Читать книгу The Collected Novels - William Harrison Ainsworth - Страница 90

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Card. Now art thou come? Thou look’st ghastly; There sits in thy face some great determination, Mixed with some fear.

Bos. Thus it lightens into action: I am come to kill thee.

Duchess of Malfy.

Ranulph Rookwood was for some moments so much stunned by the ghastly fate of Agnes, connected, as it appeared to be, with a supernatural summons similar to that which he imagined he had himself received, that he was incapable of stirring from the spot, or removing his gaze from the rigid features of the corpse, which, even in death, wore the strong impress of horror and despair. Through life he knew that Agnes, his own nurse, had been his mother’s constant and faithful attendant; the unhesitating agent of her schemes, and it was to be feared, from the remorse she had exhibited, the participator of her crimes; and Ranulph felt, he knew not why, that in having witnessed her terrible end, he beheld the ultimate condition of his own parent. Conquering, not without great effort, the horror which had riveted him to the spot, he turned to look towards Eleanor. She had sunk upon a chair, a silent witness of the scene, Mrs. Mowbray and Dr. Small having, upon the first alarm given by Agnes respecting Lady Rookwood’s departure from the house quitted the room to ascertain the truth of her statement. Ranulph immediately flew to Eleanor.

“Ranulph,” said she, though almost overcome by her alarm, “stay not an instant here with me. I am sure, from that poor woman’s dreadful death, that something terrible has occurred, perhaps to Lady Rookwood. Go to her chamber. Tarry not, I entreat of you.”

“But will you, can you remain here alone with that body?” asked Ranulph.

“I shall not be alone. Handassah is within call — nay, she is here. Oh, what an eve of our espousals has this been, dear Ranulph. Our whole life is a troubled volume, of which each successive leaf grows darker. Fate is opposed to us. It is useless to contend with our destiny. I fear we shall never be united.”

“Dismiss me not with words like those, dear Eleanor,” returned Ranulph. “Fate cannot have greater woes in store for us than those by which we are now opposed. Let us hope that we are now at that point whence all must brighten. Once possessed of you, assured of thus much happiness, I would set even fate at defiance. And you will be mine to-morrow.”

“Ranulph, dear Ranulph, your suit at this moment is desperate. I dare not, cannot pledge myself. You yourself heard, even now, my mother’s sentiments, and I cannot marry without her consent.”

“Your mother, like my own, regards not the feelings of her children. Forgive my boldness, Eleanor; forgive me if I linger now, when duty calls me hence; but I cannot tear myself away. Your mother may return — my hopes be crushed; for even your love for me seems annihilated in her presence.”

“Ranulph, your vehemence terrifies me,” rejoined Eleanor. “I implore you, by the tender affection which you know I bear you, not to urge me further at this moment. Recall your firmer feelings, and obtain some mastery over yourself. I repeat, I am yours only, if I am bride of any one. But when our union can take place rests not with myself. And now, I entreat of you, leave me.”

“You are mine,” said Ranulph, with fervor; “mine only.”

“Yours only,” replied Eleanor.

“Be this the earnest of my happiness!” exclaimed Ranulph, imprinting a long and impassioned kiss upon her lips.

The lovers were startled from their embrace by a profound sigh; it proceeded from Handassah, who, unbidden, had replaced the picture of the Lady Eleanor upon its frame. The augury seemed sinister. Every one who has gazed steadfastly upon a portrait must have noticed the peculiar and lifelike character which, under certain aspects, the eyes will assume. Seen by the imperfect light upon the table, the whole character of the countenance of the Lady Eleanor seemed changed; the features appeared to be stamped with melancholy, and the eyes to be fixed with pitying tenderness upon her descendants. Both gazed at each other and at the picture, struck with the same sentiment of undefined awe. Beside them stood the dark figure of the gipsy girl, watching, with ill-concealed satisfaction, the effect of her handiwork. Ranulph was aroused from his abstraction by hearing a loud outcry in Mrs. Mowbray’s voice. Hastily committing Eleanor to the care of her attendant, he left the room. Handassah followed him to the door, closed it after him, and then locked it within side. This done, she walked back hastily towards Eleanor, exclaiming, in a tone of exultation, “You have parted with him forever.”

