 
 to a knight of romance, in the act of bursting 
 some spell of hell-engendered sorcery; or it 
 might be compared to one of those mystic, 
 warrior creations that are said to watch per- 
 petually the never-failing lamps that burn at the 
 tombs of the true Disciples of the Rosy Cross, 
 ready to quench their flame for ever, should 
 unhallowed footsteps approach. 
 
 Covered with a mouldering pall, and laid 
 upon a bier, an old oaken coffin served the 
 two parties for a seat ; between them stood a 
 bottle and a glass ; the latter, although emptied 
 of its contents, giving token, from the perfume 
 that " hung round it still,'' of the most pellucid, 
 but not least potent, of spirituous distilments; 
 and showing, that whatever might be the object 
 of this stealthy communion, the comfort of the 
 creature had not been altogether overlooked. At 
 the feei of one of the personages, were laid a 
 mattock, a spade, a horn lantern, a bunch of 
 keys, and some other matters symbolical of his 
 vocation, together with a little bristly, black-and- 
 
S ROOKWOOD. 
 
 tan terrier, curled up like a hedgehog beside 
 him. He was, apparently, a very old man, 
 with a bald head, hoar as the summit of Mont 
 Blanc, and partially protected from the cold 
 by that description of woollen caxon, vulgarly 
 denominated a Welch wig. His elbow rested 
 upon his knees, his wrist supported his chin, 
 and his grey, glassy eyes, glimmering like marsh 
 meteors in the candle-light, were fixed upon his 
 companion with a glance of keen, searching scru- 
 tiny, worthy of a cynic philosopher. 
 
 The object of his investigation, a much more 
 youthful and interesting person, seemed lost in 
 the depths of reverie, and alike insensible to time, 
 place, and the object of the meeting. AVith both 
 hands grasped round the barrel of a fowling 
 piece, and with his face leaning upon the same 
 support, the features were entirely concealed 
 from view; the light, too, being to 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 
 
ROOKWOOD. 
 
 9 
 
 proportions of the figure, were eminently striking 
 and symmetrical. 
 
 Attired in a rough, savage costume, a sort 
 of dark-green chasseur^ or sporting dress, of 
 the fashion of George the Second's day (the 
 period of our Tale), perpetrated in such wise, as 
 might be expected, from the hands of some un- 
 tutored, rustic professor of the shears— attired 
 then in a forester's dress, of the roughest texture 
 and rudest make, his wild garb would have 
 determined his rank as but lowly in the scale of 
 society, had not a certain loftiness of manner, and 
 bold, though reckless deportment, argued preten- 
 sions, on the part of the wearer, to a more elevated 
 station in life, and contradicted, in a great mea- 
 sure, the impression produced by the homely 
 appearance of his habiliments. 
 
 A cap of shaggy brown fur, fancifully but not 
 ungracefully formed, covered his head, from 
 beneath which, dropping in natural clusters over 
 his neck and shoulders, a cloud of blackest hair 
 escaped. Subsequently, when his face was mcwe 
 b5 
 
10 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 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 ; but sufficiently animated 
 and earnest when engaged in conversation, or 
 otherwise excited; then was it lighted by a 
 pair of flashing eyes, that showered fire, like 
 electric sparkles from a full-charged cloud. His 
 features were regular, delicately formed, and 
 might be characterized as singularly beautiful, 
 Were it not for a want of roundness in the contour 
 of the face, occasioned, possibly, by care, anxiety, 
 over-exertion, want of repose, &c., any, or all 
 Combined, which gave the lineaments a tliin,. 
 worn look, totally distinct, however, from hag- 
 gardness or emaciation ; some such countenance 
 as an active, abstemious Hindoo might be sup- 
 posed to possess, wherein there was no superfluous 
 flesh. The nose was delicate and fine; the 
 nostril especially so, keen and sensitive as that of 
 an Arabian with a pedigree of a thousand years ; 
 the upper lip short, curHng, graceful, and 
 
ROOK WOOD. 11 
 
 haughtily expressive. As to complexion, his skin 
 had a truly Spanish warmth and intensity of 
 colouring; the tint might have originated in 
 stain of juicy herb, or root, or from exposure to 
 the sun and " skiey influences," with certain 
 native aids to boot ; but the result was an 
 embrowned swarthiness of hue that would have 
 done credit to the tawniest Gitano of Andalusia, 
 even with the true Morisco blood purpling in his 
 veins. His form, when raised, was tall and mas- 
 culine, and though slight, exhibited great personal 
 vigour, and muscular resources, and but for the 
 recklessness of manner, and unrestrained carriage 
 and deportment before noticed, his appearance 
 might be designated as prepossessing and attrac- 
 tive in the extreme. 
 
 We have before remarked, that at the precise 
 moment whence our narrative commences, both 
 parties were stirless, hushed, and still ; not a 
 word was spoken by either — scarce a breath 
 drawn. It was a silence befitting the place. In 
 the mean time we shall take advantage of the 
 pause (as it must evidently have been), to hazard 
 
IS HOOKWOOD. 
 
 a slight preliminary account of the old man, with 
 the great, grey, glassy eyes. 
 
 Peter Bradley, of Rookwood, in the county 
 of York, 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 mor- 
 tality, was one of those odd, grotesque, bizarre 
 caricatures of humanity, which it occasionally 
 delighteth our inimitable George Cruikshank to 
 limn. So attenuated in the region of the legs 
 and arms, as scarcely to remove him from 
 absolute identity with the skeleton society he 
 so much affected, Peter's unnatural length and 
 lankiness of limb, combined and contrasted with 
 his round dropsical-looking paunch, puffed out 
 to a very pincushion plumpness, made him 
 no inapt representative of a huge, bloated, 
 and overgrown spider. Totally destitute of 
 hair, his bald head reminded one of a bleached 
 scull, allowing for the wrinkled furrows in the 
 forehead, and thick beetle brows, that projected 
 like the eaves of a barn ; his hands were I in, 
 long, and skinny, as the Ancient Mariner's ; his 
 
i£)j 
 
jaooKwooD. 13 
 
 fingers spread out like claws. After all, his eyes 
 were his most remarkable feature ; " like the 
 toad, ugly and venemous, he bore a precious 
 jewel in his head;"' and, like that noxious 
 reptile, his eyes were large, lambent, and 
 luminous, though cold as the fire of an ignis 
 fatuus^ and grey as the slaty hue of earliest 
 day-break ; — and then his laugh ! that hollow 
 chuckling laugh, distinguishable from all other 
 laughter by an occasional wheezing choke, which 
 threatened, during its paroxysm, to terminate the 
 existence and merriment of the cachinnator, 
 one and the same time ; this laugh had, besides, 
 something so horrible about it, that, though 
 seldom heard, it never failed, when indulged 
 in, to excite a shuddering response in the 
 auditor, whoever the luckless wight might be. 
 It was a something between the gibbering of 
 a ghoul and the grin of an hyagna. 
 
 The inward man corresponded with his out- 
 ward appearance. His soul was in his spade. 
 He was essentially a man of graves — " of the 
 
1 4 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 earth, earthy ; ^ of the dead, deathly. Habitual 
 contact with the mould, and with the mouldering, 
 had, so to speak, mildewed and worm-eaten his 
 better sensibilities, crusting his mind " as with 
 a scurf,'' and turning the wholesome current 
 of his blood to black and melancholic bile. 
 Something akin to nothingness he seemed, and 
 yet endowed with animation — a connecting link 
 betwixt the breathing body and the bony coi-pse— 
 Materiality and Immateriality in one. 
 
 The night-mare Life in Death was he, 
 Who thicks men's hlood. with cold. 
 
 The churchyard might be called his domain — 
 the tomb his dwelling-place — the charnel-house 
 his museum of rarities ; and he displayed as in- 
 timate an acquaintance with the relics of the 
 latter, as his brother of the spade did with the 
 scull of that " mad rogue Yorick, the king's 
 jester ;" and exhibited as much assurance in 
 affixing a name or a date to a " chapless maz- 
 zard," or fragmentary bone, as any savan of 
 
ROOK WOOD. 15 
 
 them all could do in illustrating the fossil tusk of 
 a mammoth, the giant jaw of the mastodon, or 
 other incomprehensible remnant of the extinct 
 creation of the Antediluvian World. 
 
 Some other peculiarities had Peter Bradley, 
 which we shall leave to be developed in the 
 course of our story, contenting ourselves with 
 the mention of one faculty which he was 
 supposed to enjoy; the possession of which made 
 him an object of no little apprehension to the 
 habitants of Rookwood, and the neighbour- 
 hood; — this was the power of predicting the 
 approach of death. How he acquired this 
 faculty was matter of abundant conjecture, and 
 had never been satisfactorily explained; or rather 
 the explanations offered had left people more in 
 the dark than before. Some said that long prac- 
 tice enabled him to detect a 7norihund subject at 
 a glance — that, like the vulture, he could scent his 
 prey from afar — and that his predictions were 
 doom;— others, that being familiar with hob- 
 goblins, spectres, and all sorts of devilry, he 
 
16 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 gained his knowledge from such unholy asso- 
 ciation ; and, consequently, was little better 
 than a wizard, or sorcerer, and ought to be 
 treated as such, and burnt at the stake, or at 
 least ducked in a blanket ; — that his lone, and 
 long, midnight vigils in the church porch, 
 could be for no good, or christian-like pur- 
 pose — nay, they even went on to say, that he 
 had entered into a compact with the King of 
 Terrors, to furnish food for his insatiate maw, 
 on condition of his own personal exemption. 
 Others, more sceptical, thought there was nothing 
 marvellous in the case. With them Peter was 
 no prophet — people were fools to be frightened, 
 and die, only because he said they would do so ; 
 they ought to recover, if only to prove him in 
 error. Be this as it may, whenever there was 
 an occasional instance of mortality in the parish 
 (and sometimes it would so fall out), predicted 
 or not, Peter had the credit of the catastrophe. 
 Such was, and so ranked in men's esteem, Peter 
 Bradley, of Rookwood, sexton in ordinary. 
 
EOOKWOOD. 17 
 
 Wearied with the prolonged silence, Peter was 
 the first to speak. His voice was harsh and 
 grating, as a rusty hinge. 
 
 " Another glass," said he, pouring out a modi- 
 cum of the pale fluid. 
 
 His companion shook his head. 
 
 " It will keep out the cold,'^ continued the 
 sexton, pressing the liquid ; " 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 r 
 
 " Courage !"" echoed the other, raising his 
 head, while the flash of his eye resented the 
 fm plied reproach. 
 
 " Ay, courage !'" retorted the sexton ; " Nay, 
 never stare at me so hard, man. I doubt 
 neither your courage nor your firmness ; but as 
 both may be put to the test to-night, I see no 
 great harm in making certainty sure ; and there- 
 fore 'tis that I press the glass upon you. Well, 
 as you please ; I don't want to poison you — this 
 is no doctor's stuff* — no damned decoction, or 
 
18 ROaKWOOD. 
 
 mixture, but honest, wholesome gin, distilled 
 before you were born or thought of. 'Tis as 
 harmless as mother's milk, and as mild ; and so 
 it should be, for it has lain more years in this 
 vault than you can number to your head, grandson 
 Luke; and time is a great improver of liquor, 
 whatever it may be of men. Here in this vault, 
 my cellar, as I call it, hath it been hoarded thesfe 
 twQ-and-thirty years. But if you won't drink, 
 I will ; so here goes. Ah ! capital !'' smacking 
 his lips — " that flavour puts me in mind of k 
 night I had here long ago." 
 
 " You must know, that when old Sir Reginald 
 Rookwood was gathered to his fathers — there 
 he lies — two-and-thirty years ago, as I said 
 before (and a grand burial it was, that of Sir 
 Piers, to-morrow night, will be nothing to it- 
 nothing at all). Well, when the coffin had been 
 lowered down, and the lights put out in the 
 church, I crept back again to the vault, with tliree 
 bottles under my arm, for I like society of a cer- 
 tairt, sorty but it must be my own choosing; 
 
ROOKWOOD. 19 
 
 and I always think spirit has a keener relish in 
 such an atmosphere as this. So I sat down, and 
 swallowed glass after glass, bumper after bumper, 
 and all to Sir Reginald's repose — ha ! ha ! I 
 shall never forget how drunk I got ; and, as the 
 liquor mounted to my brain, how I laughed, and 
 sung, and shouted, till the roof rang again. Rare 
 revelling it was — ha ! ha ! and no lack of fellow- 
 ship either — no lack of boon companions ; for as 
 my head reeled, and my eyes danced, it seemed as 
 if the dead, men and women, in their shrouds 
 and sere-clothes, came thronging about me, 
 jesting and jabbering, laughing as I laughed, 
 singing in screaming chorus, and dancing and 
 whirling round me till it made me giddy to look 
 at them — such white grinning faces had they — 
 so horribly distorted by their laughter. At last 
 they all broke into a wild hullabaloo ; there was 
 a stir amongst the grisly company, and up rose 
 grey, old Sir Reginald, whom I had just buried^ 
 he seemed strange at first, and distant, with his 
 
20 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 phantom friends, but soon became more recon- 
 ciled ; and then his three ghostly wives — for he 
 had three in his lifetime — darted towards him, 
 and wound their bony arms around his neck, in a 
 way that must have certainly strangled him had 
 any life been left ; and they kissed his livid lips 
 — pah! — Well! at last he perceived me, and 
 nodded ; so I pledged him a brimmer — and then, 
 all at once, fell back, as if struck with a shot 
 right through the heart. Ha ! ha ! that was a 
 night ! Out of the three bottles I then brought 
 with me, this is the last : I stowed it away in 
 one of the niches, and there it has remained ever 
 since. This is a famous cellar for keeping liquors 
 in; but, for fear of accidents, as I've not been 
 here for some time latterly, and may not often 
 come again, I''ll not throw away the bottle while 
 the screw's at hand ; and, as the first was drained 
 to his father's memory, why, be this quaffed to 
 the son. Here's to the rest eternal of Sir Piers 
 Rook wood. You'll say amen to that pledge^ 
 
EOOKWOOD. 21 
 
 Luke, or youVe no grandchild of mine (^ — and 
 having once again emptied the beaker, he re- 
 plenished it, and handed it to his grandson. 
 
 " To his eternal damnation !"" fiercely ex- 
 claimed Luke — and seizing the glass, he dashed 
 it to fragments upon the coffin lid. 
 
 The crash of the broken glass was instantly 
 succeeded by a noise like that of rattling bones, 
 proceeding from the coffin whereupon the 
 speakers sat. It seemed as the dead within, 
 whose repose had been thus wantonly violated, 
 were about to arise, and avenge the insult offered 
 to his sanctuary. Luke recoiled in horror at the 
 sound : a clammy moisture burst from out his 
 pores. 
 
 " What means this ?'^ he faltered. 
 
 " "Tis but a rat,*" returned the sexton, grinning 
 contemptuously ; " thou art safe, it will not 
 harm thee. Thou hast not learned the art of 
 raising a spirit yet, though it seems thou can st 
 lay other people's spirits and thine own without 
 tutorship :"" and, chuckling at his own conceit, he 
 
^ ROOKWOOD. 
 
 applied his knuckles to the lid. A smart rap 
 proved the truth of his assertion. A monstrous 
 grave-rat sprang from a hole underneath the 
 coffin, and was immediately killed by the dog. 
 " Well done, Mole,'' cried the sexton. " I tell 
 thee what, Luke,'' added he, turning to his 
 grandson, who was sullenly gazing at the dog, 
 " the next time thou art in the mood for blas- 
 pheming, I trust thou wilt not exercise thyself 
 at the expense of my glasses, and good liquor. 
 Thy fright may teach thee better conduct in 
 future. Marry, but thou art a pious son, and 
 speakest with becoming reverence of thy dead 
 father!" 
 
 " Why should I reverence his memory," 
 answered Luke, bitterly, " who showed no fa- 
 therly love for me ? He disowned me in life — in 
 death I disown him. Sir Piers Rook wood was 
 no father of mine." 
 
 " He had at least the reputation of being so ; 
 but thou art, doubtless, better informed," re- 
 turned the sexton, " than I can possibly be on a 
 
EOOKWOOD. 523 
 
 subject that so nearly concerns thyself. Whose 
 son art thou, then?'" 
 
 " Whose? Do I hear thee ask the question?**^ 
 " Certainly you do, and repeat it; AVhose 
 son art thou P'"* 
 
 " Thy daughters, Susan Bradley?"" 
 " That I know ; but thy father ? — for I pre- 
 sume thou hadst a father,'" — asked the sexton, 
 with a diabolical grin. 
 
 " Accursed fiend !"' muttered Luke, " since it 
 must be, and thou hast said it, he was my 
 reputed father. Father ! — ha ! the name sounds 
 strange in my ears; and with Sir Piers 'twas 
 but the name, and not the heart." 
 
 " He was as surely thy father, as Susan- 
 Bradley, thy mother, was my daughter,'' re- 
 joined the sexton. 
 
 " And, surely," cried Luke, impetuously, 
 " thou needst not boast of the connection ! — ^'Tis 
 not for thee, old man, to couple their names 
 together — to exult in thy daughter's chsgrace and 
 thine own dishonour ! Shame — shame — speak 
 
24 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 not of them in the same breath, if thou wouldst 
 not have me invoke curses on the dead. I would 
 be at peace with him now/' 
 
 " Reverential prayers and tears were fitter, 
 methinks, than curses from thy lips,"*"* persisted 
 the sexton, anxious to rankle the wound which 
 he perceived he had inflicted, " a theme like 
 the present/' 
 
 " Prayers and tears !" vociferated Luke, 
 " my prayers would turn to curses, my tears to 
 blood ! I have no reverence (whatever thou 
 may'st have) for the seducer — for the murderer 
 of my mother."" 
 
 " Murderer !"*"* repeated the sexton, apparently 
 startled, and affecting astonishment — " Thou 
 hast choice store of epithets; Sir Piers a mur- 
 derer !'' 
 
 " Tush !'"* answered Luke, indignantly, " pre- 
 tend not to be ignorant. Thou hast better 
 knowledge of the truth or falsehood of the dark 
 tale that has gone abroad respecting my mother's 
 fate than I have ; and unless report has belied you 
 
ROOKWOOD. 
 
 25 
 
 foully, have had substantial reasons for keeping 
 sealed lips on the subject. This you know best 
 yourself; you will answer for it hereafter, if you 
 have bartered eternal justice for unrighteous 
 gold. But whether she died of a broken heart, 
 broken by his perfidy — whether she fell a vic- 
 tim to remorse — to despair — her crushed spirit 
 sinking under the pressure of penitential sorrow 
 for her crime, a crime of which he was the author 
 and origin — whether more subtle and efficient 
 means were taken to remove her — may rest in 
 doubt, vague and uncertain as are hopes here- 
 after. Yet thus much is assured ; namely, that 
 he, Sir Piers Rook wood, was the primary cause 
 of her death ; and in effect, if not in intent, her 
 destroyer."" 
 
 " Sorrow never broke Susan^s heart,*" said the 
 sexton, with a ghastly grin ; " die as she might, 
 she died impenitent."" 
 
 " Her sin then rest with him — her blood cries 
 out for vengeance."' 
 
 VOL. I. c 
 
26 
 
 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Vengeance belongeth to the Lord,'' quoth 
 the sexton. " Leave Sir Piers to settle his 
 account elsewhere. I warrant me he will not 
 want thy assistance to help him towards the brink 
 of the pit that is bottomless. And now, seeing 
 that he has tlirown off this mortal coil, and hath 
 never a word to say in his defence, or power to act 
 in offence — though I grant that during life he 
 showed thee no great sympathy, no marked 
 paternal attention, such as a youth in thy situa- 
 tion was entitled to claim — for he knew thou 
 wert his son — yet, considering that he is gone, 
 bury thy hatred with him; let not thy anger 
 reach beyond the grave. Say thou forgivest him.'' 
 
 " For myself, I could forgive him ; nay, 
 more, I do. May God forgive his injuries to 
 me; but for her—'" 
 
 ^' And why except her ? why not extend thy 
 ^rd^Q fca* her ? Both are dead and gone, and the 
 <3,ay will surely come when both will be adjudged. 
 Abide thee that time in patience, for it availeth 
 
ROOKWOOD. 27 
 
 thee little now, fume and fret as thou wilt. From 
 thy hand she is now safe at least. And one 
 thing I will tell thee, that I, who have seen Sir 
 Piers at times, when no other eye but my own 
 and that of heaven has looked upon him, and 
 when he knew not of my presence, can avouch, 
 that if remorse, and penitence, and suffering, 
 may serve to expiate a sinner's offences, he is not 
 utterly without the pale of mercy." 
 
 " Grant it may be so. For myself, I freely 
 and fully forgive him; though to me he hath 
 ever been the worst of foes — the fellest of ene- 
 mies — the most unrelenting of persecutors — 
 wronging me at my very birth — injuring me on 
 the threshold of existence, and branding me with 
 the foul stamp of illegitimacy. Yet, believing 
 that to him I owe my being, for all the slights, 
 for all the contumely, for all the persecutions 
 I have endured at his hands while living, I for- 
 give him dead — my wrongs I bury with him.""* 
 
 " Why, that is right, and fairly spoken, though 
 thou art still far from a fair understanding of 
 
^8 
 
 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 thy case, grandson Luke, and givest vent to idle 
 vauntings for imaginary wrongs. Listen^ while 
 I expound it to thee. It seems that thou holdest 
 it in high dudgeon that Sir Piers should have 
 any share in thy paternity at all, and certainly 
 it was no great good, either to thyself or to him, 
 that he had so; but as it hath occun*ed, con- 
 trary to the inclinations of both parties, e'en let 
 it pass. Thou art a brave lad, and never the 
 worse for thy illegitimacy.'" 
 
 " In thy opinion "^ 
 
 " Ay, or in that of any other person of dis- 
 crimination. It is no disparagement to thee, if 
 thou couldst only think so. Thou art a lad of 
 spirit, and shouldst be superior to vulgar preju- 
 dices. Illegitimacy — how can it harm thee.^ 
 Art thou less active, less able, less energetic, less 
 enterprising.'' Hast thou fewer faculties than 
 any one begotten in lawful wedlock ? Art thou 
 a whit less capable of aught becoming manhood ? 
 And as to the reproach, that exists but in the 
 opinion of the world, and, as such, should be 
 
ROOK WOOD. 29 
 
 lightly esteemed. Oh ! Luke, you want a little 
 of my philosophy sadly. Mark the difference 
 between us: Sir Piers makes love to my 
 daughter Susan — seduces her "*"' 
 
 " Blisters upon thy tongue.'' 
 
 " Be calm ; hear me to the end. Seduces her, 
 I say ; an act I am not going to defend; far be 
 it from me to do so ; but neither do I view it in 
 the peevish light thou dost — no, my philosophy 
 comes in aid " 
 
 " Philosophy !'" repeated Luke, with scorn. 
 
 " I reflect,"" continued the man of graves, 
 without noticing the interruption, " upon the 
 difference of our station in life ; how natural it is 
 that a weak, vain, country lass, like Susan, should 
 be tempted and fall, and that Sir Piers had no 
 especial exemption from the passions incident to 
 man. It is human nature — frail, erring, human 
 nature, but human nature still. I would rather 
 it had not been so, but I blame neither party ; 
 and as to the dishonour which thou sayest 
 
30 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 attaches to me, I think I have sufficiently mani- 
 fested my disregard of what the world esteems 
 dishonour, to make it necessary to repeat my 
 utter contempt, if, indeed, dishonour could ever 
 attach to one like me. I never was sensitive on 
 the subject. As to thee, I hold thee to be as 
 much my grandson, as if thou wert absolutely of 
 the right line ; nay, am prouder of thee, as Sir 
 Piers's bastard, than if thou wert lawful issue 
 of some honest hind." 
 
 " No more of this." 
 
 " One thing more, and I have done. ' "Tis 
 long since I have seen thee ; never since thou wert 
 a mere brat ; but I have often heard of thee, and 
 learnt, to my surprise, from one of thy gipsy 
 friends, that thou wert in this neighbourhood 
 yesterday. Thy roving life has prevented all 
 friendly intercourse betwixt us." 
 
 " Was that all that prevented it ? Didst thou 
 ever display any anxiety before this ?" 
 
 " My surprise was great to see thee yesterday." 
 
ROOKWOOD. 31 
 
 " Let it pass. I had no opportunity ; but I 
 have heard of thee often, in different ways, and of 
 thy roving life, and wild exploits, and so has Sir 
 Piers too, God help him ! But what I was going 
 to say was this: that thou art mistaken in 
 attributing the persecutions thou hast endured to 
 him ; they were the work of another, in his name. 
 He ever watched thy vagabond coarse with 
 fearful interest, and could he have found thee 
 at the last '''' 
 
 " He might have found me, had he wished it.""* 
 
 " How so — didst thou ever see him ?"^ 
 
 " See him ! I shunned him, as I would a 
 pestilence. Twelve years have past since last I 
 beheld him.'^ 
 
 " The worse for thee. It was his wish to see 
 thee ; but no traces could be discovered of thee, 
 when thou wert most wanted.^' 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! I baffled him, then.'' 
 
 " Baffled Aim— baffled thyself. Do I not tell 
 thee Sir Piers wished to see thee for thy good. 
 Thou hast lost much by thy folly." 
 
32 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " I care not if I have; but how was I to 
 conjecture that Sir Piers was friencQy disposed 
 towards me. It hath ever appeared the contrary ^ 
 
 " But it was as I tell thee. The wrong thou 
 coniplainest of was all another's work.'' 
 
 " What other r 
 
 " His wife, the Lady Rook wood. You know 
 her not, or you would not ask, but you may here- 
 after, and I would put you upon your guard, or 
 she will ensnare you. The dead Sir Piers was 
 your friend ; your enemy yet survives, in Lady 
 Rookwood. I tell thee, Luke, Jezabel was an 
 angel of light, to that woman. She will go any 
 lengths — she sticks at nothing ; stand in her way, 
 and mark the end of it. And then she is a match 
 for the devil himself in cunning, as well as malice. 
 Kindle her anger, and it will not burn out like a 
 quick flame, as that of any decent person would. 
 No ; it smoulders, and smoulders in secret, till 
 some sudden wind shall rise, and then — puff ! — 
 no end to the blaze and ruin. All thou hast 
 endured, originated with her. She early learnt 
 
ROOKWOOD. 33 
 
 the story of thy birth ; I know not from whom, 
 perhaps from Sir Piers ; but from that moment, 
 thou wert surely marked out as an object of her 
 vengeance. Her engines were set to work. She 
 drove thee hence ; nay, twice, as Sir Piers him- 
 self told me, hath assailed thy life, but he foile<l 
 her horrible purposes."^ 
 
 " Am I to believe this ?*' asked Luke, with an 
 expression of doubt. 
 
 " Assuredly ! Poor Sir Piers ; thou talkest 
 of his having broken thy mothers heart ; it was 
 a fate himself 'scaped not, and at his o^vn wife's 
 hands,"" 
 
 " So my mother was avenged, I care not who 
 was the instrument. There may be truth in what 
 tliou say est, in regard to Lady Rookw(iod"s 
 enmity to me; most circumstances seem to 
 warrant the belief; but devil as thou desc7*ibest 
 her, I doubt whether even she coidd liave ])roke 
 so stubborn a heart as that of her husband."^ 
 
 " Thou hast yet to know her. The hardest 
 rock will yield to constant dropping. Sir Piers's 
 c 5 
 
54 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 breast was no such flinty substance. Drop by 
 drop, her biting words wore their way to his 
 heart's core ; the venom was slow in its effect, but 
 sure. Needs' t thou further proof — she is a 
 widow r 
 
 " And I am motherless r added Luke, with 
 bitter emphasis on the epithet. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 Let me know fully, therefore, the intent 
 
 Of this, thy dismal preparation — 
 
 This talk fit for a charnel. 
 
 Webster. 
 
 The acrimony with which Luke expressed 
 himself brought the discourse to a termination. 
 No reply was attempted by the sexton, who saw 
 at once that any thing he could add would be 
 unavailing, and that he had already trifled too 
 much with his grandson's feelings. Luke rose 
 from his seat, and, flinging his gun over his 
 shoulder, began to pace the vault rapidly to and 
 fro, bestowing a casual glance at each niche as he 
 passed it, his tramp sounding dully on the floor, 
 and his tall form now almost disappearing from 
 
36 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 view — now suddenly rushing on the sight. Mean- 
 while the sexton was not without occupation. 
 Busying himself in preparations for the melan- 
 choly ceremonial of the morrow, he beguiled the 
 time with snatches of odd, out-of-the-way ditties, 
 as strange and, as it might almost seem, as super- 
 natural as himself, occasionally whistling a kind 
 of accompaniment, with about as much fitness to 
 the air as the latter itself bore to the ordinary 
 standard of musical composition. In one of the 
 intervals of this uncouth performance, Luke 
 approached him, and asked — 
 
 " At what hour did Sir Piers Rookwood die.?"' 
 
 " He died on Thursday last, in the night time ; 
 but the exact hour I know not.'' 
 
 " Of what ailment ?"' 
 
 " Neither do I know that. His end was sud- 
 den, 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 possi- 
 ble you have never heard of the ominous Lime 
 
ROOK WOOD- 37 
 
 tree, and the fatal bough ? — why, 'tis a common 
 tale hereabouts, and has been for centuries : any 
 old crone would tell it thee. Peradventure thou 
 hast seen the old avenue of lime trees leading to 
 the hall, near a quarter of a mile in length, and 
 as noble a row of timber as any in the county. 
 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 M'hat 
 girth in the trunk. Ah ! there is something 
 fearful and portentous even in the look of the 
 tree ; its leaves have all a darker green than those 
 of any others ; its branches are flung out like the 
 arms of a giant; and on wintry nights it will 
 shriek in the tempests like a human being in 
 agony. Some say it was planted in old times by 
 Sir Ranulph, he who built the mansion, and 
 designed the avenue, and whose statue stands 
 before you ; and that beneath its roots are 
 scattered the bones of a -witch, whom he 
 hunted and worried with his blood-hounds, 
 
38 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 denying Christian burial to the accursed remains. 
 This is likely enough ; but I have heard other 
 traditions, not so probable; one of which runs, 
 that the tree was originally a stake, which, driven 
 through the body of a murderer, and nurtured 
 in the soil, enriched and fattened with his blood, 
 took root, and, contrary to the course of nature, 
 flourished. This I heed not. One thing, how- 
 ever, is certain, that the tree is, in some mys- 
 terious 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.'' 
 
 " And such an omen, thou wouldst add, pre- 
 ceded Sir Piers's demise," said Luke. 
 
 " Even so. No later than Tuesday morning,'' 
 replied the sexton, " I happened to be saunter- 
 ing down the avenue ; I know not what took me 
 thither at that early hour, but I rambled leisurely 
 on till I came nigh the tree ; and lo ! there was 
 a huge bough cumbering the ground, right 
 
ROOK WOOD. d9 
 
 across my path : an adder would not have startled 
 me so much. There it was, a green, strong 
 branch, broken from the bole — no wind, no 
 storm, no axe, had done it ; so I stood still, and 
 paused. Just then, as ill-luck would have it, 
 with a loud, cheering cry, a burst of hounds, and 
 a merry crew of friends at his heels, out gallops 
 Sir Piers from the gate. Full tilt he comes 
 towards me ; when directly his horse rears at the 
 branch, and out of his saddle he tumbles. 
 He was not hurt by the fall, only startled ; but 
 more when he beheld the cause of the accident, 
 than by any thing else. He put a bold face 
 on the matter, but I could see it sickened him, 
 and well it might — it was liis death-warrant — I 
 could see it in his face, even then. At first he 
 stormed, and asked who had done it. Every 
 body was questioned — all denied a hand in it. 
 Hugh Badger, the keeper, held his horse, but he 
 would not mount, and returned dejectedly to the 
 hall, breaking up the day's sport. Before depart- 
 ing, he addressed a word or two to me in private 
 
40 
 
 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 respecting thee, and pointed, with a melancholy 
 shake of the head, to the branch : there was a 
 thought of other days in his look. Doctor Titus 
 Tyrconnel tried to cheer him, but it would not 
 do ; it was all over, his sand was run. 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 feel- 
 ing of belief as he would have it appear. 
 
 " Undoubtedly I do,'" 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 : firstly, with Sir Reginald ; secondly, 
 with thy own mother ; and lastly, as I have just 
 told thee, with Sir Piers.""' 
 
 " I thought ye had said, e\ en now, that this 
 death-omen, if such it be, was ahvays confined to 
 the immediate family of Rookwood, and not to 
 mere inmates of the mansion.^ 
 
ROOK WOOD. 
 
 41 
 
 " To the heads of that house, be they male or 
 female."" 
 
 " None other.'' 
 
 " None." 
 
 " Then how could it apply to her ? Was she 
 of that house ? Was she a wife ?'" 
 
 " Who shall say she was not T' replied the 
 sexton. 
 
 " Who shall say she was T"* cried Luke, re- 
 peating the words with indignant emphasis — 
 " Who will avouch that T 
 
 " Perchance such a one might be found."" 
 
 " Might ! what new perplexity wouldst thou 
 conjure up in a mind perplexed almost beyond 
 endurance ? If thou hast aught to say, speak out, 
 and keep me not on the rack of doubt and 
 suspense.'' 
 
 A smile played upon the sexton's countenance : 
 it was cold as wintry sunbeam. 
 
 " I will bear this no longer," cried Luke ; 
 ** anger me not, or look to yourself. In a word, 
 
42 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 hast thou any thing to tell me respecting her ? if 
 not, let me be gone.""' 
 
 " I have ; but I will not be hurried by a boy 
 like thee,"" replied Peter, doggedly. " Go, if thou 
 wilt, and take the consequences ; my lips are 
 shut for ever, and I have much to say — mvich 
 thou wouldst gladly learn." 
 
 " Then out with it ; why else came I liither ? 
 When you sought me out this morning, in my 
 retreat with the gipsy gang, you bade me meet 
 you in the church porch at midnight; I was true 
 to my appointment." 
 
 "And I will keep my promise; sit down. 
 Thou knowest where thou art ; 'tis the burial 
 place of the Rook wood family." 
 
 " I know it." 
 
 " Interrupt me not. What I have got to say 
 concerns you, and your mother likewise, as you 
 will find anon. Look around. See how each 
 cell within this sepulchre is tenanted. The 
 coffins swarm like chests in a store-house. Ah ! 
 
ROOKWOOD. 43 
 
 how much useful lead is wasted ; better melt 
 it down to good balls, and thin superfluous 
 mankind, than keep it to preserve the rotten 
 masses it contains ; a few planks are all that is 
 needed for the best of us : give me a deep grave, 
 a thin board, and a gravelly soil. What is a 
 churchyard for — eh? — But no matter, there 
 they are, in all the honour dust can have — 
 fathers and sons — leaden lumber all — lying in 
 tiers of three and four, ay, and as many in places 
 as five. Draw closer, that I may whisper in thine 
 ear. Of every Rookwood that lies around us — 
 and all that ever bore the name, except Sir Piers 
 himself, who lies in state at the hall, are here — 
 not one — mark what I say ! — not one male branch 
 of the house but has been suspected — "" 
 
 " Of what r 
 
 " Murder !'" replied the sexton, in a hissing 
 whisper. 
 
 " Murder ^ re-echoed Luke, recoiling. 
 
 " There is one dark stain — one foul blot on 
 all — blood — blood hath been spilt.'' 
 
44 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 «Byall?^' 
 
 " Ay, and such blood ! their''s was no com- 
 mon crime. Even murder hath its degrees — 
 their's was of the first class.'^ 
 
 " Their wives — you cannot mean that P"" 
 
 " Ay, their wives ! — I do. Thou hast heard 
 it then. Ha ! ha ! 'tis a trick they had. Didst 
 ever hear the old saying? it's in every old 
 crone's lips hereabouts : — 
 
 * Never mate brook would, 
 A Rook of the Rook wood.' 
 
 And a merry saying it is, and true ; no woman 
 ever stood in a Rookwood's way, but she was 
 speedily removed, that's certain. They had all, 
 save poor Sir Piers, the knack of stopping a 
 troublesome woman's tongue, and practised it to 
 perfection — a rare art, eh ? As I told you before, 
 yonder lies old Sir Reginald, with his three wives 
 beside him — three — and he survived them all. 
 Oh ! he was a brave man ; 'tis pity he could not 
 teach his son. That coffin at the bottom of the 
 pile, flattened like a piece of kneaded clay, con- 
 
ROOK WOOD. 45 
 
 tains his first wife ; she died of a blow dealt by 
 her husband, at a time when women have most 
 need of kindness: but Sir Reginald, though a 
 oTeat Courtier abroad was no flatterer at home — 
 
 o 
 
 it was a kiss and a cufF with him. Notwith- 
 standing this — for you will observe women are 
 ever prone to wedlock, and think no man too 
 hard to manage till they find out their mistake 
 when too late — Sir Reginald married again, ay, 
 and again after that — two other wives — Mi^ 
 he wedded for her money, that for her beauty : 
 the one he hated, that her looks did not please 
 him ; the other, that she inflamed him with jea- 
 lousy. Both he removed, and died full of years 
 and honours. 
 
