Rookwood

by W. Harrison Ainsworth

  THE LEGEND OF THE LIME-TREE

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

  (The avenue that leads into the Rookwoods' ancient hall),

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

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

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

  With silver bark and foliage dark, of melancholy green;

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

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

  In that old tree when playfully the summer breezes sigh,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Some think that tree instinct must be with preternatural power,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  A wretched hag her footsteps drag beneath his lordly wood,

  His blood-hounds twain he called amain, and straightway gave her chase;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "I thought you said, even now, that this death-omen, if such it be, was always confined to the immediate family of Rookwood, and not to mere inmates of the mansion."

  "To the heads only of that house, be they male or female."

  "Then how could it apply to my mother? Was she of that house? Was she a wife?"

  "Who shall say she was not?" rejoined the sexton.

  "Who shall say she was so?" cried Luke, repeating the words with indignant emphasis—"who will avouch that?"

  A smile, cold as wintry sunbeam, played upon the sexton's rigid lips.

  "I will bear this no longer," cried Luke; "anger me not, or look to yourself. In a word, have you anything to tell me respecting her? if not, let me be gone."

  "I have. But I will not be hurried by a boy like you," replied Peter, doggedly. "Go, if you will, and take the consequences. My lips are sealed for ever, and I have much to say—much that it behoves you to know."

  "Be brief, then. When you sought me out this morning, in my retreat with the gipsy gang at Davenham Wood, you bade me meet you in the porch of Rookwood Church at midnight. I was true to my appointment."

  "And I will keep my promise," replied the sexton. "Draw closer, that I may whisper in thine ear. Of every Rookwood who 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?"

  "Of murder!" returned the sexton, in a hissing whisper.

  "Murder!" echoed Luke, recoiling.

  "There is one dark stain—one foul blot on all. Blood—blood hath been spilt."

  "By all?"

  "Ay, and such blood! theirs was no common crime. Even murder hath its degrees. Theirs was of the first class."

  "Their wives!—you cannot mean that?"

  "Ay, their wives!—I do. You have heard it then. Ha! ha! 'tis a trick they had. Did you ever hear the old saying:

  No mate ever brook would

  A Rook of the Rookwood!

  A merry saying it is, and true. No woman ever stood in a Rookwood's wa
y 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?"

  "What have the misdeeds of his ancestry to do with Sir Piers," muttered Luke, "much less with my mother?"

  "Everything. If he could not rid himself of his wife and she is a match for the devil himself, the mistress might be more readily set aside."

  "Have you absolute knowledge of aught?" asked Luke, his voice tremulous with emotion.

  "Nay, I but hinted."

  "Such hints are worse than open speech. Let me know the worst. Did he kill her?" And Luke glared at the sexton as if he would have penetrated his secret soul.

  But Peter was not easily fathomed. His cold, bright eye returned Luke's gaze steadfastly, as he answered, composedly:

  "I have said all I know."

  "But not all you think."

  "Thoughts should not always find utterance, else we might often endanger our own safety and that of others."

  "An idle subterfuge—and, from you, worse than idle. I will have an answer, yea or nay. Was it poison—was it steel?"

  "Enough—she died."

  "No, it is 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 the shoulder of the man of graves with such force as nearly to annihilate him. "Speak, or I will strangle you. She died, you say, in her sleep?"

  "She did so," replied the sexton, shaking off Luke's hold.

  "And was it to tell me that I had a mother's 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, therefore, in what he intended for a soothing tone that he attempted to solicit his grandson's attention.

  "I will hear nothing more," interrupted Luke, and the vaulted chamber rang with his passionate lamentations. "Am I the sport of this mocking fiend?" cried he, "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 fancies 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 listens to me, save his to whom my wretchedness is food for mockery."

  "Could the dead hear thee, thy mother might do so," returned the sexton. "She lies within this space."

  Luke staggered back, as if struck by a sudden shot. He spoke not, but fell with a violent shock against a pile of coffins, at which he caught for support.

  "What have I done?" he exclaimed, recoiling.

  A thundering crash resounded through the vault. One of the coffins, dislodged from its position by his fall, tumbled to the ground, and, alighting upon its side, split asunder.