“What mean you, girl?” cried Eleanor, alarmed at her manner. “Why have you fastened the door? Open it, I command you.”

“Command me!” laughed Handassah, scornfully. “What if I refuse your mandate? What, if, in my turn, I bid you obey me? I never owned but one mistress. If I have bowed my neck to you for a time, ’twas to fulfil her dying wishes. If I have submitted to your control, it was to accomplish what I have now accomplished. Your oath! Remember your oath. The hour is come for its fulfilment.”

With these words Handassah clapped her hands. A panel in the wall opened, and Luke stood suddenly before them. Silently and with stern deliberation he strode towards Eleanor, and seizing one of her hands, drew her forcibly towards him. Eleanor resisted not; she had not the power; neither did she scream, for so paralyzing was her terror, that for the moment it took away all power of utterance. Luke neither stirred nor spoke, but, still maintaining his hold, gazed searchingly upon her features, while Eleanor, as if spell-bound, could not withdraw her eyes from him. Nothing more terribly impressive could be conceived than Luke’s whole appearance. Harassed and exhausted by the life he had recently led; deprived almost of natural rest; goaded by remorse, his frame was almost worn to the bone, while his countenance, once dark and swarthy, was now blanched and colorless as marble. This pallid and deathlike hue was, in all probability, owing to the loss of blood he had sustained from the wound inflicted by Major Mowbray, with the stains of which his apparel was dyed; for, though staunched, the effusion had been sufficient to cause great faintness. His dark eyes blazed with their wonted fire — nay, they looked darker and larger from his exceeding paleness, and such intense mental and bodily suffering was imprinted upon his countenance, that, despite its fierceness and desperation, few could have regarded him without sympathy. Real desperation has so much of agony in its character, that no one can witness it unmoved. His garb was not that in which the reader first beheld him, but a rich, dark, simple suit of velvet, corresponding more with his real rank in life than his former peasant’s attire; but it was disordered by his recent conflict, and stained with bloody testimonials of the fray; while his long, sable curls, once his pride and ornament, now hung in intertangled elf-locks, like a coil of wreathed water-snakes. Even in her terror, as she dwelt upon his noble features, Eleanor could not help admitting that she beheld the undoubted descendant, and the living likeness of the handsomest and most distinguished of her house — the profligate and criminal Sir Reginald. As her eye, mechanically following this train of thought, wandered for an instant to the haughty portraiture of Sir Reginald, which formed part of the family pictures, and thence to those of his unfortunate lady, she was struck with the fancy that, by some terrible fatality, the tragic horrors of bygone days were to be again enacted in their persons, and that they were in some way strangely identified with their unfortunate progenitors. So forcibly was this idea impressed upon her features that Luke, who had followed the direction of her glances, became instantly aware of it. Drawing her nearer to the portrait of the Lady Eleanor, he traced the resemblance in mute wonder; thence, turning towards that of Sir Reginald, he proudly exclaimed: “You doubted once my lineage, maiden — can you gaze on those features, which would almost seem to be a reflection of mine own, and longer hesitate whose descendant I am? I glory in my likeness. There is a wild delight in setting human emotions at naught, which he was said to feel — which I feel now. Within these halls I seem to breathe an atmosphere congenial to me. I visit what I oft have visited in my dreams; or as in a state of pre-existence. Methinks, as I gaze on you, I could almost deem myself Sir Reginald, and you his bride, the Lady Eleanor. Our fates were parallel: she was united to her lord by ties of hatred — by a vow—a bridal vow! So are you to me. And she could ne’er escape him — could ne’er throw off her bondage — nor shall you. I claim the fulfilment of your oath; you are mine.”

“Never, never!” shrieked Eleanor, struggling to disengage herself. But Luke laughed at her feeble efforts. Handassah stood by, a passive spectatress of the scene, with her arms folded upon her bosom.

“You refuse compliance,” said Luke, scornfully. “Have you no hopes of Heaven, no fears of perdition, that you dare to violate your vow? Bethink you of the awful nature of that obligation; of the life that was laid down to purchase it; of the blood which will cry out for vengeance ‘gainst the murderess, should you hesitate. By that blood-cemented sacrament, I claim you as my own. You are mine.” And he dragged her towards the opening.

Eleanor uttered a long and terrific scream.