 " Sir Ralph heads the niche beyond his son : 
 he was a jovial man I've heard, for he was before 
 my time, and loved his bottle and his lass; 
 but lie had a wife, and a jealous one, who 
 must needs be meddling. Your jealous women 
 are ever meddlesome. Better had it been for her 
 had she taken no thought at his pastimes ; but 
 she must needs drive a wench out of the village 
 
46 ROOKWOOU. 
 
 that Sir Ralph had taken a fancy to ; and so one 
 morning my Lady was found, a swollen corpse, 
 in the fish pond. Sir Ralph swore lustily that 
 she had done the deed herself — that she was an 
 outrageous creature, and had drowned herself 
 merely to malign him ; but others thought other- 
 wise, and he only escaped the gibbet to have his 
 brains knocked out in battle. Catch a Rook- 
 wood, if you can. 
 
 " Pass over the rest, and come to this side. 
 There, in that old shell, lies Sir Ranulph, the 
 second of that name, and grandson of the grim 
 old knight of the marble monument. I never 
 heard tell exactly how he disposed of the two 
 dames with whom he allied himself; but both 
 were wealthy, both short lived. His great 
 anxiety, like Sir Reginald's, was to increase his 
 patrimony, for he knew what the old saw says : — 
 
 " There's thriving in wiving ; for when we bury 
 Wives by half dozens, the money makes merry." 
 
 And after he had rid himself of all incumbrances, 
 he paid courtship to an heiress — but she took 
 
ROOKWOOD. 47 
 
 the alarm at the fate of her predecessors, and the 
 rumours that went abroad about them — ^'' 
 
 " I have heard sufficient,'' interposed Luke ; 
 " what have the misdeeds of his ancestry to do 
 with Sir Piers, much less with my mother, 
 unless indeed — " 
 
 " Every thing. If he could not rid himself of 
 his wife (and she were a match for the devil 
 himself), it follows not that the mistress might 
 be more readily set aside/' 
 
 " Hast thou absolute knowledge of aught ?" 
 cried Luke, his voice tremulous with anxiety. 
 
 " Nay, I but hinted." 
 
 " Such hints are worse than open speech. Let 
 me know the worst. Did he kill her?" And 
 Luke stared at the sexton as if he would have 
 looked into his secret soul. 
 
 But the sexton was not easily fathomed. His 
 cold, bright eye returned Luke's gaze stedfastly, 
 as he answered, composedly — 
 
 " I have said all I know." 
 
 " But not all thou thinkestr 
 
48 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Thoughts should not always find then- 
 utterance in words, else should we often endanger 
 our own safety, and that of others," 
 
 " An idle subterfuge ; and from thee, worse 
 than idle. I will have an answer, yea or nay. 
 Was it poison — was it steel ?"' 
 " Neither."" 
 
 " But there are other ways by which the spark 
 of life may be extinguished."" 
 " Enough — she died."" 
 " No, not enough. When ? — where ?"^ 
 '' In her sleep — in her bed."' 
 " Why, that was natural."* 
 A wrinkling smile crossed the sexton"s brow. 
 " What means that horrible gleam of laughter ?"" 
 exclaimed Luke, grasping his shoulder with such 
 force as nearly to annihilate the man of graves. 
 " Speak, or I will strangle thee. Ha ! A 
 thought flashes across my brain. She died, you 
 say, in her sleep .?"" 
 
 " In her sleep,"" replied the sexton, shaking 
 off Luke"s hold. " The evening saw her blithe, 
 
ROOKWOOD. 49 
 
 healthful, blooming— the morning, stark, stiff, 
 breathless/' 
 
 " I see,'' ejaculated Luke, with a frightful 
 gesture. " Was it so T' — 
 
 « May be.'' 
 
 " No marks of violence ?" 
 
 « Not that I beheld." 
 
 " You saw her, then ?" 
 
 " I saw her — dead." 
 
 " And was it to tell me this you brought me 
 hither.^ Was it to tell me, I had a mothers 
 murder to avenge, that you brought me to the 
 tomb of her destroyer — when he is beyond the 
 reach of my vengeance .^" 
 
 Luke exhibited so much frantic violence of 
 manner and gesture, that the sexton entertained 
 some little apprehension that his intellects were 
 unsettled, by the shock of the intelligence. It 
 was, tberefore, in what he intended for a soothing 
 tone, that he solicited Luke's attention. 
 
 " I will hear nothing more," replied Luke, 
 
 VOL. I, D 
 
50 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 and the vaulted chamber rang with his passionate 
 lamentations. Suddenly pausing, he exclaimed, 
 in a loud voice, as if addressing the vacancy, 
 " Am I the sport of this mocking fiend, to 
 whom my agony is derision — ^my despair a source 
 of enjoyment — beneath whose withering glance 
 my spirit shrinks — who, with half-expressed 
 insinuations, tortures my soul, awakening fan- 
 cies, that goad me on to dark and desperate 
 deeds? Dead mother! upon thee I call. If in 
 thy grave, thou canst hear the cry of thy most 
 wretched son, yearning to avenge thee — answer 
 me, if thou hast the power. Let me have 
 some token of the truth or falsity of these wild 
 suppositions, that I may wrestle against this 
 demon. But no,'' added he, in accents of 
 despair ; " no ear can hear me, save his to whom 
 my wretchedness is food for hellish glee.'' 
 
 '' Could the dead hear thee, she might do so. 
 She is not far off." 
 
 « She— who?" 
 
HOOK WOOD. 51 
 
 « Thy mother !" 
 
 " Devil ! I will not tolerate this mockery. 
 Tempt me not." 
 
 " I mock thee not. Why should I ?'^ 
 
 ^' Why ? I know not. Thou saidst she was 
 not afar off. Can thine aged eyes see into the 
 graves ? Is she here in bodily presence P"' 
 
 " She lies within this space.'' 
 
 Luke staggered back, as if struck by a thun- 
 derbolt! He spoke not, but fell with a violent 
 shock against a pile of coffins, at which he caught 
 for support. 
 
 _ '' Ay, there^ cried the sexton, extending a 
 skinny finger, " thou hast hit it." 
 
 " What have I done ?" exclaimed Luke, re- 
 coiling. 
 
 " What hast thou done ? Ha ! — have a care ?" 
 A thundering crash resounded through the vault. 
 One of the coffins, which Luke had dislodged from 
 its position, tumbled to the ground ; it alighted 
 upon its side, splitting asunder in the fall. 
 
 " Great heavens ! what is this .?" cried Luke; 
 
 UBRA.R^ 
 
 i^;;'s>TVO.au^.o.s 
 
52 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 as a dead body, clothed in all the hideous ap- 
 parel of the tomb, rolled forth to his feet. 
 
 " It is thy mother's corpse,'' answered the 
 sexton. " I brought th^e hither to behold it ; 
 but thou hast anticipated my intentions." 
 
 " This my mother ?^'' shrieked Luke. " Can 
 the dead indeed hear?" he shudder ingly added. 
 " This is a solemn token : she was not insensible 
 to my adjuration." 
 
 He dropped upon his knees by the body, 
 seizing one of its chilly hands, and bending over 
 the countenance of the dead, as it lay upon the 
 floor, with its face upwards. 
 
 The sexton took the candle from the sconce. 
 
 " Art thou sure 'tis she?" demanded Luke, as 
 he approaclied with the light. 
 
 " As sure as that thou livest," was the reply. 
 
 " Can this be death ?" shouted Luke, half 
 frantic : " Impossible ! Oh God ! She stirs — 
 she moves. The light! — quick — I see her stir! ; 
 This is dreadful — intolerable." 
 
 '^ Do not deceive yourself," said the sexton, in 
 
ROOKWOOD. 53 
 
 a tone which betrayed more emotion than was his 
 wont. " 'Tis the be\\dlderment of fancy : she 
 will never stir again, poor wench." And he 
 shaded the candle with his hand, so as to 
 throw the light full upon the deadly visage. It 
 was motionless as that of an image carved in 
 stone. Pale was that face as monumental marble ; 
 beneath the reflex of the yellow flame it wore a 
 waxlike tint, sicklied to a wannish white. No 
 trace of corruption was visible upon the rigid, yet 
 exquisite tracery of its features. No livid hue 
 deformed the delicacy and beauty of its linea- 
 ments, but, lovely as it had been in life, un- 
 rivalled for its fairness, so was it in death. 
 The sight was indeed a marvel and a mystery ; it 
 was as if some pitying spirit had seized the 
 moment 
 
 Before Decay's effacing fingers 
 
 Had swept the lines where beauty lingers, 
 
 to arrest the hands of the Spoiler, ere one withering 
 touch had been laid upon her brow — ere a breath 
 of his blighting atmosphere had fallen upon 
 
54 BOOKWOOD. 
 
 his victim, and, failing to avert the stroke of fatCj 
 had invested the fine clay it could not re-animate, 
 with a perpetuity of living loveliness. A pro- 
 fuse cloud of raven hair escaped from its 
 swathements in the fall, which hung like a 
 dark veil over the bosom and person of the de- 
 parted, and presented a startling contrast to the 
 prevailing paleness of the skin and the white 
 sere-clothes. Flesh still adhered to the hand, 
 though it mouldered into dust within the gripe 
 of Luke, as he pressed the fingers to his lips. 
 The garments of the dead were disposed like 
 night-gear about her person, and from without 
 their folds a few withered flowers had fallen. A 
 strong, aromatic odour, of a pungent nature, was 
 diffused around ; hence it was evident that the 
 art by which the ancient Egyptians endeavoured 
 to rescue their kindred from decomposition, had 
 been resorted to, to preserve the fleeting charms 
 of the unfortunate Susan Bradley; making it 
 evident, also, that he who, living, loved lier not, 
 or loving, had destroyed her^ yet when dead — : 
 
KOOKWOOD. B5 
 
 lost to him for ever — had sought, actuated 
 by some inscrutable revulsion of feeling, to save 
 from utter extinction those fatal endowments of 
 person, which had first found favour in his 
 eyes, and ultimately ensured the destruction of 
 the hapless possessor. 
 
 A pause of awful silence succeeded, broken 
 only by the panting respiration of Luke. He 
 spoke not — groaned not — moved not ; but his 
 breast laboured heavily with suppressed emotion, 
 and there was a quivering in the muscles of 
 his limbs, like that proceeding from severe, 
 paralytic affection. The sexton stood by, appa- 
 rently an indifferent spectator of the scene 
 of horror. He rendered no assistance — pro- 
 nounced no word of sympathy — expressed no 
 commiseration, but remained fixed for a few 
 moments in the attitude we have described. His 
 eye wandered from the dead to the living, and 
 gleamed with a peculiar and indefinable expres- 
 sion, half apathy, half abstraction. For one 
 single instant, as he scrutinized the features of 
 
56 BOOKWOOD. 
 
 his daughter, his brow, contracted as in anger, 
 immediately afterwards was elevated as in scorn ; 
 but otherwise you would- have sought in vain to 
 read the purport of that cold, insensible glance, 
 which dwelt for one brief space on the face of the 
 mother, and settled eventually upon her son. 
 Worlds would that son have given to have been 
 at that instant equally insensible. A prey to the 
 keenest anguish — to agony almost insupport- 
 able, he yet obtained no relief in tears — no 
 drop of moisture found its way to his eyes. The 
 agony of his emotions can only be conceived by 
 those who have endured (and which of us hath 
 altogether escaped ?) the martyrdom of moments 
 like to those — who, like him, have felt the iron 
 enter into their soul, and have drained to the 
 dregs the bowl of bitterness. 
 
 Brother! hath it been thine, to look thy last 
 upon the lifeless form of one who has been to 
 thee thy tenderest friend — thy gentlest adviser — 
 thy fondest, truest counsellor — the only part- 
 ner of thy boyish hopes — the sole sharer of 
 
.aooKwooD. .57 
 
 thy boyish ^iefs — the confidant of thy maturer 
 years — the one, alone, to whom all thy hidden 
 thoughts were poured forth — in whom thy love, 
 unalloyed by passion, unmixed with jealousy, 
 was centred ? Hast thou seen the light of ten- 
 derness, that beamed in those dear eyes, dimmed, 
 extinguished? Hast thou known the moment 
 when the silver music that dwelt upon that 
 tongue hath become mute ? 
 
 Father ! hast thou gazed thy last upon thy 
 child — thy young, thy beautiful child — thy daily 
 prayer — thy nightly dream — thy cherished hope 
 — thy fairest flower — thy one, sole star — the 
 breath of thy nostrils — the apple of thine eye ? 
 
 And thou husband ! divorced by death — thy 
 bride hath been torn from thy arms in the 
 full fruition of thy happiness- — the cup of 
 content was too full — it hath been dashed 
 to the ground — broken in pieces. She is 
 gone ! she is fled ! The arm that clung to tliee 
 is nerveless — the lips that showered their warm 
 caresses upon thine, can caress thee never again -^ 
 d5 
 
58 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 the bosom that cherished thee, heaves no longer — 
 the heart that worshipped thee, beats no more. 
 
 Son ! the last link that bound thee to thy fellows 
 is snapped in twain ; all others have discarded 
 thee, have cast thee from them, save her, w^ho now 
 lies in death before thee. Thy mother, through 
 good and ill report, hath been always faithful to 
 thy fortunes — ever soothing, never reproaching 
 thee — calming thy wrath — mitigating thy 
 miseries. Now thou art utterly desolate — thou 
 hast lost every thing — even her. 
 
 All ye who have similarly suffered, need 
 no description of the extent of Luke's suf- 
 fering — of the heart-quake that shook him. 
 Of an earnest vivacity of temperament amounting 
 even to the fierce, he at the same time was 
 endued mth the tenderest sensibilities. His case 
 was not hke one of those we have enumerated. 
 He had known no mother's love — no mother's 
 watchful care — no mother's gushing tenderness ; 
 for him liad beamed no mother's well-remembered 
 smile ; but the absence of this reality had created 
 
ROOK^'OOD. 59 
 
 in his ardent, enthusiastic mind, possessed from 
 infancy with but one fanciful image, that of his 
 mother — an image — a phantasm, such as haunts 
 a dreamer's brain, of something like the object of 
 his love, such as he dreamed she would have 
 been, had she ever blessed him with her presence ; 
 peopling his imagination with a thousand vision- 
 ary notions, of smiles, and tears, and looks, 
 remembered like the indistinct perceptions of 
 childhood, and dwelt upon as fondly ; till what 
 had been but a dream, nay, the memory of a 
 dream, assumed, as Kfe advanced, a substance, and 
 a shape, distinct and positive ; so that when, for 
 the first time, he actually beheld the object of his 
 idolatry before him in death, no wonder that all 
 these hoarded emotions of years should burst 
 forth with irrresistible vehemence, and the long 
 sealed fountains of the heart be unloosed. 
 
 The sexton, as has been before observed, made 
 no effort to console him. For some space he 
 neither spoke, nor altered his position ; at length 
 
60 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 the withered flowers attracted his attention. He 
 stooped to pick up one of them. 
 
 " Faded as the hand that gathered ye, as the 
 bosom on which ye were strewn V he murmured. 
 " No sweet smell left — but — faugh ."^ Holding 
 in disgust the dry leaves to the flame of the 
 candle, they were instantly ignited, and the 
 momentary brilliance played like a smile upon 
 the features of the dead. The sexton observed 
 the effect. " Such was thy life,"*' he exclaimed ; 
 " a brief, bright sparkle^ followed by dark, 
 utter, extinction;'"' and he flung the expiring 
 ashes of the floweret from his hand. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 Duck. You are very cold. 
 
 I fear you are not well after your travel. 
 
 Hah ! lights. Oh horrible I 
 
 Fer. Let her have lights enough. 
 
 Duch. What witchcraft doth he practise, that he hath left 
 
 A dead hand here. 
 
 Duchess of Malft. 
 
 The sexton's waning candle now warned him 
 of the progress of time ; and having completed 
 his arrangements, he addressed himself to Luke, 
 intimating his intention of departing. Having 
 received no answer, and remarking no signs of 
 life about his grandson, he began to be appre- 
 hensive that he had fallen into a swoon. Drawing 
 near to Luke, he took him gently by the arm. 
 Thus disturbed, Luke groaned aloud. 
 
62 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " I am glad to find thou canst breathe, if 
 it be only after that melancholy fashion,'' said 
 the sexton ; " but come, I have wasted time 
 enough already ; you must indulge your grief 
 elsewhere." 
 
 " Leave me," cried Luke. 
 
 " Leave you ! What, here ? It were as much 
 as my office is worth. You can retuni some 
 other night ; but go you must, now — at least, if 
 you take on so. I never calculated upon a scene 
 like this, or it had been long ere I brought you 
 hither. So come away ; but first lend me a hand 
 to replace the body in the coffin." 
 
 " Touch it not," exclaimed Luke ; " she shall 
 not rest another hour within these accursed 
 walls. I will bear her hence myself." 
 
 " Thou wilt do no such thing," cried the sexton. 
 " I have the keys, and the custody of this place ; 
 and I will suffer no man but the vicar himself to 
 interfere with my prerogatives and rights. Thou 
 art a fool to think of such a thing ; is it not to 
 her honour and her credit that she is decently 
 
ROOK WOOD. 63 
 
 interred here ? And what could'st thou do with 
 the body — sell it to the doctor, Mister Titus 
 Tyrconnel, and get me the credit of aiding and 
 abetting a body-snatcher ? No, grandson Luke, 
 bethink thee twice, ere you deprive your mother's 
 remains of Christian burial." 
 
 It was well for the sexton that the whole of 
 this speech did not reach Luke's ears, or he 
 might have been tempted to put an unpleasant 
 termination to his taunts. As it was, he replied 
 not; and after another interval of silence, 
 Peter asked, " AVhat wouldst thou do with it .^" 
 
 " I know not," answered Luke. " I cannot 
 think ; but here she shall not stay." He sobbed 
 hysterically, and relapsed into his former insen- 
 sibility. 
 
 " At least, place the body decently within the 
 coffin. If thou art bent upon committing a rash 
 act, I will not baulk thy humour ; it is not my 
 way to interfere, so if thou comest to harm 'tis 
 of thine own doing. I wash my hands of it. 
 But why do I cliatter thus ? he heeds me not. 
 
64 
 
 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 Poh — this is worse than Midsummer mad- 
 ness,"" continued the sexton ; " but the lad is 
 crazed with grief, and all about a mother who 
 has been four-and-twenty years in her grave. I 
 will even put her out of the way myself."" 
 Saying which, he proceeded, as noiselessly as 
 possible, to raise the corpse in his arms, depositing 
 it softly within its former tenement. Carefully 
 as he executed his task, he could not accomplish 
 it without occasioning a slight accident to the 
 fragile frame. Insensible as he was, Luke had 
 not relinquished the hold he maintained of his 
 mother's hand. And when Peter lifted the 
 body, the ligaments, connecting the hand with 
 the arm, were suddenly snapped asunder. It 
 would appear afterwards, that this joint bad been 
 tampered with, and partially dislocated. But 
 without entering into further particulars in this 
 place, it may be sufficient to observe, that the 
 hand, detached from the socket at the wrist, re- 
 mained within the gripe of Luke. Ignorant of the . 
 mischief He had occasioned, the sexton continued 
 
ROOK WOOD. 
 
 '65 
 
 his labours, unconsciously, until the noise which 
 he of necessity made, in stamping with his heel 
 upon the plank, was the means of recalling Luke 
 to sensibility. The first thing he perceived, 
 upon collecting his faculties, were the skeleton 
 fingers, which he found twined within his own. 
 His frame thrilled as he regarded the severed 
 limb. 
 
 ** What have you done with her ? Why have 
 you left this with me ?"" said he. 
 
 " It was not my intention to have done so,"*^ 
 answered the sexton, suspending his occupation. 
 *' I have just made fast the lid, but it is easily 
 undone. You had better restore it." 
 
 " Restore it,'' echoed Luke, staring at the 
 bony fragment. 
 
 " Ay ! of what advantage is a dead hand ? 
 'Tis an unlucky keepsake, and will lead to 
 harm. The only use I ever heard for such a 
 thing, was in the case of bow-legged Ben, he 
 who was hanged in irons for murder, on Hard- 
 chase Heath, and whose hand was cut off at the 
 
06 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 wrist the first night, to make therewith a Hand 
 of Glory, or dead man's candle. Old Mistress 
 Asheton had her throat cut that night, and 
 the candle, held by the glorious fingers, lighted 
 her murderers the while, and subdued the 
 poor woman and her servants into an una- 
 wakening sleep — not even a cry was heard. Ho ! 
 ho! — But you have no such intentions, I'm 
 sure; if you had, this would never serve 
 your turn, for it must be the limb of a hanged 
 malefactor, and the candle must be of the melted 
 fat ; therefore " 
 
 ^< Look there,'' exclaimed Luke, extending the 
 hand towards the sexton. " What seest thou .^" 
 
 " What I have seldom seen, two hands in one 
 —a dead and a living — a son's and a mother's." 
 
 " Seest thou notliing upon that finger ?" 
 
 " I see something shine. Hold it nigher the 
 light. Ha ! that is strange, truly. How came it 
 there?" 
 
 " How came it there ! Ask of Sir Piers ! 
 ask of her hushmid /" shouted Luke, with a wild 
 
ROOKWOOD. $T 
 
 burst of exulting laughter. " Ha ! ha ! ha ! 'tis 
 a wedding ring ; and look, the finger is bent ; it 
 must have been placed thereon in life. There is 
 no deception in this ; no trickery — hah !'"' 
 
 "It would seem not ; that sinew must have 
 been contracted in life. The tendons are pulled 
 down so tightly, that the ring could not be 
 withdrawn without breaking the finger.''' 
 
 " Thou art right ; it is so. This is her hand ; 
 it must be so. She was his wedded wife. Ha ! 
 ha! ha!'' 
 
 "It would seem so." 
 
 " Seem I it is undoubted. Thou art sure that 
 coffin contains her body ?" 
 
 " Thy mother's ? Sure as this carcase is my 
 own." 
 
 " The hand — 'tis her's. Can any doubt exist ?" 
 
 " Wherefore should it ? That hand was broken 
 from the arm by accident within this moment. I 
 noticed not the occurrence, but it must have 
 been so." 
 
68 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Yes — yes, of course ; and she was wedded, 
 and I am not " 
 
 " Illegitimate ! — For thy own sake, I am glad 
 of it." 
 
 *' Glad ! my heart will burst. Oh ! could I 
 but establish the fact of this marriage — her 
 fame, my wrongs, would be indeed avenged." 
 
 " Be not too sanguine ; thou wilt find it no 
 easy task to establish. Granting it were the 
 fact, and I am inclined to think it might be so, 
 consider whom thou hast to contend with." 
 
 " Lady Rookwood ! Why, she was lady Rook- 
 wood before her. She shall know it ! She shall 
 know it !" 
 
 " Ay, and her son, young Sir Ranulph. Think 
 you he will tamely yield his birthright to you ?" 
 
 " i/is birthright I Mine! if this be so. Sir 
 Ranulph — that title belongs to me. I'll strip 
 them of their borrowed honours. Ill — — . Ha ' 
 ha! — I shall go mad for joy." 
 
 " A word." 
 
EOOKWOOD. 
 
 69 
 
 " I cannot talk — cannot listen, now."" 
 " You are beside yourself. This can never be." 
 " Never! Give me but a hope — but an inch 
 of ground to stand upon — a thread to cling to, 
 and thou shalt see how I will maintain my hold."" 
 " I give thee no hopes. I can give thee none. 
 Even hadst thou the right, how canst thou, un- 
 friended, poor, make head against those already 
 in possession, and wealthy to boot ?" 
 
 " I will brave every difficulty, every danger, 
 to assert my claims." 
 
 " Grant you will do so; you must have 
 evidence beyond this ring, whereon to found those 
 claims. It may satisfy you, and other credu- 
 lous people- — as myself, for instance — that such a 
 niarriage hath taken place ; but it is scarce likely 
 to meet with implicit belief with others, nor what 
 is more, to obtain for thee the broad lands, and 
 the proud name of Rookwood. And after all, 
 "'tis the union you mvist establish, beyond a 
 doubt, between Sir Piers and your mother ; for 
 it is possible, at least there may be those will say 
 
70 nooKwooD. 
 
 so, that she was a married woman, and yet no 
 wife to Sir Piers." 
 
 " They will not repeat the assertion in my 
 hearing. Why say this to me ?" 
 
 " I do not say so, nor do I think so ; all I 
 fear is, that Sir Piers' precautions were so well 
 taken, that you may never be able to adduce 
 proof positive that such a marriage did exist."" 
 
 " But we may disprove any other alleged 
 alliance, and if Sir Piers did act with so much 
 caution, why left he this speaking evidence 
 behind, to point, like an index, to the secret ?"" 
 
 " It is not easy to account for it ; and yet the 
 chances were against the occurrence of an event 
 like the present. Looking more narrowly at the 
 wrist-joint, it would appear as if he had really 
 intended to prevent such a discovery, but had 
 desisted when his work was partially completed, 
 for Sir Piers was ever apt to act one moment, 
 and repent of it the next ; and his allowing that 
 ring to remain, most likely proceeded from some 
 passing feeling of remorse; besides, as I said 
 
ROOKWOOD. 71 
 
 before, he, probably, did not calculate upon such a 
 contingency as this. He took care nobody should 
 see this vault, without his permission, during his 
 lifetime. I have not had the keys myself before 
 yesterday, these four-and-twenty years, although 
 he has often visited the place during that 
 period." 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 " Ay, I have seen him — watched him, when 
 he thought no human eye beheld him; liither 
 would he often steal at night, and fasten him- 
 self within." 
 
 « With what intent ?" 
 
 " You shall hear Hush — Was not that a 
 
 footstep ?" 
 
 " I hear nothing — proceed." 
 
 The sexton gave a preparatory cough. 
 
 " One night, happening to be within the 
 church porch as he entered, I followed him 
 unobserved. He descended to the vault, leaving 
 the door ajar; I crept softly down the steps, 
 
72 
 
 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 and there I saw him standing, even where now 
 thou standest, beside an open coffin."" 
 
 "That '' 
 
 '' Ay, that ! He then unscrewed the lid. 
 He was gazing on the dead within ! his back 
 was towards me — I could not see his face, 
 but I heard his groans, his convulsive sobs, his 
 heart-rending cries. If I ever pitied human 
 being, I could have pitied Sir Piers.*" 
 
 " And yet thou doubtest his having a weight 
 of secret sin upon his soul ; thou thinkest his 
 hands were not embrued in blood ?**"* 
 
 " Said I so ? I never doubted it. You asked 
 me if I had seen the deed done ; I saw her upon 
 her death-bed ; there were no indications of a 
 violent end upon her person, further than 
 exist upon it now, as thou hast seen her; 
 no bruise — no blow — no wound; and yet I 
 doubt not that she came to that end untimely. 
 Doubt I she was his wife? — No, I doubt it 
 not ; and yet I saw no ceremony take place — 
 
ROOK WOOD. • 7S 
 
 heard no priest's blessing pronounced upon them 
 —saw no ring placed upon her finger— nor 
 dreamed of such a thing until now. Howbeit 
 there is one living can make doubts certainties. 
 But to return to Sir Piers. There he stood, 
 making lamentation, moaning, and beating his 
 breast like one distracted, tearing his hair, and 
 invoking destruction upon himself; until, at 
 length, the violence of the fit worked its own cure, 
 and he became calmer. He then bent himself 
 over her body, and kissed its cold lips as reve- 
 rently and tenderly as if she had been his bride 
 asleep beside him."' 
 
 " And this you witnessed ?^ 
 
 " I did ; his next proceeding was, to pray by 
 her side long and fervently ; and seeing him arise, 
 as if with the intention of departing, I was about 
 to retreat from my hiding-place, when my atten- 
 tion was arrested by his voice. At first I thought 
 he had perceived me, and glad was I when 
 I found myself mistaken, for I make no doubt, 
 had he discovered me spying upon his privacy, 
 
 VOL. I, E 
 
74 ROOK WOOD, 
 
 but that he would, in his wrath, have dispatched 
 me outright. He was talking to himself: — I 
 ventured once more to look round — his face was 
 then towards the door, and as I looked through 
 the chink at the opening, I could see the fierce 
 glances of liis eyes. Thine bum with a like fire at 
 this moment — that alone would prove thou art thy 
 father's son, and a true Rookwood. Well, his 
 glances flew like flashes of lightning round the 
 vault ; and he stood with one foot upon that old 
 marble monument, and his arms spread out, as if 
 about to strike the senseless statue, and I could 
 hear that he was cursing the warrior within the 
 tomb. His words still ring in my ears, and I 
 could almost fancy I heard the frenzied, fearful 
 tone in which he pronounced them. Thou shalt 
 hear it, for each word dwells upon my memory. 
 ' First of an accursed race!' he cried, ' thou parent 
 source from whence that stream of hot and 
 tainted blood, which hath raged like lava within 
 the veins of thy sons for generation after gene- 
 ration succeeding thee, had its. rise! — what 
 
BOOK WOOD. 15 
 
 hindereth me from pouring out upon thy tomb a 
 rich libation of that blood, as an offering to 
 thy manes, and to the infernal gods, to whom 
 thou hast sold thyself, and haply all thy race ? 
 Nothing should hinder me, did I deem that 
 it would act as an expiation of my offences, as an 
 atonement of my guilt. But would it cleanse 
 and purify my soul ? — Would it not deepen my 
 guilt — darken my doom — would it not plunge 
 me beyond redemption to instant perdition ? I 
 feel that such an act would do so. Yet would I 
 ask of thee, wherefore is it — that this heritage of 
 crime hath descended from son to son, through all 
 thy line — each struggling against inevitable fate 
 — each filled with remorse! — none escaping? — 
 Wherefore is it, that, through thine agency, we 
 are doomed to have our names blotted for ever 
 from the fair page of heaven — to be inscribed 
 upon the blackest scroll of hell ? Better had it 
 been for them — for me — that thou hadst never 
 lived, or that thy race had expired with thee. 
 But as this cannot be, take back the ten-fold 
 
76 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 curse wherewith thou hast visited us: may it 
 recoil, with all its accumulated horrors and 
 agonies, upon thy own devoted head.** — And he 
 trampled and spat upon the tomb.^ 
 
 " I forgive him,'*' said Luke, " Heaven have 
 mercy upon his soul."" 
 
 " Amen !" responded the sexton. " His dead- 
 liest foe would not have refused him mercy at 
 that hour. I heard no more. Apprehensive of 
 discovery, I hastened to conceal myself; and well 
 was it that I did so, for scarce a moment had 
 elapsed, ere I heard Sir Piers'* departing footsteps 
 pacing along the aisle. 
 
 " 'Tis a dreadful tale,'' said Luke, " but tell 
 me, I beseech of you, how came she buried here P'' 
 
 " It was Sir Piers' wish — she was secretly 
 brought hither — I could tell thee such a tale 
 about that— but another time — the candle is 
 dying in its socket — we shall be in darkness." 
 
 " AVhat matters it ? art thou afraid ? or canst 
 thou not find thy way from hence without a 
 light?" 
 
ROOKWOOD. 77 
 
 « Afraid !— Ha, ha !— What is there that I 
 fear? these gentry? — Not I, in light or dark- 
 ness; and as to the door, I have little appre- 
 hension of missing that. Besides, it is now bright 
 moonlight within the church : and therefore, if 
 thou wilt, thou shalt have the story — and here ton. 
 Now we are, indeed, in complete darkness ; that 
 flash was the last. Let us seat ourselves ; place 
 thyself near me, that I may know that thou 
 listenest."" 
 
 " Fear not that,'** replied Luke. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Fer. Let me see her face again ; — 
 
 Wliy did'st not thou pity her ? What an excellent 
 
 Honest man might'st thou have heen, 
 
 If thou had'st borne her to some sanctuary! 
 
 Or, bold in a good cause, opposed thyself 
 
 Between her innocence and my revenge. 
 
 I hate thee for it 
 
 ^yEBSTER. 
 
 Groping his way to his former seat, and coming 
 fortunately in contact with the bottle, the sexton 
 applied his lips to its mouth. Luke followed, 
 having first carefully placed the skeleton hand 
 within the folds of his waistcoat. 
 
 " Art thou seated ?" inquired the sexton. 
 
 " I am here, beside thee," was the reply. 
 
aooKwooD". 79 
 
 *' You have seen your mother," began the 
 sexton, " and I need not waste words in de- 
 scribing her. If she is beautiful, as you beheld 
 her in death, you may conclude she did not lack 
 attractions when alive. In truth, she was, at 
 that time, reckoned the prettiest girl in the 
 village, and would have been the prettiest in any 
 village. I, her father, say this, and the more 
 freely, that beauty has no weight with me, but 
 rather the reverse. I never loved her as I 
 should have done, and for that very cause. She 
 was her mother's child, and when her mother 
 died, she left me to live ^dth her aunt. I did 
 not grieve to part with her : she was more than 
 indifferent to me — she was insulting — I gave 
 her a parting word of advice — Do you hear 
 me?" 
 
 " I hear thee," answered a hollow voice, the 
 tones of which startled the sexton, as they 
 sounded differently from those of Luke. 
 
 " I told Susan," continued he, recovering from 
 his momentary surprise, and satisfied of his 
 
80 jtooKwooiy, 
 
 compamon'*s attention, " that her beauty would be 
 her bane — that 'twas a fatal gift, and would prove 
 her undoing. It hath proved so since ; but she 
 turned a deaf ear to me then. We saw little of 
 each other, but I heard of her sometimes, and 
 heard also of the admiration she excited 
 amongst the hinds of Rookwood, and of the life 
 she was leading her admirers ; for Susan had a 
 tricksy, coquettish way with her, that gained 
 her many followers. However, I never heard a 
 whisper against her fame, not a breath, till she 
 went to live at the hall, as the squire's mistress ; 
 and then nobody spoke of her, at least, not to 
 me. However, I was secretly pleased with the 
 rumour, and determined to satisfy myself, and 
 have my fling at her. She had been there then 
 full six months. I went to the hall, and asked 
 to speak with her ; she refused to see me, but I 
 would not be denied. I dodged the menial, who 
 brought her message, to the room. I saw, in a 
 moment, how it was with her — I saw why she 
 refused me — I saw that my boding words had 
 
ROOKWOOD. ^1 
 
 come true; she was pregnant — I had my re- 
 venge. I spared not my reproaches : she en- 
 treated me to be silent — implored my blessing. 
 My answer was a word coupled with a curse ; I 
 turned upon my heel, and left the room."" 
 
 " Go on," said Luke, grinding his teeth. 
 
 " I saw her not again in life. Some months 
 afterwards she gave thee birth ; and it might be 
 within the year, that I heard of her demise : she 
 had expired, they said, suddenly. It was then 
 that Sir Roger sought me out. He was in great 
 trouble — he was frantic — he told me an uncon- 
 nected story about her decease, and hurried me 
 to the hall. I saw her upon her death-bed, but I 
 felt no compassion for her ; she was beautiful as 
 ever, and seemed to smile. I sickened at the 
 sight, and felt my hatred revive." 
 
 " Monster!" muttered Luke, 
 
 " I killed her not — I could not have harmed a 
 
 hair of her head — but I did not regret her. My 
 
 revenge had been executed by another. My 
 
 words had come true; her bloom had been 
 
 £ 5 
 
8^ 
 
 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 blighted— yea, even at its freshest. I shed no 
 tear for her — vented no sigh in sorrow — for, in 
 truth, I pitied her not.'' 
 
 " I could strangle him," mentally exclaimed 
 Luke, " though he is my own blood !" 
 
 " Where is the bottle ?" cried the sexton, 
 searching for it ; " thou art cold as ice, Luke ; 
 we had better leave this," 
 
 " My pulse throbs with fever," replied Luke; 
 " thou hast not touched me.. But go on ; I will 
 hear it out, now." 
 
 " Not touched thee ! what was it I felt, or 
 imagined I felt ? but no matter. Ah ! whence 
 breathes that chill upon my face ? I would we had 
 a light — where is Mole?" And he called, to his 
 dog ; but Mole had slunk a^ay, and answered 
 not to the call. 
 
 " This is strange," said the sexton. 
 
 ^' Proceed," cried Luke ; " if thou wouldst not 
 have me deem thee dastard, as well as dotard." 
 