  "Great Heavens! what is this?" cried Luke, as a dead body, clothed in all the hideous apparel of the tomb, rolled forth to his feet.

  "It is your mother's corpse," answered the sexton, coldly; "I brought you hither to behold it. But you have anticipated my intentions."

  "This my mother?" shrieked Luke, dropping upon his knees by the body, and seizing one of its chilly hands, as it lay upon the floor, with the face upwards.

  The sexton took the candle from the sconce.

  "Can this be death?" shouted Luke. "Impossible! Oh, God! she stirs—she moves. The light!—quick. I see her stir! This is dreadful!"

  "Do not deceive yourself," said the sexton, in a tone which betrayed more emotion than was his wont. " 'Tis the bewilderment of fancy. She will never stir again."

  And he shaded the candle with his hand, so as to throw the light full upon the face of the corpse. It was motionless as that of an image carved in stone. No trace of corruption was visible upon the rigid, yet exquisite tracery of its features. A profuse cloud of raven hair, escaped from its swathements in the fall, hung like a dark veil over the bosom and person of the dead, and presented a startling contrast to the waxlike hue of the skin and the pallid cereclothes. Flesh still adhered to the hand, though it mouldered into dust within the grip of Luke, as he pressed the fingers to his lips. The shroud was disposed like night-gear about her person, and from without its folds a few withered flowers had fallen. A strong aromatic odour, of a pungent nature, was diffused around; giving evidence 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.

  A pause of awful silence succeeded, broken only by the convulsive respiration of Luke. The sexton stood by, apparently an indifferent spectator of the scene of horror. His eye wandered from the dead to the living, and gleamed with a peculiar and indefinable expression, half apathy, half abstraction. For one single instant, as he scrutinised the features of his daughter, his brow, contracted by anger, immediately afterwards was elevated in scorn. But otherwise you would have sought in vain to read the purport of that cold, insensible glance, which dwelt for a brief space on the face of the mother, and settled eventually upon her son. At length 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!" he murmured. "No sweet smell left—but—faugh!" Holding 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. Peter observed the effect. "Such was thy life," he exclaimed; "a brief, bright sparkle, followed by dark, utter extinction!"

  Saying which, he flung the expiring ashes of the floweret from his hand.

  | Contents |

  CHAPTER II

  THE SKELETON HAND

  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. But receiving no answer, and remarking no signs of life about his grandson, he began to be apprehensive that he had fallen into a swoon. Drawing near to Luke, he took him gently by the arm. Thus disturbed, Luke groaned aloud.

  "I am glad to find you can 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," sighed Luke.

  "What, here? It were as much as my office is worth. You can return some other night. But go you must now—at least, if you take on thus. I never calculated upon a scene like this, or it had been long ere I brought you hither. So come away; yet, stay;—but first lend me a land 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." And, sobbing hysterically, he relapsed into his former insensibility.

  "Poh! this is worse than midsummer madness," said Peter; "the lad is crazed with grief, and all about a mother who has been four-and-twenty years in her grave. I will e'en put her out of the way myself."

  Saying which, he proceeded, as noiselessly as possible, to raise the corpse in his arms, and deposited 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 had been tampered with, and partially dislocated. Without,
however, entering into further particulars in this place, it may be sufficient to observe that the hand, detached from the socket at the wrist, remained within the gripe of Luke; while, ignorant of the mischief he had occasioned, the sexton continued his labours unconsciously, until the noise, which he of necessity made in stamping with his heel upon the plank, recalled his grandson to sensibility. The first thing that the latter perceived, upon collecting his faculties, were the skeleton fingers twined within his own.

  "What have you done with the body? Why have you left this with me?" demanded 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."

  "Never," returned Luke, staring at the bony fragment.

  "Pshaw! of what advantage is a dead hand? 'Tis an unlucky keepsake, and will lead to mischief. The only use I ever heard of such a thing being turned to, was in the case of Bowlegged Ben, who was hanged in irons for murder, on Harchase Heath, on the York Road, and whose hand was cut off at the wrist the first night to make a Hand of Glory, or Dead Man's Candle. Hast never heard what the old song says? "And without waiting his grandson's response, Peter broke into the following wild strain: