After the ceremonial, the day was devoted to festivity. Crowded with company, from the ample hall to the kitchen ingle, the old mansion could scarce contain its numerous guests, while the walls resounded with hearty peals of laughter, to which they had been long unaccustomed. The tables groaned beneath the lordly baron of beef, the weighty chine, the castled pasty flanked on the one hand with neat’s tongue, and on the other defended by a mountainous ham, an excellent pièce de résistance, and every other substantial appliance of ancient hospitality. Barrels of mighty ale were broached, and their nut-brown contents widely distributed, and the health of the bride and bridegroom was enthusiastically drunk in a brimming wassail cup of spicy wine with floating toast. Titus Tyrconnel acted as master of the ceremonies, and was, Mr. Coates declared, “quite in his element.” So much was he elated, that he ventured to cut some of his old jokes upon the vicar, and, strange to say, without incurring the resentment of Small.
To retrace the darker course of our narrative, we must state that some weeks before this happy event the remains of the unfortunate Sir Luke Rookwood had been gathered to those of his fathers. The document that attested his legitimacy being found upon his person, the claims denied to him in life were conceded in death; and he was interred, with all the pomp and peculiar solemnity proper to one of the house, within the tomb of his ancestry.
It was then that a discovery was made respecting Alan Rookwood, in order to explain which we must again revert to the night of the meditated enlèvement of Eleanor.
After quitting his grandson in the avenue, Alan shaped his course among the fields in the direction to the church. He sought his own humble, but now deserted dwelling. The door had been forced; some of its meagre furniture was removed; and the dog, his sole companion, had fled. “Poor Mole!” said he, “thou hast found, I trust, a better master.” And having possessed himself of what he came in search — namely, a bunch of keys and his lantern, deposited in an out-of-the-way cupboard, that had escaped notice, he quickly departed.
He was once more within the churchyard; once more upon that awful stage whereon he had chosen to enact, for a long season, his late fantastical character; and he gazed upon the church tower, glistening in the moonshine, the green and undulating hillocks, the “chequered cross-sticks,” the clustered headstones, and the black and portentous yew-trees, as upon “old familiar faces.” He mused, for a few moments, upon the scene, apparently with deep interest. He then walked beneath the shadows of one of the yews, chanting an odd stanza or so of one of his wild staves, wrapped the while, it would seem, in affectionate contemplation of the subject-matter of his song:
The Churchyard Yew
—— Metuendaque succo Taxus.
Statius.
A noxious tree is the churchyard yew,
As if from the dead its sap it drew;
Dark are its branches, and dismal to see,
Like plumes at Death’s latest solemnity.
Spectral and jagged, and black as the wings
Which some spirit of ill o’er a sepulchre flings:
Oh! a terrible tree is the churchyard yew;
Like it is nothing so grimly to view.
Yet this baleful tree hath a core so sound,
Can nought so tough in the grove be found;
From it were fashioned brave English bows,
The boast of our isle, and the dread of its foes.
For our sturdy sires cut their stoutest staves
From the branch that hung o’er their fathers’ graves;
And though it be dreary and dismal to view,
Staunch at the heart is the churchyard yew.
His ditty concluded, Alan entered the churchyard, taking care to leave the door slightly ajar, in order to facilitate his grandson’s entrance. For an instant he lingered in the chancel. The yellow moonlight fell upon the monuments of his race; and, directed by the instinct of hate, Alan’s eye rested upon the gilded entablature of his perfidious brother, Reginald, and, muttering curses, “not loud but deep,” he passed on. Having lighted his lantern in no tranquil mood, he descended into the vault, observing a similar caution with respect to the portal of the cemetery, which he left partially unclosed, with the key in the lock. Here he resolved to abide Luke’s coming. The reader knows what probability there was of his expectations being realized.
For a while he paced the tomb, wrapped in gloomy meditation, and pondering, it might be, upon the result of Luke’s expedition, and the fulfilment of his own dark schemes, scowling from time to time beneath his bent eyebrows, counting the grim array of coffins, and noticing, with something like satisfaction, that the shell which contained the remains of his daughter had been restored to its former position. He then bethought him of Father Checkley’s midnight intrusion upon his conference with Luke, and their apprehension of a supernatural visitation, and his curiosity was stimulated to ascertain by what means the priest had gained admission to the spot unperceived and unheard. He resolved to sound the floor, and see whether any secret entrance existed; and hollowly and dully did the hard flagging return the stroke of his heel as he pursued his scrutiny. At length the metallic ringing of an iron plate, immediately behind the marble effigy of Sir Ranulph, resolved the point. There it was that the priest had found access to the vault; but Alan’s disappointment was excessive, when he discovered that the plate was fastened on the underside, and all communication thence with the churchyard, or to wherever else it might conduct him, cut off: but the present was not the season for further investigation, and tolerably pleased with the discovery he had already made, he returned to his silent march round the sepulchre.
At length a sound, like the sudden shutting of the church door, broke upon the profound stillness of the holy edifice. In the hush that succeeded, a footstep was distinctly heard threading the aisle.
“He comes — he comes!” exclaimed Alan, joyfully; adding, an instant after, in an altered voice, “but he comes alone.”
The footstep drew near to the mouth of the vault — it was upon the stairs. Alan stepped forward to greet, as he supposed, his grandson, but started back in astonishment and dismay as he encountered in his stead Lady Rookwood. Alan retreated, while the lady advanced, swinging the iron door after her, which closed with a tremendous clang. Approaching the statue of the first Sir Ranulph, she paused, and Alan then remarked the singular and terrible expression of her eyes, which appeared to be fixed upon the statue, or upon some invisible object near it. There was something in her whole attitude and manner calculated to impress the deepest terror on the beholder. And Alan gazed upon her with an awe which momently increased. Lady Rookwood’s bearing was as proud and erect as we have formerly described it to have been — her brow was haughtily bent — her chiselled lip as disdainfully curled; but the staring, changeless eye, and the deep-heaved sob which occasionally escaped her, betrayed how much she was under the influence of mortal terror. Alan watched her in amazement. He knew not how the scene was likely to terminate, nor what could have induced her to visit this ghostly spot at such an hour, and alone; but he resolved to abide the issue in silence — profound as her own. After a time, however, his impatience got the better of his fears and scruples, and he spoke.
“What doth Lady Rookwood in the abode of the dead?” asked he, at length.
She started at the sound of his voice, but still kept her eye fixed upon the vacancy.
“Hast thou not beckoned me hither, and am I not come?” returned she, in a hollow tone. “And now thou asketh wherefore I am here — I am here because, as in thy life I feared thee not, neither in death do I fear thee. I am here because ——”
“What seest thou?” interrupted Peter, with ill-suppressed terror.
“What see I— ha — ha!” shouted Lady Rookwood, amidst discordant laughter; “that which might appal a heart less stout than mine — a figure