 " Well," continued Peter, fortifying his 
 nerves with a di-aught, " to return, — ' What 
 
ROOKWOOD. 03 
 
 would you have me do ?^ said I to Sir Piers, as 
 we stood together by the bed-side ; for I was 
 anxious to know for what motive he had brought 
 me thither. I thought it was not, surely, to 
 indulge me with a sight of my daughter, as he 
 was not ignorant of our sentiments towards each 
 other, but it seemed I was mistaken, for he replied, 
 * I have suffered none to approach her beside 
 thyself, and my housekeeper, Agnes — thou 
 knowest her — nor will I do so." — ' Indeed !' said 
 I, surprised, 'but will you have no crown er's quest 
 upon the body ?' — ' Crowner's quest !' cried he, 
 in amazement. ' No ; she died in her sleep, 
 wherefore should it be so ? No, no — I will suffer 
 no eyes to look upon her but those she loved. 
 She was ever so modest, that I will have no rude 
 gaze profane her countenance, now that she can- 
 not avert it. I tell thee what, good, excellent 
 Peter' (for he had at length discovered my will), 
 ' do my bidding in this, and thou shalt have gold 
 —glittering gold — in heaps ; ay, in heaps, if tliou 
 wilt do it. I would have her interred — privately 
 
84 
 
 BOOKWOOD. 
 
 interred — this night, within our family vault ; 
 the coffin will be brought hither ; thou and I 
 will carry it to the place of burial.' — ' I only see 
 two objections to this,"* I answered. ' Name 
 them,' said Sir Piers. ' The one is, that a hasty 
 funeral, like this, may tend to scandal, and may 
 bring you into trouble ; the other, and the lesser, 
 that I have heard that none but those of the 
 house of Rookwood, their wives and daughters, 
 are ever buried within that vault ; it hath ever 
 been the rule.' — ' For thy first objection,' replied 
 Sir Piers, ' if there be scandal, it will attach to 
 me — I will bear its brunt ; for the second, it is 
 my pleasure to break the rule in favour of thy 
 daughter, who hath ever been dear to me as a 
 wife — and who is there shall say me nay ? I am 
 resolved.' — ' If so be you are resolved. Sir Piers,' 
 I rejoined, ' I have nothing to further say, and 
 am ready to do your bidding. But reflect !' — 
 * Reflect !' said he. ' I have reflected. Oh ! but 
 to part with her !' And he burst into a torrent 
 of tears. < To lose her for ever — never more to see 
 
ROOK WOOD. 
 
 65 
 
 that beauteous body — to nail it down within a 
 hideous chest — to deliver it to the rioting wom^ 
 — the thought is insupportable ! Oh ! that I 
 could save it, at least from that." — ' Such things 
 have been done,' answered I ; for I preserved 
 my composure, and was not, like him, carried 
 away by my grief. ' They have,' answered he ; 
 ' but it is too late to think of it now : where 
 should I find one who could embalm her dear 
 body ?' and he burst into a fresh torrent of tears. 
 ' I once knew of such a one,' I replied ; ' a 
 gipsy woman, who professeth that art, and is 
 accounted an adept amongst her tribe. I have 
 indeed spoken with her myself upon the subject, 
 being one connected with my calling.' 
 
 " Tell me her name," eagerly demanded Luke. 
 
 " Barbara Lovel." 
 
 " Great God ! is it possible ? Barbara Lovel !" 
 
 « The same." 
 
 " Thou hast perhaps met with her in thy 
 wanderings with that wild race. She must be 
 
8b EOOKWOOD. 
 
 old and wrinkled now, if she hath not gone the 
 way of all flesh long ago."*' 
 
 " She is yet alive; I saw her but yesterday,*" 
 replied Luke. 
 
 " Alive ! Barbara Lovel, yet alive — I did not 
 think it;' 
 
 " And you found her ? She did your bidding ?"" 
 
 " She did. Sir Piers implored me to seek her 
 out. I found her without difficulty, told her my 
 object, and she readily consented to accompany 
 me to the halL Sir Piers was impatient for 
 my return. He bound us by a terrible oath not 
 to divulge, during his lifetime, what was about 
 to take place. I hesitated not to take it; for, to 
 speak truth, and whatever misgivings I might 
 have as to Susan s end, I had no desire to betray 
 thee. Barbara likewise agreed. She listened to 
 his promises — she accepted his offers.'' 
 
 There was a moaning sound at that moment 
 heard within the vault, and the dog whined in 
 the corner, whither he had crept. The sexton in 
 
ROOK WOOD. 87 
 
 his own mind attributed the noise to the cold 
 current of air he had before perceived upon his 
 cheek, and which now breathed upon him again. 
 He noticed the interruption only with a slight 
 involuntary shudder, and proceeded : — 
 
 " Barbara Lovel had brought with her a box 
 of spices, and gums, and fragrant herbs, besides 
 some curiously-fashioned instruments, of which I 
 caught a glimpse, of odd shape and manufacture. 
 She asked for a chafing dish, and charcoal ; she 
 made her preparations, had linen fetched for her, 
 and basons, and I know not what. She then 
 insisted upon being left alone. Sir Piers would 
 fain have remained in the room, but she would 
 not hear of it, and locked the door. Silently she 
 went to work; and, as we kept watch without, 
 we perceived a rich steam issue from out the 
 crevices of the door. Sir Piers thought some 
 accident had happened, and was about to force 
 an entrance, when he was checked, in his intent, 
 by the loud voice of Barbara, angrily com- 
 manding hiin to desist, upon pain of her instant 
 
88 ^OOKWOOD. 
 
 departure, and the leaving her work unfinished. 
 So he made no further attempt, and at nightfall 
 Barbara came forth, looking as white as a shroud. 
 She took the key from out the door, delivered it to 
 Sir Piers, and asked to have an interview with him 
 alone. Their conference was long ; and Barbara 
 departed, I have reason to think not dissatisfied 
 with Sir Piers' bounty — ^but this I only conjec- 
 ture, never having met or spoken with her since 
 that night. Presently the coffin was brought — 
 we were admitted to the room. The windows were 
 thrown wide open — the steam had evaporated — 
 Susan was as thou hast seen her. She was laid 
 out, placed within the shell ; and before all was 
 made fast. Sir Piers, with a trembling hand, cut 
 off one long lock from her black hair, which he 
 «aid he would keep to his dying day ; and I make 
 no doubt he kept his word. That night, a dreary 
 and a dark one 'twas, we bore our burthen 
 hither." 
 
 Something like a groan followed the con- 
 clusion of the sexton's discourse. It was evident 
 
ROOKWOOD. 89 
 
 that it proceeded not from Luke, as an exclama- 
 tion burst from him at the same instant. Luke 
 stretched out his arm, an unsubstantial some- 
 thing seemed to press against him, commu- 
 nicating a chill like death to his frame. 
 
 " Who is between us P"** he ejaculated. 
 
 " Between us !" cried the sexton, leaping from 
 the coffin lid with an agility that did him 
 honour. " Is aught between us P^' 
 
 " I will fire off my gun. The flash will light 
 us.'' 
 
 " Do so,'' hastily rejoined the sexton ; " but 
 not in this direction." 
 
 " Get behind me," cried Luke, and he pulled 
 the trigger. 
 
 A blaze of vivid light illumined the darkness. 
 Still nothing was visible, save the warrior figure, 
 that showed suddenly, and then vanished like a 
 ghost. The buck-shot rattled against the farther 
 end of the vault. 
 
 " Let us hence," cried the sexton, who had 
 rushed to the door, and thro\Mi it wide open. 
 " Mole! Mole!" The dog sprang after him. 
 
90 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 ^* I could have sworn that I felt something,"" 
 said Luke; " whence issued that groan?'" 
 
 *^ Ask not whence/' replied Peter, " Reach 
 me my mattock, and spade, and the lantern; they 
 are behind thee. And stay, it were better to 
 bring away the bottle.*" 
 
 " Take them, and leave me here.'' 
 
 " Here, in the vault ? — I could tell you a story 
 of that statue, that " 
 
 " Not now." 
 
 " You will rue it — there is danger — the arch 
 fiend himself is not ^" 
 
 " Leave me, I say; or await, if thou wilt, my 
 coming, in the church. If there is aught that 
 may be revealed to my ear alone, I will not 
 quail from it, though the dead themselves 
 should arise to proclaim the mystery. It may 
 be — ^but — go — there are thy tools ;" and he shut 
 the door, with a jar that shook the sexton's 
 frame. 
 
 Peter, after some muttered murmurihgs at the 
 hardihood and madness, as he termed it, of his 
 headstrong grandson, disposed his lengthy limbs to 
 
ROOKWOOD. 91 
 
 repose, upon a cushioned seat without the 
 communion railing. As the pale moonlight 
 fell upon his gaunt, cadaverous, and demoniacal 
 face, he looked like some unholy thing, sud- 
 denly annihilated by the presiding influence 
 of that sacred spot. Mole crouched himself 
 in a ring at his master's feet. Peter had not 
 dozed many minutes, when he w^as aroused 
 by Luke's return. The latter was very pale, and 
 the perspiration stood in big drops upon his 
 brow. 
 
 " Hast thou made fast the door ?'^ was his first 
 interrogation. 
 
 " Here is the key.'' 
 
 " What hast thou seen ?" he next inquired, 
 remarking the deathly paleness of his face. 
 
 Luke made no answer. At that moment the 
 church clock struck two, breaking the stillness of 
 the place with an iron clang. Luke raised his 
 eyes. A ray of moonlight, streaming obliquely 
 through the painted window, fell upon the gilt 
 lettering of a black mural entablature. The 
 
92 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 lower part, the inscription, was in shade, but 
 the emblazonment, and j 
 
 " Keginal&us Ire Koofetoootr, IHpcs Sluratus," 
 were clear and distinct. Luke trembled, he knew 
 not why, as the sexton pointed to it. 
 
 " Thou hast heard of the hand-writing upon 
 the wall," said the scoffer ; " Look there — ' His 
 kingdom hath been taken from him.' — Ha, 
 ha !" 
 
 " Let us quit this place, and get into the fresh 
 air; I am faint,"*' said Luke, striding past his 
 companion, and traversing the church-floor 
 with hasty steps. Peter was not slow to follow. 
 The key was applied, and they emerged into the 
 churchyard. The grassy mounds were bathed 
 in the moon-beams, and the two yew trees, 
 throwing their black, jagged shadows over the 
 grave hills, looked like evil spirits, brooding 
 over the sanctified repose of the righteous. 
 
 The sexton noticed the deathly paleness of 
 Luke's countenance ; but it might be the tinge of 
 the sallow moonlight. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 93 
 
 " I will be with thee at thy cottage, ere 
 day-hreak,*" said the latter ; and, turning an angle 
 of the church, he disappeared from view. 
 
 " He is crazed, beyond all question,*" said 
 Peter, shouldering his spade, and whistling to 
 Mole; " though it must be confessed, his brain 
 must have been a strong one, to have withstood 
 the trial of this night. Mischief, I foresee, will 
 come of it; but I don t trouble my head with 
 these matters further. A dram and a song will 
 put Care to flight.'' Draining the bottle to the 
 last drop, he flung it from him, and commenced 
 chaunting, in a high key and cracked voice, a 
 wild ditty, the words of which ran as fol- 
 low: — 
 
 THE sexton's song. 
 
 The Carrion Crow is a Sexton bold, 
 He raketh the dead from out the mould; 
 He delveth the ground like a miser old, 
 Stealthily hiding his store of gold. 
 Caw! Caw I 
 
94 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 The Carrion Crow hath a coat of black, 
 Silky and sleek, like a priest's, to his back ; 
 Like a lawyer he grubbeth — no matter what way — » 
 The fouler the oflfal, the richer his prey. 
 
 Caw! Caw! the Carrion Crow! 
 
 Dig! Dig! in the ground below! 
 
 The Carrion Crow hath a dainty maw, 
 With savory pickings he crammeth his craw; 
 Kept meat from the gibbet it pleaseth his whim, 
 It never can hang too long for him. 
 Caw! Caw! 
 
 The Carrion Crow smelleth powder, 'tis said, 
 Like a soldier escheweth the taste of cold lead; 
 No jester or mime hath more marvellous wit, 
 For wherever he lighteth he maketh a hit. 
 
 Caw! Caw! the Carrion Crow! 
 
 Dig! Dig! in the ground below! 
 
 The cottage which Peter inhabited adjoined 
 the churchyard, so that he had scarcely concluded 
 his song when he reached the door ; and as soon 
 as he had disposed of his tools, he betook himself 
 to slumber. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 Brian. Ralph! hearest thou any stirring ? 
 Ralph. I heard one speak here, hard by, in the hoUow. 
 Peace ! Master, speak low. Nouns ! if I do not hear a bow go 
 off, and the buck bray, I never heard deer in my life. 
 Bri. Stand, or I'll shoot. 
 Sir Arthur. Who's there ? 
 
 Bri. I am the keeper, and do charge you stand. 
 You have stolen my deer. 
 
 Merry Devil of Edmonton. 
 
 Luke's first impulse had been to free himself 
 from the restraint the sexton's society imposed. 
 He longed to commune with himself. Leaping 
 the small boundary-wall that defended the 
 churchyard from a deep, green lane, he hurried 
 along in a direction contrary to that taken by 
 the sexton, making the best of his way until he 
 
96 
 
 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 arrived at a gap in the high-banked hazel hedge, 
 which overhung the road. Heedless of the im- 
 pediments throAvn in his way by the undergrowth 
 of a rough, ring fence, he struck through the 
 opening that presented itself, and, climbing over 
 the moss-grown paling, trod presently upon the 
 elastic sward of Rookwood Park. 
 
 A few minutes rapid walking brought him to 
 the summit of a rising ground crowned with aged 
 oaks, and as he paused beneath their broad 
 shadows, his troubled spirit, soothed by the 
 quietude of the scene, in part resumed its 
 serenity. 
 
 Luke yielded to the gentle influence of the 
 time and hour. The stillness of the spot 
 sobered the irritation of his frame, and the 
 dewy chilliness cooled the fever of his brow. 
 Leaning for support against the gnarled trunk 
 of one of the trees, he gave himself up to 
 contemplation. The events of the last hour — of 
 his whole existence — passed in rapid review 
 before his mental vision. The thought of the 
 
AOOKWOOD. 97 
 
 wayward, vagabond life he had led— of the wild 
 adventures of his youth — of all he had been^of 
 all he had done — of all he had endured — 
 crowded his mind ; and then, like the passing of 
 a cloud flitting across the autumnal moon, and 
 occasionally obscuring the smiling landscape 
 before him, his soul was shadowed by the re- 
 membrance of the awful revelations of the last 
 hour, and the fearful knowledge he had acquired 
 of his mother's fate — of his father's guilt. Shud- 
 deringly he called to mind the horrors he had 
 witnessed, but the occultation was of brief 
 endurance ; the cloud passed away, the moon was 
 full again in all her ancient lustre — the future 
 —the bright glorious future, was before him, 
 and he eagerly longed for the coming struggle, 
 the result of which, his sanguine anticipations 
 pictured as guerdoned with success. 
 
 '' Then why should I perplex myself with 
 fears r he cried ; " why admit a doubt ? the 
 hand of Fate directs me, beckons me to the goal. 
 It will be so; of that I am assured. No more 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
f8 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 c^ doubt ! Now that I am away from that 
 horrible place, the tightness that restrained my 
 chest is gone. I can breathe again. I have 
 thrown off the sickening torpor that deadened 
 my faculties. How calm, how soothing, how 
 tranquil, is this lovely scene ! The face of nature 
 —nature — whose loveliness has ever found a 
 mirror in my bosom, smiles upon me — welcomes 
 me. I hail this welcome as a harbinger of 
 returning peace, 
 
 " And this lordly park ! these proud domains! 
 these towering trees ! yon ancestral mansion ! all 
 that my eye can reach, shall call me lord; and I 
 shall be rich — powerful — ^happy. Shall I be 
 happy? Wherefore not? I will not shackle 
 myself with the bonds and fetters the enslaved 
 worldling imposeth upon himself. I will not bow 
 down to the habits and fashions acknowledged 
 by fools, who sacrifice their own free will to the 
 whims and caprices of what is called society. I 
 despise them. I will conform to no mode of life 
 but that which liketh me. My freedom of 
 
ROOKWOOD. 99 
 
 purpose shall be subject to no such trammels 
 and restraints. Such as I have been, such I will 
 continue to be, with none to say me nay. I 
 cannot change my nature. I will not attempt it. 
 My wild pastimes, my dangerous enterprises, I 
 must and will forego — and my companions — ha ! 
 How would they grace the board of the Lord of 
 Rookwood, should I be lord of that house.? 
 How would their names sound in my halls? 
 Shall I replace them with new faces ? Shall I 
 cast them off? — I have no alternative. 
 
 " Wealth, they say, seareth the heart of the 
 possessor ; lands enlarge not the freedom of 
 their lord. Even I, a wanderer, homeless, 
 houseless, friendless, feel as much liberty and 
 license to roam over this fair park as they could, 
 who deem themselves its owners. It is not, then, 
 the imaginary right to certain portions of this 
 earth that can confer, along with the freehold of 
 the soil, a freedom entire and uncontrouled, 
 such as I have ever courted, ever obtained ; and 
 
100 ROOKWOOD, 
 
 to lose which were to lose life itself, and all that 
 sweetens life. 'Tis not mere possession that can 
 confer this, if the spirit be wanting ; but with 
 nw^ used as I shall use it, increase of power, 
 acquisition of wealth, of lands and liberties, 
 will but be an extension and enlargement of 
 independence, and, as such, of enjoyment and 
 happiness. 
 
 " But, were it otherwise, there is one grati- 
 fication in store that will not fail me — Revenge ! 
 That thought alone would goad me on to 
 prosecute my purpose — nothing fearing — no- 
 thing shunning — braving every thing. As he 
 who swims against a headlong stream, keeps 
 his eye fixed on one certain point, and makes 
 for that, though wave, and tide, and current 
 be adverse, even so will I — the mark is fixed, 
 reach it I wiD, or perish in the effort. 
 
 " Yes, they who have persecuted me — who 
 hare contemned my mother's memory — who have 
 deemed me insignificant — who have scorned me. 
 
aooKwooD. 101 
 
 as incapable of retaliation — who have hunted me 
 down — shall find that, like the hart at bay, I 
 can turn, and gore. — Ay, gore /" — 
 
 Panting with choler, like the proud creature 
 to whom he had likened himself, Luke threw a 
 fierce and angry glance around, as if in search of 
 some object whereupon to expend his rising 
 wrath ; and if he encountered nothing, he found 
 at least that which had the effect of subduing 
 his excitement. Exquisite as the work of en- 
 chantment, lay the beautiful scene before him, 
 and his heart melted beneath the witchery of its 
 spell, as he drank its loveliness into his soul. 
 
 The eminence whereon he stood was one of the 
 highest points of the park, and commanded a 
 view of the hall, which might be a quarter of 
 a mile distant, discernible through a broken 
 vista of trees, its whitened walls shimmering in 
 the moon-light, and its tall chimneys spiring far 
 from out the round masses of wood wherein it lay 
 embosomed. The ground gradually sloped in that 
 direction, occasionally rising into swells, studded 
 
102 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 with magnifient timber — dipping into smooth 
 dells, or stretching out into level glades, until it 
 suddenly sunk into a deep declivity, that formed 
 on effectual division, without the intervention of 
 a ha-ha, or other barrier, between the Chase 
 and the Home Park, A slender stream strayed 
 through this ravine, having found its way 
 thither from a small reservoir, hidden in the 
 higher plantations to the left; and further on, 
 in the open ground, in a line with the hall, 
 though, of course, much below the level of the 
 building, assisted by many local springs, and 
 restrained by a variety of natural and artificial 
 embankments, this brook spread out into an 
 expansive sheet of water. Crossed by a rustic 
 bridge, the sole mean of communication between 
 the parks, the pool found its outlet into the 
 meads below ; and even at that distance, and in 
 that still hour, you might almost catch the sound 
 of the rushing waters, as they dashed dowTi the 
 elevation in a foaming cascade ; while far away, 
 in the spreading valley, the serpentine mean- 
 
lOOKWOOD. m 
 
 dermgs of the slender current might be traced, 
 glittering like silvery threads in the lambent 
 moonshine. The mild beams of the queen of night, 
 then in her meridian, trembled upon the top- 
 most branches of the tall timber, quivering, like 
 diamond spray upc»i the outer foliage, and 
 penetrating through the interstices of the trees, 
 Ml upon the light wreathes of vapour then 
 beginning to arise from the surface of the pool, 
 steeping them in misty splendour, and lending to 
 this part of the picture a character of dreamy and 
 unearthly beauty. 
 
 All else was in unison- — ^no sound inter- 
 rupted the silence of Luke's solitude, except 
 the hooting of a large gray owl, that, scared 
 at his approach, or in search of prey, winged 
 its spectral flight in continuous and mazy 
 circles round his head, uttering at each wheel 
 its startling whoop; or a deep, distant bay, 
 that ever and anon boomed upon the ear, pro- 
 ceeding from a pack of hounds kennelled in a 
 shed adjoining the pool before mentioned, but 
 
104 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 which was shrouded from view by the rising mist. 
 No living objects presented themselves, save a 
 herd of deer, that crouched in a covert of brown 
 fern beneath the umbrage of a few stunted trees 
 immediately below the point of land whereon 
 Luke stood ; and although their branching 
 antlers could scarcely be detected from the 
 shadowy ramifications of the wood itself, they 
 escaped not his practised ken. 
 
 " How often,"*' murmured Luke, " in years 
 gone by, have I traversed these moonlit glades, 
 and wandered amidst these woodlands, on nights 
 heavenly a& this — ay, and to some purpose, as 
 yon thinned herd might testify ! Every dingle, 
 every dell, every rising brow, every bosky vale 
 and shelving covert, have been as familiar to 
 my track as to that of the fleetest and freest 
 of their number: scarce a tree amidst the 
 thickest of yon out-stretching forest, with which 
 I cannot claim acquaintance: 'tis long since 
 I have seen them. — By heavens ! 'tis beautiful ! 
 — and it is all my own — my o^\ti ! 
 
ROOKWOOD. lOo 
 
 " Can I forget that it was here I first eman- 
 cipated myself from thraldom? Can I forget 
 the boundless feeling of delight that danced 
 within my veins when I first threw off* the 
 yoke of servitude, and roved unshackled, 
 unrestrained, amidst these woods ? — The wild 
 intoxicating bliss still tingles to my heart. 
 And they are all my own — my own ! Softly, 
 what have we there ?" 
 
 Luke'^s attention was arrested by an object 
 which could not fail to interest him, sportsman 
 as he was : a snorting bray was heard, and a 
 lordly stag stalked slowly and majestically 
 from out the copse. Luke watched the actions 
 of the noble animal with great interest, drawing 
 back into the shade ; a hundred yards or there- 
 abouts might be between him and the buck — 
 it was within range of ball — Luke mecha- 
 nically grasped his gun ; yet his hand had 
 scarcely raised the piece halfway to his shoulder, 
 when he dropped it again to its rest. 
 
 " What am I about to do?'' he exclaimed, 
 f5 
 
106 aooKwooD. 
 
 " Why, for mere pastime, should I take away yon 
 noble creature's life, when his carcase would be 
 utterly useless to me ? Yet such is the force of 
 habit, that I can scarce resist the impulse that 
 tempted me to fire; and I have known the 
 time, and that not long since, when I should 
 scarce have shown so much self-controul." 
 
 Unconscious of the danger it had escaped, 
 the animal moved forward with the same stately 
 step; suddenly it stopped, with ears pricked, 
 as if some sound had smote them. At that instant 
 the click of a gun-lock was heard, at a little 
 distance to the right of Luke — ^it had missed 
 fire; an instantaneous report from another gun 
 succeeded — and, with a bound high in air, 
 the buck fell upon his back, struggling in the 
 ponies of death. Luke had at once divined 
 the cause; he was aware that poachers were 
 at hand. He fancied that he knew the parties ; 
 nor was he deceived in his conjecture. Two 
 figures issued instantly from a covert on the 
 right, and, making to the spot, the first who 
 
BOOKWOOD. 
 
 107 
 
 reached it, put an end to the animal's struggles 
 by plunging a knife into its throat. The 
 affrighted herd took to their heels, and were 
 seen darting swiftly down the Chase. Luke, 
 meantime, had recognised the voices of the 
 men, and considered within himself wheth^ 
 he should make kno^\Ti his vicinity to them 
 or not. He felt half inclined to resent the 
 deed of slaughter he had witnessed, as an 
 insult to huTiself, and to treat his companions, 
 for such they were, as aggressors of his o\\ti 
 imaginary rights. At first, he resolved to 
 rush upon them, and compd a relinquisli- 
 ment of thar prey : but a moment's reflectioa 
 convinced him of the futility, as well as risk of 
 such a proceeding, and, resolving to abide their 
 departure where he was, he kept a watchful eye 
 upon their movements. 
 
 Compressing one knee forcibly on the still 
 throbbing heart of his victim, with the reeking 
 knife between his teeth, one of the twain wsa 
 occupied in feeling for the deer's fat, when 
 
108 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 he was approached by the other, who pointed 
 in the direction of the house. The former 
 raised himself from his kneehng posture, and 
 both appeared to listen attentively. Luke fan- 
 cied he heard a slight sound in the distance ; 
 whatever the noise proceeded from, it was evident 
 the deer stealers were alarmed — they laid hold 
 of the buck, and, dragging it along, concealed 
 the carcase amongst the tall fern; they then 
 retreated, halting for an instant to deliberate, 
 ^vithin a few yards of Luke, who was concealed 
 from their view by the trunk of the tree, behind 
 which he had ensconced his person. They were 
 so near, that he lost not a word of their muttered 
 conference. 
 
 " The gamers spoiled, this time, Dick, any 
 how,'^ growled one, in an angry tone; "the hawks 
 are upon us, and we must mizzle, and leave the 
 fallen bird to take care of itself. Devil damn 
 him ; who'*d a"* thought of Hugh Badger's putting 
 his queer gamms in motion to-night? Curse 
 him, though the tattler be up, and blinking like 
 
BOOK WOOD. 109 
 
 a glim, I did think he'd have kept quiet house 
 to-night, if only for decency's sake ; but there's 
 no thought of the old squire''s finny* running in 
 his addled head."" 
 
 " I see 'em," returned the other, " thanks to 
 old Oliver — there they are — two — three — and a 
 muzzled bouser*!-, too. There's Hugh at the head 
 of 'em — shall we stand, and show fight ? — I have 
 half a mind for it." 
 
 " No, no ;" replied the first speaker, " that 
 will never do, Dick — why run the risk of being 
 grab'd for a bit of venison ? Had Luke Bradley 
 been with us, indeed, it might have been another 
 guess business ; but he's with that old resurrec- 
 tion cove, his grand-dad, in the church — I saw 
 'em going there myself. Besides we've that to 
 do at the hall, that may make men of us for 
 the rest of our nafral lives. It won't do to be 
 snabbled in the nick of it — so let's lope off, 
 and make for the prad, in the lane — keep in 
 the munge| as much as you can." And away 
 they scampered down the hill-side. 
 
 ♦ Funeral. + Dog. J Darkness. 
 
110 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Shall I follow," thought Luke, " and run 
 the risk of falling into the keeper's hand, just at 
 this crisis, too ? No — but if I am found here, I 
 shall be taken for one of the gang. Something 
 must be done — ^ha ! devil take them, here they 
 are, already." 
 
 Further time was not allowed him for re- 
 reflection — a hoarse baying was heard, followed 
 by a loud cry from the keepers. The dog had 
 scented out the game ; and, as secrecy was no 
 longer necessary, liis muzzle had been removed. 
 To rush forth now were certain betrayal ; to 
 remain was almost equally certain detection; 
 and, doubting whether he should obtain credence 
 from the keepers, if he delivered himself over in 
 that garb, and armed, he at once rejected the 
 idea. Just then it flashed across his recollec- 
 tion that his gun had remained unloaded, and 
 he applied himself eagerly to repair this neg- 
 ligence, when he heard the dog in full cry, 
 making swiftly in his direction. He threw 
 himself upon the ground, where the fern was 
 thickest; but this seemed insufficient to baffle 
 
ROOKWOOD. Ill 
 
 the sagacity of the hound — he had got his 
 scent, and was baying close at hand. The 
 keepers were drawing nigh — Luke gave himself 
 up for lost. The dog, however, stopped where 
 the two poachers had halted, and was there 
 completely at fault : snuffing the ground, he 
 bayed, wheeled round, and then set off, with 
 renewed barking, upon their track. Hugh 
 Badger and his comrades loitered an instant at 
 the same place, looked warily round, and then, 
 as Luke conjectured, followed in the hound's 
 track. 
 
 Swift as thought, Luke leapt on his feet, and 
 without even pausing to ascertain which route 
 the keepers had taken, started at full speed, 
 shaping his course in a cross line for the lane, 
 and keeping as much as possible under cover of 
 the trees. Rapid as was his flight, it was not 
 without a witness : one of the keeper's assistants, 
 who liad lagged behind, gave tlie view holloa in 
 a loud voice. Luke pressed forward with re- 
 doubled energy, endeavouring to gain the shelter 
 
112 BOOK WOOD. 
 
 of the plantation, and this he could readily have 
 accomplished, had no impediment been in his 
 way ; but his rage and vexation were bound- 
 less, when he heard the keeper's cry echoed by 
 shouts immediately below him, and the tongue 
 of the hound resounding in the hollow. He 
 turned sharp round, steering a middle course, 
 and still aiming at the fence. It was evident, 
 from the cheers of his pursuers, that he was in 
 full view, and he heard them encouraging and 
 directing the hound. 
 
 Luke had gained the park palings, along 
 which he rushed, in the vain quest of some 
 practicable point of egress, for the fence was 
 higher in this part of the park than in the other 
 parts, owing to the inequality of the ground. He 
 had cast away his gun as useless; but even 
 without that incumbrance, he dared not hazard 
 the delay of climbing the palings. At this 
 juncture a deep breathing was heard close behind 
 him — he threw a glance over his shoulder — 
 within a few yards was a ferocious blood- 
 
ROOKWOOD. 113 
 
 hound, with whose savage nature Luke was 
 well acquainted ; the breed, some of which he had 
 already seen, having been maintained at the hall 
 ever since the days of Sir Ranulph. The eyes of 
 the hound were glaring, blood-red — his tongue 
 hanging out, and a row of keen white fangs dis- 
 played, like the teeth of a shark. There was a 
 growl — a leap — and the hound was close upon 
 him. 
 
 Luke's courage was undoubted ; but his heart 
 failed him as he heard the bark of the remorse- 
 less brute, and felt that he could not avoid an 
 encounter with it. His resolution was instantly 
 taken : he stopped short, with such suddenness, 
 that the dog, then in the act of springing, 
 flew past him with great violence, and the time, 
 momentary as it was, occupied by the animal in 
 recovering itself, enabled Luke to drop on his 
 knee, and to place one arm, like a buckler, 
 before his face, while he held the other in 
 readiness to grapple his adversary. Uttering a 
 fierce yell, the hound returned to the charge, 
 
114 aooKwooD. 
 
 darting at Luke, who received the assault 
 without flinching ; and in spite of a severe lace- 
 ration of the arm, he seized the animal by 
 the throat, and hurling it upon the ground, 
 jumped with all his force upon its stomach, 
 A yell of agony, and the contest was ended, 
 aad Luke at liberty to pursue his flight un- 
 laiolested. 
 
 Brief as had been the interval required for 
 this combat, it had been sufiicient to bring the pur- 
 suers within sight of their victim. Hugh Badger, 
 who from the uplands had witnessed the fate of 
 his favourite, with a loud oath discharged the 
 contents of his gun at the head of its destroyer. 
 Fortunate was it for Luke, that at that instant 
 he stumbled over the root of a tree — the shot 
 rattled in the leaves as he fell, and the keeper, 
 concluding that he had at least winged his game, 
 descended more leisurely towards him. As he lay 
 upon the ground, Luke felt that he was wounded ; 
 whether by the bite of the dog, from a stray 
 shot, or from bruises inflicted by the fall, he 
 
BOOKWOOD. 115 
 
 could not determine ; but, smarting with pain, 
 he resolved to wreak his vengeance upon the 
 first person who approached him. He vowed 
 not to be taken with Hfe — to strangle any who 
 should lay hands upon him. At that moment 
 he felt a pressure at his breast — it was the dead 
 hand of his mother. 
 
 Luke shuddered. His wrath was curbed — 
 the fire of revenge quenched. He mentally can- 
 celled his rash oath; yet he could not bring 
 himself to surrender at discretion, and without 
 further effort. The keeper and his assistants 
 were approaching the spot where he lay, and 
 searching for his body — Hugh Badger was 
 foremost, and within a yard of him. " D — ^n 
 his blood,'' cried Hugh, " the rascaPs not half 
 killed, he seems to breathe." The words were 
 scarcely out of his mouth ere the speaker was 
 dashed backwards, and lay sprawling upon the 
 sod. Suddenly and unexpectedly, as an Indian 
 chief might rush upon his foes, arose Luke, 
 propelling himself with tremendous impetus 
 
116 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 against Hugh, who happened to stand in his 
 way, and before the startled assistants, who were 
 either too much taken by surprise, or unwilling 
 to draw a trigger, could in any way lay hands 
 upon him. Exerting all the remarkable activity 
 which he possessed, he caught hold of a pro- 
 jecting branch of a tree, and swung himself, at a 
 single bound, fairly over the paling. 
 
 Stout Hugh Badger was shortly on his 
 legs, swearing lustily at his defeat. Directing 
 his men to skirt alongside the fence, and make 
 for a particular part of the plantation which he 
 named, and snatching a loaded fowling-piece 
 from one of them, he clambered over the 
 pales, and guided by the crashing branches, and 
 other sounds conveyed to his quick ear, he was 
 speedily upon Luke's track. 
 
 The plantation through which the chase was 
 now carried, was not, as might be supposed, a 
 continuation of the ring fence which Luke had 
 originally crossed, on his entrance into the park, 
 though girded by the same line of paling, but, 
 
ROOKWOOD. 117 
 
 in reality, a close pheasant preserve, occupying 
 the banks of a ravine, which, after a deep and 
 tortuous course, terminated in the declivity here- 
 tofore described as forming the park boundary. 
 Luke plunged into the heart of this defile, fight- 
 ing his way do\vnwards, in the direction of the 
 brook. His progress was impeded by a thick 
 undergrowth of briar, and other matted vege- 
 tation, as well as by the entanglements thrown in 
 his way by the taller bushes of thorn, and hazel, 
 the entwined and elastic branches of which, in 
 their recoil, galled and fretted him, by inflicting 
 frequent, smart blows on his face and hands. 
 This was a hardship he usually little regarded ; 
 but, upon the present occasion, it had the 
 effect, by irritating his temper, of increasing the 
 thirst of vengeance raging in his bosom. 
 
 Through the depths of the ravine welled 
 the shallow stream before alluded to, and 
 Hugh Badger had no sooner reached its sedgy 
 margin than he lost all trace of the fugitive. 
 He looked cautiously round, listened intently, 
 
118 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 and inclined his ear to catch the faintest echo ; 
 but all was still, not a branch shook, not a leaf 
 rustled. Hugh was aghast. He had made sure 
 of getting a glimpse, and, perhaps, a stray shot, 
 at the poaching rascal, as he termed him, in the 
 open space, which he was sure the fellow was 
 aiming to reach ; and now, all at once, he had 
 disappeared, like a wilW-the-wisp or a boggart of 
 the clough. However, he could not be far off, and 
 he endeavoured to obtain some clue to guide him 
 in his quest. He was not long in detecting re- 
 cent marks deeply indented in the mud on the 
 opposite bank. Hugh leapt thither incontinently. 
 Farther on, some rushes were trodden do^vn, and 
 there were other indications of the course the 
 fugitive had taken. 
 
 " Hark forward !" shouted Hugh, in the joy 
 of his heart, at this discovery ; and, like a well- 
 trained dog, he followed up, with prompt alacrity, 
 the scent he had opened. The brook presented 
 still fewer impediments to expedition than the 
 thick copse, and the keeper pursued the gyra- 
 
ROOKWOOD. 119 
 
 tions of the petty current, occasionally splashing 
 into the stream. Here and there was an ap- 
 pearance on the sod that satisfied him he was 
 in the right way. At length he became aware, 
 from the crumbling soil, that the object of 
 his pursuit had scaled the bank, and he forth- 
 with moderated his career. Halting, he per- 
 ceived, what he took to be a face peeping at 
 him from behind a knot of alders that overhung, 
 half way up the steep and shelving bank imme- 
 diately above him. His gun was instantly at his 
 shoulder. 
 
 ^ Come down, you infernal deer-stealing 
 scoundrel," cried Hugh, " or I'^ll blow you to 
 
 shivers, that will I, and be d d to you." 
 
 No answer was returned: expostulation was 
 vain; and fearful of placing himself at a dis- 
 advantage if he attempted to scale the bank, 
 Hugh fired without further parley. The sharp 
 discharge rolled in echoes down the ravine, and 
 a pheasant, scared at the sound, answered the 
 challenge from a neighbouring tree. Hugh was 
 
120 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 an unemng marksman, and on this occasion 
 his aim had been steadily taken. The result 
 was not precisely such as he had anticipated. A 
 fur cap, shaken by the shot from the bough 
 whereon it hung, came rolling down the bank, 
 proclaiming the ruse that had been practised 
 upon the keeper. Little time was allowed him 
 for reflection; before he could reload, he felt 
 himself collared by the iron arm of Luke. 
 . The keeper was a man of great personal 
 strength — square-set, bandy-legged, with a pro- 
 digious width of chest, and vast volume of 
 muscular power; and energetic as was Luke's 
 assault, he maintained his ground without 
 flinching. The struggle was desperate. Luke 
 was of slighter proportion, though exceeding the 
 keeper, in stature, by the head and shoulders. 
 This superiority availed him little; it was rather 
 a disadvantage in the conflict that ensued. The 
 gripe he fastened upon Hugh's throat was like 
 that of a clenched vice ; but he might as well 
 have compressed the neck of a bull, as that of the 
 
ROOKWOOD. 121 
 
 Stalwart keeper. Defending himself with his 
 hobnail boots, with which he inflicted several 
 severe blows upon Luke's shins, and struggling 
 vehemently, Hugh succeeded in extricating 
 himself from his throttling grasp; he then 
 closed with his foe, and they were locked to- 
 gether like intertwining snakes. In the manner 
 of bears at play, they hugged each other, 
 straining and tugging, and practising every 
 sleight and stratagem coming M'ithin the scope 
 of feet, knees, and thighs — now tripping, no^v' 
 jerking, now advancing, now retreating ; but all 
 with doubtful result. Victory, at length, seemed 
 to declare itself in favour of the sturdy keeper. 
 Aware of his opponent's strength, it was Luke's 
 chief endeavour to keep his lower limbs dis- 
 engaged, and to trust more to skill than to force 
 for ultimate success. To prevent this was the 
 keepers object : he guarded himself against 
 every feint, and ultimately succeeded in firmly 
 grappling his agile assailant. lAike's spine 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
122 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 was almost cracked in twain by the shock, when 
 suddenly he gave way, and, without losing his 
 balance, drew his adversary forward, at the 
 same instant kicking the keeper's right leg from 
 under him, and dashing him backwards. With 
 a crash hke that of an uprooted oak, Hugh 
 tumbled, with his foe upon him, into the bed of 
 the rivulet. 
 
