Rookwood

'Enough! I can comprehend you,' replied Peter, significantly; 'I know the count of the mourners invited to this ceremonial, and I am aware that there are three too many.'

'Know you this saucy knave, mother?'

'I cannot call him to mind, though I fancy I have seen him before.'

'My recollection serves me better, lady,' interposed Peter. 'I remember one, who was once the proud heiress of Rookwood—ay, proud and beautiful. Then the house was filled with her gallant suitors. Swords were crossed for her. Hearts bled for her. Yet she favoured none, until one hapless hour. Sir Reginald Rookwood had a daughter; Sir Reginald lost a daughter. Ha!—I see I am right. Well, he is dead and buried; and Reginald, his son, is dead likewise; and Piers is on his road hither; and you are the last, as in the course of nature you might have been the first. And, now that they are all gone, you do rightly to bury your grievances with them.'

'Silence, sirrah,' exclaimed the gentleman, 'or I will beat your brains out with your own spade.'

'No; let him speak, Vavasour,' said the lady, with an expression of anguish—'he has awakened thoughts of other days.'

'I have done,' said Peter, 'and must to work. Will you descend with me, madam, into the sepulchre of your ancestry? All your family lie within—ay, and the Lady Eleanor, your mother, amongst the number.'

Mrs. Mowbray signified her assent, and the party prepared to follow him.

The sexton held the lantern, so as to throw its light upon the steps as they entered the gloomy receptacle of the departed. Eleanor half repented having ventured within its dreary limits, so much did the appearance of the yawning catacombs, surcharged with mortality, and, above all, the ghostly figure of the grim knight, affect her with dread, as she looked wistfully around. She required all the support her brother's arm could afford her; nor was Mrs. Mowbray altogether unmoved.

'And all the family are here interred, you say?' enquired the latter.

'All,' replied the sexton.

'Where, then, lies Sir Reginald's younger brother?'

'Who?' exclaimed Peter, starting.

'Alan Rookwood.'

'What of him?'

'Nothing of moment. But I thought you could, perhaps, inform me. He died young.'

'He did,' replied Peter, in an altered tone—'very young; but not before he had lived to an old age of wretchedness. Do you know his story, madam?'

'I have heard it.'

'From your father's lips?'

'From Sir Reginald Rookwood's—never. Call him not my father, sirrah; even here I will not have him named so to me.'

'Your pardon, madam,' returned the sexton. 'Great cruelty was shown to the Lady Eleanor, and may well call forth implacable resentment in her child; yet methinks the wrong he did his brother Alan was the foulest stain with which Sir Reginald's black soul was dyed.'

'With what particular wrong dost thou charge Sir Reginald?' demanded Major Mowbray. 'What injury did he inflict upon his brother Alan?'

'He wronged his brother's honour,' replied the sexton; 'he robbed him of his wife, poisoned his existence, and hurried him to an untimely grave.'

Eleanor shudderingly held back during this horrible narration, the hearing of which she would willingly have shunned, had it been possible.

'Can this be true?' asked the major.

'Too true, my son,' replied Mrs. Mowbray, sorrowfully.

'And where lies the unfortunate Alan?' asked Major Mowbray.

''Twixt two crossroads. Where else should the suicide lie?'

Evading any further question, Peter hastily traversed the vault, elevating the light, so as to reveal the contents of each cell. One circumstance filled him with surprise and dismay—he could nowhere perceive the coffin of his daughter. In vain he peered into every catacomb—they were apparently undisturbed; and, with much internal marvelling and misgiving, Peter gave up the search. 'That vision is now explained,' muttered he; 'the body is removed, but by whom? Death! can I doubt? It must be Lady Rookwood—who else can have any interest in its removal. She has acted boldly. But she shall yet have reason to repent her temerity.' As he continued his search, his companions silently followed. Suddenly he stopped, and, signifying that all was finished, they not unwillingly quitted this abode of horror, leaving him behind them.

'It is a dreadful place,' whispered Eleanor to her mother; 'nor would I have visited it, had I conceived anything of its horrors. And that strange man! who or what is he?'

'Ay, who is he?' repeated Major Mowbray.

'I recollect him now,' replied Mrs. Mowbray; 'he is one who has ever been connected with the family. He had a daughter, whose beauty was her ruin: it is a sad tale; I cannot tell it now: you have heard enough of misery and guilt: but that may account for his bitterness of speech. He was a dependant upon my poor brother.'

'Poor man!' replied Eleanor; 'if he has been unfortunate, I pity him. I am sorry we have been into that dreadful place. I am very faint: and I tremble more than ever at the thought of meeting Ranulph Rookwood again. I can scarcely support myself—I am sure I shall not venture to look upon him.'