hath fled,By hand of Fate, predestinate, a limb that tree will shed;
A verdant bough — untouched, I trow, by axe or tempest’s breath —
To Rookwood’s head an omen dread of fast-approaching death.
Some think that tree instinct must be with preternatural power.
Like ‘larum bell Death’s note to knell at Fate’s appointed hour;
While some avow that on its bough are fearful traces seen,
Red as the stains from human veins, commingling with the green.
Others, again, there are maintain that on the shattered bark
A print is made, where fiends have laid their scathing talons dark;
That, ere it falls, the raven calls thrice from that wizard bough;
And that each cry doth signify what space the Fates allow.
In olden days, the legend says, as grim Sir Ranulph view’d
A wretched hag her footsteps drag beneath his lordly wood.
His bloodhounds twain he called amain, and straightway gave her chase;
Was never seen in forest green, so fierce, so fleet a race!
With eyes of flame to Ranulph came each red and ruthless hound,
While mangled, torn — a sight forlorn! — the hag lay on the ground;
E’en where she lay was turned the clay, and limb and reeking bone
Within the earth, with ribald mirth, by Ranulph grim were thrown.
And while as yet the soil was wet with that poor witch’s gore,
A lime-tree stake did Ranulph take, and pierced her bosom’s core;
And, strange to tell, what next befell! — that branch at once took root,
And richly fed, within its bed, strong suckers forth did shoot.
From year to year fresh boughs appear — it waxes huge in size;
And, with wild glee, this prodigy Sir Ranulph grim espies.
One day, when he, beneath that tree, reclined in joy and pride,
A branch was found upon the ground — the next, Sir Ranulph died!
And from that hour a fatal power has ruled that Wizard Tree,
To Ranulph’s line a warning sign of doom and destiny:
For when a bough is found, I trow, beneath its shade to lie,
Ere suns shall rise thrice in the skies a Rookwood sure shall die!
“And such an omen preceded Sir Piers’s demise?” said Luke, who had listened with some attention to his grandsire’s song.
“Unquestionably,” replied the sexton. “Not longer ago than Tuesday morning, I happened to be sauntering down the avenue I have just described. I know not what took me thither at that early hour, but I wandered leisurely on till I came nigh the Wizard Lime-Tree. Great Heaven! what a surprise awaited me! a huge branch lay right across the path. It had evidently just fallen, for the leaves were green and unwithered; the sap still oozed from the splintered wood; and there was neither trace of knife nor hatchet on the bark. I looked up among the boughs to mark the spot from whence it had been torn by the hand of Fate — for no human hand had done it — and saw the pair of ancestral ravens perched amid the foliage, and croaking as those carrion fowl are wont to do when they scent a carcass afar off. Just then a livelier sound saluted my ears. The cheering cry of a pack of hounds resounded from the courts, and the great gates being thrown open, out issued Sir Piers, attended by a troop of his roystering companions, all on horseback, and all making the welkin ring with their vociferations. Sir Piers laughed as loudly as the rest, but his mirth was speedily checked. No sooner had his horse — old Rook, his favorite steed, who never swerved at stake or pale before — set eyes upon the accursed branch, than he started as if the fiend stood before him, and, rearing backwards, flung his rider from the saddle. At this moment, with loud screams, the wizard ravens took flight. Sir Piers was somewhat hurt by the fall, but he was more frightened than hurt; and though he tried to put a bold face on the matter, it was plain that his efforts to recover himself were fruitless. Dr. Titus Tyrconnel and that wild fellow Jack Palmer — who has lately come to the hall, and of whom you know something — tried to rally him. But it would not do. He broke up the day’s sport, and returned dejectedly to the hall. Before departing, however, he addressed a word to me in private, respecting you; and pointed, with a melancholy shake of the head, to the fatal branch. ’It is my death-warrant,’ said he, gloomily. And so it proved; two days afterwards his doom was accomplished.”
“And do you place faith in this idle legend?” asked Luke, with affected indifference, although it was evident, from his manner, that he himself was not so entirely free from a superstitious feeling of credulity as he would have it appear.
“Certes,” replied the sexton. “I were more difficult to be convinced than the unbelieving disciple else. Thrice hath it occurred to my own knowledge, and ever with the same result: first, with Sir Reginald; secondly, with thy own mother; and lastly, as I have just told thee, with Sir Piers.”
“I thought you said, even now, that this death omen, if such it be, was always confined to the immediate family of Rookwood, and not to mere inmates of the mansion.”
“To the heads only of that house, be they male or female.”
“Then how could it apply to my mother? Was she of that house? Was she a wife?”
“Who shall say she was not?” rejoined the sexton.
“Who shall say she was so?” cried Luke, repeating the words with indignant emphasis —“who will avouch that?”
A smile, cold as a wintry sunbeam, played upon the sexton’s rigid lips.
“I will bear this no longer,” cried Luke; “anger me not, or look to yourself. In a word, have you anything to tell me respecting her? if not, let me begone.”
“I have. But I will not be hurried by a boy like you,” replied Peter, doggedly. “Go, if you will, and take the consequences. My lips are sealed forever, and I have much to say — much that it behoves you to know.”
“Be brief, then. When you sought me out this morning, in my retreat with the gipsy gang at Davenham Wood, you bade me meet you in the porch of Rookwood Church at midnight. I was true to my appointment.”
“And I will keep my promise,” replied the sexton. “Draw closer, that I may whisper in thine ear. Of every Rookwood who lies around us — and all that ever bore the name, except Sir Piers himself — who lies in state at the hall — are here — not one — mark what I say — not one male branch of the house but has been suspected ——”
“Of what?”
“Of murder!” returned the sexton, in a hissing whisper.
“Murder!”
