Rookwood

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 historian, 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 (or, as it was then written, Rokewode), the first of the name, a stout Yorkist, who flourished in the reign of Edward IV, and received the fair domain and broad lands upon which the edifice was raised, from 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 from scenes of strife, and to consult his spiritual weal in the erection and endowment of the neighbouring church. It was of mixed architecture, and combined the peculiarities of each successive 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 Rookwoods had early anticipated the gentler characteristics of a later day, though it could boast little of that exuberance of external ornament, luxuriance of design, and prodigality of beauty, which, under the sway of the Virgin 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 selected by Sir Ranulph for his habitation had been already occupied by a vast fabric of oak, which he in part removed, though some vestiges might still be traced of that ancient pile. A massive edifice succeeded with gate and tower, court and moat complete, substantial enough one would have thought to have endured for centuries. But even this ponderous structure grew into disuse, and Sir Ranulph's successors, remodelling, repairing, almost rebuilding the whole mansion, in 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 windows had dwindled into modernised 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 succeeded by a gravel drive. Yet despite of all these changes, the house of the Rookwoods, for an old house (and, after all, what is like an old house?), was no undesirable, or uncongenial abode for any worshipful country gentleman 'who had 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 immemorial wood of the same timber, which had given its name to the family that dwelt among its rook-haunted shades. Descending the avenue, at the point of access afforded by a road that wound down the hillside towards 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 construction than the house; and in all probability occupying the place where the bartizan'd gateway stood of yore. This tower rose to a height corresponding with the roof of the mansion; and was embellished on the side facing the house with a flamingly gilt dial, peering, like an impudent observer, at all that passed within doors. Two apartments, which it contained, were appropriated to the house- porter. Despoiled of its martial honours, the gateway still displayed the achievements of the family—the rook and the fatal branch—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 hoary summit of a dovecot indicating the near neighbourhood of an ancient barn, contemporary with the earliest dwelling-house; and of a little world of offices and out-buildings 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!

This was a garden! There might be 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 gayest of parterres and greenest of lawns, with its admonitory sun-dial, its marble basin in—the centre, its fountain, and conched water-god, the quaint summer-house, surmounted with its gilt vane, the statue, glimmering from out its covert of leaves, the cool cascade, the urns, the bowers, and a hundred luxuries beside, 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), with least sacrifice of in-door comfort and convenience.

All these delights might once have been enjoyed. But at the time of which we write, this fair garden was for the most part a waste. Ill kept, and unregarded, the gay parterres were disfigured with weeds; the grass grew on the gravel walk; several of the urns were overthrown; the hour upon the dial was untold; the fountain was choked up, and the smooth-shaven lawn only rescued, it would seem, from 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 and characteristic features of the place had been, for the most part, 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 brickwork; the low, Tudor arches; the mullioned bars of the windows—all attested its age.

This wing was occupied by an upper and lower gallery, communicating with suits 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 commanding the prospect beyond—a favourite resort of the late Sir Piers. The interior was curious for its honeycomb ceiling, deeply 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, and whose cipher E. R. was also displayed upon the immense plate of iron which formed the fire-grate.

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, commanding a lovely view of park, water, and woodland. High-hanging woods waved in the foreground, and an extensive sweep of flat champaign country, stretched out to meet a line of blue, hazy hills bounding the distant horizon.

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CHAPTER V

SIR REGINALD ROOKWOOD

FROM the house to its inhabitants, the transition is natural. Besides the connection between them, there were many points of resemblance; many family features in common; there was the same melancholy grandeur, the same character of romance, the same fantastical 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 rumours were handed down from father to son, throughout the county, and, like 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 was ever baffled. They were a stern and stiff-necked people, of indomitable pride and resolution, with, for the most part, force of character sufficient to enable them to breast difficulties and dangers that would have overwhelmed ordinary individuals. No quality is so advantageous to its possessor as firmness; and the determined