Rookwood (Historical Novel). William Harrison Ainsworth

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СКАЧАТЬ Sir Piers laughed as loudly as the rest, but his mirth was speedily checked. No sooner had his horse — old Rook, his favorite steed, who never swerved at stake or pale before — set eyes upon the accursed branch, than he started as if the fiend stood before him, and, rearing backwards, flung his rider from the saddle. At this moment, with loud screams, the wizard ravens took flight. Sir Piers was somewhat hurt by the fall, but he was more frightened than hurt; and though he tried to put a bold face on the matter, it was plain that his efforts to recover himself were fruitless. Dr. Titus Tyrconnel and that wild fellow Jack Palmer — who has lately come to the hall, and of whom you know something — tried to rally him. But it would not do. He broke up the day’s sport, and returned dejectedly to the hall. Before departing, however, he addressed a word to me in private, respecting you; and pointed, with a melancholy shake of the head, to the fatal branch. ’It is my death-warrant,’ said he, gloomily. And so it proved; two days afterwards his doom was accomplished.”

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

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

      “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 a 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 begone.”

      “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 forever, 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 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 СКАЧАТЬ