 Not a v/ord had been spoke during the con- 
 flict. A convulsive groan burst from Hugh's 
 hardy breast, enforced by the weighty body 
 above him. His hand sought his girdle, but in 
 vain ; his knife was gone. G azing upwards, his 
 dancing vision encountered the glimmer of the 
 blade — the knife had dropped from its case in 
 the fall — Luke brandished it before his eyes. 
 
 " Villain !" gasped Hugh, ineffectually strug- 
 gling to free himself, " you will not murder me ?" 
 And his efforts were desperate. 
 
 " No,"*"* answered Luke, flinging the uplifted 
 weapon into the brook ; " I will not do that, though 
 
KOOKWOOD. 123 
 
 thou hast twice aimed at my life to-night ; but I 
 will silence thee, at all events." — And with that he 
 dealt the keeper a blow on the head that termi- 
 nated all further resistance on his part. Leaving 
 the inert mass to choke up the current, with whose 
 waters the blood, oozing from the wound, began 
 to commingle, Luke prepared to depart. 
 
 His perils were not yet past. Guided by the 
 firing, the report of which alarmed them, the 
 keeper's assistants hastened in the direction 
 whence they imagined the sound proceeded, 
 presenting themselves directly in the path Luke 
 was about to take. He had either to retrace his 
 steps, or face a double enemy. His election was 
 made at once. He turned, and fled. 
 
 For an instant the men tarried with their 
 bleeding companion — they dragged him from the 
 brook — then, with loud oaths, followed in hot 
 pursuit. 
 
 Threading for a second time the bosky laby- 
 rinth, Luke sought the source of the stream. This 
 
124 UOOKWOOD. 
 
 was precisely the course his enemies would have 
 selected for him; and when they beheld him 
 t^ike it, they felt confident of his capture. On — 
 on — they sped. 
 
 The sides of the hollow became more and 
 more abrupt as they advanced, though les3 
 covered with brushwood. The fugitive made 
 no attempt to climb the bank, but still prest 
 forward. The road was tortuous, and wound 
 round a jutting point of rock. Now he was 
 a fair mark — no, he had swept swiftly by, and 
 was out of sight, before a gun could be raised. 
 They reached the same point — ^lie was still before 
 them — but his race w^as nearly run. Steep 
 slippery rocks, shelving down to the edges of a 
 small but deep pool of water, the source of the 
 stream, formed an apparently insurmountable 
 barrier in that direction. Rooted (heaven knows 
 how?) in some reft or fissure of the rock, grew a 
 wild ash, throwing out a few boughs over the 
 solitary pool ; this is all the support Luke can 
 
ROOKWOOD. 125 
 
 hope for, should he attempt to scale the rock. 
 The rock was sheer — the pool was deep — yet 
 still he hurried on. He reached the muddy 
 embankment — he mounted its sides — ^he seemed 
 to hesitate. The keepers were now wdthin a 
 hundred yards — both guns were discharged — 
 and sudden as the reports, with a dead, splashless 
 plunge, like a diving otter, the fugitive dropped 
 into the water. 
 
 The pursuers were at the brink. They gazed 
 at the pool. A few bubbles floated upon its 
 surface, and burst. The water was slightly dis- 
 coloured with sand. No ruddier stain crimsoned 
 the tide — no figure rested on the naked rock — 
 no hand clung; to the motionless tree. 
 
 " Devil take the rascal,^' growled one; *' I 
 hope he harnt escaped us, after all."" 
 
 " No — no, he's fast enough, never fear,"" 
 rejoined the other ; " sticking like an eel at tlie 
 bottom o' the pond ; and damn him he deserves 
 it, for he's slip'd out of our fingers, eel fashion, 
 
126 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 often enough, to-night. But come, we'll drag 
 for the body in the morning. Let's be moving, 
 and give poor Hugh Badger a helping hand. 
 A pretty business he have made of it, to be sure. 
 Come along." 
 
 Whereupon they returned to the assistance of 
 the wounded and discomfited keeper. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 am right against my House — Seat of my Ancestors ! 
 Yorkshire Tragedy. 
 
 We shall now conduct our readers to the seat 
 of the family, so frequently alluded to in the 
 preceding chapters. 
 
 Rookwood Place, was a fine, old, irregular 
 pile, of considerable size, presenting a rich, pic- 
 turesque outline, with its innumerable gable- 
 ends, its fantastical coigns, and tall crest of 
 twisted chimneys. There was no uniformity of 
 style about the building, yet the general effect 
 was pleasing and beautiful ; its very irregularity 
 constituted its chief charm. Nothing but 
 convenience had been consulted in its con- 
 struction ; additions had from time to time been 
 
128 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 made to it, but every thing had dropped into 
 its proper place, and, without apparent effort 
 or design, had grown into an ornament, height- 
 ening the beauty of the whole. It was, in 
 short, one of those glorious, manorial houses, 
 that, like realized visions of Eld, sometimes 
 unexpectedly greet us in our wanderings, 
 and gladden us as the discovery of a 
 hidden treasure. Some such ancestral hall 
 (though not precisely of the same character) 
 have we accidentally encountered in unlooked 
 for quarters in our native county of Lancaster, 
 or in its smiling sister shire, and never without 
 feelings of intense delight, rejoicing to behold 
 the freshness of its antiquity and the green- 
 ness of its old age; for be it observed, in 
 passing, that a Cheshire or Lancashire Hall, 
 time-honoured though it be, with its often reno- 
 vated black-and-white squares, fancifully filled 
 up with trefoils and quatrefoils, rosettes, 
 and other figures, seems to bear its years so 
 lightly, that its age, so far from detracting 
 
ROOKWOOD. 129 
 
 from its beauty, only lends it a grace ; and the 
 same mansion, to all outward appearance, fresh 
 and perfect as it existed in the days of 
 Elizabeth, may be seen in admirable pre- 
 servation in the days of William our Liege. 
 Such is Bramall — such Moreton, and many 
 others which we could name : the former of 
 these houses may, perhaps, be instanced as the 
 best specimen of its class (and its class, in our 
 opinion, is the best) to be met with in the 
 shire, considered with reference either to the 
 finished decoration of its exterior, rich in the 
 chequered colouring we have alluded to, preserved 
 with a care and neatness almost Dutch, or to 
 the consistent taste exhibited by its high- 
 minded owner in the restoration and maintenance 
 of all its original and truly national beauty 
 within doors. As an illustration of old English 
 hospitality (that real, hearty, boundless hospi- 
 tality, for which the Squirearchy of this country 
 was once so famous — ah ! why have they bartered 
 it for other customs less substantially English ? ) 
 G 5 
 
130 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 — may be mentioned, that a road conducted 
 the passenger directly through the great hall of 
 this house, literally " of entertainment,'' where, 
 if he listed, strong ale, and other refreshments, 
 awaited his acceptance, and courted his stay. 
 Well might old King, the Cheshire chronicler, 
 in the pride of his honest heart, exclaim, " I 
 know divers men, who are but farmers, that 
 in their housekeeping may compare with a lord 
 or baron, in some countries beyond the seas ; — 
 yea, although I named a higher degree, I were 
 able to justify it.'' We have no such " golden 
 farmers" in these degenerate days. 
 
 The mansion was originally built by Sir 
 Ranulph de Rookwood, the first of the 
 name, a stout Yorkist, who flourished in 
 the reign of Edward the Fourth, and received 
 the fair domain and broad lands upon which 
 the edifice was raised, at the hands of his 
 sovereign, in reward for good service, retiring 
 thither in the decline of life, at the close of 
 the wars of the Roses, to sequestrate himself 
 
ROOKWOOD. 131 
 
 from scenes of strife, and to consult his spiritual 
 weal in the erection and endowment of the 
 neighbourincr church. It was of mixed archi- 
 tecture, and combined many of the peculiarities 
 of each era. Retaining some of the sterner 
 features of earlier days, the period ere yet the 
 embattled manor-house peculiar to the reigns of 
 the later Henries had been merged in the graceful 
 and peaceable Hall, the residence of the Rook- 
 woods had early anticipated the gentler charac- 
 teristics of a later day, though it coidd boast 
 little of that exuberance of external ornament, 
 that luxuriance of design, and prodigality of 
 beauty, which, under the sway of the \'irgin 
 Queen, distinguished the residence of the 
 wealthier English landowner, and rendered the 
 Hall of Elizabeth, properly so called, the pride 
 and boast of our Domestic Architecture. 
 
 The site which Sir Ranulph had selected for 
 his habitation, had been already occupied by 
 a vast fabric of oak, which he in part removed, 
 thouo^h some vestiges mitrht still be traced of 
 
132 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 that ancient structure. A massive pile suc- 
 ceeded, with gate and tower, court and moat 
 complete, stable enough, one would have 
 thought, to have endured for centuries; but 
 even this substantial change grew into disuse, 
 and Sir Ranulph's successors, remodelling, 
 repairing, almost rebuilding the whole mansion, 
 in the end so metamorphosed its aspect, that at 
 last little of its original and distinctive character 
 remained. Still, as we said before, it was a 
 fine, old house, though some changes had taken 
 place for the worse, which could not be readily 
 pardoned by the eye of taste : as, for instance, 
 the deep, embayed \Wndows, had sunk into 
 modernized casements, of lighter construction ; 
 the wide porch, with its flight of steps leading 
 to the great hall of entrance, had yielded 
 to a narrow door ; and the broad, quadrangular 
 court was occupied by a gravel drive. Yet, 
 despite all these mutations, the house of the 
 Rookwoods, for an old house (and, after all, 
 what is like a good, old house ?) was no 
 
ROOKWOOD. 133 
 
 undesirable, or uncongenial abode for any wor- 
 shipful country gentleman " that hath a great 
 estate/' 
 
 The Hall Was situated near the base of a 
 gently declining hill, terminating a noble avenue 
 of limes, and partially embosomed in an im- 
 memorial wood of that same timber, which 
 had given its name to the family that dwelt 
 amongst its rook-peopled shades. Descending 
 the avenue at the point of access afforded by 
 a road that wound down the hill-side, to- 
 wards a village distant about half a mile, as 
 you advanced, the eye was first arrested by a 
 singular octagonal turret of brick, of more recent 
 original than the house, though in all probabi- 
 lity occupying the place where the bartizan'd 
 gateway stood of yore. This tower rose to a 
 height corresponding with the roof of the man- 
 sion, and was embellished on the side facing 
 the house, with a flamingly gilt time-piece, 
 peering, like an impudent observer, at all that 
 passed within doors; two apartments, which it 
 contained, were appropriated to tlie house- 
 
134 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 porter. Despoiled of its martial honours, the 
 gateway still displayed the achievements of the 
 family, carved in granite, which had resisted the 
 storms of two centuries, though stained green 
 with moss, and mapped over with lichens. To 
 the left, overgrown with ivy, and peeping from 
 out a tuft of trees, appeared the summit of 
 the dovecot, indicating the near neighbour- 
 hood of an ancient bam, contemporary with 
 the earliest dwelling-house, and of a little world 
 of offices and out-buildings, that lay buried in 
 the thickness of the foliage. To the right was 
 the garden — the pleasaunce of the place — formal, 
 precise, old-fashioned, artificial, yet exquisite !— 
 (for commend us to the bygone, beautiful, 
 English garden — really a garden — not tliat 
 mixture of park, meadow, and wilderness*, 
 
 * Payne Knight, the scourge of Repton and his school, 
 speaking of the licence indulged in by the modern landscape 
 gardeners, thus vents his indignation: — 
 
 " But here, once more, ye rural muses weep — 
 The ivy'd balustrade, and terrace steep — 
 Walls — mellowed into harmony by time — 
 On which fantastic creepers used to climb — 
 
ROOKWOOD. 135 
 
 brought up to one's very ^nndows — which, since 
 the days of the innovators, Kent, and his " bold 
 associates,'' Capabihty Brown and Co., has 
 obtained so largely) — this teas a garden ! There 
 might have been seen the stately terraces, such 
 as Watteau, and our own Wilson, in his earlier 
 works, painted — the trim alleys, exhibiting all 
 the triumphs of Topiarian art — 
 
 The sidelong walls, 
 Of shaven yew ; the holly's prickly arms, 
 Trim'd into high arcades; the tonsile box, 
 Wove in mosaic mode of many a curl. 
 Around the figured carpet of the lawn*. 
 
 the gayest of parterres and greenest of lawns, 
 with its admonitory sun-dial, its marble basin 
 in the centre, its fountain, and couched water- 
 god — the quaint summer-house, surmounted 
 
 * Mason's Eno-lish Garden. 
 
 While statues, labyrinths, and alleys pent 
 
 Within their bounds, at least were innocent I — 
 
 Our modern taste, alas ! no limit knous ; 
 
 O'er hill, o'er dale, tltrovgh wood and field it fiaws ; 
 
 Spreading o'er all its unprolific spawn, 
 
 In never-ending sheets of vapid lawn."" — 
 
 The Landscape, a didactic Poem, addressed to 
 Uvedale Price, Esq. 
 
136 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 with its gilt vane — the statue, glimmering from 
 out its covert of leaves — the cool cascade — the 
 urns — tlie bowers — and a hundred luxuries be- 
 side, suggested and contrived by Art to render 
 Nature most enjoyable, and to enhance the 
 recreative delights of home-out-of-doors (for 
 such a garden should be), w^th least sacrifice of 
 in-door comfort and convenience. 
 
 When Epicurus to the world had taught, 
 
 That pleasure was the chiefest good ; 
 
 (And was perhaps i' th' right, if rightly understood) 
 His life he to his doctrine brought — 
 And in his garden's shade that sovereign pleasure sought*. 
 
 All these delights might once have been en- 
 joyed ; but at the time of which we write, this 
 fair garden was for the most part a waste. Ill 
 kept, neglected, unregarded, the gay parterres 
 were disfigured with weeds — grass grew on the 
 gravel walk — several of the urns were over- 
 thrown — the hour upon the dial was untold 
 — the fountain choked up, and the smooth- 
 shaven lawn only rescued, it would seem, from 
 
 * Cowley. 
 
ROOK WOOD. 137 
 
 the general fate, that it might answer the 
 purpose of a bowling green, as the implements 
 of that game, scattered about, plainly testified. 
 
 Diverging from the garden to the house, we 
 have before remarked that the more ancient 
 characteristic features of the place had been for 
 the most part obliterated and destroyed, less by 
 the hand of time than to suit the tastes of 
 different proprietors ; this, however, was not so 
 observable in the eastern wing, which overlooked 
 the garden. Here might be discerned many 
 indications of its antiquity. The strength and 
 solidity of the walls, which had not been, as 
 elsewhere, masked with brick-work — the low, 
 Tudor arches — the mullioned bars of the win- 
 dows — all attested its age. Within, this wing 
 was occupied by an upper and lower gallery, 
 communicating with suites of chambers, for the 
 most part deserted, excepting one or two, which 
 were used as dormitories, and another little room 
 on the ground-floor, with an oriel window 
 opening upon the lawn, and commanchng tlie 
 
138 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 prospect beyond — a favourite resort for the 
 matutine refection of the late Sir Piers; the 
 interior was curious for its ceiling, moulded in 
 plaster, with the arms and alliances of the 
 Rookwoods. In the centre was the royal 
 blazon of Elizabeth, who had once honoured 
 the hall with a visit during a progress. 
 
 To return, for a moment, to the garden, 
 which we linger about as a bee around a flower : 
 — ^below the lawn there was another terrace, 
 edged by a low balustrade of stone, which 
 commanded a lovely view of park, water, and 
 woodland — ^high hanging woods in the fore- 
 ground, and an extensive sweep of flat cham- 
 paign country, stretching out to meet a line 
 of blue, hazy hills that bounded the distant 
 horizon. 
 
 From the house to its inhabitants, the transi- 
 tion is natural. Besides the connection between 
 them, there were many points of resemblance — 
 many family features in common — the same ori- 
 ginal grandeur, the same character of romance, 
 
ROOKWOOD. 139 
 
 the same fanciful display. Nor were the secret 
 passages, peculiar to the one, wanting to the 
 history of the other : both had their mysteries. 
 One blot there was in the otherwise proud 
 escutcheon of the Rookwoods, that dimmed its 
 splendour, and made pale its pretensions : their 
 sun was eclipsed in blood from its rising to 
 its meridian; and so it seemed would be its 
 setting. This foul reproach attached to all 
 the race; — none escaped it. Traditional ru- 
 mours were handed down from father to son, 
 throughout the county, and, hke all other 
 rumours, had taken to themselves wings, and 
 flown abroad : their crimes became a by-word. 
 How was it they escaped punishment? How 
 came they to evade the hand of justice? 
 Proof was ever wanting — justice ever baffled. 
 They were a stern and stiff-necked people, of 
 indomitable pride and unconquerable resolu- 
 tion, with, for the most part, force of character 
 sufficient to enable them to breast difficulties 
 and dangers that would have overwhelmed 
 
140 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 ordinary individuals. No quality is so ad- 
 vantageous to its possessor as firmness — every 
 obstacle will yield to it, and the determined 
 energy of the Rookwoods bore them harmless 
 through a sea of troubles; besides, they had 
 taken their measures properly. They were 
 wealthy; lavish even to profusion — and gold 
 will do much, if skilfully administered ; yet, 
 despite of all this, a dark, ominous cloud 
 settled over their house, and men wondered 
 when the vengeance of Heaven, so long de- 
 layed, would fall, and consume it. 
 
 Possessed of considerable landed propertv, 
 once extending over nearly half a county, the 
 family increased in power and importance for an 
 uninterrupted series of years, until the outbreak 
 of that intestine discord which ended in the 
 Civil Wars, when the espousal of the royalist 
 party, with sword and substance, by Sir Ralph 
 Rook wood, the then lord of the mansion (a dis- 
 solute, depraved personage, who, however, had 
 been made a Knight of the Bath at the corona- 
 
ROOKWOOD. 141 
 
 tion of Charles I.) ended in his own destruction 
 at Naseby, and the wreck of much of his pro- 
 perty; a loss, which the gratitude of Charles II., 
 on his restoration, did not fail to make good 
 to Sir Ralph's youthful heir. 
 
 The young Sir Reginald had attended Charles 
 in the character of page during his exile, and 
 if he could not requite the devotion of the son 
 by absolutely reinstating the fallen fortunes of 
 the father, the Monarch could at least accord him 
 the fostering influence of his favour and coun- 
 tenance, and bestow^ upon him certain lucrative 
 situations in his household, as an earnest of 
 his good- will; and thus much he did. Re- 
 markable for his personal attractions in youth, 
 it is not to be wondered at that we should find 
 the name of Reginald Rookw^ood recorded in the 
 scandalous chronicles of the day, as belonging to 
 a cavalier of infinite address and discretion, 
 matchless wit, and marvellous pleasantry, and 
 eminent beyond his peers for his successes witli 
 
142 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 some of the most distinguished beauties that 
 ornamented that brilliant and voluptuous court. 
 
 A career of elegant dissipation ended in 
 matrimony. His first match was unpropitious. 
 Foiled in his attempts upon the chastity of a lady 
 of great beauty, and high honour, he was rash 
 enough to marry her: rash enough, we say, for 
 from that fatal hour all became as darkness ; the 
 curtain fell upon the comedy of his life, to rise 
 to tragic horrors. When passion subsided, re- 
 pentance awoke, and he became anxious for 
 deliverance from the yoke he had so heedlessly 
 imposed on himself and on his unfortunate 
 lady. Her's was a wretched life of sufferance 
 from domestic tyranny and oppression; but 
 it was brief: her end has been already hinted 
 at. The manner of its occurrence we shall 
 now more fully detail. 
 
 The hapless lady of Sir Reginald was a fair 
 and fragile creature, floating in the eddying 
 current of existence, and hurried to destnic- 
 
ROOK WOOD. 143 
 
 tion as the summer gossamer is swept away 
 by the rude breeze, and lost for ever. So 
 beautiful, so gentle was she, that if 
 
 Sorrow had not made 
 Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self, 
 
 it would have been difficult to say whether the 
 charm of softness, and sweetness, was more to be 
 admired than her faultless personal attractions; 
 but when a tinge of sorrow came saddening and 
 shading the once smooth and smiling brow — 
 when tears dimmed the blue beauty of those 
 deep and tender eyes — when hot, hectic flushes 
 supplied the place of healthful bloom, and 
 despair took possession of her heart, then was 
 it seen what was the charm of Lady Rookwood, 
 if charm that could be called, which was a 
 saddening sight to see, and melted the beholder's 
 soul within him; and all acknowledged, that 
 exquisite as she had been before, the sad, 
 sweet lady was now more exquisite still. 
 
 Seven moons had waned and flown — seven 
 bitter, tearful moons — and each day Lady Rook- 
 
144 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 wood^s situation claimed more soothing attention 
 at the hand of her lord. She had it not. 
 Fascinating as sin was Sir Reginald, if it 
 pleased him; ruthless as the striped tiger, if not 
 in the mood to constrain himself. 
 
 About this time his wife's brother, whom he 
 hated, returned from the Dutch wars. Struck 
 with his sister's altered appearance, he readily di- 
 vined the cause: indeed, all tongues were eager to 
 proclaim it to him. Passionately attached to her, 
 Lionel Vavasour implored an explanation of the 
 cause of his sister's griefs. The bewildered lady an- 
 swered evasively, attributing her wo-begone looks 
 to any otlier cause than her husband's cruelty, 
 and pressing her brother, as he valued her peace, 
 her affection, never to allude to the subject again. 
 The fiery youth departed; he next sought 
 out his brother-in-law, and taxed him sharply 
 with his inhumanity, adding threats to his 
 upbraidings. Sir Reginald listened silently and 
 calmly. When the other had finished, with a 
 sarcastic obeisance, he replied, " Sir, I am much 
 
ROOKWOOD. 145 
 
 beholden for the trouble you have taken in your 
 sister s behalf; but when she entrusted herself to 
 my keeping, she relinquished, I conceive, all 
 claim on your guardianship : however, I thank 
 you in her name, for the trouble you have 
 taken, but for your own sake, I would venture, 
 as a friend, to caution you against a repetition 
 of interference like the present.'' 
 " Interference ! Sir Reginald ?"" 
 " Interference, Sir, was my word ; unwarrant- 
 able impertinence were perhaps the more suitable 
 phrase. I give you your choice; but would 
 again renew my caution.*" 
 
 " And I, Sir, caution you. See that you give 
 heed to my words, or, by the living God, I will 
 enforce attention to them."" 
 
 " You will find me. Sir, as prompt at all 
 times to defend my conduct, as I am un- 
 alterable in my purposes. I love your sister not. 
 I loathe her. She is my wife ; what more would 
 you have ? AVere she a harlot, you should have 
 her back and welcome; but the fool is virtuous. 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
146 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 Devise some scheme, and take hef with you 
 hence — so you rid me of her, I am content."^ 
 
 " Sir Reginald, you are a villain.'' 
 
 « Go on."" 
 
 " A ruffian.'' 
 
 " Proceed, I pray you." 
 
 " A dastard! will nothing rouse you?" and 
 Vavasour spat upon his brother's cheek. 
 
 Sir Reginald's eyes blazed. His sword started 
 from its scabbard. " Defend yourself," he 
 exclaimed, furiously attacking Vavasom\ Pass 
 after pass was exchanged; fierce thrusts made 
 and parried; feint and appeal, the most despe- 
 rate and dexterous, resorted to; their swords 
 glanced like lightning flashes ; till in the struggle 
 the blades became entangled. There was a mo- 
 ment's cessation ; each glanced at the other with 
 deadly inextinguishable hate. Both were admi- 
 rable masters of defence; both so brimful of 
 wrath as to be regardless of consequences. 
 They tore back their weapons. Vavasour's blade 
 shivered. He vvas at the mercv of his adver- 
 
ROOK WOOD. 147 
 
 sary — an adversary who knew no mercy. Sir 
 Reginald's rapier was instantly passed through 
 his body, the hilt striking against his ribs. 
 
 Sir Reginald's ire was kindled, not extin- 
 gLiished, by the deed he had done ; like the tiger, 
 he had tasted blood. He sought his home. He 
 was greeted by his wife. Terrified by his looks, 
 she yet summoned courage sufficient to approach 
 him. She embraced his arm — she clasped his 
 hand. Sir Reginald smiled. It was cutting as 
 his dagger's edge. 
 
 " AVhat ails you, sweetheart ?'''' said he. 
 
 " I know not ; your smile frightens me." 
 
 " My smile frightens you — fool ! be thankful 
 that I frown not.'^ 
 
 " Oh! do not frown. Be gentle, my Reginald, 
 as you were when first I knew you. Smile not 
 in that stern wise, but as you did then, that I 
 may, for one instant, dream you love me, as you 
 swore you did."*"* 
 
 " Dream that I love you !" 
 
 " Ay, dream, my Reginald ; it is no longer a 
 
148 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 reality. I feel your love is gone — that I have 
 
 lost . But oh ! let me not think you are 
 
 utterly insensible to me. Smile ! smile ! if but 
 for a moment.'" 
 
 " Silly wench ! There — I do smile."" 
 
 " That smile chills me — freezes me. Oh 
 Reginald! could you but know what I have 
 endured this morning, on your account. My 
 brother Lionel has been here.'' 
 
 « Well !" 
 
 " Nay, look not so. He insisted on knowing 
 the reason of my altered appearance.'"* 
 
 " And no doubt you made him acquainted 
 with the cause. You told him your version of 
 the story ."'"' 
 
 " Not a word, as I hope to live." 
 
 " A lie." 
 
 " By my truth, no." 
 
 " A lie, I say; he avouched it to me himself." 
 
 " Impossible! He could not." 
 
 " 'Tis a tale he will not repeat." 
 
 " Not repeat ? He would not, I am sure, give 
 
ROOKWOOD. 149 
 
 utterance to any scandal. You do but try me. 
 Reginald, I never saw you thus — never before. 
 Ha! what is this? Your hand is bloody. You 
 have not — speak — you could not. As you hope 
 for heaven's mercy, speak, I implore you. You 
 have not harmed him? He is well. He is well. 
 Whose blood is this ?'^ 
 
 " He spat upon my cheek — I have washed 
 out the stain — '' 
 
 " Then it is his,'' shrieked Lady Rookwood, 
 pressing her hands shudderingly before her 
 eyes. " Is he dead ? Does he yet live ?" 
 Sir Reginald turned away. 
 " Stay,'' cried she, exerting her feeble strength 
 to retain him, and becoming white as ashes, 
 " stay, thou thing of blood! thou cruel and 
 perjured one! abide, and hear me. Me thou hast 
 killed, I feel, with thy unkindness. I have striven 
 against it, but it would not avail. I am sinking 
 fast — dying. I, who loved thee, only thee ; yea, 
 one beside — my brother, and thou hast slain him. 
 Thy hands are dripping in his blood, and I 
 
150 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 have kissed them, have clasped them. And now," 
 continued she, with an energy that shook Sir 
 Reginald, " I hate thee-^I abhor thee — I 
 renounce thee — for ever ! May my dying words 
 ring in thine ears on thy death-bed, for that 
 hour ivill come. Thou canst not shun that. 
 Then think of him! think of me P'' 
 
 " Away !" interrupted Sir Reginald, endea- 
 vouring to shake her off. 
 
 " I will not away ! I ^vill cling to thee, — I 
 will curse thee. My unborn child shall live to 
 curse thee — to requite thee — to visit my wrongs 
 on thee and thine. Weak as I am, thou shalt 
 not cast me off Thou shalt learn to fear even 
 
 " I fear nothing living, much less a frantic 
 woman." 
 
 " Fear the dead then." 
 
 " Hence ! or by the God above us " 
 
 " Never!" 
 
 There was a struggle — a blow — and the 
 wretched lady sank, shrieking, upon the floor. 
 
ROOKWOOl). 151 
 
 Convulsions seized her; a mother's pains suc- 
 ceeded fierce and fast. She spoke no more, but 
 died within the hour, giving birth to a female 
 child. 
 
 Eleanor Rookwood lived to fidfil her mother's 
 boding words. She became her father s idol — 
 her father s bane. All the love he had to bestow 
 was centred in her; she returned it not. She 
 fled from his caresses. Inheriting none of her 
 mother s gentleness, she had all her mother's 
 beauty — with all her father's pride. His every 
 thought was for his daughter — for her aggran- 
 dizement — all in vain. She seemed only to 
 endure him, while his affection waxed stronger, 
 and entwined itself round her alone; yet she 
 shi'ank from his embraces as the shrub from the 
 clasping folds of the parasite plant. She grew 
 towards womanhood. Suitors thronged around 
 her — gentle and noble ones. Sir Reginald 
 watched them with a jealous eye. He was 
 wealthy — powerful — high in royal favour ; — and 
 could make his own election — he did so. For 
 
152 ROOKWOOD, 
 
 the first time, Eleanor promised obedience to his 
 wishes. They accorded with her own humour. 
 The day was appointed — it came — but with it 
 came not the bride. She had fled, with the 
 humblest and the meanest of the pretenders to 
 her hand — with one upon whom Sir Reginald 
 supposed she had not deigned to cast her eyes. 
 He endeavoured to forget her, and to all out- 
 ward seeming was successful in the effort ; but 
 he felt that the curse was upon him, the 
 undying flame scorched his heart. Once and 
 once only they met again, in a foreign land, 
 whither she had wandered. It was a dread 
 encounter — terrible to both ; but most so to Sir 
 Reginald. He spoke not of her afterwards. 
 Shortly after the death of his first wife, Sir 
 Reginald had made proposals to a dowager of 
 distinction, with a handsome jointure, one of his 
 early attachments, and was without scruple 
 accepted. The power of the family might 
 then be said to have been at its zenith, and but 
 for certain untoward circumstances, and the 
 
ROOK WOOD. 153 
 
 gi'owing influence of his enemies. Sir Reginald 
 would have been elevated to the peerage. Like 
 most reformed spendthrifts, he had become pro- 
 portionately avaricious, and his mind seemed 
 engrossed in accumulating wealth. In the 
 meantime, his second wife followed her prede- 
 cessor, dying, it was said, of vexation and 
 disappointment. 
 
 The propensity to matrimony, always a dis- 
 tinguishing characteristic of the Rookwoods, 
 largely displayed itself in Sir Reginald. Another 
 lady followed — equally rich, younger, and far 
 more beautiful than her immediate predecessor. 
 She was a prodigious flirt, and soon set her 
 husband at defiance. Sir Reginald did not con- 
 descend to expostulate. It was not his way. He 
 effectually prevented any recurrence. She was 
 removed, and with her expired Sir Reginald's 
 waning popularity. So strong was the expres- 
 sion of odium against him, that he thought it 
 prudent to retire to his mansion in the country, 
 and there altogether seclude himself. One 
 h5 
 
154 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 anomaly in Sir Reginald's otherwise utterly 
 selfish character, was uncompromising devotion 
 to the House of Stuart ; and shortly after the 
 abdication of James II., he followed that 
 monarch to St. Germains, having previously 
 mixed largely in secret political intrigues ; and 
 only returned from the French Court to lay his 
 bones with those of his ancestry, in the family 
 vault at Rook wood. 
 
 Sir Reojinald died, leavincj issue three chil- 
 dren, a daughter, the before-mentioned Eleanor 
 (who, entirely discountenanced by the family, 
 had been seemingly forgotten by all but her 
 father), and two sons by his third wife. Regi- 
 nald, the eldest, whose military taste had early 
 procured him the command of a company of 
 horse, and whose politics did not coalesce 
 with that of his sire, fell, during his father''s 
 lifetime, at Killycrankie, under the banners 
 of William ; Piers, therefore, the second son, 
 succeeded to the baronetcy. A very different 
 character, in many respects, to his father 
 
ROOKWOOD. 155 
 
 and brother, holding in supreme contempt 
 courts and courtiers, party warfare, political 
 intrigue, and all the subtleties of Jesuitical diplo- 
 macy ; neither having any inordinate relish for 
 camps or campaigns ; he yet displayed in early 
 life one family propensity, viz. unremitting devo- 
 tion to the sex ; and if he rejoiced not in a like 
 uxorial latitude, yet were his mistresses mani- 
 fold. Subsequently he allied himself to Maude, 
 only daughter of Sir Thomas D' Aubenev, the 
 last of a hne as proud and intolerant as his owni 
 The tables were then turned ; Lady Rookwood 
 usurped sovereign sway over her lord, and Sir 
 Piers, a cipher in his own house, scarce master of 
 himself, much less of his dame, endured an 
 existence so infinitely miserable, that he was often 
 heard to regret, in his cups, that he had not 
 inherited, with the estate of his forefathers, the 
 family secret of shaking off the matrimonial yoke, 
 when found to press too hardly. 
 
 At the onset Sir Piers struggled hard to burst 
 his bondage, but in vain — he was fast fettered, 
 
156 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 and only bruised himself against the bars of 
 his prison-house. Abandoning all further effort 
 at emancipation, he gave himself up to the 
 usual resource of a weak mind — debauchery ; he 
 drank so deeply to drown his cares, that in the 
 end his hale constitution yielded to his excesses. 
 Sir Piers was a good-humoured man in the 
 main; he had little of the old Rookwood 
 leaven about him, and had been liked by his 
 associates ; but of late his temper became soured, 
 and his friends deserted him; for between his 
 domestic annoyances, remorseful feelings, and the 
 inroads already made upon his health by constant 
 inebriety, he grew so desperate and insane in his 
 revels, and committed such fearful extrava- 
 gancies, that even his boon companions shrank 
 from his orgies. Fearful were the scenes between 
 him and Lady Rookwood upon these occasions — 
 appalling to the witnesses, dreadful to themselves; 
 and it was perhaps their frequent recurrence, 
 that, more than any thing else, banished all 
 decent society from Rookwood. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 157 
 
 At the time of Sir Piers' decease, which brings 
 us down to the date of our story, his son and 
 successor, Ranulph, was absent on his travels. 
 Shortly after the completion of his academical 
 education, he had departed to make the tour of 
 the Continent, and had been absent rather better 
 than a year. He had quitted his father in 
 displeasure, and was destined never again to 
 see his face while hving. The last intelligence 
 received of young Rook wood was from Bour- 
 deaux, whence it was thought he had departed 
 for the Pyrenees. A special messenger had 
 been dispatched in search of him, with tidings 
 of the melancholy event ; but as it was deemed 
 improbable, by Lady Rookwood, that her son 
 could return within any reasonable space, she 
 ordered that the accomplishment of the last rites 
 to be paid to her husband should take place on 
 the night of the sixth day after his decease 
 (for it may be here remarked, that it was the 
 custom of the Rookwoods ever to inter their 
 dead at midnight), entrusting its solemnization 
 
158 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 entirely to the care of one of Sir Piers^ retainers, 
 for which she was greatly scandalized in the 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 A youth of goodly promise was Ranulph 
 Rookwood. The stock from which he sprang 
 would on neither side warrant such conclusion, 
 nor hold out hopes of any such fulfilment ; yet 
 sometimes it happens that from the darkest ele- 
 ments are compounded the brightest and subtlest 
 substances : and so it appeared to be in his 
 instance. Fair, frank, and free — generous, open, 
 unsuspicious — he seemed the very opposite of all 
 his race — their antagonizing principle. Capri- 
 ciously indulgent, his father had allowed him 
 ample means, neither curbing nor restraining his 
 expenditure ; acceding at one moment to every 
 inclination, every project, and the next nega^ 
 tiving all. It was impossible, therefore, for 
 him, in such a state of things, to act decidedly, 
 without incurring his father^s displeasure ; and 
 even the only measure he resolved upon, which 
 was to absent himself for a time, was conjee- 
 
ROOK WOOD. 159 
 
 tured to have brought about the result he had 
 endeavoured to avoid. Other reasons there were, 
 which secretly influenced him, which it will be 
 our business in due time to detail. 
 
 Much of this might be traced to the policy 
 of Lady Rookwood. Of late, whatever plans she 
 had laid out for her son, had been opposed by 
 Sir Piers, who was resolved to thwart and gall 
 her in her only apparently sensible part ; and 
 hence the endless bickerings we have noticed. 
 There might be another latent motive ; but this, 
 if any such existed. Sir Piers kept to himself. 
 After his son's departure, he supplied him plenti- 
 fully with money ; but it was observed, l^y those 
 about him, that he meditated some great change 
 in the distribution of his property, even during 
 his lifetime, when the suddenness of his removal, 
 by death, prevented the completion of his 
 designs. 
 
