Rookwood. A Romance By W. HARRISON AINSWORTH

Those ghastly fingers white and cold,

Within a winding-sheet enfold;

Count the mystic count of seven:

Name the Governors of Heaven.2

Then in earthen vessel place them,

And with dragon-wort encase them,

Bleach them in the noonday sun,

Till the marrow melt and run,

Till the flesh is pale and wan,

As a moon-ensilvered cloud,

As an unpolluted shroud.

Next within their chill embrace

The dead man’s Awful Candle place;

Of murderer’s fat must that candle be

(You may scoop it beneath the roadside tree),

Of wax, and of Lapland sisame.

Its wick must be twisted of hair of the dead,

By the crow and her brood on the wild waste shed.

Wherever that terrible light shall burn

Vainly the sleeper may toss and turn;

His leaden lids shall he ne’er unclose

So long as that magical taper glows.

Life and treasure shall he command

Who knoweth the charm of the Glorious Hand!

But of black cat’s gall let him aye have care,

And of screech-owl’s venomous blood beware!

“Peace!” thundered Luke, extending his mother’s hand towards the sexton. “What seest thou?”

“I see something shine. Hold it nigher the light. Ha! that is strange, truly. How came that ring there?”

“Ask of Sir Piers! ask of her husband!” shouted Luke, with a wild burst of exulting laughter. “Ha! ha! ha! ’tis a wedding-ring! And look! the finger is bent. It must have been placed upon it in her lifetime. There is no deception in this—no trickery—ha!”

“It would seem not; the sinew must have been contracted in life. The tendons are pulled down so tightly, that the ring could not be withdrawn without breaking the finger.”

“You are sure that coffin contains her body?”

“As sure as I am that this carcase is my own.”

“The hand—’tis hers. Can any doubt exist?”

“Wherefore should it? It was broken from the arm by accident within this moment. I noticed not the occurrence, but it must have been so.”

“Then it follows that she was wedded, and I am not—”

“Illegitimate. For your sake I am glad of it.”

“My heart will burst. Oh! could I but establish the fact of this marriage, her wrongs would indeed be avenged.”

“Listen to me, Luke,” said the sexton, solemnly. “I told you, when I appointed this midnight interview, I had a secret to communicate. That secret is now revealed—that secret was your mother’s marriage.”

“And it was known to you during her lifetime?”

“It was. But I was sworn to secrecy.”

“You have proofs then?”

“I have nothing beyond Sir Piers’s word—and he is silent now.”

“By whom was the ceremony performed?”

“By a Romish priest—a Jesuit—one Father Checkley, at that time an inmate of the hall; for Sir Piers, though he afterwards abjured it, at that time professed the Catholic faith; and this Checkley officiated as his confessor and counsellor; as the partner of his pleasures, and the prompter of his iniquities. He was your father’s evil genius.”

“Is he still alive?”

“I know not. After your mother’s death he left the hall. I have said he was a Jesuit, and I may add, that he was mixed up in dark political intrigues, in which your father was too feeble a character to take much share. But though too weak to guide, he was a pliant instrument, and this Checkley knew. He moulded him according to his wishes. I cannot tell you what was the nature of their plots. Suffice it, they were such as, if discovered, would have involved your father in ruin. He was saved, however, by his wife.”

“And her reward—” groaned Luke.

“Was death,” replied Peter, coldly. “What Jesuit ever forgave a wrong—real or imaginary? Your mother, I ought to have said, was a Protestant. Hence, there was a difference of religious opinion—(the worst of differences that can exist between husband and wife). Cheekley vowed her destruction, and he kept his vow. He was enamoured of her beauty. But while he burnt with adulterous desire, he was consumed by fiercest hate—contending, and yet strangely-reconcilable passions—as you may have reason, hereafter, to discover.”

“Go on,” said Luke, grinding his teeth.

“I have done,” returned Peter. “From that hour your father’s love for his supposed mistress, and unacknowledged wife, declined; and with his waning love declined her health. I will not waste words in describing the catastrophe that awaited her union. It will be enough to say, she was found one morning a corpse within her bed. Whatever suspicions were attached to Sir Piers were quieted by Checkley, who distributed gold, largely and discreetly. The body was embalmed by Barbara Lovel, the Gipsy Queen.”