Near the communion-table stood three persons, habited in deep mourning, apparently occupied in examining the various monumental carvings that enriched the walls. Peter’s office led him to that part of the church. About to descend into the vaults, to make the last preparations for the reception of the dead, with lantern in hand, keys, and a crowbar, he approached the party. Little attention was paid to the sexton’s proceedings, till the harsh grating of the lock attracted their notice.
Peter started as he beheld the face of one of the three, and relaxing his hold upon the key, the strong bolt shot back in the lock. There was a whisper amongst the party. A light step was heard advancing towards him; and ere the sexton could sufficiently recover his surprise, or force open the door, a female figure stood by his side.
The keen, inquiring stare which Peter bestowed upon the countenance of the young lady so much abashed her, that she hesitated in her purpose of addressing him, and hastily retired.
“She here!” muttered Peter; “nay, then, I must no longer withhold the dreaded secret from Luke, or Ranulph may, indeed, wrest his possessions from him.”
Reinforced by her companions, an elderly lady and a tall, handsome man, whose bearing and deportment bespoke him to be a soldier, the fair stranger again ventured towards Peter.
“You are the sexton,” said she, addressing him in a voice sweet and musical.
“I am,” returned Peter. It was harmony succeeded by dissonance.
“You, perhaps, can tell us, then,” said the elderly lady, “whether the funeral is likely to take place to-night? We thought it possible that the storm might altogether prevent it.”
“The storm is over, as nearly as maybe,” replied Peter. “The body will soon be on its way. I am but now arrived from the hall.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the lady. “None of the family will be present, I suppose. Who is the chief mourner?”
“Young Sir Ranulph,” answered the sexton. “There will be more of the family than were expected.”
“Is Sir Ranulph returned?” asked the young lady, with great agitation of manner. “I thought he was abroad — that he was not expected. Are you sure you are rightly informed?”
“I parted with him at the hall not ten minutes since,” replied Peter. “He returned from France to-night most unexpectedly.”
“Oh, mother!” exclaimed the younger lady, “that this should be — that I should meet him here. Why did we come? — let us depart.”
“Impossible!” replied her mother; “the storm forbids it. This man’s information is so strange, I scarce can credit it. Are you sure you have asserted the truth?” said she, addressing Peter.
“I am not accustomed to be doubted,” answered he. “Other things as strange have happened at the hall.”
“What mean you?” asked the gentleman, noticing this last remark.
“You would not need to ask the question of me, had you been there, amongst the other guests,” retorted Peter. “Odd things, I tell you, have been done there this night, and stranger things may occur before the morning.”
“You are insolent, sirrah! I comprehend you not.”
“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 favored 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?” inquired 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 honor,” 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 cross roads. 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