so doing.”
“We will discuss that point hereafter,” replied Small; adding, as he noticed the growing paleness of his companion, “you are too much exhausted to proceed — you had better defer the remainder of your story to a future period.”
“No,” replied Ranulph, swallowing a glass of water; “I am exhausted, yet I cannot rest — my blood is in a fever, which nothing will allay. I shall feel more easy when I have made the present communication. I am approaching the sequel of my narrative. You are now in possession of the story of my love — of the motive of my departure. You shall learn what was the occasion of my return.
“I had wandered from city to city during my term of exile — consumed by hopeless passion — with little that could amuse me, though surrounded by a thousand objects of interest to others, and only rendering life endurable by severest study or most active exertion. My steps conducted me to Bordeaux; — there I made a long halt, enchanted by the beauty of the neighboring scenery. My fancy was smitten by the situation of a villa on the banks of the Garonne, within a few leagues of the city. It was an old château, with fine gardens bordering the blue waters of the river, and commanding a multitude of enchanting prospects. The house, which had in part gone to decay, was inhabited by an aged couple, who had formerly been servants to an English family, the members of which had thus provided for them on their return to their own country. I inquired the name. Conceive my astonishment to find that this château had been the residence of the Mowbrays. This intelligence decided me at once — I took up my abode in the house; and a new and unexpected source of solace and delight was opened to me, I traced the paths she had traced; occupied the room she had occupied; tended the flowers she had tended; and, on the golden summer evenings, would watch the rapid waters, tinged with all the glorious hues of sunset, sweeping past my feet, and think how she had watched them. Her presence seemed to pervade the place. I was now comparatively happy, and, anxious to remain unmolested, wrote home that I was leaving Bordeaux for the Pyrenees, on my way to Spain.”
“That account arrived,” observed Small.
“One night,” continued Ranulph —”’tis now the sixth since the occurrence I am about to relate — I was seated in a bower that overlooked the river. It had been a lovely evening — so lovely, that I lingered there, wrapped in the heavenly contemplation of its beauties. I watched each rosy tint reflected upon the surface of the rapid stream — now fading into yellow — now shining silvery white. I noticed the mystic mingling of twilight with darkness — of night with day, till the bright current on a sudden became a black mass of waters. I could scarcely discern a leaf — all was darkness — when lo! another change! The moon was up — a flood of light deluged all around — the stream was dancing again in reflected radiance, and I still lingering at its brink.
“I had been musing for some moments, with my head resting upon my hand, when, happening to raise my eyes, I beheld a figure immediately before me. I was astonished at the sight, for I had perceived no one approach — had heard no footstep advance towards me, and was satisfied that no one besides myself could be in the garden. The presence of the figure inspired me with an undefinable awe! and, I can scarce tell why, but a thrilling presentiment convinced me that it was a supernatural visitant. Without motion — without life — without substance, it seemed; yet still the outward character of life was there. I started to my feet. God! what did I behold? The face was turned to me — my father’s face! And what an aspect, what a look! Time can never efface that terrible expression; it is graven upon my memory — I cannot describe it. It was not anger — it was not pain: it was as if an eternity of woe were stamped upon its features. It was too dreadful to behold, I would fain have averted my gaze — my eyes were fascinated — fixed — I could not withdraw them from the ghastly countenance. I shrank from it, yet stirred not — I could not move a limb. Noiselessly gliding towards me, the apparition approached. I could not retreat. It stood obstinately beside me. I became as one half-dead. The phantom shook its head with the deepest despair; and as the word ‘Return!’ sounded hollowly in my ears, it gradually melted from my view. I cannot tell how I recovered from the swoon into which I fell, but daybreak saw me on my way to England. I am here. On that night — at that same hour, my father died.”
“It was, after all, then, a supernatural summons that you received?” said Small.
“Undoubtedly,” replied Ranulph.
“Humph! — the coincidence, I own, is sufficiently curious,” returned Small, musingly; “but it would not be difficult, I think, to discover a satisfactory explanation of the delusion.”
“There was no delusion,” replied Ranulph, coldly; “the figure was as palpable as your own. Can I doubt, when I behold this result? Could any deceit have been practised upon me, at that distance? — the precise time, moreover, agreeing. Did not the phantom bid me return? — I have returned — he is dead. I have gazed upon a being of another world. To doubt were impious, after that look.”
“Whatever my opinions may be, my dear young friend,” returned Small, gravely, “I will suspend them for the present. You are still greatly excited. Let me advise you to seek some repose.”
“I am easier,” replied Ranulph; “but you are right, I will endeavor to snatch a little rest. Something within tells me all is not yet accomplished. What remains? — I shudder to think of it. I will rejoin you at midnight. I shall myself attend the solemnity. Adieu!”
Ranulph quitted the room. Small sighingly shook his head, and having lighted his pipe, was presently buried in a profundity of smoke and metaphysical speculation.
CHAPTER 11
LADY ROOKWOOD
Fran. de Med. Your unhappy husband Is dead.
Vit. Cor. Oh, he’s a happy husband! Now he owes nature nothing.
Mon. And look upon this creature as his wife. She comes not like a widow — she comes armed With scorn and impudence. Is this a mourning habit?
The White Devil.
The progress of our narrative demands our presence in another apartment of the hall — a large, lonesome chamber, situate in the eastern wing of the house, already described as the most ancient part of the building — the sombre appearance of which was greatly increased by the dingy, discolored tapestry that clothed its walls; the record of the patience and industry of a certain Dame Dorothy Rookwood, who flourished some centuries ago, and whose skilful needle had illustrated the slaughter of the Innocents, with a severity of gusto, and sanguinary minuteness of detail, truly surprising in a lady so amiable as she was represented to have been. Grim-visaged Herod glared from the ghostly woof, with his shadowy legions, executing their murderous purposes, grouped like a troop of Sabbath-dancing witches around him. Mysterious twilight, admitted through the deep, dark, mullioned windows, revealed the antique furniture of the room, which still boasted a sort of mildewed splendor, more imposing, perhaps, than its original gaudy magnificence; and showed the lofty hangings, and tall, hearse-like canopy of a bedstead, once a couch of state, but now destined for the repose of Lady Rookwood. The stiff crimson hangings were embroidered in gold, with the arms and cipher of Elizabeth, from whom the apartment, having once been occupied by that sovereign, obtained the name of the “Queen’s Room.”
The sole tenant of this chamber was a female, in whose countenance, if time and strong emotion had written strange defeatures, they had not obliterated its striking beauty and classical grandeur of expression. It was a face majestical and severe. Pride was stamped in all
