Rookwood (Historical Novel). William Harrison Ainsworth
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 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?”
“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 gripe 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 odor, of a pungent nature, was diffused around; giving evidence that the art by which the ancient Egyptians endeavored 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 scrutinized 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.
CHAPTER 2
THE SKELETON HAND
Duch. You are very cold. I fear you are not well after your travel. Ha! lights. —— Oh horrible!
Fer. Let her have lights enough.
Duch. What witchcraft doth he practise, that he hath left A dead hand here?
Duchess of Malfy.
The sexton’s waning candle now warned him of the progress of time, and having completed his arrangements,