 The time of the sad ceremonial drew nigh. 
 The hurrying of the domestics to and fro — 
 — the multifarious arrangements for the night — 
 
160 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 the distribution of the melancholy trappings, and 
 the discussion of the concomitant comestibles, fur- 
 nished abundant occupation within doors ; with- 
 out, there was a constant and continual stream 
 of the tenantry, thronging down the avenue, 
 mixed with an occasional horseman, once or 
 twice intercepted by a large, lumbering car- 
 riage, bringing friends of the deceased, some 
 really anxious to pay the last tribute of regard, 
 but the majority attracted by the anticipated 
 spectacle of a funeral by torclilight. There 
 were others, indeed, to whom it was not matter 
 of choice ; who were compelled, by a vassal 
 tenure of their lands, held of the house of 
 Rookwood, to lend a shoulder to the coffin, and 
 a hand to the torch, on the burial of its lord. Of 
 these there was a plentiful nmster collected in 
 the hall ; they were to be marshalled by Peter 
 Bradley, who was deemed to be well skilled in 
 the proceedings, having been present at two 
 solemnities of the kind. That personage, how- 
 ever, had not made his appearance, to the great 
 
ROOK WOOD. 161 
 
 dismay of the assemblage. Scouts were sent in 
 search of him, but they returned with the intel- 
 ligence, that the door of his habitation was fas- 
 tened, and its inmate apparently absent ; other 
 tidings of the truant sexton could not be 
 obtained. 
 
 It was a sultry August evening — no breeze 
 was stirring in the garden — no cool dews 
 refreshed the parched and heated earth — yet, 
 from the languishing flowers rich sweets 
 exhaled ; the splash of a fountain fell plea- 
 santly upon the ear, conveying in its sound a 
 sense of freshness to the fervid air — while deep 
 and drowsy murmurs hummed heavily beneath 
 the trees, making the twilight slumberously 
 musical. The westering sun, which had filled 
 the atmosphere with flame throughout the day, 
 was now \vildly setting ; and, as he sank behind 
 the hall, its varied and beautiful tracery became 
 each instant more darkly and distinctly defined, 
 as relieved against the burnished sky. 
 
 At this juncture a little gate, communicating 
 
EOOKWOOD. 
 
 with the park, was thrown open, and some one 
 entered the garden, passing through the shrub- 
 bery, and not checking his rapid steps till he 
 arrived at a vista opening upon the house : there 
 he stopped. The spot at which he halted, was 
 marked by a little basin, scantily supplied with 
 water, streaming from a lions kingly jaws. 
 The stranger threw himself upon an adjoining 
 seat. His dress was travel-soiled, and dusty, and 
 his whole appearance betokened great exhaus- 
 tion, from heat and fatigue. Ashe threw off his 
 riding-cap, and unclasped his throat collar, he 
 displayed a finely-turned head and neck, and a 
 countenance which, besides its beauty, had that 
 rare nobility of feature, which seldom indeed 
 falls to the lot of the proudest patrician, but is 
 never seen in one of an inferior order. A rest- 
 less disquietude of manner, showed that he was 
 suifering from over-excitement of mind, as well 
 as from bodily exertion. His look was wild and 
 hurried — his waving ringlets were dashed heed- 
 lessly over a pallid, lofty brow, upon which care 
 
ROOK WOOD. 
 
 163 
 
 was prematurely written, while his black melan- 
 choly eyes were bent, with a look almost of 
 agony, upon the house before him. 
 
 " And it was here," murmured the youthful 
 stranger, " that we parted, never again to meet — 
 here he left me, in anger and unkindness — and 
 here, upon this very spot, I tarried till the sun 
 had gone down upon his wrath, even as it is now 
 going down upon his grave — and he returned 
 not ! And that farewell — that dreadful farewell, 
 was to be our last ! Great God ! — had I but 
 thought it — that I should have departed without 
 his blessing — without his forgiveness. But the 
 past is irrevocable. Oh ! for one half hour 
 
 with him, were it terrible as the night when 
 
 but I will not think of that. I must believe it 
 now — the dark, dreadful confirmation is there. 
 In yon mansion death stares at me through 
 every casement — grins at me in my path — my 
 father lies dead within ! If even the dead cannot 
 rest, why need the living trouble themselves? 
 That twihght sky — ^yon setting sun — v^hy do 
 
164 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 they fill me with forebodings ? — why does the air 
 seem thick — the trees grow black — the clouds 
 turn crimson? 'Tis death ! — death every where! 
 — around me — about me — my existence is poi- 
 soned. I have obeyed the call — I am here — 
 what more remains to do ?" 
 
 And, as if struggling against violent emo- 
 tions, and some overwhelming remembrance, the 
 young man arose, and plunged his hand into the 
 basin, applying the moist element to his burning 
 brow. Apparently becoming more calm, he 
 bent his steps towards the hall, when two 
 figures, suddenly issuing from an adjoining 
 walk, arrested his progress: neither saw him. 
 After a brief parley, one of the figures disap- 
 peared within the shrubbery, and the other, 
 confronting the stranger, disj)layed the harsh 
 features and gaunt form of Peter Bradley. Had 
 Peter encountered his dead master in corporeal 
 form, he could not have manifested more sur- 
 prise than he exhibited for an instant or two, 
 when he shrank back from the path as the 
 
EOOKWOOD. 165 
 
 stranger passed him with a low greeting, taking 
 his way towards the hall. 
 
 " Wonder upon wonders !" ejaculated the sex- 
 ton, recovering speech ; " young Ranulph here ! 
 — what could have brought him hither, now? 
 What but fate ? The hour I have so long 
 dreamed of is fast coming; but Luke should 
 know this — he may still be within hearing ; I'll 
 try — ^'' and he whistled doA\Ti the shrubbery — 
 " No — he is gone — it would be too much trouble 
 to seek for him — besides, he must take his chance 
 — I can only help him so far — Destiny must do 
 the rest. And who shall say what his shall be ? — 
 Not I. I can only speculate — only look on — 
 only laugh. I know better than to interfere with 
 any man s doom, and yet I should like to see 
 young Ranulph's palm. I might give a guess 
 from that. It will be a hard game. Ha — ha! 
 What says the old jingle — 
 
 When the stray Rook shall perch on the topmost bough, 
 
 There shall be clamour and screeching I trow ; 
 
 But of right to, and rule of the ancient nest, 
 
 The Rook that with Rook mates shall hold him possest. 
 
166 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 wliich is a riddle I cannot read. Oh ! this is 
 beautiful — delightful ! — and now for my merry 
 mourners. They're drunk I hope by this time — 
 in wliich case they'll do their business so much 
 the better, and not shed tears out of season.'' 
 And he crawled, mutteringly, on to the hall. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " Xo more plurimums, if you love me : Latin whole-meats 
 
 are now minced, and served in for English gallimaufries ; let us, 
 
 therefore, cut out our uplandish neat's tongues, and talk like 
 
 regenerate Britons." 
 
 IVestward Ho. 
 
 Ax hour or two prior to the rencontre just 
 described, in a small cosy apartment of the hall, 
 nominally devoted to justiciary business by its 
 late proprietor, but, in reality, used as a sanctum 
 snuggery, or smoking room, an odd triumvirate 
 were assembled, fraught with the ulterior view 
 of attending the funeral obsequies of their de- 
 ceased patron and friend, though immediately 
 occupied in the discussion of a stoup of excellent 
 claret, the bouquet of which perfumed the air 
 like the fragrance of a bed of violets. 
 
168 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 This little room had been poor Sir Piers's 
 favourite retreat ; it was, in fact, the only room 
 in the house that he could call his own; and 
 thither would he often, with pipe and punch, 
 beguile the flagging hours, secure from inter- 
 ruption. A snug, old-fashioned apartment it 
 was, wainscotted with rich, black oak, against 
 which stood a fine old cabinet of the same 
 material, and a line or two of crazy worm-eaten 
 book-shelves, loaded with sundry, dusty, uncon- 
 sulted law tomes, and a slight sprinkling of the 
 elder divines, equally neglected. The only book, 
 indeed. Sir Piers ever read, was Burton, and him 
 only because the quaint, racy style of the 
 learned old hypochondriac suited his humour at 
 seasons, and gave a zest to his melancholy, such 
 as the olives lent to his wine. 
 
 Four portraits adorned the walls; those of 
 Sir Reginald Rookwood and his wives. The 
 ladies were attired' in the flowing di'apery 
 of Charles's day, the snow of their radiant 
 bosoms somewhat sullied by over exposure, and 
 
IIOOKWOOD. 169 
 
 the vermeil tinting of their cheeks darkened by 
 the fumes of tobacco. There was a shepherdess, 
 with her taper crook, whose large, languishing 
 eyes, ripe pouting lips, ready to melt into kisses, 
 and air of voluptuous elegance, was any thing 
 but suitable to the innocent, unsophisticated 
 simplicity of her costume. She was pourtrayed 
 tending her flock of downy sheep, with azure 
 ribbons round their necks, accompanied by one 
 of those invaluable little dogs, whose length of 
 ear and delicacy of spot evinced him perfect 
 in his breeding, but whose large-eyed indif- 
 ference to his charge, proved him to be as 
 much out of character with his situation, as the 
 refined and luxuriant charms of his mistress 
 were out of keeping with her artless attire. 
 This was Sir Piers's mother, the third wife, 
 a beautiful woman, answering to the notion 
 of one who had been somewhat of a flirt in 
 her day. Next to her was a magnificent dame, 
 with the throat and arm of a Juno, and a 
 superb bust (the bust was, then, what the bustle 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
170 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 ia now — a paramount attraction — whether the 
 modification be an improvement, we leave to the 
 consideration of the lovers of the beautiful) — 
 this was the dowager. Lastly, there was the 
 sweet, delicate Eleanor, -with eyes serenely soft 
 " as a star in water," blue as the depths of a 
 summer's eve, and a form lightsomely lovely as 
 that of a sylph. Every gentle grace had been 
 stamped in undying beauty on the canvas by the 
 hand of Lely, breathing a spell on the picture, 
 almost as witching as that which had dwelt around 
 the exquisite original. Over the high carved 
 mantel-piece was suspended the portrait of Sir 
 Reginald. It had been painted in early youth ; 
 the features were beautiful, disdainful — with a 
 fierceness breaking through the courtly air. The 
 eyes were very fine, large, black as midnight, and 
 stern as those of Gaesar Borgia, in Raphael's unri- 
 valled picture in the Borghese Palace at Rome. 
 They seemed to rivet the gazer — to retort his 
 glances — to follow him whithersoever he went — 
 to search into his soul, as did the dark orbs of 
 
ROOKWOOD. 171 
 
 Sir Reginald in his lifetime. It was the work 
 of Vandyck, and had all the fidelity and breath- 
 ing verisimilitude of that great master; nor was 
 the noble countenance of Sir Reginald unworthy 
 the masterly painter. 
 
 No portrait of Sir Piers was to be met with ; 
 but in lieu thereof, depending from a pair of 
 buck's horns, hung the worthy knight's stained 
 scarlet coat (the same in which he had ridden 
 forth, with the intent to hunt, on the eventful 
 morning mentioned by Peter Bradley), his velvet 
 cap, his buck-handled whip, and the residue of 
 his equipment for the chase. This attire was 
 reviewed with melancholy interest and im- 
 affected emotion by the company, as reminding 
 them forcibly of the departed, of which it 
 seemed a portion. 
 
 The party consisted of the Vicar of Rook- 
 wood, Dr. Polyphemus Polycarp Small, and 
 Titus Tyrconnel, self-dubbed M.D., an emigrant, 
 and empirical professor of medicine, from the 
 sister isle, whose convivial habits had first intro- 
 
17^ ROOKWOOD. 
 
 duced him to the hall, and afterwards retained 
 him there. Mr. Cecil Coates, attorney-at-law, 
 bailiff, and receiver, completed the trio. We 
 were wrong in saying that Titus Tyrconnel was 
 retained. He was an impudent, intrusive fellow, 
 whom, having once gained a footing in the house, 
 it was impossible to dislodge. He cared for no 
 insult — ^perceived no slight — and professed, in 
 her presence, the profoundest respect for Lady 
 Rookwood: in short, he was ever ready to do 
 any thing but depart. 
 
 Sir Piers was one of those people who cannot 
 dine alone. He disliked a solitary repast, almost 
 as much as a tete-a-tete with his lady. He 
 would have been recognised at once as the true 
 Amphitryon, had any one been hardy enough to 
 play the part of Jupiter. Ever ready to give a 
 dinner, he found a difficulty arise, not usually 
 experienced on such occasions — there was no one 
 wherewithal to partake of it. He had the best 
 of wine, kept an excellent table, was himself 
 no niggard host; but his own merits, and those 
 
ROOK WOOD; 17*3 
 
 of his table, were forgotten in the invariable 
 pendant to the feast ; and the best of wine lost 
 its flavour when the last bottle found its way to 
 the guest's head. Dine alone, Sir Piers would 
 not ; and as his old friends forsook him, he 
 plunged lower in his search for society, col- 
 lecting within his house a class of persons 
 whom no one would have expected to meet at 
 Rookwood, nor its o^vner have chosen as its 
 inmates, had any choice remained to him. He 
 did not endure this state of things without much 
 outward show of discontent. " Any thing for a 
 quiet life," was his constant saying ; and, like the 
 generality of people with whom those words form 
 a favourite maxim, he led the most uneasy life 
 imaginable. Endurance, to excite commiseration, 
 must be uncomplaining — the aggrieved of the 
 gentle sex should remember this. Sir Piers 
 endured, but he grumbled lustily, and was 
 on all hands voted a bore; domestic grievances, 
 especially if the husband be tlie plaintiff, being 
 the most intolerable of all mentionable miseries. 
 
174 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Racked by a sick head-ache, or querulous witli 
 qualms (for there is a bathos of ebriety beyond 
 soda-water), Sir Piers was the most injured 
 man breathing, and consequently the most 
 wearisome. No wonder that his friends deserted 
 him ; still there was Titus Tyrconnel — his ears 
 and lips were ever open to pathos and to punch 
 — so Titus kept his station. Immediately after 
 her husband's demise, it had been Lady Rook- 
 ^vood's intention to clear the house of all the 
 vermin, so she expressed herself, that had so long 
 infested it; and forcibly to eject Titus, and one 
 or two other intruders of the same class. But 
 in consequence of certain hints received from 
 Mr. Coates, who represented to her the absolute 
 necessity of complying with Sir Piers's testa- 
 mentary instructions, which were particular in 
 that respect, she thought proper to defer her 
 intentions until after the ceremonial of interment 
 should be completed; and in tlie mean time, 
 strange to say, committed its arrangement to 
 Titus Tyrconnel ; who, ever ready to accommo- 
 
ROOKWOOD, 175 
 
 date, accepted, nothing loath, the charge, and 
 acquitted himself admirably well in his under- 
 taking ; especiall}', as he said, " in the eating and 
 drinking part of the transaction — the most essen- 
 tial portion of it all." He kept open house — 
 open hall — open cellar — resolved that his patron^s 
 funeral should emulate as much as possible an 
 Irish burial on a grand scale, " the finest sight 
 in the Avhole world," again to quote his own 
 words. 
 
 No opposition was offered to these proceedings 
 by Lady Rookwood. She had given Titus the 
 keys of the cellar, saying to her attendant 
 Agnes — " they might wallow in wine if they 
 liked — like swine, as they were — it was Sir 
 Piers's \vi]\ — they only acted in accordance with 
 his intentions, which they fulfilled to the letter. 
 The period, required by the law, v.ould soon be 
 past — she would then easily rid herself of them."" 
 Inflated with the importance of his office — in- 
 flamed with heat, sat Titus, like a " robustious 
 periwig-pated" Alderman, after a civic feast. — 
 
176 BOOKWOOD. 
 
 The natural rubicundity of his rosily comic 
 countenance was increased to a deep purple tint, 
 like that of a full blown peony, while his ludi- 
 crous dignity was augmented by a shining suit 
 of sables, in which his portly person was invested. 
 
 The first magnum had been discussed in 
 solemn silence ; the cloud, however, which hung 
 over the conclave, disappeared, under the genial 
 influence of " another and a better"' bottle, and 
 gave place to a denser vapour, occasioned by the 
 introduction of the pipe, and its accompaniments. 
 
 Ensconced in a comfortable old chair (it is not 
 every old chair that is comfortable), with pipe 
 in mouth, and in full unbuttoned ease, his 
 bushy, buzz wig laid aside by reason of the 
 heat, reposed Doctor Small. Small, indeed, was 
 somewhat of a misnomer, as applied to the worthy 
 doctor, who, besides being no diminutive speci- 
 men of his kind, entertained no insignificant 
 opinion of himself. His height was certainly 
 not remarkable ; but his width of shoulder — 
 his sesquipedality of stomach — and obesity of 
 
HOOK WOOD. 177 
 
 calf — these were unique! Of his origin, we 
 know nothing ; but presume he must, in some 
 way or other, have been connected w^th that 
 numerous family " the Smalls,'^ who, according 
 to Christopher North, form the predominant 
 portion of mankind. 
 
 In appearance, the doctor was short-necked, 
 and puffy, with a pasty face, wherein were set 
 eyes, whose obliquity of vision was, in a measure, 
 redeemed by their expression of humour. He was 
 accounted a man of parts and erudition, and 
 had obtained high honours at his university. 
 Rigidly orthodox, he abominated the very name 
 of papist; amongst which heretical herd he classed 
 his companion, Mr. Titus Tyrconnel — Ireland 
 being with him synonimous with superstition and 
 Catholicism — and every Irishman rebellious and 
 schismatical ; on this subject he was inclined to be 
 disputatious. His prejudices did not preAent 
 him from passing the claret, nor from his laugh- 
 ing as heartily as a plethoric asthma, and sense of 
 the decorum due to the occasion would permit, 
 i5 
 
178 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 at the quips and quirks of the Irishman, who, 
 lie admitted, notwithstanding his heresies, was 
 a pleasant fellow in the main. And when, in 
 addition to the flattery, a pipe had been insi- 
 nuated by the officious Titus, at the precise 
 moment when Small yearned for his afternoon's 
 solace, but scrupled to ask for, or indulge in 
 it — when the door had been made fast, and the 
 first whifF exhaled, all his misgivings vanished, 
 and he surrendered himself to the soft seduction. 
 In this elysian state we find him. 
 
 " Ah ! you may say that. Doctor Small," said 
 lie, in answer to some observation of the vicar. 
 *' that's a most original apophthegm. We all 
 of us hould our lives by a thread. Och ! many's 
 the sudden finale I have seen. Many's the fine 
 fellow's heels tripped up unawares, when least 
 expected. Death hangs over our heads by a 
 single hair, as your reverence says, precisely 
 like the sword of Dan Machse*, the flatterer of 
 
 * Query, Damocles ? — Prliiter^s Devil. 
 
EOOKWOOD. 179 
 
 Dennis, what do you call him, ready to fall at 
 a moment's notice, or at no notice at all — eh ? — 
 •Mr. Coates. And that brings me back again to 
 Sir Piers — poor gentleman — ah! we shant soon 
 see the like of him again. ^ 
 
 " Poor Sir Piers I'** said I\Ir. Coates, a wee 
 man, with a brown bob, and a face red and 
 round as an apple, and almost as small, " it is to 
 be regretted, that his over conviviality should so 
 much have hastened his lamented demise.'' 
 
 "Conviviality!" replied Titus; " no such 
 thing — it was apoplexy — extravaseation of 
 saarum." 
 
 " Extra vase-ation of rum and water, you 
 mean,'' replied Coates, who, like all attorneys, 
 rejoiced in a quibble. 
 
 " The squire's ailment," continued Titus, 
 " was a sanguineous effusion, as we call it — 
 positive determination of blood to the head, occa- 
 sioned by a low way he got into just before his 
 attack — a confirmed case of hypochondriasis, a? 
 that ould book Sir Piers was so fond of, denomi- 
 
180 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 nates the blue devils; he neglected the bottle, 
 which, in a man who has been a hard drinker 
 all his life, is a bad sign. The lowering system 
 never answers — never. Doctor, I'll just trouble 
 you" — for Small, in a fit of absence, had omitted 
 to pass the bottle, though not to help himself. 
 " Had he stuck to this''' — holding up a glass ruby 
 bright — " the elixir vitae — the grand panacea — 
 he might have been hale and hearty at this 
 present moment, and as well as any of us — but 
 he wouldn't be advised. To my thinking, as 
 that was the case, he'd have been all the better 
 for a little of your Reverence's sperretual ad- 
 vice; and his conscience having been relieved, 
 by confession, and absolution, he might have 
 opened a fresh account, with an aisy heart and 
 clane breast." 
 
 " I trust. Sir," said Small, withdrawing liis 
 pipe from his lips, " that Sir Piers Rookwood 
 addressed himself to a higher source than to a 
 sinning creature of clay like himself for media- 
 tion with his Creator for remission of his sins; 
 
EOOKWOOD. 181 
 
 but were there any load of secret guilt thai 
 might have weighed heavy upon his conscience, 
 it is to be regretted that he refused the last 
 offices of the church, and died incommunicate. 
 I was denied all admittance to his chamber."^ 
 
 " Exactly my case,'^ said Mr. Coates; " I was 
 refused entrance, though my business was of the 
 utmost importance — certain dispositions — special 
 bequests — for though the estate is entailed, yet 
 still there are charges. You understand me — 
 very strange to refuse to see me. Some people 
 may regret it — may live to regret it, I say — 
 that's all. I\e just sent up a package to Ladv 
 Rookwood, which was not to be delivered till 
 after Sir Piers's death. Odd circumstance that 
 — ^been in my custody a long while. Some 
 reason to think the squire meant to alter his 
 will— ought to have seen me — sad neglect."^ 
 
 " More's the pity — but it was none of poor 
 Sir Piers's doing !"" replied Titus; " he had no 
 will of his own, pooj- fellow, even on his death- 
 
182 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 bed ; it was all her doing, Lady Rook wood's,'" 
 added he, in a whisper. " I, his medical adviser, 
 and confidential friend, was ordered out of the 
 room, and although I knew it was as much as 
 his life was worth to leave him for a moment 
 in that state, I was forced to comply ; and, 
 would you believe it, as I left the room, I heard 
 high words. Yes, Doctor, as I hope to be saved, 
 words of anger from her at that terrible time.'" 
 
 The latter part of this speech was uttered in a 
 low tone, and very mysterious manner. The 
 speakers drew so closely together, that the bowls 
 of their pipes formed a common centre, whence 
 the stems radiated. A momentary silence ensued, 
 during which each man puffed for very life. 
 Small next knocked the ashes from his tube, 
 and began to replenish, coughing significantly. 
 Mr. Coates ex}>elled a thin, curling stream of 
 vapour from a minute orifice in the corner of his 
 almost invisible mouth, and raised his eyebrows, 
 fraught with expectation : all seemed spell- 
 
ROOKWOOD. 183 
 
 bound. On the strength of a bumper, which he 
 swallowed, Titus mustered resolution to break 
 the charm. 
 
 " Och, Sirs !'' said he, in a cautious whisper, 
 as if afraid lest the very walls should betray 
 him, " Lady Rook wood's an awful woman — an 
 awful woman — a fit mate for Beelzebub himself, 
 if he wer'nt a devilish deal too cunning to take 
 a wife. Ill just tell you what happened. We 
 all of us know the sort of life she led poor 
 Sir Piers." 
 
 " Of a surety, do we,"" replied Small ; " a most 
 inauspicious union from the commencement. 
 
 Pronnha Tisiphone thalarnis idulavlt in illis, 
 Et cecinit mcestum devia carmen avis." 
 
 " I doubt, whether the symphony were pro- 
 mising,'" replied Titus : " the song itself was any 
 thing but melodious. But, as I was saying, if 
 there was no love lost between them during life, 
 one would think the near approach of death might 
 set all to rest : no such thing. When I came 
 
184 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 back to the room, there lay the squire, in a sort 
 of trance, and she glaring at him like a tigress 
 — so savage — so full of spite and malice, 
 and devilish rejoicing, my blood ran cold to 
 witness it.'"* 
 
 Small shook his head, muttering some mono- 
 syllabic interjection, that sounded very like an 
 oath. Mr. Coates looked unutterable things, but 
 said nothing, with the characteristic caution of 
 his tribe. 
 
 " I approached the bed-side,'^ resumed Titus, 
 " as I don t care to confess, with fear and tripi- 
 dation ; for though the man does not live who 
 can say Titus Tyrconnel dreads him, somehow or 
 other there is that in her ladyship I never could 
 get over — and which petrifies me like a stone. 
 However, I went up to the bed, and took hould 
 of the dying man's hand. Sinking as he was, the 
 pressure roused him ; whether or not he thought 
 that his wife relented towards him, I can^t 
 say; a slight, sweet smile played upon his fea- 
 tures — a. faint motion was perceptible in his 
 
EOOKWOOD. 185 
 
 lips; he tried to fix his gaze upon me, and 
 when, through the gathering fihn, he perceived 
 who it was, he shuddered sensibly, and his eyes 
 filled with tears. Damme, but my own are 
 blinded, now, to think of it. ' Sir Piers,' says I to 
 him, ' be calm — be composed — 'tis only I, Titus 
 Tyrconnel.' — ' I cannot be composed,' gasped he. 
 ' I cannot die, unless I am at peace.' — ' Give 
 him laudanum,"* said Lady Rookwood ; ' here is 
 the phial, it will abridge his sufferings.' — ' Oh, no 
 — no,' said Piers, with a look of horror I shall 
 never forget, and struggling for utterance — ' do 
 not give me that — let me live, if only for a few 
 moments.' And he sunk back senseless on the 
 pillow, as I cast away the phial. I was soon 
 roused from a moment's stupor I had been thrown 
 into, by her ladyship, who apparently was not 
 much pleased with my ^proceeding ; indeed she 
 tould me as much — but, frightened as I was at 
 her, I could not help saying, I thought it was not 
 like a Christian, to harbour hatred at such a 
 moment ; and that whatever difference there was 
 betwixt them, she 02fght to be reconciled to her 
 
186 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 husband, before reconciliation should be impos^ 
 sible. Och, Sirs ! I wish you had seen her. 
 She said not a word in reply, but slowly quitted 
 the room, and returned not till after the Squire's 
 departure. I should like to know, Dochtor, what 
 stuff her heart is made of. Now I know what it 
 is to hate and despise, and may be, when Iln 
 roused, seeing that I'm an Irishman, I could 
 knock out a man's brains with all the pleasure in 
 life ; but to see a fellow-creature expiring (which 
 was not without a long and a terrible struggle, 
 all occasioned by her conduct), before one's eyes, 
 and not extend the hand of forgiveness to him — 
 if so doing would ease the parting pang — 'tis 
 barbarous, unnatural, diabolical.'"* 
 
 " Sir," said Doctor Small, with emphasis, lay- 
 ing down his pipe, " it's damnable — enough to 
 draw down a judgment ; such conduct can only 
 be excused on the ground of insanity ; the 
 woman must be mad." 
 
 " I'll swear to it," interposed Titus, " she is 
 mad." 
 
 " I shall think it my duty to advise young 
 
ROOKWOOD. 187 
 
 Sir Ranulph to take out a writ de lunatico 
 inqidrendo,'" said the lawyer, his keen little eyes 
 twinkling ; " he would be glad, I'm sure, to 
 have her out of the way.'" 
 
 " Ah ! weVe a beautiful way, in my country, 
 of managing unruly women,'' said Titus ; " we 
 l^reak 'em in young — take the vice out of 'em 
 early. As to Lady Rookwood — "^ 
 
 " Can you inform me where she is ?" inquired 
 Small ; " for I have heard nothing of her since 
 my arrival ?'' 
 
 " Oh, faith," replied Titus, " fast shut up in 
 her own room, where de\al a body goes near 
 her, barring her Abigail, ould Agnes, who's" 
 (lowering his voice) " much of the same kidney 
 as herself ; and there she's been ever since poor 
 Sir Piers's death. Bless your heart, I've not seen 
 a glimpse of her, except to receive my instructions 
 respecting the funeral. — Nothing would she have 
 to do with it — every thing was left to me ; and, 
 but that dacency compels her, Sir Piers might 
 bury himself, for any thing she'd care to the 
 contrary." 
 
188 . ROOK WOOD. 
 
 " The law,"" said the attorney, " luckily would 
 enforce that. The Rookwood family have 
 always laid down laws for themselves respecting 
 their interment. The custom of burial by torch- 
 light, and at midnight, hath become a prescrip- 
 tive obligation upon the house.'' 
 
 " And a grand custom it is, eh. Doctor f"^ 
 said Titus, who could not resist his propensity 
 to attack Small, " and one, I'm sure, that meets 
 with your entire approbation. A funeral by 
 torchlight must have an excellent impressive 
 effect upon the pisantry hereabouts, who are 
 all obliged to attend, just as they are at some 
 magnificent burial in my own country. Oh ! its 
 a beautiful custom ! " 
 
 " A superstitious custom, you should say,*" 
 retorted Small, " and the sooner abolished the 
 better. In darker ages, when Truth had not 
 shed her light abroad, and men saw, as through 
 a glass, darkly, such a ceremonial, conducted 
 at such an hour, and in such a manner, might 
 be consistent with the spirit of the creed pro- 
 fessed by a sect, some of whose objects were to 
 
ROOKWOOD. 189 
 
 keep its proselytes in darkness, and to produce 
 a strong religious impression upon the minds of 
 the ignorant herd who were its votaries. But 
 was that impression truly favourable to virtue ? 
 — was it favourable to the pure, simple spirit of 
 religion ? Was not the attention rather awakened 
 to the gloomy pageantry, the imposing parade, 
 the shrouding mystery, the glare of the torch, 
 the ghostly train — 
 
 De more vetusto 
 Funereas rapuere faces ; lucet via lovgo 
 Ordine flammarum — 
 
 were these things not rather calculated to excite, 
 to terrify, to act upon the imagination and the 
 senses, rather than appeal to the heart and the 
 reason, and to instil dread of punishment for 
 vice, rather than inculcate a love of virtue P"^ 
 
 Such a speech, in Sir Piers's time, when quiz- 
 zing the Doctor, for the Squire's amusement, 
 was the order of the day, would have excited 
 the risible faculties of Titus, and called forth 
 his powers of ridicule. On the present occasion 
 
190 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 he bestowed great applause upon the Doctor'*s 
 powers of argument, maintaining an absurd 
 gravity of countenance during his rejoinder. 
 
 " Ah ! by my faith, Dochtor,'' said he, in 
 reply, " that's able reasoning — most able reason- 
 ing ; but for certain little scruples of conscience, 
 I should, may be, be disposed to agree with you. 
 Youll excuse my disputing the point, for the 
 sake of conversation, though I'm not much of a 
 cashuist, as you perceive — no great hand at 
 settling a case of conscience. You grant that an 
 impression is made, but deny that that impres- 
 sion is favourable to true religion : then comes 
 the point upon which we don't all agree exactly 
 — namely, what is the nature of true religion ? — 
 If it be one part of true religion, to have the 
 fear of death constantly before our eyes, as an 
 inducement to lead virtuous lives, then, shurely, 
 the more forcibly it is presented the better, and 
 the solemn shows of our church are highly effi- 
 cacious. And allow me to say, Docthor, with 
 deference, there are (I speak from my own 
 
ROOKWOOD. 191 
 
 knov/ledge) thousands, ay, tens of thousands, 
 among the poorer classes of my own countrymen, 
 to whom no other religious appeal could be 
 made, except through the medium of the senses ; 
 they must see as well as hear, to believe; and 
 you might as well deny an Irishman his right to 
 salvation at once, as his glorious prerogative 
 of a funeral wake. Biu-y liim like a dog, and lie 
 will not mind living like one. I know you will 
 throw in my teeth, Docthor, the mummeries, 
 as you call them — the candles, and incense, and 
 confessions of my church; but what does that 
 prove ? nothing. With all its faults, the religion 
 of my country is a fine one, and I'll uphould it. 
 For myself; I must say, that I have seen more 
 fervent devotion — more entire abstraction from 
 the world — more prostration of spirit and self- 
 abasement, in a Catholic country, than ever came 
 under my observation in His iVIajesty's Protestant 
 dominions.^ 
 
 " Sir,**' replied Small, with a sneer, " argument 
 with you, if such are your opinions, were as 
 
192 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 useless as absurd, nor shall I attempt it. What- 
 ever has come under your observation, in this 
 or in any other country, can very little affect the 
 material part of the question. That there may 
 be Catholics who are good Christians, I do not 
 deny ; I am charitable enough to hope so, and 
 to believe so. That its professors are more 
 fervent in their faith, more exact in its fulfil- 
 ment, more active in the observance of the 
 duties which it enjoins, is false — as false, as it is 
 certain that intolerance, bigotry, and supersti- 
 tion, the blindest and the grossest, form the basis 
 on which the Romish church rests for support. 
 This burial by torchlight is a relic of papacy, 
 as superstitious as the belief in death-omens 
 indulged in by the same family, by whom that 
 custom is continued.*" 
 
 " Ah ! well,"' replied Titus, " I suppose I 
 must give up the first point ; but as to the death- 
 presages, surely they're not to be denied. Didn't 
 I see the fatal bough myself, and ould Peter 
 Bradley, standing like a banshee, or death 
 
ROOKWOOD. 193 
 
 fetch, beside it? — and didn't I hear what poor 
 Sir Piers said afterwards ? Says he, ' that bough 
 bespakes my doom ! As shure as ever I'm alive 
 now, I shall be dead presently — that's the death- 
 sign of our house — that tree is fatal to us — it 
 never fails.' I could not help putting some 
 faith in what he said, for there's an ould oak at 
 Ballynacrag, that predicts ill luck much in the 
 same way. May be you never heard the legend, 
 Mr. Coates?" 
 
 " Never !" replied the attorney. 
 
 " Popular superstition," said Small " rejoiceth 
 in such portents; yet is it a vain belief; and 
 the vanity thereof is well rebuked by Webb, 
 a county historian, who, commenting upon a 
 similar fatality supposed to attend the ancient 
 family of the Breretons of Brereton, in Cheshire, 
 says, ' that Christian faith and religion teach- 
 eth the heirs of that and every other noble 
 house, that, as they want not a prediction every 
 day and hour that they live, to tell them that 
 they shall die, so must they never look for such 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
194 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 a privilege as to have a messenger to tell them 
 the certain time when it shall be.' With this 
 sentiment I perfectly coincide. The Rookwoods 
 are by no means singular in their superstition. 
 According to tradition, the approaching fate of 
 the head of the house of Brereton, to which 
 I have just alluded, is announced by floating 
 timber, wliich arises from the depths of a dark 
 lake adjoining the mansion, described by Dray- 
 ton in his Polyolbion, as — 
 
 that black, ominous mere, 
 
 Accounted one of these, that England's wonders are : 
 
 Of neighbours Black-mere named; of strangers Brereton's 
 
 lake; 
 Whose property seems far from reason's way to stand ; 
 For near before his death that's owner of the land 
 She sends up stocks of trees that on the top doe float ; 
 By which the world her first did for a wonder note. 
 
 As to a tree being ominous of ill, that parti- 
 cular superstition is as old as Virgil's day, who, 
 in one of his Eclogues, tells us — 
 
 Ssepe malum hoc nobis si mens non laeva fuisset 
 De coelo tactas memini praedicere quercus." 
 
ROOK WOOD. 195 
 
 " That Latin bothers me entirely,^ replied 
 Titus. " I know nothing about VirgiFs logs — 
 not I ; but to return to the branch of which 
 I was spaking — the sight of it broke Sir Piers's 
 heart. — He returned to the house sad and sor- 
 rowful, but rallied his spirits a little towards 
 dinner-time, w^hen he dressed himself rather 
 smarter than usual, for there was a party in the 
 house; nevertheless, he had an odd look about 
 him, as he came into the dining-room — a strange, 
 unsettled look, as if all was not right. He sat 
 down to dinner, and ate a mouthful or two, Jack 
 Palmer doing the honours all the while — you've 
 seen Jack, I dare say, Dochtor; a queer chap, 
 whom the Squire picked up one day when 
 hunting. Well, we all of us cracked our jests, 
 and took our wine, striving to cheer him, but it 
 wouldn't do — he didn't speak, but remained stock 
 still, with his eyes staring steadfastly at some 
 object, as it were, across the table. Just then, 
 for I began to fear for his wits, I begged the 
 favour of wine with him. This called him to 
 
196. KOOKVVOOD. 
 
 himself for a moment — he raised the glass to his 
 lips, and then set it down, untouched, and began 
 fixing his eyes again in that frightful way, and 
 raising his hand, as if he would drive off some 
 horrible object. I winked at the company, and 
 no notice was taken. We went through the 
 dinner, as well as we could — no more jests were 
 uttered, and the wine seemed tasteless. When 
 the cloth was removed, I prevailed on Sir Piers 
 to retire to his own room. He got up stairs, and 
 sat down. I then ventured to remonstrate with 
 him upon his behaviour in that way before his 
 guests, as thinking it might set stories in cir- 
 culation to his prejudice. * Not a word more,' 
 said he, sternly ; ' not a word of remonstrance. 
 Who, think you, was in that room ?^ — * Who.'^' 
 said I. — ' One who is here,"* said he, wildly, and 
 renewing his gestures, ' and will not be sent 
 hence. / have been Jighting with death for the 
 last hour*.'' — ' Death!' said I. — < Pooh! pooh! 
 