“Be silent, on your life,” added he, searching for the dagger given to him by Alan Rookwood, when, as his hand sought the weapon, Eleanor escaped from his grasp, and fled towards the door. But Handassah had anticipated her intention. The key was withdrawn from the lock, and the wretched maiden vainly tried to open it.

At this instant Turpin appeared at the sliding panel.

“Quick, quick!” cried he, impatiently —“despatch, in the devil’s name. The house is alarmed. I hear young Ranulph’s voice in the gallery.”

“Ranulph!” shrieked Eleanor —“then I am saved,” and she redoubled her outcries for assistance.

Luke again seized his victim. Her hands clutched so convulsively fast in her despairing energy against the handle of the door that he could not tear her thence. By this time Ranulph Rookwood, who had caught her reiterated screams for help, was at the entrance. He heard her struggles; he heard Luke’s threats — his mockery — his derisive laughter — but vainly, vainly did he attempt to force it open. It was of the strongest oak, and the bolts resisted all his efforts. A board alone divided him from his mistress. He could hear her sobs and gasps. He saw, from the action of the handle, with what tenacity she clung to it; and, stung to frenzy by the sight, he hurled himself against the sturdy plank, but all in vain. At length the handle was still. There was a heavy fall upon the floor — a stifled scream — and a sound as of a body being dragged along. The thought was madness.

“To the panel! to the panel!” cried a voice — it was that of Turpin — from within.

“The panel! — ha!” echoed Ranulph, with a sudden gleam of hope. “I may yet save her.” And he darted along the corridor with the swiftness of thought.

Luke, meanwhile, had for some minutes fruitlessly exhausted all his force to drag Eleanor from the door. Despair gave her strength; she clutched at the door; but she felt her strength failing her — her grasp was relaxing. And then the maddening thought that she would be shortly his — that he would slay her — while the idea that Ranulph was so near, and yet unable to protect her, added gall even to her bitterness. With savage delight Luke exulted in the lovers’ tortures. He heard Ranulph’s ineffectual attempts; he heard his groans; he heard their mutual cries. Inflamed by jealousy, he triumphed in his power of vengeance, and even prolonged the torture which accident had given him the means of inflicting. He stood like the inquisitor who marks his victim’s anguish on the rack, and calculates his powers of further endurance. But he could no longer dally, even with this horrible gratification. His companion grew impatient. Eleanor’s fair long tresses had escaped from their confinement in the struggle, and fell down her neck in disorder. Twining his fingers amidst its folds, Luke dragged her backwards from her hold, and, incapable of further resistance, her strength completely exhausted, the wretched girl fell to the ground.

Luke now raised her almost inanimate form in his arms, and had nigh reached the aperture, when a crash was heard in the panel opposite to that by which he was about to escape, and communicating with a further apartment. It was thrown open, and Ranulph Rookwood presented himself at the narrow partition. An exclamation of joy, that he was yet in time, escaped his lips; and he was about to clear the partition at a bound, and to precipitate himself upon Luke, when, as suddenly as his own action, was the person of the unfortunate Mr. Coates wedged into the aperture.

“Traitor!” cried Ranulph, regarding Coates with concentrated fury, “dare you to oppose me? — hence! or, by Heaven, I will cut you down!”

“’Tis impossible,” ejaculated the attorney. “For your own sake, Sir Ranulph — for my sake — I entreat — implore of you — not to attempt to pass this way. Try the other door.”

Ranulph said no more. He passed his sword through the body of the miserable attorney, who, with a deep groan, fell. The only obstacle to his passage being thus removed, he at once leaped into the room.

The brothers were now confronted, together, but little of brotherly love mingled with the glances which they threw upon each other. Ranulph’s gentle, but withal enthusiastic temperament, had kindled, under his present excitement, like flax at the sudden approach of flame. He was wild with frenzy. Luke was calmer, but his fury was deadly and inextinguishable. The meeting was terrible on both sides.

With one arm Luke enfolded Eleanor, with the other he uplifted the dagger. Its point was towards her bosom. Scowling grim defiance at Ranulph, he exclaimed, in a determined tone, “Advance a footstep, and my dagger descends into her heart.”

Ranulph hesitated, uncertain how to act; foaming with rage, yet trembling with apprehension.

“Ranulph,” gasped Eleanor, “life without you were valueless. Advance — avenge me!”

