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, enquiring 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 may be,” 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 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.”