a proud title, which you will grace well, I doubt not. The first, the noblest of our house, was he from whom you derive your name. You are the third Sir Ranulph; the first founded the house of Rookwood; the next advanced it; ’tis for you to raise its glory to its height.”
“Alas! madam, I have no such thought.”
“Wherefore not? you are young, wealthy, powerful. With such domains as those of Rookwood — with such a title as its lord can claim, naught should be too high for your aspirations.”
“I aspire to nothing, madam, but your daughter’s hand; and even that I will not venture to solicit until you are acquainted with ——” And he hesitated.
“With what?” asked Mrs. Mowbray, in surprise.
“A singular, and to me most perplexing event has occurred to-night,” replied Ranulph, “which may materially affect my future fortunes.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray. “Does it relate to your mother?”
“Excuse my answering the question now, madam,” replied Ranulph; “you shall know all to-morrow.”
“Ay, to-morrow, dear Ranulph,” said Eleanor; “and whatever that morrow may bring forth, it will bring happiness to me, if you are bearer of the tidings.”
“I shall expect your coming with impatience,” said Mrs. Mowbray.
“And I,” added Major Mowbray, who had listened thus far in silence, “would offer you my services in any way you think they would be useful. Command me as you think fitting.”
“I thank you heartily,” returned Ranulph. “To-morrow you shall learn all. Meanwhile, it shall be my business to investigate the truth or falsehood of the statement I have heard, ere I report it to you. Till then, farewell.”
As they issued from the church it was gray dawn. Mrs. Mowbray’s carriage stood at the door. The party entered it; and accompanied by Dr. Small, whom he found within in the vestry, Ranulph walked towards the hall, where a fresh surprise awaited him.
CHAPTER 5
THE CAPTIVE
Black Will. Which is the place where we’re to be concealed?
Green.This inner room.
Black Will. ’Tis well. The word is, “Now I take you.”
Arden of Feversham.
Guarded by the two young farmers who had displayed so much address in seizing him, Luke, meanwhile, had been conveyed in safety to the small chamber in the eastern wing, destined by Mr. Coates to be his place of confinement for the night. The room, or rather closet, opening from another room, was extremely well adapted for the purpose, having no perceptible outlet; being defended, on either side, by thick partition walls of the hardest oak, and at the extremity by the solid masonry of the mansion. It was, in fact, a remnant of the building anterior to the first Sir Ranulph’s day; and the narrow limits of Luke’s cell had been erected long before the date of his earliest progenitor. Having seen their prisoner safely bestowed, the room was carefully examined, every board sounded, every crevice and corner peered into by the curious eye of the little lawyer; and nothing being found insecure, the light was removed, the door locked, the rustic constables dismissed, and a brace of pistols having been loaded and laid on the table, Mr. Coates pronounced himself thoroughly satisfied and quite comfortable.
Comfortable! Titus heaved a sigh as he echoed the word. He felt anything but comfortable. His heart was with the body all the while. He thought of the splendor of the funeral, the torches, the illumined church, his own dignified march down the aisle, and the effect he expected to produce amongst the bewildered rustics. He thought of all these things, and cursed Luke by all the saints in the calendar. The sight of the musty old apartment, hung round with faded arras, which, as he said, “smelt of nothing but rats and ghosts, and suchlike varmint,” did not serve to inspirit him; and the proper equilibrium of his temper was not completely restored until the appearance of the butler, with all the requisites for the manufacture of punch, afforded him some prospective solace.
“And what are they about now, Tim?” asked Titus.
“All as jolly as can be,” answered the domestic; “Dr. Small is just about to pronounce the funeral ‘ration.”
“Devil take it,” ejaculated Titus, “there’s another miss! Couldn’t I just slip out, and hear that?”
“On no account,” said Coates. “Consider, Sir Ranulph is there.”
“Well, well,” rejoined Titus, heaving a deep sigh, and squeezing a lemon; “are you sure this is biling water, Tim? You know, I’m mighty particular.”
“Perfectly aware of it, sir.”
“Ah, Tim, do you recollect the way I used to brew for poor Sir Piers, with a bunch of red currants at the bottom of the glass? And then to think that, after all, I should be left out of his funeral — it’s the height of barbarity. Tim, this rum of yours is poor stuff — there’s no punch worth the trouble of drinking, except whisky-punch. A glass of right potheen, straw-color, peat-flavor, ten degrees over proof, would be the only thing to drown my cares. Any such thing in the cellar? There used to be an odd bottle or so, Tim — in the left bin, near the door.”
“I’ve a notion there be,” returned Timothy. “I’ll try the bin your honor mentions, and if I can lay hands upon a bottle you shall have it, you may depend.”
The butler departed, and Titus, emulating Mr. Coates, who had already enveloped himself, like Juno at the approach of Ixion, in a cloud, proceeded to light his pipe.
Luke, meanwhile, had been left alone, without light. He had much to meditate upon, and with naught to check the current of his thoughts, he pensively revolved his present situation and future prospects. The future was gloomy enough — the present fraught with danger. And now that the fever of excitement was passed, he severely reproached himself for his precipitancy.
His mind, by degrees, assumed a more tranquil state; and, exhausted with his great previous fatigue, he threw himself upon the floor of his prison-house, and addressed himself to slumber. The noise he made induced Coates to enter the room, which he did with a pistol in each hand, followed by Titus with a pipe and candle; but finding all safe the sentinels retired.
“One may see, with half an eye, that you’re not used to a feather-bed, my friend,” said Titus, as the door was locked. “By the powers, he’s a tall chap, anyhow — why his feet almost touch the door. I should say that room was a matter of six feet long, Mr. Coates.”
“Exactly six feet, sir.”
“Well, that’s a good guess. Hang that ugly rascal, Tim; he’s never brought the whisky. But I’ll be even with him to-morrow. Couldn’t you just see to the prisoner for ten minutes, Mr. Coates?”
“Not ten seconds. I shall report you, if you stir from your post.”
Here the door was opened, and Tim entered with the whisky.