Ranulph still hesitated. He could not, by any act of his own, compromise Eleanor’s safety.

Luke saw his advantage, and was not slow to profit by it. “You seal her destruction if you stir,” said he.

“Villain,” returned Ranulph, between his ground teeth, and with difficulty commanding sufficient coolness to speak with deliberation, “you perceive your power. Injure her, and nothing earthly shall protect you. Free her, and take your life and liberty; nay, reward if you will. You cannot otherwise escape me.”

“Escape you!” laughed Luke, disdainfully. “Stand aside, and let me pass. Beware,” added he, sternly, “how you oppose me. I would not have a brother’s blood upon my soul.”

“Nor I,” cried Ranulph; “but you pass not.” And he placed himself full in Luke’s path.

Luke, however, steadily moved forward, holding Eleanor between himself and Ranulph, so as to shield his own person; but, fancying he saw an opportunity of dealing a blow without injury to his mistress, the latter was about to hazard the thrust, when his arms were seized behind, and he was rendered powerless.

“Lost, lost,” groaned he; “she is lost to me forever!”

“I fear that’s but too true,” said Turpin, for it was the highwayman whose grasp confined Ranulph.

“Must I see her borne away before my eyes?” cried Ranulph. “Release me — set me free!”

“Quite impossible at present,” returned Dick. “Mount and away, Sir Luke,” continued he; “never mind me. Leave me to shift for myself.”

“Eleanor!” cried Ranulph, as she passed close by his side.

“Ranulph!” shrieked Eleanor, with a loud scream, recalled to consciousness by his voice, “farewell for ever.”

“Ay, for ever,” responded Luke, triumphantly. “You meet no more on earth.”

He was about to pass through the panel, when Eleanor exerted all her remaining strength in a last futile attempt at liberation. In the struggle, a packet fell from Luke’s bosom.

Handassah stooped to pick it up.

“From Sybil!” exclaimed she, glancing at the superscription.

“Remember my promise to old Barbara,” roared Dick, who had some curiosity, as the reader knows, to learn what the package contained. “The time is arrived. Eleanor is in your power — in your presence.”

“Give me the packet,” said Luke, resigning Eleanor for the instant to Handassah’s custody —“take the steel, and grasp her firmly.”

Handassah, who, though slight of figure, was of singular personal strength, twined her arms about Miss Mowbray in such a manner as to preclude all possibility of motion.

Luke tore open the package. It was a box carefully enclosed in several folds of linen, and lastly within a sheet of paper, on which were inscribed these words:

The Dower of Sybil

Hastily, and with much curiosity, Luke raised the lid of the box. It contained one long silken tress of blackest hair enviously braided. It was Sybil’s. His first impulse was to cast it from him; his next, reproachfully to raise it to his lips. He started as if a snake had stung him.

At this moment a loud clamor was heard in the gallery. In the next, the door was assailed by violent strokes, evidently proceeding from some weighty instrument, impelled by the united strength of several assailants.

The voice of Turpin rose above the deafening din. “A bullet for the first who enters,” shouted he. “Quick, Sir Luke, and the prize is safe — away, and ——”

But as he seconded his exhortation with a glance at Luke, he broke off the half-uttered sentence, and started with horror and amazement. Ere the cause of his alarm could be expressed, the door was burst open, and a crowd of domestics, headed by Major Mowbray and Titus Tyrconnel, rushed into the room.

“Nay, then, the game’s up!” exclaimed Dick; “I have done with Rookwood.” And, springing through the panel, he was seen no more.

When the newcomers first looked round, they could perceive only two figures besides themselves — those of the two lovers — Eleanor having sunk pale, exhausted, and almost senseless, into the arms of Ranulph. Presently, however, a ghastly object attracted their attention. All rushed towards it — all recoiled, as soon as they discovered that it was the lifeless body of Luke Rookwood. His limbs were stiff, like those of a corpse which has for hours been such; his eyes protruded from their sockets; his face was livid and blotched. All bespoke, with terrible certainty, the efficacy of the poison, and the full accomplishment of Barbara’s revenge.

Handassah was gone. Probably she had escaped ere Turpin fled. At all events, she was heard of no more at Rookwood.