 Fact. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 197 
 
 this is mere fancy' — though I felt I was telling 
 him a lie all the while — he looked so ghastly ill. 
 * You will be better presently, after a little 
 sleep." — ' No, no,' replied he ; 'it is not fancy — 
 I never shall be better — I shall never sleep again 
 — never, till I sleep for ever. If I can sleep then 
 — ^never — look there !' he cried, stretching out 
 his arm. ' It is there again, trailing the bough 
 after it — see the fatal bough — ^liark! how tlie 
 leaves rustle, like a knell. See ! it sweeps towards 
 us — see!' — and he feU into a state of delirium, 
 which endured the whole night.'' 
 
 " Alas ! I fear poor Sir Piers was not so well 
 prepared as he should have been, for his removal 
 from this world," said Mr. Coates. 
 
 " I fear so, indeed," said the Doctor; " his 
 seizure was sudden and severe. When the con- 
 science is not altogether void of offence (though 
 far be it from me to make this assertion in 
 reference to Sir Piers), the approach of death is 
 a dreadful contemplation — the change is fearful 
 
198 , ROOK WOOD. 
 
 to all — ^but, in that case, truly formidable and 
 appalling. 
 
 Heu quantum poenae misero mens conscia donat 
 Quod Styga, quod Manes, infestaque Tartara somnis 
 Videt !— 
 
 The furies have haunted the dreams of the 
 conscience-stricken sinner — his sleep has been a 
 foretaste of hell — and now the dreaded hour 
 approaches — life is slipping away — there is no 
 retracing his footsteps — no living again — no time 
 allowed for repentance. Die he must ! ' His 
 flesh trembleth for fear of the Lord, and he is 
 afraid of his judgments.' Time will not stay 
 his chariot wheels — the sand runs out — his 
 extremest moment is come — eternity is before 
 him — eternity of torment. 
 
 ^ternitas, aeternitas 
 
 Versat coquitque pectus ; 
 Auget haec pcenas indies, 
 
 Centuplicatque flammas." 
 
 " That's a powerful picture, Dochtor,'' said 
 
ROOK WOOD. 199 
 
 Titus, " so far as I can comprehend it, and a 
 true representation, I'm grieved to say, of the 
 last moments of poor Sir Piers. I have not tould 
 you half the horror of that scene, nor can I 
 describe it. His pangs were di'eadful. There 
 must have been something,'" continued Titus, 
 again assuming a mysterious manner, and lower- 
 ing the tone of his voice, " something frightful 
 upon his mind — some — nay, there's no use 
 mincing the matter with you — in a word, then, 
 some crime, too deep to be divulged — or re- 
 pented of." 
 
 " Crime !" exclaimed Coates and the Doctor, 
 at one and the same time. 
 
 " Ay, crime!" repeated Titus, in the same 
 under tone — " hush ! not so loud, lest any one 
 hear us. Poor fellow, he's dead now. I'm shure 
 you both loved him as I did — and pity him, and 
 pardon him, if he was guilty. Och ! it was a 
 terrible ending. Listen, and you shall hear. 
 When Lady Rookwood had left the room, as I 
 said before, what does Sir Piers do, but, ill as he 
 
200 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 was, leaps straight out of bed, before I could pre- 
 vent him, and, staggering to the door, locks it — 
 yes, locks it, fast — and then cries out to me to 
 help him. ' She shall not poison me,** said he : 
 ' I will live out the brief remainder of my life — 
 hell upon earth is more tolerable than hell to 
 come/ With that I got him into bed — and he 
 began to rave and shout — ^his delirium all coming 
 back again. I knew death was not far off, then. 
 One minute he was in the chase, cheering on 
 the hounds. ' Halloo ! tally ho !' cried he ; ' who 
 clears that fence? — who swims that stream ?"* 
 The next, he was di'inking, carousing, and 
 hurraing, at the head of his table. ' Hip ! hip ! 
 hip !' — as mad, and wild, and frantic, as ever he 
 used to be, when wine had got the better of him. 
 And then all of a sudden, in the midst of his 
 shouting, he stopped, exclaiming, ' What, here 
 affain? — who let her in? — the door is fast — I 
 locked it myself. Devil, why did you open it — 
 you have betrayed me — she will poison me — and I 
 cannot resist. Ha ! another ! Who — who is that ? 
 
ROOKWOOD, 201 
 
 — her face is white — her hair hangs about her 
 shoulders — Is she alive again? Susan! Susan! 
 why that look ? You loved me well — too well. 
 Vou will not drag me to perdition ! You will not 
 appear against me ? Xo, no, no — it is not in your 
 nature — you, whom I doated on, whom I loved 
 
 — whom I but I repented — I sorrowed — I 
 
 prayed — prayed! Oh! oh! no prayers would 
 avail. Pray for me, Susan — for ever. Your 
 intercession may avail. It is not too late. I 
 will do justice to all. Fetch me pen and ink — 
 paper — I will confess — he shall have all. Where 
 is my sister? I would speak with her — would 
 tell her — tell her. Call Peter Bradley — I shall 
 die before I can tell it. Come hither,' said he to 
 me. ' There is a dark, dreadful secret on my 
 mind — it must forth. Tell my sister — no, my 
 senses swim — Susan is near me — fury is in her 
 eyes — avenging fury — keep her off. What is 
 this white mass in my arms ? what do I hold ? is 
 it the corpse by my side, as it lay that long, 
 long night? It is — it is. Cold, stiff, stirlesp 
 K 5 
 
20^ ROOKWOOD. 
 
 as then. White — horribly white — as when the 
 moon, that would not set, showed all its ghast- 
 liness. Ah ! it moves — it embraces me — it 
 stifles — it suiFocates me. Help ! remove the 
 pillow, I cannot breathe — I choke — oh !' The 
 death rattle was in his throat — his eyes were fixed 
 for ever !'' 
 
 A profoimd silence succeeded TyrconneFs 
 narrative. Mr. Coates would not venture upon 
 a remark. Doctor Small seemed, for some 
 minutes, lost in painful reflection: at length he 
 spoke. " You have described a shocking scene, 
 Mr. Tyrconnel, and in a manner that convinces 
 me of its fidelity ; but I trust you will excuse 
 me, as a friend of the late Sir Piers, in requesting 
 you to maintain silence in future on the subject. 
 Its repetition can be productive of no good, and 
 may do infinite harm, by giving currency to 
 unpleasant reports, and harrowing the feelings of 
 the survivors. Every one, acquainted with Sir 
 Piers^s history, must be aware, as I dare say you 
 are already, of an occurrence, which cast a 
 
ROOKWOOD. 203 
 
 shade over his early life, blighted his character, 
 and endangered his personal safety. It was a 
 dreadful accusation — but I believe, nay, I am 
 sure, unfounded. Erring, Sir Piers was un- 
 doubtedly ; but I trust he was more weak than 
 sinful. I have reason to think he was the tool 
 of others. He is now gone, and with him let us 
 bury his offences, and the remembrance of them. 
 That his soul was heavily laden, would appear 
 from your account of his last moments; yet I 
 fervently trust that his repentance was sincere, 
 in which case, there is hope of mercy for him. 
 ' At what time soever a sinner shall repent him 
 of his sins, from the bottom of his heart, I will 
 blot out all his wickedness out of his remem- 
 brance, saith the Lord.' God's mercy is greater 
 than man's sins — and there is hope of salvation 
 for Sir Piers.'' 
 
 " I trust so, indeed," said Titus; " and as to 
 repating a syllable of what I have just said, 
 devil a word more will I utter on the subject. 
 My lips shall be shut, and sealed, as close as 
 
204 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 one of Mr. Coates's bonds, for ever, hereafter: but 
 I thought it just right to make you acquainted 
 with the particulars. And now, having dismissed 
 the bad for ever, I am ready to spake of Sir 
 Piers's good qualities, and not few they were. 
 What was there, becoming a gentleman, that he 
 couldn't do, I'd like to know ? Couldn't he 
 hunt as well as ever a one in the county ? 
 and hadn't he as good a pack of hounds.'^ 
 Couldn't he shoot as well, and fish as well, and 
 drink as well, or better ? only he couldn't carry 
 his wine, which was his misfortune, not his fault. 
 And wasn't he always ready to ask a friend to 
 dinner with him ? And didn't he give him a 
 good dinner, when he came, barring the cross- 
 cups afterwards? And hadn't he every thing 
 agreeable about him, except his wife, which was 
 a great drawback ? And with all his peculiari- 
 ties and humours, wasn't he as kind hearted a 
 man as needs be ? and an Irishman at the core ? 
 And so, if he wem't dead, I'd say long life to 
 him; but as he is, here's peace to his memory." 
 
ROOKWfKJD. 205 
 
 At this crisis of the conversation, a knocking 
 was heard at the door, which some one without 
 had vainly tried to open. 
 
 Titus rose to unclose it, ushering in the indi- 
 vidual designated as Jack Palmer. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Mrs. Peachum. — Sure the Captain's the finest gentleman on 
 the road. 
 
 Beggar's Opera. 
 
 Jack Palmer was a good-humoured, good- 
 looking man, with immense, bushy, reddish 
 coloured whiskers, a freckled, florid complexion, 
 sandy hair, rather inclined to scantiness towards 
 the scalp of the head, and garnishing the nape 
 of his neck with a ruff of crisp little curls, like 
 the ring on a monk's shaven crown. Notwith- 
 standing this tendency to baldness. Jack could 
 not be more than thirty, though his looks were 
 some five years in advance. His face was one 
 of those inexplicable countenances, that seem 
 proper to a peculiar class of men — a regular 
 Newmarket physiognomy — compounded chiefly 
 of cunning and assurance — not low cunning, nor 
 
ROOK WOOD. 207 
 
 vulgar assurance, but crafty sporting subtlety, 
 careless as to results — indifferent to obstacles — 
 ever on the alert for the main chance — game 
 and turf all over — eager, yet easy— keen, yet 
 quiet. He was somewhat showily dressed, in 
 such mode that he looked half like a fine 
 gentleman of that day, half like a jockey of 
 our's — ^his nether man appeared in well-fitting, 
 well-worn buckskins, and boots ^\ith tops, not 
 unconscious of the saddle; while the airy ex- 
 travagance of his sky-blue riding coat, the 
 richness of his vest, the pockets whereof were 
 beautifully exuberant, according to the fashion 
 of the period; the smart luxuriance of his shirt- 
 frill of the finest cambric, and a certain curious 
 taste in the size and style of his buttons, pro- 
 claimed that, in his own esteem at least, his 
 person did not appear altogether unworthy of 
 adornment : nor, in justice to Jack, must we 
 say he was in error. He was a model of a man 
 for five feet ten; square, compact, capitally 
 
208 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 built in every particular, excepting that his legs 
 were the slightest bit embowed, which defect pro- 
 bably arose from his being almost constantly on 
 horseback — a sort of exercise in which Jack 
 greatly delighted, and was accounted a superb 
 rider. It was, indeed, his daring horsemanship, 
 upon one particular occasion, when he had out- 
 stripped a whole field, that had procured him 
 the honour of an invitation to Rook wood. Who 
 he was, or whence he came, was a question not 
 easily answered — Jack, himself, evading all solu- 
 tion to the inquiry. Sir Piers never troubled his 
 
 head about the matter : he was a " d d good 
 
 fellow — rode devilish well C that was enough for 
 him. Nobody else knew any thing about him, 
 save that he was a capital judge of hca-se-flesh, 
 kept a famous black mare, and attended every 
 hunt in the county — that he could sing a good 
 song, was a choice companion, and could drink 
 three bottles without feeling the worse for them. 
 Sensible of the indecorum that might attach 
 
.ROOKWOOD. 209 
 
 to his appearance, Doctor Small had hastily laid 
 down his pipe, and arranged his wig ; but when 
 he saw who was the intruder, with a grunt of 
 defiance, he resumed his occupation, Anthout 
 returning the bow of the latter, or bestowing 
 further notice upon him. Nothing discomposed 
 at the churchman's displeasure, the new comer 
 greeted Titus cordially, and carelessly saluting 
 Mr. Coates, threw himself into a chair. He 
 next filled a tumbler of claret, which he drained 
 at a draught. 
 
 " Have you ridden far, Jack ?" asked Titus, 
 noticing the dusty state of Palmer''s azure attire. 
 
 *' Some dozen miles," replied Palmer; "and 
 that, on such an afternoon as the present, makes 
 one feel thirsty ish. Fm as dry as a sand-bed. 
 Famous wine this — beautiful tipple — better than 
 all your red fustian. Ah, how the old squire 
 used to tuck it in ! Well, that's all over — a glass 
 like this might do him good where he's gone to ! 
 Fm afraid I'm intruding ; but the fact is, I 
 wanted a little information about the order of 
 
210 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 the funeral, and missing you below, came hither 
 in search of you. You're to be chief mourner, 
 I suppose — rehearsing your part, eh ?" 
 
 " Come come. Jack, no joking ; the subjects 
 too serious. I am to be chief mourner — and I 
 expect you to be a mourner — and every body 
 else to be mourners. We must all mourn at the 
 proper time — there'll be a power of people at the 
 church." 
 
 " There are a power of people here already ,"''' 
 returned Jack, " if they all attend."" 
 
 " And they all will attend — or what is the 
 aiting and drinking to go for ? I sha'nH leave a 
 sowl in the house.'' 
 
 " Excepting one," said Jack, slily. " She 
 won't attend, I think." 
 
 " Ay, excepting one — she and her maid — all 
 the rest go with me, and form part of the proces- 
 sion — you go too." 
 
 " Of course — what time do you start?" 
 
 " Twelve, precisely. As the clock strikes, we 
 set out — all in a line, and a long line we'll be. 
 
ROOKWOOD. Sll 
 
 I'm waiting for that ould coffin-faced rascal, 
 Peter Bradley, to arrange the order ."" 
 
 " How long will it all occupy, think you ?'' 
 asked Jack. 
 
 " That I can t say,'' returned Titus ; " pos- 
 sibly an hour, more or less — ^but we shall start 
 to the minute — that is, if we can get all together, 
 so don't be out of the way. And hark ye, Jack, 
 you must contrive to change your toggery — that 
 coat won't do." 
 
 " Never fear that," replied Palmer, " but who 
 were those in the carriages ? " 
 
 " Is it the last carriage you mane? — they're 
 squire Forester and his sons — they're dining with 
 the other gentlefolk, in the great room up stairs, 
 to be out of the way. Oh, we'll have a grand 
 berrin, never fear — and, by the powers, I must 
 be looking after it." 
 
 " Stay a minute," said Jack, "let's have a 
 cool bottle first ; they're all taking care of them- 
 selves below, and Peter Bradley has not made 
 
212 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 his appearance, so you need be in no hurry. Fll 
 go with you presently — shall I ring for the 
 claret?'' 
 
 " By all manes,**' replied Titus. 
 
 Jack accordingly arose, and a butler answer- 
 ing the summons, the wine was ordered, and 
 brought. 
 
 " You heard of the affray, last night, I sup- 
 pose ?" said Jack, renewing the conversation. 
 
 " With the poachers ? — to be sure I did. — 
 Wasn't I called in to examine Hugh Badger's 
 wownds, the first thing this morning — and a deep 
 cut there was, just over the eye, besides other 
 bruises." 
 
 " Is the wound dangerous?" inquired 
 Palmer. 
 
 " Not exactly mortal, if you mean that," 
 replied the Irishman ; " dangerous, certainly." 
 
 " Humph !" exclaimed Jack, " they'd a pretty 
 hardish bout of it, I understand. Any thing 
 been heard of the body ?" 
 
ROOK WOOD. 213 
 
 <« What body ?" inquired Small, who was 
 half dozing. 
 
 " The body of the drowned poacher,*" replied 
 Jack; " they were off to search for it this 
 morning." 
 
 " Found the body !" exclaimed Titus, " Ha, 
 ha ! — I can't help laughing, for the life and sowl 
 of me — a capital trick he played 'em — capital — 
 ha, ha ! What do you think the fellow did ? — 
 Ha, ha ! — after leading 'em the devil's dance, all 
 round the park, killing a hound as savage as a 
 wolf, and breaking Hugh Badger's head, which 
 is as hard and thick as a butcher's block, what 
 does the fellow do but dive into a pool, with a 
 great rock hanging over it, and make his way 
 to the other side, through a subterranean pass, 
 which nobody knew any thing about, till they 
 came to drag for the body, thinking him snugly 
 drowned all the while — ha, ha !" 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha !" chorused Jack ; " Bravo, he's 
 a lad of the right sort — a rum cove. Ha, ha!" 
 " He ! who .^" inquired the attorney. 
 
214 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Why, the poacher, to be sure,*" replied 
 Jack ; " who else were we talking about ?" 
 
 " Beg pardon,*" returned Coates; " only 
 thought you might have heard some intelli- 
 gence. WeVe got an eye upon him — we know 
 who it was/' 
 
 " Indeed !" exclaimed Jack, " and who was 
 it?" 
 
 " An individual, known by the name of Luke 
 Bradley." 
 
 " The devil !" cried Titus, " you don''t say 
 it was he ? — Murder in Irish ! that bates 
 every thing — why he was Sir Piers's ^ 
 
 " Natural son,"' replied the attorney ; " he has 
 not been heard of for some time — shockino: 
 incorrigible rascal — impossible to do any thing 
 with him." 
 
 "Ah, indeed!" said Jack; " I've heard Sir 
 Piers speak of the lad — and, by his account, 
 he's as fine a fellow as ever crossed colt's back — 
 only a little wildish and unreasonable, as the best 
 of us may be — wants breaking, that's aU — your 
 
EOOKWOOD. 215 
 
 wildest colt ever makes the best horse, and so 
 would he. To speak the truth, I'm glad he 
 escaped/' 
 
 " So am I," rejoined Titus ; " for, in the first 
 place, I've a foolish partiality for poachers, and 
 am sorry when any of 'em come to hurt ; and, 
 in the second, I'd be mightily displeased if any 
 ill had happened to one of Sir Piers's flesh and 
 blood, as this young chap appears to be. 
 
 " Appears to be!" repeated Palmer; " there's 
 no appearing in the case, I take it. This 
 Bradley's an undoubted off-shot of the old 
 squire. His mother was a ser\ant-maid at the 
 Hall, I rather think ; you, Sir, perhaps, can in- 
 form us." 
 
 " She was something better than a mere 
 servant," replied the Attorney. " I remember 
 her quite well, though I was but a boy then — a 
 lovely creature, and so taking, I don't wonder at 
 Sir Piers's fancy being smitten with her. He 
 was mad after the women in those days, and 
 
216 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 pretty Sue Bradley, above all others. She lived 
 with him quite like his lady."" 
 
 " So I've heard," returned Jack. " She lived 
 with him till her death ; and, let me see, wasn't 
 there something rather odd in the way in which 
 she died, rather suddenish and unexpected — a 
 noise made about it at the time, eh ?''"' 
 
 '^ Not that I ever heard," replied Coates, 
 shaking his head, and seemingly afflicted with an 
 instantaneous ignorance ; while Titus affected not 
 to hear the remark, but occupied himself with 
 his wine-glass. The vicar snored audibly. " I 
 was too young, then, to pay any attention to idle 
 rumours," continued Coates. " It's a long time 
 ago. May I ask the reason of your inquiry ?" 
 
 " Nothing farther than simple curiosity," 
 replied Jack, enjoying the consternation of his 
 companions. " It is, as you say, a long while 
 since ; but it's singular, how that sort of thing 
 is remembered. One would think the people 
 had something else to do than talk of one^s 
 
ROOKWOOD. 217 
 
 private affairs for ever : for my part, I despise 
 such tattle; but there are persons in the neigh- 
 bourhood, who still say it was an awkward 
 business. Amongst others, I've heard that this 
 very Luke Bradley talks in pretty plain terms 
 about it;' 
 
 " Does he, indeed !" said Mr. Coates. " So 
 much the worse for him, that's all. Let me 
 once lay hands upon him, and I'll warrant me 
 I'll put a gag in his mouth, shall spoil his talking 
 in future." 
 
 " That's precisely the point I want you to 
 arrive at," replied Jack ; " and I advise you by 
 all means to accomplish that, for the sake of 
 the family. Nobody likes his friends to be 
 talked about ; so I'd settle the matter amicably, 
 were I you. Just let the fellow go his way, he 
 won't return here again, in a hurry, I'll be 
 bound ; as to clapping him in quod, he might 
 prattle — might turn stag." 
 
 " Turn stag !" replied Coates, " what the deuce 
 is that ? in my opinion, he has " turned stag" 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
218 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 already; at all events, he'll pay deer for his 
 night's sport, you may depend upon it. What 
 does it signify what he says ? Let me lay hands 
 upon him, that's all." 
 
 " Well, well,*" said Jack, " no offence ; I meant 
 but to offer a suggestion. I thought the family, 
 young Sir Ranulph, I mean, mightn't like the 
 story to be revived ; as to Lady Rookwood, she 
 don't, I suppose, care much about these things ; 
 indeed, if I've been rightly informed, she bears 
 this youngster no particular good- will, to begin 
 with, and has tried hard to get him out of the 
 country ; but, as you say, what does it signify 
 what he says, he can only talk; Sir Piers is 
 dead and gone." 
 
 " Humph !" muttered Coates. 
 
 " But it does seem a little hardish, that a lad 
 should swing for killing a bit of venison in his 
 own father's park." 
 
 " Which he'd a nafral right to do," cried 
 Titus. 
 
 *' He'd no natural right to bruise, violently 
 
EOOKWOOD. 219 
 
 assault, and endanger the life of his father s, or 
 any body else's, gamekeeper. I tell you, Sir, 
 he''s committed a capital offence, and if he's 
 
 taken '' 
 
 " No chance of that, I hope,'' interrupted 
 Jack. 
 
 " That's a wish I can't help wishing myself," 
 said Titus; " these poachers are fine boys, when 
 all's said and done." 
 
 " The finest of all boys," exclaimed Jack, 
 with a sort of enthusiasm, communicated, per- 
 haps, by his love of any thing connected with 
 sport, " are those birds of the night, and men of 
 the moon, whom we call, most unjustly, poachers. 
 They are, after all, only professional sportsmen^ 
 making a business of what we make a pleasure ; 
 a nightly pursuit of what is to us a daily re- 
 laxation ; there's the main distinction. As to the 
 rest, it's all in idea ; they merely thin an over- 
 stocked park, as yoic would reduce a plethoric 
 patient. Doctor ; or as yoic would work a raonied 
 client, if you got him into chancery, Mister 
 
220 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Attorney. And then how much more scientifi- 
 cally and systematically they set to work, than 
 we amateurs do ; how noiselessly they bag a 
 hare, smoke a pheasant, or knock a buck down 
 with an air-gun ; how independent are they 
 of any licence, except that of a good eye 
 and a swift pair of legs ; how unnecessary for 
 them to ask permission to Mr. So and So's 
 grounds, or my Lord That's preserves ; they are 
 free of every cover, and indifferent to any alter- 
 ation in the Game Laws. I've some thoughts, 
 when every thing else fails, of taking to poach- 
 ing myself. In my opinion, a poacher's a 
 highly respectable character. What say you, 
 Mr. Coates?" — turning very gravely to that gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 " Respectable character !" echoed Coates ; 
 " such a question scarce deserves a serious 
 answer. Perhaps you will next maintain that a 
 highwayman is a gentleman." 
 
 " Most undoubtedly," replied Palmer, in the 
 same grave tone, which might have passed for 
 
ROOKWOOD. 221 
 
 banter, had Jack ever bantered ; " I'll maintain 
 and prove it, I don't see how he can be other- 
 wise. It is as necessary for a man to be a gentle- 
 man before he can turn highwayman, as it is for 
 a doctor to have his diploma, or an attorney his 
 certificate. Some of the finest gentlemen of their 
 day, as Captains Lovelace, Hind, Hannum, and 
 Dudley, were eminent on the road, and they set 
 the fashion. Ever since their day, a real high- 
 wayman would consider himself disgraced, if he 
 did not conduct himself in every way like a gen- 
 tleman. Of course, there are pretenders in this 
 line, as in every thing else ; but these are only 
 -exceptions, and prove the rule. What are the 
 distinguishing characteristics of a fine gentle- 
 man? perfect knowledge of the world — perfect 
 independence of character — eclat in society — 
 command of cash — and inordinate success with 
 the women — you grant all these premises ; first, 
 then, it is part of a highwayman's business 
 to l^e thoroughly acquainted with the world 
 — he is the easiest and pleasantest fellow going. 
 
ROOK WOOD. 
 
 Then whose inclinations are so uncontrolled as 
 the highwayman's, so long as the mopuses last ? 
 who produces so great an effect by so few words? 
 — * Stand, and deliver,' is sure to arrest atten- 
 tion — every one is struck by an address like that. 
 As to money, he takes a purse of a hundred 
 guineas as easily as you would the same sum 
 from the faro table. And wherein lies the dif- 
 ference? only in the name of the game — both 
 are a species of hazard. Who so little need of 
 a banker, as he ? all he has to apprehend, is a 
 check — all he draws, is a trigger. As to the 
 women, they doat upon him — not even your red- 
 coated soldier is so successful. Look at a high- 
 wayman mounted on his flying steed, with his 
 pistols in his holsters, and his cutlass by his side 
 — what can be a more gallant sight ? the clatter 
 of his horse's heels is like music to his ear — 
 he is in full quest — he shouts to the fugitive 
 horseman to stay — the other flies all the faster — 
 what hunt can be half so exciting as that? 
 Suppose he overtakes his prey, which ten to one 
 
ROOKWOOD. 223 
 
 he willj how readily his summons to dehver is 
 attended to — how satisfactory is the appropria- 
 tion of a lusty purse or corpulent pocket-book — 
 getting the brush is nothing to it. How tran- 
 quilly he departs, takes off his hat to his accom- 
 modating acquaintance, wishes him a pleasant 
 journey, and disappears across the heath. Eng- 
 land, Sir, has reason to be proud of her high- 
 waymen ; they are peculiar to her clime, and are 
 as much before the cut-throat brigand of Italy — 
 the assassin contrabandist of Spain, or the das- 
 tard cut-purse of France, as her sailors are before 
 all the rest of the world. The day will never 
 come, I hope, when we shall degenerate into the 
 footpad, and lose our night errantry I Even the 
 French borrow from us — they have only one 
 highwayman of eminence, and he learat and 
 practised his art in England.'' 
 
 " And who was he, may I ask ?*" said Coates. 
 
 " Claude Du Val,'' replied Jack ; " and, though 
 a Frenchman, he was a deuced fine fellow in his 
 day — quite a tip top maccaroni — he could skip 
 
^24 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 and twirl like a figurant, warble like an opera 
 singer, and play the flageolet better than any 
 man of his day — he always carried a pipe in his 
 pocket, along with his snappers. And then his 
 dress — it was quite beautiful to see how smartly he 
 was rigg'd out, all velvet and lace ; and even with 
 his vizard on his face, the ladies used to cry out 
 to see him. Then he took a purse with the air 
 and grace of a Receiver-General — all the women 
 adored him — and that, bless their pretty faces, 
 was the best proof of his gentility — I wish he'd 
 not been a Mounseer. The women never mis- 
 take — they can always discover the true gen- 
 tleman — and they were all, of every degree, from 
 the countess to the kitchen-maid, over head and 
 ears in love with him."" 
 
 " But he was taken, I suppose ?" said Coates. 
 " Ay,'' responded Jack ; " the women were his 
 undoing, as they've been many brave fellow's 
 before, and will be again." Touched by which 
 reflection. Jack became, for once in his life, 
 sentimental, and sighed. " Poor Du Val ! he 
 
ROOK WOOD. UXO 
 
 was seized at the Hole in the AVall, in Chandos 
 Street, by the bailiff of Westminster, when dead 
 drunk ; his liquor having been drugged by his 
 dells, who were in the bailiff's pay ; and his 
 three pops, that never missed their mark, and his 
 tried toledo, were taken from him ; which, when 
 he perceived, on returning to his senses, he told 
 the bailiff, with an oath, he had done well to 
 remove, as he would have been cut to mince 
 meat before they should have taken him — and 
 with that he gave a leap, heavily ironed as he 
 was, that frightened every body in the room. 
 And then, just to show you the row the women 
 made about him ; when he was lying in Newgate, 
 they all came in a flock, some of the best of 
 'em masked, that they might not be known*, to 
 
 * Tlie Author of Du Val's Memoirs (published 1G70) affects 
 to take the conduct of his countrywomen, upon this afflicting oc- 
 casion, in high dudgeon. " A catalogue of their names," saith 
 he, " I have by me; nay, even of those who, when they visited 
 him, durst not pull off their vizards, for fear of showing their eyes 
 swoln, and their cheeks blubbered with tears ! When I first put 
 pen to paper, I was in great indignation, and fully resolved, nay, 
 and I think I swore, that I would print this muster-roll. But, 
 
 l5 
 
226 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 console him, and make intercession for his pardon ; 
 — and when that would not do, they followed him 
 in mourning coaches to the Tyburn tree — where, 
 having died, as he had lived, like a hero, after he 
 had hanged a convenient time, his body was cut 
 down, and conveyed to the Tangiers Tavern, 
 in St. Giles's, where it lay in state all night, 
 the room hung with black cloth, as his memoirs 
 
 tell us ; and the hearse covered with scutcheons ; 
 eight wax tapers burning, and as many tall 
 gentlemen, with long black cloaks, attending. 
 If that ain't gentlemanhke, IVe done."' 
 
 " It's noble," exclaimed Titus, " almost as 
 grand as Sir Piers's funeral, — and, talking of that, 
 by the bye, I mustn't stay here much longer." 
 
 " It was a thousand pities," said Mr. Coates, 
 
 upon second thoughts, and calmer considerations, I have altered 
 my fierce resolution, partly because I would not do my nation so 
 great a disgrace ; and, especially that part of it, to whom I am 
 so entirely devoted. But principally, because I hoped a milder 
 physic might cure them of this French mania — of this inor- 
 dinate appetite to mushrooms — of this dangerous doating 
 upon strangers." 
 
ROOKWOOD. S27 
 
 with a sneer, " that so fine a gentleman should 
 come to so base an end."" 
 
 " A thousand pities," returned Jack. " The 
 author of his Life exclaims, — ' Who is there wor- 
 thy of the name of man, that would not prefer 
 such a death, before a mean, solitary, inglorious 
 life?" His epitaph, which you may see in the 
 middle aisle of the church at Covent Garden, 
 as well as the Du Val arms engraved on the 
 marble flag, speaks volumes — 
 
 Here lies Du Val — Reader, if male thou art, 
 Look to thy purse — if female, to thy heart ; 
 The second conqueror of the Norman race. 
 Knights to his arms did yield, dames to his face ; 
 Old Tyburn's glory — England's peerless thief — 
 Du Val, the ladies' joy — Du Val, the ladies' grief! 
 
 " Pish,*" sneered Coates. 
 
 " Very fine, indeed,'" cried Titus ; " but your 
 English robbers are nothing at all, compared 
 with our Tories* and Rapparees — nothing at 
 
 • The word Tory, as here applied, must not be confounded 
 with the term of party distinction now in general use in the 
 political world. It simply means a thief on a grand scale, 
 
228 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 all — they were the raal gentlemen — they were 
 the boys to cut a throat asily."" 
 
 " Cut a throat! pshaw I""* said Jack, in disgust, 
 " the gentleman I speak of never maltreated any 
 one, except in self-defence." 
 
 " May be not,'' replied Titus ; " I'll not dis- 
 pute the pint — but these Rapparees were true 
 brothers of the blade, and gentlemen every inch. 
 There was Redmond O'Hanlon, as great a man 
 in his way as your famous outlaw Robin Hood, 
 that we read of in the ballats — a generous rob- 
 ber, taking from the rich and giving to the poor, 
 and that's the kind of thief that I like. I never 
 read of Robin and Little John, and ]\Iaid 
 IVIarian, without my heart throbbing within my 
 bosom, and the blood dancing in my veins, to be 
 in the green-wood along with them. Just such 
 another as bold Robin Hood was Redmond 
 O'Hanlon. Och, many's the notable feat that he 
 
 something more than "a snapper up of unconsidered trifles," 
 or petty larceny rascal. We have classical authority for this 
 — " Tory — an advocate for absolute monarchy, also an Irish 
 vagabond, robber, or rapparee." — Grose's Dictionary. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 229 
 
 performed. Ill just tell you one story that's 
 tould about him, just to show the daring audacity 
 of the fellow. But in the meanwhile don t let's 
 forget the bottle — talking's dry work — here's 
 our absent friends !"" Avinking at the somnolent 
 Small. 
 
 " Well, you must know," continued Titus, 
 " that Redmond had arrived at such an eleva- 
 tion, the Tories being in power then, and his 
 having charge of the Administration, being a 
 sort of First Lord of the Treasury, that he 
 elected himself Captain-General of all the Rap- 
 parees, and would allow no one to take a purse, 
 or make free with a pocket-book, without a 
 special permission from himself, which shows he 
 liad instinctive sense of his political importance. 
 One day, as the great Captain was riding quietly 
 along the road between Newry and Armagh, he 
 chanced to fall in with a pedlar, who was making 
 as much hullabaloo and lamentation, as if hed 
 been knocked off the civil list. ' Hello, my 
 man,' says Captain O'Hanlon, ' what ails you, 
 
230 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 what makes you cry out in that way ?' — ' Oh,** 
 answers the pedlar, ' I'm kilt entirely. IVe 
 been robbed of above five pounds in kinnis, 
 which was all I had, as I hope for salvation ; 
 and that wouldn^t satisfy the blackguard neither, 
 for he took away my pack ; and because I strove 
 to hould it, he knock''d me down, and kick'd 
 me worse than a hound.' — ' And who was it 
 robVd you ?' ask'd the Captain. ' That infernal 
 rascal, and thief of the w^orld, Redmond O^Han- 
 lon,' answered the pedlar. * You dog,' cried 
 Redmond, in a terrible passion, delivering him at 
 the same time a knock on the side of the head 
 with his whip-handle, ' how dare you tell me a 
 lie like that, to my face ? By the mother that 
 bore me, I've half a mind to shoot you on the 
 spot, and but for settling this business I'd do it. 
 / am Redmond O'Hanlon ; nobody shall usurp 
 my title with impunity. Show me which way 
 the fellow went, and I'll soon convince you what 
 it is to offend a Tory leader.' The pedlar 
 pointed out the road, upon which he whistled 
 
ROOK WOOD. 231 
 
 the members of his cabinet, who were a little in 
 the rear, and they set off in pursuit. The fel- 
 low was soon overtaken, with the pack on his 
 back, and Redmond immediately compelled a 
 restitution of the property. ' And now, my 
 friend,"' said he, to the terrified robber, ' as I 
 don't remember having given you any authority 
 to make use of my name, or indeed any licence 
 for exaction at all, I shall think it my duty to 
 make an example of you. You, pedlar, will 
 sign an obligation to prosecute this fellow next 
 assizes, on pain of having both your ears 
 cropped off — a penalty which, if you neglect the 
 bond, I will not fail to enforce. You, Sir, I 
 shall merely commit to gaol,' And he forthwith 
 drew up a mittimus from himself, Redmond 
 O'Hanlon, in loco, one of His jNIajesty's Jus- 
 tices of the Peace, as follows : — ' I herewith send 
 you the body of Dennis O'Brien, who was this 
 day brought before me and exam^ined, for rob- 
 bing Patrick O'Driscol on the King's high road, 
 requiring you to hold him in safe custody till 
 
232 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 the next General Assize to be held for the 
 County ; and for so doing this shall be your 
 sufficient warrant/ And this he signed with his 
 own hand, and sent him off with some of his 
 own troop to the gaol at Armagh.'' 
 
 " Bravissimo !'' cried Palmer, " and was the 
 fellow tried ?'' 
 
 " Yes, and convicted moreover,'' replied Titus, 
 " and plenty of fun there was in court, as you 
 may suppose, amongst the big Whigs, at this 
 daring proceeding of the great Tory." 
 
 " The Whigs were in power at last, I suspect?" 
 said Coates. " Was the great Captain still more 
 exalted.?" 
 
 " As high as Haman," answered Titus ; 
 " more's the pity — I'm no enemy to the Tories, 
 and regret the great Captain." 
 
 " So do I," said Jack, who had listened with 
 great satisfaction to the exploit. " Suppose we 
 toast him — To the memory of Captain O'Han- 
 lon" — filling his glass. 
 
 " I must take the liberty of refusing that 
 
ROOKWOOD. 233 
 
 toast,'^ said the Attorney ; " it shall never be said 
 that I, a Clerk of the Peace ^^ 
 
 " Tush, man,'' said Jack, " sit down, and keep 
 quiet; we know you're amongst the Opposition — 
 drink what you like, and as you like, only let's 
 have another story, if Titus have any more to 
 tell. He tops the traveller in prime twig."" 
 
