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We’re sorry His violent act has e’en drawn blood of honor, And stained our honors; Thrown ink upon the forehead of our fame, Which envious spirits will dip their pens into After our death, and blot us in our tombs; For that which would seem treason in our lives, Is laughter when we’re dead. Who dares now whisper, That dares not then speak out; and even proclaim, With loud words, and broad pens, our closest shame?

The Revenger’s Tragedy.

With that quickness of perception which at once supplies information on such an emergency, Luke instantly conjectured who was before him. Startled as he was, he yet retained his composure, abiding the result with his arms folded upon his breast.

“Seize him!” cried Lady Rookwood, as soon as she could command her speech.

“He rushes on his death if he stirs,” exclaimed Luke, pointing his pistol.

“Bethink you where you are, villain!” cried Ranulph; “you are entrapped in your own toils. Submit yourself to our mercy — resistance is vain, and will not secure your safety, while it will aggravate your offence. Surrender yourself ——”

“Never!” answered Luke. “Know you whom you ask to yield?”

“How should I?” answered Ranulph.

“By that instinct which tells me who you are. Ask Lady Rookwood — she can inform you, if she will.”

“Parley not with him — seize him!” cried Lady Rookwood. “He is a robber, a murderer, who has assailed my life.”

“Beware!” said Luke to Ranulph, who was preparing to obey his mother’s commands; “I am no robber — no murderer. Do not you make me a fratricide.”

“Fratricide!” echoed Ranulph.

“Heed him not,” ejaculated Lady Rookwood. “It is false — he dares not harm thee, for his soul. I will call assistance.”

“Hold, mother!” exclaimed Ranulph, detaining Lady Rookwood; “this man may be what he represents himself. Before we proceed to extremities, I would question him. I would not have mentioned it in your hearing could it have been avoided, but my father had another son.”

Lady Rookwood frowned. She would have checked him, but Luke rejoined —

“You have spoken the truth; he had a son — I am he. I——”

“Be silent, I command you!” said Lady Rookwood.

“Death!” cried Luke, in a loud voice. “Why should I be silent at your bidding — at yours— who regard no laws, human or divine; who pursue your own fell purposes, without fear of God or man? Waste not your frowns on me — I heed them not. Do you think I am like a tame hound, to be cowed to silence? I will speak. Ranulph Rookwood, the name you bear is mine, and by a right as good as is your own. From his loins, who lies a corpse before us, I sprang. No brand of shame is on my birth. I am your father’s son — his first-born — your elder brother. Hear me!” cried he, rushing to the bier. “By this body, I swear that I have avouched the truth — and though to me the dead Sir Piers Rookwood hath never been what a father should be to a son — though I have never known his smile, felt his caresses, or received his blessing, yet now be all forgiven, all forgotten.” And he cast himself with frantic violence upon the coffin.

Rescue of Lady Rookwood

It is difficult to describe the feelings with which Ranulph heard Luke’s avowal. Amazement and dread predominated. Unable to stir, he stood gazing on in silence. Not so Lady Rookwood. The moment for action was arrived. Addressing her son in a low tone, she said, “Your prey is within your power. Secure him.”

“Wherefore?” rejoined Ranulph; “if he be my brother, shall I raise my hand against him?”

“Wherefore not?” returned Lady Rookwood.

“’Twere an accursed deed,” replied Ranulph. “The mystery is resolved. ’Twas for this that I was summoned home.”

“Ha! what say you? summoned! by whom?”

“My father!”

“Your father?” echoed Lady Rookwood, in great surprise.

“Ay, my dead father! He has appeared to me since his decease.”

“Ranulph, you rave — you are distracted with grief — with astonishment.”

“No, mother; but I will not struggle against my destiny.”

“Pshaw! your destiny is Rookwood, its manors, its lands, its rent-roll, and its title; nor shall you yield it to a base-born churl like this. Let him prove his rights. Let the law adjudge them to him, and we will yield — but not till then. I tell thee he has not the right, nor can he maintain it. He is a deluded dreamer, who, having heard some idle tale of his birth, believes it, because it chimes with his wishes. I treated him with the scorn he deserved. I would have driven him from my presence, but he was armed, as you see, and forced me hither, perhaps to murder me; a deed he might have accomplished had it not been for your intervention. His life is already forfeit, for an attempt of the same sort last night. Why else came he hither? for what else did he drag me to this spot? Let him answer that!”