It required little to recall the senses of Eleanor. Shortly she revived, and as she gazed around, and became conscious of her escape, she uttered exclamations of thanksgiving, and sank into the embraces of her brother.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Mowbray and Dr. Small had joined the assemblage.

The worthy doctor had been full of alarm; but his meditated condolences were now changed to congratulations, as he heard the particulars of the terrible scene that had occurred, and of Eleanor’s singular and almost providential deliverance.

“After what has befallen, madam,” said the doctor to Mrs. Mowbray, slightly coughing, “you can no longer raise any objection to a certain union, eh?”

“I will answer for my mother in that particular,” said Major Mowbray, stepping forward.

“She will answer for herself, my son,” said Mrs. Mowbray. “The match has her full and entire consent. But to what am I to attribute the unexpected happiness of your return?”

“To a chain of singular circumstances,” replied the Major, “which I will hereafter detail to you. Suffice it to say, that but for this gentleman’s fortunate arrival,” added he, looking at Titus Tyrconnel, “at the hut on Thorne Waste, I might have been detained a prisoner, without parole, and, what is worse, without provision perhaps for days; and to add to my distress, fully acquainted with the meditated abduction of my sister. It was excessively lucky for me, Mr. Tyrconnel, that you happened to pass that way, and for poor Paterson likewise.”

“Arrah, by my sowl, major, and you may say that with safety; and it was particularly fortunate that we stumbled upon the tits in the cellar, or we’d never have been here just in the nick of it. I begin to think we’ve lost all chance of taking Dick Turpin this time. He’s got clean away.”

“I am not sorry for his escape,” said the major. “He’s a brave fellow; and I respect courage wherever I find it, even in a highwayman. I should be sorry to appear as a witness against him; and I trust it will never be my fate to do so.”

We shall not pause to describe the affectionate meeting which now ensued between the brother and sister — the congratulations upon Eleanor’s escape from peril, intermingled with the tenderest embraces, and the warmest thanks offered to Ranulph for his gallant service. “She is yours, my dear boy,” said the major; “and though you are a Rookwood, and she bears the ill-fated name of Eleanor, I predict that, contrary to the usual custom of our families in such cases, all your misfortunes will have occurred before marriage.”

“There is only one thing,” said Small, with a very peculiar expression, which might almost be construed into serio-comic, could we suspect the benevolent doctor of any such waggery, “that can possibly throw a shade over our present felicity. Lady Rookwood is not to be found.”

“My poor mother,” said Ranulph, starting.

“Make yourself easy,” said the doctor; “I doubt not we shall hear of her to-morrow. My only apprehension,” added he, half aside, “is, that she may be heard of before.”

“One other circumstance afflicts me,” said Ranulph. “Poor Mr. Coates!”

“What’s that you say of Mr. Coates, Sir Ranulph?” exclaimed Titus.

“I fear he was killed in the recent affray,” said Ranulph. “Let some one search for the body.”

“Kilt!” echoed Titus. “Is it kilt that Mr. Coates is? Ah! ullagone, and is it over with him entirely? Is he gone to rejoin his father, the thief-taker? Bring me to his remains.”

“He will bring them to you himself,” said the attorney, stepping forward. “Luckily, Sir Ranulph,” said the incurable punster, “it was merely the outer coats that your sword passed through; the inner remains uninjured, so that you did not act as my conveyancer to eternity. Body o’ me! I’ve as many lives as a cat — ha, ha!”

Ranulph welcomed the facetious man of law with no little satisfaction.

We think it unnecessary to enter into further detail. Another chamber was prepared for Eleanor’s reception, to which she was almost immediately transported. The remains of the once fierce and haughty Luke, now stiff and stark, but still wearing, even in death, their proud character, were placed upon the self-same bier, and covered with the self-same pall which, but a week ago, had furnished forth his father’s funeral. And as the domestics crowded round the corpse, there was not one of them but commented upon his startling resemblance to his grandsire, Sir Reginald; nor, amongst the superstitious, was the falling of the fatal bough forgotten.

Tranquillity was at length restored at the hall. Throughout the night and during the next day, Ranulph made every search for his mother, but no tidings could be learned of her. Seriously alarmed, he then caused more strict and general inquiry to be instituted, but with like unsuccessful effect. It was not, indeed, till some years afterwards that her fate was ascertained.