 " Here's to the blessed memory of Redmond 
 O'Hanlon,'' cried Titus, draining a bumper. 
 " And as to the story, did you ever hear mention 
 made of one Captain Power. He was another 
 brave boy, and quite the gentleman, and as 
 fond of the girls as ever was Du Val. Nicely he 
 turned the tables on an ensign of musquetteers, 
 that came out from Cork to seize him. You 
 shall hear how it happened. 
 
 " This ensign had received intelligence that 
 Power had taken up his quarters at a small inn, 
 on the road leading from Kilworth, and being 
 anxious to finger the reward offered for his 
 apprehension, set out with a file of men. It 
 was growing dusk when they reached the inn, 
 
9lB4t ROOKWOOD. 
 
 and there, shure enough, was Power drinking, for 
 they saw him through a window, with his bottle 
 before him, lighting his pipe, quite comfortable. 
 * Ha — ^ha' — thinks the Ensign, ' my boy, I 
 have you safe enough, now; but knowing his 
 man, and expecting a devil of a resistance, if he 
 attempted to lay hands on the Captain by force, 
 he determined to resort to stratagem ; so entering 
 the house, just as if he were on a recruiting party, 
 he, the Ensign, calls loudly for whiskey for his 
 men, and a bottle of port for himself, and 
 marches into the room where Power was sitting, 
 who got up to receive him very politely. Now, 
 whether the Captain suspected his intentions or 
 not I can't say ; at all events, he didn't let the 
 Ensign perceive it ; but took his wine as plea^ 
 santly as we are doing now, with no suspicion of 
 any thing in our heads — and no thought of any 
 mischief brewing."" 
 
 " Exactly,"" said Jack ; " I understand."" 
 " Well, the bottle was drawing to a close, and 
 Power rose up, to call for another, when the 
 
ROOKWOOD. 235 
 
 Ensign, thinking it time, starts to his feet, pre- 
 sents a pistol to his head, and commands him to 
 surrender. ' With all the pleasure in life,' re- 
 plied the Captain, ' that is, when you can take 
 me ; and knocking up the Ensign s arm, so that 
 he could not even pull his trigger, he threw 
 himself upon him, effectually preventing his 
 crying out, by stuffing his coat-pocket into his 
 mouth ; he then very coolly proceeded to divest 
 the Ensign of his grand uniform, and taking his 
 purse and sword, and military cloak, tied him 
 hand and foot, and telling him he hoped he was 
 satisfied with his reward, walked out of the room, 
 locking the door on the other side unconcernedly 
 after him, and putting the key in his pocket. 
 The men, who were busy with their whiskey 
 toddy, seeing their officer, as they thought, come 
 out and motion them to keep still, never stirred 
 a peg — but suffered Power to get clear away, 
 without so much as a question.*" 
 
 " Capital,"^ cried Jack. 
 
 " Ah,"' said Titus, " many's the tale I could 
 
236 Root WOOD. 
 
 tell, if I'd time, about these Rapparees. There 
 was strong Jack Macpherson, who could pull 
 a man off his horse single-handed, and Billy 
 Macguire, Irish Teague, as he was called, and 
 Dick Balf, and the devil knows how many 
 others ; and there is Paul Liddy, whose name's 
 quite up in the country now — a famous thief, 
 horse-stealer, and horse-charmer/' 
 
 " Horse-charmer !'' repeated Palmer, " what 
 sort of craft may that be P'"* 
 
 " I'll tell you," replied Titus ; " Cahir na 
 Cappul, one of the Rapparees^ is said to have 
 received a potent charm from a witch, to enable 
 him to decoy and entrap any horse he thought 
 proper ; and a right serviceable piece of enchant- 
 ment he found it, though not quite so useful to a 
 Rapparee as that of Billy Delaney, who got the 
 same ould woman to rub his neck with an 
 intment, so that no hemp could hang him, which 
 last has proved true, sure enough ; for after he'd 
 been tied up for a matter of an hour, and cut 
 down, he was brought to life again without 
 
ROOKWOOD. 237 
 
 difficulty*. But to return to Cahir na Cappul. 
 I was once myself an eye-witness to his tricks, 
 although I wasn't aware it was he himself at 
 the time. One evening I'd been to see a friend 
 in a distant part of the country, and was 
 returning by some fields skirting a great boggy 
 piece of ground that lies in those parts, when 
 what should I see but a man driving a pack 
 of horses into a corner of the field, which he 
 managed so cleverly that I stopped to look 
 at him. Not a notion had I that he was a 
 
 * Delaney's own account somewhat diflfers from that in the 
 text ; he does not appear to attribute his preservation to any 
 thing like witchcraft. '• An acquaintance of mine," says he, 
 " who had been instructed in the art of surgery at Paris, came 
 to see me in gaol a few days before my trial at Naas ; he pre- 
 pared something for me, which I was to keep in my mouth 
 while I hung, if possible, and said it would be a means of 
 preserving my life. This made me somewhat careless of pre- 
 paring for death, for I was intent upon observing his direc- 
 tions. I turned from the ladder as easily as I could, and for 
 the space of a minute or two was very sensible of pain, and 
 could feel something now and then under my feet, till imme- 
 diately I thought all things before me were turned into a red 
 flame, which presently seemed blue, till at last it vanished 
 quite." — History of the Rapparees. 
 
238 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 Rapparee; in fact, I took him for the owner 
 of the field. As to the horses, they were 
 young unbroken things, as wild and as restive 
 as could be ; but somehow or other, by scream- 
 ing and shouting, he got 'em all into a comer. 
 Then singling out the finest and freshest (and 
 a beauty it was to be shure), he seized him by 
 the near fore leg, and held him fast while he 
 tlirew a bit of rope round his neck, vaulting on 
 to his back as if he'd been a tame pony in a 
 circus. Thinks I to myself, when I saw how 
 the coult began to fling, — Youll not be sorry to 
 change your seat, my friend. No such idea 
 entered his head; for however much the coult 
 kicked, and capered, and rared, there sat the man, 
 and only laughed, and encouraged him. At last 
 the horse rared boult upright, with his legs in the 
 air ; but still there the rider stuck, glued to his 
 back, as if he'd been the man half of the Centaur 
 in the sign at Ballynacrag. Finding resistance 
 useless, and the position by no means agreeable, 
 down came the covilt, and with that my gentleman 
 
ROOKWOOD. 239 
 
 began to tickle his sides with liis fingers, and 
 away they set dashing and splasliing over bog 
 and quagmire — floundering and plunging — so 
 that I thought if the Headless Horseman himself 
 had been the rider, he must have been hard put 
 to it. I was wrong again, for they were soon out 
 of sight; and I found, on inquiry, afterwards, 
 that it was no other than Cahir na Cappul him- 
 self." 
 
 " Is that all the charm ?'' cried Jack. " The 
 secret of that, Mr. Tyrconnel, lies in a nutshell — 
 pluck — ^that's all that's required. I'll engage to 
 do the same thing any day in the year, and ask 
 no witchcraft to aid me to keep my seat.'' 
 
 " Cahir can do other things beside ride," said 
 Titus, solicitous for the glory of his country. 
 " Not long since he'd a narrow escaj^e of being 
 taken on the banks of the Barrow, when he v/as 
 pursued by a large party of armed men on 
 both sides of the river. Down rushed Cahir to 
 the water side, and dash'd headlong into the 
 stream, swimming away for his life. A gun 
 
S40 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 was fired — down he dives, like a coot — up again 
 -^another — and then a volley, followed by a 
 long dive — so long, that every body thought 
 he was done for entirely — when up pops a black 
 head, far down the stream. He was now in a 
 swift current, and put out all his strength, 
 darting away like an arrow from a bow. The 
 water in every direction was spotted by balls, 
 but never a one seems to touch him ; and though 
 every sowl of ""em ran as fast as legs can carry 
 him, yet, aided by the swift stream, Cahir na 
 Cappul outstripped them all."" 
 
 " Well,'' said Coates, " weVe had enough 
 about the Irish highwaymen, in all conscience ; 
 but there's one on our own side of the channel, 
 that makes quite as much noise." 
 
 " Who's that ?" asked Jack. 
 
 "Dick Turpin," replied the Attorney; "he 
 seems to me quite as worthy of mention as any 
 of the Hinds, the Du Vals, or the Rapparees, 
 you have either of you enumerated." 
 
 " I did not think of him," replied Palmer, 
 
ROOK WOOD. 241 
 
 ■smiling ; " though if I had, he scarcely deserves 
 to be ranked with those great men." 
 
 "Turpin!"" cried Titus; "they tell me he 
 keeps the best nag in the United Kingdom, and 
 can ride faster and farther in a day than any 
 other man.'*' 
 
 " So I've heard," said Palmer ; " I should like 
 to try a run with him. I warrant me, I'd not be 
 far behind him.''* 
 
 " I should like to get a peep at him," quoth 
 Titus. 
 
 " So should I," rejoined Coates. 
 
 " You may both of you be gratified, gentle- 
 men," said Palmer. " Talking of Dick Turpin, 
 they say, is like talking of the devil, he's at your 
 elbow ere the word's out of your mouth. He 
 may be within hearing, at this moment, for any 
 thing we know to the contrary." 
 
 " Faith, then," replied Titus, "he must lie, 
 like a rat, in the wainscot, for I don't know 
 where else he could hide." 
 
 " Were he there," returned Jack, laughing, 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
24^ ROOKWOO0. 
 
 " you might grab him, like Du Val at the 
 ' Hole-in4he-Walir'' 
 
 " I wish they could grab him, with all my 
 heart,'' said the Attorney ; " and they might 
 do so, if they were to set the right way to work. 
 IVe a plan for seizing liim, that could not fail ; 
 I've a noose in embryo: only let me get a 
 glimpse of him, thafs all. You shall see how 
 I'll dispose of him." 
 
 '' Well, Sir, we shall see,'' observed Palmer ; 
 " and, for your own sake, I wish you may never 
 be nearer to him than you are at this moment. 
 With his friends, they say Dick Turpin can be 
 as gentle as a lamb ; with his foes, especially 
 with a limb of the law like yourself, he's been 
 found but an ugly customer. I once saw him at 
 Newmarket, where he was collared by two con- 
 stable culls, one on each side. Shaking off one, 
 and dealing the other a blow in the face with his 
 heavy-handled whip, he stuck spurs into his 
 horse, and though the whole field gave chace, he 
 distanced them all, easily." 
 
EOOKWOOD. 243 
 
 *' And how came you not to try your pace 
 with him, if you were there, as you boasted just 
 now ?" asked Coates. 
 
 " So I did, and stuck closer to him than any 
 one else. We were neck and neck. I was the 
 only person who could have delivered him to 
 the hands of justice, if I'd felt inclined."" 
 
 " I wish I'd a similar opportunity," said 
 Coates; " it should be neck or nothing. Either 
 he or I should reach the scragging post first. 
 I'd take him, dead or alive." 
 
 " Vou take him !" cried Jack, with a sneer. 
 
 " I'd engage to do it," replied Coates. " I'll 
 bet you a hundred guineas I take him, if I ever 
 have the same chance." 
 
 " Done!" exclaimed Jack, rapping the table 
 at the same time, so that the glasses danced 
 upon it. 
 
 " That's right," cried Titus. " I'll go your 
 halves." 
 
 " What's the matter.^" exclaimed Small, 
 awakened from his doze. 
 
244 ROOK wool). 
 
 " Only a tiifling bet, about a highwayman," 
 replied Titus. 
 
 '' A highwayman 1**^ echoed Small. " There 
 are none in the house, I hope.*" 
 
 " I hope not," answered Coates. " But these 
 gentlemen seem to have a remarkable predilec- 
 tion to discussing the lives of those depredators. 
 They have sung the praises of all sorts of 
 rogues and rascals for the last half-hour. All 
 the thieves of modern days have been brought 
 in review."" 
 
 " Pshaw," returned Small, " what are the 
 thieves of modern days to those of old ? Thiev- 
 ing is not a thing of yesterday. The very gods, 
 of antiquity, themselves indulged in its prac- 
 tice. Lucian relates, in the dialogue of Apollo 
 and Vulcan, that Mercury was the finest cut- 
 purse that ever existed — the hammer of Vulcan, 
 the girdle of Venus, the cattle of Admetus, the 
 sceptre of Jupiter — nothing human or divine 
 escaped him. Hence he was celebrated by Homer, 
 in his hymn to that Deity, as the A^xov (piXinoi — 
 
ROOKWOOD. 245 
 
 the prince of robbers. Autolycus, his son, inhe- 
 rited his father's art — his ingenuity was bound- 
 less, his skill infinite— 
 
 Xascitur Autolycus furtum ingeniosus ad omne, 
 Qui facere assuerat, patriae non degener ai-tis, 
 Candida de nigris, et de candentibus atra. 
 
 in vulgar parlance, he was ' up to every thing' — 
 no one escaped his artifices — he tricked all men, 
 before their own eyes/' 
 
 Further speech was cut short, by the sudden 
 opening of the door, followed by the abrupt 
 entrance of a tall, slender young man, who hastily 
 advanced towards the table, around which the 
 company were seated. He excited the utmost 
 astonishment in the whole group : curiosity was 
 exhibited in every countenance — the magnum 
 remained poised midway in the hand of Palmer — 
 Doctor Small scorched his thumb in the bowl 
 of his pipe ; and Mr. Coates was almost choked, 
 by swallowing an inordinate whifF of vapour. 
 
 " Young Sir Ranulph !'' ejaculated the latter, 
 so soon as the syncope would permit liim. 
 
246 ROOKWOOI>. 
 
 " Sir Ranulph here ?" echoed Palmer. 
 
 " Good God !" exclaimed Small. 
 
 " The devil !" cried Titus, with a start ; 
 " this is more than I expected." 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Ranulph, " do not let my 
 unexpected arrival here discompose you. Doc- 
 tor Small, you will excuse the manner of my 
 greeting; and you, Mr. Coates. One of the 
 party, I believe, was my father's medical at- 
 tendant, a Mr. Tyrconnel." 
 
 " I, Sir, had that honour," replied Titus, 
 bowing profoundly. 
 
 " When, and at what hour, did he die ?"" 
 demanded Ranulph. 
 
 " Your worthy father,"" answered Titus, again 
 bowing, " departed this life on Thursday last.'' 
 
 " The hour? — the precise minute?'' asked 
 Ranulph, eagerly. 
 
 " Faith, Sir Ranulph, as nearly as I can 
 recollect, it might be a few minutes before 
 midnight." 
 
 " The very hour !" exclaimed Ranulph, 
 
ROOK WOOD. S47 
 
 Striding towards the window. His steps were 
 arrested, as his eye fell upon the attire of his 
 father, which, as we have before noticed, hung 
 at that end of the room. A slight shudder 
 passed over his frame. There was a momen- 
 tary pause, during which Ranulph continued 
 gazing intently at the apparel. " The very 
 dress too r muttered he ; then, turning to the 
 assembly, who were watching his movements 
 with surprise, he requested them to resume 
 their seats. Palmer and the attorney complied 
 instantly, but Doctor Small advanced toward 
 him, and with great kindness of manner, 
 taking hold of Ranulph's hand, drew him into 
 ^ corner of the room. 
 
 " Your sudden return has indeed surprised 
 me — nor can I conceive how intelligence of your 
 father's demise could possibly have reached you 
 in time sufficient to have enabled you to arrive 
 here. Nevertheless, your presence will be most 
 welcome to your parent (would I could say in 
 
248 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 affliction) — as well as desirable on all other ac- 
 counts. Your attendance at the funeral "^ 
 
 " Which takes place to-night."" 
 
 " At the mid hour — a strange custom, Sir 
 Ranulph r 
 
 " Strange, indeed !"" said Ranulph, musingly. 
 
 " Very strange !" reiterated Small, " and might 
 be resisted. / should never dream of complying 
 with such conditions.*" 
 
 " Comply with what conditions ?"' exclaimed 
 Ranulph, starting. " Have I not done his 
 bidding?" 
 
 " Whose bidding, my good young friend .?"" 
 asked Small, surprised at the question. 
 
 " Nay, there is some mistake,"' replied Ra- 
 nulph, recovering his composure, and smiling 
 faintly. " I am jaded with my journey. An 
 hour's rest will enable me to go through this 
 melancholy ceremony. Where is my mother ?"" 
 
 " Lady Rook wood is, I believe, in her own 
 toom,"" replied Titus. " She desired she might 
 
ROOK WOOD, 249 
 
 not be disturbed — and left the whole manage- 
 ment of the solemnity to me—of course not 
 anticipating your return, Sir Ranulph — and I 
 trust the arrangements which I have made, will 
 meet with your satisfaction. I have endeavoured, 
 to the best of my power, to maintain the respect- 
 ability of the family, by doing the thing in the 
 most liberal manner, and in such a way as I 
 knew it would best have pleased my respected 
 friend had he been alive to ^ntness it. Heaven 
 rest him ! There is another thing, also, I may 
 as well mention, and I hope the allusion to 
 it will not be distressing to your feelings. Sir 
 Ranulph. According to Sir Piers's directions, 
 his body has been embalmed under my own 
 immediate superintendance ; and though I say 
 it, who should not say it, he looks, in con- 
 sequence, as beautiful as the day he was 
 born. The corpse is now lying in state, with the 
 room lighted up; but, at Lady Rookwood's 
 particular request, I have ordered every sowl in 
 the house to be shut out of the room until ten 
 m5 
 
250 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 o'clock, as her Ladyship has signified her desire 
 to view the remains alone. An order, I assure 
 you, Sir Ranulph, I had some difficulty in 
 enforcing, the tenantry being mighty anxious 
 to see the last of their master. Heaven rest 
 him, I say." 
 
 " I will not disturb my mother, at presenf — 
 returned the young man ; upon whom this piece 
 of information appeared to produce a very pain- 
 ful effect ; " nor would I have her know of my 
 arrival. Doctor, I have something for your 
 private ear," addressing Small. " Gentlemen, 
 will you spare us the room for a few minutes ?" 
 
 " By my conscience,'' said Tyrconnel to Jack 
 Palmer, as they were going forth, " a mighty 
 fine boy he is — and a chip of the ould block — 
 he'll be as good a fellow as his father." 
 
 " No doubt," replied Palmer, shutting the 
 door. " But what the devil brought him back, 
 just at this moment.?" 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Fer. Yes, Francisco, 
 
 He hath left his curse upon me. 
 Fran. How ? 
 Fer. His curse ! dost comprehend what that word carries, 
 
 Shot from a father's angry breath ? Unless 
 
 I tear poor Felisarda from my heart, 
 
 He hath pronounced me heir to all his curses. 
 
 The Brothers. — Shirley. 
 
 " There is nothing, I trust, my dear young 
 friend and quondam pupil,"^ said Dr. Small, as 
 the door was closed, " that weighs upon your 
 mind, beyond the sorrow naturally incident to an 
 affliction, severe as the present. Forgive my 
 apprehensions, if I am wrong. You know the 
 affectionate interest I have ever felt for you — 
 an interest which, I assure you, is no^nse dimi- 
 nished, and which will excuse my urging you to 
 
252 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 unburthen your mind to me ; assuring yourself, 
 whatever may be your disclosure, of my sincere 
 sympathy and commiseration. I may be better 
 able to advise with you, should counsel be 
 necessary, than others, from my knowledge of 
 your character and temperament. I would 
 not anticipate evil, and am perhaps, unneces- 
 sarily apprehensive ; but I own, I am startled 
 at the incoherence of your expressions, coupled 
 with your sudden, and almost mysterious 
 appearance at this distressing conjuncture. An- 
 swer me: has your return been the result 
 of mere accident ? is it to be considered one 
 of those singular circumstances which almost 
 looks like fate, and baffles our comprehension ? 
 or were you nearer home than we expected, 
 and received the news of your father's demise 
 through any channel unknown by us ? Satisfy 
 my curiosity, I pray you, upon this point ?'"' 
 
 " Your curiosity, my dear sir," replied 
 Ranulph, gravely and sadly, " will not be 
 decreased, when I tell you, that my return has 
 
EOOKWOOD. 
 
 ^5S 
 
 neither been the work of chance (for I came, 
 fully anticipating the dread event, which I find 
 realised), nor has it been occasioned by any 
 intelligence derived from yourself, or elsewhere. 
 It was only indeed at Rook wood that I received 
 full confirmation of my fears. I had another, 
 a more terrible summons to return.'"* 
 
 " What summons? — you perplex me!'' — 
 exclaimed Small. 
 
 " I am myself perplexed — sorely perplexed,'*' 
 returned Ranulph. " I have much to tell — much 
 to relate ; but, I pray you, bear with me to the 
 end. I have that on my mind which, like 
 guilt, must be revealed. It will out.""* 
 
 " Speak, then, fearlessly to me,"" said Small, 
 affectionately pressing Ranulph's hand. " I am 
 all impatience for your relation, and will offer 
 no further interruption to it."" 
 
 " It will be necessary," began Ranulph, " to 
 preface my narrative by some slight allusion to 
 certain painful events (and yet I know not why 
 I should call them painful, excepting in their 
 
254 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 consequences), which influenced my conduct in 
 my final interview between my father and 
 myself — an interview which occasioned my 
 departure for the continent — and which was of 
 a character so dreadful, that I would not even 
 revert to it, w^ere it not a necessary preliminary 
 to the circumstance which I am about to detail. 
 You remember, no doubt, how hastily my 
 journey was resolved upon. My ostensible 
 motive for undertaking it you may also have 
 heard ; not so, I am sure, the real one. To 
 you, who knew my father so w^ell, and were 
 aware of the tenor of his life, I need not par- 
 ticularise the terms upon which we lived to- 
 gether; you could not have been ignorant of 
 them. My affection for him w^as constant and 
 consistent. There was no corresponding sympathy 
 on his part ; he never loved me as his son, or, 
 if he did, his love for me was more fickle, more 
 variable, more capricious, than the lightest 
 woman's regards. Mortified and distressed at 
 having my affections so frequently thrown back 
 
ROOKWOOD. ^55 
 
 upon themselves, I contrived to regulate and 
 controul my own feelings, by drawing out for 
 myself a code of conduct, so nice and guarded, 
 that no quarrel of consequence could arise be- 
 tween us ; and, by yielding implicitly in every 
 thing to his wishes, I insensibly acquired an 
 ascendancy over him, which, without deviating 
 from the strict line of filial duty, was as advan- 
 tageous in its effects to himself as to me. But 
 this system could not hold good in every case, 
 as you will perceive. 
 
 " When I left Oxford, I passed a few weeks 
 alone, in London. A college friend, whom I 
 accidentally met, introduced me, during a pro- 
 menade in St. James's Park, to some acquaint- 
 ances of his own, who were taking an airing 
 in the Mall at the same time ; — a family whose 
 name was Mowbray, consisting of a 'vndow-lady, 
 her son, and daughter. This introduction was 
 made in compliance with my own request. I 
 had been struck by the singular beauty of the 
 younger lady, whose countenance had a peculiar 
 
S56 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 and inexpressible charm to me, from its marked 
 resemblance to the portrait of the lady Eleanor 
 Rook wood, whose charms, and whose unhappy 
 fate, I have so often dwelt upon, and de- 
 plored. The picture is there," pointing to it, 
 " and how like, how wonderfully like, it is. 
 How often have I gazed at it with a fervour 
 like that of a devotee before some ' sainted 
 semblance,' little dreaming of those after-emo- 
 tions of which it should be the germ ! Look at 
 it, and you have the fair creature I speak of, 
 before you ; the colour of the hair — the tender- 
 ness of the eyes. No — the expression is not so 
 sad, except when — ^but no matter ; I recognised 
 her features at once. 
 
 " It struck me, that upon the mention of my 
 name, the party had betrayed some surprise, 
 especially the elder lady. For my own part, I 
 was so attracted by the beauty of the daughter, 
 the effect of which upon me, seemed rather the 
 fulfilment of a predestined event, originating in 
 the strange fascination which the family portrait 
 
ROOKWOOl). ^57 
 
 had wrought in my heart, than the operation of 
 what is called, ' love at first sight,' that I was 
 insensible to the agitation of the mother. In 
 vain I endeavoured to rally myself; my efforts 
 at conversation were fruitless ; I could not talk 
 — all I could do, was silently to yield to the 
 soft witchery of those tender eyes, my admira- 
 tion increasing each instant that I gazed upon 
 them. 
 
 " I accompanied them home. Attracted as by 
 some irresistible spell, I could not tear myself 
 away ; so that, although I fancied I could per- 
 ceive symptoms of displeasure in the looks of 
 both the mother and the son, yet, regardless 
 of consequences, I ventured, uninvited, to enter 
 the house. In order to shake off the restraint 
 which I felt my society imposed, I found it ab- 
 solutely necessary to divest myself of bashful- 
 ness, and to exert such conversational powers 
 as I possessed. I succeeded so well, that the 
 discourse soon became lively and animated ; 
 and what chiefly delighted me was, tliat sfte^ for 
 
258 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 whose sweet sake I had committed my present 
 rudeness, became radiant with smiles. I had 
 been all eagerness, to seek for some explanation of 
 the resemblance to which I have just alluded, 
 and the fitting moment had, I conceived, arrived. 
 I called attention to a peculiar expression in the 
 features of Miss Mowbray, and then instanced 
 the likeness that subsisted between her and 
 my ancestress. ' It is the more singular,' I 
 said, turning to her mother, ' because there 
 could have been no affinity, that I am aware 
 of, between them, and yet the likeness is 
 really surprising." — ' It is not so singular as 
 you imagine,' answered Mrs. Mowbray, ' there 
 is affinity ; that Lady Rookwood was my mother. 
 Eleanor Mowbray does resemble her ill-fated 
 ancestress."* 
 
 " Words cannot paint my astonishment. I 
 gazed at Mrs. Mowbray, considering whether 
 I had not misconstrued her speech — whether 
 I had not so shaped the sounds, as to suit my 
 own quick and passionate conceptions. But no 
 
ROOKWOOU. 259 
 
 — I read in her calm, collected countenance- 
 in the downcast glance, and sudden sadness of 
 Eleanor, as well as in the changed and haughty 
 demeanour of the brother, that I had heard her 
 rightly. It was a truth. Eleanor Mowbray 
 was my cousin — was the descendant of that 
 sainted woman, whose image I had almost 
 worshipped. 
 
 " Recovering from my surprise, I addressed 
 Mrs. Mowbray, endeavouring to excuse my 
 ignorance of our relationship, on the plea that 
 I had not been given to understand that such 
 had been the name of the gentleman she had 
 espoused. ' Nor was it,** answered she, ' the 
 name he bore at Rookwood ; circumstances for- 
 bad it then. How should you have known ? 
 From the hour I quitted that house until this 
 moment, excepting one interview with my — with 
 Sir Reginald Rookwood — I have seen none of 
 my family — have held no communication with 
 them — my brothers have been strangers to me 
 — the very name of Rookwood has been unheard, 
 
260 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 unknown; nor would you have been admitted 
 here, had not accident occasioned it.' I ven- 
 tured now to interrupt her, and to express a 
 hope that she would suffer an acquaintance to be 
 kept up, which had so fortunately commenced, 
 and which might most probably bring about 
 an entire reconciliation between the families. 
 I was so earnest in my expostulations, my whole 
 soul being in them, that she inclined a more 
 friendly ear to me. Eleanor, too, smiled encou- 
 ragement upon me. Love lent me eloquence; 
 and at length, as a token of my success, and her 
 own relenting, Mrs. Mowbray held forth her 
 hand; I clasped it eagerly. It was the hap- 
 piest moment of my life. 
 
 " ' But, then, your father,' said Mrs. Mow- 
 bray, after a short space, ' what will he say to 
 this.?' 
 
 " ' I hope, nay, I am sure, he will rejoice at 
 it,' I answered ; but my heart smote me with a 
 bitter presentiment, and I thought I saw a very 
 slight tremor in Eleanor's countenance, so slight, 
 
ROOKWOOD. 
 
 261 
 
 indeed, as to be imperceptible to any other eye 
 than that of a lover. ' At all events,' said I, 
 ' I am a free agent.' 
 
 " ' No,' replied Mrs. Mowbray, ' unless he is 
 willing that the intimacy be renewed, and ^\^ll 
 himself make the advances, I wall never acquiesce 
 in it; 
 
 " It was in vain I again urged all my former 
 arguments ; she was inflexible ; and the utmost 
 I could obtain from her, was permission to visit 
 at her house daily during my brief continuance 
 in town. To this she unwillingly consented : 
 but my solicitation was backed by her son, 
 Captain Mowbray, who now came forward in 
 .the most friendly manner, and urged his mother 
 to accede to my wishes. 
 
 ^' You may suppose that I did not hesitate to 
 avail myself of this permission. The next day 
 found me there, and the next. I then learnt 
 the history of the family. For many years they 
 had dwelt in the South of France, where Mr. 
 Mowbray had died. The son had visited 
 
262 EOOKWOOD. 
 
 •England, entered the army, and risen to his 
 present rank. Their fortune was slender, but 
 sufficient. After having spent some years in 
 active service, Captain Mowbray returned to 
 his family, and brought them over with him to 
 this country. They had resided in London 
 then nearly two years. 
 
 " I will not trouble you with any lengthened 
 description of Eleanor Mowbray. I hope, at 
 some period or other, you may still be enabled 
 to see her, and judge for yourself; for though 
 adverse circumstances have hitherto conspired to 
 separate us, the time for a renewal of our ac- 
 quaintance is approaching, I trust, for I am not 
 yet altogether without hope. But thus much, 
 I must say, that her rare endowments of person 
 were only equalled by the graces of her mind. 
 
 " Educated abroad, she had all the vivacity 
 of our livelier neighbours, combined with every 
 solid qualification, which we claim as more essen- 
 tially our own. Her light and frolic manner 
 was French, certainly ; but her gentle, sincere 
 
EOOKVVOOD. ^6S 
 
 heart was as surely English. The foreign ac- 
 cent that dwelt upon her tongue, communicated 
 an inexpressible charm, «ven to the language 
 which she spoke. 
 
 " I will not dwell too long upon this theme. 
 I feel ashamed of my own prolixity. And yet I 
 am sure you will pardon it. Ah ! those bright, 
 brief days ! too quickly were they fled ! I could 
 expatiate upon each minute — ^recal each word — 
 revive each look. It may not be — I must hasten 
 on. Darker themes await me. 
 
 " My love made rapid progress. I became 
 each hour more enamoured of my new-found 
 cousin. My whole time was passed near her; 
 indeed, I could scarcely exist, in absence from 
 her side. Short, however, was destined to be 
 my indulgence in this blissful state. One happy 
 week was its extent. I received a peremptory 
 summons from my father to return home. 
 
 " Immediately upon commencing this ac- 
 quaintance, I had written to my father, explain- 
 ing every particular attending it. This I should 
 
264) ROOKWOOD. 
 
 have done of my own free will, but I was urged 
 to it by Mrs. Mowbray. Unaccustomed to dis- 
 guise, I had expatiated upon the beauty of 
 Eleanor, and in such terms, I fear, that I ex- 
 cited some uneasiness in his breast. His letter 
 was laconic. He made no allusion to the subject 
 upon which I had expatiated when writing to 
 him. He commanded me to return. 
 
 " The bitter hour was at hand. I could not 
 hesitate to comply. Without my father's sanc- 
 tion, I was assured Mrs. Mowbray would not 
 permit any continuance of my acquaintance. Of 
 Eleanor's inclinations I fancied I had some as- 
 surance; but without her mother's consent, to 
 whose will she was devoted, I felt, had I even 
 been inclined to urge it, that my suit was hope- 
 less. The letter which I had received from my 
 father made me more than doubt, whether I 
 should not find him utterly adverse to my 
 wishes. Agonized, therefore, with a thousand 
 apprehensions, I presented myself on the morn 
 of my departure. It was then I made the 
 
ROOKWOOD. ^65 
 
 declaration of my passion to Eleanor — it was 
 then that every hope was confirmed, every ap- 
 prehension realized. I received from her lips 
 a confirmation of my fondest wishes; yet were 
 those hopes blighted in the bud, when I heard, 
 at the same time, that their consummation Avas 
 dependant on the will of two others, whose as- 
 senting voices, she feared, could never be 
 obtained. From Mrs. Mowbray I received a 
 more decided reply. All her haughtiness was 
 aroused. Her farewell words assured me, that 
 it was indifferent to her, whether we met again 
 as relatives or as strangers. Then was it that 
 the native tenderness of Eleanor displayed itself, 
 in an outbreak of feeling peculiar to a heart 
 keenly sympathetic as her's. She saw my suf- 
 fering — the reserve natural to her sex gave way — 
 she flung herself into my arms — and so we parted. 
 " With a heavy foreboding, I returned to 
 Rookwood, and, oppressed with the gloomiest an- 
 ticipations, I endeavoured to prepare myself for 
 the worst. I arrived. My reception was such as 
 
 VOL. J. N 
 
266 PvOOKWOOD. 
 
 I had calculated upon ; and, to increase my dis- 
 tress, my parents had been at variance. I tniU 
 not pain you and myself with any recital of their 
 disagreement. My mother had espoused my 
 cause, chiefly, I fear, with the view of thwarting 
 my poor father s inclinations. He was in a ter- 
 rible mood, exasperated by the fiery stimulants he 
 had swallowed, which had not, indeed, drowned 
 his reason, but roused and inflamed every dor- 
 mant emotion to violence. He was as one insane. 
 It was evening when I arrived. I would wil- 
 lingly have postponed the interview till the 
 morrow. It could not be. He insisted upon 
 seeing me. 
 
 " My mother was present. You know the re- 
 straint 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 
 
ROOKWOOD. 267 
 
 his roof, her mother, the discountenanced 
 daughter of his father. I endeavoured to re- 
 monstrate with him. He was deaf to my entrea- 
 ties. My mother added sharp and stinging- 
 words to my expostulations. ' I had her con- 
 sent," 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 par- 
 ticular, and I will so divert the channel of my 
 wealth, that no drop shall touch 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 unalter- 
 
^88 
 
 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 able. 1 have many motives which influence me ; 
 they are inexplicable, but imperative. Eleanor 
 Mowbray never can be your^s. 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 Avhom you have never 
 beheld ? At least, consent to see her."* 
 
 " ' Never !' he replied. ' The tie is sundered, 
 ^nd 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 de- 
 part from you. And assure yourself this is no 
 
ROOK WOOD. 269 
 
 idle threat ; I can, and will do it. My curse 
 shall be your sole inheritance/ 
 
 " I could not avoid making some reply, re- 
 presenting to him how unjustifiable such a pro- 
 cedure 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 feehngs of resentment to influence his con- 
 duct. My remonstrances, as in the preceding 
 meeting, were ineffectual. The more I spoke, 
 the more intemperate he grew ; I desisted, there- 
 fore ; but not before he had ordered me to quit 
 the house. I did not leave the neighbourhood, 
 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 trusted, might befriend me. He ap- 
 
270 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 proved 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 for 
 ever. Indulge no vain hopes. Eleanor never 
 can be your's, but upon one condition, and to 
 that you would never consent !' — ' Name 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 know 
 it then — and, now, farewell."* — ' Speak now, I 
 beseech you !' I exclaimed ; ' any thing, every 
 thing — what you will !"* — ' Say no more,' replied 
 he, walking towards the house; ' when you 
 return, we will renew this subject ; farewell — 
 perhaps for ever.' His words were prophetic — 
 that parting was for ever. I remained in the 
 garden till nightfall. I saw my mother, but he 
 came not again. I quitted England, without 
 beholding Eleanor.'' 
 
ROOKWOOD. 271 
 
 " Did you not acquaint her, by letter, with 
 what had occurred, and your consequent inten- 
 tions?" inquired Small. 
 
 " I did,"' replied Ranulph ; " but 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," 
 rephed Small, adding, as he noticed the growing 
 paleness of his companion — " You are too ex- 
 hausted to proceed — you had better defer the 
 remainder of your story to a future period." 
 
 " Sir," replied Ranulph, filling himself 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 pos- 
 session of the story of my love^-of the motive 
 
272 KOOKWOOD. 
 
 of my departure. You shall learn what was the 
 motive 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 sur- 
 rounded 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 Bourdeaux ; — there I 
 made a long halt, enchanted by the beauty of 
 the neighbouring scenery. INIy 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 chateau, with fine gardens 
 bordering the blue waters of the river, and 
 commanding a multitude of enchanting pros- 
 pects. 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 astonish- 
 
ROOKWOOD. 273 
 
 ment, to find that this chateau 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 sinmner eves 
 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 so seemed to pervade the place. 
 I was now comparatively happy, and, anxious to 
 remain unmolested, I wrote home that I was 
 leaving Bourdeaux for the Pyrennees, on my 
 way to Spain.'"* 
 
 " That account arrived," said 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 even — so lovely, 
 that I lingered there, wrapt in the heavenly 
 n5 
 
274 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 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 noted 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 scarce 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 pre- 
 
ROOKWOOD. 
 
 275 
 
 sentiment convinced me that it was a super- 
 natural visitant. Without motion — without life 
 — without substance, it seemed ; yet still the out- 
 ward 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 gesture; 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 shrunk from it, yet 
 stirred not — I could not move a limb. Noise- 
 lessly gliding towards me, the apparition ap- 
 proached — I could not retreat — it stood obsti- 
 nately beside me. I became like one half 
 dead. The phantom shook its head with the 
 deepest despair ; and as the word * Return !' 
 sounded hollowly in my ears, it gradually 
 
276 ROOKAVOOD. 
 
 melted from my view. I cannot tell how I 
 recovered from the swoon into which I fell, but 
 day-break 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 sum- 
 mons that you received ?" said Small. 
 