“I will answer it,” replied Luke, raising himself from the bier.

His face was ghastly as the corpse over which he leaned. “I had a deed to do, which I wished you to witness. It was a wild conception. But the means by which I have acquired the information of my rights were wild. Ranulph, we are both the slaves of fate. You have received your summons hither — I have had mine. Your father’s ghost called you; my mother’s spectral hand beckoned me. Both are arrived. One thing more remains, and my mission is completed.” Saying which, he drew forth the skeleton hand; and having first taken the wedding-ring from the finger, he placed the withered limb upon the left breast of his father’s body. “Rest there,” he cried, “for ever.”

“Will you suffer that?” said Lady Rookwood, tauntingly, to her son.

“No,” replied Ranulph; “such profanation of the dead shall not be endured, were he ten times my brother. Stand aside,” added he, advancing towards the bier, and motioning Luke away. “Withdraw your hand from my father’s body, and remove what you have placed upon it.”

“I will neither remove it nor suffer it to be removed,” returned Luke. “’Twas for that purpose I came hither. ’Twas to that hand he was united in life, in death he shall not be divided from it.”

“Such irreverence shall not be!” exclaimed Ranulph, seizing Luke with one hand, and snatching at the cereclothes with the other. “Remove it, or by Heaven ——”

“Leave go your hold,” said Luke, in a voice of thunder; “you strive in vain.”

Ranulph ineffectually attempted to push him backwards; and, shaking away the grasp that was fixed upon his collar, seized his brother’s wrist, so as to prevent the accomplishment of his purpose. In this unnatural and indecorous strife the corpse of their father was reft of its covering and the hand discovered lying upon the pallid breast.

And as if the wanton impiety of their conduct called forth an immediate rebuke, even from the dead, a frown seemed to pass over Sir Piers’s features, as their angry glances fell in that direction. This startling effect was occasioned by the approach of Lady Rookwood, whose shadow, falling over the brow and visage of the deceased, produced the appearance we have described. Simultaneously quitting each other, with a deep sense of shame, mingled with remorse, both remained, their eyes fixed upon the dead, whose repose they had violated.

Folding the graveclothes decently over the body, Luke prepared to depart.

“Hold!” cried Lady Rookwood; “you go not hence.”

“My brother Ranulph will not oppose my departure,” returned Luke; “who else shall prevent it?”

“That will I!” cried a sharp voice behind him; and, ere he could turn to ascertain from whom the exclamation proceeded, Luke felt himself grappled by two nervous assailants, who, snatching the pistol from his hold, fast pinioned his arms.

This was scarcely the work of a moment, and he was a prisoner before he could offer any resistance. A strong smile of exultation evinced Lady Rookwood’s satisfaction.

“Bravo, my lads, bravo!” cried Coates, stepping forward, for he it was under whose skilful superintendence the seizure had been effected: “famously managed; my father the thief-taker’s runners couldn’t have done it better — hand me that pistol — loaded, I see — slugs, no doubt — oh, he’s a precious rascal — search him — turn his pockets inside out, while I speak to her ladyship.” Saying which, the brisk attorney, enchanted with the feat he had performed, approached Lady Rookwood with a profound bow, and an amazing smirk of self-satisfaction. “Just in time to prevent mischief,” said he; “hope your ladyship does not suffer any inconvenience from the alarm — beg pardon, annoyance I meant to say — which this horrible outrage must have occasioned; excessively disagreeable this sort of thing to a lady at any time, but at a period like this more than usually provoking. However, we have the villain safe enough. Very lucky I happened to be in the way. Perhaps your ladyship would like to know how I discovered ——”

“Not now,” replied Lady Rookwood, checking the volubility of the man of law. “I thank you, Mr. Coates, for the service you have rendered me; you will now add materially to the obligation by removing the prisoner with all convenient despatch.”

“Certainly, if your ladyship wishes it. Shall I detain him a close prisoner in the hall for the night, or remove him at once to the lock-up house in the village?”

“Where you please, so you do it quickly,” replied Lady Rookwood, noticing, with great uneasiness, the agitated manner of her son, and apprehensive lest, in the presence of so many witnesses, he might say or do something prejudicial to their interests. Nor were her fears groundless. As Coates was about to return to the prisoner, he was arrested by the voice of Ranulph, commanding him to stay.