 " Undoubtedly," replied Ranulph. 
 
 " Ah ! well, the coincidence, I own, is suffi- 
 ciently curious,'' returned Small, musingly; " and 
 it is difficult to offer any satisfactory explanation 
 of the delusion." 
 
 " Delusion !" echoed Ranulph ; " there was 
 no delusion — 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 
 
EOOKWOOD. 277 
 
 young friend,^ said Small, " 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 endeavour 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 this solemnity — Adieu r 
 
 Ranulph quitted the room. Small sighingly 
 shook his head, and having lighted his pipe, was 
 presently buried in a profundity of smoke and 
 speculation. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 Fran, de Med. Your unhappy husband 
 
 Is dead — 
 Fit. 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 mourn- 
 ing habit ? 
 
 The White Devil. 
 
 The progress of our narrative demands our 
 presence in another apartment of the hall — a 
 large darksome chamber, situate in the eastern 
 wing of the house, which we have before 
 described as the most ancient part of the build- 
 ing — the sombre appearance of which was greatly 
 increased by the dingy, discoloured tapestry that 
 clothed its walls, the record of the patience and 
 
ROOK WOOD. 279 
 
 industry of a certain Dame Dorothy Rookwood, 
 who flourished some centuries ago, and whose 
 skilful needle had illustrated the slaughter of 
 the Innocents, ^Wth a severity oi gusto, and san- 
 guinary minuteness of detail, truly surprising, 
 in a lady so amiable as she was represented to 
 have been. Grim-visaged Herod glared from 
 the ghostly Moof, with his shadowy legions, exe- 
 cuting their murderous purposes, grouped like 
 an infernal host around him. Mysterious twi- 
 light, admitted through the deep, dark, mul- 
 lioned windows, revealed the antique furniture 
 of the room, which still boasted a sort of 
 dusky splendour, 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 des- 
 tined for the repose of Lady Rookwood. The 
 stiff crimson hangings were embroidered in gold, 
 with the emblazonment of Elizabeth, from whom 
 the apartment, having once been occupied by 
 
280 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 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 emo- 
 tion had written strange defeatures, they had 
 not obliterated its striking beauty, and classical 
 grandeur of contour. Her's was a face majestical 
 and severe — an index of a soul, at once daring 
 in conception, and resolute in action ; changeless 
 in its purposes — unyielding — haughty. Pride, 
 immeasurable pride, was stamped in all its lines ; 
 and though each passion was, by turns, deve- 
 loped, it was evident that all were subordinate 
 to that sin by which the angels fell. The outline 
 of her face was formed in the purest Grecian 
 mould, and would have been a model for the 
 representation of some vengeful deity ; so much 
 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 per- 
 
ROOK WOOD. 281 
 
 fection. 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 corrugated 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 anguish and 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, this person was occupied in 
 the perusal of a pile of papers. Her gaze, at 
 length, became rivctted upon a letter, taken 
 from a heap of others, which at once arrested 
 her attention. As she read, her whole soul 
 became absorbed in its contents. Suddenly she 
 raised herself, and, crushinf? the letter within 
 
282 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 her hand, cast it from her, with a look of inef- 
 fable scorn. 
 
 " Fool ! fool !'' exclaimed she, aloud, " weak, 
 wavering, and contemptible fool — this alone was 
 wanting, to fulfil the measure of loathing for 
 thee, and for thy memory. The very air I 
 breathed with thee in life, seemed contaminated 
 with thy presence. With thee near me, I had 
 ever the consciousness of the hated ties which 
 bound us together, which I would have broken, 
 could I thereby have accomplished my pur- 
 poses; but now that I deemed I was for ever 
 ridden of thee — thou despised worm — that thou 
 shouldst have the power to injure me thus — to 
 blight my fairest plans — to put a bar between 
 me and my views^to inflict a wrong which 
 could only have been cancelled by thy life, 
 which should have been the forfeit, had I 
 known this heretofore; to think that I can no 
 longer reach thee-^that death has placed an im- 
 passable barrier between us, which even revenge 
 
ROOK WOOD. 283 
 
 cannot o^leap. That thought galls me — stings 
 me to the quick ; and if curses can reach 
 beyond the grave, may mine meet thee there, 
 and cling to thee; may heaven adjudge thee to 
 an eternity of torture, agonizing as the hell of 
 heart I now endure ! And surely,'' added she, 
 after a pause, '"^ the flame of vengeance which 
 I felt to be part of the spirit that burns within 
 me, will not expire, when I throw off this fleshly 
 shroud — nor be incapable of executing its tre- 
 mendous purposes. Oh that my soul could now 
 pursue thee to thy viewless home ^ 
 
 During the utterance of this imprecation, the 
 features of Lady Rookwood, for she it was, 
 had undergone a marked and fearful change. 
 Her flaming eye, glistening with unnatural 
 brightness, suddenly lost its lustre — ^lier quiver- 
 ing lip, its agitated motion — her distended nos- 
 tril — its tension — her upraised arm fell heavily 
 to her side — she stood like one entranced, as 
 if transformed to stone. . 
 
 A deep-drawn sigh proclaimed the return of 
 
284 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 consciousness, and her first movement was slowly 
 to return to the escritoir, whence she had taken 
 the letter, which had caused her agitation. 
 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 sweet- 
 ness, 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 ignorant of the original), which attested the 
 artist's fidelity. The face was 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. 
 A slip of paper was also attached to it. 
 
 Lady Rookwood scornfully scrutinized the 
 
ROOKWOOD. 285 
 
 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 noic — it shall 
 not part from me. I will abide Ranulph's 
 return." 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. She then stooped to pick up the 
 crumpled letter, and, after carefully adjusting 
 its creases, returned, once more, to its perusal. 
 
 All outward traces of emotion had, ere this, 
 become so subdued, in Lady Rookwood, that 
 although she had, only a few moments pre- 
 viously, 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 
 
286 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 they who knew her would have trembled to 
 behold. " From this letter, I gather,'' exclaimed 
 she, " that their wretched offspring knows not 
 of his fortune. That is well — there is no chan- 
 nel, 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 pro- 
 vide for him — ha, ha ! I will provide — a grave. 
 There will I bury him and his secret. My 
 son's security, and my own revenge, 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 neighbourhood, connected with 
 a gang of poachers — 'tis well" — even as she 
 spoke, a knock at the chamber door broke upon 
 her meditations. " Agnes, is it you .f^" 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. 
 
ROOKWOOD. 287 
 
 Coates, which he himself wished to present, I 
 would be undisturbed." 
 
 " You did, my Lady, but — '' 
 
 " Well,"" said Lady Rookwood, somewhat 
 more mildly, perceiving, from Agnes'* manner, 
 that she had something of importance to com- 
 municate. " What is it brings thee hither. 
 
 now 
 
 pr. 
 
 " Sorry am I," exclaimed Agnes, " right 
 sorry, to disturb your Ladyship, but — ^but — "" 
 
 " But what r 
 
 " I could not help it, my Lady — he would 
 have me come ; he said he was resolved to see 
 your Ladyship, whether I 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. 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."' 
 
288 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " Insolent !"** exclaimed Lady Rookwood, with 
 a glance of indignation; "force his way ! admit 
 him. I promise you he shall not display an 
 equal anxiety to repeat the visit. Tell Mr. 
 Coates I will see him.*" 
 
 " Mr. Coates ! — bless you, my Lady, it's not 
 he ; he'd never have intruded upon you, unask'd, 
 depend uj)on it. No ; he knows, too well, what 
 he's about, to do such a thing. This is — " 
 ."Who.?" 
 
 " Luke Bradley — your Ladyship knows who 
 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, thou Avould'st 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." 
 
ROOKWOOD. 289 
 
 " Dangerous — how ? 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;' 
 
 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 gaze, with one 
 as stern and stedfast as her own. Luke was 
 pale, even to ghastliness. 
 
 " Who are you, and what seek you .^'' ex- 
 claimed Lady Rookwood, after a brief pause, 
 and, in spite of herself, her voice sounded tre- 
 mulously. '-' What would you have with me, 
 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 
 
 VOL. I. o 
 
S90 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 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 that — I cannot help myself — I may amend 
 hereafter. Who I am, you are able, I doubt 
 not, to surmise. 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 perird 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." 
 
ROOKWOOD. . ^91 
 
 Lady Rookwood started. 
 
 " You need not fear me,'^ replied Luke ; " niv 
 revenge will be otherwise accomplished/'' 
 
 " Go,"" said Lady Rookwood to Agnes — " vet 
 — stay Tvdthout, in the anti-chamber."" 
 
 " My Lady,"^ said Agnes, scarcely able to 
 articulate, " shall I "'' 
 
 " Hear me. Lady Rookwood," interrupted 
 Luke, " before this woman departs. I intend 
 you no injury — meditate no harm to you, or to 
 any one — my object here is solely to obtain a 
 private conference with yourself. 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 Avill at once depart. 
 A word will suffice — I am gone. 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 to all what you 
 would gladly hide, even from yourself.'" 
 
292 ROOKWCOD. 
 
 " Leave us, Agnes,^' said Lady Rookwood — 
 " alarm no one. I have no fear. I can deal 
 with him myself, should I see occasion.'"* 
 
 " Agnes,"" said Luke, in a stern, deep whisper, 
 arresting the ancient hand-maiden 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 de- 
 parted. 
 
 Luke felt some wavering in his resolution 
 when he found himself alone with the lady, 
 whose calm, collected, yet haughty demeanour, 
 as she resumed her seat, prepared for his com- 
 nmnication, could not fail to inspire him with 
 a certain degree of awe. Not unconscious of 
 
EOOKWOOD. 293 
 
 her advantage, nor slow to profit by it, Lady 
 Rookwood remained perfectly silent, with her 
 eyes steadily and scrutinisingly fixed upon his 
 face, while his embarrassment momentarily in- 
 creased. Summoning, at length, courage suf- 
 cient 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 ha^e 
 long borne my mother's name — I now claim my 
 father's. My object is, the restitution of my 
 rights.'' 
 
 " So — 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 
 bom ; by right of his right 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 said, " I know not why 
 
294 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 I tolerate this insolent assumption of my son's 
 dignity — even for an instant. This defamation 
 of my husband's name from thy lips to me — " 
 
 " Defamation of him in my lips, and to you ! "" 
 interrupted Luke, scornfully. 
 
 " Peace !" cried Lady Rook Wood. " I would 
 learn how far thy audacity will carry thee. The 
 name you bear is Bradley ?" 
 
 " In ignorance I did so," replied Luke. " I 
 am the son of her whose maiden name is Bradley. 
 She was " 
 
 " 'Tis false — I \vill not hear it — she was not," 
 cried Lady Rookwood; her vehemence getting 
 the master of her prudence. 
 
 " Your Ladyship anticipates my meaning," 
 returned Luke. " This is a house of mourning. 
 He who lies a breathless corpse within its walls, 
 your husband, was my father." 
 
 " That may be true." 
 
 " My mother was his wife." 
 
 " Thou liest — she his wife." 
 
 " His wedded wife." 
 
ROOKWOOD. 9Q5 
 
 " His mistress — his minion, if thou wilt ; 
 nought else. Thou frantic fool, who has juggled 
 thee with a tale like this ? Wife ! A low born 
 jade, his wife : Sir Piers Rookwood's wife — ha, 
 ha ! thy fellow hinds would jeer thee out of this 
 preposterous notion. Is it new to thee, that a 
 village wench, who lends herself to shame, 
 should be beguiled by such pretences? That 
 she was so duped, I doubt not ; but it is too 
 late now to complain, and I would counsel thee 
 not to repeat thine idle boast. It will serve no 
 other purpose, trust me, than to blazon forth 
 thy own, thy mother's dishonour."" 
 
 " Dishonour !'' furiously reiterated Luke. 
 " My mother''s fame is as free from dishonour 
 as your own. Injured she was — her reputa- 
 tion, which was without blemish and without 
 spot, hath been tarnished and traduced ; but 
 it shall, ere long, be made clear in the light of 
 day ; nor she, nor her offspring, be a byeword 
 amongst men. Hear me. Lady Rookwood ; I 
 
296 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 assert that Susan Bradley was the first Lady of 
 Sir Piers — that I, her child, am first in the in- 
 heritance; nay, am sole heir to her husband's 
 estates and to his titles, to the exclusion of your 
 son. Ponder upon that intelligence — it is a truth 
 *— a truth I can establish, for I have proofs — such 
 proofs as will confound you and your arts, were 
 they dark and subtle as witchcraft. I will burst 
 your spells. Men say they fear you, as a thing 
 of ill. / fear you not — it is your turn to 
 blanch. There have been days when the Rook- 
 woods held their dames in subjection. Discern 
 you nought of that in me? Is there nothing of 
 the Rookwood about me .'^^ 
 
 As Lady Rookwood gazed at him, her heart 
 acknowledged the truth of his assertion. Passion 
 prevented her speech. She looked a scornful 
 negative, and motioned Luke to depart. 
 
 " No !"" exclaimed Luke ; " my errand is not 
 complete; nor can I suffer your ladyship to 
 quit the room, till you have heai'd me to an end." 
 
ROOKWOOD. 297 
 
 *' Not suffer me,'' answered Lady Rookwood, 
 raising herself, and moving towards the door. 
 How, ruffian, will you detain me ? "" 
 
 " By showing you the danger of departure,'"* 
 said Luke. " By your leave. Lady, you must 
 obey me,"" he added, taking her arm. 
 
 " Never !'"" exclaimed Lady Rookwood ; her 
 hitherto scarce governable passion enraged be- 
 yond all bounds by this last act. " Obey thy 
 mandate ! Stay at tJiy bidding ! Release my 
 liand, or by heaven I will stab thee on the spot." 
 And as Luke quitted not his hold, she suddenly 
 snatched up a small penknife, the only weapon 
 of offence at hand, which happened to be Iving 
 open upon the table, and struck it with all 
 her force against his breast. Luke, however, 
 sustained no injury. Encountering some hard 
 substance, the slight blade snapped at the haft, 
 without inflicting even a scratch, and Luke, 
 grasping the hand that had aimed tlie blow, 
 forcibly detained it, while a smile of fierce 
 triumph played upon his features. 
 o5 
 
298 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 "What would you do?'' exclaimed Lady 
 Rookwood. 
 
 " Falsify your calumnies : yourself have fur- 
 nished me with the means. Look here.'"* And 
 clutching her hand, he drew from out the 
 folds of his waistcoat the skeleton hand of his 
 mother, in the bones of which the broken blade 
 was sticking. " This dead hand, which has this 
 instant, in all probability, preserved my life, was 
 my mother's ! It has done this — it will do 
 more — it will accomplish all the rest. See," added 
 he, stretching forth the shrunken finger, and 
 placing it close by Lady Rookwood's own hand, 
 who recoiled from contact with it, as from the 
 touch of a scorpion — " That ring was placed 
 where you now see it before your own was prof- 
 fered — that cold hand was prest to your hus- 
 band's, at the altar, before his faith was plighted 
 to you. His faith to her was broken, but the 
 vows he broke, were marriage votes. The living 
 hand may part with its ring to another — the 
 dead will retain possession, while matter shall 
 
ROOKWOOD. 299 
 
 endure. Compare them together Tlie one 
 through her brief life, was ever gentle, ever 
 iindly, ever yielding — the other grasping, severe, 
 inexorable. That is instinct with vitality — with 
 power — this incapable of motion — dead. Yet 
 shall this nerveless hand accomplish more than 
 the living. Years have flown since this ring was 
 placed upon the finger ; yet hath it not corroded 
 — not relinquished its hold. Look at it, Lady ; 
 consider it well — touch it — examine it — 'tis real 
 — actual — your own in shape — in substance — 
 in design; for the same holy end procured — 
 with the same solemn plight bestowed — all the 
 same — save that it was the first — ay, the first 
 — let that confound you — let that convince you. 
 With what a voice this silent circlet speaks — 
 how eloquent — how loud. I liave no other 
 witnesses — yet will this suffice. Of those to 
 whom I owe my being, both are dead. Can 
 neither answer to my call ? She sleeps within 
 the tomb that now yawns to receive him : lie is 
 on his way thither ; yet this remains to answer 
 
300 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 for both — to cry out, as from the depths of the 
 grave, for justice to me. Look at it, I say ; can 
 you look, and longer doubt? You cannot — 
 dare not — do not. I read conviction in your 
 quaking glance — in your averted countenance.''' 
 
 Saying which, he relinquished his hold, and 
 Lady Rookwood withdrew her hand. There 
 is an eloquence, inspired by intense emotion, 
 so vivid, that it never fails to produce a con- 
 vincing effect, even upon an auditor the most 
 determinately incredulous. So was it with 
 Lady Rookwood. Aware, before-hand, of the 
 truth of Luke's statement, she would never- 
 theless have admitted nothing; but her daring 
 determination was overwhelmed by surprise at 
 the extent of his knowledge, and by the irre- 
 sistible vehemence of his manner. With little 
 of their characteristic caution, Luke seemed to 
 inherit all the inborn, terrible impetuosity of his 
 ancestry ; and Lady Rookwood's secret soul ad- 
 mitted, that one of the same order as the fierce 
 race, with whose remorseless annals she was too 
 
ROOKWOOD. 301 
 
 well acquainted, was before her. Some flashes of 
 such a spirit she had heretofore observed in Sir 
 Piers ; but a violence like the present she had 
 never before beheld. She heard his words, and 
 her heart, while it swelled with rage, trembled 
 with fear, as yet unknown to her. Contending 
 emotions agitated her frame ; pride, shame, rage, 
 and fear, strove for the mastery. With averted 
 head, she seemed lost in thought, while Luke 
 gazed darkly on. Suddenly she turned round, 
 exclaiming, in a tone that startled liim, as much 
 as the unexpected admission which her words 
 contained, 
 
 " I am convinced it is so. You are his son."^ 
 
 " His heir ?"" 
 
 " Ayr 
 
 " You admit it.^'' 
 
 " Have I not said so.^'' 
 
 " The title is my right ?'' 
 
 *' Granted.'' 
 
 "The lands?'' 
 
 " Your 7'ight also." 
 
302 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 " You will yield possession?" 
 
 " When you have ivon it ; but not till then. 
 Fool ! do you take me for an idiot like yourself 
 — like your father ? I do believe your story — 
 there is no degradation of which I do not deem 
 Sir Piers to have been capable. All thou couldst 
 invent, of folly and insanity, would not equal my 
 conceptions of his capacity to enact them. I 
 believe it all — fully — implicitly ; yet I defy thee. 
 Let the thought, that I know thy rights, but 
 will never acknowledge them, rankle, like a 
 barbed arrow, in thy side ; and that I also know 
 thy inability to maintain them. Thoic carCst 
 not prove it. Ha, ha ! Now where are thy 
 boasted rights — thy vaunted titles — thy ima- 
 ginary honours — thy air-built castles — thy un- 
 substantial visions of greatness ? Dissipated by 
 a breath. Listen to me. The marriage was 
 secret — it v/as without a witness — / alo7ie could 
 prove it. Now you have your answer. Tell 
 what you have heard to the world — repeat my 
 words — who will believe you ? Try the law : 
 
HOOK WOOD. 303 
 
 we are in possession— in power; you are poor, 
 unfriended, unknown ; no, not unknown : your 
 character is too well known — your name is 
 recognised as that of a desperado, familiar 
 with vice and crime — capable of any deed, 
 however daring. Who will credit such a tale 
 from you? supported by such evidence as you 
 can bring, who are already amenable to the 
 laws of your country ? Your life is at this 
 moment forfeited, for a murderous assault com- 
 mitted last night, upon the keeper of my 
 park. For this you, the elder born of Sir Piers 
 Rookwood — the heir apparent to his title — the 
 inheriter of his honourable name, shall suffer 
 the extreme penalty of the law ; for by the God 
 above us, I will prosecute you — pursue you to 
 the death. Now, braggart, solicit my mercy — 
 implore my clemency — sue for my terms. You 
 are my prisoner."^ 
 
 " Your prisoner ! Lady Rookwood,'' returnetl 
 Luke, laughing scornfully. " Were your mur- 
 
304 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 derous intentions to be punished, you were mine. 
 Thrice have you aimed at my life — twice ere 
 this — fate has preserved me ; but information of 
 your plots has reached me. You cannot crush 
 me ; I rise again, to triumph. What hinders 
 me, armed as I am, for I am armed, to compel 
 you, at the peril of your life, to subscribe a 
 declaration of your avowed conviction upon the 
 spot ? What hinders me, I say, but a sense that 
 my just cause will triumph ? I leave its agency 
 to her who hath done thus much. Heaven will 
 direct me — my mother will guide me.'' 
 
 " To the gibbet,'' cried Lady llookwood — 
 " whence nouo^ht shall rescue thee. Like all 
 fiends, the evil spirit that hath served thee, will 
 fail thee at the last." 
 
 " I place my trust in /ier," said Luke. 
 At that moment his eye was riveted by the 
 miniature, which it accidentally encountered. 
 He stooped to raise it. It came like a confirma- 
 tion, a beacon in the storm — a directing light — 
 
ROOKWOOD. 305 
 
 he pressed it to his lips. " Did I not say so ?" 
 exclaimed he ; " how else would this have fallen 
 into my hands ?'"* 
 
 " 'Tis accident,*" said Lady Rookwood, 
 amazed at the occurrence. 
 
 " Accident T cried Luke ; " 'tis fate — the fate 
 that presides over my doom. AVas it accident last 
 night, when the grave yielded up its dead ? when 
 she whose face and features are here pourtrayed, 
 fresh and fair as the day whereon she breathed, 
 were for the first time revealed to me ? No ! 
 injured, sainted spirit, the hour of expiation is 
 at hand I, thy son, will be the minister of 
 thy retribution."' Kissing the picture, he placed 
 it next his heart. 
 
 Once or twice during this speech Lady Rook- 
 wood's glances had wandered towards the bell, 
 as if about to summon aid, but the intention 
 was abandoned almost as soon as formed, pro- 
 bably from apprehension of tlie consequences of 
 any such attempt. She was not without alarm, 
 as to the result of the interview, and was con- 
 
806 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 sidering how she could bring it to a termination 
 Avithout endangering herself; and, if possible, 
 secure at the same time the person of Luke, 
 when the latter, turning sharply round upon 
 her, and drawing a pistol, exclaimed — 
 
 " Follow me !'' 
 
 " Whither, and for what ?'' answered she, in 
 astonishment. 
 
 " To the room where lies your husband !'' 
 
 " 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 his 
 body, ere it is 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 her unavenged memory, 
 if you play me false, though all your satellites 
 
ROOKWOOD. 307 
 
 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 un- 
 observed — you see I know the road. The room, 
 by your own command, is vacant — save of the 
 dead. Allow me to compliment you upon your 
 caution. We shall 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 antichamber. 
 
 " 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 Luke 
 entered; and, seizing Lady Rookwood's hand, 
 dragged her after him. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Mischief, that may be help'd, is hard to know ; 
 And danger, going on, still multiplies. 
 Where harm hath many wings, care comes too late; 
 Yet hasty attempts make chance precipitate. 
 
 Lord Brooke. Alaham. 
 
 The " Queen's Room*' formed one of a suite 
 of apartments traversing the entire eastern wing 
 of the Hall, the upper gallery of which was 
 exclusively devoted, during the later years of 
 her husband's life, to Lady Rook wood's occu- 
 pation. The antiquated grandeur, and mag- 
 nificent, though tarnished equipage, of these 
 apartments, were, it may be supposed, more to 
 her taste than the modern conveniences of other 
 rooms, and she domineered it within them, as the 
 
EOOKWOOD. S09 
 
 bird of night broods amidst the ruins of some 
 desecrated fane, in silent, solitary state. None, 
 save her ancient attendant, Agnes, was suffered 
 to approach her chamber, without an especial 
 summons; a prohibition which was much more 
 satisfactorily complied with than the occasional 
 attendance upon her Ladyship, which was also of 
 necessity required. It has more than once been 
 incidentally remarked, that this wing claimed 
 an earlier date than any other part of the house ; 
 and the massive construction of its walls, as 
 well as its distance from quarters more inhabited, 
 rendered it impervious to sound, or disturbance 
 of any kind, and, so far, a desirable retreat. 
 But the same cause precluded the possibility of 
 procuring aid, in case of any such dangerous 
 emergency as the present. This latter con- 
 sideration, however, weighed little with Lady 
 Rook wood. Fear was unknown to her, and she 
 required little attendance, though at all times 
 imperatively insisting upon servile obedience. 
 Independently of Lady Rookwood's prohibi- 
 
310 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 tion, there was another reason, in itself sufficient, 
 to deter the timid of the household from ven- 
 turing within the precincts of this gallery. It 
 was reported to be haunted. Strange sights 
 had been seen — strange sounds heard — shrieks 
 and groans had broken the hush of midnight. 
 One story, in particular, of a headless lady, robed 
 in white, who rushed along the passage each 
 night, and disappeared at a certain spot, ob- 
 tained universal credence. This figure, was said 
 to be that of one of the unfortunate ladies of 
 Rookwood, whose head was thrown into the 
 dark cellars beneath this part of the building, 
 while the decollated trunk was buried in solemn 
 pomp in the family-vault, whence it was sup- 
 posed to glide, at midnight, in search of its 
 mutilated remains. 
 
 Thus ran the legend, which kept alive, 
 and seemingly corroborated, the subsequent 
 superstition. The rooms composing the haunted 
 wing, had for years been occupied as dor- 
 mitories, by the heads of the house; within 
 
ROOKWOOD. 311 
 
 their gloomy confines many a beautiful dame 
 had slept — ay, slept her last. The luckless 
 Susan Bradley expired therein ; two of Sir 
 Reginald's spouses had died in the same apart- 
 ment, and many others before them. A dismal 
 catalogue of horrors were added. Something 
 mysterious and dreadful was told of the fate of 
 all these ladies. Their injured shades were sup- 
 }X)sed to " revisit the pale glimpses of the moon, 
 making night hideous"" within these chambers; 
 and several guests, who had been placed therein, 
 were frightened out of their senses. In conse- 
 quence of this, the range of rooms had for some 
 time been closed up, and few of the household 
 would venture thither alone after dusk, especially 
 the maidens ; and, if compelled to do so, how did 
 their hearts palpitate with fear, if the old stairs 
 creaked beneath their footsteps, a door suddenly 
 flapped together at the end of the gallery, or a 
 bat darted by accident against the window ! 
 
 The recess upon which the panel opened, 
 had been a small oratory, and though entirely 
 
t>iX ROOK WOOD. 
 
 disused, still retained its cushions and its crucifix. 
 There were two other entrances to this place of 
 prayer; the one communicating with a further 
 bed-chamber, 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 windows that 
 looked into the old, quadrangular court-yard 
 below; and as they issued from the oratory a 
 dazzling flash of lightning (a storm having sud- 
 denly arisen) momentarily illumined the whole 
 length of the passage, disclosing the retreating 
 figure of a man 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 
 the figure at the same instant ; and, not without 
 apprehensions lest his plans should be defeated, he 
 
ROOK WOOD. 31S 
 
 griped Lady Rookwood's arm still more strictly, 
 and placing the muzzle of the pistol to her 
 breast, hurried her rapidly forwards. Descend- 
 ing a spiral staircase, which led winding from 
 the gallery to the lower story, the sound of 
 voices, in conversation, were distinctly heard 
 through the thin partition which separated them 
 from the speakers. 
 
 " A word, and 'tis your last,'" whispered Luke, 
 pressing the pistol to her side. 
 
 Nothing doubting, from the determined fierce- 
 ness of his manner, that he would make good his 
 words, and trusting still to some fortuitous 
 occurrence for deliverance, Lady Rookwood 
 now ^vithin call, though not within reach, of 
 assistance, was silent. A loud laugh proceeded 
 from the parties in the chamber, and wath that 
 instinctive quickness with which everybody 
 recognises the familiar sound, she heard her own 
 name pronounced, coupled with an epithet which 
 sounded any thing but polite, as applied to a 
 lady. She had no difficulty in distinguishing 
 
 VOL. I. p 
 
314 ROOK WOOD. 
 
 the tones of the voice to be those of Mr. Titus 
 Tyrconnel. 
 
 Luke lingered. The language of the speakers 
 seemed such as to assure him of his security, and 
 he was not unwilling that Lady Rookwood should 
 hear an unbiassed opinion of herself and of her 
 conduct. 
 
 " I wonder how long the ould Jezabel will 
 keep us out of the state room ?'' continued Titus, 
 for it was he. 
 
 '' Can''t say, indeed," returned another voice, 
 which Lady Rookwood knew at once to be Mr. 
 Coates's ; " till midnight, most likely, unless he 
 prevents it. For my part, I wonder what the 
 devil takes her there, unless, between ourselves, 
 she wishes to be beforehand with the old gentle- 
 man — ha ! ha ! one would think she^d never 
 have gone there of her oAvn accord. However, 
 as I said before, she's got somebody to manage 
 her, now.'' * * 
 
 " Ay ! ay !" answered Titus, " that youngster 
 will see she does no mischief , he'll take her in 
 
ROOKWOOD. 315 
 
 hand now ; hell have all properly done, for his 
 father's sake. By St. Patrick, only to think of 
 his coming upon us so unawares. I've not half 
 recovered my surprise yet.'"* 
 
 " What -svill Lady Rookwood say, I v»-onder, 
 when she sees liim,'' replied Coates; " she'd no 
 notion whatever of it; I'm sure it will come 
 upon her like a clap of thunder. I wonder how 
 he got his information — that puzzles me. I 
 thought he was too much out of the way to 
 have heard " 
 
 " That's what bothers me," replied Titus. 
 " How did he learn it ? But what matters that. 
 Here he is — ^he's master now ; and if he takes 
 my advice, he'll soon make the house clane of her 
 presence. I'll give him a helping hand, with all 
 the pleasure in life."" 
 
 " While on that subject,"" returned the otlier, 
 " there's one thing more I've got to say — but 
 you'll be silent — I wouldn't have it reach her 
 ears for the world, at least, as coming from nie ; 
 though, perhaps, it might be as well she did 
 
316 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 learn a little that's said behind her back. You 
 must know *" 
 
 " Pass on," interrupted Lady Rookwood ; " I 
 will not stay to hear myself reviled ; or,'' thought 
 she, " are these, also, in his confidence ? The 
 plot is deeper than I dream'd of." 
 
 Equally surprised with herself at the conver- 
 sation he had overheard, which appeared to 
 refer to his own situation, though he could in 
 nowise conceive how the speakers obtained their 
 information, unless from the incautious loqua^ 
 city of Peter Bradley, Luke had listened in 
 silent wonder. The coincidence was, indeed, 
 curious, and affected both parties in different 
 degrees. On the one hand, Luke, though per- 
 plexed and astounded, was inspired by confi- 
 dence ; while, on the other, Lady Rookwood 
 was filled with dismay and indignation. Ever 
 distrustful of all around her, she was satisfied 
 that Coates had clandestinely possessed himself 
 of the secret of Luke's legitimacy, and of the 
 fact of the marriage, by breaking the seal of the 
 
EOOKWOOD. 317 
 
 package, and that he had subsequently betrayed 
 it. It was difficult, indeed, to reconcile this 
 notion with the delivery of the papers to her, 
 together with the inclosure of the all-important 
 certificate ; but of the existence of a confederacy 
 against her she felt fully convinced. Thus 
 doubting, thus misgiving, her vindictive soul 
 was busied in framing schemes for the over- 
 throw of their plans, and the execution of her 
 own revengeful purposes. Whelming as the 
 ocean, came the full tide of her wrath ; and 
 could she at that moment have commanded that 
 raging element to arise and destroy, her furious 
 impulse would have prompted her to confoimd 
 her supposed enemies and herself in one common 
 fate. With some such thought, determined, 
 though she should seal her own doom, to defeat 
 their plans, did Lady Rook wood suffer herself 
 to be conducted. 
 
 All was now in total obscurity — neither coim- 
 tenance could be perceived, as they trod the dark 
 passage ; but Luke's unrelaxed grasp indicated 
 p3 
 
318 ROOKWOOD. ^ 
 
 no change in his purposes, nor did the slow, dig- 
 nified march of the lady betray any apprehension 
 on her part. Their way lay beneath the entrance 
 hall. It was a means of communication little 
 used, crossing from one side of the hall to the 
 other, and received no light, but what was 
 afforded from above. Their tread sounded 
 hollowly on the flagged floor — no other sound 
 was heard. Mounting a staircase, similar to 
 the one from which they had just descended, 
 they arrived at another passage. A few paces 
 brought them to a door. Luke turned the 
 handle, and they stood within the chamber of 
 the dead. 
 
 The reader is already aware of the custom 
 observed by the Rookwood family, respecting 
 the solemnization of their funeral obsequies, at 
 midnight, and by torch light. It remains to in- 
 form him of another practice, not so rare, namely, 
 the laying of the corpse in state, upon the night 
 of the burial. There was, however, a revolting 
 peculiarity attending this observance. Placed 
 
EOOKWOOD. 319 
 
 within its shell, the body was never soldered 
 down, until after the grisly mass had been ex- 
 posed to the gaze of the tenantry ; and, in conse- 
 quence of the horrible exliibitions of which he had 
 heard, and indeed seen, express directions were 
 left by Sir Piers, that his remains should be 
 embalmed, immediately after his demise. In 
 addition to this, was the disposition of an unusual 
 allowance of wine and wassail to the tenantry, 
 it being Sir Piers's opinion, that human nature, 
 even in grief, requires support ; and that, witli 
 every glass he swallows, the regret of the mourner 
 waxes deeper, and more sympathetic, and his 
 laments louder and more long. And that he 
 was right, the event proved. No Lord of 
 Rookwood had been half so liberal, or was half 
 so much regretted ; and if sighs could waft 
 him thither, the worthy Squire was already 
 safe in " Arthur s bosom — if ever man went 
 to Arthur's bosom." His instructions had been 
 more than fulfilled by Titus Tyrconnel. Brim- 
 mers of strong ale, goblets of choice wines, flasks 
 
KOOKWOOD. 
 
 of more potent liquors, together with a goodly 
 supply of baked meats, and other viands, were at 
 the service of every comer; and now, having 
 eaten and drunken their fill, all were desirous of 
 taking a last farewell of him to whom they were 
 indebted for their entertainment ; nor, perhaps, 
 at the same time, without desire to behold a 
 spectacle, which had formed, for many days, 
 the chief topic of conversation in the neigh- 
 bourhood — the body lying in solemn state. 
 For this purpose they had congregated in the 
 hall, before a door that opened into the room in 
 which the body was placed ; but all admission 
 having been refused, by the commands of Lady 
 Rookwood, until ten o'clock, as it wanted some 
 quarter of an hour to that time, the mutes, 
 who were stationed at the door, dared not, for 
 their lives, permit any one to enter. 
 
 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 
 
ROOKWOOD. 321 
 
 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 pre- 
 scriptive. 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 dark 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 style and fashion 
 of investiture, from the steely trappings of Sir 
 Ranulph, down to the courtly costume of Sir 
 Reginald. Most of the race were ranged around 
 the room ; and, seen in the red light shed 
 upon their features by the flaring wax flambeaux, 
 they looked like an array of solemn silent wit- 
 nesses, gazing upon their departed descendant. 
 The sides of the chamber were hung with black. 
 
322 ROOKWOOD. 
 
 from the sur-base to the floor, and upon a 
 bier in the middle of the room rested the body. 
 A wide and ample pall of rich, sable velvet was 
 spread over the supporters of the yet unclosed 
 coffin. Broad escutcheons, decked out in glowing 
 colours, pompously set forth the heraldic honours 
 of the departed. Tall lights burnt at the head 
 and feet, and fragrant perfumes diffYised their 
 odours from silver censers. But that which 
 suggested the most painful reflection of all, to 
 those who had known him, was the considera^- 
 tion that, in this very room — nay, on the very 
 spot where he now rested an inanimate heap, 
 surrounded with all the insignia of mortality, 
 had Sir Piers caroused and made glad, with 
 health and spirits, and friends to boot; where 
 he was now, silent and laid low, had he shouted, 
 till the rafters had rung again, with his bois- 
 terous merriment. Another hour, and even this 
 room should have lost all trace of him. It had 
 been the theatre of his revelry and rejoicing, 
 
ROOKWOOD. 323 
 
 through the rough drama of his life ; it was 
 meet, that the last scene of his earthly pil- 
 grimage should close there likewise. 
 
 The entrance of Luke and his unwilling com- 
 panion had been abrupt. The transition from 
 darkness to the glare of light, was almost blind- 
 ing, 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, before her. The coffin-lid was entirely 
 removed, and the person, whose back was 
 towards them, appeared to be wTapt in mourn- 
 ful contemplation of the sad spectacle within. 
 Suddenly bursting from Luke's hold. Lady 
 Rookwood rushed forwards 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 the pistol at her head, but his hand 
 dropped to his side, as he encountered the glance 
 of Ranulph. All three seemed paralysed by 
 surprise. Ranulph, in astonishment, extended 
 
SM ROOKWOOD. 
 
 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 spake. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 PRINTED BY T. BRETTELL, RUPERT STREET, HAYMARKET. 
 
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