“Mr. Coates,” said he, “however appearances may be against this man, he is no robber — you must, therefore, release him.”

“Eh day, what’s that? release him, Sir Ranulph?”

“Yes, sir; I tell you he came here neither with the intent to rob nor to offer violence.”

“That is false, Ranulph,” replied Lady Rookwood. “I was dragged hither by him at the peril of my life. He is Mr. Coates’s prisoner on another charge.”

“Unquestionably, your ladyship is perfectly right; I have a warrant against him for assaulting Hugh Badger, the keeper, and for other misdemeanors.”

“I will myself be responsible for his appearance to that charge,” replied Ranulph. “Now, sir, at once release him.”

“At your peril!” exclaimed Lady Rookwood.

“Well, really,” muttered the astonished attorney, “this is the most perplexing proceeding I ever witnessed.”

“Ranulph,” said Lady Rookwood, sternly, to her son, “beware how you thwart me!”

“Yes, Sir Ranulph, let me venture to advise you, as a friend, not to thwart her ladyship,” whispered the attorney; “indeed, she is in the right.” But seeing his advice unheeded, Coates withdrew to a little distance.

“I will not see injustice done to my father’s son,” replied Ranulph, in a low tone. “Why would you detain him?”

“Why?” returned she, “our safety demands it — our honor.”

“Our honor demands his instant liberation; each moment he remains in those bonds sullies its purity. I will free him myself from his fetters.”

“And brave my curse, foolish boy? You incurred your miserable father’s anathema for a lighter cause than this. Our honor cries aloud for his destruction. Have I not been injured in the nicest point a woman can be injured? Shall I lend my name to mockery and scorn, by base acknowledgment of such deceit, or will you? Where would be my honor, then, stripped of my fair estates — my son — myself — beggars — dependent on the bounty of an upstart? Does honor ask you to bear this? It is a phantom sense of honor, unsubstantial as your father’s shade, of which you just now spoke, that would prompt you to do otherwise.”

“Do not evoke his awful spirit, mother,” cried Ranulph, with a shudder; “do not arouse his wrath.”

“Do not arouse my wrath,” returned Lady Rookwood. “I am the more to be feared. Think of Eleanor Mowbray; the bar between your nuptials is removed. Would you raise up a greater impediment?”

“Enough, mother; more than enough. You have decided, though not convinced me. Detain him within the house, if you will, until the morrow; in the meantime, I will consider over my line of conduct.”

“Is this, then, your resolve?”

“It is. Mr. Coates,” said Ranulph, calling the attorney, who had been an inquisitive spectator, though, luckily, not an auditor of this interview, “unbind the prisoner, and bring him hither.”

“Is it your ladyship’s pleasure?” asked Mr. Coates, who regretted exceedingly that he could not please both parties.

Lady Rookwood signified her assent by a slight gesture in the affirmative.

“Your bidding shall be done, Sir Ranulph,” said Coates, bowing and departing.

“Sir Ranulph!” echoed Lady Rookwood, with strong emphasis; “marked you that?”

“Body o’ me,” muttered the attorney, “this is the most extraordinary family, to be sure. Make way, gentlemen, if you please,” added he, pushing through the crowd, towards the prisoner.

Having described what took place between Lady Rookwood and her son in one part of the room, we must now briefly narrate some incidental occurrences in the other. The alarm of a robber having been taken spread with great celerity through the house, and almost all its inmates rushed into the room, including Dr. Small, Titus Tyrconnel, and Jack Palmer.

“Odsbodikins! are you there, honey?” said Titus, who discovered his ally; “the bird’s caught, you see.”

“Caught be d — d,” replied Jack, bluffly; “so I see; all his own fault; infernal folly to come here, at such a time as this. However, it can’t be helped now; he must make the best of it. And as to that sneaking, gimlet-eyed, parchment-skinned quill-driver, if I don’t serve him out for his officiousness one of these days, my name’s not Jack Palmer.”

“Och! cushlamacree! did I ever? why, what’s the boy to you, Jack? Fair play’s a jewel, and surely Mr. Coates only did his duty. I’m sorry he’s captured, for his relationship to Sir Piers, and because I think he’ll be tucked up for his pains; and, moreover, I could forgive the poaching; but as to the breaking into a house on such an occasion as this, och! It’s a plaguy bad look. I’m afraid he’s worse than I thought him.”

A group of the tenantry, many of whom were in a state of intoxication, had, in the meantime, formed themselves round the prisoner. Whatever might be the nature of his thoughts, no apprehension was visible in Luke’s countenance. He stood erect amidst the assemblage, his tall form towering above them all, and his eyes fixed upon the movements of Lady Rookwood and her son. He had perceived the anguish of the latter, and the vehemence of the former, attributing both to their real causes. The taunts and jeers, threats and insolent inquiries, of the hinds who thronged around him, passed unheeded; yet one voice in his ear, sharp as the sting of a serpent, made him start. It was that of the sexton.

“You have done well,” said Peter, “have you not? Your fetters are, I hope, to your liking. Well! a wilful man must have his own way, and perhaps the next time you will be content to follow my advice. You must now free yourself, the best way you can, from these Moabites, and I promise you it will be no easy matter. Ha, ha!”

Peter withdrew into the crowd; and Luke, vainly endeavoring to discover his retreating figure, caught the eye of Jack Palmer fixed upon himself, with a peculiar and very significant expression.

At this moment Mr. Coates made his appearance.

“Bring forward the prisoner,” said the man of law to his two assistants; and Luke was accordingly hurried along, Mr. Coates using his best efforts to keep back the crowd. It was during the pressure that Luke heard a voice whisper in his ear, “Never fear; all’s right!” and turning his head, he became aware of the propinquity of Jack Palmer. The latter elevated his eyebrows with a gesture of silence, and Luke passed on as if nothing had occurred. He was presently confronted with Lady Rookwood and her son; and, notwithstanding the efforts of Mr. Coates, seconded by some few others, the crowd grew dense around them.

“Remove his fetters,” said Ranulph. And his manacles were removed.

“You will consent to remain here a prisoner till to-morrow?”

“I consent to nothing,” replied Luke; “I am in your hands.”

“He does not deserve your clemency, Sir Ranulph,” interposed Coates.

“Let him take his own course,” said Lady Rookwood; “he will reap the benefit of it anon.”

“Will you pledge yourself not to depart?” asked Ranulph.

“Of course,” cried the attorney; “to be sure he will. Ha, ha!”

“No,” returned Luke, haughtily, “I will not — and you will detain me at your proper peril.”

“Better and better,” exclaimed the attorney. “This is the highest joke I ever heard.”

“I shall detain, you, then, in custody, until proper inquiries can be made,” said Ranulph. “To your care, Mr. Coates, and to that of Mr. Tyrconnel, whom I must request to lend you his assistance, I commit the charge; and I must further request, that you will show him every attention which his situation will permit. Remove him. We have a sacred duty to the dead to fulfil, to which even justice to the living must give way. Disperse this crowd, and let instant preparations be made for the completion of the ceremonial. You understand me, sir.”

“Ranulph Rookwood,” said Luke, sternly, as he departed, “you have another — a more sacred office to perform. Fulfil your duty to your father’s son.”

“Away with him!” cried Lady Rookwood. “I am out of all patience with this trilling. Follow me to my chamber,” added she to her son, passing towards the door. The concourse of spectators, who had listened to this extraordinary scene in astonishment, made way for her instantly, and she left the room, accompanied by Ranulph. The prisoner was led out by the other door.

“Botheration!” cried Titus to Mr. Coates, as they followed in the wake, “why did he choose out me? I’ll lose the funeral entirely by his arrangement.”

“That you will,” replied Palmer. “Shall I be your deputy?”

“No, no,” returned Coates. “I will have no other than Mr. Tyrconnel. It was Sir Ranulph’s express wish.”

“That’s the devil of it,” returned Titus; “and I, who was to have been chief mourner, and have made all the preparations, am to be omitted. I wish Sir Ranulph had stayed till to-morrow — what could bring him here, to spoil all? — it’s cursedly provoking!”

“Cursed provoking!” echoed Jack.

“But then there’s no help, so I must make the best of it,” returned the good-humored Irishman.

“Body o’ me,” said Coates, “there’s something in all this that I can’t fathom. As to keeping the prisoner here, that’s all moonshine. But I suppose we shall know the whole drift of it to-morrow.”

“Ay,” replied Jack, with a meaning smile, “to-morrow!”